/ . ; ,/ At-^ <&tf& V I ^ V J . % * u < s THE WORK S OF LORD BYRON, INCLUDING ALSO A SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. BY J. W. LAKE. COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. PHILADELPHIA: J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 1867. CONTENTS. LIFE OF LORD b K RON. HOURS OP IDLENESS. On leaving Newstead Abbey - - - Page 1 Epitaph on a Friend - - - - ib. A Fragment - .......2 The Tear ..... - - - - ib. An Occasional Prologue - - ib. On the Death ol' Mr. Fox - - - 3 Stanzas to a Lady ... ..... ib. To Woman - i'o M. S. G. To Mary Damajtas - - To Marion Oscar ot'Alva ----- To the Duke of D. - 7^-anslations and Imitations. Adrian's Address to his Soul, when dying 1 ranslation --------- Translation from Catullus ------ Translation of the Epitaph on Virgil and Tibulius Translation liom Catullus- - - ... Imitated from Catullus - - Translation froru Anacreon - - - - Ode HI - - Fran.Tient from the Prometheus Vinctus - The Episode of Nisus and Euryalus Translation from the Medea of Euripides Fugitive Pieces. Thoughts suggested by a College Examination To the Earl of ***--- (.'ran la, a Medley Lachiri y Gair ....... To Romance Elegy on Newstead Abbey ------ To E. N. L. Es3 Bright be the place of thy soul ------ ih. When we two p rtod -------- ih. S;mizas for muni.: -------- jb. Fare thuewt.. ih. To *** ib. O,le (from the French) 535 From the French - Si On the Star ot'tbe Legion of Honour (from the French) ib. Napoleon's Farewell (from the French) - - - - 537 S'nnel ih. Written on a blank leaf of "The Pleasures of Memory ib. Stanzas to*** --------- ib. Darkness ..-....-- 53^ Churchill's Grave -------- ib. Prometheus --------- 539 Ode ih. Windsor Poetics 540 A sketch from private life - - .... j|,. Carmina Byronis in C. EUin ------ 541 Lines to Mr. Moore -------- jli. "On this day 1 complete my thirty-sixth year" - - ib. LETTER TO**** ***** ON BOWLES'S STRIC- TURES ON POPE 542 A FRAGMENT 552 PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES - - - 553 DON JUAN - - - 561 Notes 704 HINTS FROM HORACE 711 ADDITIONS TO THE HOURS OF IDLENESS. On a distant view of the Village and School of Harrow on the Hill - - - - 722 To D. ib. To Eddlcston --- -.-.-ib. Reply to sum-! Verses of J. M. B. Pigot, Esq. - - ih. To the siuhing Birephon ------ -723 To Miss Pi-ot - - - - - - - - - ib. Lines written in "Letters of an Italian Nun and an English Gentleman 724 The Cornelian --------- jb. (In the Death of a Young Lady ----- j|>. To Emma ---------- jb. To M. S. G. - - - - .... 725 To Caroline - - - - - ih. To Caroline --- ..... j|,. To Caroline - - 721! The First Kiss of Love ... - ih. To a beautiful Quaker - ih. To Lesbia -- ------ 7.37 Lines addressed to a Young Lady - - !>. The. Last Adieu ih. Translation from Horace ------- 7'jy Fugitive Pieces Answer to Verse* sent by a Friend - - - - - 728 On a Change of Masters at a great public School - 729 Childish Recollections ih. Answer to a Poem written by Montgomery - - -733 To the Rev. J. T. Becher 734 To MissChaworlh --.---.-ih. Remembrance -------- -ib. VfSCELLANEOUS POEMS. The Blues 735 The Third Act of Manfred, in its oricinal shape - - 738 To my dear Mary Anne - - - - - - -741 To Miss Chaworth -----. - jb. fragment ---------- jh. The I raycr of Nature - - - - - - ib. 'Idrrow 742 L'Amitie est I' Amour suns Ailes To my Son Epitaph on John Adams of Southwell Fragment To Mis. *** A Love-Song -18 ib ib ib Sum/us t *** on leaving England - - - Lines tu Mr. Hoficnun - Lines in the Traveller' Book at Orchomenus On M.ior.. 1 " last ()|>i-ialic Farce - - - Epistle to Mr. II. ib ib ib -74: -741 ib f Do Lord Thnrlow's I'm ms T.. Lord Thnrlow - - T.-Tlic -Me Fragiwni ol 'an Epistle to Thomas Moore Tn-' Devil's Drive - Additional Stanza** to the Ode to Napoleon Bnnaod/le To Lady Canine Lainb Stanzas for Mu>ic intended to be recited at the Caledonian Meet- - - On the Prince Regent's returning the Picture of Sarah. Countess of Jersey, to Mrs. Nice To BelstMzznr They say that Hope is Happiness Lines intended for the opening of "The siege of Cornth" l-'xiract from an unpublished Poem - - - - - To AUIMI--!:I ---------- To Thomas Moore Stanzas to the river Po Sonnet to George the Fourth ---... Francfsca of Rimini ------- Stanzas to her who best can understand them To the Counless of BleninftOB Stanzas written on the Road between Florence > Dives ------... Verses t'uunrt in H Summer- House at Hales Owen From the French ------ New Duet Answer -------.. F.pigrams IV Conquest Vehicles --------. Epivram. from the French of Rulhieres - To Mr. Murray - - - - . Episilr from Mr. Murray to Dr. Polidori fpis'leto Mr. Murray ---.-. To Mr. Murray To Thomas Moore Sianzss- Fpitaph t'.r VVillinm Pitt On my Wedding-day ------ Fpigram -------- The Charity Ball - .... Kpieram To Mr. Murray - Stanzas, to a Hindoo Air -' - On the birth of John William Rizzo Hopr er Stanzas ----.- ih 75t ib ib 75J ib. 75? ib ib 75 ib ib 751 ib ib ib 75t ib ib ib 75t ib. 75!, ib ib ib 7fiC ib ib ib 761 ib. ih. ih. ib. ib. ib. ih. ib. ib. ib. ib. 7S ib ih. 7(53 ib. ib ib. ib ib. ib. >b il, 1.4 ib acfe ot Eottr BY J. W. LAKE O'er the Iwrp, from earliest years beloved, He threw his fingers hurriedly, and tones Of melancholy beauty died away Upon its strings of sweetness. IT was reserved for the present age to pro- uce one distinguished example of the Muse laving descended upon a bard of a wounded spirit, and lent her lyre to tell afflictions of no ordinary description; afflictions originating probably in that singular combination of feel- ing iviih imagination which has been called the poetical temperament, and which has so often saddened the days of those on whom it lias been conferred. If ever a man was enti- tled to lay claim to that character in all its strength and all its weakness, with its un- bounded range of enjoyment, and its exquisite sensibility of pleasure and of pain, that man was Lord Byron. Nor does it require much time, or a deep acquaintance with human na- ture, to discover why these extraordinary powers should in so many cases have con- tributed more to the wretchedness than to the happiness of their possessor. The " imagination all compact," which the greatest poet who ever lived has assigned as the distinguishing badge of his brethren, is in every case a dangerous gift. It exaggerates, indeed, our expectations, and can often bid its possessor hope, where hope is lost to reason; but the delusive pleasure arising from these visions of imagination, resembles that of a child whose notice is attracted by a fragment of glass to which a sunbeam has given mo- mentary splendour. He hastens to the spot wilh breathless impatience, and finds that the object of his curiosity and expectation is equally vulgar and worthless. Such is the man of quick and exalted powers of imagina- tion : his fancy over-estimates the object of his wishes; and pleasure, tame, distinction, are alternately pursued, attained, and despised when in his power. Like the enchanted fruit m the palace of a sorcerer, the objects of his admiration lose their attraction and value as soon as they are grasped by the adventurer's hand ; and all that remains is regret for the time lost in the chase, and wonder at the hal- lucination under the influence,of which it was undertaken. The disproportion between hope and possession, which is felt by all men, is thus doubled to those whom nature has endowed with the power of gilding a distant prospect by the rays of imagination. We think that many points of resemblance may be traced between Byron and Kousseau. Both are distinguished by the most ardent and vivid delineation of intense conception, and by a deep sensibility of passion rather than of affection. Both too, by this double power. have held a dominion over the sympathy of iscrutahle nature. A 2 their readers, far beyoud the rar.se of those ordinary feelings which are usually excited by the mere efforts of genius. The impression of this interest still accompanies the perusal of their writings; but there is another interest, of more lasting and far stronger power, which each of them possessed, which lies in the continual embodying of the individual charac- ter, it might almost be said of the very person of the writer. When we speak or think of Rousseau or Byron, we are not conscious of speaking or thinking of an author. We have a vague but impassioned remembrance of men of surpassing genius, eloquence, and power, of prodigious capacity both of misery and happiness. We feel as if we had transiently met such beings in real life, or had known them in the dim and dark communion of a dream. Each of their works presents, in suc- cession, a fresh idea of themselves ; and, while the productions of other great men stand out from them, like something they have created. theirs, on the contrary, are images, pictures busts of their living selves, clothed, no doubt, at different times, in different drapery, and prominent from a different back-ground, but uniformly impressed with the same form, and mien, and lineaments, and not to be mistaken for the representations of any other of the children of men. But this view of the subject, though univer- sally felt to be a true one, requires perhaps a little explanation. The personal character of which we have spoken, it should be under- stood, is not altogether that on which the seal of life has been set, and to which, therefore, moral approval or condemnation is necessa- rily annexed, as to the language or conduct of actual existence. It is the character, so to speak, which is prior to conduct, and yet open to good and to ill, the constitution" of the being in body and in soul. Each of these illustrious writers has, in this light, filled his works with expressions of his own character. has unveiled to the world the secrets of his own being, the mysteries of the framing of man. They have gone down into those depths which every man may sound for nimself, though not for another; and they have made disclosures to th'e world of what they beheld and knew there disclosures that have com- manded and forced a profound and universal sympathy, by proving that all mankind, the troubled and the untroubled, the lofty and the low, the strongest and the frailest, are linked together by the bonds of a common bul in LIFE OF LORD BYRON. Thus, each of these wayward and richly- gifted spirits made himself the object of pro- Found interest to the world, and that too dur- ing periods of society when ample food was e^ery where spread abroad for the meditations and passions of men. Although of widely dissimilar fortunes and birth, a close resemblance in their passions and their genius may be traced too between Byron and Robert Burns. Their careers were short and glorious, and they both perish- ed in the " rich summer of their life and song," and in all the splendour of a reputation more likely to increase than diminish. One was a peasant, and the other was a peer; but nature is a. great leveller, and makes amends for the injuries of fortune by the richness of her benefactions : the genius of Burns raised him to a level with the nobles of the land; by na- ture, if not by birth, he was the peer of Byron. Thoy both rose by the force of their genius, and both fell by the strength of their passions; one wrote from a love, and the other from a scorn of mankind ; and they both sung of the emotions of their own hearts, with a vehe- mence and an originality which few have equalled, and none surely have surpassed. The versatility of authors who have been able to draw and support characters as differ- ent from each other as from their own, has given to their productions the inexpressible charm of variety, and has often secured them from that neglect which in general attends what is technically called mannerism. But it was reserved for Lord Byron (previous to his Don Juan) to present the same character on the public stage again and again, varied only oy the exertions of that powerful genius, which, searching the springs of passion and of feeling in their innermost recesses, knew how to combine their operations, so that the interest was eternally varying, and never abated, although the most important person of the drama retained the same lineaments. " But that noble tree will never more bear fruit or blossom ! It has been cut down in its strength, and the past is all that remains to us of Byron. That voice is silent for ever, which, bursting so frequently on our car, was often heard with rapturous admiration, sometimes with regret, but always \vit\\ the deepest in- terest." Yet the impression of his works still remains vivid and strong. The charm which cannot pass away is there, life breathing in dead words the stern grandeur the intense power and energy the fresh beauty, the un- dimrned lustre the immortal bloom, and ver- dure, and fragrance of life, all those still are Ihere. But it was not in these alone, it' was in that continual impersonation of himself in his writings, by which he was for ever kept brightly before the eyes of men. H might, at first, seem that his undisguised (evelation of feelings and passions, which the l-ecorninCT pride of human nature, jealous of ils own dignity, would in general desire to hold in unviolated silence, could have pro- duced in the public mind only pity, sorrow, or repugnance. But in the case of men of -<:al genius, like Bvron it is otherwise: they are not felt, while we read, as declarations published to the world, but almost as secrets whispered to chosen ears. Who is there'that feels for a moment, that the voice which reaches the inmost recesses of his heart is speaking to the careless multitudes around him? Or if we do so remember, the words seem to pass by others like air, and to find their way to the hearts for whom they were intended ; kindred and sympathetic spirits, who discern and own that secret language, of which the privacy is not violated, though spoken in hearing of the uninitiated, because it is not understood. A great poet may ad- dress the whole world, in the language of intensest passion, concerning objects of which rather than speak face to face with any one human being on earth, he would perish in his misery. For it is in solitude that he utters what is to be wafted by all the winds of heaven: there are, during his inspiration, present with him only the shadows of men. He is not daunted, or perplexed, or disturbed, or repel- led, by real, living, breathing features. He con updraw just as much of the curtain as he chooses, that hangs between his own solitude and the world of life. He there pours his soul out, partly to himself alone," partly to the ideal abstractions and impersonated images that float around him at his own conjuration; and partly to human beings like himself, moving in the dark distance of the every-day world. He confesses himself, not before men, but before the spirit of humanity ; and he thus fearlessly lays open his heart, assured that najture never prompted unto genius that which will not triumphantly force its wide way into the human heart. We have admitted that Byron has depicted much of himself, in all his heroes ; but when we seem to see the poet shadowed out in all those states of disordered being which his Childe Harolds, Giaours, Conrads, Laras,and Alps exhibit, we are far from believing that his own mind has gone through those states of disorder, in its own experience of life. We merely conceive of it, as having felt within itself the capacity of such disorders, and there- fore exhibiting itself before us in possibility. This is not general, it is rare with great poets. Neither Homer, nor Shakspeare, nor Milton, ever so show themselves in the cha- racters which they pourtray. Their poetical personages have no references to themselves, but are distinct, independent creatures ol their minds, produced in the full freedom of intellectual power. In Byron, there does not seem this freedom of power there is little appropriation of character to events. Charac- ter is first, and all in all ; it is dictated, com- pelled by some force in his own mind ne- cessitating him, and the events obey. Hi poems, therefore, excepting Don Juan, are not full and complete narrations of some one definite story, containing within itself ;\ pic- ture of human life. They are merely bold, confused, and turbulent exemplifications of certain sweeping energi"? and irres/stiblo passions; they r.re fragments cf a poet 1 :.'. dark dream of life.' The very perjonages, riv'vdl) LIFE OF LORD BYRON. vil as they are pictured, are yet felt to be ficti- tious, and derive their chief power over us from their supposed mysterious connexion with the poet himself, and, it may be added, with each other. The law of his mind was to embody his peculiar feelings in the forms of other men. In all his heroes we recognise, though with infinite modifications, the same great characteristics : a high and audacious conception of the power of the mind, an in- tense sensibility of passion, an almost bound- less capacity of tumultuous emotion, a boast- ing admiration of the grandeur of disordered power, and, above all, a soul-felt, blood-felt delight in beauty a beauty, which, in his wild creation, is often scared away from the agitated surface of life by storrnie'r passions, but which, like a bird of calm, is for ever re- turning, on its soft, silvery wings, ere the black swell has finally subsided into sunshine and peace. These reflections naturally precede the sketch we are about to attempt of Lord By- ron's literary and private life : indeed, they are in a manner forced upon us by his poetry, by the sentiments of weariness of existence and enmity with the world which it so fre- quently expresses, and by the singular analo- gy which such sentiments hold with the real incidents of his life. Lord Byron was descended from an illus- trious line of ancestry. From the period of the Conquest, his family were distinguished, not merely for their extensive manors in Lan- cashire and other parts of the kingdom, but for their prowess in arms. John de Byron attended Edward the First in several warlike expeditions. Two of the Byrons fell at the battle of Cressy. Another member of the family, Sir John de Byron, rendered good jervice in Bosworth field to the Earl of Rich- mond, and contributed by his valour to trans- fer the crown from the head of Richard the Third to that of Henry the Seventh. This Sir John was a man of honour, as well as a brave warrior. He was very intimate with his neigh- bour SirGervase Clifton; and, although By- ron fought under Henry, and Clifton under Richard, it did not diminish their friendship, but, on the contrary, put it to a severe test. Previous to the battle, the prize of which was a kingdom, they had mutually promised that whichever of them was vanquished, the other should endeavour to prevent the forfeiture of his friend's estate. While Clifton was bravely fighting at the head of his troop, he was struck off his horse, which Byron perceiving, lie quitted the ranks, and ran to the relief of his friend, whom he shielded, but who died in his arms. Sir John de Byron kept his word: he interceded with the kin^: the estate was pre- served to the Clifton family, and is now in the possession of a descendant of Sir Gervase. In the wars between Charles the First and .'he Parliament, the Byrons adhered to the royal cause. Sir Nicholas Byron, the eldest brother and representative of the family, was an eminent loyalist, who, having distinguished himself in the wars of the Low Countries, was. appointed governor of Chelsea, in 1642. He had two sons, who both died without issue: and his youneer brother, Sir John, became their heir. Tin's person was made a Knight of the Bath, at the coronation of Jame Ilifi First. He had. eleven sons, most of v!;uin distinguished themselves for their loyaii / and gallantry on the side of Charles the I- 1 -rsr Seven of these brothers were engaged ^i the battle of Marston-moor, of whom four fell i.. defence of the royal cause. Sir John Byron, one of the survivors, was appointed to many important commands, and on the 26th of Oc- tober, 1643, was created Lord Byron, with a collateral remainder to his brothers. On the decline of the king's affairs, he was appointed governor to the Duke of York, and ? in this office, died without issue, in France, in 1652; upon which his brother Richard, a celebrated cavalier, became the second Lord Byron. He was governor of Appleby Castle, and distin- guished himself at Newark. He died in 1 697, aged seventy-four, and was succeeded by his eldest son William, who married Elizabeth, the daughter of John Viscount Chaworth, of the kingdom of Ireland, by whom he had five sons, allof whom died young, except William, whose eldest son, William, was born in 1722, and came to the title in 1736. William, Lord Byron, passed the early par* of his life in the navy. In 1763, he was made master of the stag-hounds ; and in 1 765, was sent to the Tower, and tried before the HOUSP of Peers, for killing his relation and neigh- bour, Mr. Chaworth, in a duel. The follow ing details of this fatal event are peculiarly interesting, from subsequent circumstances connected with the subject of our sketch. The old Lord Byron belonged to a club, of which Mr. Chaworth was also a member. It met at the Star and Garter tavern, Pall Mall, once a month, and was called the Nottingham- shire Club. On the 29th January, 1765, they met at four o'clock to dinner as usual, and every thing went agreeably on, until about seven o'clock, when a dispute arose betwixt Lord Byron and Mr. Chaworth, concerning the quantity of game on their estates. The dispute rose to a high pitch, and Mr. Cha- worth, having paid his share of the bill, retired. Lord Byron followed him out of the room in which they had dined, and, stopping him on the landing of the stairs, called to the waiter to show them into an empty room. They were shown into one, and a single candle being placed on the table, in a few minutes the bell was rung, and Mr. Chaworth found mor- tally wounded. He said that Lord Byron and he entered the room together, Lord Bvron leading the way; that his lordship, in walking forward, said something relative to the lonnei dispute, on which he proposed fastening the door; that on turning himself round from this act. he perceived his lordship w>th his sword half drawn, or nearly so: on which, knowinq his man, he instantly drew his own, and made a thrust at him, which he thought had wound- ed or killed him ; that then, perceiving his lordship shorten his sword to return the thrust; he thought to have parried it with his left hand; that he felt the sword enter )iis body, and go vn LIFE OF LORD BYRON. y the former, proceeded to take vengeance m him even on the landing-place of the draw- ing-room stairs, when George interposed in his defence, declaring that nobody should be ill-used while under his roof and "protection. Upon this the aggressor dared him to fight : and, although the former was by much the stronger of tte two, the spirit of youriir Byron was so determined, that after the combat had lasted for nearly two hours, it was suspend- ed because both the boys were entirely ex- hausted. A school-fellow of Byron had a very small .Shetland pony, which his father had bought him: and one day they went to the banks of the Don to hathf; but havine only one pony. they were obliged to follow the good old prac- tice relied in Scotland " ride and tie." When they cainc to the bridsre over that dark ro- mantic stream, Byron bethoueht him of the irophccv which he has quoted in Don Juan : " Brig of Balgounie, black's your wo'; Wi' a wife's ae son and a mear's ae fouL Doun ye shall fa'." He immediately stopped his companion, win was then riding, and asked him if he remem bered the prophecy, saying, that as they were both only sons, and as the pony might be " s mare's ae foal," he would rather ride over first; because he had only a mother to lament him, should the prophecy be fulfilled by the falling of the bridge, whereas the other had both a father and a mother to grieve for him. It is the custom of the grammar-schcol at Aberdeen, that the boys of all the five classes of which it is composed, should be assembled for prayers in the public school at eight o'clock in the morning; after prayers, a censor calls over the names of all, and" those who are ab- sent are punished. The first time that Lord Byron had come to school after his accession to his title, the rector had caused his name to be inserted in the censor's book, Georgius Dominus de Byron, instead of G?orgius Byron Gordon, as formerly. The boys, unaccus- tomed to this aristocratic sound, set up a loud and involuntary shout, which had such an ef- fect on his sensitive mind that he burst into tears, and would have fled from the school, had lie not been restrained by the master. An answer which Lord Byron made to a fellow scholar, who questioned him as to the cause of the honorary addition of " Dorninus de Byron" to his name, served at that time, when he was only ten years of age, to point out that lie would be a man who would think, speak, and act for himself who, whatever might be his sayings or his doings, his vice? or his virtues, would not condescend to takp them at second-hand. This happened on the very day after lie had been menaced with being Hogged round the school for a fault which he had not committed ; and when the question was put to him, he replied, " it is not my do- ing; Fortune was to whip me yesterday fe" what another did, and she has this day made me a lord for what another lias ceased to do. I need not thank her in either case, for I have asked nothing at her hands.'' On the 17th of May, 1798, William, the fih Lord Byron, departed this life at Newstead. As the son of this eccentric nobleman had died ivhen George was five years old, and as the descent both of the titles and estates was to heirs male, the latter, of course, succeeded his great-uncle. Upon this change of fortune, Lord Byron, now ten years of age, was re- moved from the immediate care of his mother and placed as a ward under the guardianship of the Earl of Carlisle, whose father had mar- ried Isabella, the sister of the preceding Lord Byron. In one or two points of character this great-aunt resembled the bard: she also wrote beautiful poetry, and after adorning the gav and fashionable world for many years, she left it without any apparent cause, and with perfect indifference, and in a great measure secluded herself from society. The young nobleman's guardian decided that he should receive the usual education given to England's titled sons, and that be LIFE OF LORD BYRON. should, in 1lie first instance, be sent to the public schoil at Harrow. He was accord- ingly placel there under the tuition of the Rev. Dr. Drury, to whom he has testified his gratitude in a note to the fourth canto of Childe Harold, in a manner which does equal honour to the tutor and the pupil. A change of scene and of circumstances so unforeseen and so rapid, would have been hazardous to any hoy, out it was doubly so to one of Byron's ardent mind and previous habits. Taken at once from the society of boys in humble life, and placed among youths of his own newly- acquired rank, with means of gratification which to him must have appeared considera- ble, it is by no means surprising that he should have been betrayed into every sort of extrav- agance : none of them appear, however, to have been of a very culpable nature. . " Though he was lame," says one of his school-fellows, " he was a great lover of sports, and preferred hockey to Horace, relinquished even Helicon for ' duck-puddle,' and gave up the best poet that ever wrote hard Latin for a game of cricket on the common. He was not remarkable (nor was he ever) for his learn- ing, but he was always a clever, plain-spoken, and undaunted boy. I have seen him fight by the hour like a Trojan, and stand up against the disadvantage of his lameness with all the spirit of an ancient combatant. ' Don't you remember your battle with Pitt?' (a brewer's son) said I to him in a letter (for I had wit- nessed it), but it seems that he had forgotten it. ' You are mistaken, I think,' said he in reply ; ' it must have been with Rice-Pud- ding Morgan, or Lord Jocelyn, or one of the Douglases, or George Raynsford, or Pryce (with whom I had two conflicts), or with Moses Moore (the ctod), or with somebody else, and not with Pitt; for with all the above-named, and other worthies of the fist, had I an inter- change of black eyes and bloody noses, at various and sundry periods ; however it may have happened for all that.' " The annexed anecdotes are characteristic : The boys at Harrow had mutinied, and in their wisdom had resolved to set fire to the scene of all their ills and troubles the school- room : Byron, however, was against the mo- tion; and by pointing out to the young rebels the names of their fathers on the walls, he prevented the intended conflagration. This early specimen of his power over the passions of his school-fellows, his lordship piqued him- self not a little upon. Byron long retained a friendship for several of his Harrow school-fellows ; Lord Clare was one of his constant correspondents ; Scroopc Davies was also one of his chief companions, before his lordship went to the continent. This gentleman and Byron once lost all their money at "chicken hazard," in one of the bells of St. James's, and the next morning l)nvies sent for Byron's pistols to shoot him- tclf with; Byron sent a note refusing to give them, on the ground that they would be for- feited as a deodand. This comic excuse had !he desired effect. Byron, whilst living at Newstead during the Harrow vacation, saw and became en amoured of Miss Chaworth : she is the Mary of his poetry, and his beautiful " Dream n re"- lates to their loves. Miss Chaworth was oldei than his lordship by a few years, was light and volatile, and though, no doubt, highly flat tered by his attachment, yet she treate'd oui poet less as an ardent lover than as a youngei brother. She was punctual to the assignations which took place at a gate dividing the grounds of the Byrons from the Chaworths, and ac- cepted his letters from the confidants; but hei answers, it is said, were written with more ot the caution of coquetiy than the romance ol "love's young dream;" she gave him, how ever, her picture, but her hand was reserved for another. It was somewhat remarkable that Lord Byron and Miss Chaworth should both have been under the guardianship of Mr. White. This gentleman particularly wished that his wards should be married together ; but Miss C., as young ladies generally do in such cir- cumstances, differed from him, and was re- solved to please herself in the choice of a husband. The celebrated Mr. M., commonly known by the name of Jack M., was at this time quite the rage, and Miss C. was not subtle enough to conceal the penchant she had for this jack-a-f/flw/y; and though Mr. W. took her from one watering-place to another, still the lover, like an evil spirit, followed, and at last, being somehow more persuasive than the " child of song," he carried off the lady to the great grief of Lord Byron. The mar riage, however, was not a happy one ; J.he parties soon separated, and Mrs. M. ter- wards proposed an interview with her former lover, which, by the advice of his sister, he declined. From Harrow Lord Byron was removed, and entered of Trinity College, Cambridge ; there, however, he did not mend his manners, nor hold the sages of antiquity in higher es- teem than when under the command of his reverend tutor at Harrow. He was above studying the poetics, and held the rules of the Stagyrite in as little esteem as in after-life he did the " invariable principles" of the Rev. Mr. Bowles. Reading after the fashion of the studious men of Cam, was to him a bore, and he held a senior wrangler in the greatest con- tempt. Persons of real genius are seldom candidates for college prizes, and Byron left " the silvercup" for those plodding characters who, perhaps, deserve them, as the guerdon of the unceasing labour necessary to over- come the all but invincible natural dullness of their intellects. Byron, instead of reading what pleased tutors, read what pleased him- self, and wrote what could not fail to displease those political weathercocks. He did not ad- mire their system of education ; and they, an is the case with most scholars, could admire no other. He took to quizzing them, and no one likes to be laughed at; doctors frowned, and fellows fumed, and Byron at the age of nineteen left the university without a degree. Among other means which he adopted tc show his contempt for academ> tl honour* LIFE OF LORD BYRON. he kept a vounw bear in his room for some time, which he told all his friends lie was train- ing up for a fellowship; but, however much the fellows of Trinity may claim acquaintance w ith the " ursa major," they were by no means desirous of associating with his lordship's Hive. When about nineteen years of age, Lord ByroTi bade adieu to the university, and took up his residence at Newstead Abbey. Here his pursuits were principally those of amuse- ment. Among others, he was extremely fond of the water. In his aquatic exercises he had Geldom any other companion than a large Newfoundland dog, to try whose sagacity and fidelity, he would sometimes fall out of the boat, as if by accident, when the dog would seize him, and drag him ashore. On losing this dog, in the autumn of 1808, he caused a monument to be erected, with an inscription commemorative of its attachment. (See page 53"2 of this edition.) The following descriptions of Newstead's hallowed pile will be found interesting: This abbey was founded in the year 1170, hy Henry II., as a priory of Black Canons, and dedicated to the Virgin Mary. It con- tinued in the family of the Bvrons until the time of the late lord, who sold it first to Mr. Claughtoa for the sum of 140,000/., and on that gentleman's not being able to fulfil the agreement, and thus paying 20,000/. of a for- feit, it was afterwards sold to another person, and most of the money vested in trustees for the jointure of the Hon. Mrs. Byron. The greater part of the edifice still remains. The present possessor, Major Wildman, is, with genuine Gothic taste, repairing this beautiful specimen of architecture. The late Lord Byron repaired a considerable part of it ; but, forgetting the roof, he had turned his at- tention to the inside, and the consequence was, that in a few years, the rain paying a visit to the apartments, soon destroyed all those elegant devices which his lordship had contrived. His lordship's own study was a neat little apartment, decorated with some good classic busts, a select collection of books, an antique cross, a sword in a gilt case, and, at the end of the room, two finely polished skulls on a pair of light fancy stands. In the garden, likewise, was a great number of these skulls, taken from the burial-ground of the abbey, and piled up together; but afterwards they were recommitted to the earth. A writer, ivho visited it soon after Lord Byron had sold 't, says : " In one corner of the servants' hall lay a stone coffin, in which were fencing gloves and foils, and on the walls of the ample But cheerless kitchen was painted in large let- ters. ' Waste not want not.' During the mi- nority of Lord Byron, the abbey was in the possession of Lord G , his "hounds, and divers colonies of jackdaws, swallows, and starlings. The internal traces of this Goth vere swept away : but without, all appeared as rude and unreclaimed as he could have left it. With the exception of the dog's tomb, a conspicuous and elegant object, I do not re- sollect the si ightesf trace of culture or im- provement. The late lord, a stern and despe- rate character, who is never mentioned by tne neighbouring peasants without a significant shake of the head, might have returned and recognised every thing about him, except perhaps, an additional crop of weeds. There still slept that old pond, into which he is said to have hurled his lady in one of his fits of fury, whence she was rescued by the gardener, a courageous blade, who was the lord's mas- ter, and chastised him for his barbarity. There still, at the end of the garden, in a grove of oak, two towering satyrs, he with his goat ana club, and Mrs. Satyr with her chubby cloven footed brat, placed on pedestals at the inter sections of the narrow and gloomy pathways, struck for a moment with their grim visages and silent shaggy forms, the fear into your bosom which is felt by the neighbouring pea- santry at ' th' oud laird's devils.' I have fre- quently asked the country people near New- stead, what sort of man his lordship (our Lord Byron) was. The impression of his eccentric but energetic character was evident in the reply, ' He 's the devil of a fellow for comical fancies. He flogs th' oud laird to nothing; but he 's a hearty good fellow for all that.' " Walpole, wlio had visited Newstead. gives, in his usual bitter, sarcastic manner, the fol- lowing account of it : u As I returned I saw Newstead and Al- thorpe ; I like both. The former is the very abbey. The great cast window of the church remains, and connects with the house ; the hall entire, the refectory entire, the cloister untouched, with the ancient cistern of the convent, and their arms on it : it has a private chapel quite perfect. The park, which is still charming, has not been so much unprofaned. The present lord has lost large sums, and paid part in old oaks, five thousand pounds' worth of which have been cut near the house. En revanche, he has built two baby forts, to pay his country in castles for damage done to the navy, and planted a handful of Scotch firs, that look like ploughboys dressed in old family liveries for a public day. In the hall is a very good collection of pictures, all animals. The refectory, now the great drawing-room, is full of Byrons : the vaulted roof remaining, but the windows have new dresses making for them by a Venetian tailor." This is a careless but happy description of one of the noblest mansions in England, and it will now be read with a far deeper interest than when it was written. Walpole saw the seat of the Byrons, old, majestic, and venera- ble : but he saw nothing of that magic beauty which fame sheds over the habitations of ge nius, and which now mantles every turret of Newstead Abbey. He saw it when decay was doing its work on the cloister, the refec- tory, and the chapel, and all its honours seemed mouldering into oblivion. He could not know that a voice was soon to go forth from those antique cloisters, that should be heard through all future ages, and cry, ' Sleep no more to all the house.' Whatever may be its future fc.te, Newstead Abbey must henceforth be a memo- rable abode. Time may shed its wild flower* on the walls, and let the fox in upon the roirt- XII LIFE OF LORD BYRON*. yard and the t, lambnrs ; it may even pass into Uie hands cf unlettered pride, or plebeian opulence: biu it has been the mansion of a mighty poet. Its name is associated with glo- ries that cannot perish, and will go down to posterity in one of the proudest pages of our annals. Lord Byron showed, even in his earliest years, that nature had added to the advan- tages of high descent the richest gifts of genius and of fancy. His own tale is partly told in two lines of Lara : " Left by his sire, too vounjs; such loss to know, Lord of himself, that he.ivage of woe." His first literary adventure, and its fate, are well remembered. The poems which he pub- lished in his minority had, indeed, those faults of conception and diction which are insepara- ble from juvenile attempts, arid in particular may rather be considered as imitative of what had caught the ear and fancy of the youthful author, than as exhibiting originality of con- ception and expression. It was like the first essay of the singing-bird, catching at and imi- tating the notes of its parent, ere habit and time have given the fulness of tone, confi- dence, and self-possession which render assist- ance unnecessary. Yet though there were many, and those not the worst judges, who discerned in his " Hours of Idleness" a depth of thought and felicity of expression which promised much at a more mature age, the work did not escape the critical lash of the " Scotch Reviewers," who could not resist the opportunity of pouncing upon a titled poet, of showing off their own wit, and of seeking to entertain their readers with a flippant ar- ticle, without much respect to the feelings of the author, or even to the indications of merit which the work displayed. The review was read, and excited mirth; the poems were neglected, the author was irritated, and took his revenge in keen iambics, which, at the same time, proved the injustice of the offend- ing critic and the ripening talents of the bard. Having thus vented his indignation against the reviewers and their readers, and put all the laughter on his side, Lord Byron went abroad, and the controversy was for some years forgotten. It was at Newstead, just before his coming of age, he had planned his future travels, and his original intention included a much larger portion of the world than that which he after- wards visited. He first thought of Persia, to which idea indeed he for a long time adhered. He afterwards meant to sail for India, and had so far contemplated this project as to write for information from the Arabic professor at < Cambridge, and to ask his mother to inquire of a friend who had lived in India, what things would be necessary for his voyage. He formed nis plan of travelling upon very different grounds from those which he afterwards ad- vanced. All men should travel at one time or another, he thought, and he had then no con- nexions to prevent him; when he returned he migtit enter into political life, for which travelling would noi incapacitate him, and he wished to judg_e of men by experience. At lengvh, in July, 1809, in company with John Cam Iiobhouse,Esq. (with whom his ac- quaintance commenced at Cambridge), Lord Byron embarked at Falmouth for Lisbon, and thence proceeded, by the southern provinces of Spain, to the Mediterranean. The objects that he met with as far as Gibraltar seem to have occupied his mind, to the temporary exclusion of his gloomy and misanthropic thoughts ; for a letter which he wrote to his mother from thence contains no indication of them, but, on the contrary, much playful de- scription of the scenes through which he had passed. At Seville, Lord Byron lodged in the house of two single ladies, one of whom, how- ever, was about to be married. Though he remained there only three days, she paid him the most particular attentions, and, at their parting, embraced him with great tenderness, cutting off a lock of his hair, and presenting him with one of her own. With this specimen of Spanish female manners, he proceeded to Ca- di/., where various incidents occurred to con- 'firrn the opinion he had formed it Seville of the Andalusian belles, and whici made him leave Cadiz with regret, and determine to re- turn to it. Lord Byron wrote to his mother from Malta* announcing his safety, and again from Previsa, in November. Upon arriving at Yanina, Lord Byron found that Ali Pacha was with his troops in Illyrium, besieging Ibrahim Pacha in Berat; but the vi/.ier. 'hay- ing heard that an English nobleman was in his country, had given orders at Yanina to supply him with every kind of accommoda- tion, free of expense. From Yanina, Lord Byron went to Tepaleen. Here lie was lodged in the palace, and the next day introduced to Ali Pacha, who declared that he knew him to be a man of rank from the smallness of his ears, his curling hair, and his white hands, and who sent him a variety of sweetmeats, fruits, and other luxuries. In going in a Turkish ship of war, provided for him by Ali Pacha, from Previsa, intending to sail for Patras. Lord Byron was very near being lost in but a moderate gale of wind, from the igno- rance of the Turkish officers and sailors, and was driven on the coast of Suli. An instance of disinterested hospitality in the chief of a Suliote village occurred to Lord Byron, in consequence of his disasters in the Turkish galliot. The honest Albanian, after assisting him in his distress, supplying his wants, and lodging him and his suite, refused to receive any remuneration. When Lord Byron pressed him to take money, he said : " I wish you to love me, not to pay me." At Yanina, on his return, he was introduced to Hussien Boy and Mahomet Pacha, two young children of Ali Pacha. Subsequently, he visited Smyrna whence he went in the Salsette frigate t Constantinople. On the 3d of May, 1810, while this frigate was lying at anchor in the Dardanelles, Lord Byron, accompanied by lieutenant Eken- head, swam the Hellespon* from the European LIFE OF LORD BYRON. XI.) shore to the Asiatic about two miles wide. The tide of the Dardanelles runs so strong, thai it is impossible either to swim or to sail to any given point. Lord Byron went from the castle to Abydos, and landed on the oppo- site shore, full thr re miles below his meditated place of approach. He had a boat in attend- ance all the way ; so that no danger coul^ be apprehended even if his strength had failed. His lordship records, in one of his minor poems, that he got the ague by the voyage ; but it was well known, that when he landed, lie was so much exhausted, that he gladly ac- cepted the offer of a Turkish fisherman, and reposed in his hut for several hours; he was then very ill, and as Lieutenant Ekenhead was compelled to go on board his frigate, he was left alone. The Turk had no idea of the rank or consequence of his inmate, but paid him most marked attention. His wife was his nurse, and, at the end of five days, he left the shore, completely recovered. When he was about to embark, the Turk gave him a large loaf, a cheese, and a skin filled with wine, and then presented him with a few paras (about a penny each), prayed Allah to bless him, and wished him safe home. His lordship made him no return to this, more than saying he felt much obliged. But when he arrived at Abydos, he sent over his man Ste- fano, to the Turk, with an assortment of fish- ing-nets, a fowling piece, a brace of pistols, and twelve yards 01 silk to make gowns for his wife. The poor Turk was astonished, and said, " What a noble return for an act of hu- manity!" He then formed the resolution of crossing the Hellespont, and, in proprin persona, thanking his lordship. His wife ap- proved of the plan ; and he had sailed about half way across, when a sudden squall upset his boat, and the poor Turkish fisherman found a watery grave. Lord Byron was much distressed when he heard of the catas- trophe, and, with all that kindness of heart which was natural to him, he sent to the widow fifty dollars, and told her he would ever be her friend. This anecdote, so highly honourable to his lordship's memory, is very little known. Lieutenant Hare, who was on the spot at the time, furnished the particulars, and added that, in the year 1817, Lord Byron, then proceeding to Constantinople, landed at. the same spot, and made a handsome present to the widow and her son, who recollected the circumstance, but knew not Lord Byron, his dress and appearance having so altered him. It was not until after Lord Byron arrived at Constantinople that he decided not to go on to Persia, but to pass the following summer in the Morea. At Constantinople, Mr. Hob- douse left him to return to England. On losing bis companion. Lord Byron Vent again, and alone, over much of the old track which he had already visited, and studied the scenery and manners, of Greeoeespecially, with the search- ing eye of a poet and a painter. His mind Appeared occasionally to have some tendency rewards a recovery from (lie morbid state of moral apathy which he had previously evinced, and the gratification which he manifested OD observing the superiority, in every respect, of England to other countries, proved that patri- otism was far from being extinct in his bosom The embarrassed state of his affairs at length induced him to return home, to endeavour tf arrange them ; and he arrived in the Volagt frigate on the 2d of July, 1811, having been absent exactly two years. His health had not suffered by his travels, although it had been interrupted by two sharp fevers ; but he had put himself entirely on a vegetable diet, and drank no wine. Soon after his arrival, he was summoned (o IVewstead, in consequence of the serious ill- ness of his mother ; but on reaching the ab- bey, found that she had breathed her last. He suffered much from this loss, and from the dis- appointment of not seeing her before her death; and while his feelings on the subject were still very acute, he received the intelligence, that a friend, whom he highly esteemed, had been drowned in the Cam. He had not long before heard of the death, at Coimbra, of a school- fellow, to whom he was much attached. These three melancholy events, occurring within the space of a month, had, no doubt, a powerful effect on Lord Byron's feelings. Towards the termination of his " English Bards and Scotch Ileviewers," the noble au- thor had declared, that it was his intention to break off, from that period, his newly-formed connexion with the Muses, and that, should he return in safety from the " Minarets" of Constantinople, the " Maidens" of Georgia, and the " Sublime Snows of Mount Cau- casus, nothing on earth should tempt him to resume the pen. Such resolutions are seldom maintained. In February, 1812, the first two cantos of " Childe Harold's Pilgrimage" (with the manuscript of which he had presented his friend Mr. Dallas,) made their appearance, producing an effect upon the public, equal to that of any work which has been published within this or the last century. This poem is, perhaps, the most original in the English language, both in conception and execution. It is no more like Beattie's Min strel than Paradise Lost though the former pi'oduction vsas in the noble author's mind when first thinking of Childe Harold. A great poet, who gives himself up free and uncon- fined to the impulses of his genius, as Byron did in the better part of this singular creation, shows to us a spirit as if sent out from the hands of nature, to range over the earth and the societies of men. Even Shakspeare him- self submits to the shackles of history and society. But here Byron has traversed the vhole earth, borne along by the whirlwind of his own spirit. Wherever a forest ftowned, or a temple glittered there he was privi- leged to bend Tiis flight. He suddenly start up from his solitary dream, by the secret foun- tain of the desert, and descends at once into the tumult of peopled or the silence of de- serted cities. Whatever actually lived had perished heretofore or that had within it a [,>wft- lu kindle passion, became the material of his all-embracing song. There are no unit.*- 11 V LIFE OF LORD BYRON of time or pKce to fetter him and we fly with him Iroui hill-too to hill-top, and from tower to tower, over all the solitude of nature, and all the magnificence of art. When the past pageants of history seemed too dim and faded, he would turn to the splendid spe'cta- cles that have dignified our own days, and the images of kings and conquerors of old gave place to those that were yet living in sove- reignty and exile. Indeed, much of the power which Byron possessed was derived from this source. He lived in a sort of sympathy with the public mind sometimes wholly distinct from it sometimes acting in opposition to it sometimes blending with it, but, at all times, in all his thoughts and actions, bearing a reference to the public mind. His spirit needed not to go back into the past, though it often did so, to bring the objects of its love back to earth in more beautiful life. The ex- istence he painted was the present. The objects he presented were marked out to him by men's actual regards. It was his to speak of all those great political events which were objects of such passionate and universal sym- pathy. But chiefly he spoke our own feelings, exalted in thought, language, and passion. His travels were not, at first, the self-impelled act of a mind severing itself in lonely roaming from all participation in the society to which it belonged, but rather obeying the general notion of the mind of that society. The indications of a bold, powerful, and original mind, which glanced through every line of Childe Harold, electrified the mass of reader?, and placed at once upon Lord By- ron's head the garland for which other men of genius have toiled long, and which they have gained late. He was placed pre-eminent among the literary men of his country, by general acclamation. Those who had so rigor- ously censured his juvenile essays, and perhaps " dreaded such another field," were the first to pay warm homage to his matured efforts : while others, who saw in the sentiments of Childe Harpld much to regret and to censure, did not withhold their tribute of applause to the depth of thought, the power and force of expression, and the energy of sentiment, which animated the " Pilgrimage." Thus, as all admired the poem, all were prepared to greet the author with that fame which is the poet's best reward It was amidst such feel- ings of admiration that Lord Byron fully en- tered on that public stage, where, to the close of his life, he made so distinguished a figure. Every thing in his manner, person, and conversation, tended to maintain the charm which his trenius had flung around him ; and those admitted to his conversation, far from finding, that the inspired poet sunk into ordi- nary mortality, felt themselves attached to him not only by many noble qualities, but by the .merest of a mysterious, undefined, and almost >ainful curiosity It is well known how wide the doors of so- ciety are opened in London to literary merit, even to a degree far inferior to Lord Byron's, and that it is only necessary to be honourably distinguished by the public voice, to move as a denizen in the first circles. This passport was not necessary to Lord Byron, who possessed the hereditary claims of birth and rank. But the interest which his genius attached to his presence, and to his conversation, was of v nature far beyond what these hereditary claims could of themselves have conferred, and his reception was enthusiastic beyond any thing imaginable. Lord Byron was not one of those literary men of whom it may be truly said, minuit prcEsentlafamam. A coun- tenance, exquisitely modeled to the expres- sion of feeling and passion, and exhibiting the remarkable contrast of very dark hair and eyebrows, with light and expressive eyes, presented to the physiognomist the most in- teresting subject for the exercise of his art. The predominating expression was that of deep and habitual thought, which gave way to the most rapid play of features when he en- gaged in interesting discussion ; so that a brother poet compared them to the sculpture of a beautiful alabaster vase, only seen to per fection when lighted up from within. The flashes of mirth, gaiety, indignation, or sa- tirical dislike, which frequently animated Lord Byron's countenance, might, during an even- ing's conversation, be mistaken by a stranger for its habitual expression, so easily and so happily was it formed for them all ; but those who had an opportunity of studying his fea- tures for a length of time, and upon various occasions, both of rest and emotion, knew that their proper language was that of melan choly. Sometimes shades of this gloom inter- rupted even his gayest and most happy mo- ments ; and the following verses are said to have dropped from his pen to excuse a tran- sient expression of melancholy which over clouded the general gaiety. " When from the heart where Sorrow sits, Her dusky shadow mounts too high, And o'er the changing aspect flits, And clouds the brow, or fills the eye Heed not the gloom that soon shall sink, My thoughts their dungeon know too well ; Back to my breast the captives shrink, And bleed within their silent cell." It was impossible to notice a dejection be- longing neither to the rank, the age, noi the success of this young nobleman, witnout feeling an indefinable curiosity to ascertain whether it had a deeper cause than habit or constitutional temperament. It was obviously of a degree incalculably more serious than thai alluded to by Prince Arthur I remember when I was in France, Vour^' gentlemen would be as sad as night, Only for wantonness But, howsoever derived, this, joined to Lord Byron's air of mingling in amusements and sports as if he contemned them, and fc't that his sphere was far above the fashionable ind frivolous crowd which surrounded him, gave a strong effect of colouring to a charact- whose tints were otherwise decidedly roman' tic. Noble and far descended, the pilgrim of distant and savage countries, eminent >.s a poet among the first whom Britain has pro LIFE OF LORD BYRON. duceJ, and having besides cast around him a mysterious charm arising from the sombre tone of his poetry, and the occasional melan- choly of his deportment, Lord Byron occu- pied the eyes and interested the feelings of all. The enthusiastic looked on him to admire, the serious with a wish to admonish, and the soft with a desire to console. Even literary envy, a base sensation, from which, perhaps, this age is more free than any other, forgave the man whose splendour dimmed the fame of his competitors. The generosity of Lord By- ron's disposition, his readiness to assist merit in distress, and to bring it forward where un- known, deserved and obtained general re- gard ; while his poetical effusions, poured forth with equal force and fertility, showed at once a daring confidence in his own powers, and a determination to maintain, by continued ef- fort, the high place he had attained in British literature. At one of the fashionable parties where the noble bard was present, His Majesty, then Prince Regent, entered the room : Lord By- ron was at some distance at the time, but, on learning who he was, His Royal Highness sent a gentleman to him to desire that he would be presented. Of course the presenta- tion took place ; the Regent expressed his admiration of " Childe Harold's Pilgrimage," and entered into a conversation which so fas- cinated the poet, that had it not been for an accident which deferred a levee intended to have been held the next day, he would have gone to court. Soon after, however, an un- fortunate influence counteracted the effect of royal praise, and Lord Byron permitted him- self to write and speak disrespectfully of the Prince. The whole of Byron's political career may be summed up in the following anecdotes: The Earl of Carlisle having declined to in- troduce Lord Byron to the House of Peers, he resolved to introduce himself, and accord- ingly went there a little before the usual hour, when he knew few of the lords would be present. On entering, he appeared rather abashed, and looked very pale, but, passing the woolsack, where the Chancellor (Lord Eldon) was engaged in some of the ordinary routine of the house, he went directly to the fable, where the oaths were administered to him in the usual manner. The Lord Chan- cellor then approached, and offered his hand in the most open familiar manner, congratu- lating him on his taking possession of his seat. Lord Byron only placed the tips of his fingers m the Chancellor's hand ; the latter returned to his seat, and Byron, after lounging a few minutes on one of the opposition benches, re- tired. To his friend, Mr. Dallas, who followed him out, he gave as a reason for not entering into the spirit of the Chancellor, " that it might have been supposed he would join the court party, whereas he intended to have no- thing at all to do with politics." He only addressed the house three times : the first of his speeches was on the Frame- work Bill ; the second in favour of the Cath- olic claims, which gave good hopes of his be- coming an orator; and the other related to a petition from Major Cartwright. Byron him- self says, the Lords told him " his manner was not dignified enough for them, and would better suit the lower house ;" others say, they gathered round him while speaking, listening with the greatest attention a sign at any rate that he was interesting. He always voted with the opposition, but evinced no likelihood of becoming the blind partisan of either side. The following is a pleasing instance of the generosity, the delicacy, and the unwounding benevolence of Byron's nature : A young lady of considerable talents, but who had never been able to succeed in turn- ing them to any profitable account, was re- duced to great hardships through the misfor- tunes of her family. The only persons from whom she could have hoped for relief were abroad, and so urged on, more by the suffer- ings of those she held dear than by her own she summoned up resolution to wait on Lord Byron at his apartments in the Albany, and ask his subscription to a volume of poems: she had no previous knowledge of him except from his works, but from the boldness and feeling expressed in them, she concluded that he must be a man of kind heart and amiable disposition. Experience did not disappoint her, and though she entered the apartment with faltering steps and a palpitating heart, she soon found courage to state her request, which she did in the most simple and delicate manner: he heard it with the most marked attention and the keenest sympathy; and when she had ceased speaking, he, as if to avert her thoughts from a subject which could not be but painful to her, began to converse in words so fascinating, and tones so gentle, that she hardly perceived he had been writ- ing, until he put a folded slip of paper into her hand, saying it was his subscription, and that he most heartily wished her success. " But," added he, " we are both young, and the world is very censorious, and so if I were to take any active part in procuring subscribers to your poems, I fear it would do you harm rather than good." The young lady, overpowered by the prudence anil delicacy of his conduct, took her leave, and upon opening in the street the paper, which in her agitation she had not previously looked at, she found it was a draft upon his banker for fifty pounds ! The enmity that Byron entertained towards the Earl of Carlisle, w as owing to two causes : the Earl had spoken rather irreverently o' the " Hours of Idleness," when Byron ex 1 pected, as a relation, that he would have countenanced it. He had moreover refused to introduce his kinsman to the Houae of Lords, even, it is said, somewhat doubting his right to a seat in that honourable house. The Earl of Carlisle was a great admirer of the classic drama, and once published a sixpenny pamphlet, in which he strenuously argued in behalf of the propriety and neces- sity of small theatres : on the same day that this weighty publication appeared he snt XVI LIFE OF LORD BYRON. scribed a -thousand pounds for some public purpose. On this occasion, Byron composed the following epigram : " Carlisle subscribes a thousand pound Out of his rich domains ; And for a sixpence circles round The produce of his brains : 'T is thus the difference you may hit Between his fortune and his wit." Byron retained his antipathy to this relative to the last. On reading some lines in the newspapers addressed to Lady Holland by the Earl of Carlisle, persuading her to reject the snuff-box bequeathed to her by Napoleon, beginning: " Lady, reject the gift," etc. he immediately wrote the following parody : " Lady, accept the gift a hero wore, In spite of all this elegiac stuff: Let not seven stanzas written by a bore Prevent your ladyship from taking snuff." Sir Lumley Skeffington had written a tra- gedy, called, if we remember right, "The Mysterious Bride," which was fairly damned on the first night : a masquerade took place soon after this fatal catastrophe, to which went John Cam Hobhouse, as a Spanish nun who had been ravished by the French army, and was under the protection of his lordship. Skeffington, compassionating the unfortunate young woman, asked, in a very sentimental manner, of Byron, "who isshe?" " The Mys- terious Bride," replied his lordship. On Byron's return from his first tour, Mr. Dallas called upon him, and, after the usual salutations had passed, inquired if he was pre- pared with any other work to support the fame winch he had already acquired. Byron then delivered for his examination a poem, entitled " Hints from Horace," being a para- phrase of the art of poetry. Mr. Dallas prom- ised to superintend the publication of this piece as he had done that of the satire, and, accordingly, it was carried to Cawthorn the bookseller, and matters arranged ; but Mr. Dallas, not thinking the poem likely to in- crease his lordship's reputation, allowed it to linger in the press. It began thus : " Who would not laugh if Lawrence, hired to grace His costly canvas with each fiatter'd face, Abused his art, till Nature with a blush Saw cits orow centaurs underneath his brush ? Or should some iimner join, for show or sale, A maid of honour to a mermaid's tail ; Or LowT) + ** (as once the world has seen) Degrade Go-l's creatures in his graphic spleen Not all that forced politeness which defends Fools in their faults, could gag his grinning friends. Kn'.ieve me, Moschus, like that picture seems The book which, sillier than a sick man's dreams, Displays a crowd of figures incomplete, Poetic nightmares, without head or feet." Mr. Dallas expressed his sorrow that his lordship hnr! written nothing else. Byron then told him that he had occasionally composed some verses in Spenser's measure, relative to the countries lie had visited. " They are not worth troubling you with,' =;aid his lordship, but you shall have them all with vou:" he then took " Childe Harold's Pilgrimage" from a trunk, and delivered it to him. Mr. Dallas, having read the poem, was in raptures with it ; he instantly resolved to do his utmost in suppressing the " Hints from Horace," and to bring out Childe Harold. He urged Byron to publish this last poem ; but he was unwill- ing, and preferred to have the " Hints" pub- lished. He would not be convinced of the great merit of the " Childe," and as some per- son had seen it before Mr. Dallas, and ex- pressed disapprobation, Byron was by no means sure of its kind reception by the world. In a short time afterwards, however, he agreed to its publication, and requested Mr. Dallas not to deal with CaAvthorn, but offer it to Mil- ler of Albemarle street : he wished a fashion- able publisher ; but Miller declined it, chiefly on account of the strictures it contained on Lord Elgin, whose publisher he was. Long- man had refused to publish the " Satire," and Byron would not suffer any of his works to come from that house : the work was there- fore carried to Mr. Murray, who then kept a shop opposite St. Dunstan's church in Fleet street. Mr. Murray had expressed a desire to publish for Lord Byron, and regretted that Mr. Dallas had not taken the " English Bards and Scotch Reviewers" to him ; but this was after its success. Byron fell into company with Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, at the Lakes. The Shep- herd was standing at the inn-door of Amble- side, when forth came a strapping young man from the house, and off with his hat, and out with his hand. Hogg did not know him, and, appearing at a dead halt, the other relieved him by saying, " Mr. Hoeg, I hope you will excuse me; my name is Byron, and I cannot help thinking that we ought to hold ourselves acquainted." The poets accordingly shook hands immediately, and, while they continued at the Lakes, were hand and glove, drank furiously together, and laughed at their brother bards. On Byron's leaving the Lakes, he sent Hogg a letter quizzing the Lakists, which the Shepherd was so mischievous as to show to them. When residing at Mitylene in the year 1812, he portioned eight young girls very libe- rally, and even danced with them at the mar- riage feast ; he gave a cow to one man, horses to another, and cotton and silk to several girls who lived by weaving these materials : he also bought a new boat for a fisherman who had lost his own in a gale, and he often gave Greek testaments to the poor children. While at Metaxata, in 1823, an embank- ment, at which several persons had been en- sragad digging, fell in, and buried some of them alive : he was at dinner when he heard of the accident, and, starting up from the ta- ble, ran to*the spot, accompanied by his phy- sician, who took a supply of medicines with him. The labourers who were employed to extricate their companions, soon became alarmed for themselves, and refused to so on, saving, they believed they had dug out all the bodies which had been covered by the rums. Lord Byron endeavoured to induce them to LIFE OF LORD BYRON. xvu continue their exertions, but finding menaces hi vain, he seized a spade and began to dig most zealously ; at length the peasantry joined him, ajid they succeeded in saving two more persons from certain death. It is stated in the " Conversations," that Byron was engaged in several duels, that in one instance he was himself principal in an " affair of honour" with Hobhpuse, and would have been so in another with Moore, if the Bard of Erin's challenge had been properly forwarded to him. On the 2d of January, 1815, Lord Byron married, at Seaham, in the county of Durham, Anne Isabella, only daughter of Sir Ralph Millbank (since Noel), Bart. To this lady he had made a proposal twelve months before, but was rejected : well would it have been for their mutual happiness had that rejection been repeated. After their marriage, Lord and Lady Byron took a house in London ; gave splendid dinner-parties ; kept separate car- na jes ; and, in short, launched into every sort of fashionable extravagance. This could not last long ; the portion which his lordship had received with Miss Millbank (ten thousand pounds] soon melted away ; and, at length, an execution was actually levied on the furniture of his residence. It was then agreed that Lady Byron, who, on the 10th of December, 1815, had presented her lord with a daughter, should pay a visit to her father till the storm was blown over, and some arrangements had been made with their creditors. From that visit she never returned, and a separation en- sued, for which various reasons have been assigned ; the real cause or causes, however, of that regretted event, are up to this moment involved in mystery, though, as might be ex- pected, a wonderful sensation was excited at the time, and every description of contra- dictory rumour was in active circulation. Byron was first introduced to Miss Mill- bank at Lady 's. In going up stairs he stumbled, and remarked to Moore, who ac- companied him, that it was a bad omen. On entering the room, he perceived a lady more simply dressed than the rest sitting on a sofa. He asked Moore if she was a humble com- panion to any of the ladies. The latter replied, '' She is a great heiress; you'd better marry her, and repair the old place Newstead." The following anecdotes on the subject of this unfortunate marriage, are given from Lord Byron's Conversations, in his own words: " There was something piquant, and what we term pretty, in Miss Millbank ; her fea- tures were small and feminine, though not regular ; she had the fairest skin imaginable ; her figure was perfect for her height, and there was a simplicity, a retired modesty about her, which was very characteristic, and formed a happy contrast to the cold artificial formality and studied stiffness, which is called fashion : sne interested me exceedingly. It is unne- cessary to detail the progress of our acquaint- ance : I became daily more attached to her, and it ended in my making her a proposal that was rejected ; her refusal was couched in lenrtd that could not offend me. I was besides B 2 3 persuaded that in declining my offer, she was governed by the influence of her mother ; and was the more confirmed in this opinion by he r reviving our correspondence herself, twelve months after. The tenor of he/ letter was, that although she could not love me, she de- sired my friendship. Friendship is a dangerous word for young ladies ; it is love full-fledged, and waiting for a fine day to fly. " I was not so young when my father died, but that I perfectly remember him, and had very early a horror of matrimony from the sight of domestic broils : this feeling came over me very strongly at my wedding. Some- thing whispered me that I was sealing my own death-warrant. I am a great believer in pre- sentiments; Socrates' demon was not a fic- tion ; Monk Lewis had his monitor ; and Na- poleon many warnings. At the last moment, I would have retreated if I could have done so ; I called to mind a friend of mine, who had married a young, beautiful, and rich girl, and yet was miserable; he had strongly urged me against putting my neck in the same yoke : and, to show you how firmly I was resolved to attend to his advice, I betted Hay fifty guineas to one that I should always remain single. Six years afterwards, I sent him the money. The day before I proposed to Lady Byron, I had no idea of doing so. "It had been predicted by Mrs. Williams, that twenty-seven was to be a dangerous age for me ; the fortune-telling witch was right, it was destined to prove so. I shall never for- get the 2d of January ! Lady Byron, (Byrn, he pronounced it,) was the only unconcerned person present ; Lady Noel, her mother, cried ; I trembled like a leaf, made the wrong re- sponses, and, after the ceremony, called her Miss Millbank. " There is a singular history attached to the ring ; the very day the match was concluded, a ring of my mother's that had been lost, was dug up by the gardener at Newstead. I. thought it was sent on purpose for the wedding ; but my mother's marriage had hot been a fortu- nate one, and this ring was doomed to he the seal of an unhappier union still. " After the ordeal was over, we set off for a country-seat of Sir Ralph's, and I was sur- prised at the arrangements for the journey, and somewhat out of humour to find a lady's maid stuck between me and my bride. It was rather too early to assume the husband, so I was forced to submit ; but it was not with a very good grace. " I have been accused of saying, on getting into the carriage, that I had married Lady Byron out of spite, and because she had re- fused me twice. Though I was for a moment vexed at her prudery, or whatever it may be called, if 1 had made so uncavalier, not to say brutal, a speech,' I am convinced Lady Byron would instantly have left the carriage to me and the maid, (I mean the lady's) ; she had spirit enough to have done so, and vould prop- erly have resented the affront. " Our honey-moon was not all sunshine ; it had its clouds ; and Hobhouse has some let- ters which would serve to explain the rise MM* XVlll LIFE OF LORD BYRON. fall in the barometer; but it was never down :it zero. " A curious thing happened to me shortly after the honey-moon, which was very awk- ward at the time, but has since amused me much. It so happened that three married women were on a wedding visit to my wife, (and in the same room at the same time), whom I had known to be all birds of the same nest. Fancy the scene of confusion that en- sued. The world says I married Miss Millbank for her fortune, because she was a great heir- ess. All I have ever received, or am likely to receive, (and that has been twice paid back too), was 10,000/. My own income at this period was small, and somewhat bespoke. Newstead was a very unprofitable estate, and brought me in a bare 1500/. a-year ; the Lan- cashire property was hampered with a law- suit, which has cost me 14,000. and is not yet finished. " I heard afterwards that Mrs. Charlment had been the means of poisoning Lady Noel's mind against me ; that she had employed her- self and others in watching me in London, and had reported having traced me into a house in Portland-Place. There was one act unworthy of any one but such a confidante ; F allude to the breaking open my writing- desk : a book was found in it th&c did not do much credit to my taste in literature, and some letters from a married woman, with whom I had been intimate before my marriage. The use that was made of the latter was most un- justifiable, whatever may be thought of the breach of confidence that led to their discov- ery. Lady Byron sent them to the husband of the lady, who had the good sense to take no notice of their contents. The gravest ac- cusation that has been made against me, is that of having intrigued with Mrs. Mardyn in my own house, introduced her to my own ta- ble, etc. ; there never was a more unfounded calumny. Being on the Committee of Drury- Lane Theatre, I have no doubt that several actresses called on me ; but as to Mrs. Mar- dyn, who was a beautiful woman, and might have been a dangerous visitress, I was scarcely acquainted (to speak) with her. I might even make a more serious charge against than employing spies to watch suspected amours. I had been shut up in a dark street in Lon- don, writing 'The Siege of Corinth,' and had refused myself to every one till it was finished. I was surprised one day by a doctor and a lawyer almost forcing themselves at the same time into my room ; 1 did not know till after- wards the real object of their visit. 1 thought Jheir questions singular, frivolous, and some- what importunate, if not impertinent; but what should I have thought if I had known that they were sent to provide proofs of my insanity ? I have no doubt that my answers to fhese emissaries' interrogations were not very rational or consistent, for my imagination was heated by other things; but Dr. Baillie could not conscientiously make me out a certificate for Bedlam, and perhaps the lawyer gave a more favourable report t J his employers. The doctor said afterwards he had been told that I always looked down when Lady Byron bent her eyes on me, and exhibited other symptoms equally infallible, particularly those that mark ed the late kind's case so strongly. I do not however, tax Lady Byron with this transac- tion : probably she was not privy to it; she was the tool of others. Her mother always detested me; she had not even the decency to conceal it in her own house. Dining one day at Sir Ralph's (who was a good sort of man, and of whom you may form some idea, when I tell you tha't a leg of mutton was always served at his table, that he might cut the same joke upon it) I broke a tooth, and was in great pain, which I could not avoid showing. 'It will do you good,' said Lady Noel ; ' I am glad of it !' 1 gave her a look ! "Lady Byron had good ideas, but could never express them ; wrote poetry too, but it was only good by accident ; her letters were always enigmatical, often unintelligible. She was easily made the dupe of the designing, for she thought her knowledge of mankind infallible. She had got some foolish idea of Madame de Stael's into her head, that a per- son may be better known in the first hour than in ten years. She had the habit of drawing people's characters after she had seen them once or twice. She wrote pages on pages about my character, but it was as unlike as possible. She was governed by what she called fixed rules and principles, squared mathematically. She would have made an excellent wrangler at Cambridge. It must be confessed, however, that she gave no proof of her boasted consistency ; first, she refused me, then she accepted me, then she separated herself from me so much for consistency. I need not tell you of the obloquy and oppro- brium that were cast upon my name when our separation was made public ; I once made a list from the journals of the day of the dif- ferent worthies, ancient and modern, to whom I was compared : I remember a few, Nero, Apicius, Epicurus, Caligula, Heliogabalus, Henry the Eighth, and lastly, the '- . All my former friends, even my cousin George Byron, who had been brought up with me, and whom I loved as a brother, tooli my wife's part : he followed the stream when it was strongest against me, and can never expect any thing from me ; he shall never touch a sixpence of mine. I was looked upon as the worst of husbands, the most abandoned and wicked of men ; and my wife as a suffering angel, an incarnation of all the virtues and perfections of the sex. I was abused in the public prints, made the common talk of pri- vate companies, hissed as I went to the House of Lords, insulted in the streets, afraid to rr to the theatre, whence the unfortunate Mrs. Mardyn had been driven with insult. The Examiner was the only paper that dared say a word in my defence, and Lady Jersey the only person in the fashionable world tl.at did not look upon me as a monster." " In addition to all these mortificat ons, my affairs were irretrievably invo l ved, t.nd almost so as to make me what Ihev wished i wai LIFE OP LORD BYRON. XIX compelled to part with Newstead, which I never could have ventured to sell in my moth- er's lifetime. As it is, I shall never forgive myself for having done so, though I am told that the estate would not bring half as much as I got for it : this does not at all reconcile me to having parted with the old Abbey. I did not make up my mind to this step but from the last necessity; I had my wife's portion to repay, and was determined to add 10,000/. more of my own to it, which I did : I always hated-being in debt, and do not owe a guinea. The moment I had put my affairs in train, and in little more than eighteen months after my marriage, I left England, an involuntary ex- ile, intending it should be for ever." We shall here avail ourselves of some ob- servations by a powerful and elegant critic, 1 whose opinions on the personal character of Lord Byron, as well as on the merits of his poems, are, from their originality, candour, and keen discrimination, of considerable weight. "The charge against Lord Byron," says this writer, " is, not that he fell a victim to excessive temptations, and a combination of circumstances, which it required a rare and extraordinary degree of virtue, wisdom, pru- dence, and steadiness to surmount ; but that he abandoned a situation of uncommon ad- vantages, and fell weakly, pusillanimously, and selfishly, when victory would have been easy, and when defeat was ignominious. In reply to this charge, I do not deny that Lord Byron inherited some very desirable, and even enviable privileges in the lot of life which fell to his share. I should falsify my own senti- ments, if I treated lightly the gift of an an- cient English peerage, and a name of honour and venerable antiquity; but without a for- tune competent to that rank, it is not ' a bed of roses,' nay, it is attended with many and extreme difficulties, and the difficulties are exactly such as a genius and temper like Lord Byron's were least calculated to meet at any rate, least calculated to meet under the pecu- liar collateral circumstances in which he was placed. His income was very narrow ; his Newstead property left him a very small dis- posable surplus; his Lancashire property was, in its condition, etc., unproductive. A pro- fession, such as the army, might have lessened, or almost annihilated the difficulties of his pe- culiar position ; but probably his lameness rendered this impossible. He seems to have had a love of independence, which was noble, and probably even an intractability; but this temper added to his indisposition to bend and adapt himself to his lot. A dull, or supple, or intriguing man, without a single good quality of head or heart, might have managed it much better; he might have made himself subservient to government, and wormed him- self into some lucrative place ; or he might have lived mean'v, conformed himself stu- pidly or cnngingly to all humours, and been 1 Sir Egerton Brydges, Bart, who has written so iffi.-- v and so ably on Lord B> on's genius and enaraotw borne onward on the wings of society with little personal expense. "Lord Byron was of another quality and temperament. If the world would not con form to him, still less would he conform to the world. He had all the manly, baronial pride of his ancestors, though he had not all then wealth, and their means of generosity, hospi- tality, and patronage. He Had the will, alas ! without the power. " With this temper, these feelings, this ge nius, exposed to a combination of such un- toward and trying circumstances, it would indeed have been inimitably praiseworthy if Lord Byron could have been always wise, prudent, calm, correct, pure, virtuous, and unassailable : if he could have shown all the force and splendour of his mighty poetical en- ergies, without any mixture of their clouds, their baneful lightnings, or their storms: if he could have preserved all his sensibility to every kind and noble passion, yet have re- mained placid, and unaffected by the attack of any blameable emotion ; that is, it would have been admirable if he had been an angel, and not a man ! " Unhappily, the outrages he received, the gross calumnies which were heaped upon him, even in the time of his highest favour with the public, turned the delights of his very days of triumph to poison, and gave him a sort of moody, fierce, and violent despair, which led to humours, acts, and words, that mutually aggravated the ill-will and the offences be- tween him and his assailants. There was a daring spirit in his temper and his talents which was always inflamed rather than cor- rected by opposition. " In this most unpropitious state of things, every thing that went wrong was attributed to Lord Byron, and, when once attributed, was assumed and argued upon as an undenia- ble fact. Yet, to my mind, it is quite clear, quite unattended by a particle of doubt, that in many things in which he has been the most blamed, he was the absolute victim of misfor- tune; that unpropitious trains of events (for I do not wish to shift the blame on others) led to explosions and consequent derangements, which no cold, prudent pretender to~extreme propriety and correctness could have averted or met in a manner less blameable than * hat in which Lord Byron met it. " It is not easy to conceive a character less fitted to conciliate general society by his man- ners and habits, than that of Lord Byron. It is probable that he could make his address and conversation pleasing to ladies, when he chose to please ; but, to the young dandies of fashion, noble and ignoble, he must have been very repulsive : as long as he continued to be the ton, the lion, they may have endnred him without opening their mouths, because li had a frown and a lash which they were riot willing to encounter ; but when his back was turned, and they thought it safe, 1 do not doubt that they burst out into full cry ! 1 have heard complaints of his vanity, his peevish- ness, his desire to monopolize distinction, Inn dislike of all hobbies but his own. It is P'.-' LIFE OF LORD BYRON. improbaolt that there may have been some foundation for these complaints : I am sorry for it if there was; I regret such littlenesses. And then another part of the story is proba- bly left untold : wa hear nothing of the provo- cations given him ; sly hints, curve of the lip, side looks, treacherous smiles, flings at poetry, shrugs at noble authors, slang jokes, idiotic bets, enigmatical appointments, and boasts of being senseless brutes ! We do not hear repeated the jest of the glory of the Jew, that buys the ruined peer's falling castle ; the d d good fellow, that keeps the finest stud and the best hounds in the country out of the snippings and odds and ends of his contract ; and the famous good match that the duke's daughter is going to make with Dick Wigly, the son of the rich slave-merchant at Liver- pool ! We do not hear the clever dry jests whispered round the table by Mr. , eldest son of the new and rich Lord , by young Mr. , only son of Lord , the ex-lords A., B., and C., sons of the three Irish Union earls, great borough-holders, and the very grave and sarcastic Lord , who believes that he has the monopoly of all the talents, and all the political and legislative knowledge of the kingdom, and that a poet and a bell- man are only fit to be yoked together. " Thus, then, was this illustrious and mighty poet driven into exile ! Yes, driven ! who would live in a country in which he had been so used, even though it was the land of his nativity, the land of a thousand noble ances- tors, the land of freedom, the land where his head had been crowned with laurels, but where his heart had been tortured, where all his most generous and most noble thoughts had been distorted and rendered ugly, and where his slightest errors and indiscretions had been magnified into hideous crimes." Lord Byron's own opinions on the connu- bial state are thus related by Captain Parry: " There are," said his lordship, " so many undefinable, and nameless, and not-to-be- named causes of dislike, aversion, and disgust, in the matrimonial state, that it is always im- possible for the public, or the best friends of the parties, to judge between man and wife. Theirs is a relation about which nobody but themselves can form a correct idea, or have any right to speak. As long as neither party commits gross injustice towards the other ; as long as neither the woman nor the man is guilty of any offence which is injurious to the community ; as long as the husband provides for his offspring, and secures the public against the dangers arising from their neglected edu- cation, or from the charge of supporting them ; by what right does it censure him for ceasing to dwell under the same roof with a woman, who is to him, because he knows her, while others do not, an object of loathing? Can any thing be more monstrous than for the public voice to compel individual* who dislike each otner to continue their cohabitation ? This is at least the effect of its interfering with a re- btionsrnp, of which it has no possible means of judging. It does not indeed drag a man to b woman's bed by physical force ; but it does exert a moral force continually and effective!} to accomplish the same purpose. Nobody can escape this force but those who are too high, or those who are too low, for public opinion tei us drink who would not ? since, through life's varied round, In the goblet alone no deception is found. ' 1 have tried, in its turn, all that life can supply ; i have bask'd in the beams of a dark rolling eye ; I have loved who has not 1 but what tongue will declare That pleasure existed while passion was there 1 " In the days of our youth, when the heart 's in its spring, And dreams that affection can never take wing, I had friends who has not ? but what tongue will avow That friends, rosy wine, are so faithful as thou ? " The breast of a mistress some boy may estrange, Friendship shifts with the sun-beam, thou never canst change ; Thou grow'st old who does not ? but on earth what appears, Whose virtues, like thine, but increase with our years " Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, Should a rival bow down to our idol below, We are jealous who 's not ? thou hast no such alloy, For the more that enjoy thee, the more they enjoy. " When the season of youth and its jollity 's past, For refuge we fly to the goblet at last, Then we find who does not ? in the flow of the soul That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. " When the box of Pandora was opened on earth, And Memory's triumph commenced over Mirth, Hope was left was she not ? but the goblet we kiss, And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss. " Long life to the grape ! and when summer is flown, The age of our nectar shall gladden my own. We must die who does not ? may our sins be forgiven And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven." Before we close the details of what may be termed Lord Byron's poetical life before we enter on the painfully interesting particulars connected with the last and noblest part he pei formed in his brilliant but brief career we beg leave to introduce the following sum mary of his character : There seems to have been something of a magical antidote in Lord Byron's genius to the strange propensities to evil arising botl from his natural passions and temper, and thi accidental unpropitious circumstances of hi life. In no man were good and evil minglec in such strange intimacy, and in such strange proportions. His passions were extraordina rily violent and fierce ; and his temper, un easy, bitter, and capricious. His pride wa deep and gloomy, and his ambition ardent an uncontrollable. All these were exactly sue as the fortuitous position of his infancy, boy hood, and first manhood, tended to aggravat by discouragements, crosses, and rnortifica tions. He was directly and immediately sprunc from a stock of old nobility, of a historf name, of venerable antiquity. All his alii ances, including his father, had moved in hig society. But this gay father died, improviden or reckless of the future, and left him to wast his childhood in poverty and dereliction, i Jie remote town of Aberdeen, among the fev iiaternal relations who yet would not utterl aSando*. his mother's shipwrecked fortunes it the age of six years he became presump- ive heir to the family peerage, and at the age f ten the peerage devolved on him. He then ras sent to the public school of Harrow ; but either his person, his acquired habits, his cholarship, nor his temper, fitted him for this trange arena. A peer, not immediately is- uing from the fashionable circles, and not as ich as foolish boys suppose a peer ought to >e, must have a wonderful tact of society, and a managing, bending, intriguing temper, to jlay his part with eclat, or with comfort, or even without degradation. All the treatment which Lord Byron now received, confirmed he bitterness of a disposition and feelings naturally sour, and already augmented by ihilling solitude, or an uncongenial sphere of ociety. To a mind endowed with intense sensibility and unextinguishable ambition, these circum- stances operated in cherishing melancholy, and even misanthropy. They bred an intract- ability to the light humours, the heartless cheerfulness, and all the artillery of unthink- ng emptiness by which the energies of the josom are damped and broken. There were implanted within him the seeds of profound reflection and emotion, which grew in him to such strength, that the tameness, the petty passions, and frivolous desires of mankind in their ordinary intercourses of pleasure and dissipation, could never long retain him in their chains without weariness and disgust, even when they courted, dandled, flattered, and admired him. He was unskilled in their pitiful accomplishments, and disdained the trifling aims of their vanity, and the tests of excellence by which they were actuated, and by which they judged. He never, therefore, enjoyed their blandishments, and, ere long, broke like a giant from their bonds. There can be no doubt, that disappoint- ments, working on a sombre temper, and the consequent melancholy and sensitiveness, aid- ing, and aided by, the spells of the muse, were Lord Byron's preservatives; at least, that they produced redeeming splendours, and moments of pure and untainted intellect, and exalting ebullitions of grand or tender sentiment, or noble passion, which, by-fits at least, if not always, adorned his compositions, and will for ever electrify and elevate his readers. Had Lord Byron succeeded in the ordinary way to his peerage, accompanied by the usual circumstances of prosperity and ease. had nothing occurred capable of stimulating to strong personal exertions, the mighty seeds within him had probably been worse than neutral they had worked to unqualified mis- chief! In many cases, this is not the effect of prosperity; but Lord Byron's qualities were of a very peculiar cast, as well as intense and unrivalled in degree. When, in the spring of 1816. Lord Byron quitted England, to return to it no more, he had a dark, perilous, and appalling prospect before him. The chances against the due lu- ture use of his miraculous and fearful shifts of genius, poisoned and frenzied as they w ere b blighted hopes, and all the evil incident; n\V'-ti LIFE OF LORD BYRON. XXIX nad befallen him, *vere too numerous to b calculated without overwhelming dismay Few persons, of a sensibility a little above tin common, would have escaped the pit of black and unmitigated despondence ! But Lord By- ron's elasticity of mind recovered itself, anc soon rose to far higher conceptions and per- formances than before. He passed the sum mer upon the banks of the lake of Geneva With what enthusiasm he enjoyed, and with what contemplations he dwelt among its scene- ry, his own poetry soon exhibited tolhe world He has been censured for his peculiarities his unsocial life, and his disregard of the habits the decorums, and the civilities of the world and of the rank to which he belonged. He might have pleaded, that the world rejectee him, and he the world ; but the charge is idle in itself, admitting it to have originated witf his own will. A man has a right to live in solitude, if he chooses it; and, above all, he who gives such fruits of his solitude ! Inlhe autumn of 1822, Lord Byron quittec Pisa, and went to Genoa, where he remainec throughout the winter. A Idtter written by his lordship, while at Genoa, is singularly honourable to him, and is the more entitled to notice, as it tends to diminish the credibility of an assertion made since his death, that he could bear no rival in fame, but instantly be- came animated with a bitter jealousy and ha- tred of any person who attracted the public attention from himself. If there be a living being towards whom, according to that state- ment. Lord Byron would have experienced such a sentiment, it must be the presumed a ithor of " Waverley." And yet, in a letter to Monsieur Beyle, dated May 29, 1823, the following r\re the just and liberal expressions used by Lord Byron, in adverting to a pam- phlet which had been recently published by Monsieur Beyle : " There is one part of your observations in the pamphlet which I shall venture to remark upon : it regards Walter Scott. You say that his character is little worthy of enthusiasm,' at the same time that you mention his produc- tions in the manner they deserve. I have known Walter Scott long and well, and in occasional situations which call forth the real character, and I can assure you that his char- acter is worthy of admiration; that, of all men, he is the most open, the most honour- able, the most amiable. With his politics I have nothing to do: they differ from mine, which renders it difficult for me to speak of them. But he is perfectly sincere in them, and sincerity may be humble, but she cannot be servile. I pray you, therefore, to correct or soften that passage. You may, perhaps, at- tribute this officiousness of mine to a false affectation of candour, as I happen to be a writer also. Attribute it to what motive you please, but believe the truth. I say that Wal- ter Scott is as nearly a thorough good man as man can be, because I know it by experience to be the case." The motives which ultimately inducH Lord Byron to leave Italy, and join the Greeks, k.-.-uggling for emancipation, are sufficiently c a obvious. It was in Greece that his high po etical faculties had been first fully developed Greece, a land of the most venerable ana* il lustrious history of peculiarly grand ana beautiful scenery, inhabited by various race of the most wild and picturesque manners was to him the land of excitement, never- cloying, never-wearying, never-changing ex~ citement. It was necessarily the chosen and favourite spot of a man of powerful and orig inal intellect, of quick and sensible feelings, of a restless and untameable spirit, of various information, and who, above all, was satiated with common enjoyments, and disgusted with what appeared to him to be the formality, hy- pocrisy, and sameness of daily life. Dwelling upon that country, as it is clear from all Lord Byron's writingsie did, with the fondest so- licitude, and being, as he was well known to be, an ardent, though, perhaps, not a very sys- tematic lover of freedom, he could be no un- concerned spectator of its recent revolution : and as soon as it seemed to him that his pres- ence might be useful, he prepared to visit once more the shores of Greece. It is not improbable, also, that he had become ambi- tious of a name as distinguished for deeds as it was already by his writings. A glorious and novel career apparently presented itself, and he determined to try the event. Lord Byron embarked at Leghorn, and ar- rived in Cephalonia in the early part of Au- gust, 1823, attended by a suite of six or seven friends, in an English vessel, (the Hercules Captain Scott), which he had chartered for the express purpose of taking him to Greece. His lordship had never seen any of the vol- canic mountains, and for'this purpose theves sel deviated from its regular course, in order to pass the island of Stromboli, and lay off that place a whole night, in the hopes of witness- ing the usual phenomena, but, for the first time within the memory of man, the volcano emit- ted no fire. The disappointed poet was obliged :o proceed, in no good humour with the fabled forge of Vulcan. Greece, though with a fair prospect of ulti- mate triumph, was at that time in an unsettled state. The third campaign had commenced, with several instances of distinguished suc- cess her arms were every where victorious, )ut her councils were distracted. Western Greece was in a ciitical situation, and although he heroic Marco Botzaris had not fallen in /ain, yet the glorious enterprise in which he >erished, only checked, and did not prevent he advance of the Turks towards Anatolica ind Missolonghi. This gallant chief, worthy of the best days of Greece, hailed with trans >prt Lord Byron's arrival in that country, and iis last act, before proceeding to the attack n which he fell, was to write a warm invita- ion for his lordship to come to Missolonghi. n his letter, which he addressed to a friend at VTissolonghi, Botzaris alludes to almost the irst proceeding of Lord Byron in Greece, vhich was the arming and provisioning of brty Suliotes, whom he sent to join in the do ence of Missolonghi. After the battle. Lord Byron transmitted bandages and medicine* XJX LIFE OF LORD BYRON. of which he had brought a large store from Italy, and pecuniary succour to those who had been wounded. He had already made a very generous offer to the government. He sayf IP a. letter, " I offered to advance a thousar dollars a month, for the succour of Mis - longhi, and the Suliotes under Botzaris (si - je killed); but the government have answ -.ed me through of this island, that they vish to confer with me previously, which is, in fact, saying they wish me to spend my money in some other direction. I will take care that it is for the public cause, otherwise I will not advance a para. The opposition say they want to cajole me, and the party in power say the others wish to seduce me ; so, between the two, I have a difficult part to play: however, I will have nothing to dp with the factions, unless to reconcile them, if possible." Lord Byron established himself for some time at the small village of Metaxata, in Cephalonia, and despatched two friends, Mr. Trelawney and Mr. Hamilton Browne, with a letter to the Greek government, in order to collect intelligence as to the real state of things. His lordship's generosity was almost daily exercised in his new neighbourhood. He provided for many Italian families in distress, and even indulged the people of the country in paying for the religious ceremonies which they deemed essential to their success. In the meanwhile, Lord Byron's friends proceeded to Tripolitza, and found Coloco- troni (the enemy of Mavrocordato, who had been compelled to flee from the presidency) in great power: his palace was filled with armed men, like the castle of some ancient feudal chief, and a good idea of his character may be formed from the language he held. He declared that he had told Mavrocordato, that unless he desisted from his intrigues, he would put him on an ass and whip him out of the Morea, and that he had only been withheld from doing so by the representation of his friends, who had said that it would injure the cause. They next proceeded to Salamis, where the congress was sitting, and Mr. Trelawney agreed to accompany Odysseus, a brave moun- tain chief, into Negrppont. At this time the Greeks were preparing for many active en- terprises. Marco Botzaris' brother, with his Suliotes and Mavrocordato, were to take charge of Missolonghi, which, at that time, (October, 1823), was in a very critical state, being blockaded both by land and sea. " There have been," says Mr. Trelawney. "thirty bat- tles fought and won by the late Marco Bot- zaris, and his gallant tribe of Suliotes, who are shut up in Missolonghi. If it fall, Athens will be in danger, and thousands of throats cut. A few thousand dollars would provide ships to relieve it; a portion of this sum is raised and 1 would coin my heart to save this key of Greece !" A report like this was sufficient to show the point where succour was most need- ed, and Lord Byron's determination to relieve Missolonghi, was still more decidedly con- firmed by a letter, which he received from Mavrocordato Mavrocordato was at this time endeavour ing to collect a fleet for the relief of Misso- k>nghi, and Lord Byron generously offered to advance four hundred thousand piastres (about 12,000/.) to pay for fitting it out. In a .ettei in which he announced this his noble intention, he alluded to the dissensions in Greece, and stated, that if these continued, all hope of a loan in England, or of assistance, or even good wishes from abroad, would be at an end. " I must frankly confess," he says in his letter, " that unless union and order are con- firmed, all hopes of a loan will be in vain, and all the assistance which the Greeks cculd ex- pect from abroad, an assistance which might be neither trifling nor worthless, will be sus- pended or destroyed ; and, what is worse, the great powers of Europe, of whom no one was an enemy to Greece, but seemed inclined to favour her in consenting to the establishment of an independent power, will be persuaded that the Greeks are unable to govern them- selves, and will, perhaps, themselves under- take to arrange your disorders in such a way as to blast the brightest hopes you indulge, and that are indulged by your friends. " And allow me to add once for all, I desire the well-being of Greece, and nothing else ; I will do all I can to secure it; but I cannot consent I never will consent to the English public, or English individuals being deceived as. to the real state of Greek affairs. The rest, gentlemen, depends on you ; you have fought gloriously ; act honourably towards your fellow-citizens, and towards the world, and then it will no more be said, as has been repeated for two thousand years, with the Ko- man historian, that Philopoemen was the last of the Grecians. Let not calumny itself (and it is difficult to guard against it in so difficult a struggle) compare the Turkish Pacha with the patriot Greek in peace, after you have exterminated him in war." The dissensions among the Greek chiefs evidently gave great pain to Lord Byron, whose sensibility was keenly affected by the slightest circumstance which he considered likely to retard the deliverance of Greece. " For my part," he observes, in another of hi? letters, " I will stick by the cause, while a plank remains which can be honourably clung to; if I quit it, it will be by the Greeks' con- duct, and not the Holy Allies, or the holier Mussulmans." In a letter to his banker at Cephalonia, he says : " I hope things here will go well, some time or other ; I will stick by the cause as long as a cause exists." His playful humour sometimes broke out amidst the deep anxiety he felt for the suc- cess of the Greeks. He ridiculed, with great pleasantry, some of the supplies which had been sent out from England by the Greek committee. In one of his letters, also, after alluding to his having advanced 4,000/.. anc expecting to be called on for 4,000/. more, he? sa ys : " How can I refuse, if they (the Greeks) will fight, and especially if I should haipen to be in their company ? I therefore request and require that you should apprise my ti asty and trustworthy trustee and banker, and LIFE OF LORD BYRON. crown and sheet-anchor, Douglas Kinnaird the honourable, that he prepare all moneys of mine, including the purchase-money of Roch- dale manor, and mine income for the year A. D. 18-24, to answer and anticipate any orders or drafts of mine, for the good cause, in good and lawful money of Great Britain, etc. etc. etc. May you live a thousand years ! which is nine hundred and ninety-nine longer than the Spanish Cortes constitution." All being ready, two Ionian vessels were ordered, and, embarking his horses and ef- fects, Lord Byron sailed from Argostoli on the 29th of December. At Zante, his lordship took a considerable quantity of specie on board, and proceeded towards Missolonghi. Two accidents occurred in this short passage. Count Gamba, who had accompanied his lord- ship from Leghorn, had been charged with the vessel in which the horses and part of the money were embarked. When off Chiarenza, a point which lies between Zante and the place of their destination, they were surprised at daylight on finding themselves under the bows of a Turkish frigate. Owing, however, to the activity displayed on board Lord By- ron's vessel, and her superior sailing, she es- caped, while the second was fired at, brought to, and carried into Patras. Count Gamba and his companions, being taken before Yusuff Pacha, fully expected to share the fate of some unfortunate men whom that sanguinary chief had sacrificed the preceding year at Previsa, and their fears would most prob- ably have been realized, had it not been for the presence of mind displayed by the count, who, assuming an air of hauteur and indiffer- ence, accused the captain of the frigate of a scandalous breach of neutrality, in firing at and detaining a vessel under English colours, and concluded by informing Yusuff, that he might expect the vengeance of the British government, in thus interrupting a nobleman who was merely on his travels, and bound to Calamos. The Turkish chief, on recognisin in the master of the vessel a person who had saved his life in the Black Sea fifteen years before, not only consented to the vessel's re- lease, but treated the whole of the passengers with the utmost attention, and even urged them to take a day's shooting in the neighbour- hood. Owing to contrary winds. Lord Byron's ves- sel was obliged to take shelter at the Scropes, a cluster of rocks within a few miles of Mis- solonghi. While detained here, he was in considerable danger of being captured by the Turks. Lord Byron was received at Missolonghi with enthusiastic demonstrations of joy. No mark of honour or welcome which the Greek could devise was omitted. The ships anchored off the fortress, fired a salute as he passed. Prince Mavrocordato, and all the authorities, with the troops and the population, met him n his landing, and accompanied him to the liouse which had been prepared for him, amidst the shouts of the multitude, and the discharge ol cannon. One of the first objects to which he turned his attention, was to mitigate the ferocity with which the war had been carried on. The very day of his lordship's arrival was signalized by his rescuing a Turk, who had fallen into the hands of some Greek sailors. The individual thus saved, having been clothed by his orders, was kept in the house until an opportunity occurred of sending him to Patras. Nor had his lordship been long at Missolonghi, before an opportunity presented itself for showing his' sense of Yusuff Pacha's moderation in re- leasing Count Gamba. Hearing that there were four Turkish prisoners in the town, he requested that they might be placed in his hands. This being immediately granted, he sent them to Patras, with a letter addressed to the Turkish chief, expressing his hope that the prisoners thenceforward taken on both sides, would be treated with humanity. This act was followed by another equally praise- worthy, which proved how anxious Lord By- ron felt to give a new turn to the system of warfare hitherto pursued. A Greefe cruiser having captured a Turkish boat, in which there was a number of passengers, chiefly women and children, they were also placed in the hands of Lord Byron, at his particular request; upon which a vessel was smmediately hired, and the whole of them, to the number of twenty-four, were sent to PrevisJi, provided with every requisite for their comfort during the passage. The Turkish governor of Pre- visa thanked his lordship, and assured him, that he would take care equal attention should be in future shown to the Greeks who might become prisoners. Another grand object with Lord Byron, and one which he never ceased to forward with the most anxious solicitude, was to reconcile the quarrels of the native chiefs, to make them friendly and confiding towards one another, and submissive to the orders of the govern- ment. He had neither time nor opportunity to carry this point to any great extent : much good was, however, done. Lord Byron landed at Missolonghi animated with military ardour. After paying the fleet, which, indeed, bad only come out under the expectation of receiving its arrears from the loan which he promised to make to the pro- visional government, he set about forming a brigade of Suliotes. Five hundred of these, the bravest and most resolute of the soldiers of Greece, were taken into his pay on the 1st of January, 1824. An expedition against Le- panto was proposed, of which the command was given to Lord Byron. This expedition, however, had to experience delay and disap- pointment. The Suliotes, conceiving that they liad found a patron whose wealth was inex haustible, and whose generosity was bound less, determined to make the most of the on casion,and proceeded to the most extravagant demands on th-!:ir leader for arrears, and un- der other pretences. These mountaineers untatneable in the field, and unmanagcabw iu a town, were, at this moment, peculiarly dis- posed to be obstinate, riotous, and mercenary They had been chiefly instrumental in pre sen ing Missolonghi, when besieged the pr tx.tn LIFE OF LORD BYRON. vioas autumn by the Turks ; had been driven (t n their abodes; and the whole of their families were, at this time, in the town, des- titute of either home or sufficient supplies. Of turbulent and reckless character, they kept the place in awe ; and Mavrocordato having, unlike the other captains, no sol- diers of his own, was glad to find a body of valiant mercenaries, especially if paid for out of the funds of another; and, consequently, was not disposed to treat them with harshness. Within a fortnight after Lord Byron's arrival, a burgher refusing to quarter some Suliotes, who rudely demanded entrance into his house, was killed, and a riot ensued, in which some lives were lost. Lord Byron's impatient spirit could ill brook the delay of a favourite scheme, but he saw, with the utmost chagrin, that the state of his troops was such as to render any attempt to lead them out at that time imprac- ticable. The project of proceeding against Lepanto being thus suspended, at a moment when Lord Byron's enthusiasm was at its height, and when he had fully calculated on striking a blow which could not fail to be of the utmost ser- vice to the Greek cause, the unlooked-for dis- appointment preyed on his spirits, and pro- duced a degree of irritability, which, if it was not the sole cause, contributed greatly to a severe, fit of epilepsy, with which he was at- tacked en the 15th of February. His lordship was sitting in the apartment of Colonel Stan- hope, talking in a jocular manner with Mr. Parry, the engineer, when it was observed, from occasional and rapid changes in his coun- tenance, that he was suffering under some strong emotion. On a sudden he complained of a weakness in one of his legs, and rose, but finding himself unable to walk, he cried out for assistance. He then fell into a state of nervous and convulsive agitation, and was placed on a bed. For some minutes his coun- tenance was much distorted. He however quickly recovered his senses, his speech re- turned, and he soon appeared perfectly well, although enfeebled and exhausted by the vio- lence of the struggle. During the fit, he be- haved with his usual extraordinary firmness, and his efforts in contending with, and at- tempting to master, the disease, are described as gigantic. In the course of the month, the attack was repeated four times ; the violence of the disorder, at length, yielded to the reme- dies which his physicians advised, such as bleeding, cold bathing, perfect relaxation of mind, etc., and he gradually recovered. An accident, however, happened a few days after Ins first illness, which was ill calculated to aid the efforts of his medical advisers. A Suliote, accompanied by another man, and the late Marco Botzaris' little boy, walked into the Seraglio, a place which, before Lord Byron's arrival, had been used as a sort of fortress and barrack for the Suliotes, and out of which they were ejected with great difficulty for the re- ception of the committee-stores, and for the occupation of the engineers, who required it (or a laboratory. The sentinel on guard or- dered the Suliote to retire, which being a spe- cies of motion to which Suliotes are not ac customed,the man carelessly advanced; upon which the serjeant of the guard (a German) demanded his business, and receiving no sat- isfactory answer, pushed him back. These wild warriors, who will dream for years of a blow if revenge is out of their power, are not slow to resent even a push. The Suliote struck again, the serjeant and he closed and strug- fled, when the Suliote drew a pistol from his elt ; the serjeant wrenched it out of his hand, and blew the powder out of the pan. At this moment, Captain Sass, a Swede, seeing the fray, came up, and ordered the man to be ta- ken to the guard-room. The Suliote was then disposed to depart, and would have done so ii the serjeant would have permitted him. Un- fortunately, Captain Sass did not confine him- self to merely giving the order for his arrest; for when the Suliote struggled to get away, Captain Sass drew his sword, and struck him with the flat part of it ; whereupon the en- raged Greek flew upon him, with a pistol in one hand and the sabre in the other, and at the same moment nearly cut off the Captain's right arm, and shot him through the head. Captain Sass, who was remarkable for his mild and courageous character, expired in a few minutes. The Suliote also was a man of distinguished bravery. This was a serious af- fair, and great apprehensions were entertained that it would not end here. The Suliotes re- fused to surrender the man to justice, alleging that he had been struck, which, in Suliote law, justifies all the consequences which may follow. In a letter written a few days after Lord Byron's first attack, to a friend in Zante, he speaks of himself as rapidly recovering. " 1 am a good deal better," he observes, " though of course weakly. The leeches took too much blood from my temples the day after, and there was some difficulty in stopping it; but I have been up daily, and out in boats or on horse- back. To-day I have taken a warm bath, and live as temperately as well can be, with- out any liquid but water, and without any ani- mal food." After adverting to some other subjects, the letter thus concludes : " Matters are here a little embroiled with the Suliotes, foreigners, etc. ; but I still hope better things, and will stand by the cause as long as my health and circumstances will permit me to be supposed useful." Notwithstanding Lord Byron's improvement in health, his friends felt, from the first, that he ought to try a change of air. Missolonghi is a flat, marshy, and pestilential place, and, except for purposes of utility, never would have been selected for his residence. A gen- tleman of Zante wrote to him early in March, to induce him to return to that island for a time. To his letter the following answer was received : " I am extremely obliged by your offer of your country-house, as for all other kindness, in case my health should require my removal; but I cannot quit Greece while there is a chance of my being of (even supposed) utility There is a stake worth millions such as I ant LIFE OF LORD BYRON. XXXIIi auJ while I can stand at all, I must stand by the cause. While I say this, I am aware of the difficulties, and dissensions, and defects of the Greeks themselves : but allowance must be made for them by all reasonable people." It may be well imagined, after so severe a fit of illness, and that in a great measure brought on by the conduct of the troops he had taken into his pay, and treated with the utmost generosity, that Lord Byron was in no humour to pursue his scheme against Le- panto, even supposing that his state of health had been such as to bear the fatigue of a cam- paign in Greece. The Suliotes, however, showed some signs of repentance, and offered to place themselves at his lordship's disposal. But still they had an objection to the nature of the service : " they would not fight against stone walls !" It is not surprising that the ex- pedition to Lepantp was no longer thought of. In conformity with our plan, we here add a selection of anecdotes, etc. connected with Lord Byron's residence at Missolonghi. They are principally taken from Captain Parry's " Last Days of Lord Byron ;" a work which seems to us, from its plain and unvarnished style, to bear the stamp and impress of truth. In speaking of the Greek Committee one day, his lordship said " I conceive that I have been already grossly ill-treated by the committee. In Italy, Mr. Blaquiere, their agent, informed me that every requisite sup- ply would be forwarded with all despatch. I was disposed to come to Greece, but I has- tened my departure in consequence of earnest solicitations. No time was to be lost, I was told, and Mr. Blaquiere, instead of waiting on me at his return from Greece, left a paltry note, which gave me no information what- ever. If I ever meet with him, I shall not fail t> mention my surprise at his conduct; but it has been all of a-piece. I wish the acting committee had had some of the trouble which has fallen on me since my arrival here ; they would have been more prompt in their pro- ceedings, and would have known better what tne country stood in need of. They would not have delayed the supplies a day, nor have sent out German officers, poor fellows, to starve at Missolonghi, but for my assistance. I am a plain man, and cannot comprehend the use of printing-presses to a people who do not read. Here the committee have sent supplies of maps, I suppose, that I may teach the young mountaineers geography. Here are bugle- horns, without buglemen, and it is a chance if we can find any body in Greece to blow them. Books are sent to a peoole who want guns : they ask for a sword, and the commit- tee give them the lever of a printing-press. Heavens ! one would think the committee meant to inculcate patience and submission, and to condemn resistance. Some materials for constructing fortifications they have sent, but they have chosen their people so ill, that the work is deserted, and not one para have they sent to procure .other labourers. Their secretary, Mr. Bowring, was disposed, I be- lieve, to claim the privilege of an acquaint- ance with me. He wrote me a long letter about the classic land of freedom, the birth- place of the arts, the cradle of genius, the habitation of the gods, the heaven of poets, and a great many such fine things. I was obliged to answer him, and I scrawled some nonsense in reply to his nonsense ; but I fancy I shall get no more such epistles. When I came to the conclusion of the poetry part of my letter, I wrote, ' so much for blarney, now for business.' I have not since heard in the same strain from Mr. Bowring." " My future intentions," continued he, " as to Greece, may be explained in a few words : I will remain here till she is secure against the Turks, or till she has fallen under their power. All my income shall be spent in her service ; but, unless driven by some great ne- cessity, I will not touch a farthing of the sum intended for my sister's children. Whatever I can accomplish with my income, and my personal exertions, shall be cheerfully done. When Greece is secure against external ene- mies, I will leave the Greeks to settle their government as they like. One service more, and an eminent service it will be, I think I may perform for them. You, Parry, shall have a schooner built for me, or I will buy a vessel ; the Greeks shall invest me with the character of their ambassador or agent ; I will go to the United States, and procure that free and enlightened government to set the exam- ple of recognising the federation of Greece as an independent state. This done, England must follow the example, and then the fate of Greece will be permanently fixed, and she will enter into all her lights, as a member of the great commonwealth of Christian Eu- rope." " This," observes Captain Parry, in his plain and manly manner, " was Lord Byron's hope and this was to be his last project in favour of Greece. Into it no motive of personal ambi- tion entered, more than that just and proper one, the basis of all virtue, and the distin- guished characteristic of an honourable mind the hope of gaining the approbation of good men. As an author, he had already attained the pinnacle of popularity and of fame ; but this did not satisfy his noble ambition. He hastened to Greece, with a devotion to liberty, and a zeal in favour of the oppressed, as pure as ever shone in the bosom of a knight in the purest days of chivalry, to gain the reputation of an unsullied warrior, and of a disinterested statesman. He was by her unpaid, but the blessings of all Greece, and the high honours his own countrymen bestow on his memory bearing him in their hearts, prove that he was not her unrewarded champion." Lord Byron's address was the most affable and courteous perhaps ever seen ; his man- ners, when in a good humour, and desirous of being well with his guest, were winning, fas- cinating in the extreme, and though bland, still spirited, and with an air of frankness and generosity qualities in which he was cer- tainly not deficient. He was open to a fault a characteristic probably the result of Lis fearlessness, and independence of the world, but so open was he, that his friends wei LIFE OF LORD BYRON. obliged to be upon their guard with him. He was the worst person in the world to confide a secret to ; and if any charge against any body was mentioned to him, it was probably the first communication he made to the per- son in question. He hated scandal and tit- tle-tattle loved the manly straight-forward course: he would harbour no doubts, and never live with another with suspicions in his bosom out carne the accusation , and he called upon the individual to clear, or be ashamed of, himself. He detested a lie nothing en- raged him so much : he was by temperament and education excessively irritable, and a lie completely unchained him his indignation knew no bounds. He had considerable tact in detecting untruth; he would smell it out almost instinctively ; he avoided the timid driveller, and generally chose his companions among the lovers and practisers of sincerity and candour. A man tells a falsehood and conceals the truth, because he is afraid that the declaration of th3 thing as it is will hurt him. Lord Byron was above all fear of this sort : he flinched from telling no one what he thought to his face ; from his infancy he had been afraid of no one. Falsehood is not the vice of the powerful : the Greek slave lies, the Turkish tyrant is remarkable for his ad- herence to truth. The anecdote that follows, told by Parry, is highly characteristic : ' When the Turkish fleet was lying off Cape Papa, blockading Missolonghi, I was one day ordered by Lord Byron to accompany him to the mouth of the harbour to inspect the forti- fications, in order to make a report on the state they were in. He and I were in his own punt, a little boat which he had. rowed by a boy; and in a large boat, accompanying us, were Prince Mavrocordato and his attendants. As I was viewing, on one hand, the Turkish fleet attentively, and reflecting on its powers, and our means of defence; and looking, on the olher, at Prince Mavrocordato and his attend- ants, perfectly unconcerned, smoking their pipes, and gossiping as if Greece were libe- rated and at peace, and Missolonghi in a state of complete security, I could not help giving vent to a feeling of contempt and indignation. ' What is the matter,' said his lordship, ap- pearing to be very serious, ' what makes you so angry, Parry ?' ' I am not angry,' I replied, ' my lord, but somewhat indignant. The Turks, if they were not the most stupid wretches breathing, might take the fort of Vasaladi, by means of two pinnaces, any night they pleased ; they have only to approach it with muffled oars; they will not be heard, I will answer for their not being seen ; and they may storm it in a few minutes. With eight tjun-boats, properly armed with 24-pounders, cheV might batter both Missolonghi and Ana- tolica to the ground. And there sits the old gentlewoman, Prince Mavrocordato and his troop, 10 whom I applied an epithet I will not iere repeat, as if they were all perfectly safe. They know their powers of defence are in- adequate, and they have no means of improv- ing them. If 1 were in their place, I should he in a fever it tbe tnought of my own inca- pacity and ignorance, and I should ourn witb impatience to attempt the destruction ot those stupid Turkish rascals. The Greeks ana Turks are opponents worthy, by their imbe- cility, of each other.' I had scarcely explain- ed myself fully, when his lordship ordered our boat to be placed alongside the other, and ac- tually related our whole conversation to the prince. In doing it, however, he took on him- self the task of pacifying both the prince and me, and though I was at first very angry, and the prince, I T>elieve, very much annoyed, he succeeded. Mavrocordato afterwards showed no dissatisfaction with me, and I prized Lord Byron's regard too much, to remain long dis- pleased with a proceeding which was only an unpleasant manner of reproving us both." " On one occasion (which we before slightly alluded to), he had saved twenty-four Turkish women and children from .slavery, and all its accompanying horrors. I was summoned to attend him, and receive his orders, that every thing should be done which might contribute to their comfort. He was seated on a cushion at the upper end of the room, the women and children were standing before him, with their eyes fixed steadily on him, and on his right hand was his interpreter, who was extracting from the women a narrative of their suffer- ings. One of them, apparently about thirty years of age, possessing great vivacity, and whose manners and dress, though she was then dirty and disfigured, indicated that she was superior in rank and condition to her com- panions, was spokeswoman for the whole. I admired the good order the others preserved, never interfering with the explanation, or in- terrupting the single speaker. I also admired the rapid manner in which the interpreter ex- plained every thing they said, so as to make it almost appear that there was but one speaker. After a short time, it was evident that what Lord Byron was hearing, affected his feelings his countenance changed, his colour went and came, and I thought he was ready to weep. But he had, on all occasions, a ready and peculiar knack in turning con- versation from any disagreeable or unpleasant subject; and he had recourse to this expedi- ent. He rose up suddenly, and turning round on his heel, as was his wont, he said something quickly to his interpreter, who immediately repeated it to the women. All eyes were in- stantly fixed on me, and one of the party, a young and beautiful woman, spoke very warmly. Lord Byron seemed satisfied, and said they might retire. The women all slip- ped off their shoes in an instant, and going up to his lordship, each in succession, accompa- nied by r their children, kissed his hand fer- vently, invoked, in the Turkish manner, a blessing both on his head and heart, and then quitted the room. This was too much for Lord Byron, and he turned his face away to con- ceal his emotion." " One of Lord Byron's household had sey eral times involved himself and his master in perplexity and trouble, by his unrestrained attachment to women. In Greece this had been very annoying, and induced Lord Byron LIFE OF LORD BYRON. xxxv ic think of a means of curing it. A young riuliote of the. guard was accordingly dressed up like a woman, and instructed to place him- self in the way of the amorous swain. The bait took, and after some communication, had rather by signs than by words, for the pair did not understand each other's language, the sham lady was carefully conducted by the gal- lant to one of Lord Byron's apartments. Here the couple were surprised by an enraged Su- liote. a husband provided for the occasion, accompanied by half a dozen of his comrades, whose presence and threats terrified the poor lacquey almost out of his senses. The noise of course brought Lord Byron to the spot, to laugh at the tricked serving-man, and rescue him from the effects of his terror." " A few days after the earthquake, which took place on the 21st of February, as we were all sitting at table in the evening, we were suddenly alarmed by a noise and a shaking of the house, somewhat similar to that which we had experienced when the earthquake occurred. Of course all started from their places, and there was the same kind of confusion as on the former evening, at which Byron, who was present, laughed im- moderately ; we were re-assured by this, and soon learnt that the whole was a method he had adopted to sport with our fears." " The regiment, or rather the brigade, we formed, can be described only as Byron him- self describes it. There was a Greek tailor, who had been in the British service in the Ionian Islands, where he had married an Ital- ian woman. This lady, knowing something of the military service, petitioned Lord Byron to appoint her husband master-tailor of the brigade. The suggestion was useful, and this part of her petition was immediately granted. At the same time, however, she solicited that she might be permitted to raise a corps of women, to be placed under her orders, to ac- company the regiment. She stipulated for free quarters and rations for them, but reject- ed all claim for pay. They were to be free of all incumbrances, and were to wash, sew, cook, and otherwise provide for the men. The proposition pleased Lord Byron, and, stating the matter to me, he said he hoped I should have no objection. I had been accustomed to see women accompany the English army and I knew that, though sometimes an incum- brance, they were, on the whole, more bene- ficial than otherwise. In Greece, there were many circumstances which would make their services extremely valuable, and I gave my consent to the measure. The tailor's wife die accordingly recruit a considerable number of unincunYbered women, of almost all nations bin principally Greeks, Italians, Maltese, anc Negresses. ' I was afraid,' said Lord Byron ' when I mentioned this matter to you, you would be crusty, and oppose it it is the very thing. Let me see, my corps outdoes Fal- staff's: there are English. Germans, French, Maltese, Ragusians, Italians, Neapolitans, Transylvanians, Russians, Suliotes, Moreotes, and Western Greeks in front, and, to bring up the rea-\ the tailor's v/ife and her troop. (Glo- rious Apollo ! no general had ever before such an army.' " " Lord Byron had a black groom with him n Greece, an American by birth, to whom he was very partial. He always insisted on this man's calling him Massa, whenever he spoke to him. On one occasion, the groom met with two women of his own complexion, who had been slaves to the Turks and liberated, but iiad been left almost to starve when the Greeks had risen on their tyrants. Being of the same colour was a bond of sympathy between them and the groom, and he applied to me to give both these women quarters in the Seraglio. I granted the application, and mentioned it to Lord Byron, who laughed at the gallantry of his groom, and ordered that he should be brought before him at ten o'clock the next day, to answer for his presumption in making such an application. At ten o'clock, accord- ingly, he attended his master with great trem- bling and fear, but stuttered so when he at- tempted to speak, that he could not make himself understood ; Lord Byron endeavour- ing, almost in vain, to preserve his gravity, reproved him severely for his presumption. Blacky stuttered a thousand excuses, and was ready to do any thing to appease his massa's anger. His great yellow eyes wide open, he trembling from head to foot, his wandering and stuttering excuses, his visible dread all tended to provoke laughter; and Lord By- ron, fearing his own dignity would be hove overboard, told him to hold" his tongue, and listen to his sentence. I was commanded to enter >* in his memorandum-book, and then he pronounced, in a solemn tone of voice, while Blacky stood aghast, expecting some severe punishment, the following doom : ' My determination is, that the children born of these black women, of which you may be the father, shall be my property, and I will main- tain them. What say you?' 'Go Go God bless you, massa, may you live great while,' stuttered out the groom, and sallied forth tc tell the good news to the two distressed wo- men." The luxury of Lord Byron's living at this time, may be seen from the following order, which he gave his superintendent of the house- hold, for the daily expenses of his own table. It amounts to no more than one piastre. FARAS. Bread, a pound and a half 15 Wine 7 Fish 16 Olives 3 40 This was his dinner ; his breakfast consisted of a single dish of tea, without milk or sugar The circumstances that attended the death of this illustrious and noble-minded man, are described in the following plain and simple manner, by his faithful valet and constant tol lower, Mr. Fletcher: " My master," says Mr. Fletcher, " con tinued his usual custom of riding daily, wlici the weather would permit, until the 9(h o-. April. But on that ill-fate^ 'lay ic f *of ven SLXXVl LIFE OF LORD BYRON. wet ; and on his return home, his lordship changed the whole of his dress; but he had been too long in his wet clothes, and the cold, of which he had complained more or less ever since we left Cephalonia, made this attack be more severely felt. Though rather feverish during the night, his lordship slept pretty yvell, but complained in the morning of a pain in his bones, and a head-ache : this did not, how- ever, prevent him from taking a ride in the afternoon, which, I grieve to say, was his last. On his return, my master said that the saddle was not perfectly dry, from being so wet the day before, and observed, that he thought it had made hirn worse. His lordship was again visited by the same slow fever, and I was sorry to perceive, on the next morning, that his ill- ness appeared to be increasing. He was very low, and complained of not having had any sleep during the night. His lordship's appe- tite was also quite gone. I prepared a little arrow-root, of which he took three or four spoonfuls, saying it was very good, but he could take no more. It was not till the third day, the 12th, that I began to be alarmed for my master. In all his former colds, he always slept well, and was never affected by this slow fever. I therefore went to Dr. Bruno and Mr. Millingen. the two medical attendants, and inquired minutely into every circumstance connected with my master's present illness : both replied that there was no danger, and I might make myself perfectly easy on the sub- ject, for all would be Well in a few days. This was on the 13th. On the following day, I found my master in such a slate, that I could not feel happy without supplicating that he would send to Zante for Dr. Thomas. After ex- pressing my fears lest his lordship should get worse, he desired me to consult the doctors, which I did, and was told there was no occa- sion for calling in any person, as they hoped all would be well in a few days. Here I should remark, that his lord.ship repeatedly said, in the course of the day, he was sure the doctors did not understand his disease ; to which I an- swered, 'Then, my lord, have other advice by all means.' ' They tell me,' said his lord- ship, ' that it is only a common cold, which, you know, I have had a thousand times.' ' I am sure, my lord,' said I, ' that you never had one of so serious a nature.' ' I think I never had,' was his lordship's 'answer. I repeated my supplications that Dr. Thomas should be sent for, on the 15th, and was again assured that my master would be better in two or three days. After these confident assurances, I did not renew my entreaties until it was too late. With respect to the medicines that were given to my master, I could not persuade myself lhat those of a strong purgative nature were die best adapted for his complaint, concluding (hat. as he had nothing an his stomach, the only effect would be to create pain ; indeed, thii must have beer, the case with a person in iierfect health. The whole nourishment taken ')V my master, for the last eight days, consist- ed of a small quantity of broth, at two or three iliffprent times, and two spoonfuls of arrow- nil on the 18th, the day before his death. The first time I heard of there being any in tention of bleeding his lordship, was on the 15th, when it was proposed by Dr. Bruno, but objected to at first by my master, who askec 1 Mr. Millingen if there was any great reasoi for taking blood? The latter replied that i. might be of service, but added, it might bt deferred till the next day; and, accordingly my master was bled in the right arm on the evening of the 16th, and a pound of blood was taken. 1 observed, at the time, that it had a most inflamed appearance. Dr. Bruno now began to say, that he had frequently urged my master to be bled, but that he always refused. A long dispute now arose about the time that had been lost, and the necessity of sending for medical aid to Zante ; upon which I was informed, for the first time, that it would be of no use, as my master would be better, or no more, before the arrival of Dr. Thomas. His lordship continued to get worse, but Dr. Bruno said, he thought letting blood again would save his life; and I lost no time in tell- ing my master how necessary it was to com- ply with the doctor's wishes. To this he re- plied, by saving, he feared they knew nothing about his disorder; and then, stretching out his arm, said, ' Here, take my arm, and do whatever you like.' His lordship continued to get weaker, and on the 17th he was bled twice in the morning, and at two o'clock in the afternoon ; the bleeding at both times was followed by fainting fits, and he would have fallen down more than once, had I not caught him in my arms. In order to prevent suclfan accident, I took care not to permit his lord- ship to stir without supporting him. On this day my master said to me twice, ' I cannot sleep, and you well know I have not been able to sleep for more than a week ; I know,' added his lordship, ' that a man can only be a certain time without sleep, and then he must go mad, without any one being able to save him ; and I would ten times sooner shoot my- self than be mad, for I am not afraid of dying I am more fit to die than people think !' " I do not, however, believe that his lord- ship had any apprehension of his fate till the day after the 18th, when he said, 'I fear you and Titawill be ill by sitting continually night and day.' I answered, ' We shall never leave your lordship till you are better.' As my mas- ter had a slight fit of delirium on the 1 6th, I took care to remove the pistol and stiletto, which had hitherto been kept at his bedside in tho night. On the 18th, his lordship addressed me frequently, and seemed to be very much dis- satisfied with his medical treatment. I then said, ' Do allow me to send for Dr. Thomas?' to which he answered, ' Do so, but be quick ; I am sorry 1 did not let you do so before, as 1 am sure they have mistaken my disease. Write yourself, for I know they would not like to see other doctors here.' 1 did not lose a moment in obeying my master's orders ; and on informing Dr. Bruno and Mr. Millincen of it, they said it was very right, as they now began to be afraid themselves. On returning to my master's room, his first words were ' have you sent?' ' I have, my lord.' was niy LIFE OF LORD BYRON XXX\ II answer: \ pon .vhioh lio said, ' you have done right, for 1 shuula list, xo knot? what is the matter with me.' Although his lordship djd not appear to think his dissolution was so near, I could peiceive he was getting weaker every hour, and he even began to have occasional fits of delirium. He afterwards said, ' I now begin to think I am seriously ill, and in case I should be taken off suddenly, I wish to give you several directions, which I hope you will be particular in seeing executed.' I answered I would, in case such an event came to pass, but expressed a hope that he would live many years to execute them much better himself than 1 could. To this my master replied, ' No, it is now nearly over;' and then added, 'I must tell you all, without losing a moment !' I then said, ' Shall I go, my lord, and fetch pen. ink, and paper?' 'Oh, my God! no; you will Ipse too much time, and I have it not to spare, for my time is now short,' said his lordship, and immediately after, ' Now, pay attention !' His lordship commenced by saying, ' You will be provided for.' I begged him, however, to proceed with things of more consequence. He then continued, ' Oh, my poor dear child ! my dear Ada! my God! could I but have seen her ! Give her my blessing and my dear sister Augusta, and her children : and you will go to Lady Byron, and say tell her every thing, you are friends with her.' His lordship seemed to be greatly affected at this moment. Here my master's voice failed him, so that I could only catch a word at intervals; but he kept muttering something very seriously for some time, and would often raise his voice, and said, ' Fletcher, now if you do not exe- cute every order which I have given you, I will torment you hereafter, if possible.' Here I told his lordship, in a state of the greatest perplexity, that I had not understood a word of what he said; to which he replied, 'Oh, my God ! then all is lost, for it is now too late ! Can it be possible you have not understood me?' ' No, my lord,' said I, ' but I pray you to try and inform me once more.' ' How can I ?' rejoined my master, ' it is now too late, and all is over!' I said, 'Not our will, but God's be done !' and he answered, ' Yes, not mine be done ! but I will try.' His lordship did indeed make several efforts to speak, but could only speak two or three words at a time, such as ' My wife ! my child ! my sister ! you know all you must say all you know my wishes' the rest was quite unintelligible. A consultation was now held (about noon), when it was determined to administer some Peruvian bark and wine. My master had now been nine days without any sustenance whatever, except what I have already men- tioned. With the exception of a few words, which can only interest those to whom they were addressed, and which, if required, I shall communicate to themselves, it was impossible to understand any thing his lordship said after taking the bark. He expressed a wish to sleep. I at one time asked whether I should call Mr. Parry, to which he replied, 'Yes, you may call him.' Mr. Parry desired him to compose himself. He shed tears, and ap- parently sunk into a slumber. Mr. Parry went away, expecting to find him refreshed on his return, but it was the commencement of the lethargy preceding his death. The last words I heard my master utter, were at six o'clock on the evening of the 18th, when he said, ' I must sleep now;' upon which he laid down, never to rise again ! for he did not move hand or ^xrt during the following twen- ty-four hours. His lordship appeared, how- ever, to be in a state of suffocation at intervals, and had a frequent rattling in the throat ; on these occasions, I called Tita to assist me in raising his head, and I thought he seemed to get quite stiff. The rattling and choking in the throat took place every half-hour, and we continued to raise his head whenever the fit came on, till six o'clock in the evening of the 19th, when I saw my master open his eyes and then shut them, but without showing any symp- tom of pain, or moving hand or foot. ' Oh ! my God !' I exclaimed, ' I fear his lordship is gone!' the doctors then felt his pulse, and said, ' You are right lie is gone !' " It would be vain to attempt a description of the universal sorrow that ensued at Misso- longhi. Not only Mavrocordato and his im- mediate circle, but the whole city and all its inhabitants were, as it seemed, stunned by this blow; it had been so sudden, so unexpected. His illness, indeed, had been known, and for the last three days none of his friends could walk in the streets, without anxious inquiries from every one, of " How is my lord ?" On the day of this melancholy event, Prince Mavrocordato issued a proclamation expres- sive of the deep and unfeigned grief felt by all classes, and ordering every public demonstra- tion of respect and sorrow to be paid to the memory of the illustrious deceased, by firing minute-guns, closing all the public offices ^nd shops, suspending the usual Easter festivities, and by a general mourning, and funeral pray- ers in all the churches. It was resolved that the body should be embalmed, and after the suitable funeral honours had been performed, should be embarked for Zante, thence to be conveyed to England. Accordingly the med- ical men opened the body and embalmed it, and having enclosed the heart, and brain, and in- testines in separate vessels, they placed it in a chest lined with tin, as there were no means of procuring a leaden coffin capable of hold- ing the spirits necessary for its preservation on the voyage. Dr. Bruno drew up an ac- count of the examination of the body, by which it appeared his lordship's death had been caused by an inflammatory fever. Dr. Meyer, a Swiss physician, who was present, and had accidentally seen Madame de Stael after her death, stated, that the formation o; the brain in both these illustrious persons wa extremely similar, but that Lord Byron haJ a much greater quantity. On the 22d of April, 1824, in the midst of his own brigade, of the troops of the govei n ment, and of the whole population, on the shoulders of the officers of his corps, relieved occasionally by other Greeks, the mosr pre- cious portion of his bonouied len.ainr VPT* XXXV111 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. carried to the church, where lie the bodies of Marco Botzaris and of General Norman n. There they were laid down : the coffin was a rude, ill-constructed chest of wood ; a black mantle served for a pall, and over it were placed a helmet, a sword, and a crown of lau- rel. But no funeral pomp could have left the impression, nor spoken the feelings, of this simple ceremony. The wretchedness and deso- lation of the place itself; the wild and half- civilized warriors present; their deep-felt, un- affected grief; the fond recollections ; the dis- appointed hopes ; the anxieties and sad pre- sentiments which might be read on every countenance all contributed to form a scene more moving more truly affecting, than per- haps was ever before witnessed round the grave of a great man. When the funeral service was over, the bier was left in the middle of the church, where it remained until the evening of the next day, and was guarded by a detachment of his own brigade. The church was incessantly crowd- ed by those who came to honour and to regret the benefactor of Greece. In the evening of the 23d, the bier was privately carried back by his officers to his own house. The coffin was not closed till the 29th of the month. Immediately after his death, his countenance had an air of calmness, mingled with a se- verity, that seemed gradually to soften, and the whole expression was truly sublime. On May 2d, the remains of Lord Byron were embarked, under a salute from the guns of the fortress. " How different," exclaims Count Gamba, "from that which had wel- comed the arrival of Byron only four months ago!" After a passage of three days, the ves- sel reached Zante, and the precious deposit was placed in the quarantine house. Here some additional precautions were taken to en- sure its safe arrival in England, by providing another case for the body. On May the 10th, Colonel Stanhope arrived at Zante, from the Morea. and, as he was on his way back to England, he took charge of Lord Byron's re- mains, and embarked with them on board the Florida. On the 25th of May she sailed from Zante, on the 29th of June entered the Downs, and from thence proceeded to Stangate creek, to perform quarantine, where she arrived on Thursday, July 1st. John Cam Hobhouse, Esq. and John Han- son, Esq. Lord Byron's executors, after hav- ing proved his will, claimed the body from the Florida, and under their directions it was re- moved to the house of Sir Edward Knatch- bull, No. 20, Great George-street, West- minster. It was announced, from time to time, that the body of Lord Byron was to be exhibited in state, and the progress of the embellish- ments of the poet's bier was recorded in the pages of a hundred publications. They were at length completed, and to separate the curi- osity of the poor from the admiration of the rich, the latter were indulged with tickets of admission, and a day was set apart for them ic no and wonder over the decked room and !le tojblazoned bier Peers and peeresses, priests, poets, and politicians, came in gilded! chariots, and in hired hacks, to gaze upon the splendour of the funeral preparations, and tc see in how rich and how vain a shroud the body of the immortal bard had been hid. Those idle trappings, in which rank seems to mark its altitude above the vulgar, belonged to the state of the peer, rather than to the state of the poet; genius required no such attrac- tions, and all this magnificence served only to distract our regard from the man, whose in- spired tongue was now silenced for ever. Who cared for Lord Byron, the peer and the privy-counsellor, with his coronet, and his long descent from princes on one side, and from heroes on both ? and who did not care for George Gordon Byron, the poet, who has charmed us, and will charm our descendants, with his deep and impassioned verse? The homage was rendered to genius, not surely to rank for lord can be stamped on any clay, but inspiration can only be impressed on the finest metal. A few select friends and admirers followed Lord Byron to the grave his coronet was borne before him, and there were many indi- cations of his rank ; but, save the assembled multitude, no indications of his genius. In conformity with a singular practice of the great, a long train of their empty carriages followed the mourning-coaches mocking the dead with idle state, and impeding with barren pageantry the honester sympathy of the crowd. Where were the owners of those machines ol sloth and luxury where were the men of rank, among whose dark pedigrees Lord By- ron threw the light of his genius, and lent the brows of nobility a halo to which they were strangers? Where were the great whigs? where were the illustrious tones? could a mere difference in matters of human belief keep those fastidious persons away ? But,above all, where were the friends with whom wed- lock had united him ? On his desolate corpse no wife looked, no child shed a tear. We have no wish to set ourselves up as judges in do- mestic infelicities, and we are willing to be- lieve they were separated in such a way as to render conciliation hopeless ; but who could stand and look on his pale manly face, and his dark locks, which early sorrows were making thin and gray, without feeling that, gifted as he was, with a soul above the mark of other men, his domestic misfortunes called for our pity, as surely as his genius called for our ad- miration ? As the cavalcade proceeded through the streets of London, a fine-looking honest tar was observed to walk near the hearse uncov- ered, throughout the morning, and on being asked bv a" stranger whether he formed part of the funeral cortege, he replied, he came there to pay his respects to the deceased, with whom he had served in the Levant, when he made the tour of the Grecian Islands. This poor fellow was kindly offered a place by some of the servants who were behind the carriage, but he said he was strong, and had rather walk near the hearse. It was not 'ill Friday, July 16th, that the LIFE OF LORD BYRON. xxxix into ment took place. Lord Byron was buried in the family vault, at .the village of Huck- nall, eight miles beyond Nottingham, and within two miles of the venerable abbey of Newstead. He was accompanied to the grave by crowds of persons eager to show this last testimony of respect to his memory. In one of his earlier poems, he had expressed a wish that his dust might mingle with his mother's, and, in compliance with this wish, his coffin was placed in the vault next to hers. It was twenty minutes past four o'clock, on Friday, July 1 6th, 1824, when the ceremony was con- cluded, when the tomb closed for ever on By- ron, and when his friends were relieved from every care concerning him, save that of doing justice to his memory, and of cherishing his fame. The following inscription was placed on the coffin : " George Gordon Noel Byron, Lord Byron, of Rochdale, Born in London, 1 Jan. 22, 1788, died at Missolonghi, in Western Greece, April 19th, 1824." 1 Mi. Dallas saya Dover which a undoubtedly correct An urn accompanied the coffin, and on it was inscribed : " Within this urn are deposited the heart, brain, etc. of the deceased Lord Byron." An elegant Grecian tablet of white marble, has been placed in the chancel of the Hucknall church. We subjoin a copy of the inscrip- tion. The words are in Roman capitals, and di- vided into lines, as under: IN THE VAULT BENEATH, WHERE MANY OF HIS ANCESTORS AND HIS MOTHER ARE BURIED, LIE THE REMAINS OF GEORGE GORDON NOEL BYRON, LORD BYRON, OF ROCHDALE, IN THE COUNTY OF LANCASTER; THE AUTHOR OF "CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE." HE WAS BORN IN LONDON, ON THE 22D OF JANUARY, 1788. HE DIED AT MISSOLONGHI, IN WESTERN GREECE, ON THE 19TH OF APRIL, 1824, ENGAGED IN THE GLORIOUS ATTEMPT TO RE STORK THAT COUNTRY TO HER ANCIENT FREEDOM AND RENOWN. HIS SISTER, THE HONOURABLE AUGUSTA MARIA LEIGH, PLACED THIS TABLET TO HIS MEMOBF. THE COMPLETE WORKS $ of Jftrleness, MJJT' ap fit /toX' a"vt, y.f\rt TI vcua. HOMER. //i(f. 10. He whistled as he went for want of thought. DRYDEN. 1O THE RIGHT HONOURABLE FREDERICK, EARL OF CARLISLE KNIGHT OF THE GARTER, etc., THESE POEMS ARE INSCRIBED, BV HI8 OBLIGED WARD, AND AFFECTIONATE KINSMAN, THE AUTHOR. ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY. Why dost thou build the hall 7 Son or the winged days ! riiou lookest from thy tower to-day ; yet a few years, and the Dlast of the desert comes ; it howls in thy empty court. OSSIAN. THRODGH thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistle ; Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay; in thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle Have choked up the rose which late bloom'd in the way. Of the mail-cover'd barons who, proudly, to battle Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast rattle, Are the only sad vestiges now that remain. No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers, Raise a flame in the breast, for the war-laurel'd wreath; Near Askalon's Towers John of Honstan 1 slumbers, Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death. Paul and Hubert too sleep, in the valley of Cressy ; For the safety of Edward and England they fell ; My fathers ! the tears of your country redress ye ; How you fought ! how you died ! still her annals can ML On Marston, 1 with Rupert J 'gainst traitors contending, Four brothers enrich'd with their blood the bleak field ; 1 HorUtan Castle, in Deroyihire, an ancient seat of the Byron family. t The battle of Marston moor, where the adherents of Charles I. were defeated. 3 Son ot'the Elector Palatine, and related to Charles I. He tfterwards commanded the fleet in the reign of Charles II. For the rights of a monarch, their cou.itry defending. Till death their attachment to royalty seal'd. Shades of heroes, farewell ! your descendant departing From the seat of his ancestors bids you adieu ! Abroad or at home, your remembrance imparting New courage, he '11 think upon glory and you. Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 'T is nature, not fear, that excites his regret ; Far distant he goes, with the same erruilation, The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish. He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown , Like you will he live, or like you will he perish ; When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with .your own 1803. EPITAPH ON A /RIEND. vpiv ptv tAa/jTtj cvi ^ooiatv ttaui LAERTIUS. OH, Friend ! for ever loved, for ever dear ! What fruitless tears have bathed thy hnnour'd bier What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath, While thou wast struggling in the pangs of dearu ' Could tears retard the tyrant in his course ; Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force , Could youth and virtue claim a short delay. Or beauty charm the spectre from his prev : Thou still had'st lived, to bless my achins sijrm. Thy comrade's honour, and thy friend'* delight BYRON'S WORKS. If, } et t\iy ge*;t e spirit hover nigh The spot, where now thy mouldering ashes lie, Here wilt thou tread, recorded on my heart, A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art. No murble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, Cut living statues there are seen to weop ; Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb, Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom. What though thy sire lament his failing line, A father's sorrows cannot equal mine ! Though none, like thee, his dying hour will cheer, if et, other offspring sooth his anguish here : But who with me shall hold thy former place? Thine image what new friendship can efface ? Ah, none ! a father's tears will cease to flow, Time will assuage an infant brother's woe ; To all, save one, is consolation known, While solitary Friendship sighs alone. 1803. A FRAGMENT. WHEN to their airy hall my fathers' voice Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice ; When, poised upon the gale, my form shall ride, Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side ; Oh ! may my shade behold no sculptured urns, To mark the spot where earth to earth returns : No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encumber'd stone ; My epitaph shall be my name alone : If that with honour fail to crown my clay, Oh '. may no other fame my deeds repay ; TW, only that, shall single out the spot, Bv that rememl>er'd, or with that forgot. 1303. THE TEAR. O lacrymarum ferns, tenero sacros Ducentium ortus ex animo ; quater Felix! in imo qui gcatentem Pectore te, pia Nympha, eensH. GRAY. WHEW Friendship or Love Our sympathies move ; When Truth in a glance should appear ; The lips may beguile, With a dimple or smile, But the test of affection 's a Tear. Too oft is a smile But the hypocrite's wile, To mask detestation or fear ; Give me the soft sigh, Whilst the soul-telling eye Is dimm'd, for a time, with a Tear. Mild charity's glow, To us mortals below, Shows the soul from barbarity clear ; Compassion will melt, Where this virtue is felt, . And its dew is diffused in a Tear The man doom'd to sail, With the blast of the gaie, I hrough bifiows Atlantic to steer ; As he bends o'er the wave, Which may soon be his grave, OTt- The green sparkles bright with a Tear. The soldier braves death, For a fanciful wreath, In Glory's romantic career ; But he raises the foe, When in battle laid low, And bathes every wound with a Tear. If, with high-bounding pride, He return to his bride, Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear , All his toils are repaid, When, embracing the maid, From her eyelid he kisses the Tear. Sweet scene of my youth, Seat of Friendship and T uth, Where love chased each fast-lteeting year ; Loth to leave thee, I mourn'd, For a last look I tum'd, But thy spire was scarce seen through a Teas. Though my vows I can pour, To my Mary no more, My Mary, to Love once so dear ; In the shade of her bower, I remember the hour, She rewarded those vows with a Tear. By another possest, May she ever live blest, Her name still my heart must revere j With a sigh I resign, What I once thought was mine And forgive her decei' with a Tear. Ye friends ' ,,y heart, Ere from you I depart, This hope to my breast is most near ; If again we shall meet, In this rural retreat, May we meet, as we part, with a Tear. When my soul wings her flight, To the regions of night, And my corse shall recline on its bier ; As ye pass by the tomb, Where my ashes consume, Oh ! moisten their dust with a Tear. May no marble bestow The splendour of woe, Which the children of vanity rear ; No fiction of fame Shall blazon my name, All I ask, all I wish, is a Tear. 1806. AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE, Delivered previous to the performance of " The 7FW of Fortune 1 '' at a private theatre. SINCE the refinement of this polish'd age Has swept immoral raillery from the stage ; Since taste has now expunged licentious wit, Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ ; HOURS OF IDLENESS. Since, now, to please with purer scenes we seek, Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek ; Oh ! let the modest Muse some pity claim, And meet indulgence though she find not fame. Still, not for her alone we wish respect, Others appear more conscious of defect; To-night, no Veteran Roscii you behold, In all the art* of scenic action old ; No COOKE, no KEMBLE, can salute you here, No SIDDONS draw the sympathetic tear ; To-night, you throng to witness the debut ( )f embryo Actors, to the drama new. Here, then, our almost unfledged wings we try ; Clip not our pinions, ere the birds can fly ; Failing in this our first attempt to soar, Drooping, alas ! we fall to rise no more. Not one poor trembler, only, fear betrays, Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your praise, But all our Dramatis Personae wait, In fond suspense, this crisis of their fate. No venal views our progress can retard, Your generous plaudits are our sole reward 5 For these, each Hero all his power displays, Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze: Surely, the last will some protection find, None to the softer sex can prove unkind : Whilst Youth and Beauty form the female shield, The sternest Censor to the fair must yield. Yet should our feeble efforts nought avail, Should, after all, our best endeavours fail ; Still, let some mercy in your bosoms live, And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive. ON THE DEATH OF MR FOX. The following illiberal Impromptu appeared in a Morning Paper, OUR Nation's foes lament, on Fox's death, But bless the hour when PITT resign'd his breath ; These feelings wide let Sense and Truth undue, We give the palm where Justice points it due. To which the Author of these Pieces sent the follovnng Reply. OH! factious viper ! whose envenom'd tooth Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth ; What, though our " nation's foes" lament the fate, With generous feeling, of the good and great ; Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name Of him, whose meed exists in endless fame '/ When PITT expired, in plenitude of power, Though ill success obscured his dying hour, Pity her dewy wings before him spread, For nobce spirits " war not with the dead." His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave, As all his errors slumber'd in the grave ; He sunk, an Atlas, bending 'neath the weight Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state ; When, lo ! a Hercules, in Fox, appear'd, *Vho, fo. a time, the ruin'd fabric rear'd ; He, too, is fall'n, who Britain's loss supplied ; With him, our fast-reviving hopes have died : Not one great people only raise his urn, All Europe's far-extended regions mourn. ' These feelings wide let Sense and Truth undue, "ly gtvc ai the sky, I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen ; When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eyn, I think of those eyes that endear'd the rude scene ; When, haply, some light waving locks I beheld, That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue, I think on the long flowing ringlets of gold, The locks that were sacred to beauty, and you. Yet the day may arrive, when the mountains, once mom, Shall rise to my sight, in their mantles of snow : But while these soar above me, unchanged as before, Will Mary be there to receive me ? ah, no ! Adieu ! then, ye hills, where my childhood was bred, Thou sweet flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu ! No home in the forest shall shelter my head ; Ah ! Mary, what home coukl be mine, but with you ? TO * + *. OH ! yes, I will own we were dear to each other, The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are true ; The love which you felt was the love of a brother, Nor less the affection I cherish'd for you. But Friendship can vary her gentle dominion, The attachment of years in a moment expires ; Like Love too, she moves on a swift-waving pinion, But glows not, like Love, with unquenchable fires. 1 "Breasting the lofty surge." Sh.ikspt.are. 2 The Dee is a beautiful river, which rises near Mar *x>omp alone should wait On one by birth predestined to be great ; That books were only meant for drudging fools ; That gallant spirits scorn the common rules;" Believe them not, they point the path to shame, And seek to blast the honours of thy name : Turn to the few, in Ma's early throng, Whoe souls disdain not to condemn the wrong ; Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth, None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth, Ask thine own heait! 't will bid thee, boy, forbear, For welt I know that virtue lingers there. Yes ! I have mark'd thee many a passing day, But now new scenes invite me far away; Yes ! I have maik'd, within that generous mind, A soul, if well matured, to bless mankind: Ah ! though myself by nature haughty, wild, Whom Indiscretion hail'd her favourite child, Though every error stamps me for her own, And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone ; Though my proud heart no precept now can tame, I love the virtues which I cannot claim. 'T is not enough, with other Sons of power, To gleam the laml>ent meteor of an hour, To swell some peerage page in feeble pride, With long-drawn names, that grace no page beside ; Then share with titled crowds the common lot, In life just gazed at, in the grave forgot; While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead, Except the dull cold stone that hides thy head, The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the herald's roll, That well cmblazon'd, but neglected scroll, Whei e Lords, unhonour'd, in the tomb may find One spot to leave a worthless name behind ; There .sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults Tnut veil their dust, their follies, and their faults ; A i ace, with old armorial lists o'erspread, In records destined never to be read. Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes, Kvalted more among the good and wise ; A glorious and a long career pursue, \s first in rank, the first in talent too ; Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun, Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son. 1 Allow me to disclaim any personal allusions, even the roost distant ; I merely mention, generally, what is too often the weakness of preceptors. E 7 Turn to the annals of a formei aay, Bright are the deeds thine earlier Sires dispby; One, though a Courtier, lived a man of worth, And call'd, proud boast! the British Drama forth. Another view ! not less renown'd for Wit, Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit; Bold in the field, and favour'd by the Nine, In every splendid part ordain'd to shine ; Far, far distinguish'd from the glittering throng, The pride of princes, and the boast of song. 2 Such were thy Fathers ; thus preserve their name, Not heir to titles only, but to Fame. The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close, To me, this little scene of joys and woes ; Each knell of Time now warns me to resign Shades, where Hope, Peace, and Friendship, all vrcr* mine ; Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue, And gild their pinions, as the moments flew ; Peace, that reflection never frown'd away, By dreams of ill, to cloud some future day ; Friendship, whose truth let childhood only teH Alas ! they love not long, who love so well. To these adieu ! nor let me linger o'er Scenes hail'd, as exiles hail their native shore, Receding slowly through the dark blue deep, Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep. ! farewell ! I will not ask one part Of sad remembrance in so young a heart ; The coming morrow from thy youthful mind Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind. And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year, Since chance has thrown us in the self- same sphere. Since the same senate, nay, the same debate, May one day claim our suffrage for the state, We hence may meet, and pass each other by With faint regard, or cold and distant eye. For me, in future, neither friend nor foe, A stranger to thyself, thy weal or \ >e ; With thee no more again 1 hope to trace The recollection of our early race ; No more, as once, in social hours, rejoice, Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice. Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught To veil those feelings, which, perchance, it ought ; If these, but let me cease the lengthen'd strain, Oh ! if these wishes are not breathed in vain, The Guardian Seraph, who directs thy fate, Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great 1 "Thomas S k He, Lord B k st, created Eart u! D by James the First, was one of the earliest and bright- est ornaments to the poetry of his country, and the first who produced a regular drama." Anderson's British Poets. 2 Charles S k lie, Earl of D , esteemed the mon accomplished man of his day, was alike distinguished in the voluptuous court of Charles II. and the gloomy one of Wi! Ham III. HP behaved with great gallantry in the sea-fight with the Dutch, in 1665, on the day previous to which he composed his celebrated song. His charactei has been drawn in the highest colours by Dryden, Pope, Prior, and Courier* Vide Anderson's British Poets. 10 BYRON'S WORKS. KmitatCous. ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL, WHEN DYING. AUIMULA! vagula, blandula, Hospes, comesque, corporis, Quse riunc abibis in loca ? Pallidula, rigida, nudula, Ncc, ut soles, dabis jocos. TRANSLATION. An ' gentle, fleeting, wavering Sprite, Friend and associate of this clay ! To what unknown region borne, Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight? No more, with wonted humour gay, But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn. TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. LESBIAM." Eni'AL to Jove that youth must be, Greater than Jove he seems to me, Who, free from Jealousy's alarms, Securely views thy matchless charms ; Thcu cheek, which ever dimpling glows, That mouth from whence such music flows, To him, alike, are always known, Reserved for him, and him alone. Ah ! Lesbia ! though 't is death to me, I cannot choose but look on thee ; But, at the sight, my senses fly ; I needs must gaze, but gazing die ; Whilst trembling with a thousand fears, Parch'd to the throat, my tongue adheres, My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short, My limbs deny their slight support ; Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread, With deadly languor droops my head, My ears with tingling echoes ring, And life itself is on the wing ; My eyes refuse the cheering light, Their orbs are veil'd in starless night : Such pangs my nature sinks beneath, And feels a temporary deoth. TRANSLATION 1.-F THE EPITAPH ON VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS. BY DOMITIUS MARSUS. HE who, sublime, in Epic numbers roll'd, And he who struck the softer lyre of love, By Death's unequal hand ' alike control'd, Fit comrades in Elysian regions move. 1 Th muni of Death is snid to bo unjust, or unequal, as wgi) a< considerably older than Ti nillus, at his decease. TRANSLATION FROIS: CATULJJ ' " LUCTUS DE MOKTE PASSEK'V' YE Cupids, droop each little head, Nor let your wings with joy be spread ; My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead, Whom dearer than her eyes she loved 5 For he was gentle, and so true, Obedient to her call he flew, No fear, no wild alarm he knew, But lightly o'er her bosom moved : And softly fluttering here and there, He never sought to cleave the air ; But chirrup'd oft, and, free from care, Tuned to her ear his grateful strain. Now having pass'd the gloomy bourn, From whence he never can return, His death, and Lesbia's grief, I mourn, Who sighs, alas ! but sighs in vain. Oh ! curst be thou, devouring grave ! Whose jaws eternal victims crave, From whom no earthly power can save, For thf a hast ta'en the bird away : From thee, my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow, Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow, Thou art the cause of all her woe, Receptacle of life's decay. IMITATED FROM CATULLUS. TO ELLEN. OH ! might I kiss those eyes of fire, A million scarce would quench desire ; Still would I steep my lips in bliss, And dwell an age on every kiss ; Nor then my soul should sated be, Still would I kiss and cling to thee : Nought should my kiss from thine dissever_ Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever ; E'en though the number did exceed The yellow harvest's countless seed ; To part would be a vain endeavour, Could I desist ? ah ! never never. TRANSLATION FROM ANACREON TO HIS LYRE. I WISH to tune my quivering lyre, To' deeds of fame, and notes of fire ; To echo fron> 'is rising swell, How heroes tought, and nations fell ; When Atreus' sons advanced to war, Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar; But, still, to martial ^strains unknown, My lyre recurs to love alone. Fired with the hope of future fame, I seek some nobler hero's name ; The dying chords are strung anew. To war, to vvarxqu' nal "P > s due C HOURS OF IDLENESS. With glowing strings, the epic strain To Jove's great son I raise a^ain ; Alcides and his glorious deeds, Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds ; All, all in vain, my wayward lyre Wakes silver notes of soft desire. Adieu ! ye chiefs renown'd in arms ! Adieu ! the clang of war's alarms. To other deeds my soul is strung, And sweeter notes shall now be sung ; My harp shall all its powers reveal, To tell the tale my heart must feel ; Love, love alone, my lyre shall claim, In so"gs of bliss, and sighs of flame. ODE III. T wj> g now the hour, when Night had driven Her car half round yon sable heaven; Bootes, only, seem'd to roll His Arctic charge around the Pole ; While mortals, lost in gentle sleep, Forgot to smile, or cease to weep ; \t this lone hour, the Paphian boy, Descending from the realms of joy, iuick to my gate directs his course, \nd knocks with all his little force : Vly visions fled, alarm'd I rose ; ' What stranger breaks my blest repose ?" ' Alas !" replies the wily child, n faltering accents, sweetly mild, " A hapless infant here I roam, Far from my dear maternal home ; Oh ! shield me from the wintry blast, The mighty storm is pouring fast ; No prowling robber lingers here, A wandering baby who can fear ?" I heard his seeming artless tale, I heard his sighs upon the gale ; My breast was never pity's foe, But felt for all the baby's woe ; I drew the bar, and by the light, Young Love, the infant, met my sight ; His bow across his shoulders flung, And thence his fatal quiver hung, (Ah ! little did I think the dart Would rankle soon within my heart;) With care I tend my weary guest, His little fingers chill my breast ; His glossy curls, his azure wing, VVhich droop with nightly showers, I wring. His shivering limbs the embers warm, And now, reviving from the storm, Scarce had he felt his wonted glow, Than swift he seized his slender bow : ' I fain would know, my gentle host," He cried, " if this its strength has lost ; 1 fear, relax'd with midnight dews, The strings their former aid refuse :" With poison tirrt, his arrow flies, Deep in my torturoil heart it lies : Then loud 'he joyous urchin laugh'd, " My bow can :" impel the shaft ; 'Tis firmly fix'd, thy si-ho reveal it; Say, courteous host, ranst tnyu not feel it?" FRAGMENTS OF SCHOOL EXERCISES. FROM THE PROMETHEUS OF JESCHYLUS. GKEAT Jove! to whose Almighty throne Both gods and mortals homage pay. Ne'er may my soul thy power diso-vn, Thy dread behests ne'er disobey. Oft shall the sacred victim fall In sea-girt Ocean's mossy hall ; My voice shall raise no impious strain 'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main. How different now thy joyless fate, Since first Hesione thy bride, When placed aloft in godlike state, The blushing beauty by thy side, Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled, And mirthful strains^the hours beguiled ; The Nymphs and Tritons danced around, Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentless frown'd Harrow, Dec. 1, 1S04. THE EPISODE OF NISUS AND EURYALUS. A PARAPHRASE FROM THE .ENEID, LIB. 9. Nisus, the guardian of the portal, stood, Eager to gild his arms with hostile blood ; Well skill'd in fight, the quivering lance to wield, Or pour his arrows through th' embattled field From Ida torn, he left his sylvan cave, And sought a foreign home, a distant grave To watch the movements of the Daunian host, With him, Euryalus sustains the post ; No lovelier mien adorn'd the ranks of Troy, And beardless bloom yet graced the gallant boy ; Though few the seasons of his youthful life, As yet a novice in the martial strife, 'T was his, with beauty, valour's gift to share, A soul heroic, as his form was fair ; These burn with one pure flarne of generous love, In peace, in war, united still they move ; Friendship and glory form their joint reward, And now combined, they hold the nightly guard. " What god," exclaim'd the first, " instils this fire 1 Or, in itself a god, what great desire ? My labouring soul, with anxious thought opprest, Abhors this station of inglorious rest ; The love of fame with this can ill accord, Be 't mine to seek for glory with my sword. See'st thou yon camp, with torches twinkling dim, Where drunken slumbers wrap each lazy limb ? Where confidence ard ease the watch disdain, And drowsy Silence holds her sable reign ? Then hear my thought : In deep and sullen gi icf. Our troops and leaders mourn their absent chief; Now could the gifts and promised prize be thine (The deed, the danger, and the fame be mine); Were this decreed beneath yon rising mound, Methinks, an easy path perchance were four.d. Which past, I speed my way to Pallas' wall* And lead ^Eneas from Evander's halls." With equal ardour fired, and warlike joy. His glowing friend address'd the Dardan bov " These deeds, my Nisus, shall thou dare a'one ' Must all the fame, the peril, be thine own ? 12 BYRON'S WORKS. Am I by thcc despised, and left afar, As one unfit to share the toils of war ? Not thus his son the great Opheltes taught, Not thus my sire in Argive combats fought ; Not thus, when Ilion fell by heavenly hate, I track'd .rEneas tnrough the walks of fate ; Thou know'st my deeds, my breast devoid of fear, And hostile life-drops dim my gory spear ; Here is a soul with hope immortal burns, And life, ignoble life, for Glory spurns ; Fame, fame is cheaply earn'd by fleeting breath, The price of honour is the sleep of death." Then Nisus "Calm thy bosom's fond alarms, Thy heari beats fiercely to the din of arms ; More dear thy worth and valour than my own, 1 swear by him who fills Olympus' throne ! So may I triumph, as I speak the truth, And clasp again the comrade of my youth. But should I fall, and ho who dares advance Through hostile legions must abide by chance ; If some Rutulian arm, with adverse blow, Should lay the friend who ever loved fliee low ; Live thou, such beauties I would fain preserve, Thy budding years a lengthen'd term deserve : When humbled in the dust, let some one be, Whose gentle eyes will shed one tear for me ; Whose manly arm may snatch me back by force, Or wealth redeem from foes my captive corse : Or, if my destiny these last deny, If in the spoiler's power my ashes lie, Thy pious care may raise a simple tomb, To mark thy love, and signalize my doom. Why should thy dealing wretched mother weep Her only boy, reclined in endless sleep ? Who, for thy sake, the tempest's fury dared, Who, for thy sake, war's deadly peril shared ; Who braved what woman never braved before, And left, her native for the Latian shore." " In vain you damp the ardour of my soul," Replied Euryalus, " it scorns control ; Hence, let us haste." Their brother guards arose, Roused by their call, nor court again repose ; The pair, buoy'd up on Hope's exulting wing, Their stations leave, and speed to seek the king. Now, o'er the earth a solemn stillness ran, A ud lull'd alike the cares of brute and man ; Save where the Dardan leaders nightly hold Alternate converse, and their plans unfold ; On one great point the council are agreed, An instant message to their prince decreed ; Each lean'd upon the lance he well could wield, And poised, with easy arm, his ancient shield ; When Nisus and his friend their leave request To offer something to their high behest. With anxious tremors, yet unavved by fear, The faithful pair before the throne appear ; lulus greets them ; at his kind command, The elder first addrcss'd the hoary band. " With patience," thus Hyrtacides began, " Attend, nor judge from youth our humble plan ; V\ here yonder beacons, half-expiring, beam, Our slumbering foes of future conquest dream, Ncr need that we a secret path have traced, Between the ocean and the portal placed: Beneath the covert of the blackening smoke, Whoso shade securely our design will cloak. If you, ye chiefs, and Fortune will allow, We '11 bend our course to yonder mountain's brow , Where Pallas' walls, at distance, meet the sight, Seen o'er the glade, when not obscured by night ; Then shall jneas in his pride return, While hostile matrons raise their offspring's um, And Latian spoils, and purpled heaps of dead, Shall mark the havoc of our hero's tread ; Such is our purpose, not unknown the way, Where yonder torrent's devious waters stray . Oft have we seen, when hunting by the stream, The distant spires above the valleys gleam." Mature in years, for sober wisdom famed, Moved by the speech, Alethes here exclaim'd : " Ye parent gods ! who rule the fate of Troy, Still dwells the Dardan spirit in the boy ; When minds like these in striplings thus ye laise, Yours is the godlike act, be yours the praise ; In gallant youth my fainting hopes revive, And Ilion's wonted glories still survive." Then, in his warm embrace, the boys he press'd, And, quivering, strain'd them to his aged breast ; With tears the burning cheek of each bedew'd, And, sobbing, thus his first discourse renew'd : " What gift, my countrymen, what martial prize Can we bestow, which you may not despise? Our deities the first, best boon have given, Internal virtues are the gift of Heaven. What poor rewards can bless your deeds on earth, Doubtless, await such young exalted worth ; .(Eneas and Ascanius shall combine To yield applause far, far surpassing mine." lulus then : " By all the powers above ! By those Penates* who my country love ; By hoary Vesta's sacred fane, I swear, My hopes are all in you, ye generous pair ! Restore my father to my grateful sight, And all my sorrows yield to one delight. Nisus ! two silver goblets are thine own, Saved from Arisba's stately domes o'erthrown ; My sire secured them on that fatal day, Nor left such bowls an Argive robber's prey. Two massy tripods also shall be thine, Two talents polish'd from the glittering mine ; An ancient cup which Tyrian Dido gave, While yet our vessels press'd the Punic wave : But, when the hostile chiefs at length bow down, When great ./Eneas wears Hesperia's crown, The casque, the buckler, ana the fiery steed, Which Turnus guides with more than mortal speed, Are thine ; no envious lot shall then be cast, I pledge my word, irrevocably pass'd ; Nay more, twelve slaves and twice six captive dames, To soothe thy softer hours with amorous flames, And all the realms which now the Latians fy, The labours of to-night shall well repay. But thou, my generous youth, whose tender years Are near my own, whose worth my heart reveres, Henceforth affection, sweetly thus begun, Shall join our bosoms and our souls in one ; Without thy aid no glory shall be mine, Without thy dear advice, no great design ; Alike, through life esteem'd, thou godlike boy, In war my bulwark, and in peace my joy." Household G him Euryalus- Ci Ni. u;iy snail shame The rising glories which from this I claim. Fortune may favour or the skies may frown, But valour, spite of fate, obtains renown. Yel, ere from hence our eager steps depart, One boon I beg, the nearest to my heart : My mother sprung from Priam's royal line, Like thine ennobled, hardly less divine ; Nor Troy nor King Acestes' realms restrain Her feebled age from dangers of the main ; Alone she came, all selfish fears above, A bright example of maternal love. Unknown, the secret enterprise I brave, Lest grief should bend my parent to the grave : From this alone no fond adieus I seek, No fainting mother's lips have press'd my cheek j By gloomy Night, and thy right hand, I vow Her parting tears would shake my purpose now : Do thou, my prince, her failing age sustain, In thee her much-loved child may live again; Her dying hours with pious conduct bless, Assist her wants, relieve her fond distress: So dear a hope must all my soul inflame, To rise in glory, or to fall in fame." Struck with a filial care, so deeply felt, In tears, at once, the Trojan warriors melt ; Faster than all, lulus' eyes o'erflow ; Such love was his, and such had been his woe. " All thou hast ask'd, receive," the prince replied, " Nor this alone, but many a gift beside ; To cheer thy mother's years shall be my aim, Creusa's ' style but wanting to the dame ; Fortune an adverse wayward course may run, But bless'd thy mother in so dear a son. Now, by my life, my Sire's most sacred oath, To thee I pledge my full, my firmest troth, All the rewards which once to thee were vow'd, If thou shouldst fall, on her shall be bestow'd." Thus spoke the weeping prince, then forth to view A gleaming falchion from the sheath he drew ; Lycaon's utmost skill had graced the steel, For friends to envy and for foes to feel. A tawny hide, the Moorish lion's spoil, Slain midst the forest, in the hunter's toil, Mnestheus, to guard the elder youth, bestows, And old Alethes' casque defends his brows ; Arm'd, thence they go, while all the assembled train, To aid their cause, implore the gods in vain ; More than a boy, in wisdom and in grace, lulus holds amidst the chiefs his place ; His prayers he sends, but what can prayers avail, Lost in the murmurs of the sighing gale ? The trench is past, and, favour'd by the night, 1 hrough sleeping foes they wheel their wary flight. VVhen shall the sleep of many a foe be o'er ? Alas ! some slumber who shall wake no more ! Chariots, and bridles, mix'd with arms, are seen, Ard flowing flasks, and scatter'd troops between ; JB;uvhus and Mars to ruie the camp combine, \ mingled chaos this of war and wine. ' Now," cries the first, " for deeds of blood prepare, Witu me the conquest and the labour share ; Here ries our ;>ath ; lest any hand arise, iValili thou, while many a dreaming chieftain dies ; Th<. mother o\ n "us, lost on the night when Troy was taken. I'll carve our passage through the heedless foe, And clear thy road, with many a deadlv blow." His whispering accents then the youth represt, And pierced proud Rharnnes through his panting breast Stretch'd at his ease, th' incautious king reposed, Debauch, and not fatigue, his eyes had closed ; To Turnus dear, a prophet and a prince, His omens more than augur's skill evince ; But he, who thus foretold the fate of all, Could not avert his own untimely fall. Next Remus' armour-bearer, hapless, fell, And three unhappy slaves the carnage swell : The charioteer along his courser's sides Expires, the steel his severed neck divides ; And, last, his lord is number'd with the dead, Bounding convulsive, flies the gasping head ; From the swollen veins the blackening torrents pour, Stain'd is the couch and earth with clotting gore. Young Lamyrus and Lamus next expire, And gay Serranus, fill'd with youthful fire ; Half the long night in childish games was past, Lull'd by the potent grape, he slept at last ; Ah ! happier far, had he the mom survey'd, And, till Aurora's dawn, his skill display'd. In slaughter'd folds, the keepers lost in sleep, His hungry fangs a lion thus may steep ; Mid the sad flock, at dead of night, he prowls, With murder glutted, and in carnage rolls ; Insatiate still, through teeming herds he roams, [n seas of gore the lordly tyrant foams. Nor less the other's deadly vengeance came, But falls on feeble crowds without a name ; His wound unconscious Fadus scarce can fee), Yet wakeful Rhaesus sees the threatening stee rlis coward breast behind a jar he hides, And, vainly, in the weak defence confides ; ?"ull in his heart, the falchion search'd his veing, The reeking weapon bears alternate stains ; Through wine and blood, commingling as they flow, The feeble spirit seeks the shades below, fow, where Messapus dwelt they bend their way, Vhose fires emit a faint and trembling ray ; There, unconfined behold each grazing steed, Jnwatch'd, unheeded, on the herbage feed ; Jrave Nisus here arrests his comrade's arm, Too flush'd with carnage, and with conquest warm ; ' Hence let us haste, the dangerous path is past, 'ull foes enough, to-night, have breathed their last ; Soon will the day those eastern clouds adorn. Vow let us speed, nor tempt the rising morn." What silver arms, with various arts emboss'd, Vhat bowls and mantles, in confusion toss'd, y leave regardless ! yet, one glittering prize Utracts the younger hero's wandering eyes ; lie gilded harness Rhamnes' coursers fell, ^he gems which stud the monarch's golden belt: ^his from the pallid corse was quickly torn, )nce by a line of former chieftains worn. 'h' exulting boy the studded girdle wears, dessapus' helm his head, in triumph, bears , 'hen from the tents their cautious steps ihey bena o seek the vale, where safer paths extend. Just at this hour, a band of Latian horse o Tu.-r.us' camp pursue their destined co jw : 14 BYRON'S WORKS. VVhuc the slo v foot Jn,u 'irdy march delay, The knights, impatient, siur along the way : Three hundred mail-clad men, by Volscens led, To Turnus, with their master's promise sped : Now, they approach the trench, and view the walls, When, on the left, a light reflection fall?; The plunder'd helmet, through the waning night, Sheds forth a silver radiance, glancing bright ; Volscens, with question loud, the pair alarms " Stand, stragglers ! stand ! why early thus in arms 1 From whence 1 to whom T" He meets with no reply; Trusting the covert of the night, they fly ; The thicket's depth, with hurried pace, they tread, While round the wood the hostile squadron spread. With brakes entangled, scarce a path between, Dreary and dark appears the sylvan scene ; EjUryalus his heavy spoils impede, The boughs and winding turns his steps mislead ; But Nisus scours along the forest's maze, To where Latinus' steeds, in safety graze, Then backward o'er the plain his eyes extend, On every side they seek his absent friend. " O God ! my boy," he cries, " of me bereft, In what impending perils art thou left !" Listening he runs above the waving trees, Tumultuous voices swell the passing brer'.e; The war-cry rises, thundering hoofs around Wake the dark echoes of the trembling ground ; Again he turns of footsteps hears the noise, The sound elates the sight his hope destroys ; The hapless boy a ruffian train surround, While lengthening shades his weary way confound ; Him, with loud shouts, the furious knights pursue, Struggling in vain, a captive to the crew. What can his friend 'gainst thronging numbers dare 1 Ah ! must he rush, his comrade's fate to share ! What force, what aid, what stratagem essay, Back to redeem the Latian spoiler's prey ! His life a votive ransom nobly give, Oi die with him for whom he wish'*! to live ! Poising with strength his lifted lance on high, On Luna's orb he cast his phrenzied eye : " Goddess serene, transcending every star ! Queen of the sky ! whose beams are seen afar ; By night, Heaven owns thy sway, by day, the grove, When, as chaste Dian, here thou deign'st to rove ; If e'er myself or sire have sought to grace Thine altars with the produce of the chase ; Speed, speed my dart to pierce yon vaunting crowd, To free my friend, and scatter far the proud." Thus having said, the hissing dart he flung ; Through parted shades the hurtling weapon sung ; The thirsty point in Sulmo's entrails lay, Transfix' d his heart, and stretch'd him on the clay: He sobs, he dies, the troop, in wild amaze, Uin'onscious wneuce the deaih, with horror gaze ; While pale they stare, through Tagus' temples riven, A econd shaft with equal force is driven ; Fierce Volscens rolls around his lowering eyes, VeiPd ay the night, secure the Trojan lies. l!ui [ling with wrath, he view'd his soldiers fall ; ' Thou youth accurst ! thy life shall pay for all." Quii'./c from the sheath his flaming glaive he drew, Ai.fi raging on tne ooy defenceless flew. STisus no more the blackening shade sonceals. Forth, forth he starts, and all his love reveals ; Aghast, confused, his fears to madness rise, And pour these accents, shrieking as he flics : Me, me, your vengeance hurl on me alone, Here sheathe the steel, my blood is all your own ; Ye starry Spheres ! thou conscious Heaven attest! He could not durst not lo ! the guile confest ! All, all was mine his early fate suspend, He only loved too well his hapless friend ; Spare, spare, ye chiefs ! from him your rage remove His fault was friendship, all his crime was love." He pray'd in vain, the dark assassin's sword Pierced the fair side, the snowy bosom gored ; Lowly to earth inclines his plume-clad crest, And sanguine torrents mantle o'er his breast : As some young rose, whose blossom scents the air, Languid in death, expires beneath the share ; Or crimson poppy, sinking with the shower, Declining gently, falls a fading flower ; Thus, sweetly drooping, bends his lovely head, And lingering Beauty hovers round the dead. But fiery Nisus stems the battle's tide, Revenge his leader, and Despair his guide ; Volscens he seeks, amidst the gathering host, Volscens must soon appease his comrade's gnost ; Steel, flashing, pours on steel, foe crowds on foe, Rage nerves his arnij Fate gleams in every blow ; In vain, beneath unnumber'd wounds he bleeds, Nor wounds, nor death, distracted Nisus heeds ; In viewless circles wheel'd his falchion flies, Nor quits the Hero's grasp till Volscens dies ; Deep in his throat its end the weapon found, The tyrant's soul fled groaning through the wound. Thus Nisus all his fond affection proved, Dying, revenged the fate of him he loved ; Then on his bosom, sought his wonted place, And death was heavenly in his friend's embrace . Celestial pair ! if aught my verse can claim, Wafted on Time's broad pinion, yours is fame ! Ages on ages shall your fate admire ; No future day shall see your names expire ; While stands the Capitol, immortal dome ! And vanquish'd millions hail their Empress, Rome TRANSLATION FROM THE MEDEA OP EURIPIDES. WHEN fierce conflicting passions urge The breast where love is wont to glow, What mind can stem the stormy surge, Which rolls the tide of human woe 1 The hope of praise, the dread of r.hame, Can rouse the tortured breast no more ; The wild desire, the guilty flame, Absorbs each wish it felt before. But, if affection gently thrills The soul, by purer dreams possest, The pleasing balm of mortal ills, In love can soothe the aching breast ; If thus, thou comest in gentle guist Fair Venus ! from thy native heaven, What heart, unfeeling, would despise The sweetest boon the gods have given ' HOURS OF IDLENESS. But, never from thy golden bow May I beneath the shaft expire, Whose creeping venom, sure and slow, Awakes an all-consuming fire ; Ye racking doubts ! ye jealous fears ! With others wage eternal war ; Repentance ! source of future tears, From me be ever distant far. May no distracting thoughts destroy The holy calm of sacred love ! May all the hours be wing'd with joy, Which hover faithful hearts above ' Fair Venus ! on thy myrtle shrine, May I with some fnnd lover sigh ! Whose heart may mingle pure with mine, With me to live, with me to die. My native soil ! beloved before, Now dearer, as my peaceful home, Ne'er may I quit thy rocky shore, A hapless, banish'd wretch to roam ; This very day, this very hour, May I resign this fleeting breath, Nor quit my silent, humble bower A doom, to me, far worse than death. Have I not heard the exile's sigh, And seen the exile's silent tear? Through distant climes condemn'd to fly, A pensive, weary wanderer here : Ah ! hapless dame ! ' no sire bewails, No friend thy wretched fate deplores, No kindred voice with rapture hails Thy steps, within a stranger's doors. Perish the fiend ! whose iron hea"t, To fair affection's truth unknown, Bids her he fondly loved depart, Unpitied, helpless, and alone ; Who ne'er unlocks, with silver *ey, * The milder treasures of his soul ; May such a friend be far from me, And Ocean's storms between us roll ! FUGITIVE PIECES. THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A COLLEGE EXAMINATION. 3 HIGH in the midst, surrounded by his peers, MAGNUS his ample front sublime uprears ; Placed on his chair of state, he seems a god, While Sophs and Freshmen tremble at his nod ; 1 Medea, who accompanied Jason to Corinth, was deserted by him for the daughter of Creon, king of that city. The Chorus from which this is taken, here address Medea; though a con- siderable liberty is taken with the original, by expanding the idea, as also in some other parts of the translation. 2 The original is " KuBapav avoi^avrt K.\ti$a typtv&v :" literally " Disclosing the bright key of the mind." 3 No reflection is here intended against the person mentioned un^'er the name of Magnus. He is merely represented as per- forming an unavoidable function of his office: indeed such an attempt could only recoil upon myself; as that gentleman is tow as tnur-h distinguished by his eloquence, and the dignified preprint? with which he fills his situation, as he was, in his fuuiitfor aays for wu and conviviality As all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom, His voice, in thunder, shakes the sounding dome, Denouncing dire reproach to luckless foois, Unskill'd to plod in mathematic rules. Happy the youth ! in Euclid's axioms tried, Though little versed in any art beside ; Who, scarcely skill'd an English line to pen, Scans Attic metres with a critic's ken. What ! though he knows not how his fatheis bled, When civil discord piled the fields with dead ; When Edward bade his conquering bands advance, Or Henry trampled on the crest of France ; Though, marv'ling at the name of Magna Charta, Yet well he recollects the laws of Sparta ; Can tell what edicts sage Lycurgus made, While Blackstone 's on the shelf neglected laid ; Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deathless fame, Of Avon's bard remembering scarce the name. Such is the youth, whose scientific pate, Class-honours, medals, fellowsnips, await ; Or even, perhaps, the declamation prize, If to such glorious height he lifts his eyes. But, lo ! no common orator can hope The envied silver cup within his scope : Not that our Heads much eloquence require, Th' Athenian's glowing style, or Tully's fire. A manner clear or warm is useless, since We do not try, by speaking, to convince : Be other orators of pleasing proud, We speak to please ourselves, not move the crowd ; Our gravity prefers the muttering tone, A proper mixture of the squeak and groan ; No borrow'd grace of action must be seen, The slightest motion would displease the Dean ; Whilst every staring Graduate would prate Against what he could never imitate. The man, who hopes t' obtain the promised cup. Must in one posture stand, and ne'er look up ; Nor stop, but rattle over every word, No matter what, so it can not be heard Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest ! Who speaks the fastest 's sure to speak the best Who utters most within the shortest space, May safely hope to win the wordy race. The sons of science these, who, thus repaid, Linger in ease in Granta's sluggish shade ; Where, on Cam's sedgy banks, supine they lie, Unknown, unhonour'd live, unwept for, di ; Dull as the pictures which adorn their halls, They think all learning fix'd within their walls ; In manners rude, in foolish forms precise, All modern arts affecting to despise ; Yet prizing BENTLEY'S, BRUNCH'S, ' or PORSON note, More than the verse on which the critic wrote , Vain as their honours, heavy as their ale, Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale, To friendship dead, though not untaught to feel, When Self and Church demand a bigot zeal. With eager haste they court the loM of power, Whether 't is PITT or P TTY rules the hour 3 1 Celebrated critics. ij The present Greek professor at Trinitv College, Ca bridge; a man whose powers of mind und w ; 'ings may ;. haps justify their preference. 3 Since this was written Lord H. P v ha* '*> Ha Dln* BYRON'S WORKS. To him, with suppliant smiles, they bend the head, While distant mitres to their eyes are spread ; Hut should a storm o'erwhelm him with disgrace, They 'd fly to seek the next who fill'd his place. Such are the men who learning's treasures guard, Such is their practice, such is their reward ; This much, at least, we may presume to say The premium can't exceed the prico they pay. 1806. TO THE EARL OF * * *. " tu semper amori* Sis mcmor, et cari comifis ne abscedat imago." VALERIUS FLACCUS. FRIEND of my youth ! when young we roved, Like striplings mutually beloved, With Friendship's purest glow ; The bliss which wing'd those rosy hours Was such as pleasure seldom showers On mortals here below. The recollection seems, alone, Dearer than all the joys I 've known, When distant far from you ; Though pain, 't is still a pleasing pain, To trace those days and hours again, And sigh again, adieu ! My pensive memory lingers o'er Those scenes to be enjoy'd no more, Those scenes regretted ever ; The measure of our youth is full, Life's evening dream is dark and dull, And we may meet ah ! never ! As when one parent spring supplies Two streams, which from one fount ain rise, Together join'd in vain ; How soon, diverging from their source, Each murmuring seeks anothei course, Till mingled in the main. Our vital streams of weal or woe, Though near, alas ! distinctly Uow, Nor mingle as before ; Now swift or slow, now black or clear, Till death's unfathom'd gulf appear, And both shall quit the shore. Our souls, my Friend ! which once supplied One wish, nor breathed a thought beside, Now flow in different channels ; Disdaining humbler rural sports, T is yours to mix in polish'd courts, And shine in Fashion's annals. Tis tnbe to waste on Love my time, Or verre my reveries in rhyme, Without the aid of Reason ; Kor Sense and Reason (critics know it) Have quitted every amorous poet, Nor left a thought to seize on. \nn subsequently (I had nlmostsaid consequently) the honour of representing the University ; a fact so glaring requires no Poor LITTLE! sweet, melodious bard. Ol late esteem'd it monstrous hard, That he, who sang before all ; He, who the love of Love expanded, Hy dire reviewers should be branded, As void of wit and moral. ' And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine, Harmonious favourite of the Nine ! Repine not at thy lot ; Thy soothing lays may still be read, When Persecution's arm is dead, And critics are forgot. Still, I must yield those worthies merit, Who chasten, with unsparing spirit, Bad rhymes, and those who write them ; And though myself may be the next By critic sarcasm to be vext, I really will not fight them ; * Perhaps they would do quite as well, To break the rudely-sounding shell Of such a young beginner ; He who offends at pert nineteen, Ere tr'\rty, may become, I ween, .'. 'ery harden'd sinner. -, I must return to you, Now And sure apologies are due ; Accept then my concession ; In truth, dear , in fancy's flight, I soar along from left to right ; My muse admires digression. I think I said 't would be your fate To add one star to royal state ; May regal smiles attend you ; And should a noble Monarch reigr. You will not seek his smiles in vain, If worth can recommend you. Yet, since in danger courts abound, Where specious rivals glitter round, From snares may saints preserve you ; And grant your love or friendship ne'er From any claim a kindred care, But those who best deserves you. Not for a moment may you stray From Truth's secure unerring way ; May no delights decoy ; O'er roses may your footsteps move, Your smiles be ever smiles of love, Your tears be tears of joy. Oh! if you wish that happiness Your coming days and years may bless, And virtues crown your brow ; Be still, as you were wont to be, Spotless as you 've been known to me, Be, still, as you are now. 1 These Stanzas were written soon after the nppenionce of a severe critique in a Northern review, on a now publication of the British Anacreon 2 A Bard (horresco referens) defied his reviewer to mom. combat. If this example become* prevalent, our periodi-ul censors must be dippod in the river Styx, for what tlse cat secure them from the numerous host of theii < nragpd as&t'i ants ? HOURS OF IDLENESS. 17 And though some trifling share of praise, To cheer my last declining days, To me were doubly dear ; Whilst blessing your beloved name, I 'd waive at once a Poefs fame, To prove a Prophet here. GRANTA, A MEDLEY. ov icat iravra Kpar>;>rk, is not remarkable for accurao 3 The Latin of the schools is of the canine species, and not rerj : ntel!igibie. 8 Renouncing every pleasing page From authors of historic use ; Preferring to the letter'd sage The square of the hypothenuse. 1 Still, harmless are these occupations, That hurt none but the hapless student, Compared with other recreations, Which bring together the imprudent ; Whose daring revels shock the sight, When vice and infamy combine, When drunkenness end dice unite, And every sense is steep'd in wine. Not so the methodistic crew, Who plans of reformation lay : In humble attitude they sue, And for the sins of others pray. Forgetting that their pride of spirit, Their exultation in their ti ial, Detracts most largely from the merit Of all their boasted self-denial. 'Tis morn, from these I turn my sight: What scene is this which meo.ts the eye 1 A numerous crowd, array'd in while, 2 Across the green in numbers lly. Loud rings, in air, the chapel bell ; 'T is hush'd : What sounds are these I hen ( The organ's soft celestial swell Rolls deeply on the listening ear. To this is join'd the sacred song, The royal minstrel's hallow'd strain ; Though he who hears the music long Will never wish to hear again. Our choir would scarcely be excused, Even as a band of raw beginners ; All mercy, now, must be refused, To such a set of croaking sinners. If David, when his toils were ended, Had heard these blockheads sing before him, To us his psalms had ne'er descended, In furious mood he would have torn 'em. The luckless Israelites, when taken, By some inhuman tyrant's order, Were ask'd to sing, by joy forsaken, On Babylonian river's border. Oh ! had they sung in notes like these, Inspired by stratagem or fear, They might have set their hearts at ease The devil a soul had stay'd to hear. But, if I scribble longer now, The deuce a soul will stay to read , My pen is blunt, my ink is low, 'T is almost time to stop indeed. Therefore, farewell, old GRANTA'S spires, No more, like Cleofas, I fly ; No more thy theme my Muse inspire* The reader's tired, and so am 1. 180b 1 The discovery of Pythagoras, that the square of in* hypothenuse is equal to the squares of the other two side* o* a right-angled triangle. 2 On a Saint day, the students wear surplices in ehane 1 JiYRON'S WORKS. LACHIN Y GAIR. '.achinyOair, or, as it is pronounced in the Erse, 7,oeA na Garr, towers proudly pre-eminent in the Northern High- lands, near Invercaufd. One of our modern tourists men eterna snows: near acn y ar spent some o te early part of my life, the recollection of which has given birth to the following Stanzas. AWAY, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses ! In you let the minions of luxury rove ; Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes, Though still they are sacred to freedom and love : Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains, Round their white summits though elements war, Though cataracts foam, 'stead of smooth-flowing foun- tains, I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr. Ah ! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd, My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid ; ' On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd, As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade ; I sought not my home till the day's dying glory Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star ; For Fancy was cheer'd by traditional story Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr. " Shades of the dead ! have I not heard your voices Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale ?" Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland vale: Round Loch na Garr, while the stormy mist gathers, Winter presides in his cold icy car ; Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr: " Ill-starr'd, 2 though brave, did no visions forebodinc Tell you that Fate had forsaken your cause?" Ah ! were you destined to die at Culloden, 3 Victory crown'd not your fall with applause ; Still were you happy, in death's early slumber You rest with your clan, in the caves of Braemar, 4 The Pibroch 6 resounds to the piper's loud number Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr. Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you ; Years must elapse ere I tread you again ; Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you, Yet, still, are yoa dearer than Albion's plain : England ! thy beauties are tame and domestic To one who has roved on the mountains afar ; Oh ! for the crags that are wild and majestic, Tne steep-frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr ! 1 This word is erroneously pronounced plad ; the proper pronunciation (according to the Scotch) is shown by the orthography. 2 1 allude here to my maternal ancestors, "the Gordons," many of whom fought for the unfortunate Prince Charles, better known hy the name of the Pretender. This branch was nearly allied by blood, as well as attachment, to the Stewarts. George, thb second Earl of Huntley, married the Princess Annabella Stewart, daughter of James the First of Scotland; by her ho .eft four sons: the third. Sir William Gordon, I nave the honour to claim as one of my progenitors. 3 Whether any perished in the battle of Culloden I am not wttain ; but as many fell in the insurrection, I have used the Hiimt! of the principal action, "prs pro toto." 4 A tract of the Highlands so called ; there is also a Castle vt Braemar. 5 The l!.ii.'i))pe. TO ROMANCE. PARENT of golden dreams, Romance! Auspicious queen of childish joys ! Who lead'st along, in airy dance, Thy votive train of girls and boys ; At length, in spells no longer bound, I break the fetters of my youth ; No more I tread thy mystic i ound, But leave thy realms for those of Truth And yet, 't is hard to quit the dreams Which haunt the unsuspicious soul, Where every nymph a goddess seems, Whose eyes 'hrough rays immortal roll ; While E^.ncy holds her boundless reign, And all assume a varied hue, When virgins seem no longer vain, And even woman's smiles are true. And must we own the* but a name, And from thy hall of clouds descend ; Nor find a sylph in every dame, A Pylades ' in every friend ? But leave, at once, thy realms of air, To mingling bands of fairy elves : Confess that woman's false as fair, And friends have feelings for themselves. With shame, I own I 've felt thy sway, Repentant, now thy reign is o'er ; No more thy precepts I obey, No more on fancied pinions soar : Fond fool ! to love a sparkling eye, And think that eye to Truth was dear, To trust a passing wanton's sigh, And melt beneath a wanton's tear. Romance ! disgusted with deceit, Far from thy motley court I fly, Where Affectation holds her seat, And sickly Sensibility ; Whose silly tears can never flow For any pangs excepting thine ; Who turns aside from real woe. To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine : Now join with sable Sympathy, \Vith cypress crown'd, array'd in w;edl Who heaves with thee her simple si^h, Whose breast for every bosom bleeds ; And call thy sylvan female quire, To mourn a swain for ever s;one, Who once could glow with equal fire, But bends not w>\\ before thy throne. Ye genial nymphs, whose ready tears, On all occasions, swifily flow; Whose bosoms heave with fancied tears, With fancied names and phrenzy glow; Say, will you mourn my absent name. Apostate from your gentle tram I An infant Baril, at least, may claim From you a sympathetic .strain 1 It is hardly necessary lo add. that Pylades was the comparion at Orestes, and a partner in nne of those frien Iships which, wilh It .f Achilles and Patrocles, Nisus and Euryalus, Damon and Pythiis, hivi been handed down to posterity as remark.il.lj instances of tt,irimJI which, in all pn.bab.lily, never existed, beyond the /maginatiol of poet, the page of a historian, or modern novelist. HOURS OF IDLENESS. Adieu ! fond race, a long adieu ! The hour of fate is hovering nigh ; Even now the gulf appears in view, Where unlamented you must lie : Oblivion's blackening hike is seen Convulsed by galos you cannot weather, Where you, and eke your gentle queen, Alas ! must perish altogether. ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 1 It is the voice of years that are gone ! they roll before me vith all tlieir deeds. OSSIAN. NEWSTEAD ! fast falling, once resplendent dome ! Religion's shrine ! repentant HENRY'S 2 pride! Of warriors, monks, and dames the cloister'd tomb, Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide : Hail to thy pile ! more honour'd in thy fall, Than modern mansions in tlieir pillar'd state ; Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall, Scowling defiance on the blast of fate. No mail-clad serfs, 3 obedient to their lord, In grim array, the crimson cross 4 demand: Or gay assemble round the festive board, Their chief's retainers, an immortal band. Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye Retrace their progress, through the lapse of time ; Marking each ardent youth, ordain'd to die, A votive pilgrim, in Judea's clime. But not from thee, dark pile! departs the Chiefj His feudal realm in other regions lay ; In thee, the wounded conscience courts relief, Retiring from die garish blaze of day. Yes, in thy gloomy cells and shades profound, The monk abjured a world he ne'er could view; Or blood- stain'd Guilt repenting solace found, Or innocence from stern Oppression flew. A monarch bade thee from that wild arise, Where Sherwood's outlaws once were wont to prowl; And Superstition's crimes, of various dyes, Sought shelter in the priest's protecting cowl. Where now the grass exhales a murky dew, The humid pall of life-extinguish'd clay, In sainted fame the sacred fathers grew, Nor raised their pious voices, but to pray. Where now the bats their wavering wings extend, Soon as the gloaming s spreads her waning shade, The choir did oft their mingling vespers blend, Or matin orisons to Mary 6 paid. 1 As one poem on this subject is printed in the beginning, the author had orisinally no intention of inserting the follow- ina : it is now iidited at the particular request of some friends. i! Henry II. founded Newstead soon after the murder of riiomiH-a-Becket. This word is used by Walter Scott, in his poem, " The W'ld Huntsman," as synonymous with Vassal. 4 The Red Cross was the badge of the Crusaders. 5 As "Gloaming." tic Scottish word for Twilight, ia far more poetical, and hai, oven recommended by many eminent literary men, particularly Dr. Moore, in his Letters to Burns. I have ventured to use it on account of its harmony. 6 The Priory was dedicated to the Virgin Years roll on years to ages, ages yield- Abbots to abbots in a line succeed, Religion's charter their protecting shield, Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed. One holy HENRY rear'd the Gothic walls, And bade the pious inmates rest in peace Another HENRY ' the kind gift recalls, And bids devotion's hallow'd echoes cease. Vain is each threat, or supplicating prayer, He drives them exiles from their blest abode, To roam a dreary world, in deep despair, No friend, no home, no refuge but their God. Hark ! how the hall, resounding to the strain, Shakes with the martial music's novel din ! The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign, High-crested banners, wave thy walls within. Of changing sentinels the distant hum, The mirth offcasts, the clang of burnish'd arm* The braying trumpet, and the hoarser drum, Unite in concert with increased alarms. An abbey once, a -egal fortress 2 now, Encircled by insulting rebel powers ; War's dread machines o'erhang thy threatening brow And dart destruction in sulphureous showers. Ah ! vain defence ! the hostile traitor's siege, Though oft repulsed, by guile o'ercomes the brave His thronging foes oppress the faithful liege, RebelUon's reeking standards o'er him wave. Not unavenged, the raging baron yields, The blood of traitors smears the purple plain ; Unconquer'd still his falchion there he wields, And days of glory yet for him remain. Still, in that hour the warrior wish'd to strew Self-gather'd laurels on a self-sought grave ; But Charles' protecting genius hither flew, The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to save. Trembling she snatch'd him 3 from the unequal strife, In other fields the torrent to repel, For nobler combats here reserved his life, To lead the band where godlike FALKLAND 4 feD. From thee, poor pile ! to lawless plunder given, While dying groans their painful requiem sound, Far different incense now ascends to heaven Such victims wallow on the gory ground. There, many a pale and ruthless robber's corse, Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod ; O'er mingling man, and horse commix'd with horse, Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers trod. Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds o'erspread, Ransack'd, resign perforce their mortal mould ; From ruffian fangs escape not e'en the dead, Raked from repose, in search of buried gold. 1 At the dissolution of the Monasteries. Henry VIII. be stowed Newstead Abbey on Sir John Byron. 2 Newstead sustained a considerable siege in the war b tween Charles 1. and his Parliament. 3 Lord Byron and his brother Sir William held hiph cum mnnds in the royal arm) ; the former was General in Chief ii Ireland, Lieutenant of the Tower, and Governor to Jame* Duke of York, afterwards the unhappy James II. The latlw had a principal share in many actions, fide Clarendon Hume, etc. 4 Lucius Cnry, Lord Viscount Falkland, the most accom plished man of nig age, wag killed ut the hattlo of Ncwherrr charging in the ranks of Lord Byron's regiment f < va.r BYRON'S WORKS Hush'd is the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre, The minstrel's palsied hand reclines in death ; No more he strikes the quivering chords with fire, Or sings the giories of the martial wreath. At length, the sated murderers, gorged with prey, Retire the clamour of the fight is o'er; Silence again resumes her awful sway, And sable Horror guards the massy door. Here Desolation holds her dreary court ; What satellites declare her dismal rejgn ! Shrieking their dirge, ill-omen'd birds resort To flit their vigils in the hoary fane. Soon a new morn's restoring beams dispel The clouds of anarchy from Britain's skies ; The fierce usurper seeks his native hell, And Nature triumphs as the tyrant dies. With storms she welcomes his expiring groans, Whirlwinds responsive greet his labouring breath ; Earth shudders as her cave receives his bones, Loathing ' the offering of so dark a death. The legal Ruler a now resumes the helm, He guides through gentle seas the prow of state : Hope cheers with wonted smiles the peaceful realm, And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied Hate. The gioomy tenants, Newstead, of thy cells, Howling resign their violated nest ; Again the master on his tenure dwells, Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraptured zest. Vassals within thy hospitable pale, Loudly carousing, bless their lord's return ; Culture again adorns the gladdening vale, And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn. A thousand songs on tuneful echo float, Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees ; And, hark ! the horns proclaim a mellow note, The hunter's cry hangs lengthening on the breeze. Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys shake : What fears, what anxious hopes attend the chase ! The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake, Exulting shouts announce the finish'd race. Ah ! happy days ! too happy to endure ! Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew : No splendid vices glitter'd to allure Their joys were many, as their cares were few. From these descending, sons to sires succeed, Time steals along, and Death uprears his dart ; Another chief impels the foaming steed, Another crowd pursue the panting hart. Newstead ! what saddening change of scene is thine ! Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay ; The last and youngest of a noble line Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway. Deserted now, ho scans thy gray-worn towers Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep 1 This is a historical fact. A viojent tempest occurred im- mediately subsequent to the death, or interment, of Cromwell, which occasioned many disputes between his partisans and he rava:>,rs; both interpreted the circumstance into divine nierposmon, hut whether as approbation or condemnation, we leao M the c 'lists of that age to decide. I have made rach use m may suit a darken'd mind. Oh ! that to me the wings were given Which bear the turtle to her nest ! Then would I cleave the vault of Heaven, To flee away and be at rest. ' LINES WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN THE CHURCHYARD OF HARROW ON THE HILL. SEPT. 2, 1807. JSPOT of my youth ! whose hoary branches sigh, Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky ; Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod, With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod ; With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore, Like me, the happy scenes they knew before : Oh ! as I trace again thy winding hill, Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still, Thou drooping Elm ! beneath whose boughs I lay, And frequent niwed the twilight hours away ; Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline, But ah 1 without the thoughts which then were mine : I Psalm Iv. v. 6." And I said. Oh ! thut I had wings like a Hove, ihon would 1 fly away and be at rest." ThU verse HMJ cotwtitmes a nart of the must beautiful anthem in our neunee How do thy branches, moaning to the blast, Invite the bosom to recall the past ; And seem to whisper, as they gently swell, "Take, while thou can'st, a lingering last farewell ' ' When Fate shall chill at length this fever'd breast, And calm its cares and passions into rest, Oft have I thought 't would soothe my dying hour, If aught may soothe when life resigns her power, To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell, Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell : With this fond dream methinks 't were sweet to die And here it linger'd, here my heart might lie ; Here might I sleep, where all my hopes arose, Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose : For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade, Prest by the turf where once my childhood play'd, Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I loved, Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps moved ; Blest by the tongues that charm'd my youthful ear, Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here, Deplored by those in early days allied, And unremember'd by the world beside. THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA. An imitation of Macpherson's Ossian. 1 DEAR are the days of youth! Age dwells on their re- membrance through the mist of time. In the twilight he. recalls the sunny hours of morn. He lifts his spear with trembling hand. " Not thus feebly did I raise tha steel before my fathers!" Past is the race of heroes! but their fame rises on the harp ; their souls ride on the wings of the wind ! they hear the sound through the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in their hall ot clouds ! Such is Calmar. The gray stone marks his narrow house. He looks down from eddying tempests, he rolls his form in the whirlwind ; and hovers on the blast of the mountain. In Morven dwelt the chief; a beam of war to Fingai. His steps in the field were marked in blood ; Lochlm's sons had fled before his angry spear : but mild was the eye of Calmar ; soft was the flow of his yellow locks they stream'd like the meteor of the night. No maid was the sigh of his soul ; his thoughts were given to friendship, to dark-haired Orla, destroyer of heroes ! Equal were their swords in battle ; but fierce was the pride of Orla, gentle alone to Calmar. Together they dwelt in the cave of Oithona. From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o'er the blue waves. Erin's sons fell beneath his might. Fingai roused his chiefs to combat. Their ships cover the ocean ! Their hosts throng on the green hills. They come to the aid of Erin. Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies , but the blazing oaks gleam through the valley. Tho sons of Lochlin slept: their dreams were of blood. They lift the spear in thought, and Fingai flies. Not so the host of Morven. To watch was the post of Orla. Cal- mar stood by his side. Their spears were in their hands. Fingai called his chiefs. They stood aroum 1 . The king was in the midst. Gray were his locks, but strong was the arm of the king. Age withered not his power* 1 It may be necessary to observe, that the story, though considerably varied in the catastrophe, > taken from " Nisui and Euryalus." of which episode a translation !.ta bee* * ready civen HOURS OF IDLENESS. 23 " Sons of Morven," said the hero, " to-morrow we meet the foe; but where is Cuthullin, the shield of Erin? He rests in the halls of Tura ; he knows not of our coming. Whp win speed through Lochlin to the hero, and call the chief to arms ? The path is by the swords of foes, but many are my heroes. They are thunderbolts of war. Speak, ye chiefs ! who will arise ?" " Son of Trenmor ! mine be the deed," said dark- haired Orla, " and mine alone. What is death to me ? I love the sleep of the mighty, but little is the danger. The sons of Lochlin dream. I will seek car-borne Cuthullin. If I fall, raise the song of bards, and lay me by the stream of Lubar." "And shall thou fall alone ?" said fair-haired Calmar. " Wilt thou leave thy friend afar, Chief of Oithona? not feeble is my arm in fight. Could I see thee die, and not lift the spear? No, Orla ! ours has been the chase of the roebuck, and the feast of shells ; ours be the path of danger : ours has been the cave of Oithona ; ours be the narrow dwelling on the banks of Lubar." " Calmar !" said the chief of Oithona, " why should t'ny yellow locks be darkened in the dust of Erin ? Let me fall alone. My father dwells in his hall of air : he will rejoice in his boy : but the blue-eyed Mora spreads the feast for her son in Morven. She listens to the steps of the hunter on the heath, and thinks it is the tread of Calmar. Let him not say, ' Calmar is fallen by the Eteel of Lochlin ; he died with gloomy Orla, the chief of the dark brow.' Why should tears dim the azure eye of Mora ? Why should her voice curse Orla, the destroyer of Calmar? Live, Calmar ! live to raise my stone of moss ; live to revenge me in the blood of Lochlin ! Join the song of Dards above my grave. Sweet will be the song of death to Orla, from the voice of Calmar. My ghost shall smile on the notes of praise." "Orla!" said the son of Mora, " could I raise the song of death to my friend ? Could I give his fame to the winds? No; my heart would speak in sighs ; faint and broken are the sounds of sorrow. Orla ! our souls shall hear the song together. One cloud shall be ours on high ; the bards will mingle the names of Orla and Calmar." They quit the circle of the chiefs. Their steps are to the host of Lochlin. The -dying blaze of oak dim twinkles through the night. The northern star points the path to Tura. Swaran, the king, rests on his lonely hill. Here the troops are mixed : they frown in sleep, their shields beneath their heads. Their swords gleam, at distance, in heaps. The fires are faint ; their embers fail in smoke. All is hushed ; but the gale sighs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel the heroes through the slumbering band. Half the journey is past, when Mathon, resting on his shield, meets the eye of Orla. It rolls in flame, and glistens through the shade : his spear is raised on high. " Why dost thou bend thy brow, Chief of Oithona?" said fair-haired Calmar. "We are in the midst of foes. Is this a time br delay ?" " It is a time for vengeance," said Orla, of the c'ootny brow. " Mathon of Lochlin sleeps : seest thou his s|>ear / Its point is dim with the gore of my fitther. The blood of Mathon shall reek on mine ; but shall I slay him sleeping, son of Mora ? No ! he shall fee! his wound ; my fame shall not soar on the blood of slumber. Rise, Mathon ! rise ! the son of Connal calls; thr life is his : rise to combat." Mathon starts from ileep, but did he rise alone? No: the gathering chiefs bound on the plain. "Fly, Calmar, fly ''' said dark- haired Orla : " Mathon is mine ; I shall die in joy ; bu* Lochlin crowds around ; fly through the shade of night." Orla turns ; the helm of Mathon is cleft : his shield falls from his arm : he shudders in his blood. He rolls by the side of the blazing oak. Strumon sees him falL His wrath rises ; his weapon gutters on the head of Orla ; but a spear pierced his eye. His brain gushes through the wound, and foams on the spear of Calmar. As roll the waves of Ocean on two mighty barks of the north, so pour the men of Lochlin on the chiefs. As, breaking the surge in foam, proudly steer the barks ol the north, so rise the chiefs of Morven on the scattered crests of Loclilin. The din of arms came to the ear ol Fingal. He strikes his shield : his sons throng around ; the people pour along the heath. Ryno bounds in joy. Ossian stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes the spear. The eagle wing of Fillan floats on the wind. Dreadful is the clang of death ! many are the widows of Lochlin. Morven prevails in his strength. Morn glimmers on the hills : no living foe is seen j but the sleepers are many : grim they lie on Erin. The breeze of ocean lifts their locks : yet they do not awake. The hawks scream above their prey. Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of p. chief? bright as the gold of the stranger, they mingle with the dark hair of his friend. 'Tis Calmar he lies on the bosom of Orla. Theirs is one stream of blood. Fierce is the look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes not ; but his eye is still a flame : it glares in death unclosed. His hand is grasped in Calmar's ; but Calmar lives : he lives, though low. "Rise," said the king, "rise, son ol Mora, 'tis mine to heal the wounds of heroes. Calmar may yet bound on the hills of Morven." "Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morven with Orla;" said the hero, "what were the chase to me, alone ? Who would share the spoils of battle with Calmar? Orla is at rest! Rough was thy soul, Orla! yet soft to me as the dew of morn. It glared on others in lightning ; to me a silver beam of night. Bear my swoid to blue-eyed Mora : let it hang in my empty hall. It ia not pure from blood : but it could not save Orla. Lay me with my friend : raise the song when I am dark." They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four gray stones mark the dwelling of Orla and Calmar. When Swaran was bound, our sails rose on the blue waves. The winds gave our barks to Morven. The Bards raised the song. "What form rises on the roar of clouds! whose dark ghost gleams on the red streams of tempests? his voice rolls on the thunder. 'T is Orla ; the brown chief of Oithona. He was unmatched in war. Peace to thy soul, Orla! thy fame will not perish. Nor thine, Calmar! lovely wast thou, son of blue-eyed Mora ; but not harmless was jhy sword. It hangs in thy cave. The ghosts of Lochlin shriek around its steel. Hear thy praise, Calma>! it dwells on the voice of the mighty. Thy name shakes on the echoes of Morven. Then raise thy fair locks, son of Mora ; spread them on the arch of the rainbow, and smile through the tears of the storm." ' 1 1 fear Lain" 's late edition has completely overthrown ererr hope thatMacphereon's Ossian might prove the Translation of a reries of Poems, complete in themselves; hut, while the im posture is discoverer!, the merit of the work remains undisputed, thouen not without fault*, particularly, in gome parts. turgKl and bomhastic diction. The present humble imitation will be i at- doned by the admirers of the original, as an attempt. noweai inferior, which evince* an attachment 'o thsi' favourite autho* BYRON'S WORKS. CRITIQUE EXTRACTED FROM THE EDINBURGH REVIEW, NO. 22, FOR JANUARY 1808. Hours of Idleness ; a Series of Poems, original and translated. By GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON, a Minor. 8vo. pp. 200. Newark, 1807. THE poesy of this young Lord belongs to the class which neither gods nor men are said to permit. Indeed, we do not recollect to have seen a quantity of verse with so few deviations in either direction from that exact standard. His effusions are spread over a dead flat, and can no more get above or below the level, than if they were so much stagnant water. As an extenuation of this offence, the noble author is peculiarly forward in pleading minority. We have it in the title-page, and on the very back of the volume ; it follows his name like a favourite part of his style. Much stress is laid upon it in the preface, and the poems are connected with this general statement of his case, by particular dates, substantiating the age at which each was written. Now, the law upon the point of minority we hold to be perfectly clear. It is a plea available only to the de- fendant ; no plaintiff can offer it as a supplementary ground of action. Thus, if any suit could be brought against Lord Byron, for the purpose of compelling him to put into court a certain quantity of poetry, and if judgment were given against him, it is highly probable that an exception would be taken were he to deliver for poetry the contents of this volume. To this he might plead minority ; but, as he now makes voluntary tender of the article, he hath no right to sue, on that ground, for the price in good current praise, should the goods be unmarketable. This is our view of the law on the point, and, we dare to say, so will it be ruled. Perhaps however, in reality, all that he tells us about his youth is rather with a view to increase our wonder, than to soften our censures. He possibly means to say, " See how a minor can write ! This poem was actually composed by a young man of eighteen, and this by one of only sixteen ! " But, alas ! we all remember the poetry of Cowley at ten, and Pope at twelve ; and so far from hearing, with any degree of surprise, that very poor verses were written by a youth from his leaving school to his leaving college, inclusive, we really believe this to be the most common of all occurrences ; that it hap- pens in the life of nine men in ten who are educated in England ; and that the tenth man writes better verse than Lord Byron. His other plea of privilege our author rather brings forward in order to waive it. He certainly, however, does allude frequently to his family and ancestors sometimes in poetry, sometimes in notes ; and while giving up his ciaim on the score of rank, he takes care to rememDer us of Dr. Johnson's saying, that when a nobleman appears as an author, his merit should be handsomely acknowledged. In truth, it is this consid- eration only, that induces us to give Lord Byron's poems a place in our review, beside our desire to counsel him, that he do forthwith abandon poetry, and turn his talents, which are considerable, and his opportunities, which are treat, to better account. With this view, we must beg leave seriously to assura him, that the mere rhyming of the final syllable, even when accompanied by the presence of a certain number of feet; nay, although (which does not always happen) those feet should scan regularly, and have been all counted accurately upon the fingers, it is not tha whole art of poetry. We would entreat him to believe, that a certain portion of liveliness, somewhat of fancy, is necessary to constitute a poem, and that a poem in the present day, to be read, must contain at least one thought, either in a little degree different from the ideas of former writers, or differently expressed. We put it to his candour, whether there is any thing so deserving the name of poetry in verses like the following, written in 1806 ; and whether, if a youth of eighteen could say any thing so uninteresting to his ancestors, a youth of nineteen should publish it: " Shades of heroes, farewell ! your descendant, departing From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu! Abroad or at home, your remembrance imparting New courage, he '11 think upon glory and you. " Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 'T is nature, not fear, thai excitta bis regret: Far distant he goes, with the same emulation ; The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. " That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish, He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown ; Like you will he live, or like you will he perish ; When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own." Now we positively do assert, that there is nothing bet ter than those stanzas in the whole compass of the nobli minor's volume. Lord Byron should also have a care of attempting what the greatest poets have done before him, for comparisons (as he must have had occasion to see at his writing-master's,) are odious. Gray's Ode on Eton College should really have kept out the ten hobbling stanzas " On a distant view of the village and school of Harrow." " Where fancy yet joys to retrace the resemblance Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied ; How welcome to me your ne'er-fading remembrance. Which rests in the bosom, though hope is denied." In like manner, the exquisite lines of Mr Rogers " On a Tear, 1 '' might have warned the notle author off those premises, and spared us a whole dozen such stanzas as the following : " Mild Charity's glow. To us mortals below Shows the sou! from burbaiit.f di&i Compassion will melt, Where this virtue is Ml, And its dew is diffused in a Toar. " The man doom'd to sail With the biut of the itata, Through billows Atlantic to steer. As he bends o'er the wave. Which may soon bo hii grave. The green sparkles bright with a eai CRITIQUE ON HOURS OF IDLENESS. And so of instances in which former poets had failed. I'huf, we do not think Lord Byron was made for trans- lating, during his non-age, Adnan's Address to his Sou', when Pope succeeded so indifferently in the at- tempt. If our readers, however, arc of another opinion, hey may look at it. " Ah ! gentle, fleeting, wavering sprite. Friend and associate of this clay ! To what unknown region home. Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight ? No more with wonted humour eay. But pallid, cheerless, ami forlorn." However, be this as it may, we fear his translations and imitations are great favourites vvitli Lord Byron. We have them of all kinds, from Anacreon to Ossian ; and, viewing them as school exercises, they may pass. Only, why print them after they have had their day and served their turn ? And why call the thing in p. 79, ' a translation, where two words (6t\w \tytiv) of the original are expanded into four lines, and the other thing in p. 81, 2 where [ttaovvxriats To0' 'opais, is ren- dered by means of six hobbling verses ? As to his Os- sianic poesy, we are not very good judges, being, in truth, so moderately skilled in that species of compo- sition, that we should, in all probability, be criticising some bit of the genuine Macpherson itself, were we to express our opinion of Lord Byron's rhapsodies. If, then, the following beginning of a " Song of Bards " is ay his Lordship, we venture to object to it, as far as we can comprehend it. " What form rises on the roar of clouds, whose dark ghost gleams on the red stream of tempests ? His voice rolls on the thunder ; 't is Orla, the brown chief of Oithona. He was," etc. After detaining this " brown chieP' some time, the bards conclude by giving him their advice to " raise his fair locks ;" then to " spread them on the arch of the rainbow ;" and " to smile through the tears of the storm." Of this kind of thing there are no less than nine pages ; and we can so far venture an opinion in their favour, that they look very like Macpherson ; and we are positive they are pretty nearly as stupid and tiresome. It is a sort of privilege of poets to be egotists ; but they should " use it as not abusing it ;" and particu- larly one who piques himself (though indeed at the ripe age of nineteen) of being " an infant bard," ("The artless Helicon I boast is youth;") should either not know, or should seem not to know, so much about nis own ancestry. Besides a poem above cited, on the family seat of the Byrons, we have anothr-.r of eleven pages, on the selfsame subject, introduced with an apology, " he certainly had no intention of insertinc it," but really " the particular request of some friends,' tc., etc. It concludes with five stanzas on himself, " the 1 See page 1C i 2 2 Page 11. last and youngest of a noble line." There is a goo deal also about his maternal ancestors, in a poem on Lachin y Gair, a mountain where he spent part of hi youth, and might have learnt that pibroch is not > bagpipe, any more than duet means a fiddle. As the author has dedicated so large a part of hit volume to immortalize his employments at school ano college, we cannot possibly dismiss it without present ing the reader with a specimen of these ingenious effu sions. In an ode with a Greek motto, called Granta, we have the following magnificent stanzas : " There, in apartments small and damp. The candidate for college prizes Sits poring by the midnight lamp. Goes la'.e to bed, yet early rises. " Who reads false quantities in Sele Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle. Deprived of many a wholesome meal, In barbarous Latin doom'd to wrangle : " Renouncing every pleasing page, From authors of historic use, Preferring to the letter'd sage The square of the hypothenuse. " Still harmless are these occupations, That hurt none but the hapless student, Compared with other recreations. Which bring together the imprudent." We are sorry to hear so bad an account of the col- lege psalmody as is contained in the following Attie stanzas : " Our choir would scarcely be excused Even as a band of raw beginners; All mercy now must be refused To such a set of croaking sinners. " If David, when his toils were ended, Had heard these blockheads sing before him, To us his psalms had ne'er descended : In furious mood he would have tore 'em !' But whatever judgment may be passed on the poema of this noble minor, it seems we must take them as we find them, and be content; for they are the last we shall ever have from him. He is, at best, he says, but an intruder into the groves of Parnassus ; he never lived in a garret, like thorough-bred poets ; and " though h once roved a careless mountaineer in the Highlands of Scotland," he has not of late enjoyed this advantage. Moreover, he expects no profit from his publication ; and, whether it succeeds or not, " it is highly improba- ble, from his situation and pursuits hereafter," *that he should again condescend to become an author. There- fore, let us take what we get, and be thankful. What right have we poor devils to be nice ? We are well off to have got so much from a man of this Lord's station, who does not live in a garret, but, " has the sway " o( Newstead Abbey. Again, we say, let us be thankful ; and, with honest Sancho, bid God bless the girer, nw look the gift horse in the mouth. ( 26 ) antr Scotcft SATIRE. 1 had rather be a kitten, and cry mew ! Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers. SHAKSPEARE. Such shameiesa Bards we have ; and yet, 't ia true, There are as mad, abandon'd Critics too. PREFACE.' ALL my friends, learned and unlearned, have urged me not 10 publish this Satire with my name. If I were to be " turned from the career of my humour by quibbles quick, and paper bullets of the brain," I should have complied with their counsel. Bu; I am not to be ter- rified by abuse, or bullied by reviewers, with or with- out arms. I can safely say that I have attacked none personally who did not commence on the offensive. An author's works are public property : he who pur- chases may judge, and publish his opinion if he pleases; and the authors I have endeavoured to commemorate may do by me as I have done by them : I dare say they will succeed better in condemning my scribblings than in mending their own. But my object is not to prove that I can write well, but, if possible, to make others write better. As the Poem has met with far more success than I expected, I have endeavoured in this edition to make some additions and alterations, to render it more worthy of public perusal. In the first edition of this Satire, published anony- mously, fourteen lines on the subject of Bowles's Pope were written and inserted at the request of an inge- nious friend of mine, who has now in the press a vol- ume of poetry. In the present edition they are erased, and some of my own substituted in their stead ; my only reason for this being that which I conceive would operate with any other person in the same manner a determination not to publish with my name any pro- duction which was not entirely and exclusively my own composition. With regard to the real talents of many of the poet- ical persons whose performances are mentioned or alluded to in the following pages, it is presumed by the author that there can be little difference of opinion in ine public at large ; though, like other sectaries, each has his separate tabernacle of proselytes, by whom his abilities are overrated, his faults overlooked, and his metrical canons received without scruple and without consideration. But the unquestionable possession of considerable genius by several of the writers here censured, renders their mental prostitution more to be regretted. Imbecility may be pitied, or, at worst, laughed at and forgotten ; perverted powers demand the most decided reprehension. No one can wish more 1 This Preface was written fur the second edition of this Cnem. and printed with it than the author, that some known and able writer hac undertaken their exposure; but Mr. GIFFORD has de- voted himself to Massinger, and, in the absence of the regular physician, a country practitioner may, in cases of absolute necessity, be allowed to prescnbe his nos- trum, to prevent- the extension of. so deplorable an epidemic, provided there be no quackery in his treat- ment of the malady. A caustic is here offered, as it is to be feared nothing short of actual cautery can re- cover the numerous patients afflicted with the present prevalent and distressing rallies for rhyming. As to the Edinburgh Reviewers, it would indeed require a Hercules to crush the Hydra ; but if the author succeeds n merely " bruising one of the heads of the serpent," though his own hand should suffer in the encounter. he will be amply satisfied. ENGLISH BARDS, etc. etc. STILL must I hear? shall hoarse FITZGERALD' baw His creaking couplets in a tavern hall, And 1 not sing, lest, haply, Scotch Reviews Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my Muse? Prepare for rhyme I '11 publish, right or wrong : Fools are my theme, let Satire be my song. Oh ! Nature's noblest gift my gray goose-quill ! Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen, That rm'hty instrument of little men ! The pen ! bredoom'd to aid the mental throes Of brains that labour, big with verse or prose, Though nymphs forsake, and critics may deride, The lover's solace, and the author's pride : What wits, what poets dost thou daily raise ! How frepuent is thy use, how small thy praise ! Condemned at length to be forgotten quite, With all the pages which 't was thine to write. But thou, at least, mine own especial pen ! Once laid aside, but now assumed again. 1 IMITATION. " Semper ego auditor tantum 1 nunquamne reponan.. Vcxatus tolies rauci Thnscide Codri V Juvenal, tat. 1 Mr. Fitzgerald, facetiously termed by Cobbett the ' Smart- Beer Poet," inflicts his annual tribute of verse on the "Li:- crary Fund ;" not content with wr'.ting, he sriutc in person, after the company have imbibed a reasonable ^uai*iti of bad port, to enable them to sustaii ihe operation ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 27 Ou> task complete, like Harriet's ' shall be free ; Though spurn'd by others, yet beloved by me : Then let us soar to-day ; no common theme, No eastern vision, no distemper'd dream Inspires our path, though full of thorns, is plain ; Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain. When vice triumphant holds her sovereign sway, And men, through life her willing slaves, obey ; When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime, Unfolds her motley store to suit the time ; When knaves and fools combined o'er all prevail, When Justice halts, and Right begins to fail, E'en then the boldest start from public sneers, Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears, More darkly sin, by Satire kept in awe, And shrink from ridicule, though not from law. Such is the force of Wit ! but not belong To me the arrows of satiric song ; The royal vices of our age demand A keener weapon, and a mightier hand. Still there are tollies e'en for me to chase, And yield at least amusement in the race : Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame The cry is up, and Scribblers are my game ; Speed, Pegasus ! ye strains of great and small, Ode, Epic, Elegy, have at you all ! I too can scrawl, and once upon a time I pour'd along the town a flood of rhyme A school-boy freak, unworthy praise or blame : I printed older children do the same. T is pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print ; A book 's a book, although there 's nothing in 'U Not that a tide's sounding charm can save Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave : This LAMBE must own, since his patrician name Fail'd to preserve the spurious farce from shame. 3 No matter, GEORGE continues still to write, 3 Though now the name is veil'd from public sight. Moved by the great example, I pursue The selfsame road, but make my own review: Not seek great JEFFREY'S yet, like him, will be Self-constituted judge of poesy. A man must serve his time to every trade, Save censure critics all are ready made, fake hackney'd jokes from MILLER, got by rote, With just enough of learning to misquote ; A mind well skill'd to find or forgo a fault ; A turn for punning, call it Attic salt ; To JEFFREY go, be silent and discreet, His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet: Fear not to lie, 't will seem a lucky hit ; Shrink not from blasphemy, 't will pass for wit ; Care not for feeling pass your proper jest, . And stand a critic, hated yet caress'd. And shall we own such judgment ? no as soon Seek roses in December, ice in June ; Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff; Belu'* a woman, or an epitaph ; I "rl /fimet Benengrli promises repose to his pen in the last thaptr ivf nn Qujziitr. Oh '. that our voluminous gentry would follow the example of Cid Hamet Benengelit i Tl is ingenious youih is mcutioni-d more particularly, with nu produfimi in another place. j In the F. standard efforts, since neither the "Jerusalem Conquered" of the Italian, nor the "Paradise Regained" of the English Bard, obtained a proportionate celebrity to their former poems Query : Which of Mr. Southey's will survive ? 3 Thalaba, Mr Southey's second poem, is written in open defiance of precedent and poetry. Mr. S. wished to produce something novel, and succeeded to a miracle. Joan of An? was marvellous enough, but Thalaba was one of those poem* which (in the words of Parson) will he read when Horn* and Virgil are forgotten, but not till then." ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. Now, last and greatest, Ma Joe spreads his sails, Cacique in Mexico, and Prince in Wales ; Tells us strange tales, as other travellers do, More old than Mandeville's, and not so true. Oh ! SOUTHEY, SOUTHEY ! ' cease thy varied song ! A Bard may chaunt too often and too long : As thou art strong in verse, in mercy spare ! & fourth, alas ! were more than we could bear. But if, in spite of all the world can say, Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weary way ; [f still in Berkley ballads, most uncivil, Thou wilt devote old women to the devil, a The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue ; " God help thee," SOUTHEV, and thy readers loo. * Next comes the dull disciple of thy school, That mild apostate from poetic rule, The simple WORDSWORTH, framer of a lay As soft as evening in his favourite May ; Who warns his friend " to shake off toil and trouble ; And quit his books, for fear of growing double ;"* Who, both by precept and example, shows That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose, Convincing all, by demonstration plain, Poetic souls delight in prose insane ; And Christmas stories, tortured into rhyme, Contain the essence of the true sublime: Thus when he tells the tale of Betty Foy, The idiot mother of " an idiot Boy;" A moon-struck silly lad who lost his way, And, like his bard, confounded night with day ; * So close on each pathetic part he dwells, And each adventure so sublimely tells, That all who view the " idiot in his glory," Conceive the Bard the hero of the story. Shall gentle COLERIDGE pass unnoticed here, To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear ? Though themes of innocence amuse him best, Yet still obscurity's a welcome guest. If Inspiration should her aid refuse To him who takes a Pixy for a Muse, 6 1 We beg Mr. Southe.v's pardon: " Madoc disdains the de- graded title of epic." See his preface. Why is epic degraded ? and by whom 7 Certainly the late Romauntsof Masters Cattle, Laureat Pye, Ogilvy. Hoyle, and gentle Mistress Coiclsy, nave not exalted the Epic Muse : but as Mr. Suuthey's poem " disdains the appellation," allow us to ask has he substituted any thing better in its stead ? or must he be content to rival Sir Richard Blackmorc, in the quantity as well as quality of his verse. 2 See The Old Woman of Berkhy, a Ballad by Mr. Southey, wherein an aged gentlewoman is carried away by Beelzebub, on a "high-trotting horse." 3 The last line, " God help thee," is an evident plagiarism from the Anti-jacobin to Mr. Soutkey, on his Dactylics: ' God help then, silly one.' ' Poetry of the Anti-jacobin, p. 23. 4 Lyrical Ballads, page 4. "The tables turned." Stanza 1. " UD, up. my friend, and clear your looks Why all this toil and trouble 7 Up, up, my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you 'II grow double." 5 Mr. W., in his preface, labours hard to prove that prose Mid verse are much the same, and certainly his precepts and jructice are strictly conformable : " And thus to Betty's questions he Made answer, like a traveller bo'd, The cock did crow to- who, lo-who. And the sun did shine so cold," etc., etc. Lyrical Ballads, page 129. Coleridge's Poems, page 11. Songs of the Pixies, f. e. evonshire Fairies. Page 42, we have, " Lines to a young &ady," and page 52, " Lines to a Young Ass." Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass The bard who soars to elegize an ass. How well the subject suits his noble mind ! "A fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind !" Oh! wonder-working LEWIS ! Monk, or Bard, Who fain wouldst make Parnassus a church-yard! Lo ! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow, Thy Muse a sprite, Apollo's sexton thou ! Whether on ancient tombs thou tak'st thy stand, By gibbering spectres hail'd, thy kindred band j Or tracest chaste description on thy page, To please the females of our modest age, All hail, M. P. ! ' from whose infernal brain Thin-sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train ; At whose command, " grim women" throng in crowds, And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds, With "small gray men," " wild yagers," and what not, To crown with honour thee and WALTER .SCOTT: Again, all hail ! If tales like thine may please, St. Luke alone can vanquish the disease ; E'en Satan's self with thee might dread to dwell, And in thy skull discern a deeper hell. Who in soft guise, surrounded by a choir Of virgins melting, not to Vesta's fire, With sparkling eyes, and cheek by passion flush'd, Strikes his wild lyre, whilst listening dames are hushM ? 'T is LITTLE ! young Catullus of his day, As sweet, but as immoral in his lay ! Grieved to condemn, the Muse must still be jusx, Nor spare melodious advocates of lust. Pure is the flame which o'er the altar burns ; From grosser incense with disgust she turns Yet, kind to youth, this expiation o'er, She bids thee " mend thy line and sin no more." For thee, translator of the tinsel song, To whom such glittering ornaments belong, Hibernian STRAXGFORD! with thine eyes of blue, 2 And boasted locks of red, or auburn hue, Whose plaintive strain each love-sick Miss admires, And o'er harmonious fustian half expires, Learn, if thou canst, to yield thine author's sense, Nor vend thy sonnets on a false pretence. Think'st thou to gain thy verse a higher place By dressing Camoens in a suit of lace ? Mend, STRANGFORD ! mend thy morals and thy tasto Be warm, but pure ; be amorous, but be chaste : Cease to deceive ; thy pilfer'd harp restore, Nor teach the Lusian Bard to copy MOORE In many marble-cover'd volumes view HAYLEY, in vain attempting something new: Whether he spin his comedies in rhyme, Or scrawl, as WOOD and BARCLAY walk, 'gainst time. His style in youth or age is still the same. For ever feeble and for ever tame. Triumphant first see "Temper's Triumphs" shine ' At least, I 'm sure, they triumph'd over mine. 1 " For every one knows little Matt's an M. P." S-<> Poem to Mr. Leitis, in Tlie Statesman, supposed to be writ ten by Mr. Jekyll. 2 The reader, who may wish for an explanation of this, may refer to " StrangforcTs Camoens," page 127, note to page ftli, or TO the last page of the Edinburgh Review of Strangforil i Camoens. It is also to be remarked, that the things given l the public as Poems of Camoens, are no more to be fcunii the original Portuguese than in the Song of Solomon 30 BYRON'S WORKS. Of " M xnc 's Triumphs" all who read may swear That .u -.kleis Music nevtr triumph'd there. ' Moravian-., rise! bestow some meet reward On dull Devi.tior lo! the Sabbath- Bard, Sepulchra. GKAHAME, pours his notes sublime In mangled prose, nor e'en aspires to rhyme, Breaks into blank the Gospel of St. Luke, And boldly pilfers from the Pentateuch ; And, undisturb'd by conscientious qualms, Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the Psalms. 2 Hail, Sympathy ! thy soft idea brings A thousand visions of a thousand things, And shows, dissolve 1 in thine own melting tears, The maudlin prince of mournful sonneteers. And art thou not th'jir prince, harmonious Bowies ? Thou first great orp,cle of tender souls? Whether in sighing winds thou seck'st relief, Or consolation in a yellow leaf; Whether thy musf most lamentably tells What merry sounds proceed from Oxford bells, J Or, still in bells delighting, finds a friend, In every chime that jingled from Ostend ? Ah! how much juster were thy Muse's hap, If to thy bells thou wouldst but add a cap ! Delightful BOWLES ! still blessing and still blest, A 11 love thy strain, but children like it best. 'Tis thine, with gentle LITTLE'S moral song, To soothe the mania of the amorous throng ! With thee our nursery damsels shed their tears, Ere Miss as yet completes her infant years : But in her teens thy whining powers are vain: She quits poor BOWLES for LITTLE'S purer strain. Now to soft themes thou scornest to confine The lofty numbers of a harp like thine : " Awake a louder and a loftier strain," * Such as none heard before, or will again ; Where all discoveries jumbled from the flood, Since first the leaky ark reposed in mud, By more or less, are sung in every book, From Captain NOAH down to Captain COOK. N >r this alone, but pausing on the road, The bard sighs forth a gentle episode ; s And gravely tells attend each beauteous Miss ! When first Madeira trembled to a kiss. BOWLES ! in thy memory let this precept dwell, Stick to thy Sonnets, man ! at least they sell. 1 Hay lev's two most notorious verse productions, are " Tri- jinplis of Temper," and "Triumphs of Music." He has also written much comeiiy in rhyme, Epistles, etc. etc. As he is rather an elegant writer of notes and biography, let us recom- mend Pope's Advice to Wiichfrley to Mr. H.'s consideration ; viz. "to convert his poetry into prose," which may be easily done by taking away the final syllable of each couplet. 2 Mr. Grahamch&s poured forth two vclumes of cant, under the name of " Sabbeih Walks," and " Biblical Pictures." 3 See Bowlff's Sonnets, etc. "Sonnet to Oxford," and ' Stanzas on hearing tho Bells of Ostend." 4 " Awake a louder," etc. etc. is the first line in Bowlfs's Spirit of Discovery ;" a very spirited and pretty Dwarf Epic. Among other exquisite lines we have the following : Stole on the list'nins silence, never yet Here heard ; they trembled even as if the power, " etc. etc. -That is, the woods ,>t~ Madeira trembled to a kiss, very much astonished, as well they might be, at such a phenomenon. R The episode above alluded to is the story of " Robert a Machin," and " Anna d'Arfet," a pair of constant lovers, *ho performed the kiss above-mentioned, that startled the o-ids of Madeira But if some new-born whim, or larger bribe, Prompt thy crude brain, and claim thec for a scribe , If chance some bard, though once by dunces fear'd Now, prone in dust, can only be revered : If POPE, whose fame and genius from the firM Have foil'd the best of critics, needs the worst, Do thou essay ; each fault, each failing scan The first of poets was, alas ! but man ! Rake from each ancient dunghill every pearl, Consult Lord Fanny, and confide in CURLL ; ' Let all the scandals of a former -age Perch on thy pen and flutter o'er thy page ; Affect a candour which thou canst not feel, Clothe envy in the garb of honest zeal ; Write as if St. John's soul could still inspire, And do from nate what MALLET 2 did for hire. Oh ! hadst thou lived in that congenial time, To rave with DENNIS, and with RALPH to rhyme,' Throng'd with the rest around his living head, Not raised thy hoof against the lion dead, A meet reward had crown'd thy glorious gains, And link'd thee to the Dunciad for thy pains. * Another Epic ! who inflicts again More books of blank upon the sons of men ? Boeotian COTTLE, rich Bristowa's boast, Imports old stories from the Cambrian coast, And sends his goods to market all alive ! Lines forty thousand, Cantos twenty-five ! Fresh fish from Helicon ! who '11 buy ? who '11 buy 7 The precious bargain 's cheap in faith not I. Too much in turtle Bristol's sons delight, Too much o'er bowls of 'rack prolong the night: If commerce fills the purse, she clogs the brain, And AMOS COTTLE strikes the Lyre in vain. In him an author's luckless lot behold! Condemn'd to make the books which once he sold. Oh ! AMOS COTTLE ! Phoebus ! what a name To fill the speaking-trump of future fame ! Oh ! AMOS COTTLE ! for a moment think What meagre profits spread from pen and ink! When thus devoted to poetic dreams, Who will peruse thy prostituted reams ? Oh ! pen perverted ! paper misapplied ! Had COTTLE b still adorn'd the counter's side, Bent o'er the desk, or, born to useful toils, Been taught to make the paper which he soils, Plough'd, delved, or plied the oar with lusty limb, He had not sung of Wales, nor I of him. As Sisyphus against the infernal steep Rolls the huge rock, whose motions ne'er may sleep, 1 Curllis one of the heroes of the Dunciad, and was a book seller. Lord Fanny is the poetical name of Lord Hercey author of " Lines to the imitator of Horace." 2 Lord Bolingbroke hired Mallet to traduce Pope after his decease, because the poet had retained some copies of a work by Lord Bolinsbroke (the Patriot King), which that splendid, but malignant genius, had i-dered to be destroyed. 3 Dennis the critic, and Ralph the rhymester. "Silence, ye wolves! while Ralph to Cynthia howls. Making night hideous answer turn, ye owls !'' Dunciad. 4 See Bowles's late edition of Pope's works, for which he received 304 1. thus Mr. B. has experienced how much easier it is to profit by the reputation of another, than to elevate hij own. 5 Mr. Cnttle,JImos or Joseph, I don't know which, but ons or both, once sellers of books they did not write, and now writers of books that do not sell, have puMihed a pair ol Epics. "Alfred" (poor Alfred! Pye has teei 8 him too and the Fall of " Cambria." ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. Sv up thy hill, ambrosial Richmond ! heaves Du,l MAURICE ' all his granite weight of leaves: Smooth, solid monuments of mental pain! The petrifactions of a plodding brain, That ere they reach the top fall lumbering back again. With broken lyre and cheek serenely pale, Lo ! sad ALC^EUS wanders down the vale ! Though fair they rose, and might have bloom'd at last, Ris hopes have perish'd by the northern blast : Nipp'd in the bud by. Caledonian gales, His blossoms wither as the blast prevails ! O'er his lost works let classic SHEFFIELD weep ; May no rude hand disturb their early sleep ! 2 Yet say ! why should the Bard at once resign His claim to favour from the sacred Nine? For ever startled by the mingled howl Of northern wolves, that still in darkness prowl: A coward brood, which mangle as they prey, By hellish instinct, all that cross their way ; Aged or young, the living or the dead, No mercy find these harpies must be fed. Why do the injured unresisting yield The calm possession of their native field? Why tamely thus before their fangs retreat, Nor hunt the bloodhounds back to ARTHUR'S Seat? 3 Health to immortal JEFFREY ! once, in name., England could boast a judge almost the same : In soul so like, so merciful, yet just, Some think that Satan lias resigned his trust, And given the Spirit to the world again, To sentence letters as he sentenced men ; With hand less mighty, but with heart as black, With voice as willing to decree the rack ; Bred in the courts betimes, though all that law As yet hath taught him is to find a flaw. Since well instructed in the patriot school To rail at party, though a party tool, Who knows, if chance his patrons should restore Back to the sway they forfeited before, His scribbling toils some recompense may meet, And raise this Daniel to the Judgment Seat. Let JEFFRIES' shade indulge the pious hope, And greeting thus, present him with a rope : " Heir to my virtues ! man of equal mind ! Skill'd to condemn as to traduce mankind, This cord receive for thee reserved with care, To yield in judgment, and at length to wear." Health to great JEFFREY ! Heaven preserve his life, lo flourish on the fertile shores of Fife, And guard it sacred in his future wars, Since authors sometimes seek the field of Mars! Can none remember that eventful day, That ever glorious, almost fatal fray, 1 Mr. Jlnttrice hath manufactured the component parts of a ponderous quarto, upon the beauticsof "Richmond Hill," and the like it also takes in a charming view of Turnham Green, Hammersmith, Brentford, Old and New. and the parts dj>rent. 1 Poor Mnntsomerti ! though praised by every English Re- view, has hern bitterly reviled by the Edinburgh. After all. l\w Bard of Sheffield is a man of considerable genius : his "Wanderer of Switzerland" is worth a thousand "Lyrical Dallarls." and a', least fifty " degraded Epics." 3 Amur Seat, the hill which overhangs Edinburgh. When LITTLE'S Wdless nistol met his eye, And Bow-streer myrmidons stood laughing by '{ ' Oh day disastrous ! on her firm-set rock, Dunedin's castle felt a secret shock ; Dark roll'd the sympathetic waves of Forth, Low groan'd the startled whirlwinds of the north TWEED ruffled half his wave to form a tear, The other half pursued its calm career ; * ARTHUR'S steep summit nodded to its base, The surly Tolbooth scarcely kept her place ; The Tolbooth felt for marble sometimes can, On such occasions, feel as much as man The Tolbooth felt defrauded of his charms If JEFFREY died, except within her arms : 3 Nay, last, not least, on that portentous morn, The sixteenth storey, where himself was born, His patrimonial garret fell to ground, And pale Edina shudder'd at the sound : Strew'd were the streets around with milk-white ream* Flow'd all the Canongate with inky streams ; This of his candour seem'd the sable dew, That of his valour show'd the bloodless hue, And all with justice deem'd the two combined The mingled emblems of his mighty mind. But Caledonia's Goddess hover'd o'er The field, and saved him from the wrath of MOOBE, From either pistol snatch'd the vengeful lead, And straight restored it to her favourite's head : That head, with greater than magnetic power, Caught it, as Danae the golden shower; And, though the thickening dross will scarce refine, Augments its ore, and is itself a mine. " My son," she cried, "ne'er thirst for gore again, Resign the pistol, and resume the pen ; O'er politics and poesy preside, Boast of thy country, and Britannia's guide ! For, long as Albion's heedless sons submit, Or Scottish taste decides on English wit, So long shall last thine unmolested reign, Nor any dare to take thy name in vain. Behold a chosen band shall aid thy plan, And own thee chieftain of the critic clan. First in the ranks illustrious shall be seen The Ira veil' d Thane ! Athenian Aberdeen. 4 HERBERT shall wield THOR'S hammer, 5 and soii.etimeSj In gratitude, thou 'It praise his rugged rhymes. 1 In 180fi, Messrs. Jeffrey and Mourt met at Chalk-Farm. The duel was prevented by the interference of the magistracy; and, on examination, the balls of the pistols, like the courage of the combatants, were found to have evaporated This inci- dent gave occasion to much waggery in the daily prints. 2 The Tweed here behaved wiih proper decorum ; it would have been highly reprehensible in the English half of the rivet to have shown the smallest symptom of apprehension. 3 This display of sympathy on the part of the Tolbonth (th* principal prison in Edinburgh), which truly wins to have been most affected on this occasion, is much to be commended. U was to be apprehended, that the many unhappy criminalscxn- cuted in the front, might have rendered the edifice more cut lous. She is said to be of the softer sex, because her delicacy of feeling on this day was truly feminine, though, like nio^t feminine impulses, perhaps a little selfish. 4 His lordship lias been much abroad, is a member ot the Athenian Society, and reviewer of Gcll's Topography of Troy. 5 Mi. Herbert is a translator of Icelandic and other poetry. One of the principal pieces is a " Song on the recovery of T/mr't Hammer'" the translation is a pleasant daunt in the Tulga tongue, and ended thus : " Itisteart of money and rings, I wot. The hammer's bruises weie her lot: Thus Odin's son his hammer, got ' BYRON'S WORKS Smu2 SYDNEY ' too thy bitter page shall seek, -ind classic Hxr.LAM, 2 much renown'd for Greek. SCOTT may perchance his name and influence lend, And paltry PILLANS' shall traduce his friend: Whi's gay Thalia's luckless votary, LAMBE,* As he himself was damn'd, shall try to damn. Known be thy name, unbounded be thy sway ! Thy HOLLAND'S banquets shall each toil repay ; While grateful Britain yields the praise she owes To HOLLAND'S hirelings, and to Learning's foes. Yet mark one caution, ere thy next Review Spread its light wings of saffron and of blue, Beware lest blundering BROUGHAM* destroy the sale, Turn beef to bannocks, cauliflowers to kail." Thus having said, the kilted goddess kist Her son, and vanish'd in a Scottish mist. 6 Illustrious HOLLAND ! hard would be his lot, His hirelings mention'd, and himself forgot ! HOLLAND, with HENRY PETTY at his back, The whipper-in and huntsman of the pack. Blest be the banquets spread at Holland House, Where Scotchmen feed, and critics may carouse ! Long, long beneath that hospitable roof, Shall Grub-street dine, while duns are kept aloof. See honest HALLAM lay aside his fork, Resume his pen, review his lordship's work, And, grateful to the founder of the feast, Declare his landlord can translate, at least ! * Dunedin ! view thy children with delight, They write for food, and feed because they write : And lest, when heated with th' unusual grape, Some glowing thoughts should to the press escape, 1 The Rev. Sidney Smith, the reputed author of Peter Plymley's Letters, and sundry criticisms. 2 Mr. Hallam reviewed Payne Knight's Taste, and was ex- ceedingly severe on some Greek verses therein : it was not dis- covered that the lines were Pindar's, till the press rendered it impossible to cancel the critique, which still stands an everlast- ing monument of Hallam's ingenuity. The sa'ulHallam is incensed, because he is falsely accused, seeing that he never dineth at Holland House. It" this be true, I am sorry not for having said so, but on his account, as I understand his lordship's feasts are preferable to his composi- tions. If he did not review Lord Holland's performance, I am glad, because it must have been painful to read, and irksome to ptaise it. If Mr. Hallam will tell me who did review it, the real name shall find a place in the text, provided nevertheless the said name be of two orthodox musical syllables, and will come into the verse ; till then, Hallam must stand for want of a better. 3 I'illans is a tutor at Eton. 4 The Hon. f}. Lnmbe reviewed " Beresford's Miseries," and is moreover author of a farce enacted with much ap- pjause at the Priory. Stanmore, and damned with great expe- dition at the late Theatre Covenl-Garden. It was entitled " Whistle for it." 5 Mr. Brougham, in No. XXV. of the Edinburgh Review, throughout the article concerning Don Pedro de Cavallos, has displayed rnqre politics than policy ; many of the worthy burgesses of Edinburgh being so incensed at the infamous principles it evinces, as to have withdrawn their subscriptions. It seems that Mr. Brougham is not a Pict. as I supposed, but a borderer, and his name is pronounced Broom, from Trent to Tay. So be it. 6 I ought to apologize to the worthy Deities for introducing a new Goddess with short petlicoats to their notice ; but alas ! what was to be done ? I could not say Caledonia's Genius, it lieing well known there is no Genius to be found from Clack- mannan to Caithness: yet, without supernatural agency, how was Jeffrey to be saved? The " national Kelpies," etc. are too unpolitical, and the "Brownies" and "Gude Neigh- kcuis" (Spirits of a pood disposition), refused to extricate kiln. A Goddess therefore has been called for the purpose, and (treat ouisht to be the gratitude of Jeffrey, seeing it is the only communication tie ever held, or is likely to hold, with any thing heavenly. 7 Lord H. has translated some specimens of Lope de Vega Liaerted in hie life of die Author- both are bepraised by ha iuinteresteti i>{ both genet 1 A pleasant thing for the wives and daughters if those who are blest or cursed with such connexions, to hear rhe billiard-tables rattling in one room, and the dice in an- other! This is the cast: I myself can testify, as a late unworthy uember of an institution which materially affects the mo'als i,f the higher orders, while the lower may not even move to the K>unJ of a tabor and fiddle, without a chance of indictment for r-otous behaviour. 3 Petronius, " arbiter elegnntiarum' 1 to Nero, " and a very wetty fellow in his day," as Mr. Congreve's old Bachelor saith. 10 Talk not to us, ye starving sons of trade ! Of piteous ruin, which ourselves have made : [n Plenty's sunshine Fortune's minions bask, Nor think of Poverty, except " en masque." When for the night some lately titled ass Appears the beggar which his grandsire was. The curtain dropp'd, the gay burletta o'er, The audience take their turn upon the floor ; Now round the room the circling dow'gers sweep, Now in loose waltz the thin-clad daughters leap : The first in lengthened line majestic swim, The last display the free, unfetter'd limb : Those for Hibernia's lusty sons repair With art the charms which Nature could not spare; These after husbands wing their eager flight, Nor leave much mystery for the nuptial night. Oh ! blest retreats of infamy and ease ! Where, all forgotten, but the power to please, Each maid may give a loose to genial thought, Each swain may teach new systems, or be taught : There the blithe youngster, just return'd from Spain, Cuts the light pack, or calls the rattling main ; The jovial caster's set, and seven 's the nick, Or done ! a thousand on the coming trick ! If mad with loss, existence 'gins to tire, And all your hope or wish is to expire, Here 's POWELL'S pistol ready for your life, And, kinder still, a PAGET for your wife. Fit consummation of an earthly race Begun in folly, ended in disgrace, While none but menials o'er the bed of death, Wash thy red wounds, or watch thy wavering breath Traduced by liars, and forgot by all, The mangled victim of a drunken brawl, To live like CLODITJS, ' and like FALKLAND a fall. Truth ! rouse some genuine bard and guide his hand, To drive this pestilence from out the land. Even I least thinking of a thoughtless throng, Just skill'd to know the right and choose the wrong, Freed at that age when Reason's shield is lost, To fight my course through Passion's countless host, Whom every path of pleasure's flowery way Has lured in turn, and all have led astray E'en I must raise my voice, e'en I must feel Such scenes, such men. destroy the public weal ; Altho' some kind, censorious friend will say, " What art thou better, meddling fool, than they ?" And every brother rake will smile to see That miracle, a moralist, in me. No matter when some bard, in virtue strong, GIFFORD perchance, shall raise the chastening song, Then sleep my pen for ever ! and my voice Be only heard to hail him and rejoice ; Rejoice, and yield my feeble praise ; though I May feel the lash that virtue must apply. 1 Mutato nomine de te Fabula narratur. 2 I knew the late Lord Falkland well. On Sunday night i beheld him presiding at his own table, in all the honest pride of hospitality ; on Wednesday morning at three o'clock, I saw, stretched before me, all that remained of courage, feeling, and a host of passions. He was a gallant and successful officer! his faults were the faults of a sailor -as such, Britons will for- eivo them. He died like a brave man in a better cause, for had he. fallen in like manner on the deck of the frig ate \r whii'h lie was just appointed, his last momentr would have been held up by his countr/men as an exampiw U> succeeding herinn BYRON'S WORKS. As f )r tlir. s nailer fry, who swarm in shoals, From sil y HA FIZ ' up to simple BOWLES, Why should we call them from their dark abode, tn broad St. Giles's or in Tottenham road ? Or (since some men of fashion nobly dare To scrawl in verse) from Bond-street, or the Square ? If things of ton their harmless lays indite, Most wisely doom'd to shun the public sight, What harm ? in spite of every critic elf, Sir T. may read his stanzas to himself; MILES ANDREWS still his strength in couplets try, And live in prologues, though his dramas die. Lords too are bards : such things at times befall, And 't is some praise in peers to write at all. Yet, did or taste or reason sway the times, Ah ! who would take their titles with their rhymes ? ROSCOMMON! SHEFFIELD! with your spirits fled, No fulure laurels deck a noble head ; No muse will cheer, with renovating smile, The paralytic puling of CARLISLE: The puny school-boy and his early lay Men pardon, if his follies pass away ; But who forgives the senior's ceaseless verse, Whose hairs grow hoary as his rhymes grow worse? What heterogeneous honours deck the peer ! Lord, rhymester, petit-maitre, pamphleteer ! a So dull in youth, so drivelling in his age, His scenes alone had damn'd our sinking stage : But managers for once cried "hold, enough !" Nor drugg'd their audience with the tragic stuff. Yet at their judgment let his lordship laugh, And case his volumes in congenial calf: Yes ! doff that covering where morocco shines, Ana hang a calf-skin 3 on those recreant lines. With you, ye Druids ! rich in native lead, Who daily scribble for your daily bread, With you I war not: GIFFORD'S heavy hand Has crush'd, without remorse, your numerous band. On " all the talents" vent your venal spleen, Want, your defence, let pity be your screen Let monodies on Fox regale your crew, And Melville's Mantle* prove a blanket too! One common Lethe waits each hapless bard, And peace be with you ! 't is your best reward. Such damning fame as Dunciads only give, Could bid your lines beyond a monang live ; But now at once your fleeting labours close, With names of greater note in blest repose. Far be 't from me unkindly to upbraid The lovely ROSA'S prose in masquerade, 1 What would be thfe sentiments of the Persian Anacreon, ffafiz. could he rise from his splendid sepulchre at Sheeraz, where he reposes wi'.h PVrrfoi/si and Sadi,ti\e Oriental Homer and Catullus, and behold his name assumed by one Stott of Dromare, the most impudent and execrable of literary poach- ers for the daily prints ? 2 The Earl of Carlisle has lately published an eighteen-penny pamphlet on the state of the stage, and offers his plan for building a new theatre: it is to be hoped his lordship will be permuted to bring forward any thing for the stage, except his own tragedies. 3 'Doff that lion's hide, And h.ing a calf-skin on those recreant iimbs." Skaks. King John. Uoid C. s works, miwt resplfii.'lently bound, form a conspicu- OU ornament to his book-shelves: "The rest is all but leather and prunella." 4 Melville's Mantle, a parody on " Elijah's Mantle," a poem. Whose strains, the faithful echoes of her mind, Leave wandering comprehension far behind, 1 Though CRUSCA'S bards no more our journals fill, Some stragglers skirmish round their columns still. Last-of the howling host which once was BELL'S. MATILDA snivels yet, and HAFIZ yells; And MERRY'S metaphors appear anew, Chain'd to the signature of O. P. Q. a When some brisk youth, the tenant of a stall, Employs a pen less pointed than his awl, Leaves his snug shop, forsakes his store of shoes, St. Crispin quits, and cobbles for the Muse, Heavens! how the vulgar stare! how crowds applaud ! How ladies read, and literati laud ! If chance some wicked wag should pass his jes,,, 'T is sheer ill-nature, don't the world know best ? Genius must guide when wits admire the rhyme, And CAPEL Lorrx 3 declares 'tis quite sublime. Hear, then, ye happy sons of needless trade ! Swains ! quit the plough, resign the useless spade : Lo! BURNS and BLOOMFIELD,* no.y, a greater far, GIFFORD was born beneath an adverse star, Forsook the labours of a servile state, Stemm'd the rude storm, and triumph'd over Fate. Then why no more ? if Phoebus smiled on you, BLOOMFIELD ! why not on brother Nathan too? Him too the Mania, not the Muse, has seized ; Not inspiration, but a mind diseased: And now no boor can seek his last abode, No common be inclosed, without an ode. Oh! since increased refinement deigns to smile On Britain's sons, and bless our genial isle, Let Poesy go forth, pervade the whole Alike the rustic and mechanic soul : Ye tuneful cobblers ! still your notes prolong, Compose at once a slipper and a song ; So shall the fair your handiwork peruse ; Your sonnets sure shall please pernaps your sho' May Moorland * weavers boast Pindaric skill, And tailors' lays be longer than their bill ! While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, And pay for poems when they pay for coats. To the famed throng now paid the tribute due, Neglected Genius ! let me turn to you. Come forth, Oh CAMPBELL ! 6 give thy talents scope Who dares aspire if thou must cease to hope ? And thou, melodious ROGERS! rise at last, Recall the pleasing memory of the past ; 1 This lovely little Jessica, the daughter of the noted Jew K , seems to be a follower 01 the Dulla Crusca School. and has published two volumes of very respectable absurdities in rhyme, as times go ; besides sundry novels in the style of lha first edition of the Monk. 2 These are the signatures of various worthies who figure in the poetical departments of the newspapprs. 3 Ctipel Lofft, Esq., the Maecenas of jhocmakers, and Preface-writer general to distress'd versemen: a kind of gratia accoucheur to those who wish to be delivered of rhyme, but do not know how to bring it forth. 4 See Nathanirl Blaamfeld's ode, clocy, or whatever he or any one else chocses to call it, on the inclosure of " Honing- ton Green." 5 Vide "Recollections of a Weaver in the Moorlands 01 Staffordshire." 6 It would be superfluous to recall to the miml of tbn rondel the author of " The Pleasures of Memory," and "The Pleas- ures of Hope," the most beautiful didactic poems in our lan- guage, if we except Pope's Essay on Man: but so many xjetasters have started up, that even Hie name* of Camp"<-U and Rogers are become strange ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. Aiise ! let blest remembrance still inspire, And strike to wonted tones thy hallow'd lyre ! Restore Apollo to his vacant throne, Assert thy country's honour and thine own. Whit ! must deserted Poesy still weep Where her last hopes with pious COWPER sleep? Unless, perchance, from his colt bier she turns, To deck the turf that wraps her minstrel, BURNS ! No ! though contempt hath mark'd the spurious brood, The race who rhyme from folly, or for food ; Yet still some genuine sons, 't is her's to boast, Who, least affecting, still effect the most ; Feel as they write, and write but as they feel Bear witness, GIFFOKD, SOTHEBY, MACNEIL.' " Why slumbers GIFFORD?" once was ask'd in vain: 2 Why slumbers GIFFORD? let us ask again: Are there no follies for his pen to purge ? Are there no fools whose backs demand the scourge ? Are there no sins for Satire's Bard to greet ? Stalks not gigantic V ice in every street ? Shall peers or princes tread Pollution's path, And 'scape alike the law's and Muse's wrath ? Nor blaze with guilty glare through future time, Eternal beacons of consummate crime ? Arouse thee, GIFFORD! be thy promise claim'd, Make bad men better, or at least ashamed. Unhappy WHITE ! 3 while life was in its spring, And thy young muse just waved her joyous wing, The spoilor came, and all thy promise fair Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there. Oh ! what a noble heart was here undone, When Science' self destroy'd her favourite son ! Yes ! she too much indulged thy fond pursuit, She sow'd the seeds, but death has reap'd the fruit. T was thine own genius gave the final blow, And help'd to plant the wound that laid thce low : So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart : Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel He nursed the pinion which impell'd tne steel, While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast. There be who say in these enlighten'd days That splendid lies are all the poet's praise ; That strain'd invention, ever on the' wing, Alone impels the modern bard to sing : 'T is true that all who rhyme, nay, all who write, Shrink from that fatal word to genius trite ; 1 Giffiird, author of the Baviad andMieviad, the first satires of the day, and translator ot" Juvenal. Sulhebv, translator of Wteland's Oberon and Virgil 8 Georgics, and author of Saul, an epic poem. Jllacneil, whose poems are deservedly popular : particularly " Scotland's Scailh, or the Wiies of War," of which ten thousand copies were sold in one month. 2 Mr. Giffurd promised publicly that the Baviad and Msviad ihouM not be his last original works: let him remember, mox in reluctantes dracones." 3 Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge, in October 1P06, in consequence of too much cxeition in the pursuit of studies, that would have matured a mind which disease and poverty rould not impair, and which Death itself destroyed rather than suodued. His poems abound in such beauties as must impress the reader with the liveliest regret that so short a period wa allotted to talents wliicn would have dignified even the sacred functions he wag iestmed to assume. Yet truth sometimes will Iqnd her noblest fires, And decorate the verse herself inspires : This fact in virtue's name let CRAEEE attest Though Nature's sternest painter, yet the beu And here let SHEE ' and genius find a place Whose pen and pencil yield an equal grace ; To guide whoso hand the sister arts combine, And trace the poet's or the painter's line ; kVhose magic touch can bid the canvas glow. 3r pour the easy rhyme's harmonious flow, PVhile honours doubly merited attend The poet's rival, but the painter's friend. Blest is the man who dares approach the bower Where dwelt the Muses at their natal hour ; Whose steps have press'd, whose eye has marked ala The clime that nursed the sons of song and war, The scenes which glory still must hover o'er, Her place of birth, her own Achaian shore : But doubly blest is he whose heart expands With hallow'd feelings for those classic lands ; Who rends the veil of ages long gone by, And views the remnants with a poet's eye ! WRIGHT ! 2 't was thy happy lot at once to view Those shores of glory, and to sing them too ; And sure no common muse inspired thy pen To hail the land of gods and godlike men. And you, associate Bards ! 3 who snatch'd to light Those gems too long withheld from modem sight ; Whose mingling taste combined to cull the wreath Where Attic flowers Aonian odours breathe, And all their renovated fragrance flung, To grace the beauties of your native tongue, Now let those minds that nobly could transfuse The glorious spirit of the Grecian muse, Though soft the echo, scorn a borrow'd tone, Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own. Let these, or such as these, with just applause, Restore the Muse's violated laws : But not in flimsy Darwin's pompous chime, That mighty master ol unmeaning rhyme ; Whose gilded cymbals, more adorn'd than clear, The eye delighted, but fatigued the ear, In show the simple lyre could once surpass, But now worn down, appear in native brass ; While all his train of hovering sylphs around, Evaporate in similies and sound : Him let them shun, with him let tinsel die False glare attracts, but more offends thj eye. 4 Yet let them not to vulgar WORDSWORTH stoop, The meanest object of the lowly group, Whose verse, of all but childish prattle void, Seems blessed harmony to LAMBE and LLOVD : * Let them but hold, my muse, nor dare to teach A strain far, far beyond thy humble reach : 1 Mr. SAe, author of " Rhymes on Art," and " Element of Art." 2 Mr. Wriffht, late Consul General for the Seven Islands,* author of a very beautiful poem just published : it is entitle* " Hora? lonica-," and is descriptive of the Isles and the adja- cent coast of Greece. 3 The translators of the Anthology have since published separate poems, which evince genius that only requires opoor tunity to attain eminence. 4 The neglect of the '' Botanic Garden' is some proof ol returning taste . the scenery is its cole recommendation. 5 Messrs. Lamle and Lloyd, irt mos jtnohle followu* o Souther and Co. 36 BYRON'S WORKS. The native genius with their feeling given Will point the path, and peal their notes to heaven. And thou, too, SCOTT ! ' resign to minstrels rude Tho wilder slogan of a Border feud : Let ethers spin their meagre lines for hire- Enough for genius if itself inspire ! Let Southey sing, although his teeming muse, Prolific every string, be too profuse ; Let simple WORDSWORTH chime his childish verse, And brother COLERIUGE lull the babe at nurse; Let spectre-mongering LEWIS aim at most To rouse the galleries, or to raise a ghost ; Let MOORE be lewd ; let STRANGFORD steal from MOORE, And swear that CAMOENS sang such notes of yore: Let HAYLEV hobble on, MONTGOMERY rave, And godly GRAHAME chaunt the stupid stave ; Let sonnetteering BOWLES his strains refine, And whine and whimper to the fourteenth line ; Let STOTT, CARLISLE, 2 MATILDA, and the rest Of Grub-street, and of Grosvenor-Place the best, Scrawl on, till death release us from the strain, Or common sense assert her rights again ; But thou, with powers that mock the aid of praise, Should'st leave to humbler bards ignoble lays : Thy country's voice, the voice of all the Nine, Demand a hallow'd harp that harp is thine. Say! will not Caledonia's annals yield The glorious record of some nobler field, Than the vile foray of a plundering clan, Whose proudest deeds disgrace the name of man ? Or Marmion's acts of darkness, titter food For outlaw'd Sherwood's tales of Robin Hood ? Scotland ! still proudly claim thy native bard, And be thy praise his first, his best reward ! Vet not with thee alone his name should live, But own the vast renown a world can give ; Be known, perchance, when Albion is no more, And tell the tale of what she was before ; To future times her faded fame recall, And save her glory, though his country fall. 1 By the bye, I hope that in Mr. Scott's next poem his hero or heroine will be less addicted to "gramarye. and more to grammar, than the Lady of the Lay, and her bravo, William of Deloraine. 2 It may be asked why 1 have censured the Earl of Carlisle, my guardian and relative, to whom I dedicated a volume of puerile poems a few years ago. The guardianship was nomi- nal, at least as far as I have been able to discover; the rela- tionship I cannot help, and am very sorry for it; bat as his lordahip seemed to forget it on a very essential occasion to me, I shall not burthen my memory with the recollection. I do not think that personal differences sanction the unjust condemna- tion of a brother scribbler ; but I gee no reason why they should act as a preventive, when the author, noble or ignoble, has for n series of years beguiled a "discerning public" (as the advertisements have it) with divers reams of most orthodox, imperial nonsense. Besides, I do not step eside to vituperate the Earl ; no his works come fairly in review with {hose of other patrician literati. If, before I escaped from my teens, 1 paid any thing in faimir of his lordship's paper books, it was in tlto way of dutiful dedication, and more from ihe advice of others than my own judgment, and I seize the first opportunity of pronouncing my sincere recantation. I have heard that some persons conceive me to be under obligations to Lord Carlisle: if so I sha-'l be most particularly happy to lei-.rn what they Hre. anil when conferred, that they may be duly appreciated and publicly acknowledged. What I have humbly advanced KB an opinion on his printed things. I nm prepared to support, if neoissary, by quotations from elegies, eulogies, odes, epis- odes, and certain facetious and dainty tragedies, bearing his name and mark : " What can bnnoble knaves, or fools, or cowards 7 Alas! not all the blood of all the Howards!" So ra.ya I'aie Amen Yet what avails the sanguine poet's hope To conquer ages, and wtih time to cope ? New eras spread their wings, new nations rise, And other victors ' fill the applauding skies : A few brief generations fleet along, Whose sons forget the poet and his song : E'en now what once-laved minstrels scarce may claim The transient mention of a dubious name ! When Fame's loud trump hath blown its noblr t blast, Though long the sound, the echo sleeps at last, And glory, like the phrenix midst her fires, Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires. Shall hoary Granta call her sable sons, Expert in science, more expert at puns? Shall these approach the muse? ah, no! she flics, And even spurns the great Seatonian prize, Though printers condescend the press to soil With rhyme by HOARE, and epic blank by HOYLE I Not him whose page, if still upheld by whist, Requires no sacred theme to bid us list. 2 Ye, who in Granta's honours would surpass, Must mount her Pegasus, a full-grown ass A foal well worthy of her ancient dam, Whose Helicon is duller than her Cam. There CLARKE, still striving piteously " to pleaso," Forgetting doggrel leads not to degrees, A would-be satirist, a hired buffoon, A monthly scribbler of some low lampoon, Condemn'd to drudge the meanest of the mean, And furnish falsehoods for a magazine, Devotes to scandal his congenial mind Himself a living libel on mankind. 3 Oh, dark asylum of a Vandal race ! * At once the boast of learning, and disgrace ; So sunk in dulness and so lost in shame, That SMYTHE and HODGSON * scarce redeem thy faint/ But where fair Isis rolls her purer wave, The partial muse delighted loves to lave ; On her green banks a greener wreath is wove, To crown the bards that haunt her classic grove, Where RICHARDS wakes a genuine poet's fires, And modern Britons justly praise their sires.* For me, who thus unask'd have dared to tell My country what her sons should know too well, Zeal for her honour bade me here engage The host of idiots that infest her age. 1 " Tollere humo, victorque virum volitare per ora. *- Virgil. 2 The "Games of Hoyle," well known to the votaiira 01 whist, chess, etc., are not to be superseded by the vagiirii-s o( his poetical namesake, whose poem comprised, :is ..Mur^ly stated in the advertisement, all the "Plagues of Egypt. 3 This person, who has lately betrayed the most rapid symp- toms of confirmed authorship, is writer of a poem denominated the " Art of Pleasing," as " Incus a non lucendo . ' containing little pleasantry, and less poetry. He also acts as monthly stipendiary and collector of calumnies for the Satirist, il this unfortunate young man would exchange the magazines for the mathematics, and endeavour to take a decent deirree in his university, it might eventually prove more lervicealila than his present salary. 4 " Into Cambridgeshire the Emperor Prohus transported a considerable body of Vandal*." Gibbon's Decline and Fall, pa^'e K, vol. 2. There is no reason to doubt the truth of this assertion the breed is still in high perfection. 5 This gentleman's name requires no praise: the man wno in translation displays unquestionable genius, may well lie expected to excel in original composition, of which u m to tie hoped we shall soon see a splendid specimen. fi The "Aboriginal Britons," an excellent poem y rV- * ards. ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 37 Vo just applause her honour'd name shall lose, As first in freedom, dearest to the muse. Oil, would thy bards but emulate thy fame, And rise more worthy, Albion, of thy name ! What Athens was in science, Rojne in power, \Vhat Tyre appear'd in her meridian hour, 'T is thine at once, fair Albion, to have been, Earth's chief dictatress, Ocean's mighty queen: But Rome decay'd, and Athens strew'd the plain, And Tyre's proud piers lie shatter'd in the main: Like these thy strength may sink in ruin hurl'd, And Britain fall, the bulwark of the world. But let me cease, and dread Cassandra's late, With warning ever scoff'd at, 'till too late, To themes less lofty still my lay confine, AnJ urge thy bards to gain a name like thine. Then, hapless Britain ! be thy rulers blest, The senate's oracles, the people's jest ! ' Still hear thy motley orators dispense The flowers of rhetoric, though not of sense, While CANNING'S colleagues hate him for his wit, And old dame PORTLAND ' fills the place of PITT. Yet once again adieu ! ere this the sail That wafts me hence is shivering in the gale : And Afric's coast and Calpe's 2 adverse height, And Stamboul's 3 minarets must greet my sight : Thence shall I stray through beauty's 4 native clime, Where Kaff 5 is clad in rocks, and crown'd with snows sublime. But should 1 back return, no letter'd rage Shall drag my commonplace book on the stage : Let vain VALENTIA S rival luckless CARR, \nd equal him whose work he sought to mar; Let ABERDEEN and ELGIN* still pursue The shade of fame through regions of virtu ; Waste useless thousands on their Phidian freaks, Misshapen monuments and maim'd antiques ; A nd make their grand saloons a general mart For all the mutilated b'.ocks of art : Of Dardan tours let dilettanti tell, I leave topography to classic CELL ; * And, quite content, no more shall interpose To stun mankind with poesy or prose. Thus far I 've held my undisturb'd career, Prepared for rancour, steel'd 'gainst selfish fear : This thing of rhyme I ne'er disdain'd to own Though not obtrusive, yet not quite unknown : 1 A friend of mine being asked why his Grace of P. was likened to an old woman? replied, " he supposed it was be- cause he was past bearing." 2 Calpe is the ancient name of Gibraltar. ) Stjinbou! is the Turkish word for Constantinople. 4 Georgia, remarkable for the beauty of its inhabitants. 5 Mount Caucasus. ti Lord Valentia (whose tremendous travels are forthcom- ing, with due decorations, graphical, topographical, and typo- graphical) deposed, on Sir John Carr's unlucky suit, that /).'!>' sutire prevented his purchase of the "Stranger in Ireland." Oh nV, my Lord ! has your lordship no more feel- ing lor a fellow-tourist 1 but " two of a trade," they say, etc. 7 Lord Elgin would fain persuade us '.hat all the figures, *ith and without noses, in his stone-shop, are the work of Phidias ! " Credat Judaeus." 8 Mr. Gell's Topography of Troy and Ithaca cannot fail (o ensure the approbation of every man possessed of classical Mste, as well for the information Mr. G. conveys to the mind f the reader, as for the at-Uity and research Jin respective works display My voice was heard again, though not so loud ; My page, though nameless, never disavow'd, And now at once I tear the veil away : Cheer on the pack! the quarry stands at bay, Unscared by all the din of MELBounKE-house, By LAMBE'S resentment, or by HOLLAND'S sponj* By JEFFREY'S harmless pistol, HALLAM'S rage, EDINA'S brawny sons and brimstone page. Our men in buckram shall have blows enough, And feel they too are " penetrable stuff:" And though I hope not hence unscathed to go ( Who conquers me shall find a stubborn foe. The time hath been, when no harsh sound would fal From lips that now may seem imbued with gall, Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise The meanest thing that crawl'd beneath my eyes : But now, so callous grown, so changed since youth, I 've learn'd to think and sternly speak the truth ; Learn'd to deride the critic's starch decree, And break him on the wheel he meant for me ; To spurn the rod a scribbler bids me kiss, Nor care if courts and crowds applaud or hiss ; Nay, more, though all my rival rhymesters frowii, I too can hunt a poetaster down ; And, arm'd in proof, the gauntlet cast at once To Scotch marauder, and to Southern dunce. Thus much I 've dared to do ; how far my lay Hath wrong'd these righteous times, let others say ; This let the world, which knows not how to spare, Yet rarely blames unjustly, now declare. POSTSCRIPT. 1 I HAVE been informed, since the present edition wem to the press, that my trusty and well-beloved cousins the Edinburgh Reviewers, are preparing a most vehe- ment critique on my poor, gentle, unresisting muse, whom they have already so bedeviled with their ungodlj ribaldry : " Tantane animis coelestibus iras !" I suppose I must say of JEFFREY as Sir ANDREW AGUECHEEK saith, " an I had known he was so cun- ning offence, I had seen him damned ere I had fought him." What a pity it is that I shall be beyond the Bos- phorus before the next number has passed the Tweed. But yet I hope to light my pipe with it in Persia. My northern friends have accused me, with justice, Oi personality towards their great literary Anthropophagus, JEFFREY : but what else was to be done with him and his dirty pack, who feed " by lying and slandering," and slake their thirst by "evil-speaking?" I have adduced facts already well known, and of Jeffrey's mind I have stated my free opinion ; nor has he thence sustained any injury : what scavenger was ever soiled by being pelted with mud? It may be said that I quit England because I have censured there " persons of honour and wit about town;" but I am coming back again, and their vengeance will keep hot till my return. Those who know me can testify that my motives for leaving England are very different from fears, literary or pei- sonal ; those who do not, may one day be convinced. 1 Published to the Second Edition. BYRON'S WORKS. Sim <; the nublication of this thing, my name has not been concealed ; I have been mostly in London, ready to answer for my transgressions, and in daily expecta- tion of sundry cartels ; hut, alas ! " The age of chiv- alry is over ;" or, in the vulgar tongue, there is no spirit now-a-days. There is a youth yclept Hewson Clarke (subaudi, Esq.), a sizer of Emanuel College, and I believe a den- izen of Bcrwick-upon-Tweed, whom I have introduced in these pages to much better company than he has been accustomed to meet : he is, notwithstanding, a very sad dog, and, for no reason that I can discover, except a personal quarrel with a bear, kept by me at Cambridge to sit for a fellowship, and whom the jealousy of his Trinity contemporaries prevented from success, has been abusing me, and, what is worse, the defenceless innocent above mentioned, in the Satirist, for one year and some months. I am utterly unconscious of having given him any provocation ; indeed I am guiltless of having heard his name, till it was coupled with the Satirist. He has, therefore, no reason to complain, and I dare say that, like Sir Fretful Plagiary, he is rather pleased than other- wise. I have now mentioned all who have done me the honour to notice me and mine, that is, my bear and my book, except the editor of the Satirist, who, it seems, is a gentleman. God wot ! I wish he could impart a lit- tle of his gentility to his subordinate scribblers. I hear that Mr. JERNINGHAM is about to take up the cudgels for his Maecenas, Lord Carlisle : I hope not ; he was one of the few who, in the very short intercourse I had with him, treated me with kindness when a boy, and whatever he may say or do, " pour on, I will endure." I have nothing further to add, save a general note d thanksgiving to readers, purchasers, and publisher; and, in the words of SCOTT, I wish " To a. and each a fair good night. And rosy dreams and slumbers light." TTiefollowing Lmeswere writtenby Mr. FITZGERALD, in a Copy of ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH RE VIEWERS: I find Lord Byron scorns my muse Our fates are ill agreed ! His verse is safe I can't abuse Those lines I never read. W. F. F. His Lordship accidentally met with the Copy, and tub joined, the following pungent Reply : What 's writ on me, cried Fitz, I never read ; What's wrote by thee, dear Fitz, none will indeed. The case stands simply thus, then, honest Fitz . Thou and thine enemies are fairly quits, Or rather would be, if, for time to come, They luckily were deaf, or thou wert dumb But, to their pens, while scribblers add their tongues,* The waiter only can escape their lungs. 1 Mr. Fitzgerald is in the habit of reciting nis own poetry See note to English Bards, p. 26. CHiltre A ROMAUNT. L'univen est une cspOco de livre, dont on n'a lu que la premiere page, quand on n'a vu quo ons pays J'en ai feuillet6 un assez grand nombre, que j'ai trouvees egalement mauvaises. Cet examen ne m'a point etc infructueux. Je haissais ma patrie. Toutes les impertinences des peoples divers, parrni lesqueli j'ai vecu, m'ont reconoilie avec elle. Quaiul je n'aurais tire d'autre benelice de mes voy ages que cclui-li, je n'en regretterais ni lea frais ni les fatigues. LE COSMOPOLITE. PREFACE. THE following poem was written, for the most part, amidst the scenes which it attempts to describe. It was begun in Albania ; and the parts relative to Spain and Portugal were composed from the author's obser- vations in those countries. Thus much it may be ne- cessary to state for the correctness of the descriptions. The scenes attempted to be sketched are in Spain, Portugal, Epirus, Acarnania, and Greece. There for the present the poem stops : its reception will determine whether the author may venture to conduct his readers to the capital of the East, through Ionia and Phrygia : these two cantos are merely experimental. A fictitious character is introduced for the sake of giving some connexion to the piece ; which, however, makes no pretension to regularity. It has been sug- gested to me hy friends, on whose opinions I set a hign /alue, that in this fictitious character, " Childe Harold," I may incur the suspicion of having intended some real iK'-rsonage : this I beg leave, once for all, to disclaim Harold is the child of imagination, for the purposi I have stated. In some very trivial particulars, and thtje merely local, there might be grounds for such a notii i : but in the main points, I should hope, none whatever . It is almost superfluous to mention that the appeF.a- tion "Childe," as "Childe Waters," "Childe Chil ders," etc., is used as more consonant with the old struc ture of versification which I have adopted. The " Good Night," in the beginning of the first canto, was sug- gested by " Lord Maxwell's Good Night," in the Bor- der Minstrelsy, edited by Mr. Scott. With the different poems which have been published on Spanish subjects, there may be found some slight coincidence in the first part, which treats of the Penin- sula, but it can only be casual ; as, with the exception of a few concluding stanzas, the whole of this poem was written in the Levant, The stanza of Spenser, according to one of our most successful poets, admits of every variety. Dr. BliH. more and express less, bux he never was intended as an example, further than to snow that early perversion of mind and morals leads to satiety of past pleasures and disappointment in new ones, and that even the beauties of nature, and the stimulus of travel (except ambition, the most powerful of all excitements), are lost on a sold so constituted, or rather misdirected. Had I proceeded with the poem, this character would have deepened as he drew to the close ; for the outline which I or.ce meant to fill up for him, was, with some exceptions, the sketch of a modem Timon, perhaps a poei cal Zeluco. TO IANTHE. NOT in those climes where I have late been straying Tho' beauty long hath there been matchless deem'd , Not in those visions to the heart displaying Forms which it sighs but to have only dream'd, Hath aught like thee, in truth or fancy seem'd : Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek To paint those charms which varied as they beam'd To such as see thee not my words were weak ; To those who gaze on thee what language could they speak ? Ah ! may'st thou ever be what now thou art, Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring, As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart, Love's image upon earth without his wing, And guileless beyond hope's imagining ! And surely she who DOW so Ibndly rears Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening, Beholds the rainbow of her future years, Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears. Young Peri of the West! 'tis well for me My years already doubly number thine ; My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee, And safely view thy ripening beauties shine ; Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline, Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed, Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign To those whose admiration shall succeed, But mix'd with pangs to love's even loveliest hours de- creed. Oh ! let that eye, which, wild as the gazelle's, Now brightly bold or beautifully shy, Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells, Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh, Could I to thee be ever more than friend: This much, dear maid, accord ; nor question why To one so young, my strain I would commend, But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend. Such is thy name with this my verse entwined , And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast On Harold's page, lanthe's here enshrined Shall thus he first beheld, forgotten last : My days once number'd, should this homage past Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre Of him who hail'd thee, loveliest as thou wast, Such is the most my .Memory may desire ; Though more than hope cin cla-m. could frmndshr" .ess require ? BYRON'S WORKS. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. A ROMAUNT. CANTO I. OH, thou ! in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth, Muse ! form'd or fabled at the minstrel's will ! Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth, Mine Jares not call thee from thy sacred hill : Vet there I 've wander'd by thy vaunted rill ; Yes! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long-deserted shrine, 1 Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still ; Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine, I o grace so plain a tale this lowly lay of mine. II. Whi\ome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth, Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight ; But spent his days in riot most uncouth, A nd vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear of night. Ah, me ! in sooth he was a shameless wight, Sore given to revel and ungodly glee ; Few earthly things found favour in his sight Save concubines and carnal companie, And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree. III. Childe Harold was he hight : but whence his name And lineage long, it suits me not to say j Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame, And had been glorious in another day : But one sad losel soils a name for aye, However mighty in the olden time ; Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme, Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime. IV. Cnilde Harold bask'd him in the noontide sun, Disporting there like any other fly ; Nor deem'd before his little day was done, One blast might chill him into misery. But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by, Worse than adversity the Childe befell ; He felt the fulness of satiety : Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, Ybich seem'd to him more lone than eremite's sad cell. V. For he through sin's long labyrinth had run, Nor made atonement when he did amiss, Had sigh'd to many, though he loved but one, And that .oved one, alas ! could ne'er be his. Ah, happy she! to 'scape from him whose kiss Had been pollution unto aught so chaste ; Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss, And spoil'd her goodly lands to gild his waste, ** calm domestic oe^oe twui fffnt dcign'd to taste. VI. And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart, And from his fellow bacchanals would flee ; 'T is said, at times the sullen tear would start, But pride congeal'd the drop within his ee : Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie, And from his native land resolv'd to go, And visit scorching climes beyond the sea ; With pleasure drugg'd he almost long'd for won. And e'en for change of scene would seek the sha ie below. VII. The Childe departed from his father's hall : It was a vast and venerable pile : So old, it seemed only not to fall, Yet strength was pillar'd in each massy aisle. Monastic dome ! condemn'd to uses vile ! Where Superstition once had made her den Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile , And monks might deem their time was come agen, If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men. VIII. Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood, Strange pangs would flash along C hilde Harold's brow, As if the memory of some deadly feud Or disappointed passion lurk'd below : But this none knew, nor haply cared to know ; For his was not that open, artless soul, That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow, Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole, Whate'er his grief mote be, which he could not control IX. And none did love him though to hall and bower He gather'd revellers from far and near, He knew them flatterers of the festal hour ; The heartless parasites of present cheer. Yea, none did love him not his lemans dear But pomp and power alone are wo'rnan's care, And where these are light Eros finds a fere ; Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair. X. Childe Harold had a mother not forgot, Though parting from that mother he did shun ; A sister whom he loved, but saw her not Before his weary pilgrimage begun : If friends he had, he bade adieu to none. Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel ; Ye who have known what 't is to dote upon A few dear objects, will in sadness feel Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal. XI. His. house, his home, his heritage, his lands, The laughing dames in whom he did delight, Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy handa, Might shake the saintship of an anchorite, And long had fed his youthful appetite His goblets brimm'd with every costly wine, And all that mote to luxury invite, Without a sigh he left, to cross the brine, And traverse Paynim shorci, 1.3 1 pass eirth's cer* linx CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE xn. The sails were fill'd, and fair the light winds blew, As glad to waft him from his native home ; And fast the white rocks faded from his view, And soon were lost in circumambient foam : And then, it may be, of his wish to roam Repented he, but in his bosom slept The silent thought, nor from his lips did come One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept, And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept. xra. But when the sun was sinking in the sea, He seized his harp, which he at times could string, And strike, albeit with untaught melody, When deem'd he no strange ear was listening : And now his fingers o'er it he did fling, And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight. While flew the vessel on her snowy wing, And fleeting shores receded from his sight, Thus to the elements he pour'd his last " Good Night.' 1. " ADIEC, adieu ! my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue ; The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, And shrieks the wild sea-mew. Yon sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his High. ; Farewell awhile to him and thee, My native land Good Night ! A few short hours and he will rise To give the morrow birth ; And I shall hail the main and skies, But not my mother earth. Deserted is my own good hall, Its hearth is desolate ; Wild weeds are gathering on the wafl ; My dog howls at the gate. 3. " Come hither, hither, my little page! Why dost thou weep and wail ? Or dost thou dread the billows' rage, Or tremble at the gale ? But dash the tear-drop from thine eye ; Our ship is swift and strong : Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly More merrily along." ' Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, I fear not wave nor wind ; Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I Am sorrowful in mind ; For I have from my father gone, A mother whom I love, And have no friend, save these alone, But thee and one above. 11 ' My father bless'd me fervently, Yet did not much complain ; But sorely will my mother sigh Till I come back again.' " Enough, enough, my little lad ) Such tears become thine eye ; If I thy guileless bosom had, Mine own would not be drv. 6. " Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman. Why dost thou look so pale ? Or dost thou dread a French foetnan ? Or shiver at the gale ?" ' Deem'st thou I tremble for my life ? Sir Childe, I'm not so weak ; But thinking on an absent wife Will blanch a faitliful cheek. 7. ' My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall. Along the bordering lake, And when they on their father call, What answer shall she make ?' " Enough, enough, my yeoman good, Thy grief let none gainsay ; But I, who am of lighter mood, Will laugh to flee away. 8. " For who would trust the seeming sighs Of wife or paramour ? Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyef We late saw streaming o'er. For pleasures past I do not grieve, Nor perils gathering near ; My greatest grief is that I leave No thing that claims a tear. 9. " And now I'm in the world alone, Upon the wide, wide sea : But why should I for others groan, When none will sigh for me ? Perchance my dog will whine in vain Till fed by stranger hands ; But long ere I come back again, He 'd tear me where he stands. 10. " With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go Athwart the foaming brine ; Nor care what land Ihou bear'st me 10, So not again to mine. Welcome, welcome, ye dark-blue wave* 1 And when you fail my sight, Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves ! My native land Good Night !" 12 BYRON'S WORKS. XIV. ( n, on the vessel flies, the land is gone, And winds are rude in Biscay's sleepless bay. Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon, New shores descried make every bosom gay ; And Cintra's mountain greets them on their way, And Tagus uashing onward to the deep, His fabled golden tribute bent to pay ; And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap, And steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics reap. XV. Oh ! Christ ! it is a goodly sight to see What Heaven hath done for this delicious land ! What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree ! What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand ! But man would mar them with an impious hand : And when the.Aj[ughty lifts his fiercest scourge 'Gainst those who most transgress his high command, With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urge Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest foemen purge. XVI. What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold ? Her image floating on that noble tide, Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold, But now whereon a thousand keels did ride Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied, And to the Lusians did her aid afford : A nation swoln with ignorance and pride, Who lick yet loathe the hand that waves the sword To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unsparing lord. / XVII. But whoso entereth within this town, That, sheening far, celestial seems to be, Disconsolate will war.der up and down, 'Mid many things unsightly to strange ee ; For hut and palace show like filthily : The dingy denizens are reared in dirt ; Ne personage of high or mean degree Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt, Though shent with Egypt's plague, unkempt, unwash'd, unhurt. XVIII. Poor, paltry slaves ! yet born 'midst noblest scenes Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men ? Lo ! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes In variegated maze of mount and glen. Ah, me ! what hand can pencil guide, or pen, To follow half on which the eye dilates, Through views more dazzling unto moral ken Than those whereof such things the bard relates, Who to the awe-struck world unlock'd Elysium's gates ? XIX. The horrid crags, by toppling convent c-own'd, The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep, The mountain-moss by scorching skies imbrown'd The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must wee. The tende* azure of the unruffled deep, The orange lints (hat gild the greenest bough, The torrents that from cliff to valley leap, The vine on high, the willow branch below, Mix'd in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow. XX. Then slowly climb the many-winding way, And frequent turn to linger as you go, From loftier rocks new loveliness survey, And rest ye at " our Lady's house of woe ;"* Where frugal monks their b'ttle relics show, And sundry legends to the stranger tell : Here impious men have punished been, and lo ! Deep in yon cave Honorius long did dwell, In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell. XXI. And here and there, as up the crags you spring, Mark many rude-carved crosses near the path : Yet deem not these devotion's offering These are memorials frail of murderous wrath: For wheresoe'er the shrieking victim hath Pour'd forth his blood beneath the assassin's knife, Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath ; And grove and glen with thousand such are rife Throughout this purple land, where law secures not life ' XXII. On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath, Are domes where whilome kings did make repair ; But now the wild Powers round them only breathe ; Yet ruin'd splendour still is lingering there. And yonder towers the prince's palace fair : There thou too, Vathek ! England's wealthiest son, Once form'd thy paradise, as not aware When wanton wealth her mightiest deerls hath done, Meek peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to slum. XXIII. Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure pls.a, Beneath yon mountain's ever-beauteous brow : But now, as if a thing unblest by rnr.n, Thy fairy dwelling is as lone as thou ! Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow To halls deserted, portals gaping wide > Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, how Vain are the pleasaunces on earth supplied ; Swept into wrecks anon by time's ungentle tide ! XXIV. Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened ! * Oh ! dome displeasing unto British eye ! With diadem night foolscap, !o ! a fiend, A little fiend that scoffs incessantly, There sits in parchment robe array'd, and by His side is hung a seal and sable scroll, Where blazon'd glare names known to chivalry, And sundry signatures adorn the roll, Whereat the urchin points and laugns with all his souL XXV. Convention is the dwarfish demon styled That foil'd the knights in Marialva's dome : Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled, And turned a nation's shallow joy to gloom. Here folly dash'd to earth the victor's plume. And policy regain'd what arms had lo:it : For chiefs like ours in vain may Uurels bloom ! Woe to the conquering, not the conquer'd host, Since baffLd tri'im; B droops m J usitania's x.*st' B MA2:: CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. XXVI. And ever since that martial synod met, Britannia sickens, Cintra ! at thy name ; And folks in office at the mention fret, And fain would blush, if blush they could, for shame. How will posterity the deed proclaim ! Will not our own and fellow-nations sneer, To view these champions cheated of their fame, By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet victors here, Where Scorn her finger points through many a coming year? XXVII. So deem'd the Childe, as o'er the mountains he Did take his way in solitary guise : Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to flee, More restless than the swallow in the skies : Though here awhile he learn'd to moralize, For meditation fix'd at times on him ; And conscious reason whisper'd to despise His early youth, mispent in maddest whim ; But as he gazed on truth, his aching eyes grew dim. XXVIH. To horse ! to horse ! he quits, for ever quits A scene of peace, though soothing to his soul : Again he rouses from his moping fits, But seeks not now the harlot and the bowL Onward he flies, nor fix'd as yet the goal Where he shall rest him on his pilgrimage ; And o'er him many changing scenes must roll Ere toil his thirst for travel can assuage, )r he shall calm his breast, or learn experience sage. XXIX. Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay,* Where dwelt of yore the Lusian's luckless queen ; And church and court did mingle their array, And mass and revel were alternate seen ; Lordlings and freeres ill-sorted fry I ween ! But here the Babylonian whore hath built A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious sheen, That men forget the blood which she hath spilt, \nd bow the knee to pomp that loves to varnish guilt. XXX. O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills, (Oh, that such hills upheld a freebom race ! ) Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills, Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant place. Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase, And marvel men should quit their easy chair, The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace, Oh ! there is sweetness in the mountain air, ind life, that bloated ease can never hope to share. XXXI. More bleak to view the hills at length recede, And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend : Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed ! Far as the eye discerns, withouten end, Soai>." realms appear whereon her shepherds tend Flocks, whose rich fieece right well the trader knows Now must the pastor's arm his lambs defend : For Spain is cotnpass'd by unyielding foes, A nd a.i must shie'.J their all, or share subjection's woe*. XXXII. Where Lusitama and her sister meet, Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide ? Or ere the jealous queens of nations greet, Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide 7 Or dark Sierras rise in craggy pride '/ Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall? Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide, Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall, Rise like the rocks that part Hispania's land fromGaitl* XXXIII. But these between a silver streamlet glides, And scarce a name distinguished the brook, Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides. Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook, And vacant on the rippling waves doth look, That peaceful still 'twist bitterest foemen flow ; For proud each peasant as the noblest duke : Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know 'Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low.' XXXIV. But, ere the mingling bounds have far been pass'd, Dark Guadiana rolls his power along In sullen billows, murmuring and vast, So noted ancient roundelays among. Whilome upon his banks did legions throng Of Moor and knight, in mailed splendour drest : Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk the strong, The Paynim turban and the Christian crest Mix'd on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts oppress'd , XXXV. Oh ! lovely Spain ! renown'd, romantic land ! Where is that standard which Pelagio bore, When Cava's traitor-sire first call'd the band That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothic gore 7 Where are those bloody banners which of yore Waved o'er thy sons, victorious to the gale, And drove at last the spoilers to their shore ? Red gleam'd the cross, and waned the crescent pale. While Afric's echoes thrill'd with Moorish matrons' wail XXXVI. Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale 7 Ah ! such, alas ! the hero's amplest fate ! When granite moulders and when records fail, A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date. Pride ! bend thine eye from heaven to thine estato, See how the mighty shrink into a song ! Can volume, pillar, pile, preserve thee great 7 Or must thou trust tradition's simple tongue, When flattery sleeps with thee, and history does U.ue wrong ? XXXVII. Awake ! ye sons of Spain ! awake ! advance ! Lo! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries, But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance, Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies . Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies. And speak? \n thunder through yon engine's roai In every peal sne ca..s "Awake! arise!" Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore, When her war-song wos heard on Ar alusia's shcr* ' H BYRON'S WORKS. XXXVIII. HarK ! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note? Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath ? Saw y not whom the reeking sabre smote ; Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath Tyrants and tyrants' slaves ? the fires of death, The bale-fires flash on high : from rock to rock Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe ; Dead, rides upon the sulphury Siroc, Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock. XXXIX. Lo ! where the giant on the mountain stands, His blood-red tresses deep'ning in the sun, With de.th-shot glowing in his fiery hands, And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon ; Restless it rolls, now fix'd, and now anon Flashing afar, and at his iron feet Destruction cowers to mark what deeds are done ; For on this morn three potent nations meet, To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet. XL. By Heaven ! it is a splendid sight to see (For one who hath no friend, no brother there) Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery, Their various arms that glitter in the air ! What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair, And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for th^ prey ! All join the chase, but few the triumph share ; The grave shall bear the chiefest prize away, And havoc scarce for joy can number their array. XLI. Three hosts combine to ofier sacrifice ; Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high ; Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies ; The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory ! The foe, the victim, and the fond ally That fights for all, but ever fights in vain, Are met as if at home they could not die To feed the crow on Talavera's plain, And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain. XLH. There shall they rot ambition's honour'd fools ! Yes, honour decks tie turf that wraps their clay ! Vain sophistry ! in these behold the tools, The broken tools, that tyrants cast away By myriads, when they dare to pave their way With human hearts to what ? a dream alone. Can despots compass aught that hails their sway ? Or call with truth one span of earth their own, have that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone ? X1JII. Oh, Aibuera ! glorious field of grief! As o'er thy plain the pilgrim prick'd his steed, Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief, A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed ! Peace to the perish'd ! may the warrior's meed And tears of triumph their reward prolong ! Till others fall where other chieftains lead, Thv name shall circle round the gaping throng, \nd shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient sor ! XLIV. Enough of battle's minions ! let them play Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame . Fame that will scarce reanimate their clay, Though thousands fall to deck some single name. In sooth 't were sad to thwart their noble aim Who strike, blest hirelings ! for their country's gooo And die, that living might have proved her shame ; Perisb'd, perchance, in some domestic feud, Or in a narrower sphere wild rapine's path pursued. XLV. Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued : Yet is she free the spoiler's wish'd-for prey ! Soon, soon shall conquest's fiery foot intrude, Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude. Inevitable hour ! 'gainst fate to strive Where desolation plants her famished brood Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre might yet survive, And virtue vanquish all, and murder cease to thrive. XLVI. But all unconscious of the coming doom, The feast, the song, the revel here abounds ; Strange modes of merriment the hours consume, Nor bleed these patriots with their country's wounds Not here war's clarion, but loves rebeck sounds ; Here folly still hia votaries enthralls ; And young-eyed lewdness walks her midnight rounds: Girt with the silent crimes of capitals, Still to the last kind vice clings to the tott'ring walls. XLVH. Not so the rustic with his trembling mate He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar, Lest he should view his vineyard desolate, Blasted below the dun hot breath of war. No more beneath soft eve's consenting star Fandango twirls his jocund castanet : Ah, monarchs ! could ye taste the mirth ye mar, Not in the toils of glory would ye fret ; The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and man be hajn/7 yet xLvra. How carols now the lusty muleteer ? Of love, romance, devotion, is his lay, As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer, His quick bells wildly jingling on the way ? No ! as he speeds, he chaunts : " Viva el Bey !" ' And checks his song to execrate Godoy, The royal \vittol Charles, and curse the day When first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed boy And gore-faced treason sprung from her adulterate joy XLIX. On yon long, level plain, at distance crown'd With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest, Wide-scatter'd hoof-marks dint the wounded ground ( And, scathed by fire, the green sward's darKen'd vest Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest : Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host, Here the bold peasant storm'd the dragon's nest : Still does he mark it with triumphant boast, And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and lost. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. And whomsoe'er along the path you meet Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue, Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet : 9 Woe to the man that walks in public view Without of loyalty this token true: Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke ; And sorely would the Gallic foeman rue, If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloak, Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's smoke. LI. At every turn Morena's dusky height Sustains aloft the battery's iron load ; And, far as mortal eye can compass sight, The mountain-howitzer, the broken road, The bristling palisade, the fosse o'crflow'd, The station'd bands, the never-vacant watch, The magazine in rocky durance stow'd, The holster'd steed beneath the shed of thatch, The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match, 10 LII. Portend the deeds to come : but he whose nod Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway, A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod ; A little moment deigneth to delay : Soon will his legions sweep through these their way ; The West must own the scourger of the world. Ah, Spain ! how sad will be thy reckoning-day, When soars Gaul's vulture, with his wings unfurl'd, Andthou shall view thy sons in crowds to Hades hurl'd ! Lin. And must they fall ? the young, the proud, the brave, To swell one bloated chief's unwholesome reign ? No step between submission and a grave ? The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain ? And doth the Power that man adores ordain Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's appeal ? Is all that desperate valour acts in vain ? And counsel sage, and patriotic zeal, The veteran's skill, youth's fire, and manhood's heart of steel ? LIV. Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused, Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar, And, all unsex'd, the anlace hath espoused, Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war ? And she, whom once the semblance of a scar Appall'd, and owlet's larum chill'd with dread, Now views the column-scattering bay'net jar, The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead "s'-alks with Minerva's step where Mars might quake to tread. LV. Te who shall marvel when you hear her tale, Oh ! had you known her in her softer hour, Mark'd her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil, Heard her light, lively tones in lady's bower, Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power, Her fairy form, with more than female grace, Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's fewer Beheld her smile in danger's Gorgon face, e closed ranks, and lead in glory's fearful chase. H LVI. Her lover sinks she sheds no ill-timed tear ; Her chief is slain she fills his fatal post ; Her fellows flee she checks their base cai ecr ; The foe retires she heads the sallying host : Who can appease like her a lover's ghost '/ Who can avenge so well a leader's fall ? What maid retrieve when man's flush'd hope is lost '" Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul, Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a batter'd wall ? ' ' Lvn. Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazon:., But form'd for all the witching arts of love Though thus in arms they emulate her sons, And in the horrid phalanx dare to move, T is but the tender fierceness of the dove, Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate : In softness as in firmness far above Remoter females, famed for sickening prate ; Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance as great. LVIII. The seal love's dimpling finger hath impress'd Denotes how soft that chin which bears his toucti ' Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest, Bid man be valiant ere he merit such : Her glance how wildly beautiful ! how much Hath Phoebus woo'd in vain to spoil her cheek, Which glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch ! Who round the north for paler dames would seek ? How poor their forms appear ! how languid, wan, nivl weak! LIX. Match me, ye climes ! which poets love to laud ; Match me, ye harams of the land ! where now I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud Beauties that ev'n a cynic must avow ; Match me those houries, whom ye scarce allow To taste the gale lest love should ride the wind, With Spain's dark-glancing daughters deign to know There your wise prophet's paradise we find, His black-eyed maids of heaven, angelically kind. LX. Oh, thou Parnassus! 13 whom I now survey. Not in the phrensy of \ dreamer's eye, Not in the fabled landscape of a lay, But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky, In the wild pomp of mountain majesty ! What marvel if I thus essay to sing ! The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by Would gladly woo thine echoes with his string, Though from thy heights no more one muse wilj WIT* her wing. LXI. Oft have I dream'd of thee ! whose glorious nam Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore : And now I view thee, 't is, alas ! with shame That I in feeblest accents must adore. When I recount thy worshippers of vore I tremble, and can only bend the knee ; Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar. But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy In silent joy to think at last I look or the* ' BYRON'S WORKS. LXIL Ha >pier in this tl.an mightiest bards have been, Whos fate to dig tnt homes confined their lot, Shall I unmoved behold the hallow'd scene, Which others rave of, though they know it not? Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot, And thov the muses' seat, art now their grave, S> we genile spirit still pervades the spot. Sighs in the pile, keeps silence in ihe cave, And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave. LXIII. Of thee hereafter. Even amidst my strain I turn'd aside to pay my homage here ; Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain ; Her fate, to every freeborn bosom dear, And hail'd thee, not perchance without a tear. Now to my theme but from thy holy haunt Let me some remnant, some memorial bear ; Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant, Nor let thy votary's hope be deem'd an idle vaunt. LXIV. But ne'er didst thou, fair mount ! when Greece was young, See round thy giant base a brighter choir, Nor e'er did Delphi, when her priestess sung The Pythian hymn with more than mortal fire, Behold a train more fitting to inspire The song of love, than Andalusia's maids, Nurst in the glowing lap of soft desire : Ah ! that to these were given such peaceful shades As Greece can still bestow, though glory fly her glades. LXV. Fair is proud Seville ; let her country boast Her strength, her weal'h, her site of ancient days; 14 But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast, Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise. Ah, vice ! how soft are thy voluptuous ways ! While boyish blood is mantling who can 'scape The fascination o~ thy magic gaze, A cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape, And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape. LXVI. When Paphos fell by time accursed time ! The queen who conquers all must yield to thee The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a clime ; And Venus, constant to her native sea, To nought else constant, hither deign'd to flee ; And fix'-l her shrine within these walls of white : Tho-igh not to one dome circumscribeth she Hei worship, but, devoted to her rite, A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright. LXVII. From morn till night, from night till startled morn Peeps blushing on the revel's laughing crew, The song is heard, the rosy garland worn, Devices quaint, and frolics ever new, Tread on each other's kibes. A long adieu lie bids to sober joy that here sojourns: Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieti Of true devotion monkish incense burns, And 'ove and prayer unite, or rule the hour by turns. LXVIII. The sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest ; What hallows it upon this Christian shore? Lo ! it is sacred to a solemn feast : Hark ! heard you not the forest-monarch's roar ? Crashing the lance, he snufls the spouting gore Of man and steed, o'erthrown beneath his horn ; The throng'd arena shakes with shouts for more ; Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly torn, Nor shrinks the female eye, nor even affects to mourn LXIX. The seventh day this ; the jubilee of man. London ! right well thou know'st the day of prayer Then thy spruce citizen, wash'd artisan, And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air : Thy coach of Hackney, whiskey, one-horse chair, And humblest gig through sundry suburbs whirl, To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow, make repair ; Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl, Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl. LXX. Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribbon'd fair, Others along the safer turnpike fly ; Some Richmond-hill ascend, some scud to Ware, And many to the steep of Highgate hie. Ask ye, Boeotian shades! the reason why?" 'T is to the worship of the solemn horn, Grasp'd in the holy hand of mystery, In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn, And consecrate the oath with draught and dance tifl mom. LXXI. All have their fooleries not alike are thine, Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark-blue sea! Soon as the matinbell proclaimeth nine, Thy saint-adorers count the rosary : Much is the VIRGIN teased to shrive them free (Well do I ween the only virgin there) From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be ; Then to the crowded circus forth they fare, Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion share LXXII. , The lists are oped, the spacious area clear'd, Thousands on thousands piled are seated round; Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is heard, Ne vacant space for lated wight is found : Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound, Skill'd in the ogle of a roguish eye, Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound ; None through their cold disdain are doom'd to die, As moon-struck bards complain, by love's sad archery LXXIII. Hush'd is the din of tongues on gallant steeds, With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-poised lance, Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds, And lowly bending to the lists advance ; Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance : If in the dangerous game they shine to-day, The crowd's loud shout and ladies' lovely glance, Best prize of better acts, they bear away, And all that kings or chiefs e'er grin their toils repav. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. LXX1V. In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array'd, But all a-foot, the light-limb'd Matadore Stands in the centre, eager to invade The lord of lowing herds ; but not before The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o'er, Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed: His arm 's a dart, he fights aloof, nor more Can man achieve without the friendly steed, Alas ! too oft condemn'd for him to bear and bleed. LXXV. Thrice sounds the clarion ; lo ! the signal falls, The den expands, and expectation mute Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls. Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute, And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot, The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe : Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit His first attack, wide waving to and fro His angry tail ; red rolls his eye's dilated glow. LXXVI. Sudden he stops ; His eye is fix'd : away, Away, thou heedless boy ! prepare the spear : Now is thy time, to perish, or display The skill that yet may check his mad career. With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers veer; On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes ; Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear ; He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes ; Dart folbws dart; lance, lance ; loud bellowings speak his woes. LXXVII. Again he comes ; nor dart nor lance avail, Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse ; Though man and man's avenging arms assail, Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force. One gallant steed is stretch'd a mangled corse ; Another, hideous sight ! unseam'd appears, His ory chest unveils life's panting source, Though death-struck still his feeble frame he rears, Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharm'd he bears. LXXVIII. Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last, Full in the centre stands the bull at bay, 'Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast, And foes disabled in the brutal fray : And now the Matadores around him play, Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand : Once more through all he bursts his thundering way- Vain rage ! the mantle quits the conynge hand, Wraps his fierce eye 't w past he sinks upon the sand LXXIX. Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine, Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies. He stops he starts disdaining to decline ; Slowly he falls, amidst triumphing cries, Without a groan, without a struggle, dies. The decorated car appears on high The corse is piled sweet sight for vulgar eyes- Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy, Hurl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in dashing by. LXXX. Such the ungentle sport that oft invites The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swauv Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights In vengeance, gloating on another's pain. What private feuds the troubled village stain ! Though now one phalanx' d host should meet the fo* , Enough, alas ! in humble homes remain, To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blow, For some slight cause of wrath, whence Life's wai*o stream must flow. LXXXI. But jealousy has fled ; his bars, his bolts, His withered sentinel, duenna sage ! And all whereat the generous soul revolts, Which the stern dotard deem'd he could engage, Have pass'd to darkness with the vanish'd age. Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen (Ere war uprose in his volcanic rage,) With braided tresses bounding o'er the green, tVhile on the gay dance shone night's lover-loving queeu ' LXXXII. Oh ! many a time, and oft, had Harold loved, Or dream'd he loved, since rapture is a dream ; But now his wayward bosom was unmoved, For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream ; And lately had he learn'd with truth to deem Love has no gift so grateful as his wings : How fair, how young, how soft soe'er he seem, Full from the fount of Joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings. !t LXXXIII. Tet to the beauteous form he was not blind, Though now it moved him as it moves the wise ; Not that philosophy on such a mind E'er deign'd to bend her chastely-awful eyes ; But passion raves herself to rest, or flies ; And vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb, Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise : Pleasure's pall'd victim ! life-abhorring gloom Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's unresting doom. LXXXIV. Still he beheld, nor mingled-with the throng ; But view'd them not with misanthropic hate : Fain would he now have join'd the dance, the sonj But who may smile that sinks beneath his fate ? Nought that he saw his sadness could abate : Yet once he struggled 'gainst the demon's sway, And as in beauty's bower he pensive sate, Pour'd forth his unpremeditated lay, To charms as fair as those that soothed his happier o*y TO INEZ. 1. NAY, smile not at my sullen brow. Alas ! I cannot smile again , Yet Heaven avert that ever thou Should' st weep, and haply weep iu va 48 BYRON'S WORKS. 2. \nd dost thou ask, what secret woe I bear, corroding joy and youth ? And wilt thou vainly seek to know A pang, ev'n thou must fail to soothe ? 3. 1: s not love, it is not hate, Nor low ambition's honours lost, That bids me loathe my present state, And fly from all I prized the most ; 4. It is that weariness which springs From all I meet, or hear, or see : To me no pleasure beauty brings ; Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me. 5. It is that settled, ceaseless gloom The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore ; That will not look beyond the tomb, Bui cannot hope for rest before. 6. What exile from himself can flee ? To zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where'er I be, The blight of life the demon thought. 7. Yet others rapt in pleasure seem, And taste of all that I forsake ; Oh ! may they still of transport dream, And ne'er, at least like me, awake ! 8. Through many a clime 't is mine to go, With many a retrospection curst ; And all my solace is to know, What e'er betides, I 've known the worst. 9. What is that worst ? Nay, do not ask In pity from the search forbear : Smile on nor venture to unmask Man's heart, and view the hell that 's there. LXXXV. Adieu, fair Cadiz ! yea, a long adieu! Who may forget how well thy walls have stood ! When all were changing thou alone wert true, First to be free and last to be subdued : And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude, Some native blood was seen thy streets to dye ; A traitor only fell beneath the feud : " Here all were noble, save nobility ; Kone hugg'd a conqueror's chain, save fallen chivalry ! LXXXVI. Sucu he the sons of Spain, and, strange her fate ! 'I hey fight for freedom who were never free ; A kingless people for a nerveless state, Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee, True to the veriest slave of treachery ; Fond of a land which gave them nought but life, Pride [K>ints the path that leads to liberty ; Back to I he struggle, baffled in the strife, \Var war is still the cry, "war even to the knife '" " LXXXVH. Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strife : Whate'er keen vengaance urged on foreign foe Can act, is acting there against man's life : From flashing scimitar to secret knife, War mouldeth there each weapon to his need So may he guard the sister and the wife, So may he make each curst oppressor bleed, So may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed . LXXXVIII. Flows there a tear of pity for the dead 7 Look o'er the ravage of the reeking plain ; Look on the hands with female slaughter red ; Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain, Then to the vulture let each corse remain ; Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw, Let their bleach'd bones, and blood's unbleaching slam, Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe : Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw ! LXXXIX. Nor yet, alas ! the dreadful work is done, Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees ; It deepens still, the work is scarce begun, Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees. Fall'n nations gaze on -Spain ; if freed, she frees More than her fell Pizarros once enchain'd : Strange retribution! now Columbia's ease Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustain'd, While o'er the parent clime prowls murder unrestrain'd. xc. Not all the blood at Talavera shed, Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight, Not Albuera, lavish of the dead, Have won for Spain her well-asserted right. When shall her olive-branch be free from blight 7 When shall she breathe her from the blushing toil 'l How many a doubtful day shall sink in night, Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil, And freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the soil ! XCI. And thou, my friend !" since unavailing woe Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain- Had the sword laid thee with the mighty k>w, Pride might forbid ev'n friendship to complain : But thus unlaurel'd to descend in vain, By all forgotten, save the lonely breasi, And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain, While glory crowns so many a meaner crest! What hadst thou done to sink so peaceably to rust 7 XCII. Oh ! known the earliest, and esteem'd the most ! Dear to a heart where nought was left so 'leaf! Though to my hopeless days for ever Jos In dreams deny me not to see thee here ! And mom in secret shall renew the tear Of consciousness awaking to her WOPS, And fancy hover o'er thy bloodies oier, Till my frail frame return to whence it roue, And mourn'd and mourner lie united >n reposo CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 49 XCIII. Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage : Ye who of him may further seek to know, Shall find some tidings in a future page, If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe. Is this too much ? stern critic ! say not so : Patience ! and yc shall hear what he beheld In other lands, where he was doom'd to go : Lands that contain the monuments of Eld, Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands were quell'd. CANTO II COME, blue-eyed maid of heaven! but thou, alas! Didst never yet one mortal song inspire Goddess of wisdom ! here thy temple was, And is, despite of war and wasting fire, ' And years, that bade thy worship to expire : But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow, Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire Of men who never felt the sacred glow That thoughts of thee and thine on polish'd breasts bestow. 2 II. \ncient of days ! august Athena ! where, Where are thy men of might ? thy grand in soul ? Gone, glimmering thro' the dream of things that were: First in the ra.cz that led to glory's goal, They won, and pass'd away is this the whole ? \ school-boy's tale, the wonder of an hour? The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering tower, Own with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power. Hi. Son of the morning, rise ! approach you here ! Come but molest not yon defenceless um ; Look on this spoi a nation's sepulchre ! Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer burn. Even gods must yield religions take their turn : 'T was Jove's 't is Mahomet's and other creeds Will rise with other years, till man shall learn Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds ; Poor child of doubt and death, whose hope is built on reeds. IV. Bound to the earth, he lifts his eye to heaven- Is 't not enough, unhappy thing ! to know Thou art ? Is this a boon so kindly given, That being, thou wouldst be again, and go, Thou know'st not, reck'st not to what region, so On earth no more, but mingled with the skies ? Still wilt thou dream on future joy and woe ? Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies : TTiat little urn saith more than thousand homilies. 12 V. Or burst the vanish'd hero's lofty mound ; Far on the solitary shore he sleeps : 3 He fell, and falling nations mourn'd around: But now not one of saddening thousands weeps, Nor warlike worshipper his vigil keeps Where demi-gods appear'd, as records tell. Remove yon skull from out the scatter'd heaps : Is that a temple where a god may dwell '/ Why ev'n the worm at last disdains her shattcr'd cell VI. Look on its broken arch, its ruinV wall, Its chambers desolate, and portals foul : Yes, this was once ambition's airy hall, The dome of thought, the palace of the soul : Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole, The gay recess of wisdom and of wit, And passion's host, that never brook'd control : Can all, saint, sage, or sophist ever writ, People this lonely tower, this tenement refit? VII. Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son ! " All that we know is, nothing can be known." Why should we shrink from what we cannot shun * Each has his pang, but feeble sufferers groan With brain-born dreams of evil all their own. Pursue what chance or fate proclaimeth best ; Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron : There no forced banquet claims the sated guest, But silence spreads the couch of ever-welcome rest. VIII. Yet if, as holiest men have deem'd, there be A land of souls beyond that sable shore, To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore ; How sweet it were in concert to adore With those who made our mortal labours light ! To hear each voice we fear'd to hear no more ! Behold each mighty shade reveal'd to sight, The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught Ju 1 right! IX. There, thou ! whose love and life together fled, Have left me here to love and live in vain Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee dead, When busy memory flashes on my brain ? Well I will dream that we may meet again, And woo the vision to my vacant breast: If aught of young remembrance then remain, Be as it may futurity's behest, For me 't were bliss enough to Vnow thy spirit blt-st ! X. Here let me sit upon this massy stone. The marble column's yet unshaken base ; Here, son of Saturn ! was thy fav'rite throne * Mightiest of many such ! Hence let me trace The latent grandeur of thy dwelling place. It may not be : nor ev'n cap fancy's eye Restore what time hath labour'd to deface Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sign- Unmoved the Moslem sits, the ligb* \i etk carols b. BYRON'S WORKS. XI. Bu f . who, c/ all th* 1 plunderers of yon fane On high, w.iere Pallas linger'd, loth to flee, The latest relic of her ancient reign ; The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he ? Blush, Ckledonia! such thy son could be! England ' I joy no child he was of thine : Thy freebom men should spare what once was free ; Yet they could violate each saddening shrine, And bear these altars o'er the long-reluctant brine.' XII. But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast, To rive what Goth, and Turk, and time hath spared: 6 Cold a.* the crags upon his native coast, His mind as barren and his heart as hard, s ne whose head conceived, whose hand prepared, Aught tc displace Athena's poor remains: Her sonj too weak the sacred shrine to guard, Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains,' And never knew, till then, the weight of despots' chains. XIII. What! shall it e'er be said by British tongue, Albion was happy in Athena's tears? Though in thy name the slaves her bosom wrung, Tell iiut the deed to blushing Europe's ears ; The ocean queen, the free Britannia bears The last poor plunder from a bleeding land : Yes, she, whose gen'rous aid her name endears, Tore down tnose remnants with a harpy's hand, Which envious Eld forbore, and tyrants left to stand. XIV. Where was thine segis, Pallas ! that appall'd Stern Alaric and havoc or. their way ? 8 Where Peleus' son ? whom hell in vain enthrall'd, His shade from Hades upon that dread day, Bursting to light in terrible array ! What ! could not Pluto spare the chief once more, To scare a second robber from his prey ? Idly he -wander'd on the Stygian shore, Nor now preserved the walls he loved to shield before. XV. Cold is the heart, fair Greece ! that looks on thee, Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust they loved ; Dull is the eye that will not weep to see Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines removed By British hands, which it had best behoved To guard those relics ne'er to be restored. Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved, And once again thy hapless bosom gored, Aiui suatch'd thy shrinking gods to northern climes ab- horr'd ! XVI. Rut where is Harold ? shall I then forget To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave ? LitUe reck'd he of all that men regret ; No lovea-one now in feign'd lament could rave ; No friond the parting hand extended gave, Kte tne cold stranger pass'd to other climes : Hard is his head whom charms may not enslave ; But Harold fell not as in other times, Aoi1 ip.n witnoiu a sigh the land of war and crimes. XVII. He that has sail'd upon the dark-blue sea Has view'd at times, I ween, a full fair sighi ; When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be, The white sail set, the gallant frigate tight ; Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right, The glorious main expanding o'er the bow, The convoy spread like wild swans in their fligW The dullest sailer wearing bravely now, So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow. XVIII. And oh, the little warlike world within ! The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy,* The hoarse command, the busy humming dm, When, at a word, the tops are mann'd on high : Hark to the boatswain's call, the cheering cry ! While through the seaman's hand the tackle glid . Or school-boy midshipman, that, standing by, Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides, And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides. XIX. White is the glassy deck, without a stain, Where on the watch the staid lieutenant walks : Look on that part which sacred doth remain For the lone chieftain, who majestic stalks Silent and fear'd by all not. oft he talks With aught beneath him, if he would preserve That strict restraint, which broken, ever balks Conquest and fame : but Britons rarely swerve From law, however stem, which tends thoir strength t nerve. XX. Blow ! swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling gale ! Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray ; Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail, That lagging barks may make their lazv way. Ah ! grievance sore, and listless dull delay, To waste on sluggish huUs the sweetest breeze! What leagues are lost before the dawn of day, Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas, The flapping sail haul'd down to halt for logs like thesel XXL The moon is up ; by Heaven, a lovely eve ! Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand , Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe : Such be our fate when we return to land ! Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love ; A circle there of merry listeners stand, Or to some well-known measure featly move- Thoughtless, as if on shore they still vere free to rove XXII. Through Calpe's straits survey the sleepy shore > Europe and Afric on each other gaze ! Lands of the dark-eyed maid and dusky Moor Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze : How softly on the Spanish shore she plays, Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown, Distinct, though darkening with her waning phase ; But Mauritania's giant-shadows frov.n, From moiintain-cliflf to coast descending sombre dovm CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. XXIII. 'Tis night, when meditation bids us feel Wo once have loved, though love is at an end: The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal, Though friendless now, will dream it had a friend. Who with the weight of years would wish to bend, *Vhen youth itself survives young love and joy? Alas ! when mingling souls forget to blend, Death hath but little left him to destroy ! Ah! happy years ! once more who would not be a boy? XXIV. Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side, To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere ; The soul forgets her schemes of hope and pride, And flies unconscious o'er each backward year. None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd A thought, and claims the homage of a tear ; A flashing pang ! of which the weary breast Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest. XXV. To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, And mortal foot hath ne'er, or rarely been ; To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, With the wild flock that never needs a fold ; Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean ; This is not solitude ; 't is but to hold Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unroli'd. XXVI. But 'midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, And roam along, the world's tired denizen, With none who bless us, none whom we can bless ; Minions of splendour shrinking from distress ! None that, with kindred consciousness endued, If we were not, would seem to smile the less Of all that flattcr'd, foilow'd, sought, and sued ; This is to be alone ; this, this is solitude ! XXVII. More blest the life of godly eremite, Such as on lovely Athos may be seen, Watching at eve upon tin; giant height, Which looks o'er waves so L>me, skies so serene, That he who there at such an hour hath been Will wistful linger on that hallow'd spot ; Then slowly tear him from the 'witching scene, Sigh forth one wish that such had been his lot, Then turn to hate a world he had almost forgot. XXVIII. Pass we the long, unvarying course, the track Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind ; Pass we the calm, the gale, the *hange, the tack, And each well-known canrice of wave and wind ; Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors find, Coop'd in their winged sea-girt citadel ; The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind, As breezes rise and fall and billows swell, Till on some jocund morn lo, land ! and all is well. XXIX. But not in silence pass Calypso's is.e>, " The sister tenants of the middle deep , There for the weary still a haven smiles, Though the fair goddess long hath ceased lo weep. And o'er her cliffs a fruitless watch to keep For him who dared prefer a mortal bride : Here, too, his boy essay'd the dreadful leap Stern Mentor urged from high to yonder tide; While thus of both bereft, the nymph-queen douV sigh'd. XXX. Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone : But trust not this ; too easy youth, beware ! A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous throne, And thou may'st find a new Calypso there. Sweet Florence ! could another ever share This wayward, loveless heart, it would be thine. But check'd by every tie, I may not dare To cast a worthless offering at thy shrine, Nor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for mine. XXXI. Thus Harold deem'd, as on that lady's eve He look'd, and met its beam without a thought, Save admiration glancing harmless by: Love kept aloof, albeit not far remote, Who knew his votary often lost and caugh*, But knew him as his worshipper no more, And ne'er again the boy his bosom sought : Since now he vainly urged him to adore, Well deem'd the little god his ancient sway was o'er. XXXII. Fair Florence found, in sooth with some ama^ One who, 'twas said, still sigh'd to all he saw, Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze, Which others hail'd with real, or mimic awe, Their hope, their doom, their punishment, their law , All that gay beauty from her bondsmen claims r And much she marvell'd that a youth so raw Nor felt, nor feign'd at least, the oft-told flames, Which, though sometimes they frown, yet rarely aag dames. XXXIII. Little knew she that seeming marble-heart, Now mask'd in silence or withheld by prir Some high-capp'd Tartar spurr'd his stetd t,v*f The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, auj tho Mt/u, Here mingled in their many-hued arra/, While the deep war-drum's sound announced the C!OM of day. Lvni. The wild Albanian kirtled to his ki*,j, With shawl-girt head and ornamuiited gun, And gold-embroider'd garments, ('air to see ; The crimson-scarfed men of Macedon ; The Delhi with his cap of teiror on, And crooked glaive ; the lively, supple Green , And swarthy Nubia's mutilated son ; The bearded Turk .hat rarely deigns to speak. Master of all around, too potent to be meek. BYRON'S WORKS. LJX. Are mix'd conspicuous : some recline in groups, Scanning the motley scene that varies round ; There some grave Moslem to devotion stoops, And some that smoke, and some that play, are found ; Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground ; Half whispering there the Greek is heard to prate ; Hark ! from the mosque the nightly solemn sound, The Muezza's call doth shake the minaret, "There is no god but God! to prayer lo! God is great!" LX. Just at this season Ramazani's fast Through the long day its penance did maintain : But when the lingering twilight hour was past, Revel and feast assumed the rule again : Now all was bustle, and the menial train Prepared and spread the plenteous board within ; The vacant gallery now seem'd made in vain, But from the chambers came the mingling din, As page and slave anon were passing out and in. LXI. Here woman's voice is never heard : apart, And scarce permitted, guarded, veil'd, to move, She yields to one her person and her heart, Tamed to her cage, nor feels a wish to rove : For, not unhappy in her master's love, And joyful in a mother's gentlest cares, Blest cares ! all other feelings far above ! Herself more sweetly rears the babe she bears, *Vho never quits the breast no meaner passion shares. LXII. In marble-paved pavilion, where a spring Of living water from the centre rose, Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling, And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose, ALI reclined, a man of war and woes ; Vet in his lineaments ye cannot trace, While gentleness her milder radiance throws Along that aged venerable face, 1'he deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him with disgrace. LXIII. It is not that yon hoary lengthening beard 111 suits the passions which belong to youth ; Love conquers age so Hafiz hath averr'd, So sings the Teian, and he sings in sooth But crimes that scorn the tender voice of Ruth, Beseeming all men ill, but most the man In years, have mark'd him with a tiger's tooth ; Blood follows blood, and, through their mortal span, In Moodier acts conclude those who with blood began. LXIV. 'Mid many things most new to ear and eye The pilgrim rested here his weary feet, And gazed around on Moslem luxury, TiR .(uickly wearied with that spacious seat Of wealth and wantonness, the choice retreat Of oated grandeur from the city's noise : A.nd were it humbler it in sooth were sweet ; Bui peace abhorreth artificial joys, AHI pleasure, leagued with pomp, the zest of both destroys. LXV. Fierce are Albania's children, yet they lack Not virtues, were those virtues more mature. Where is the foe that ever saw their back ? Who can so well the toil of war endure ? Their native fastnesses not more secure Than they in doubtful time of troublous need : Their wrath how deadly ! but their friendship sur* When gratitude or valour bids them bleed, UnshaKen rushing on where'er their chief may lead. LXVI. Childe Harold saw them in their chieftain's tower Thronging to war in splendour and success ; And 'after view'd them, when, within their poi er, Himself awhile the victim of distress ; That saddening hour when bad men hotlier press But these did shelter him beneath their roof, When less barbarians would have cheer 3 d him less, And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof 2 ' In aught that tries the heart how few withstand the proof. LXVII. It chanced that adverse winds once drove his bark Full on the coast of Suli's shaggy shore, When all around was deso'.ate and dark ; To land was perilous, to sojourn more ; Yet for a while the mariners forbore, Dubious to trust where treachery might lurk : At length they ventured forth, though doubting sor* That those who loathe alike the Frank and Turk Might once agt.n renew their ancient butcher-work. LXVIII. Vain fear ! the Suhotea stretch'd the welcome hiyid, Led them o'er rocks and past the dangerous swamp, Kinder than polish'd slaves though not so bland. And piled the hearth, and wrung their garments damp, And fill'd the bowl, and trimm'd the cheerful lamp. And spread their fare ; though home'y, all they h;id . Such conduct bears philanthropy's rare stamp To rest the weary and to soothe the sad, Doth lesson happier men, and shames at least the bad. LXIX. It came to pass, that when he did address Himself to quit at length this mountain-land, Combined marauders half-way barr'd egress, And wasted far and near with glaive and brand ; And therefore did he take a trusty oand To traverse Acarnania's forest wide, In war well season'd, and with labours tann'd, Till he did greet white Achelous' tide, And from his further bank ^Etolia's worlds espied. LXX. Where lone Utraikey forms its circling cove, And weary waves retire to gleam at rest, How brown the foliage of the green hill's grovp, Nodding at midnight o'er the calm bay's breast, As winds come lightly whispering from the west. Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's serene.- Here Harold was received a welcome guest, Nor did he pass unmoved the gentle scene, For many a joy could he from night's soft presence glean CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. LXXI. On the smooth shore the night-fires brightly blazed, The feast was done, the red wine circling fast, a * And he that unawares had there ygazed With gaping wonderment had stared aghast ; For ere night's midmost, stillest hour was past, The native revels of the troop began ; Each palikar 29 his sabre from him cast, And bounding hand in hand, man link'd to man, Veiling their uncouth dirge, long danced the kirtled clan. LXXII. Childe Harold at a little distance stood And view'ti, but not displeased, the revelrie, Nor hated harmless mirth, however rude : In sooth, it was no vulgar sight to see Their barbarous, yet their not indecent, glee, And, as the flames along their faces gleam'd, Their gestures nimble, dark eyes flashing free, The long wild locks that vO their girdles stre^am'd, While thus in concert they this lay half sung, half scream'd : 3 1. 11 TAMBOURGI ! Tambourgi ! 'thy 'larum afar Gives hope to the valiant, and promise of war ; All the sons of the mountains arise at the note, Chimariot, Illyrian, and dark Suliote ! Z. Oh ! who is more brave than a dark Suliote, In his snowy camese and his shaggy capote ? fo the wolf and the vulture he leaves his wild flock, And descends to the plain like the stream from the rock, S. Shall the sons of Chimari, who never forgive The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live? Let those guns ?o unerring such vengeance forego ? What mark is so fair as the breast of a foe ? 4. Macedonia sends forth her invincible race ; For a time they abandon the cave and the chase : But those scarfs of blood-red shall be redder, before The sabre is sheathed and the battle is o'er. Then the pirates of Parga that dwell by the waves, And teach the pale Franks what it is to be slaves, Shall leave on the beach the long galley and oar, And track to his covert the captive on shore. G. I ask not the pleasures that riches supply, Mj sabre shall win what the feeble must buy ; Shall win the young bride with her long-flowing hair, And many a maid from her mother shall tear. 7. I love the fair face of the maid in her youth, Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall soothe ; Let her bring from the chamber her many-toned lyre, And snin us a song on the fall of her sire. Remember the moment when Previsa fell," The shrieks of the conquer'd, the conquerors' yell ; The roofs that we fired, and the plunder we shared. The wealthy we slaughter'd, the lovely we spared. 9. [ talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear ; He neither must know who would serve the vizier : Since the days of our prophet the crescent ne'er saw A chief ever glorious like All Pashaw. 10. Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped, Let the yellow-hair'd ' Giaours 2 view his horse-tail * with dread ; When his Delhis* come dashing in blood o'er the baiiw How few shall escape from the Muscovite ranks ! 11. Selictar ! * unsheathe then our chief's scimitar : Tambourgi ! thy 'larum gives promise of war. Ye mountains, that see us descend to the shore, Shall view us as victors, or view us no more ! LXXIII. Fair Greece ! sad relic of departed worth ! M Immortal, though no more ; though fallen, great ! Who now shall lead thy scatter'd children forth, And long-accustom'd bondage uncreate ? Not such thy sons who whilome did await, The hopeless warriors of a willing doom, In bleak Thermopylae's sepulchral strait Oh ! who that gallant spirit shall resume, Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee from the tomb LXXIV. Spirit of freedom ! when on Phyle's brow 34 Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train, Couldst thou forebode the dismal hour which no* Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain? Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain, But every carle can lord it o'er thy land ; Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain, Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand, From birth till death enslaved; in word, in deed unmann'd. LXXV. In all, save form alone, how changed ! P He rush'd into the field, and, *oremost hgrumg, fcB. BYRON'S WORKS. XXIV. Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, : nd tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness ; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated ; who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon nights so sweet such awful morn could rise ? XXV. And there was mounting in hot haste : the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ; And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ; While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips " The foe ! They come! they come !" XXVI. And wild and high the " Cameron's gathering" rose ! The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes : How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, Savage and shrill ! But with the breath which fills Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years, And Evan's,* Donald's b fame rings in each clansman's ears ! XXVII. And Ardennes 6 waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave, alas ! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall gnw In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valour, rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall moulder ccld ?nd low. XXVIII. Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal-sound of strfe, The morn the marshalling in arms, the daj Battle's magnificently-stern array ! The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent, The earth is cover'd thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, B ider and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent ! XXIX. Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than mine ; Yet one I would select from that proud throng, Partly because they blend me with his line, And partly that I did his sire some wrong, And partly that bright names will hallow song , And his was of the bravest, and when shower'd J'he death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files along. Even where the thickest of war's tempest lower'd, n.nv fach'd no nobler breast than thine, younjj, gallant Howard XXX There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee, And mine were nothing, had I such to give ; But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree, Which living waves where thou didst cease to live, And saw around me the wide field revive With fruits and fertile promise, and the spring Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, With all her reckless birds upon the wing, I turn'd from all she brought to those she could not bring XXXI. I turn'd to thee, to thousands, of whom each And one as all a ghastly gap did make In his own kind and kindred, whom to leach Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake ; The archangel's trump, not glory's, must awake Those whom they thirst for ; though the sound of fame May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake The fever of vain longing, and the name So honour'd but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim. xxxn. They mourn, but smile at length ; and, smiling, mourru The tree will wither long before it fall ; The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn ; The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall In massy hoariness ; the ruin'd wall Stands when its wind-worn battlements arc gone ; The bars survive the captive they enthral, The day drags through though storms keep out the SUB And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on : XXXIII. Even as a broken mirror, which the glass In every fragment multiplies ; and makes A thousand images of one that was, The same, and still the more, the more it break* And thus the heart will do which not forsakes, Living in shatter'd guise, and still, and cold, And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches, Yet withers on till all without is old, Showing no visible sign, for snch things are untold XXXIV. There is a very life in our despair, Vitality of poison, a quick root Which feeds these deadly branches ; for it were As nothing did we die ; but life will suit Itself to sorrow's most detested fruit, Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's ' shorr, All ashes to the taste ; did man compute Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er Such hours 'gainst years of life, say, would he imiin three-score ? XXXV. The Psalmist number'd out the years of man : They are enough ; and if thy tale be true, Thou, who didst grudge him ev'n that fleeting spar More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo ! Millions of tongues record thee, and anew Their children's lips shall echo them, and say " Hire, where the sword united nations drew, Our countrymen were warring on that day !" And this is much, and all which will not pass awaj. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. XXXVI. There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men, Whose spirit antithetically mixt One moment of the mightiest, and again On little objects with like firmness fixt, Extreme in all things ! hadst thou been betwixt, Thy throne had still been thine, or never been ; For daring made thy rise as fall : thou seek'st Even now to re-assume the imperial mien, And shake again ''ie world, the thunderer of the scene! XXXVII. Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou ! She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds than now That thou art nothing, save the jest of fame, Who woo'd thee once, thy vassal, and became The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert A god unto thyself; nor less the same To the astounded kingdoms all inert, Who deem'd thee for a time whate'er thou didst assert. XXXVIH. Oh, more or less than man in high or low, Battling with nations, flying from the field ; Now making monarchs' necks thy footstool, now More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield ; An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild, But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor, However deeply in men's spirits skill'd, Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war, Nor learn that tempted fate will leave the loftiest star. XXXIX. Yet well thy soul hala brook'd the turning tide With that untaught innate philosophy, Which; be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride, Is gall and wormwood to an enemy. When the whole host of hatred stood hard by, To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled With a sedate and all-enduring eye ; When fortune fled her spoil'd and favourite child, He stood unbow'd beneath the ills upon him piled. XL. Sager than in thy fortunes ; for in them Ambition steel'd thee on too far to show That just habitual scorn which could contemn Men and their thoughts ; 't was wise to feel, not so To wear it ever on thy lip and brow, And spurn the instruments thou wert to use Till they were turn'd unto thine overthrow : 'T is but a worthless world to win or lose ; So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot wl.o choose. XLI. If, like a tower upon a headlong rock, Thou hadst been made to stand or full alone, Such scorn of man had help'd to brave the shock ; But men's thoughts were the steps which puved (hy throne, Their admiration thy best weapon shone ; Tho part of Philip's son was thine, not then (Unless aside thy purple had been thrown) Like stc-i Diogenes to mock at men ; t' a sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den.' I 2 XLII. But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell, And there hath been thy bane ; there is a fire And motion of the soul which will not dwell In its own narrow being, but aspire Beyond the fitting medium of desire ; And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore, Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire Of aught but rest ; a fever at the core, Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. XLIII. This makes the madmen who have made men mad By their contagion ; conquerors and kings, Founders of sects and systems, to whom add Sophists, bards, statesmen, all unquiet tilings, Which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs, And are themselves the fools to those they fool ; Envied, yet how unenviable ! what stings Are their's ! One breast laid open were a school Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or rule. XLIV. Their breath is agitation, and their life A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last, And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife, That should their days, surviving perils past, Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast With sorrow and supineness, and so die ; Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste With its own flickering, or a sword laid by Which eats into itself, and rusts mgloriously. XLV. He who ascends to mountain-tops shall find The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow ; He who surpasses or subdues mankind Must look down on the hate of those-below. Though high above the sun of glory glow, And far beneath the earth and ocean spread, Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow Contending tempests on his naked head, And thus reward the toils which to those summits led. XLVI. Away with these ! true wisdom's world will bo Within its own creation, or in thine, Maternal nature ! for who teems like thee, Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine ? There Harold gazes on a work divine, A blending of all beauties ; streams and dells, Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, corn-field, mountain, vuit, And chiefless castles breathing stern farewells From gray but leafy walls, where ruin greenly dwells. XLV II. And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind, Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd, All tenantless, save to the crannying wind, Or holding dark communion with the cloud. There was a day when they were young and ;>rou ti'2 BYRON'S WORKS. XLvm. Beneath those battlements, within those walls, Powei dwelt amidst her passions ; in proud state Each robber chief upheld his armed hails, Doing his evil will, nor less elate Than mightier heroes of a longer date. What want these outlaws 10 conquerors should have, But history's purchased page to call them great ? A wider space, an ornamented grave 1 Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full as brave. XLIX. In their baronial feuds and single fields, What deeds of prowess unrecorded died ! And love, which lent a blazon to their shields, With emblems well devised by amorous pride, Through all the mail of iron hearts would glide ; But still their flame was fierceness, and drew on Keen contest and destruction near allied, And many a tower for some fair mischief won, Saw the discolour'd Rhine beneath its ruin run. L. Butlnou, exulting and abounding river! Making thy waves a blessing as they flow Through banks whose beauty would endure for ever, Could man but leave thy bright creation so, Nor its fair promise from the surface mow With the sharp scythe of conflict, then to see Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know Earth paved like heaven ; and to seem such to me Rven now what wants thy stream? that it should Lethe be. LI. V thousand battles have assail'd thy banks, But these and half their fame have pass'd away, And slaughter heap'd on high his weltering ranks Their *ery graves are gone, and what are they? The tide wash'd down the blood of yesterday, And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream Glass'd with its dancing light the sunny ray, But o'er the blacken'd memory's blighting dream Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as they seem. LII. Thus Harold inly said, and pass'd along, Yet not insensibly to all which here Awoke the jocund birds to early song In glens which might have made even exile dear ; Though on his brow were graven lines austere, And tranquil sternness which had ta'en the place Of feelings fierier far but less severe, Joy was not always absent from his face, **ut o'er it in such scenes would steal with transient trace. LIII. Nor was all love shut from him, though his days Of passion had consumed themselves to dust. It is in vain that we would coldly gaze On such as smile upon us ; the heart must Leap kindly back 10 Kindness, though disgust Hath weaird it from all worldlings : thus he felt, For there was soft remembrance, and sweet trust In one fond breast, to which his own would melt, %ud in itf tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt. LIV. And he had learn'd to love I know not why, For this in such as him seems strange of mood, The helpless looks of blooming infancy, Even in its earliest nurture ; what subdued To change like this, a mind -so far imbued With scorn of man, it little boots to know ; But thus it was ; and though in solitude Small power the nipp'd affections have to grow, In him this glow'd when all beside had ceased to glow, LV. And there was one soft breast, as hath been said, Which unto his was bound by stronger ties Than the church links withal ; and, though unwed, That love was pure, and, far above disguise, Had stood the test of mortal enmities Still undivided, and cemented more By peril, dreaded most in female eyes , But this was firm, and from a foreign shore Well to that heart might his these absent greetings pour 1. The castled crag of Drachenfels " Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, Whose breast of waters broadly swells Between the banks which bear the vine, And hills all rich with blossom'd trees, And fields which promise corn and wine, And scatter'd cities crowning these, Whose far white walls along them shine, Have strew'd a scene, which I should see With double joy vvert thou with me ! 2 And peasant girls, with deep-blue eyes, And hands which offer early flowers, Walk smiling o'er this paradise ; Above, the frequent feudal towers Through green leaves lift their walls of gray, And many a rock which steeply lours And noble arch in proud decay, Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers ; But one thing want these banks of Rhine, Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine ! 3. I send the lilies given to me ; Though long before thy hand they touch, I know that they must wither'd be, But yet reject them not as such ; For I have cherish'd them as dear, Because they yet may meet thine eye, And guide thy soul to mine even here, When thou behold'st them drooping nigh, And know'st them gather'J by the Rhine, And offer'd from my heart to thine ! 4. The river nobly foams and flows, The charm of this enchanted ground, And all its thousand turns disclose Some fresher beauty varying round ; The haughtiest breast its wish might bound Through life to dwell delighted here ; Nor could on earth a spot be found To Nature and to me so dear, Could thy dear eyes in following mine Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine ! CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. LVI. By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground, There is a small and simple pyramid, Crowning the summit of the verdant mound ; Beneath its base are heroes' ashes hid, Our enemy's but let not that forbid . Honour to Marceau ! o'er whose early tomb Tears, big tears, gush'd from the rough soldier's lid, Lamenting and yet envying such a doom, Falling for France, whose rights he battled to resume. LVII. Brief, brave, and glorious was his young career, His mourners were two hosts, his friends and foes ; And fitly may the stranger lingering here Pray for his gallant spirit's bright repose ; For he was Freedom's champion, one of those, The few in number, who had not o'erstept The charter to chastise which she bestows On such as wield her weapons ; he had kept The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept. 12 .LVIIJ. Here Ehrenbreitstein, 13 with her shatter'd wall, Black with the miner's blast, upon her height Yet shows of what she was, when shell and ball Rebounding idly on her strength did light ; A tower of victory ! from whence the flight Of baffled foes was watch'd along the plain: But peace destroy'd what war could never blight, And laid those proud roofs bare to summer's rain On which the iron shower for years had pour'd in vain. LIX. Adieu to thee, fair Rhine ! How long delighted The stranger fain would linger on his way ! Thine is a scene alike where souls united Or lonely contemplation thus might stray ; And could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey On self-condemning bosoms, it were here, Where nature, nor too sombre nor too gay, Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere, Is to the mellow earth as autumn to the year. LX. Adieu to thee again ! a vain adieu ! There can be no farewell to scene like thine ; The mind is colour'd by thy every hue ; And if reluctantly the eyes resign Their cherish'd gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine ! 'T is with the .thankful glance of parting praise; More mighty spots may rise more glaring shine, But none unite in one attaching maze The brilliant, fair, and soft, the glories of old days. LXI. The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom Of coining ripeness, the white city's sheen, The rolling stream, the precipice's gloom, The forest's growth, and Gothic walls between, The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been In mockery of man's art; and these withal A race effaces happy as the scene, Whose fertile bounties here extend to all, Still springing o'er thy banks, though empires near them fall. LXIl. But these recede. Above me are the \lj. The palaces of nature, whose vast walls Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps. And throned eternity in icy halls Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls The avalanche the thundeVbolt of snow ! All that expands the spirit, yet appals, Gather around these summits, as to show How earth may pierce lo heaven, yet leave vain nvifl below. Lxm. But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan, There is a spot should not be pass'd in vain, Moral! the proud, the patriot field ! where man May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain, Nor blush for those who conquor'd on that plain ; Here Burgundy bequeath'd his tombless host, A bony heap, through ages to remain, Themselves their monument ; the Stygian coast Unsepulchred they roam'd, and shriek'd each waiuk-r m k ghost. LXIV. While Waterloo with C annaj's carnage vies, Moral and Marathon twin names shall stand ; They were true glory's stainless victories, Won by the unambitious heart and hand Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band, All unbought champions in no princely cause Of vice-ental'.'d corruption ; they no land Doom'd to bewail the blasphemy of laws Making kings' rights divine, by some Draconic clause LXV. By a lone wall a lonelier column rears A gray and grief-worn aspect of old days ; 'T is the last remnant of the wreck of years, And looks as with the wild bewilder'd gaze Of one to stone converted by amaze, Yet still with consciousness ; and there it stands Making a marvel that it not decays, When the coeval pride of human hands, Levell'd Aventicum, 15 hath strew'd her subject lands. LXVI. And there oh ! sweet and sacred be the name I- Julia the daughter, the devoted gave Her youth to Heaven ; her heart, beneath a claim Nearest to heaven's, broke o'er a father's grave. Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers would crave The life she lived in ; but the judge was just, And then she died on him she could not save. Their tomb was simple, and without a bust, And held within their um one mind, one neart, one dust. 16 LXVII. But these are deeds which should noi pass away, And names that must not wither, though the eariji Forgets her empires with ajusidecay, The enslavers and the enslaved, tneir deaih and birlti , The high, the mountain-majesty of worth Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe And from its immortality look forth In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow, '* [mpenshably pure beyond all things below 64 BYRON'S WORKS. LXVIII. Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face, The mirror where the stars and mountains view The stillness of their aspect, in each trace Its clear depth yields of their fair height and hue : There is too much of man here, to look through With a fit mind the might which I behold ; But soon in me shall loneliness renew Thoughts hid, but not less cherish'd than of old, Ere mingling with the herd had penn'd me in their fold. LXIX. To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind ; All are not fit with them to stir and toil, Nor is it discontent to keep the mind Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil In the hot throng, where we become the spoil Of our infection, till too late and long We may deplore and struggle with the coil, In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong, 'Midst a contentious world, striving where none are strong. LXX. There, in a moment, we may plunge our years In fatal penitence, and in the blight Of our own soul, turn all our blood to tears, And colour things to come with hues of night ; The race of life becomes a hopeless flight To those that walk in darkness : on the sea, The boldest steer but where their ports invite, But there are wanderers o'er eternity, Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall be. LXXI. Is it not better, then, to be alone, And love earth only for its earthly sake ? By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone," Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake, Which feeds it as a mother who doth make A fair but froward infant her own care, Kissing its cries away as these awake ; Is it not better thus our lives to wear, Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd to inflict or bear? LXXH. I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me ; and to me, High mountains are a feeling, but the hum Of human cities torture : I can see Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be A link reluctant in a fleshy chain, Class'd among creatures, when the soul can flee, And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain. LXXIII. And thus 1 am absorb'd, and this is life : I look upon the peopled desert past As on a place of agony and strife, Where, for some sin, to so-row was I cast, To act ami suffer, but remount at last With a fresh pinion ; which I feel to spring, Though youug, yet waxing vigorous as the blast Which if would cope with, on delighted wing, ork eye in woman ! Far along, From ,,eak to peak, the rattling crags among Leaps the live thunder ! Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, i'ack to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud ! XCIII. And this is in the night: most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber ! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, A portion of the tempest and of thee ! How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! And now again 't is black, and now, the glee Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. XCIV. Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between Heights which appoar as lovers ho have parted In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted ; Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted, Love was the very root of the fond rage Which blighted their life's bloom, and then departed j It self expired, but leaving them an age Of years all winters, war within themselves to wage. xcv. Now, where the quick Rhone thus has cleft his way, The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand : For here, not one, but many, make their play, And fling their thunder-bolts from hand to hand, Flashing and cast around : of all the band, The brightest through these parted hills hath fork'd His lightnings, as if he did understand, That in such gaps as desolation worit'd, 1 here the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurk'd. XCVI. Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings ! ye ! With night, and cl< ads, and thunder, and a soul To make these felt and feeling, well may be Things that have made me watchful ; the far rolf Of your departing voices is the knoll Of what in me is sleepless, if I rest. But where of ye, oh tempests ! is the goal ? Are ye like those within the hu.nan breast ? Jr do ve find, at leng'h, like eagles, some high nest ? XCVII. Could I embody and unbosom now That which is most within me, could I wreak My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak, All that I would have sought, and all I seek, Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe into one word, And that one word were Lightning, I would speak; Hut. as it is, 1 live and die unheard, With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as & iword. XCVIII. The morn is up again, the dewy mom, With breath all incense, and with cheek all blom, Laughing the clouds away with playful sco; n, And living as if earth contain'd no tomb, And glowing into day : we may resume The march of our existence : and thus I, Still on thy shores, fair Leman ! may find room And food for meditation, nor pass by Much that may give us pause, if ponder d fittingly. XCIX. Clarens ! sweet Clarens, birth-place of deep love ! Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought Thy trees take root in love ; the snows above The very glaciers have his colours caught, And sunset into rose-hues si es them wrought 47 By rays which sleep there 1- vingly : the rocks, The permanent crags, tell h tre of love, who sought In them a refuge from the worldly shocks, Which stir and sting the- soul with hope that woos, the* mocks. C. Clarens ! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod, Undying love's, who here ascends a throne To which the steps are mountains ; where the god Is a pervading life to light, so shown Not on those summits solely, nor alone In the still cave and forest ; o'er the flower His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown, His soft and summer breath, whose tender power Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate how CI. All things are here of Aim ; from the black pines, Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines Which slope his green path downward to the shoie Where the bow'd waters meet him and adore, Kissing his feet with murmurs ; and the wood, The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar, B 1 ;' '!'.! 'eaves, young as joy, stands where it stood, Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude. cn. A populous solitude of bees and birds, And fairy-form'd and many-colour'd things, Who worship him with notes rrore sweet than words, And innocently open their glad wings, Fearless and full of life : the gush of springs, And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend, Mingling, and made by love, unto one mighty end. cm. He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore, And make his heart a spirit ; he who knows That tender mystery, will love the more, For this is love's recess, where vain men's woes, And the world's waste, have driven him far from those, For 't is his nature to advance or die ; He stands not still, but or decays, or grows Into a boundless blessing, which may vie With the immortal lights, in its eternity ' CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. C7 CIV. T was not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot, Peopling it with affections ; but he found It was the scene which passion must allot To the mind's purified beings ; 'twas the ground Where early love his Psyche's zone unbound, And hallow'd it with loveliness : 't is lone, And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound, And sense, and sight of sweetness ; here the Rhone Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have rear'd a throne. cv. Lausanne ! and Ferney ! ye have been the abodes 23 Of names which unto you bequeath'd a name ; Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous roads, A path to perpetuity of fame : They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile Thoughts which should call down thunder and the flame Of Heaven, again assail'd, if Heaven the while On man and man's research could deign do more than smile. CVI. The one was fire and fickleness, a child, Most mutable in wishes, but in mind A wit as various, gay, grave, sage, or wild, Historian, bard, philosopher combined ; He multiplied himself among mankind, The Proteus of their talents : but his own Breathed most in ridicule, which, as the wind, Blew where it listed, laying all things prone, Now to o'erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne. cvn. The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought, And hiving wisdom with each studious year, In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought, And shaped his weapon with an edge severe, Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer : The lord of irony, that master-spell, Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from fear, And doom'd him to the zealot's ready hell, Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well. CVIII. Yet, peace be with their ashes, for by them, If merited, the penalty is paid ; It is not ours to judge, far less condemn ; The hour must come when sucli things shall be made Known unto all, or hope and dread allay'd By slumber, on one pillow, in the dust, Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decay'd ; And when it shall revive, as is our trust, T will be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just. CIX. But let me quit man's works, again to read His Maker's spread around me, and suspend This page, which from my reveries I feed, Until it seems prolonging without end. The clouds above me to the white Alps tend, And I must pierce them, and survey whate'er May be permitted, as my steps I bend To their most great and growing region, where The earth to her embrace compels the power of air. CX. Italia ! too, Italia ! looking on thee, Full flashes on the soul the light of age->, Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won the<> To the last halo of the chiefs and sages, Who glorify thy consecrated pages ; Thou wert the throne and grave of empires ; stiL, The fount at which the panting mind assuages Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill, Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hit. CXI. Thus far I have proceeded in a theme Renew'd with no kind auspices : to feel We sre not what we have been, and to deem We are not what we should be, and to steel The heart against itself; and to conceal, With a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught,- - Passion or feeling, purpose, grief or zeal, Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought ; Is a stern task of soul : No matter, it is taught. CXII. And for these words, thus woven into song, It may be that they are a harmless wile, The colouring of the scenes which fleet along, Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile My breast, or that of others, for a while. Fame is the thirst of youth, but I am no* So young as to regard men's frown or smile, As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot ; I stood and stand alone, remember'd or forgot. CXIII. I have not loved the world, nor the world me ; I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd To its idolatries a patient knee, Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles, nor cried aloud In worship of an echo ; in the crowd They could not deem me one of such ; I stood Among them, but not of them ; in a shroud Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, ana stiJ could, Had I not filed 2 * my mind, which thus itself subdued. CXIV. I have not loved the world, nor the world me, But let us part fair foes ; I do believe Though I have found them not, that there may be Words which are things, hopes which will not Of ceive, And virtues which are merciful, nor weave Snares for the failing : I would also deem O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve ; * That two, or one, are almost what they seem, That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream. cxv. My daughter ! with thy name this song begun My daughter ! with thy name thus much shall end I see thee not, I hear thee not, but none Can be so wrapt in thee ; thou art the friend To whom the shadows of far years extend Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behold, My voice shall with thy future visions blencl. And reach into thy heart, when mine is co.u, A token and a tone, even from thy father's nicuid. BYRON'S WORKS. CXVI. To aid thy mind's developement, to watch Thy dawn of little joys, to sit and see Almost thy very growth, to view thee catch Knowledge of objects, wonders yet to thee ! To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee, And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss, This, it should seem, was not reserved for me ; Yet this was in my nature : as it is, I know not what is there, yet something like to this. CXVII. Yet, though dull hate as duty should be taught, I know that thou wilt love me ; though my name Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught With desolation, and a broken claim : Though the grave closed between us, 't were the same 1 know that thou wilt love me ; though to drain My blood from out thy being, were an aim, And an attainment, all would be in vain, Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than life retain. CXVIII. The child of love, though born in bitterness, And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire These were the elements, and thine no less. As yet such are around thee, but thy fire Shall be more temper'd, and thy hope far higher. Sweet be thy cradled slumbers ! O'er the sea, And from the mountains where I now respire, Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee, As, with a sigh, I deem thou might' st have been to me! CANTO IV. Visto ho Toscana, Lombardia, Romagna, liuel monte chc divide, c quel die scrra Italia, e un mare e 1' altro, che la bagna. AEIOSTO, Satira \u. TO JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ. A.M. F.R.S. etc. etc. etc. MY DEAR HOBHOCSE, AFTER an -interval of eight years between the com- position of the first and last cantos of Childe Harold, the conclusion of the poem is about to be submitted to the public. In parting with so old a friend, it is not ex- traordinary that I should recur to one still older and better, to one who has beheld the birth and death of the other, and to whom I am far more indebted for the social advantages of an enlightened friendship, thai though not ungrateful I can, or could be, to Childe Harold, for any public favour reflected through the poem on the poet, to one, whom I have known long, and accompanied far, whom I have tound wakeful over my sickness, and kind in my sorrow, glad in my pros- perity, and firm in my adversity, true in counsel, and trusiy in peril to a friend often tried, and never found wanting; to yourself. In so doing, I recur from fiction to truth, and in dedi- cating to vou ir. its complete, or at least concluded state, a poetical work which is the longest, the most thoughtful, and comprehensive of my compositions, J wish to do honour to myself by the record of manj years' intimacy with a man of learning, of talent, f steadiness, and of honour. It is not for minds like ours to give or to receive flattery ; yet -the praises of sin cerity have ever been permitted to the voice of friend- ship, and it is not for you, nor even for others, but to relieve a heart which has not elsewhere, or lately, been so much accustomed to the encounter of good-will as to withstand the shock firmly, that I thus attempt to commemorate your good qualities, or rather the ad- vantages which I have derived from their exertion. Even the recurrence of the date of this letter, the an- niversary of the most unfortunate day of my past ex- istence, but which cannot poison my future, while 1 retain the resource of your friendship, and of my owr. faculties, will henceforth have a more agreeable recol- lection for both, inasmuch as it will remind us of this my attempt to thank you for an indefatigable regard, such as few men have experienced, and no one could" experience without thinking better of his species and of himself. It has been our fortune to traverse together, at vari- ous periods, the countries of chivalry, history, and fable Spain, Greece, Asia Minor, and Italy : and what Athens and Constantinople were to us a few years ago, Venice and Rome have been more, recently. The poem also, or the pilgrim, or both, have accompanied me from first to last ; and perhaps it may be a pardon- able vanity which induces me to reflect with compla- cency on a composition which in some degree connects me with the spot where it was produced, and the ob- jects it would fain describe ; and however unworthy il may be deemed of those magical and memorable abodes, however short it may fall of our distant conceptions and immediate impressions, yet as a mark of respec: for what is venerable, and a feeling for what is glorious, it has been to me a source of pleasure in the produc- tion, and I part with it with a kind of regret, which I hardly suspected that events could have left me for imaginary objects. With regard to the conduct of the last canto, there will be found less of the pilgrim than in any of the preceding, and that little slightly, if at all, separated from the author speaking in his own person. The fact is, that I had become weary of drawing a line which every one seemed determined not to perceive : like the Chinese in Goldsmith's " Citizen of the World," whom nobody would believe to be a Chinese, it was in vain that I asserted, and imagined, that I had drawn a dis- tinction between the author and the pilgrim ; and the very anxiety to preserve this difference, and disap- pointment at finding it unavailing, so far crushed my efforts in the composition, that I determined to abandon it altogether and have done so. The opinions which have been, or may be, formed on that subject, are now a matter of indifference ; the work is to depend on it- self, and not on the writer ; and the author, who has no resources in his own mind beyond the reputation, tran- sient or permanent, which is to arise from his literary efforts, deserves the fate of authors. In the course of the following canto it was my inten- tion, either in the text or in the nots, to have touched upon the present state of Italian uteraUiie, . XLI. The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust " The iron crown of laurel's mimick'd leaves ; Nor was the ominous element unjust, For the tme laurel-wreath which glory weaves ta Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves, And the false semblance but disgraced his brow ; Yet still, if fondly superstition grieves, Know that the lightning sanctifies below ai Whate'er it strikes ; yon head is doubly sacred now. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILQRIMAGE. XLII. Italia! ohltana! thou who hast" The fatal gift of beauty, which became A funeral dower of present woes and past, On thy sweet brow is sorrow plough'd by shame, And annals graved in characters of flame. Oh God ! that thou wert in thy nakedness Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim Thy right, and awe the robbers back who press To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy distress ; XLIII. Then might'st thou more appal ; or, less desired, Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored For thy destructive charms ; then, still untired, Would not be seen the armed torrents pour'd Down the deep Alps ; nor would the hostile horde Of many-nation'd spoilers from the Po Quaff blood and water ; nor the stranger's sword Be thy sad weapo i of defence, and so, Victor or vanquish'd, thou the slave of friend or foe. XLIV. Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him, 21 The Roman friend of Rome's least mortal mind, The friend of Tully : as my bark did skim The bright blue waters with a fanning wind, Came Megara before me, and behind JEgma. lay, Piraeus on the right, And Corinth on the left ; I lay reclined Along the prow, and saw all these unite [ a ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight ; XLV. For time hath not rebuilt them, but uprear'd Barbaric dwellings on their shatter'd site, Which only make more mourn'd and more endear'd The few last rays of their far-scatter'd light, And the crush'd relics of their vanish'd might. The Roman saw these tombs in his own age, These sepulchres of cities, which excite Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page The moral lesson bears, drawn from such pilgrimage. XLVI. Th<. page is now before me, and on mine His country's ruin added to the mass Of perish'd states he mourn'd in their decline, And I in desolation : all that was Of then destruction is; and DOW, alas! Rome Rome imperial, bows her to the storm, In the same dust and blackness, and we pass The skeleton of her Titantic form, 24 Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are warm. XLVII. Yet, Italy ! through every other land Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side to side Mother of arts! as once of arms ; thy hand Was then our guardian, and is still our guide ; Piu'ent of our religion ! whom the wide Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven! Europe, repentant of her parricide, Shill yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven, Rwl Jie barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven. K 2 15 XLVIII. But Arno wins us to the fair white walls, Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps A softer feeling for her fairy halls. Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps Her corn, and wine, and oil, and plenty leaps To laughing life, with her redundant horn. Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps Was modern luxury of commerce born, And buried learning rose, redeem'd to a new morn. XLIX. There, too, the goddess loves in stone, and fills" The air around with beauty ; we inhale The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils Part of its immortality ; the veil Of heaven is half undrawn ; within the pale We stand, and in that form and face behold What mind can make, when nature's self would fax, And to the fond idolaters of old , Envy the innate flash which such a soul could moulJ . L. We gaze and turn away, and know not where, Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart Reels with its fulness ; there for ever there Chain'd to the chariot of triumphal art, / We stand as captives, and would not depart. Away ! there need no words, nor terms precise, The paltry jargon of the marble mart, Where pedantry gulls folly we have eyes: Blood pulse and breast, confirm the Dardan sliej* herd's prize. LI. Appear'dst thou not to Paris in this guise ? Or to more deeply blest Anehises? or, In all thy perfect goddess-ship, when lies Before thee thy own vanquish'd lord of war? And gazing in thy face as toward a star, Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn, Feeding on thy sweet cheek ! 26 while thy lips are With lava kisses melting while they burn, Showcr'd on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as from an urn? Ln. Glowing, and circumfused in speechless lore, Their full divinity inadequate That feeling to express, or to improve, The gods become as mortals, and man's fate Has moments like their brightest ; but the weight Of earth recoils upon us ; let it go! We can recall such visions, and create, From what has been or might be, things which JK>W Into thy statue's form, and look like gods below. LIII. I leave to learned fingers, and wise hands, The artist and his ape, to teach and tell How well his ccnnoisseurship understands The graceful bend, and the voluptuous swell Let these describe the undescribable : I would not their vile breath should cnsp the utrua-u Wherein that image shall for ever dwell ; The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream That ever left the" sky on the deep soul to beam. BYRON'S WORKS. LIV. In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie 2 ' Ashes which make it holier, dust which is Even in itself an immortality, Though there were nothing save the past, and this, The particle of those sublimities Which have relapsed to chaos : here repose Angelo's, Alfieri's bones, 28 and his, The starry Galileo, with his woes ; (lore Machiavelli's earth returned to whence it rose. 29 LV. These are four minds, which, like the elements, Might furnish forth creation : Italy ! Time, which hath wrong'd thee with ten thousand rents Of thine imperial garment, shall deny, And hath denied, to every other sky, Spirits which soar from ruin : thy decay Is still impregnate wiih divinity, Which gilds it with revivifying ray ; Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day. LVI. But where repose the all Etruscan three Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they, The Bard of Prose, creative spirit ! he Of the Hundred Tales of love where did they lay Their bones, distinguish'd from our common clay In death as life ? Are they resolved to dust, And have their country's marbles nought to say ? Could not her quarries furnish forth one bust ? Did they not to her breast their filial earth entrust? LVH. Ungrateful Florence ! Dante sleeps afar, 30 Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore; 31 Thy factions, in their worse than civil war, Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore Their children's children would in vain adore With the remorse of ages ; and the crown 3I Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely wore, Upon a far and foreign soil had grown, Ills life, his fame, his grave, though rifled not thine own. LVIII. Boccaccio to his pa ont earth bequeath'd " His dust, and lies it not her great among, With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed O'er him who form'd the Tuscan's siren tongue? That music in itself, whose sounds are song, The poetry of speech ? No ; even his tomb UpC -rn, must bear the hymtia bigot's wrong, No more amidst the meaner dead find room, f\or claim a passing sigh, because it told for whom ! LIX. And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust; Ve for this want more noted, as of yore The Oajsar's pageant, shorn of Brutus' bust, Did but of Rome's best son remind her more : Happier Ravenna ! on thy hoary shore, Fortress of falling empire ! honour'd sleeps The immortal exile ; Arqua, too, her store Of tuneful relics oroudly claims and keeps, While Florence vainly begs her banish'd dead and weeps. LX. What is her pyramid of precious stones '/ '* Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones Of merchant-dukes ? the momentary dews Which, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse Freshness in the green turf that wraps the dead, Whose names are mausoleums of the muse, Are gently prest with far more reverent tread Than ever paced the slab which paves the princely head LXI. There be more things to greet the heart and eyes In Arno's dome of art's most princely shrine, Where sculpture with her rainbow sister vies ; There be more marvels yet but not for mine ; For I have been accustom'd to entwine My thoughts with nature rather in the fields, Than art in galleries : though a work divine Calls for my spirit's homage, yet it yields Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wields LXII. Is of another temper, and I roam By Thrasimene's lake, in the defiles Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home ; For there the Carthaginian's warlike wiles Come back before me, as his skill beguiles The host between the mountains and the shore, Where courage falls in her despairing files, And torrents, swoln to rivers with their gore, Reek through the sultry plain, with legions scattcr'd o'er LXI1I. Like to a forest fell'd by mountain winds ; And such the storm of battle on this day, And such the phrenzy, whose convulsion blinds To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray An earthquake reel'd unheededly away ! " None felt stern nature rocking at his feet, And vawning forth a grave for those who lay Upon their bucklers for a winding-sheet ; Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations meet '. LXIV The earth to them was as a rolling bark Which bore them to eternity ; they saw The ocean round, but had no time to mark The motions of their vessels ; nature's law In them suspended, reck'd not of the awe Which reigns when mountains tremble, and the birds Plunge in the clouds for refuge, and withdraw From their down-toppling nests ; asJ bellowing herds Stumble o'er heaving plains, and man's dread hath no words. LXV Far other scene is Thrasimene now ; Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough ; Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain Lay where their roots are ; but a brook hath ta'eo A little rill of scanty stream and bed A name of blood from that day's sanguine rain ; And Sanguinettr, tells ye where the dead Made the earth ^vet, mirror and a bath for beauty's youngest daughters ! LXVII. And on thy happy shore a temple sti!!, Of small and delicate proportion, keeps, Upon a mild declivity of hill, Its memory of thee ; beneath it sweeps Thy current's calmness ; oft from out it leaps The finny darter with the glittering scales, Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps ; While, chance, some scatter'd water-lily sails Lown where the shallower wave still tells its bubbling tales. Lxvni. Pass not unblest the genius of the place ! If through the air a zephyr more serene Win to the brow, 't is his ; and if ye trace Along his margin a more eloquent green, If on the heart the freshness of the scene Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust U. weary life a moment lave it clean With Nature's baptism, 't is to him ye must Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust. LXIX. The roar of waters! from the headlong height Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice ; The fall of waters ! rapid as the light The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss ; The hell of waters ! where they howl and hiss, And boil in endless torture ; while the sweat Of their great agony, wrung out from this Their Phlcgethon, curls round the rocks of jet That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set, LXX. And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again Returns in an unceasing shower, which round, With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain, Is an eternal April to ihe ground, Making it all one emerald : how profound The gulf! and how the giant element From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound, Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent vVith his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent LXXI. I'o the broad column which rolls on, and shows More like the fountain of an infant sea Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes Of a new world, than cnly thus to be Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly, With many windings, through the vale : look back! Lo! \vhereitcomes like an eternity, As if to sweep down ail things in its track, r>arn""f hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew O'er orostrate Asia; thou, who with thy frown Annihilated senates Roman, too. With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down With n signing smi'e a more than earth.y crown LXXXIV. The dictatorial wreath, couldst thou divine To what would one day dwindle that which mode Thee more than mortal ? and that so supine By aught than Romans Rome should thus be laid 7 She who was named eternal, and array'd Her warriors but to conquer she who veil'J Earth with her haughty shadow, and display'd, Until the o'er-canopied horizon fail'd, Her rushing wings Oh ! she who was almighty hail'd! LXXXV. Sylla was first of victors ; but our own The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell ; he Too swept off senates while he hew'd (he throne Down to a block immortal rebel ! See What crimes it costs to be a moment free And famous through all ages ! but beneath His fate the moral lurks of destiny ; His day of double victory and death Beheld him win two realms, and, happier, yield hi* breath. LXXXVI. The third of the same moon whose former course Had all but crown'd him, on the selfsame day Deposed him gently from his throne of force, And laid him with the earth's preceding clay. ** And show'd not fortune thus how fame and sway, And all we deem delightful, and consume Our souls to compass through each arduous way, Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb ? Were they but so in man's, how different were his doc n 1 Lxxxvn. And thou, dread statue ! yet existent in The austerest form of naked majesty, 45 Thou who beheldest, 'mid the assassins' din, At thy bathed base the bloody Csesar lie, Folding his robe in dying dignity, An offering to thine altar from the queen Of gods and men, great Nemesis ? did he die, And thou, too, perish, Pompey ? have ye been Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a scene ? Lxxxvin. And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome! * She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart The milk of conquest yet within the dome Where, as a monument of antique art, Thou standest: mother of the mighty heart, Which the great founder suck'd from thy wild teat, Scorch'd by the Roman Jove's ethereal dart, And thy Imbs black with lightning dost thou yet Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge forgtlT LXXXIX. Thou dost ; but all thy foster-babes are dead The men of iron ; and the world hath rear'd Cities from out their sepulchres : men bled In imitation of the things they fear'd. And fought and conquer'!], and the same course steer' d At apish distance ; but as yet none have, Nor could, the same supremacy have near'd. Save one vain man, who is not in the grave, But, vanquish'd by himself, to his own slaves a slave- CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 77 xc. Fhe fool of false dominion and a kind Of bastard Caesar, following him of old With steps unequal ; for the Roman's mind Was modell'd in a less terrestrial mould, 4 ' With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold, And an immortal instinct which redeem'd The frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold ; Alcides with the distaff now he seem'd At Cleopatra's feet, and now himself he bcam'd, XCI. And rame and saw and conquer'd ! But the man Who would have tamed his eagles down to flee, Like a train'd falcon, in the Gallic van, Which he, in sooth, long led to victory, With a deaf heart which never seem'd to be A listener to itself, was strangely framed ; With but one weakest weakness vanity, Coquettish in ambition si ill he aim'd At what : can he avouch or answer what he claim'd ? XCII. And would be all or nothing nor could wait For the sure grave to level him ; few years Had fix'd him with the Caesars in his fate, On whom we tread : for this the conqueror rears The arch of triumph ! and for this the tears And blood of earth flow on as they have flow'd, A universal deluge, which appears Without an ark for wretched man's abode, An3 ebbs but to reflow ! Renew thy rainbow, God ! XCIII. What from this barren being do we reap ? Our senses narrow, and our reason frail, 48 Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep, And all things weigh'd in custom's falsest scale ; Opinion and omnipotence, whose veil Mantles the earth with darkness, until right And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale Lest their own judgments should become too bright, And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have too much light. xcrv. And thus they plod in sluggish misery, Rotting from sire to son, and age to age, Proud of their trampled nature, and so die, Bequeathing their hereditary rage To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage War for their chains, and, rather than be free, Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage Within the same arena where they see fheir fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree. xcv. I speak not of men's creeds -they rest between Man and his Maker but ol things allow'd, Averr'd, and known, and daily, hourly seen, The yoke that is upon us doubly bow'd, And the intent of tyranny avow'd, The edict of earth's rulers, who are grown The apes of him who humbled once the proud, And shook them from their slumbers on the throne ; Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done. XCVI. Can tyrants but by tyrants conquer'd be, And freedom find no champion and no child Such as Columbia saw arise when she Sprung forth a Pallas, arm'd and undefiled ? Or must such minds be nourish'd in the wild, Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the roar Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled On infant Washington ? Has earth no more Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore? XCVII. But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime, And fatal have her Saturnalia been To freedom's cause, in every age and clime ; Because the deadly days which we have seen, And vile ambition, that built up between Man and his hopes an adamantine wall, And the base pageant last upon the scene, Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall Which nips life's tree, and dooms man's worst !>n second fall. XCVIII. Yet, freedom ! yet thy banner, torn, but flying, Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind : Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and dying The loudest still the tempest leaves behind ; Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, Chopp'd by the axe, looks rough and little worth, But the sap lasts, and still the seed we find Sown deep, even in the bosom of the north ; So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth. XCIX. There is a stern round tower of other days, 4 * Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone, Such as an army's baffled strength delays, Standing with half its battlements alone, And with two thousand years of ivy grown, The garland of eternity, where wave The green leaves over all by time o'erthrown ; What was this tower of strength? within its cave What treasure lay so lock'd, so hid ? A woman's gra\ e C. But who was she, the lady of the dead, Tomb'd in a palace? Was she chaste and fair? Worthy a king's or more a Roman's bed ? What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear ? What daughter of her beauties was the heir ? How lived how loved rhow died she ? Was she rid So honour'd and conspicuously there, Where meaner relics must not dare to rot, Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot ? CL Was she as those who love their lords, or they Who love the lords of others ? such have been, Even in die olden time, Rome's annals say. Was she a matron of Cornelia's mien, Or the light air of Egypt's graceful queen, Profuse of joy or 'gainst it did she war, Inveterate in virtue ? Did she lean To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar Love from amongst her griefs 1 for such the are. BYRON'S WORKS. en. Perclaac'. she /Jiea in youth : it may be, bow'd With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb That weigh'd upon her gentle dust, a cloud Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom In her dark eyt, prophetic of the doom Her.ven gives its favourites early death ; i0 yet shed A sunset charm around her, and illume With hectic light, the Hosperus of the dead, Ol tier consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-like red. era. Perchance she died ii age surviving all, Charms, kindred, children with the silver gray On her long tresses, which might yet recall, (t may be, still a something of tho day When they were braided, and her proud array And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed By Rome But whither would conjecture stray? Thus much alone we know Metella died, The wealthiest Roman's wife ; behold his love or pride ! CIV. 1 know not why but standing thus by thee It seems as if I had thine inmate known, Thou tomb ! and other days come back on me With recollected music, though the tone Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan Ot dying thunder on the distant wind : Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone Till 1 had bodied forth the heated mind Forms f om tne floating wreck which ruin leaves behind; CV. And from the planks, far shatter'd o'er the rocks, Built me a little bark of hope, once more To battle with the ocean and the shocks Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar Which rushes on the solitary shore Where all lies founder'd that was ever dear : But could I gather from the wave-worn store Enough for my rude boat, where should I steer ? 1 1iere woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is here. CVI. Then let the winds howl on ! their harmony Shall henceforth be my music, and the night The sound shall temper with the owlet's cry, As I now hear them, in the fading light Dim o'er the bird of darkness' native site, Answering each other on the Palatine, With their large eyes, all glistening gray and bright, And sailing pinions. Upon such a shrine "Vhat are our petty griefs ? let me not number mine. cm Cypress and ivy, weed and wall-flower grown Matted and mass'd together, hillocks heap'd On what were chambers, arch crush'd, column strown In fragments, choked-up vaults, and frescos steep'd In subterranean damps, where the owl peep'd, Deeming it midnight: temples, bathj, or halls? Pronounce who can ; for all that learning reap'd From her research hath been, that these are walls Hehoid the Imperial Mount ! 't is thus the mighty falls. 51 CVIII. There is the moral of all human tales ; ** 'T is but the same rehearsal of the past, First freedom, and then glory when that fails, Wealth, vice, corruption, barbarism at last. And history, with all her volumes vast, Hath but one page, 't is bettor written here, Where gorgeous tyranny had thus amass'd All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear, Heart, soul, could seek, tongue ask Away with words! draw near, CIX. Admire, exult despise laugh, weep, for here There is such matter for all feeling : man ! Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear, Ages and realms are crowded in this span, This mountain, whose obliterated plan The pyramid of empires pinnacled, Of glory's gewgaws shining in the van, Till the sun's rays with added flame were fill'd ! Where are its golden roofs ? where those who dared to build? ex. Tully was not so eloquent as thou, Thou nameless column with the buried base ! What are the laurels of the Caesar's brow? Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place. Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face, Titus, or Trajan's ? No 'tis that of time : Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace Scoffing ; and apostolic statues climb To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime,* 1 CXI. Buried in air, the deep-blue sky of Rome, And looking to the stars : they had contain'd A spirit which with these would find a home, The last of those who o'er the whole earth reign'd, The Roman globe, for after none sustain'd, But yielded back his conquests : he was more Than a mere Alexander, and, unstain'd With household blood and wine, serenely wore His sovereign virtures still we Trajan's name adore.** cxn. Where is the rock of triumph, the high place Where Rome embraced her heroes ? where the steep Tarpeian? fittest goal of treason's race, The promontory whence the Traitor's Leap Cured all ambition. Did the conquerors hepp Their spoils here ? Yes : and in yon field below, A thousand years of silenced factions sleep- The forum, where the immortal accents glow, And still the eloquent air breathes burns with Oi" K' CXIII. The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood ; Here a proud people's passions were exhaled, From the first hour of empire in the bud To that when further worlds to conquer fail'd ; But long before had freedom's face been veil'o And anarchy assumed her attributes ; Till every lawless soldier who assail'd Trod on the trembling senate's slavish mutca, Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. cxiv Then turn we to her latest tribune's name, From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee, Redeemer of dark centuries of shame The friend of Petrarch hope of Italy Rienzi! last of Romans ! ss While the tree Of freedom's wither'd trunk puts forth a leaf, Even for thy tomb a garland let it be The forum's champion, and the people's chief H3r new-born Numa thou with reign, alas ! too brief. cxv. Egeria ! sweet creation of some heart i8 Which found no mortal resting-place so fair As thine ideal breast ; whate'er thou art Or wert, a young Aurora of the air, The nympholepsy of some fond despair ; Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth, Who found a more than common votary there Too much adoring ; whatsoe'er thy birth, Fhou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth. CXVI. The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled With thine Elysian water-drops ; the face Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years unwrinkled, Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place, Whose green, wild margin now no more erase Art's works ; nor must the delicate waters sleep, Prison'd in marble ; bubbling from the base Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap The rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, and ivy creep, CXVII. Fantastically tangled ; the green hills Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills Of summer-birds sing welcome as ye pass ; Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class, Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass ; The sweetness of the violet's deep-blue eyes, Kiss'd by the breath of heaven, seems colour'd by its skies. cxvni. Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, Egeria ! thy all-heavenly bosom beating For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover ; The purple midnight veil'd that mystic meeting With her most starry canopy, and seating Thyself by thine adorer, what befell ? This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting Of an enamour'd goddess, and the cell Haunted by holy love the earliest oracle ! CXIX. And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying, Blend a celestial with a human heart ; And love, which dies as it was born, in sighing, Share with immortal transports ? could thine art Mak3 them indeed immortal, and impart The purity of heaven to earthly joys, Expei the venom and not blunt the dart The dull satiety which all destroys And root from out the soul the deadly weed which cloys 7 cxx. Alas ! our }'oung affections run to waste, Or water but the desert ; whence arise But weeds of dark luxuriance,ares of ' aste Rank at the core, though tempting to tne eves. Flowers whose wild odours breathe but agonies, And trees whose gums are poison ; such the plan * Which spring beneath her steps as passion flies O'er the world's wilderness, and vainly pants For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants. CXXI. Oh love ! no habitant of earth thou art An unseen seraph, we believe in thee, A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart, But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see The naked eye, thy form, as it should be ; The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven, Even with its own desiring phantasy, And to a thought such shape and image given, As haunts the unquench'd soul parch'd wearied wrung and riven. CXXII. Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, And fevers into false creation : where, Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized ' In him alone. Can nature show so fair? Where are the charms and virtues which we dare Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men The unreach'd paradise of our despair, Which o'er-informs the pencil and the pen, And overpowers the page where it would bloom again ) CXXIII. Who loves, raves 't is youth's frenzy but the cur* Is bitterer still ; as charm by charm unwinds Which robed our idols, and we see too sure Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind's Ideal shape of such, yet still it binds The fatal spell, and still it draws us on, Reaping the whirldwind from the oft-so\vn winds ; The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun, Seems ever near the prize, wealthiest when most u done. CXX1Y. We wither from our youth, we gasp away Sick sick ; unfound the boon unslaked the thirst. Though to ihe last, in verge of our decay, Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first But all too late, so are we doubly curst. Love, fame, ambition, avarice 't is the same, Each idle and all ill and none the worst For all are meteors with a different name, And death the sable smoke where vanishes the flj>me. cxxv. Few none find what they love or could have lov.-d, Though accident, blind contact, and the strong Necessity of loving, have removed Antipathies but to recur, ere long, Envenom'd with irrevocable wrong : And circumstance, that unspiritual god And miscreator, makes and helps along Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod, Whose touch turns hope to dust the dust we all o trod. ttO BYRON'S WORKS. CXXVI. Our life is a false nature 't is not in The harmony of things, this'hard decree, This uneradicable^aint of sin, This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree, Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be The skies which rain their plagues on men like dew Disease, death, bondage all the woes we see And worse, the woes we see not which throb through The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new. , cxxvn. Yet let us ponder boldly s ' 't is a base Abandonment of reason to resign Our right of thoughl our last and only place Of refuge ; this, at least, shall still be mine: Though from our birth the faculty divine Is chain'd and tortured cabin'd, cribb'd, confined, And bred in darkness, lest the truth should shine Too brightly on the unprepared mind, The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch the blind. C XXVIII. Arches on arches ! as it were that Rome, Collecting the chief trophies of her line, Would build up all her triumphs in one dome, Her Coliseum stands ; the moon-beams shine As "t were its natural torches, for divine Should be the light which streams here, to illume This long-explored but still exhaustless mine Of contemplation ; and tha azure gloom Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume CXXIX. Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven, Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument, And shadows forth its glory. There is given Unto the things of earth, which time hath bent, A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power And magic in the ruined battlement, For which the palace of the present hour Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower. cxxx. Oh time ! the beautifier of the dead, Adorner of the ruin, comforter And only nealer when the heart hath bled Time! the corrector where our judgments err, The test of truth, love, sole philosopher, For all beside are sophists, fron. thy thrift, Which never loses though it doth defer Time, the avenger ! unto tnee I lift My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift : CXXXI. Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine \nd temple more divinely desolate, Among thy mightier offerings here are mine, Ruins of years though few, yet full of fate : If thou hast ever seen me too elate, Hear me not : but if calmlv I have borne Good, and reserved my pride against the hate Which shall net whelm me, let me not have worn llus iron in my so.u in vain shall they not mourn? CXXKII. And thou, who never yet of human wrong Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis ! " Here, where the ancient paid thee homage long Thou, who didst call the furies from the abyss, And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss For that unnatural retribution just, Had it but been from hands less near in this Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust ! Dost thou not hear my heart ? Awake ! thou shall, utf must, CXXXIII. It b not that I may not have incurr'd For my ancestral faults or mine the wound I bleed withal, and, had it been conferr'd With a just weapon, it had llow'd unbound ; But now my blood shall not sink in the ground ; To thee I do devote it thou shall take The vengeance, which shall yet be sought and found Which if / have not taken for the sake But let that pass I sleep, but thou shall yet awake. CXXXIV. And if my voice break forth, 't is not that now f shrink from what is suffer'd: let him speak Who hath beheld decline upon my brow, Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weak ; But in this page a record will I seek. Not in the air shall these my words disperse, Though I be ashes ; a far hour shall wreak The deep prophetic fulness of this verse. And pile on human heads the mountain of my curse . cxxxv. That curse shall be forgiveness Have I not- Hear me, my mother Earth ! behold it, Heaven !- Have I not had to wrestle with my lot ? Have I not suffer'd things to be forgiven ? Have I not had my brain sear'd, my heart riven, Hopes sapp'd, name blighted, life's life lied away ? And only not to desperation driven, Because not altogether of such clay. As rots into the souls of those whom I survey. CXXXVI. From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy, Have I not seen what human things could do ? From the loud roar of foaming calumny To the small whisper of the as paltry few, And subtler venom of the reptile crew, The Janus glance of whose significant eye, Learning to lie with silence, would seem true, And without utterance, save the shrug or sigh, Deal round to happy fools its speechless obloquy. CXXXVII. But I have lived, and have not lived in vain: My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire, And my frame perish even in conquering pain, But there is that within me which .=hall l\r<: Torture and time, and breathe when I empire ; Something unearthly, which they deem not of, Like the remember'd tone of a mi-te lyre, Shall on their soften'd spirits sink, and nK f In hearts all rocky now the late rentiers' of w>v*> CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 81 CXXXVIII. The seal is set. Now welcome, thou dread power ! Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here Walk'st in the shadow of the midnight hour With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear ; Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene Derives from tliee a sense so deep and clear That we become a part of what has been, Ind grow unto the spot, all-seeing but unseen. CXXXIX. And here the buzz of eager nations ran, In murmur'd pity, or loud-roar'd applause, As man was slaughter'd by his fellow man. And wherefore slaughter'd ? wherefore, but because Such were the bloody Circus' genial laws, And the imperial pleasure. Wherefore not ? What matters where we fall to fill the maws Of worms on battle-plains or listed spot? Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot. CXL. I see before me the gladiator lie : 59 He leans upon his hand his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony, And his droop'd head sinks gradually low And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and nw The arena swims around him he is gone, Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch who won. CXLI. He heard it, br.t he heeded not his eyes Were with his heart, and that was far away ; He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize, But where his rude hut by the Danube lay There were his young barbarians all at play, There was their Dacian mother he, their sire, Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday 6 All this rush'd with his blood Shall he expire, And unavenged.? Arise ! ye Goths, and glut your ire! CXLII. But here, where murder breathed her bloody steam ; And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways, And roar'd or murmur'd like a mountain stream Dashing or winding as its torrent strays ; Here, where the Roman million's blame or praise Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd, " My voice sounds much and fall the stars' faint rays On the arena void seats crush'd walls bow'd 4nd galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely bud. CXLIII. A ruin yet what ruin ! from its mass Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been rear'd ; Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass Vnd marvel where the spoil could have appear'd. 'lath it indeed been plunder'd, or but clear'd ? Alas! developed, opens the decay, When the colossal fabric's form is near'd. It will not bear the brightness of the day, Which streams too much on all years, man, have reft away. Ifi CXLIV. But when the rising moon begins to climb Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there ; When the stars twinkle through the loops of tiw \ And the low night-breeze waves along the air The garland-forest, which the gray walls wear, Like laurels on the bald first Caesar's head ; " When the light shines serene but doth not glare, Then in this magic circle raise the dead : Heroes have trod this spot 't is on their dust ye treaii CXLV. " While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand ; " When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall ; And when Rome falls the world." From our own land Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty ^-all In Saxon times, which we are wont to call Ancient ; and these three mortal things are still On their foundations, and unalter'd all ; Rome and her ruin past redemption's skill, The world, the same wide den of thieves, or what y will. CXLVI. Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime Shrine of all saints, and temple of all gods, From Jove to Jesus spared and blest by time ; "* Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and mai. plod* His way through thorns to ashes glorious dome! Shalt thou not last ? Time's scythe and tyrants' roAt Shiver upon thee sanctuary and home Of art and piety Pantheon ! pride of Rome ! CXLVII. Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts ; Dcspoil'd yet perfect, with thy circle spreads A holiness appealing to all hearts To art a model ; and to him who treads Rome for the sake of ages, glory sheds Her light through thy sole aperture ; to those Who worship, here are altars for their beads ; And they who feel for genius may repose Their eyes on honour'd forms, whose busts around them close." CXLVI1I. There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light ** What do I gaze on ? Nothing : Look again ! Two forms are slowly shadow'd on my sight Two insulated phantoms of the brain : It is not so ; I see them full ana plain- An old man, and a female young and fair, Fresh as a nursing-mother, in whose vein The blood is nectar : but what doth she there, With her unmantled neck, and bosom white and bar* CXLIX. Full swells the deep pur<5 fountain of young life, Where on the heart and from the heart we lock Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife Blest into mother, in the innocent loon, Or even the piping cry of lips that brook No pain and small suspense, a joy perceive* Man knows not, when from out its cradled noon She sees her little bud put forth its leaves What may the fruit be yet? I know noi Cam wa Ee's. BYRON'S WORKS. CL. Hut here youth offers to old age the food, The milk of his own gift : it is her sire, To whom she renders back the debt of blood jlorn with her birth. No : he shall not expire While in those warm and lovely veins the fire Of health and holy feeling can provide Great Nature's Nile, whose deep stream rises higher Than Egypt's river from that gentle side )rink, drink and live, old man ! Heaven's realm holds no such tide. CLI. The starry fable of the milky way Has not thy story's purity ; it is A constellation of a sweeter ray, And sacred Nature triumphs more in this Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss Where sparkle distant worlds : Oh, holiest nurse ! No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source V~ith life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe. CLII. Turn to the mole which Adrian rear'd on high, 6f Imperial mimic of old Egypt's piles, Colossal copyist of deformity, Whose travell'd phantasy from the far Nile's Enormous model, doom'd the artist's toils To build for giants, and, for his vain earth, His shrunken ashes raise this dome : How smiles The gazer's eye with philosophic mirth, TV view th< huge design which sprung from such a birth. CLIII. But to ! the dome the vast and wondrous dome, " To which Diana's marvel was a cell Christ's mighty shrine above his martyr's tomb! I ha/e beheld the Ephesian's miracle fa columns strew the wilderness, and dwell The hyaena and the jackal in their shade ; I have beheld Sophia's bright roofs swell Their glittering mass i' the sun, and have survcy'd Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem pray'd ; CLIV. But thou, of temples old, or altars new, Standest alone with nothing like to thee Worthiest of God, the holy and the true. Since Zion's desolation, when that He Forsook his former city, what could be, Of earthly structures in his honour piled, Of a sublimer aspect ? Majesty, Power, glory, strength, and beauty, all are aisled !n tlus eternal ark of worship undented. CLV. Enter: its grandeur overwhelms thee not, And vjiy ? it is not lessen'd ; but thv mind, Expanded by the genius of the spot, His grown colossal, and can only find A f abode wherein appear enshrined Thy hopes of immortality ; and thou Shalt one uay. if found worthy, so defined, See thy God tace to face, as thou dost now If in Hnlv of Holips, nor be b'asted by his brow. CLVI. Thou movest but increasing with the advance Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth : BO, Deceived by its gigantic elegance ; Vastness which grows but grows to hannonize All musical in its immensities : Rich marbles richer painting shrines where flamo The lamps of gold and haughty dome which vies In air with earth's chief structures, though their franm Sits on the firm-set ground and this the clouds moot claim. CLVII. Thou seest not all ; but piecemeal thou must break, To separate contemplation, the great whole ; And as the ocean many bays will make, That ask the eye so here condense thy soul To more immediate objects, and control Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by heart Its eloquent proportions, and unroll In mighty graduations, part bv part, The glory which at once upon thee did not dart, CLVIII. Not by its fault but thine : our outward sense Is but of gradual grasp and as it is That what we have of feeling most intense Ojtstrips our faint expression ; even so this Outshining and o'erwhelming edifice Foolsour fond gaze, and, greatest of the great, Defies at first our nature's littleness, Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate. CLIX. Then pause, and be enlighten'd ; there is more In such a survey than the sating gaze Of wonder pleased, or awe which would adore The worship of the place, or the mere praise Of art and its great masters, who could raise What former time, nor skill, nor thought could plan The fountain of sublimity displays Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of man Its golden sands, and learn what great conceptions can. CLX. Or, turning to the Vatican, go see Laocoon's torture dignifying pain A father's love and mortal's agony With an immortal's patience blending : vain The struggle ; vain, against the coiling strain And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's grasp, The old man's clench ; the lons-envenom'd chain Rivets the living links, the enormous asp Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp. CLXI. Or view the Lord of the unerring bow, The God of life, and poesy, and light The sun in human limbs array'd, and brow All radiant from his triumph in the fight ; The shaft hath just been shot the arrow bright With an immortal's vengeance ; in his cy And nostril beautiful disdain, and might, And majesty, flash their full lightnings by Develooing in that one glance the Deity* CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. CLXII. But in his delicate form a dream of love, Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast Long'd for a deathless lover from above, And madden'd in that vision are cxprest All that ideal beauty ever bless'd The mind with in its most unearthly mood, When each conception was a heavenly guest A ray of immortality and stood, Star-like, around, until they gather'd to a god! CLXIII. And if it be Prometheus stole from heaven The fire which we endure, it was repaid By him to whom the energy was given Which this poetic marble hath array'd With an eternal glory which, if made By human hands, is not of human thought; And Time himself hath hallow'd it, nor laid One ringlet in the dust nor hath it caught A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which, 't was wrought. CLXIV. But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song, The being who upheld it through the past ? Methinks he cometh late and tarries long. He is no more these breathings are his last; His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast, And he himself as nothing: if he was Aught but a phantasy, and could be class'd With forms which live and suffer let that pass His shadow fades away into destruction's mass, CLXV. Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and all That we inherit, in its mortal shroud, And spreads the dim and universal pall Through which all things grown phantoms ; and the cloud Between us sinks, and all which ever glow'd, Till glory's self is twilight, and displays A melancholy haio scarce allow'd To hover on the verge of darkness ; rays Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the gaze, CLXVI. And send us prying into the abyss, To gather what we shall be when the frame Shall be resolved to something less than this Its wretched essence ; and to dream of fame, And wipe the dust from off the idle name We never more shall hear, but never more, Oh, happier thought ! can we be made the same : It is enough in sooth that once we bore These fardels of the heart the heart whose sweat was gore. CLXVTI. Hark ! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, A long low distant murmur of dread sound, Such as arises when a nation bleeds With some deep and immedicable wound ; Through slorm and darkness yawns the rending ground, The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief Seems r<-yal still, though with her head discrown'd, And paie, but lovely, with maternal grief She clasus a bahfc. 10 whom her breast yields no relief. CLXVIII. Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thcu ? Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead? Could not the grave forget thee, and lay 'ow Some less majestic, less beloved hc&d ? In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled, The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy, Death hush'd that pang for ever : with thee fled The present happiness and promised joy Which fill'd the imperial isles so full itseem'd to P<-I> CLXIX. Peasants bring forth in safety. Can it be, O thou that wert so happy, so adored ! > Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee, And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard Her many griefs for ONE ; for she had pour'd Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head Beheld her Iris. Thou, too, lonely lord, And desolate consort vainly wert thou wed! The husband of a year ! the father of the dead ' CLXX. Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made ; Thy briclal's fruit is ashes : in the dust The fair-hair'd daughter of the isles is laid, The love of millions ! How we did intrust Futurity to her ! and, though it must Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd Our children should obey her child, and bless'd Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seem'd Like stars to shepherds' eyes : 't was but a meteor beam'd. CLXXI. Woe unto us, not her ; for she sleeps well : The fickle wreath of popular breath, the tongue Of hollow counsel, the false oracle, Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstung Nations have arm'd in madness, the strange fate Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, 60 and hath flung Against their blind omnipotence a weight Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late, CLXXII. These might have been her destiny ; but no, Our hearts deny it : and so young, so fair, Goou without effort, great without a foe ; But now a bride and mother and now tiure ! How jr.any ties did that stem moment tear : From thy sire's; to his humblest subject's breast Is link'd the electric chain of that despair, Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and oppreso The land which loved thee so that none could lov best. CLXXIII. Lo, Nemi ! ' navell'd in the woody hills So far, that the uprooting wind, which tears The oak from his foundation, and -vhich smlls The ocean o'er its boundary, and bears Its foam against the skies, reluctant spares The oval mirror of thy glassy lake ; And, calm as cherish'd hate, its surface \vea. A deep cold settled aspect non-.n can sha*<* All coil'd into itself and round, as sleeps thr not think it if ssary to alter the passage, as, thoii-M the com mon accepts in affixed to it is "our Lady of the Rock," I ma well tissumf ie other sense, from the severities practised there L 2 ssassination is not confined to Portugal: in Sicilr nd Malta we are knocked on the head al a handsomf average nightly, and not a Sicilian or Maltese is eve* )unished ! Note 4. Stanza x.xiv. Behold the hall where chiefs were lalo convei.ed ! The convention of Cintra was signed in the palao if the Marchese Marialva. The late exploits of Lorn Vellington have effaced the follies of Cintra. He ha3, ndeed, done wonders: he has perhaps changed j.o character of a nation, reconciled rival superstitions, nd baffled an enemy who never retreated before his >redecessors. Note 5. Stanza xxix. Vet Mafra shall one moment claim delay. The extent of Mafra is prodigious ; it contains a pal- ace, convent, and most superb church. The six organs are the most beautiful I ever beheld in point of deco- ration ; we did not hear them, but were told that their tones were correspondent to their splendour. Mafra is .ermed the Escurial of .Portugal. Note 6. Stanza xxxiii. Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know "1 wixl him and Lusian slave, tliu lowest of the low. As I found the Portuguese, so I have characterized them. That they have since improved, at least in cou- rage, is evident. Note 7. Stanza xxxv. When Cava's traitor-sire first call'd the band That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothic gore 7 Count Julian's daughter, the Helen of Spain. Pela- ius preserved his independence in the fastnesses of the Asturias, and the descendants of his followers, after some centuries, completed their struggle by the conquesl of Grenada. Note 8. Stanza xlviii. No ! as he speeds he chaunts : " Viva el Rey !" "Viva el Rey Fernando!" Long live King Ferdi- nand ! is the chorus of most of the Spanish patriotic songs ; they are chiefly in dispraise of the old King Charles, the Queen, and the Prince of Peace. I hava heard many of them ; some of the -airs are beautiful. Godoy, the Pnncipe de la Paz, was born at Badajoz, on the frontiers of Portugal, and was originally in the ranks of the Spanish Guards, till his person attracted the queen's eyes, and raised him to the dukedom of Alcudia, etc. etc. It is to this man that the Spaniards universally impute the ruin of their country. Note 9. Stanza 1. Bears in his cap the badge of crimFqn hue. Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet. The red cockade, with " Fernando Septimo" in Ui centre. Note 10. Stanza li. The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match All who have seen a battery will recollect the pjr midal form in which shot and shells are piled. The Sierra Morena was foitified in every defile through which I passed in my way to Seville. Note 11. Stanza Ivi. Foil'd by a woman's hand before a battfti u wall. Such were the exploits of the Maid of Saragoza. When the author was at Seville she walked Jailvon tn 36 BYRON'S WORKS. Prailo, d'ecoralnd with medals and orders, by command of the Junto. Note 12. Stanza Iviii. The seal love's dimpling finger hath impressed Denotes how soft that chin that bears his touch. "Sigilla in mento impressa amoris digitulo Vesugio demonstrant mollitudinem." Jiul. Gel. Note 13. Stanza Ix. Oh, thou Parnassus ! These Stanzas were written in Castri (Delphos), at the foot of Parnassus, now called Aiaropa Liakura. Note 14. Stanza Ixv. Fair is proud Seville ; let her country boast Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days. Seville was the HISPALIS of the Romans. Note 15. Stanza bo. Ask re, Boeotian shades ! the reason why ? This was written at Thebes, and consequently in the best situation for asking and answering such a ques- tion ; not as the birth-place of Pindar, but as the capital of Bceotia, where the first riddle was propounded and solved. Note 16. Stanza Ixxxii. Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings. " Medio de fonte leporum Surgit amari aliquid, quod in ipsis floribus angat." Luc. Note 17. Stanza Ixxxv. A traitor only fell beneath the feud. Alluding to the conduct and death of Solano, the Governor of Cadiz. Note 18. Stanza Ixxxvi. " War even to the knife!" 'War to the knife ;" Palafox's answer to the French General at the siege of Saragoza. Note 19. Stanza xci. And thou, my friend ! etc. The honourable I*. W**. of the Guards, who died of a fever at Coimbra. I had known him ten years, the fcetter half of his life, and the happiest part of mine. In the short space of one month I have lost her who (jave me being, and most of those who had made that being tolerable. To me the lines of YOUNG are no fiction : Insatiate archer ! coukl not one suffice ? Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain. And thrice ere Ihrice yon moon had fill'd her horn." I should have ventured a verse to the memory of the fate Charles Skinner Matthews, Fellow of Downing Col- lege, Cambridge, were he not too much above all praise of mine. His powers of mind, shown in the attainment o>* greatei honours, against the ablest candidates, than those of any graduate on record at Cambridge, have sufficiently established his fame on the spot where it was acqu : red, while his softer qualities live in the recol- M-ction of friends who loved him too well to envy his uoenority. CANTO II. Note 1. Stanza i. despite ' war and wasting fire P iT of tne Acropolis was destroyed by the explosion a magazine during the Venetian siege. Note 1. Stanza i. But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow. Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire Of men who never felt tho sacreil glow That tnoughts oftliee and thine on pu'lisli'd breasts boaUw. We can all feel, or imagine, the regret with \\luck the ruins of cities, once the capitals of empires, are beheld ; the reflections suggested by such objects an too trite to require recapitulation. But never did the littleness of man, and the vanity of his very best virtues, ' of patriotism to exalt, and of valour to defend his country, appear more conspicuous than in the record of what Athens was, and the certainty of what she now is. This theatre of contention between mighty factions, of the struggles of orators, the exaltation and deposition of tyrants, the triumph and punishment of generals, is now become a scene of petty intrigue and perpetual disturbance, between the bickering agents of certain British nobility and gentry. " The wild foxes, the owls and serpents in the ruins of Babylon," were surely less degrading than such inhabitants. The Turks have ihe plea of conquest for their tyranny, and the Greeks have only suffered the fortune of war, incidental to the bravest; but how are the mighty fahen, when two painters contest the privilege of plundering the Par- thenon, and triumph in turn, according to the tenor of each succeeding firman ! Sylla could but punish, Philip subdue, and Xerxes burn Athens ; but it remained for the paltry antiquarian, and his despicable agents, to render her contemptible as himself and his pursuits. The Parthenon, before its destruction in part, by fire, during the Venetian siege, had been a temple, a church, and a mosque. In each point of view it is* an object ol regard : it changed its worshippers ; but still it was a place of worship thrice sacred to devotion: its violation is a triple sacrilege. But " Man, vain man, Drost in a little brief authority. Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven. As make the angels weep." Note 3. Stanza v. Far on the solitary shore he sleeps. It was not always the custom of the Greeks to burr their dead ; the greater Ajax in particular was interre* entire. Almost all the chiefs became gods after thei decease, and he was indeed neglected who had not an- nual games near his tomb, or festivals in honour of his memory by his countrymen, as Achilles, Brasidas, etc., and at last even Antinous, whose death was as heroic a* his life was infamous. Note 4. Stanza x. Here, son of Saturn ! was thy fav'rite throno. The temple of Jupiter Olympius, of which sixteen columns entirely of marble yet survive : originally ther were 150. These columns, however, are by many sup posed to have belonged to the Pantheon. Note 5. Stanza xi. And bear these altars o'er the long-reluctant brine. The ship was wrecked in the Archipelago. Note 6. Stanza xii. To rive what Goth, and Turk, and time hath sp?red At this moment (January 3, 1809), besides what ha been already deposited in London, a Hydriot vessel i in the Piraeus to receive every possible rc'.ic. TKus, a^ 1 heard a young Greek observe, in common wi'Ji oxinv 4 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. S7 his> countrymen for, lost as they are, they yet feel on tiiis occasion thus may Lord Elgin boast of having ruined Athens. An Italian painter of the first eminence, named Lusieri, is the agent of devastation ; and, like the Greek finder of Verres in Sicily, who followed the same profession, he has proved the able instrument of plunder. Between this artist and the French consul Fauvel, who wishes to rescue the remains for his own government, there is now a violent dispute concerning a car employed in their conveyance, the wheel of which I wish they were both broken upon it has been locked up by the consul, and Lusieri has laid his com- plaint before the Waywode. Lord Elgin has been ex- tremely happy in his choice of SLgnor Lusieri. During a residence of ten years in Athens, he never had the curiosity to proceed as far as Sunium, ' till he accom- panied us in our second excursion. However, his works, as far as they go, are most beautiful : but they are al- most all unfinished. While he and his patrons confine themselves to tasting medals, appreciating cameos, sketching columns, and cheapening gems, their little absurdities are as harmless as insect or fox-hunting, maiden-speechifying, barouche-driving, or any such pastime ; but when they carry away three or four ship- loads of the most valuable and massy relics that time and barbarism have left to the most injured and most celebrated of cities ; when they destroy, in a vain at- tempt to tear down, those works which have been the admiration of ages, I know no motive which can ex- cuse, no name which can designate, the perpetrators of this dastardly devastation. It was not the least of the crimes laid to the charge of Verres, that he had plun- dered Sicily, in the manner since imitated at Athens. The most unblushing impudence could hardly go fur- ther than to affix the name of its plunderer to the walls of the Acropolis ; while the wanton and useless deface- ment of the whole range of the basso-relievos, in one compartment of the temple, will never permit that name to be pronounced, by an observer, without execration. 1 Now Cape Colonna. In all Attica, if we except Athens itself and Marathon, Ihere is no scene more interesting than Cape Colonna. To the antiquary and anist, sixteen columns are an inexhaustible source of observation and design ; to the philosopher the supposed scene of some of Plato's conversa- tions will not be unwelcome ; and the traveller will be struck with the beauty of the prospect over " hln that crown the Mgean deep;" but for an Englishman. Colonna has yet an addition:! I inteiest, as the actual spot of Falconer's Shipwreck. Pallas and Plato are forgotten in the recollection of Falconer and Campbell : " Here in the dead of night, by Lonna's steep. The seaman's cry was heard along the deep. This temple of Minerva may be been at sea from a great dis- tance. In two journeys which I made, and one voyage to Cape Colonna. the view from either side, by land, was less striking than the approach from the isles. In our second land excursion, we had a narrow escape from a parly of Mainotea. concealed in the caverns beneath. We were told afterwards, by one of iheir prisoners subsequently ransomed, that they were deterred from attacking us by the appearance of my two Albanians conjecturing very sagaciously, but falsely, that we had a com- plete guard of these Arnaouts at hand, they lemained station- ary, anil thus slaved our parly, which was too small to have opposed any effectual resistance. Colonna is no less a resort of painters than of pirates; there " The hireline artist plants his paltry desk. And makes degraded Nature picturesque." (Sec Hodgson's Lady Jane Grey, etc.) But tliere Nature, with the aid of art. has done that for her- self. 1 wot lortunate enough to engage a very superior German mist; and Impe tn renew my acquaintance with tins and many iMli l.-'vaotine scenes, by the arriva 1 of his performance*. On this occasion I speak impartially : I am not a col- ector or admirer of collections, consequently no rival ; ut I have some early prepossessions in favour of Greece, and do not think the honour of England advanced by plunder, whether of India or Attica. Another noble Lord has done better, because he ha done less: but some others, more or less noble, yet " all honourable men," have done bftt, because, after a deal of excavation and execration, bribery to th Waywode, mining and countermining, they have done nothing at all. We had such ink-shed, and wine-shed, which almost ended in blood-shed ! Lord E.'s " prig," see Jonathan Wylde for the definition of " priggisra," quarrelled with another, Gropius ' by name (a very good name too for his business), and muttered some- thing about satisfaction, in a verbal answer to a note of the poor Prussian : this was stated at table to Gropius, who laughed, but could eat no dinner afterwards. The rivals were not reconciled when I left Greece. I have reason to remember their squabble, for they wanted to make me their arbitrator. Note 7. Stanza xii. Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard, Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains. I cannot resist availing myself of the permission of my friend Dr. Clarke, whose name requires no com- ment with the public, but whose sanction will add ten- fold weight to my testimony, to insert the following ex- tract from a very obliging letter of his to me, as a note to the above lines : " When the last of the Metopes was taken from the Parthenon, and, in moving of it, great part of the su- perstructure, with one of the triglyphs, was thrown down by the workmen whom Lord Elgin employed ; the Disdar, who beheld the mischief done to the build- ing, took his pipe from his mouth, dropped a tear, and, in a supplicating tone of voice, said to Lusieri, TAej ' I was present." The Disdar alluded to was the father of the present Dis lar. Note 8. Stanza xiv. Where was thine aegis, Pallas! that appall'd Stern Alaric and havoc on their way T According to Zozimus, Minerva and Achilles fright- oned Alaric from the Acropolis ; but others relate that the Gothic king was nearly as mischievous as the Scot- tish peer See CHANDLER. Note 9. Stanza xviii. the netted canopy. The netting to prevent blocks or splinters from taB- ing on deck during action. Note 10. Stanza xxix. But not in silence pass Calypso's isles. Goza is said to have been the island of Calypso. 1 This Sr. Gropius was employed by a noble Lord for tha sole purpose of sketching, in which he excels ; but I am sorrr to say, that he has. through the abused sanction of that most respectable name, been treading at an humble distance in the steps of Sr. Lusieri. A shipfull of his trophies was detained, and, I believe, confiscated at Constantinople, in 1810. I am most happy to be now enabled to state, that " this was not in his bond ;" that he was employed solely as a painter, and thai his noble patron disavows all connexion with him, except M an artist. If the error in the first andrt of 1 urxey which rame within my observation ; and more faithful in peril, or indefatigable in service, are rare to be found. The Infidel was named Basilius, the Moslem, Der*ish Tahiri ; the formo-r a man of middle age, and the latter about my own. Basili was stnctlj changed by Ali Pacha in person to attend us ; and Der- vish was one of fifty who accompanied us through ths forests of Acarnania to the banks of Achelous, and on- ward to Messalunghi in ^Etolia. There I took him inta my own service, and never had occasion to repent it till the moment of my departure. When in 1810, after the departure of my friend Mr. H. for England, I was seized with a severe fever in the Morea, these men saved my life by frightening away my physician, whose throat they threatened to cut if I was not cured within a given time. To this consola tory assurance of posthumous retribution, and a reso- lute refusal of Dr. Romanelli's prescriptions, I attributed my recovery. I had left my last remaining English servant at Athens ; my dragoman was as ill as myself, and my poor Arnaouts nursed me with an attention which would have done honour to civilization. They had a variety of adventures ; for the Moslem, Dervish, being a remarkably handsome man, was al- ways squabbling with the husbands of Athens ; inso- much that four of the principal Turks paid me a visit of remonstrance at the Convent, on the subject of his having taken a woman from the bath whom he had lawfully bought however a thing quite contrary to etiquette. Basili also was extremely gallant amongst his own persuasion, and had the greatest veneration for the church, mixed with the highest contempt of church- men, whom he cuffed upon occasion in a most hetero- dox manner. Yet he never passed a church without crossing himself; and I remember the risk he ran in entering St. Sophia, in Stambol, because it had once been a place of his worship. On remonstrating with him on his inconsistent proceedings, he invariably an- swered, " our church is holy, our priests are thieves ;" and then he crossed himself as usual, and boxed the ears of the first " papas" who refused to assist in any required operation, as was always found to be neces- sary where a priest had any influence with the Cogia Bashi of his village. Indeed a more abandoned race of miscreants cannot exist than the lower orders of the Greek clergy. When preparations were made for my return, my Albanians were summoned to receive their pay. Basili took his with an awkward show of regret at my in- tended departure, and marched away to his quarters with his bag of piastres. I sent for Dervish, but for some time he was not to be found ; at last he entered, just as Signer Logotheti, father to the ci-devant Ang'o- consul of Athens, and some other of my Greek ac- quaintances, paid me a visit. Dervish took the money, but on a sudden dashed it to the ground ; and clasping his hands, which he raised to his forehead, rushed out of the room weeping bitterly. From that moment to the h6"ur of my embarkation, he continued his lament- ations, and all our efforts to console him only produced (his answer, " M' aQctvtt," " He leaves me." Signer Logotheti, who never wept before for any thing les than the loss of a para, ' melted ; the padre of the convent, my attendants, my visitors and I verily be- lieve that even " Sterne's foolish fat scullion" would have left her " fish-kettle" to sympathize with the un affected and unexpected sorrow of this barbarian. 1 P about the fourth of a faith ing. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. For my own part, when I remembered that, a short time before my departure from England, a noble and most intimate associate had excused himself from tak- ino leave of me because he had to attend a relation " to a milliner's," I felt no less surprised than humili- ated by the present occurrence and the past recollec- don. That Dervish would leave me with sonic regret was to be expected : when master and man have been scrambling over the mountains of a dozen provinces to- gether, they are unwilling to separate ; but his present feelings, contrasted with his native ferocity, improved my opinion of the human heart. I believe this almost feudal fidelity is frequent amongst them. One day, on our journey over Parnassus, an Englishman in my ser- vice gave him a push in some dispute about the bag- gage, which he unluckily mistook for a blow ; he spoke not, but sat down, leaning his head upon his hands. Foreseeing the consequences, we endeavoured to ex- plain away the affront, which produced the following answfer: "I have been, a robber, I am a soldier; no captain ever struck me ; you are my master, I have eaten your bread ; but by that bread ! (a usual oath) had it been otherwise, I would have stabbed the dog your ser- vant, and gone to the mountains." So the affair ended, but from that day forward he never thoroughly forgave the thoughtless fellow who insulted him. Dervish excelled in the dance of his country, conjec- tured to be a remnant of the ancient Pyrrhic : be that as it may, it is manly, and requires wonderful agility. It is very distinct from the stupid Romaika, the dull round- about of the Greeks, of which our Athenian party had BO many specimens. The Albanians in general (I do not mean the cultiva- tors of the earth in the provinces, who have also that appellation, but the mountaineers) have a fine cast o) countenance ; and the most beautiful women I ever be- held, in stature and in features, we saw levelling the road broken down by the torrents between Delvinachi and Libochabo. Their manner of walking is truly the- atrical ; but this strut is probably the effect of the.ca- pote, or cloak, depending from one shoulder. Their long hair reminds you of the Spartans, and their cour- age in desultory warfare is unquestionable. Though they have some cavalry amongst the Gegdes, I never saw a good Arnaout horseman : my own preferred the English saddles, which, however, they could never keep. But on foot they arc not to be subdued by fatigue. Note 12. Stanza xxxlx. an.l pass'd the barren spot. Where sad Penelope o'erlook'd the wave. Ithaca. Note 13. Stanza xl. Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar. Actium and Trafalgar need no further mention. Th< battle of Lepanto, equally bloody and considerable, bu less known, was fought in the gulf of Patras ; here thi author of Don Quixote lost his left hand. Note 14. Stanza xli. Anil hail'd the last resort of fruitless love. Leucadia, now Santa Maura. From the promontor} (the I .over's Leap) Sappho is said to have thrown her Mif. 17 Note 15. Stanza xlv. many a Roman chief and Asian king. It is said, that on the day previous to the battle o. Actium, Anthony had thirteen kings at his levee. Note 16. Stanza xlv. Look where the second Cassar's trophies rose. Nicopolis, whose ruins are most extensive, is at sornt. listance from Actium, where the wall of the Hippo- Irome survives in a few fragments. Note 17. Stanza xlvii. Acherusia's lake. According to Pouqueville, the Lake of Yanina ; biit "ouqueville is always out. Note 18. Stanza xlvii. To greet Albania's chief. The celebrated All Pacha. Of this extraordinary man here is an incorrect account in Pouqueville's Travels. Note 19. Stanza xlvii. Yet here and there some daring mountain band Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold. Five thousand Suliotes, among the rocks and in the castle of Suli, withstood 30,000 Albanians for eighteen ears : the castle at last was taken by bribery. In this contest there were several acts performed not unworthy of the better days of Greece. Note 20. Stanza xlviii. Monastic Zitza, etc. The convent and village of Zitza are (bur hours' jour- ney from Joannina, or Yanina, the capital of the Pa- chalick. In the valley the river Kalamas (once the Ache- ron) flows, and not far from Zitza forms a fine cataract. The situation is perhaps the finest in Greece, though the approach to Delvinachi and parts of Acarnania and /Etolia may contest the palm. Delphi, Parnassus, and, in Attica, even Cape Colonna and Port Raphti, are very inferior ; as also every scene in Ionia or the Troad : I am almost inclined to add the approach to Constanti- nople, but, from the different features of the last, comparison can hardly be made. Note 21. Stanza xlix. Here dwells the caloyer The Greek monks are so called. Note 22. Stanza li. Nature's volcanic amphitheatre. The Chimariot mountains appear to have been vo canic. Note 23. Stanza h. behold black Acheron : Now called Kalamas. Note 24. Stanza lii. in his white capotp Albanese cloak. Note 25. Stanza Iv. The sun had sunn behind vast Tomwit. Anciently Mount Tomarus. Note 26. Stanza Iv. And Laos wide and fierce came roaring DJ. The river Laos was full at the time the author pa.s.> it ; and, immediately above Tepaleen, was to the *je ** 90 BYRON'S WORKS. wide as the Thames i>a Westminster; at least in the opinion of the author and his fellow-traveller, Mr. Hobhouse. In the summer it must be much narrower. It certainly is the finest river in the Levant ; neither Achelous, Alpheus, Acheron, Scamander, nor Cayster, pproached it in breadth or beauly. Note 27. Stanza Ixvi. And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof. Alluding to the wreckers of Cornwall. Note 28. Stanza Ixxi. the red wine circling fast. The Albanian Mussulmans do not abstain from wine, and indeed very few of the others. Note 29. Stanza Ixxi. Each Palikar his sabre from him cast. Palikar, shortened when addressed to a single person, from Ua\iKapt, a general name for a soldier amongst the Greeks and Albanese who speak Romaic it means properly " a lad." Note 30. Stanza Ixxii. While thus in concert, etc. As a specimen of the Albanian or Arnaout dialect of the Illyric, I here insert two of their most popular choral songs, which are generally chaunted in dancing by men or women indiscriminately. The first words are merely a kind of chorus, without meaning, like some in our own and all other languages. Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Lo, Lo, I come, I come ; Naciarura, popuso. Naciarura na civin Ha pe uderini ti hin. Ha pe uderi escrotini Ti vin ti mar servetini. Caliriote me surme Ea ha pe pse dua live. Buo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Gi egem spirta esimiro. Caliriote vu le funds Ede veto tunde tunde. Caliriote me surme Ti mi put e poi mi le. Se ti puta citi mora Si mi ri ni veti udo gia be thou silent. I come, I run ; open the door that I may enter. Open the door by halves, that I may take my tur- ban. Caliriotes 1 with the dark eyes, open the gate that I may enter. Lo, lo, I hear thee, my soul. An Arnaout girl, in costly garb, walks with graceful pride. Caliriot maid of the dark eyes, give me a kiss. If I have kissed thee, what hast thou gained? My soul is consumed with fire. Va ie ni il chc cadale Dance lightly, more gently, Celo more, more celo. and gently still. I*iu hari ti tirete Make not so much dust to I'lu huron cia ora seti. destroy your embroidered hose. The lasv. stanza would puzzle a commentator : the men nave certainly buskins of the^ost beautiful texture, tint the ladies (to whom the above is supposed to be addressed) have nothing under their little yellow boots I The Albanese, particularly the women, are frequently it Calirio'e" " for what reason I inquired in vain. and slippers but a well-turned and sometimes very white ancle. The Arnaout girls are much handsomer than the Greeks, and their dress is far more picturesque. They preserve their shape much longer also, from being al- ways in the open air. It is to be observed that the Arnaout is not a written language ; the words of thi song, therefore, as well as the one which follows, are spelt according to their pronunciation. They are copied by one who speaks and understands the dialect peiv fectly, and who is a native of Athens. Ndi sefda tinde ulavossa Vettimi upri vi lofsa. Ah vaisisso mi privi lofse Si mi rini mi la vosse. Uti tasa roba stua Sitti eve tulati dua. Roba stinori ssidua Qu mi siru vetti dua. Qurmini dua civileni Roba ti siarmi tildi eni. Utara pisa vaisisso me simi rin ti bapti. Eti mi bire a piste si gui dendroi tiltati. Udi vura udorini udiri ci- cova cilti mora Udorini talti hollna u ede caimoni mora. I am wounded by thy love, and have loved but to scorch myself. Thou hast consumed me ! Ah, maid ! thou hast struck me to the heart. I have said I wish no dow- ry, but thine eyes and eyelashes. The accursed dowry I want not, but thee only. Give me thy charms, and let the portion feed the flames. I have loved thee, maid, with a sincere soul, but thou hast left me like a withered tree. If I have placed my hand on thy bosom, what have I gained? my hand is withdrawn, but retains the flame. I believe the two last stanzas, as they are in a differ- ent measure, ought to belong to another ballad. An idea something similar to the thought in the last lines was expressed by Socrates, whose arm having come in contact with one of his " u-oicoXirioi," Critobulus or Cleobulus, the philosopher complained of a shooting pain as far as his shoulder for some days after, and therefore very properly resolved to teach his disciples in future without touching them. Note 31. Seng, stanza 1. Tambourgi ! Tambourgi ! thy 'larum afar, etc. These stanzas are partly taken from different Alba- nese songs, as far as I was able to make them out by the exposition of the Albanese in Romaic and Italian. Note 32. Song, stanza 8. Remember the moment when Previsa fell. It was taken by storm from the French. Note 33. Stanza Ixxiii. Fair Greece ! sad relic ofdcparted worth, etc. Some thoughts on this subject will be found in IM subjoined papers. Note 34. Stanza Ixxiv. Spirit of freedom ! when on Phyle's brow Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train. Phyle, which commands a beautiful view of Athens, has still considerable remains ; it was seized by Thrasy bulus previous U. .he expulsion of the. Thirty CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. Note 35. Stanza Ixxvii. Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest. When taken by the Latins, and retained for several years. See GIBBON. Note 36. Stnnza Ixxvii. The prophet's tomb of all its pious spoil. Mecca and Medina were taken some time ago by the Wahabees, a sect yearly increasing. Note 37. Stanza Ixxxv. Thy vales of ever-green, thy hills of snow On many of the mountains, particularly Liakura, the snow never is entirely melted, notwithstanding the in- tense heat of the summer ; but I never saw it lie on the plains, even in winter. Note 38. Stanza Ixxxvi. Save where some solitary column mourns Above its prostrate brethren of the cave. Of Mount Pentelicus, from whence the marble was dug that constructed the public edifices of Athens. The modern name is Mount Mendeli. An immense cave formed by the quarries still remains, and will till the end of time. Note 39. Stanza Lxxxix. When Marathon became a magic word " Siste, viator heroa calcas !" was the epitaph on the famous Count Merci ; what then must be our feelings when standing on the tumulus of the two hundred (Greeks) who fell on Marathon ? The prin- cipal barrow has recently been opened by Fauvel ; few or no relics, as vases, etc. were found by the excavator. The plain of Marathon was offered to me for sale at the sum of sixteen thousand piastres, about nine hun- dred pounds ' Alas ! " Expende quot libras in duce summo invenies?" was the dust of Miltiades worth no more ? it could scarcely have fetched less if sold by weight, PAPERS REFERRED TO BY NOTE 33. 1. Before I say any thing about a city of which every body, traveller or not, has thought it necessary to say something, I will request Miss Owenson, when she next borrows an Athenian heroine for her four volumes,, to have the goodness to marry her to somebody more o a gentleman than a " Disdar Aga" (who by the by is not an aga), the most impolite of petty officers, the greatest patron oflarceny Athens ever saw (except Lore E.), and the unworthy occupant of the Acropolis, on a handsome annual stipend of 130 piastres (eight pounds sterling), out of which he has only to pay his garrison the most ill-regulated corps in the ill-regulated Otto- man Empire. I speak it tenderly, seeing I was onc the cause of the husband of " Ida of Athens" nearl; suffering the bastinado; and because the said " Disdar' is a turbulent husband, and beats his wife, so that exhort and beseech Miss Owenson to sue for a separat maintenance in behalf of " Ida." Having premised fhus much, on a matter of such import to the readers of romances, I may now leave Ida, to mention her jirth-place. Setting aside the magic of the name, and all those associations which it would be pedantic and super- fluous to recapitulate, the very situation of Athens A'ould render it the favourite of all who have eves for art or nature. The climate, to me at least, appeared a erpetual spring ; during eight months I never passed a lay without being as many hours on horseback ; rain s extremely rare, snow never lies in the plains, and a cloudy day is an agreeable rarity. In Spain, Portusal, and every part of the East which I visited, except Iou> and Attica, I perceived no such superiority of climate o our own ; and at Constantinople, where I passed May, June, and part of July (1810), you might "damn the climate, and complain of spleen," five days out of even. The air of the Morea is heavy and unwholesome, but the moment you pass the isthmus in the direction of VIegara, the change is strikingly perceptible. But I feai Hesiod will still be found correct in his description of a Boeotian winter. W T e found at Livadia an " esprit fort" in a Greek jishop, of all free-thinkers ! 1 lis worthy hypocrite rallied his own religion with great intrepidity (but not jefore his flock), and talked of a mass as a " coglic- neria." It was impossible to think better of him for this : but, for a Boeotian, he was brisk with all his ab- surdity. This phenomenon (with the exception indeed of Thebes, the remains of Chseronea, the plain of Platea, Orchomenus, Livadia, and its nominal cave of Trophonius), was the only remarkable thing we saw before we passed Mount Cithreron. The fountain of Dirce turns a mill : at least, my com- panion (who, resolving to be at once cleanly and clas- sical, bathed in it) pronounced it to be the fountain of Dirce, and any body who thinks it worth while may contradict him. At Castri we drank of half a dozen streamlets, some not of the purest, before we decided to our satisfaction which was the true Castalian, and even that had a villanous twang, probably from the snow, though it did not throw us into an epic fever like poor Doctor Chandler. From Fort Phyle, of which large remains still exist, the Plain of Athens, Pentelicus, Hymettus, the^Egean, and the Acropolis, burst upon the eye at once ; in my opinion, a more glorious prospect than even Cintra or Istambol. Not the view from the Troad, with Ida, the Hellespont, and the more distant Mount Athos, can equal it, though so superior in extent. I heard much of the beauty of Arcadia, but, except- ing the view from the monastery of Megaspelion (which is inferior to Zitza in a command of country), and the descent from the mountains on the way from Tripolitza to Arsos, Arcadia has little to recommend it beyond the name. " Stcrnitur, et dulces moriens reminiscitur Argos." Virgil could have put this into the mouth of none but an Argive; and (with reverence be it spoken) it doe not deserve the epithet. And if the Polynices of Sta- tins, "In mediis audit duo littora campis," did actually hear both shores in crossing the isthmus of Corinth, he had better ears than have ever been worn in sucn journey since. "Athens," says a celebrated topographer, " is still Un most polished city of Greece." Perhaps it may i. Greece, but not of the Greeks; for Joannina, in Epiu*i is universally allowed, amongst themselves, to be supe rior in the wealth, refinement, learning, and dialect i its inhabitants. The Athenians are n mirkable < BYRON'S WORKS. their cunning , and the lower orders are not improperly characterized 1 in th.tt proverb, which classes them with " the Jews of Salonica, and the Turks of the Negro- pont." Among the various foreigners resident in Athens, French, Italians, Germans, Ragusans, etc., there was never a difference of opinion in their estimate of the Greek character, though on all other topics they dis- puted with great acrimony. M. Fauvel, the French consul, who has passed thirty years principally at Athens, and to whose talents as an artist, and manners as a gentleman, none who have known him can refuse their testimony, has frequently declared in my hearing, that the Greeks do not deserve to be emancipated ; reasoning on the grounds of their " national and individual depravity," while he forgot that such depravity is to be attributed to causes which can only be removed by the measure he reprobates. M. Roque, a French merchant of respectability long settled in Athens, asserted with the most amusing gravity : " Sir, they are the same canaille that existed in the days of Themistocles ."' an alarming remark to the " Laudator temporis acti." The ancients banished Themistocles ; the moderns cheat Monsieur Roque : thus great men have ever been treated ! In short, all the Franks who are fixtures, and most of the Englishmen, Germans, Danes, etc. of passage, canvs over by degrees to their opinion, on much the same grounds that a Turk in England would condemn the nation by wholesale, because he was wronged by his lacquey, and overcharged by his washerwoman. Certainly it was not a little staggering, when the Sieurs Fauvel and Lusieri, the two greatest demagogues of the day, who divide between them the power of Pericles and the popularity of Cleon, and puzzle the poor Waywode with perpetual differences, agreed in the utter condemnation, "nulla virtute redemptum," of the Greeks in general, and of the Athenians in par- ticular. For my own humble opinion, I am loth to hazard it, Knowing, as I do, that there be now in MS. no less than five tours of the first magnitude and of the most threatening aspect, all in typographical array, by per- sons of wit, and honour, and regular commonplace books : but, if I may say this without offence, it seems to me rather hard to declare so positively and pertina- ciously, as almost every body has declared, that the Greeks, because they are very bad, will never be better. Eton and Sonnini have led us astray by their pane- gyrics and projects ; but, on the other hand, De Pauw and Thornton have debased the Greeks beyond their demerits. The Greeks will never be independent; they will never be sovereigns, as heretofore, and God forbid they ever should ! but they may be subjects without being laves. Our colonies are not independent, but they are free and industrious, and such may Greece be noreaftpr. At present, like the Catholics of Ireland, and the ,e\vs throughout the world, and such other cudgelled ind heterodox people, they suffer all the moral and physical ills that can afflict humanity. Their life is a Ktrusgie against truth ; they are vicious in their own rletence. They are so unused to kindness, that when ;'CT occasionally meet with it, they look upon it with suspicion, as a dog often beaten snaps at your fingen if you attempt to caress him. " They are ungrateful, notoriously, abominably ungrateful !" this is the gen- eral cry. Now, in the name of Nemesis ! for what ar they to be grateful ? Where is the human being that ever conferred a benefit on Greek or Greeks? TheV are to be grateful to the Turks for their fetters, and t> the Franks for their broken promises and lying coun- sels. They are to be grateful to the artist who engraves their ruins, and to the antiquary who carries them away : to the traveller whose janissary flogs them, and to the scribbler whose journal abuses them ! This is the amount of their obligations to foreigners. II. Franciscan Convent, Athens, January 23, 1811. Amongst the remnants of the barbarous policy of the earlier ages, are the traces of bondage which yet exist in different countries ; whose inhabitants, however di- vided in religion and manners, almost all agree in op- pression. The English have at last compassionated their ne- groes, and, under a less bigoted government, may probably one day release their Catholic brethren : but the interposition of foreigners alone can emancipate the Greeks, who, otherwise, appear to have as small a chance of redemption from the Turks, as the Jews have from mankind in general. , Of the ancient Greeks we know more than enough ; at least the younger men of Europe devote much of their time to the study of the Greek writers and history, which would be more usefully spent in mastering theii own. Of the moderns, we are perhaps more neglectful than they deserve ; and while every man of any pre- tensions to learning is tiring out his youth, and often his age, in the study of the language and of the harangues of the Athenian demagogues, in favour of freedom, the real or supposed descendants of these sturdy republicans are left to the actual tyranny of their masters, although a very slight effort is required to strike off their chains. To talk, as the Greeks themselves do, of their rising again to their pristine superiority, would be ridiculous ; as the rest of the world must resume its barbarism, after re-asserting the sovereignty of Greece : but there seems to lie no very great obstacle, except in the apathy of the Franks, to their becoming a useful dependency, or even a free state with a proper guarantee; under correction, however, be it spoken, for many and well- informed men doubt the practicability even of this. The Greeks have never lost their hope, though they are now more divided in opinion on the subject of their probable deliverers. Religion recommends the Russians; but they have twice been deceived and abandoned by that power, and the dreadful lesson they received after the Muscovite desertion in the Morea has never been forgotten. The French they dislike ; although the subjugation of the rest of Europe will, probably, be attended by the deliverance of continental Greece. The islanders look to the English for succour, as they have very lately possessed themselves of the Ionian republic, Corfu excepted. But whoever appear with arms in their hands will be welcome ; and when that day arrives, Heaven have mercy on the Ot'.omans ; they cannot expect it from the Giaours. But instead of considering what (hey have been, aitd CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. ipecukl : ng on what they may be let us look at them as they are. And here it is impossible to reconcile the contrariety of opinions : some, particularly the merchants, decry- ing the Greeks in the strongest language ; others, gen- erally travellers, turning periods in their eulogy, and publishing veiy curious speculations grafted on their former state, which can have no more effect on their present lot, than the existence of the Incas on the fu- ture fortunes of Peru. One very ingenious person terms them the " natural allies" of Englishmen ; another, no less ingenious, will not al'ow them to be the allies of any body, and denies their very descent from the ancients ; a third, more in- genious than eitlier, builds a Greek empire on a Russian foundation, and realizes (on paper) all the chimeras of Catherine II. As to the question of their descent, what can it import whether the Mainotes are the lineal La- conians or n.A 7 or the present Athenians as indigenous as the bees of Hymettus, or as the grasshoppers, to which they once likened themselves ? What English- man cares if he be of a Danish, Saxon, Norman, or Trojan blood ? or who, except a Welchman, is afflicted with a desire of being descended from Caractacus ? The poor Greeks do not so much abound in the good things of this world, as to render even their claims to antiquity an object of envy ; it is very cruel then in Mr. Thornton, to disturb them in the possession of all that time has left them ; viz. their pedigree, of which they are the more tenacious, as it is all they can call their own. It would be worth while to publish together, and compare, the works of Messrs. Thornton and De Pauw, Eton and Sonnini ; paradox on one side, and prejudice on the other. Air. Thornton conceives himself to have claims to public confidence from a fourteen years' resi- dence at Pera ; perhaps he may on the subject of the Turks, but this can give him no more insight into the real state of Greece and her inhabitants, than as many years spent in Wapping, into that of the Western Highlands. The Greeks of Constantinople live in Fanal ; and if Mr. Thornton did not oftener cross the Golden Horn than his brother merchants are accustomed to do, I should place no great reliance on his information. I actually heard one of these gentlemen boast of their little general intercourse with the city, and assert of himself, with an air of triumph, that he had been but four times at Constantinople in as many years. As to Mr. Thornton's voyages in the Black Sea with Greek vessels, they gave him the same idea of Greece as a cruise to Berwick in a Scotch smack would of Johnny Grot's house. Upon what grounds then does he arrogate the right of condemning by wholesale a body of men, of whom he can know little ? It is rather a cu- rious circumstance that Mr. Thornton, who so lavishly dispraises Pouqueville on every occasion of mentioning rhe Turks, has yet recourse to him as authority on the Greeks, and terms him an impartial observer. Now Dr. Pouqueville is as little entitled to that appellation, as Mr. Thornton to confer it on him. The fact is, we are deplorably in want of information on the subject of the Greeks, and in particular their jterature ; nor is there any probability of our being bet- er acquainted, till our intercourse becomes more inti- mate, or their independence confirmed : the relations of passing travellers are as little to be depended on as the M invectives of angry factors ; but till som-lh'mg more can be attained, we must be content with the little to be acquired from similar sources. ' However defective these may be, they are preferaU to the paradoxes of men who have read superficially o the ancients, and seen nothing of the moderns, such a* De Pauw ; who, when he asserts that the British breed of horses is ruined by Newmarket, and that the Spar- tans were cowards in the field, betrays an equal know- ledge' of English horses and Spartan men. His "phi- losophical observations" have a much better claim to the title of " poetical." It could not be expected that he who so liberally condemns some of the most cele- brated institutions of the ancient, should have mercy or< the modern Greeks : and it fortunately happens, thai the absurdity of his hypothesis on their forefathers re- futes his sentence on themselves. Let us trust, then, that in spite of the prophecies of De Pauw, and the doubts of Mr. Thornton, there is a reasonable hope of the redemption of a race of men, who, whatever may be the errors of their religion and policy, have been amply punished by three centuries and a half of captivity. HI. Athens, Franciscan Convent, March 17, 1811. " I must have some talk with this learned Theban." Some time after my return from Constantinople tu this city, I received the thirty-first number of the Edin burgh Review as a great favour, and certainly at thii distance an acceptable one, from the Captain of an English frigate off Salamis. In that number, Art. 3, containing the review of a French translation of Strabo, there are introduced some remarks on the modern Greeks and their literature, with a short account of Coray, a co-translator in the French version. On those remarks I mean to ground a few observations, ai:d the spot where I now write will, I hope, be sufficient excuse for introducing them in a work in some degree connected with the subject. Coray, the most celebrated of living Greeks, at least among the Franks, was born 1 A word, en passant, with Mr. Thornton and Dr. Pouquo ville, wlio have been guilty between them of Badly clipping the Sultan's Turkish. Dr. Pouqueville tells a long story of a Moslem who swal lowed corrosive sublimate, in such quantities that he acquired the name of " Suleyman Yej/cn," i. e. quoth the doctor, " Suleyman, the eater of corrosive sublimate." "Aha," thinks Mr. Thornton, (angry with the doctor for the fiftieth time) "have I caught you?" Then, in a note twice the thickness of the doctor's anecdote, he questions the doctor'* proficiency in the Turkish tongue, and his veracity in his own. "For," observes Mr. Thornton, (after inflicting on us the tough participle of a Turkish verb), "it means nothing more than Suleyman the eater," and ouite cashiers the supple- mentary "sublimate." Now both are right and both ar wrong. If Mr. Thornton, when he next resides "fourteen years in the factory," will consult his Turkish dictionary, or ask any of his Stamboline acquaintance, he will discover that " Stdeyina'n yeyen," put together discreetly, mean ihe " Shallower of sublimate," without any " Sulet/man" in Ilia case; " Sulevma" signifying "corrosive sublimate," and not being a proper name on this occasion, although it be an or- thodox name enough with the addition of n After Mr Thornton's frequent hints of profound orientalism, he might have found this out before he sang such paeans over Dr Pouqueville. After this, I think "Travellers versus Factors" shall <*> our motto, though the above Mr. Thornton has condemned "hoc genus omne,"tbr mistake and misrepresentation. *' N Sutor ultra crepidam." "No merchant beyond hi* hales' N. B. For the benefit of Mr. Thornton ' Sutor" w proper name. SI BYRON'S WORKS. at Scio (n> the E.evic-v Smyrna is stated, I have reason to think, incorrectly), an/], besides the translation of Beccaria, and other works Mentioned by the reviewer, has published a lexicon in Romaic and French, if I may trust the assurance of some Danish travellers lately arrived from Paris ; but the latest we have seen here in French and Greek is that of Gregory Zolikogloon. ' Coray has recently been involved in an unpleasant controversy with M. Gail, a a Parisian commentator and editor of some translations from the Greek poets, in consequence of the Institute having awarded him the prize for his version of Hippocrates " Iltpi Maruv," etc. to the disparagement, and consequently displeasure, of the said Gail. To his exertions, literary and patriotic, great praise is undoubtedly due, but a part of that praise ought not to be withheld from the two brothers Zosimado (merchants settled in Leghorn), who sent him to Paris, and maintained him, for the express purpose of eluci- dating tne ancient, and adding to the modern researches of his countrymen. Coray, however, is not considered by his countrymen equal to some who lived in the two last centuries : more particularly Dorotheus of Mity- lene, whose Hellenic writings are so much esteemed by the Greeks, that Meletius terms him, " Mira TOV QovKvSi&tjv KOI Etvo^uvra apiaro; 'EXXjJvuv." (P. 224. Ecclesiastical History, vol. iv.) Panagiotes Kodrikas, the translator of Fontenelle, and Kamarases, who translated Ocellus Lucanus on the Universe into French, Christodoulus, and more particularly Psalida, whom I have conversed with in Joannina, are also in high repute among their literati. The last-mentioned has published in Romaic and Latin a work on " True Happiness," dedicated to Catherine II. But Potyzois, who is stated by the reviewer to be the only modern except Coray, who has distinguished himself by a knowledge of Hellenic, if he be the Poly- zois Lampanitziotes of Yanina, who has published a number of editions in Romaic, was neither more nor less than an itinerant vender of books ; with the con- tents of which he had no concern beyond his name on the title-page, placed there to secure his property in the publication, and he was, moreover, a man utterly des- titute of scholastic acquirements. As the name, how- ever, is not uncommon, some other Polyzois may have edited the Epistles of Aristsenetus. It is to be regretted that the system of continental blockade has closed the few channels through which the Greeks received their publications, particularly Venice and Trieste. Even the common grammars for children are become too dear for the lower orders. Amongst their original works, the Geography of Mele- tius, Archbishop of Athens, and a multitude of theo- logical quartos and poetical pamphlets, are to be met with : their grammars and lexicons of two, three, and four languages, are numerous and excellent. Their 1 I havn in my possession an ex'.dllent Lexicon " rpt- yXupa Tt yaiiapov; rptQcis rupa ;" In Gibbon, vol. x. p. 161, is the following sentence: " The vulgi: ialect of the city was gross and barbarous, though the compositions of the church and palace some- times affected to copy the purity of the Attic models." Whatever may be asserted on the subject, it is difficult to conceive that the "ladies of Constantinople," in the reign of the last Caesar, spoke a purer dialect then Anna Comnena wrote three centuries before : and those royal pages are not esteemed the best models of composition, although the princess yXuirrav i%tv AKPIBiiS Arr<*j- fyvoav. In the Fanal, and in Yanina, the best Greek is spoken : in the latter there is a flourishing school under the direction of Psalida. There is now in Athens a pupil of Psalida's, who is making a tour of observation through Greece : he is in- telligent, and better educated than a fellow-commoner of most colleges. I mention this as a proof that the spirit of inquiry is not dormant amongst the Greeks. The reviewer mentions Air. Wright, the author of the beautiful poem " Horse lonicae," as qualified to give de- tails of these nominal Romans and degenerate Greeks, and also of their language : but Mr. Wright, though a good poet and an able man, has made a mistake where he slates the Albanian dialect of the Romaic to approxi- mate nearest to the Hellenic : for the Albanians speak l Romaic as notoriously corrupt as the Scotch of Aber- leenshire, or the Italian of Naples. Yanina (where, next to Fanal, the Greek is purest), although the capital of Ali Pacha's dominions, is not in Albania but Epirus ; and beyond Delvinachi in Albania Proper up to Argyrocastro and Tepaleen (beyond which I did not advance), they speak worse Greek than even the Athen- ians. J was attended for a year and a half by two of these singular mountaineers, whose mother tongue is Illyric, and I never heard them or their countrymen (whom I have seen, not only at home, but to the amount of twenty thousand in the army of Veli Pacha) praised for their Greek, but often laughed at for their provincial barbarisms. I have in my possession about twenty-five letters, amongst which some from the Bey of Corinth, written to me by Notaras, the Cogia Bachi, and others by the dragoman of the Caimacam of the Morea (which last governs in Veli Pacha's absence) are said to be favour- burgh Review Ifarned that Solvman means Mahomet II. any more than criticism means infallibility ? but thus it is, "Ciedimus inque vicem prsebemus crura gagittis." The mistake seemed to completely a lapse of the pen (from the great similarity of the two words, and the total absence Cf' error from the loriner pages of the literary leviathan), that \ should have passed it over as in the text, had I not perceived in the Edinburgh Review much facetious exultation on all ucli detections, particularly t recent one, where words and yllables are subjects of disquisitioii r;rui transposition : and the cbove-meiitioned parallel passage in my own case irresistibly propelled IIIH to hint how much easier it is to be critical than correct. Th* e**t/emen. having enjoyed many a triumph on urn victories wiJl hardly begrudge mn a Blight ovation for lie U resell able specimens of their epistolary style, I also receive* some at Constantinople from private persons, writtc* in a most hyperbolical style, but in the true antique character. The reviewer proceeds, after some remarks on tht tongue in its past and present state, to a paradox (page 59) on the great mischief the knowledge of his own language has done to Coray, who, it seems, is less likely to understand the ancient Greek, because he is perfect master of the modern ! This observation follows a para- graph, recommending, in explicit terms, the study of the Romaic, as " a powerful auxiliary," not only to tho traveller and foreign merchant, but also to the classical scholar ; in short, to every body except the only person who can be thoroughly acquainted with its uses : and by a parity of reasoning, our old language is conjectured to be probably more attainable by "foreigners" than by ourselves ! Now I am inclined to think, that a Dutch Tyro in our tongue (albeit himself of Saxon bloood) would be sadly perplexed with " Sir Tristrem," or any other given " Auchinlech MS." with or withput a gram- mar or glossary ; and to most apprehensions it seema evident, that none but a native can acquire a competent, far less complete, knowledge of our obsolete idioms. We may give the critic credit for his ingenuity, but no more believe him than we do Smollett's Lismahago, who maintains that the purest English is spoken in Edin- burgh. That Coray may err is very possible ; but if he does, the fault is in the man rather than in his mother tongue, which is, as it ought to be, of the greatest aid to the native student. Here the Reviewer proceeds to business on Slrabo's translators, and here I close my remarks. Sir. W. Drummond, Mr. Hamilton, Lord Aberdeen Dr. Clarke, Captain Leake, Mr. Cell, Mr. Walpole and many others now in England, have all the requisite* to furnish details of this fallen people. The few obser- vations I have offered I should have left where I made them, had not the article in question, and, above all, the spot where I read it, induced me to advert to those pages, which the advantage of my present situation enabled me to clear, or at least to make the attempt. I have endeavoured to waive the personal feelings which rise in despite of me in touching upon any part of the Edinburgh Review ; not from a wish to conciliate the favour of its writers, or to cancel the remembrance of a syllable I have formerly published, but simply from a sense of the impropriety of mixing up private resent- ments with a disquisition of the present kind, and more particularly at this distance of time and place. ADDITIONAL NOTE, ON THE TURKS. The difficulties of travelling in Turkey have been mucn exaggerated, or rather have considerably diminished of late years. The Mussulmans have been beaten into a kind of sullen civility, very comfortable to voyageis. It is hazardous to say much on the subject of Turk* and Turkey ; since it is possible to live amongst them twenty years without acquiring information, at least from themselves. As far as my own slight experience carried me, I have no complaint to make ; but am in debted for many civilities (I might almost say iut friendship), and much hospitality, to Ali Pacha, his s'm Veli Pacha of the Morea, and several others of high r.iim in the provinces. Suleyman Ago, late Governor o< BYRON'S WORKS. \thons, and now of Thebes, was a bon rivant, and as social a being as ever sat cross-legged at a tray or a table. During the carnival, when our English party were masquerading, both himself and his successor were more happy to " receive masks " than any dowager in Grosvenor-square. On one occasion of his supping at the convent, his friend and visitor, the Cadi of Thebes, was carried from table perfectly qualified for any club in Christendom, while the worthy \Vaywode himself triumphed in his fall. In all money transactions with the Moslems, I ever found the strictest honour, the highest disinterestedness. In transacting business with them, there are none of those dirty peculations, under the name of interest, dif- ference of exchange, commission, etc. etc., uniformly found in applying to a Greek consul to cash bills, even on the first houses in Pera. With regard to presents, and established custom in the East, you will rarely find yourself a loser ; as one worth acceptance is generally returned by another of similar value a horse or a shawl. In the capital and at court the citizens and courtiers are formed in the same school with those of Christian- ity ; but there does not exist a more honourable, friendly, and high-spirited character than the true Turk- ish provincial Aga, or Moslem country gentleman. It is not meant here to designate the governors of towns, but those Agas who, by a kind of feudal tenure, possess lands and houses, of more or less extent, in Greece and Asia Minor. The lower orders are in as tolerable discipline as the rabble in countries with greater pretensions to civilization. A Moslem, in walking the streets of our country towns, would be more incommoded in England than a Frank in a similar situation in Turkey. Regi- mentals are the best travelling dress. The best accounts of the religion, and different sects of Islamism, may be found in D'Olisson's French ; of their manners, etc., perhaps in Thorton's English. The Ottomans, with all their defects, are not a people to be despised. Equal, at least, to the Spaniards, they are superior to the Portuguese. If it be difficult to pronounce what they are, we can at least say what they are not : they are not treacherous, they are not cowardly, they rto not burn heretics, they are not assassins, nor has an er.emy advanced to tlieir capital. They are faithful to tneir sultan till he becomes unfit to govern, and devout to tneir God without an inquisition. Were they driven from St. Sophia to-morrow, and the French or Russians enthroned in their stead, it would become a question, whether Europe would gain by the exchange. England would certainly be the loser. With regard to that ignorance of which they are so generally, and sometimes justly, accused, it may be loubted, always excepting France and England, in what useful points of knowledge they are excelled by other nations. Is it in the common arts of life ? In their manufactures ? Is a Turkish sabre inferior to a Toledo ? w is a Turk worse clothed or lodged, or fed and .might, than a Spaniard ? Are their Pachas worse edu- cated than a grandee ? or an Effendi than a Knight of St. Jago ? 1 think P->. I remember Mahmout, the grandson of Ali Pacha, vicing whether my fellow-traveller and myself were in the upper or lower House 'if Parliament. Now this question from a boy of ten years old proved that his education had not been neglected. It may be doubted if an English boy at that, age knows the diffe-ence of the Divan from a College of Dervises ; but I am ve-y sure a Spaniard does not. How little Mahmout, sur- rounded, as he had been, entirely by his Turkish tutors, had learned that there was such a thing as a parlia- ment, it were useless to conjecture, unless we supposa that his instructors did not confine his studies to the Koran. In all the mosques there are schools established which are very regularly attended; and the poor are taught without the church of Turkey being put into peril. I believe the system is not yet printed (though there is such a thing as a Turkish press, and books printed on the late military institution of the Nizam Gedidd): nor have I heard whether the Mufti and the Mollas have subscribed, or the Caimacam and the Tefterdar taken the alarm, for fear the ingenuous youth of the turban should be taught not to " pray to God their way." The Greeks, also a kind of Eastern Irish papists have a college of their own at Maynooth no, at Haivali ; where the heterodox receive much the same kind of countenance from the Ottoman as the Catholic college from the English legislature. Who shall then affirm that the Turks are ignorant bigots, when they thus evince the exact proportion of Chris- tain charity which is tolerated in the most prosperous and orthodox of all possible kingdoms ? But, though they allow all this, they will not suffer the Greeks to participate in their privileges : no, let them fight their battles, and pay their haratch (taxes), be drubbed in this world, and damned in the next. And shall we then emancipate our Irish Helots ? Mahomet forbid ! We s hould then be bad Mussulmans, and worse C hris- tians ; at present we unite the best of both Jesuitical faith, and something not much inferior to Turkish toleration. APPENDIX. AMONGST an enslaved people, obliged to have recourse to foreign presses even for their books of religion, it is less to be wondered at that we find so few publications on general subjects, than that we find any at all. The whole number of the Greeks, scattered up and dowp the Turkish empire and elsewhere, may amount, at most, to three millions ; and yet, for so scanty a num- ber, it is impossible to discover any nation with so great a proportion of books and their authors, as the Greeks of the present century. " Ay," but say the generous advocates of oppression, who, while they as- sert the ignorance of the Greeks, wish to prevent them from dispelling it, " ay, but these are mostly, if not all, ecclesiastical tracts, and consequently good fcr nothing." Well! and pray what else can they write about ? It is pleasant enough to hear a Frank, partic- ularly an Englishman, who may abuse the govern- ment of his own country ; or a Frenchman, who may abuse every government except his own, and who may range at will over every philosophical, religious, scien- tific, sceptical, or moral subject, sneering at tlte Greek legends. A Greek must not write on politics, ai.d can- not touch on science for want of instruct. . if S CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. doubts, he is excommunicated and damned ; therefore lis countrymen are not poisoned with modern philoso- ohy ; and, as to morals, thanks to the Turks ! there are no such tilings. What then is left him, if he has a turn "or scribbling ? Religion and holy biography : and it is natural enough that those who have so little in this life should look to the next. It is no great wonder then that in a catalogue now before me of fifty-five Greek wri- ters, many of whom were lately living, not above fifteen should have touched on any thing but religion. The catalogue alluded to is contained in the twenty-sixth chapter of the fourth volume of Meletius's Ecclesiastical History. From this I subjoin an extract of those who have written on .general subjects ; which will be followed by some specimens of the Romaic. LIST OF ROMAIC AUTHORS. 1 Neophitus, Diakonos (the deacon) of the Morea, has published an extensive grammar, and also some politi- cal regulations, which last were left unfinished at his death. Prokopius, of Moscopolis (a town in Epirus), has written and published a catalogue of the learned Greeks. Seraphin, of Periclea, is the author of many works in the Turkish language, but Greek character, for the Christians of Caramania, who do not speak Romaic, but read the character. Eustathius Psalidas, of Bucharest, a physician, made the tour of England for the purpose of study (%dpiv fiadi'iatu;) : but though his name is enumerated, it is not stated that he has written any thing. Kallinikus Torgeraus, Patriarch of Constantinople: many poems of his are extant, and also prose tracts, and a catalogue of patriarchs since the last taking of C onstantinople. Anastasius Macedon, of Naxos, member of the royal academy of Warsaw. A church biographer. Demetrius Pamperes, a Moscopolite, has written many works, particularly " A Commentary on Hesiod's Shield of Hercules," and two hundred talcs (of what is not specified), and has published his correspondence with the celebrated George of Trebizond, his contem- porary. Meletius, a celebrated geographer ; and author of the book from whence these notices are taken. Dorotheus, of Mitylene, an Aristotelian philosopher : nis Hellenic works are in great repute, and he is esteemed by the modems (I quote the words of Meletius) pcra T&v BovKvoiorjv Kal Hevo^uiru a;x-o? EXXiyywv. I add further, on the authority of a well-informed Greek, that he was so famous amongst his countrymen, that they were accustomed to say, if Thucydides and Xenophon were wanting, ho was capable of repairing the loss. Marinus Count Tharboures, of Ccphalonia, professor of chemistry in the academy of Padua, and member of that academy and those of Stockholm and Upsal. He has published, at Venice, an account of some marine animal, and a treatise on the properties of iron. Marcus, brother to the former, famous in mechanics. 1 It is to be observed that the names given are not in chro- nological ordei , but consist of some selected at a venture from mungst those who nourished from the taking of Constanti- novlu to the time of Meletius. 18 He removed to St. Petersburg the immense rock on which the statue of Peter the Great was fixed in 1769. See the dissertation which he published in Paris 177''. George Constantino has published a four-tongue.1 lexicon. George Ventote ; a lexicon in French, Italian, a vj Romaic. There exist several other dictionaries in Latin and Romaic, French, etc., besides grammars, in every modern language, except English. Amongst the living authors the following are most celebrated : ' Athanasius Parios has written a treatise on rhetoric in Hellenic. Christodoulos, an Acarnanian, has published, in Vi- enna, some physical treatises in Hellenic. Panagiotes Kodrikas, an Athenian, the Romaic trans- lator of Fontenelle's " Plurality of Worlds " ( a favounto work amongst the Greeks), is stated to be a teacher o the Hellenic and Arabic languages in Paris, in both of which he is an adept. Athanasius, the Parian, author of a treatise on rhet- oric. Vicenzo Damodos, of Cephalonia, has written " th r4 pcooBdpSapov," on logic and physics. John Kamarases, a Byzantine, has translated into French Ocellus on the Universe. He is said to be ac excellent Hellenist and Latin scholar. Gregorio Demetrius published, in Vienna, a geo graphical work : he has also translated several Italia* authors, and printed his versions at Venice. Of Coray and Psalida some account ha* been already given. GREEK WAR SONG.* 1. AEY TE raHtf rdv 'EXX^vuv, !> Kaipclf TV; b%is >/X0v. A; (pavdficv a^tot {xcivtav jroB ^iaf &G>yov rijf rvpavvl&of. a!cxf>6v. fa for as (jOtv ilaOe T&V E pSiv rJ ai/ia irodwv. \lvtvfiara laKop-mapiiva, rijtpa Xnfcrt -rtvofiv ; '2 Triv (fxiivSiv rijf aa\i;iyy6$ ftov truva^Qfin oXa oitov. Triv firraXo^ov ^t]TUTe, Kal viKare vptt iravrow. Ta ei-Xa uj Au'SuuEv, eta 1 These names are not taken from any pulilicatwa. 2 A translation of this song will be found at par* in BYRON'S WORKS. 3. irapra, S-opra, ri KOipaaat \ ~vov \fiBapyov, ffaOvv ; '71 vrjtrov, Kpdfc AdijvaSj TOW dvfyju; fraivcpfvov, (fioScpov KOI Tpofiepov. Ta SirXa a; \dSufiev, etc. 4. 6 irou e/; raj Stp/iOTruXay irijXt/iov air3; xpoTti, xal Toi/s Hipaas atpavifa xal a!>Tu)v KaTaxparei. Mr rptaxoaiovs dvipas, ds TO KCVTpOV TTfO^iapel, /tat, il; XfW Svuiapivos, t; rj ni^a ruv /Jourtt. Ta 6VXa a; XdSu/ttv, etc. ROMAIC EXTRACTS. P'iiror;, AyyXo;, icat Fa'XXo; Kauvovres T?IV ri> 'EXXa^o;, cat /?X/irovr; rqy dfJXt'av r^v icara- aTaatv, elpu'iTTiaav KaTap%as eva Tpaixov ^tXAX^va i5td j>a fidBouv r/jv alriav, p.tr' avrbv cva /xjjr/io^oXtrjjv, ?ra i/(i /JXa^/irEijv, c~fira cva irpay^artur^v /cat i/a rpottrraira. KIT? ^aj, ai ipet; rf/v cric\aSiav cal r^v a!raprjy6pr]Tov T&V TotipXaiv rvpavvlav, *>; rat; fvXais KOI v6pia/tovs xal fft&rjpoSetr/tlav iraifaiv, Trapftevuv, yvvaixiav avi'iKovarov Qopttav* Atv trX0" f'fftij d-fiyo^oi (Kiiviav r<2v EXX^vwv rCi/ e\tv9ipii>v KOI coiav KOI rtav ^cXorarpWuv, i\rare PpaiKC, clni pas rfiv uiri'av, f/i) KpvuTjis rVoTf ij/ia/v, XUE T^V &i:opiav. 6-MAE'AAHNOZ. r Foxr ov ap^tcev fi afiadia. 8(7' Iiyxopouaav vd rfjv %vT,vfi) ortva'^fi, ra Tixva Kpd^u, \oyl$ti. Ma OTTIS roX/i^(Tj va Tr/v ^vievijcrji tdyu ffTov aStiv ^(dv>j va anovctt rfiv vnv TOV av&p6s /tov av avTbs tlvat toi>, c$6aaa ct xatpov va TOV ^vrponaVa). [EiyatVa tva; ^ouXo; axi TO ipyaartipi.] IlaXtKa'pt, JT/; /iow, ai wapa va roij TTJI'^U /aivovTat 3Xo(, orrou at]Kovii)vTai OTTO TO Tpairi^t avy^iapivoi, ltd TOV ^aifiviafiuv rou Atdvopov j3XiViv ru)'a diro T^v fficaXav, 6 AtavSpo; 3t'X vd rqv a.KO\ovOfiar) u.1 rb anaoOl, Kal 6 Ei y. TOV Suora.] [TPA. Mf tva ndro /vTaf, Kill J{ yvvamo; vo tirrg- tvyt Tats [The whole company.] Long live, etc. (Literally, Na' $fj, vd fa May he live.) Pla. Without doubt that is my husband. [To tnt Serv.] My good man, do me the favour to accompany me above to those gentlemen : I have some business. Serv. At your commands. [Aside.] The old office of us waiters. [7/e goes out of the Gaming-house.] Ridolpho. [To Victoria on another part of the stage,] Courage, courage, be of good cheer, it is nothing. Victoria. I feel as if about to die. [Leaning on him as if fainting.] [From the windows above all within are seen rising from tlie table in confusion: Leander starts at tite sight of Platzida, and appears by his gestures to threaten her life.] Eugenio, No, stop rjartio. Don't attempt Leander. Away, fly from hence ! Pla. Help ! Help ! [Flies down the stairs : Leander attempting to follow with his sword, Eugenio hinders him.] [Trappola with a plate of meat leaps over the balcony from the window, and runs into the Coffee-house. f Platzida runs out of the Gaming-house, and takes shelter in the Hotel.] [Martio steals softly out of the Gaming-house, and goes off" exclaiming, "Rumores fuge." The Servants from the Gaming-house enter the Hotel, and shut tht door.'] [Victoria remains in the Coffee-house assisted by Ridolpho.] [Leander, sword in hand, opposite Eugenio, exclaims,] Give way I will enter that hotel. Eugenio. No, that shall never be. You are a scoun- drel to your wife, and I will defend her to the last drop of my blood. Leander. I will give you cause to repent this. [Men- acing with his sword.] Eugenio. 1 fear you not. [ He attacks Leander, and makes him give back so much that, Jinding the door of the dancing girPs house open, Leander escapes through, and so finishes.] 1 AIA'AOrOI OiKIAKOI. FAMILIAR DIALOGUES. Ai vu^Ttforrjs va irpaypia. To ask for any thing. Saj jra/xneaXu, ooacTt pi av I pray you, give me if you bpifyrc. please. if peri /IE. Bring me. Aav('(TTt ut. Lend me. ni;ya(VT va fyTfatTC. Go to seek. 1 EwvETai "finishes" awkwardly enough, but it it the literal translation of the Romaic. The original of thu comedy of Goldoni's I never read, but it does not appear one of his best. "II Bugiardo" is one of the most lively, but I do not think it has been translated into Romaic : it is much more amusing than our own " Liar," by Foote. The char- acter of Lelio is better drawn than Young Wilding. Go. doni's comedies amount to fifty ; some perhaps the best in Europe, and others the worst. His life is also one of (he best specimens of nuloliiopraphy, and, as Gibbon has observed, "more dramatic than any of his plays." The above scen was selected as containing some of the most familiar Romaic idioms, not for any wit which it displays, since there is more done than said, the greater part consisting of stage direction* The original is one of the few comedies by Holdoni whic.li \ without the buffoonery of the speaking Harleauin. 100 BYRON'S WORKS. T&pa cvdvs. Now directly. Acv SAoi X(r|a va TOU rd I will not fail to tell him U dxpiSt, uov Ktpi, Kaptri My dear Sir, do me this eliru. of it. j airi/v T/jv X a P' v - favour. UpoaKvvfyaTd fiov elf Tqv My compliments to her Eyui aaf raoaxaXw. I entreat you. ap)(6vTiaaav. ladyship. Eya . I conjure you. TltiyalveTe f/tvpoaBd ical aaf Go befijre and I will follow E)'i i\otj>po- much civility. Ad-pit!); fio'i J/uviJ. My dear soul. truvai; au{. AyaTrijTf jiov, dxpiBe uov. My dear. 6*XT XoiTrdv va xa/ia) ^/av Would you have me then Kap<5i'ra ^ou. My heart. d%pu6Tr)Ta ; be guilty of an incivility? AyoVi; //ou. My love. YTrdyw tji^poaQd Sid vd aaf I go before to obey 3'ou. Aia vd tl^apiaT^ajis, va To thank, pay compliments, Aia vada/ju Ttjv Trpoyrayfiv To comply with your com xdpjf vcpiiroiriatf, Kal and testify regard. aaf. mand. QiXixaif Sc&waes. Afv dyarru ToVaty Titpmoi- I do not like so much cer Eyui aaf cv^apiarS. I thank you. of yvtapl^ia \dptv. I return you thanks. tiaef. emony. Alv eiuai T\et7V //ou Kapbiav. Most cordially. A Td oyi. I say no. 25$ irapoicaXw vd pi fie- I beg you will treat me BaXXu arl^ri/ta BTI eivat. I wager it is. Ta%eipi$eadt i\cvOcpa. freely. BaXXo)(7TiYi;//a Unltv elvai I wager i' is not so. Xupif Ktpmoinacs. Without ceremony. frfr. 25f dya-S) f'f 6X17? pou cap- I love you with all my Na<, fid riiv itiariv pov Yes, by my faith. Sia;. heart. K<;( fX;o-T/ /< /if rais n-po- Honour me with your Nai, aaf iuvva. Yes, I swear it to you. OTaya'ts aa(. commands. Saj Ajivvut uadv rifirjuivof I swear to you as an hon- E^;T riitores vd pe irpo- Have you any commands avOpwtto;. est man. ard^trt ; for me ? npoora(T TOV 5oBXiJv aaf. Command your servant. Saj AUVVU i-ndvia tls rt/v I swear to you on my hoii- rififiv jtov. our. Upoafiivta raj xpotrayds I wait your commands. nioTtJ(rTf fit. Believe me. aaf. Ml KdfiveTC fityd\rjv rtpfjv. You do me great honour. H/i7ropu vd ^ffiajw- I can assure you of it. CO). $6dvovv>i ircpiiroirjacs, aaf Not so much ceremony, I HfaXa /Jn'Ar; arl^fta S, ri I would lay what bet you uoa/caXoD. beg. S/XfTf ^id TOUTO. please on this. Ii^otr(cuvi?<7T ^aiwjT/ rov JTUJ rdf Assure him of my remem- O^iXcrTE pt rd oXa T>)V and tell you thn tinih. enat dSvvaTov. This is not impossible. Td XoiTor us tlvat pi Ka\r)v Then it is very well. 4. Eiy aurSv ?rov ^uij- 4. Ev a'ir^i far) ^v, /ta itaj ^ w^ ^rov ro 0aiy ruf fi far) }jv TO G>s T&V dtBpfr upav. ' v g- ' KaXa, (taXa. Well, well. r 1 AJJ- iivai d\ri6tv6v. It is not true. 5. KaZ TO (^(Sy ?y rtjv 5. Kal TO 0Cy ^v r? axo- EiVai v//u<5fy. It is false. o-KOTiiav Qeyyet, Kal {/ axo- Tlaatvci, KalriOKoirtaairrt A?v ?vai T(TTOTCS a*b auro". There is nothing of this. Teia Itv Tb KaTd\aSe. ou Kar/Xa6v. E7i-at va i//(5oy, pia It is a falsehood, an impos- 6. Eytvfv ?vay av6piairos 6. Eyfvroav9pa>iroydir- dndTr]. ture. airfcrraX^fi'oy anb Tbv Qebv, EoraX/ifvoy Traoa GEOU, ^vo^ Eyui daTil^opovv (t^opa- I was in joke. Tb dvo/id TOV Iijidvvrjs. u.a airiji jwavj'ijy. rfua). Eyi TO etxacia va ye\d els rouro. I agree with you. THE INSCRIPTIONS AT ORCHOMENUS, FROM MELET1US. A?6v jio'j, I give my assent. A * ' ' ~ ^ T An Tint nnrm p thi OPXOMENOS KOIVWC SVOITTOU TrdXiy Tror^ trXoufftw- EI/IQI voy, t< OT/I- I agree. rar?; cai iV^upwrar);, irpoTipov Ka\ovu.iiTj BoiurKaJ ; oj 6?;SToi, ourivoy ri C(5y>o{ y ^ s J i'y aui-)v Tr\v tr6\iv ra Xapir;o-ia, rou oiroi'ou dyCv^f 4ia va (rufiSouXfuS^f, vd To consult, consider, or re- clipov eiriypa V firl T&V 6aai\l(i>v Ba(riXci'ou, Afovroy, a( Kwfcrravri'voi), Ti 7rpf7r( va a'^u/iv ; What ought we to do 1 Ti $a Kd/ta/jtev ; What shall we do? i-^ovaas ouruiy v ^fv r_5 fttq xoivwy. " Oi^ tvixiav Tbv dywva TUV Xapir^;rpa. I wish it were better. A^iJffErf jte. Let me go. Pd^nrroy PoJiVrou Apy^oy. Av ^ouv els TOV roVov aas, If I were in your place, tavtas AjroXXo^drou rou $ avi'ov A^oXfuy dir4 Kii^iX' tyui I Ki0aow^df E7vai Tb ic'iov. It is the same. At?^*5rpioy IIappv/(ricov KaX^?^di j (oy. The reader by the specimens below wtu be enabled to compare the modern with the ancient tongue. KaXXforparoy E^a/cto-rou 6)?5aioy. IIoi;rrjy Sarijpwv. A.pTjvia$ A^poxXfovy G^6a?cy. PARALLEL PASSAGES FROM ST. JOHN'S fTroAcpiriJy. GOSPEL. AaipdOfoy Awpofit'ou Tapavnvdy. N/ov. AufovriKdv. ^ HoiJ/r^y Tpay^iwv. Kf^a'X. a. Ke/if>d;. KaXX/crrparo? EfaK/croti 6>7<>a7oj. Ta iTtivlKia. Kdt/ttfftHiv HotrjT/j(. AX/fayiJpo? Apurrtiiivos A.0qvaiof. ]> 5t TJ} /r/pa <3upciuj. Mvafflvia ap%ovTos aywvoQtTiovros rj XapiraTiov, tvapi6aT TtdvTutv 01 mi it tvixuiaav TO. XapiTfi'ria. EaXiriy/tTaj. ti'Xivcj tXwi> A0avio;. uJita? Duxpario; QelSciof. Tlottrds- Kpdruv KX/uv AiXt Ilcpiycvci; Hp KQ) Apyioy. ^ariof A/iaXaiu AioXcu; TpoyatviiJj. KXan<5i3tt)oo5 IToti0G> vtba T&V iro\tfidp%u>v, uri riav xarorrauv, ai/fXi!- ^tvof raf Kttas, Kfi iapo- TfXtTv \vaiidfto), KTJ itovvaov Kayiaotiuta ^?;puvtjo F apvCv, jroXtJ- *Xt!os rafi/af onrfitaKt tf?i>i\v dp^tidftia (jxaxtii drd raj u r4 KaraXuTrov Kar ri ^/dipiaua ria fduia, avc- rdf ?avyypj. r a>v ri> uliievas trap aapov iafioTt\iof iti&a riav \ (a Irj Mfvoi'rao 'Ap^tXa'u //avdf jrparu). 6/*oX- oya EuSwXu F fXarii;, o (cfj rjj rdXi fpyopEviuv. Eirfi^i) KtKOfilffTrj EufiwXof Trap ri;j TrdXioj rd fidvctov anav Kaf rdj bftoXoyiaf rdj TtfliVaj ^uvap^co ap%ovTOs, fitivi>{ SciXovOiw, Krl O\IT 6tf>ct\{Ttj aJrii ?r( oiflfv irdp rdv rruXiv, dXX' dff/^i rrdira rrtpi ravr3{, r^ aTO^E^davfit r^ irdXi rd e^ovrff rdf bito\oylaSj ti piv TTOTJ Icfofiii'ov %p6vov Ef'SiuXti f^i vo/ifa; F ?TI drfrrapa ftoiitaoi aovv iirrrvj iid KOTlij; Fi KaTi irpoGdrv; aaiiv ?yu{ ^EiXi'^f dp^( T<3 ^pdvu 5 mawrif 6 //rd 6vvap%ov ap%ovTa tp^Oftevios diroypa- (pecBrj &c ECjJuiXoi' (car' tviaurov Exaffrov Trap r3v Tartar xi) T&V vijiiav uv TdTC (caflpara TUV TrpoSdrtav, KTI TO>V I'/yflv, (c^ rCv flovSJv, Kri TWV (Trrwv, x^ &t jrXiova raiv ycypaft- fitvdiv iv TIJ pciat fi StKaTtf ij Ti tvvoftiov Et>j3a)Xov it!\t Xi; rui/ ip^oficviuv dpyovpla TCTTapaKovTa EtlfiuXu Ka0' IKUHTOV cviavT&v, K>I riKov &pajfjia( raj fivaf havTa; (card fjufa T&V Krl e/nrpaKTo; caTia riv cpvofttviov xal rd /^r/j." fev afXXotf Xi'floif. apQdptxos, Kal dXXat." Ev ovie/tia tirtypaifiij i&ov rdvcv, q TrvfE/ia, a 6( r;/Js iivoypdipo/jnv, ol raXaiot vpoaiyoa* 0ov. Kai rd ^ijf. The following is the prospectus of a translation of Anacharsis into Romaic, by my Romaic master. Mar- marotouri, who wished to publish it in England. EfAHSIS TmorrAIKH. Ilpdf TOVS iv ^iXoyV(f Kal 0X/XX;vay. O2OI tlf /?SXia Tavro^oTrd Ivrpvtjiiaaiv, fi%t6pow r6aov tlvat ri ^pfiaifiov Ttjs laroplaf, It* avrrjf yap f^ivplaKirai 5 rXf'oi/ pfpa^pixr^ifvi; TTa\ai6rt]t, not 5U>- povvrai 5y In Kardirrpy rjOr/, trpd^cts xai Itoixfjcrcts ;roX- Xuv icai titaQipuv if)vG>v xai yevijiv &v rfiv fivfi/iriv Stcffus- aro Kal iiaJyi;(r(j its aluva T& a~avTa. Mia TtToia i (LcJf'Aifi??, Sj xpci It6voi va TVJV (vr rw jrpoyrfvuv / X ripn (tvat tlairtiicTijTos, xat Iv rairy eiirclv avayxala' tiarl XourJv /J?s roira CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 10; Xi7V. Tot-rot poopciro rd d(ciua- ra, ra ijdii Kal ToCj vo>ouj r<3v EXXiJvwi', i;0iX //ffvi; 2ict!0i;f ira? rd Jvo^a a< rd rpayua' ourai '/ Si v tfqvikfyn raj eixppaSclas KOI rov; ^apitvria^ov; rou A^offQfVous, icv ivcpyovaev ilf rat c~i; ruv feXXlJvui', f^fpruvaiv alroiis Kara fiddos f-i rplaKovra Avu crn, liv ^tXtv Ifrfdin) rovrrjv rqv ircpl feXX/Jvuv (oropi'av rou, ijrij IIf/Jt^y>;(r; pryXojr7i'/." Kai fv f vl \6ytf, o! va)Tfpo(, ac &cv CKtpvav Sid bor/yoiis rov; irpoyovovs pas, fi9i\av iau>( trtpii/i/puvraj /larai'uf ft l%pt rov vvv Aura &tv tivai Xdyta lv8mm**pflHm Sta TO (f>i\oycvfs Tpaticov, tlvai <5f 0iXaX)70ou{ rtppavov,oo-ris iptrdippaae r)v Ntov Avd^ap<7iv affi roE raXXixoD t/j ro rEp/iavi/iv aravrfj irpoOu/iwf tJf T^I/ 3o;us o/iiXi'ac, fai W<5vr roEro ?? r-Jrov, 5Xouv rd (cXXa)T('<7t ^f rooj ytuypa^ocouf ir/raxa? pf 7rXu; Pwfiai5p.i uas rb KaOtjucpivov, $6s uaj rb ar]j,- tpov. Kai avy%(i>p!iaf uas r>\ xpi>) uas, Ka0(5f xai lutif rvy%povucv rovs Kptoti\lras uas. KaJ ufjv uas V'P* :ls trtipaaubv, dXXd iXcvdiptaai uas a-ab rbv rcovripdv* ")ri tCixrj aov clvai >; 0aai\da oi, ;} Ivvauis, Kal f, i3dfa ' roiif (Lt'jJvQS* A.ui]V. IN GREEK. FIATEP riutbv, o e v roTj ovpavols, ayiaa8/jru> rb Svoud o'ou. EX0/ra q 0aai\da aov ycvriOtjria rb 5l\r;ud aov, if ev ovpavS, Kal tnJ rtjs ynS' Tov aprov fjuiav rbv litioti- aiov Sbs quiv afijiipov. Kai atpcs t>ulv ra 6juara ijuwv, v. Kai ufi datvtyKys 'Ifas ds xetpaaubv, dXXa pvaat r/uas u~4 ro8 Kovijpov. 6ri aov cariv q ftaai\da, Kal q ovvauis, Kai q CANTO III. feppui/i/voi jr que j'y re&tai sans voir personne, je pris pour cetta vilie un amour qui m'a suivi dans tous mes voyages, et qui m'y a fait etablir enfin les heros de mon roman. Je dirois volontiers a ceux qui ont du gout et qui sonl sensibles : Allez k Vevay visitez le piys, examine' .e sites, promenez-vous sur te lac, et dites si la nature '*' waive the question of devotion, and turn fc> human I n'a pas fait ce beau pays pour une Julie, po.ir un N 19 106 BYRON'S WORKS. Claire et pour iin Saint-Prcux ; mais ne les y chcrchez pas." Les Confessions, Uvre iv. page 306. Lyon, 1796. In July, 1816, I made a voyage round the lake of Geneva ; and as far as my own observations have led me in a not uninterested nor inattentive survey of all liic scenes most celebrated by Rousseau in his " He- Joise," I can safely say, that in this there is no exagge- ration. It would be difficult to see Clarens (with the scenes around it, Vevay, Chillon, Boveret, St, Gingo, Meillerie, Evian, and the entrances of the Rhone), with- out being forcibly struck with its peculiar adaptation to the persons and events with which it has been peo- pled. But this is not all ; the feeling with which all around Clarens, and the opposite rocks of Meillerie, is invested, is of a still higher and more comprehensive order than the mere sympathy with individual passion ; it is a sense of the existence of love in its most extended and sublime capacity, and of our own participation of its good and of its glory : it is the great principle of the universe, which is there more condensed, but not less manifested ; and of which, though knowing ourselves a part, we lose our individuality, and mingle in the beauty of the whole. If Rousseau had never written, nor lived, the same associations would not less have belonged to such scenes. He has added to the interest of his works by their adoption ; he has shown his sense of their beauty by the selection; but they have done that for him which no human being could do for them. I had the fortune (good or evil as it might be) to sail from Meillerie (where we landed for some time) to St. Gingo during a lake-storm, which added to the magni- liccnre of all around, although occasionally accompa- nied bj- danger to the boat, which was small and over- loaded. It was over this very part of the lake that Rousseau has driven the boat of St. Preux and Madame \Volmar to Meillerie for shelter during a tempest. On gaining the shore at St. Gingo, I found that the wind had been sufficiently strong to blow down some fine old chesnut trees on the lower part of the moun- tains. On the opposite height is a seat called the Cha- teau de Clarens. The hills are covered with vineyards, and interspersed with some small but beautiful woods ; one of these was named the " Bosquet de Julie," and it is 'emarkable that, though long ago cut down by the brutal selfishness of the monks of St. Bernard (to whom the land appertained), that the ground might be in- closed into a vineyard for the miserable drones of an execrable superstition, the inhabitants of Clarens still point out the spot where its trees stood, calling it by the name which consecrated and survived them. Rousseau has not been particularly fortunate in the preservation of the "local'habitations" he has given to " airy nothings." The Prior of Great St. Bernard has cui down some of his woods for the sake of a few casks of wine, and Buonaparte has levelled part of the rocks of Meillerie in improving the road to the Simplon. Tl^e road is an excellent one, but I cannot quite agree with a remarK which I heard made, that " La route ut mieux que les souvenirs." Note 23. Stanza cv. Lausanne and Ferney '. ye have been the abodes. foHaae and Gibbon. Note 24. Stanza cxiii. Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued. " if it be thus, For Banquo's issue have I filed my miiul." Macbeth. Note 25. Stanza cxiv. O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve, It is said by Rochefoucault that "there is altcayt something in the misfortunes of men's best friends not displeasing to them." CANTO IV. Note 1. Stanza i. I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; A palace and a prison on each hand. THE communication between the Ducal palace and the prisons of Venice is by a gloomy bridge, or covered gal- lery, high above the water, and divided by a stone wall into a passage and a cell. The state dungeons, called " pozzi," or wells, were sunk in the thick walls of the lace ; and the prisoner when taken out to die was conducted across the gallery to the other side, and being then led back into the other compartment, or cell, upon the bridge, was there strangled. The low portal through which the criminal was taken into this cell is now walled up ; but the passage is still open, and is still known by the name of the Bridge of Sighs. The pozzi are under the flooring of the chamber at the foot of the bridge. They were formerly twelve, but on the first arrival of lh French, the Venetians hastily blocked or broke up th deeper of these dungeons. You may still, however, de- scend by a trap-door, and crawl down through holes, half choked by rubbish, to the depth of two storeys below the first range. If you are in want of consolation for the extinction of patrician power, perhaps you may find it there ; scarcely a ray of light glimmers into the narrow gallery which leads to the cells, and the places of confinement themselves are totally dark. A small hole in the wall admitted the damp air of the passages, and served for the introduction of the prisoner's food. A wooden pallet, raised a foot from the ground, was ihe only furniture. The conductors tell you that a light was not allowed. The cells are about five paces in length, two and a half in width, and seven feet in height. They are directly beneath one another, and respiration is somewhat difficult in the lower holes. Only one prisoner was found when the republicans descended into these hideous recesses, and he is said to have been confined sixteen years. But the inmates of the dungeons beneath had left traces of their repentance, or of their despair, which are still visible, and may perhaps owe something to recent ingenuity. Some of the detained appear to have offended against, and others to have belonged to, the sacred body, not only from their signatures, but from the churches and belfries which they have scratched upon the walls. The reader may not object to see a spe- cimen of the records prompted by so terrific a solitude. As nearly as they could be copied by more than one pencil, three of them are as follows : 1. NON TI FIDAR AD ALCUNO, HSNSA c TACI SE FUGIR VUOi DI SP10N1 INSID1E e LACC' CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. .07 It PENTIRTI PENTIRTI NULLA GIOVA MA BEN DI VALOR TUO LA VERA PROVA 1607. ADI 2. GENARO. FUI RE- TENTO P' LA BESTIEMMA P' AVER DATO DA MANZAR A UN MORTO IACOMO. GR1TTI. SCRISSE. 2. UN PARLAR POCO et NEGARE PRONTO et UN PENSAR AL FINE PUO DARE LA VITA A NOI ALTRI MESCHIM 1605. EGO IOHN BAPTIST A AD ECCLESIAM CORTELLARIUS. 3. DI CHI MI FIDO GUARDAMI DIG DI CHI NON MI FIDO MI GUARDERO IO V*. LA S TA . CH. RA. R!A. The copyist has followed, not corrected, the solecisms; some of which are however not quite so decided, since the letters were evidently scratched in the dark. It only need be observed, that Bestemmia and Mangiar may be read in the first inscription, which was probably written by a prisoner confined for some act of impiety committed at a funeral : the Cortellarius is the name of a parish on terra firma, near the sea : and that the last initials evidently are put for Viva la Santa Chiesa Kattolica Romano. Note 2. Stanza ii. She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean. Rising with her tiara of proud towers. An old writer, describing the appearance of Venice, has made use of the above image, which would not be poetical were it not true. "Quo Jit ut qui superne urbem contemplelur, turritam Ulluris imaginem media oceano Jiguratam se putet in- spicere." ' Note 3. Stanza iii. In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more. The well-known song of the gondoliers, of alternate stanzas, from Tasso's Jerusalem, has died with the inde- pendence of Venice. Editions of the poem, with the original on one column, and the Venetian variations on the other, as sung by the boatmen, were once common, and are still to be found. The following extract will serve to show (he difference between the Tuscan epic and the "Canta alia Barcariola." Original. Canto V armi pietose, e'l capitano Che M gran sepolcro libero di Cristo. Molto eg Ii oprb col senno, e con la mano Molto Boffri nl glorioso acquisto ; E in van I" Inferno a lui a' oppose, e in vano S' armb d' Asia, c di Libia il popol misto, Che il Ciel gli die favore, e sotto a i santi Segni ridusse i suoi compagni erranti. Venetian. L' arme pietose de cantar gho vogia, E de Gnffredo la immortal braura, Che nl fin 1' ha libera co strassia. e dogia Del nostro buon Gesii la sepoltura ; De mezo mondo unito, e de quel Bogia Missier Plii'on no I' ha bu mai paura; Dio 1' ha agmt.1, e i compagni sparpagnai Tutii '1 gh' i ha messi insicme i di del Dai. 1 Mai :i Antonii S?al>n!li, de Venetse Urbis situ, narratio, edit Turin. 1527 lib. 1. fol. 'JOi Some of the elder gondoliers will, however, take up and continue a stanza of their once familiar bare? On the 7th of last January, the author of Child" Sarold, and another Englishman, the writer of tm notice, rowed^o the Lido with two singers, one of \\ hor.i was a carpenter, and the other a gondolier. The former ilaced himself at the prow, the latter at the stern of the )oat. A little after leaving the quay of the Piazetta, they jegan to sing, and continued their exercise until we arrived at the island. They gave us, amongst other issays, the death of Clorinda, and the palace of Armida; and did not sing the Venetian, but the Tuscan verses. The carpenter, however, who was the cleverer of the two. and was frequently obliged to prompt his companion, told us that he could translate the original. He added, that he could sing almost three hundred stanzas, but har not spirits (morbin was the word he used), to learn anj more, or to sing what he already knew : a man mus lave idle time on his hands to acquire, or to repeat, and said the poor fellow, "look at my clothes and at me, am starving." This speech was more affecting than his performance, which habit alone can make attractive. The recitative was shrill, screaming, and monotonous, and the gondolier behind assisted his voice by holding lis hand to one side of his mouth. The carpenter used a quiet action, which he evidently endeavoured to restrain, but was too much interested in his subject altogether to repress. From these men WP. iearnt that singing is not confined to the gondoliers, and that, although the chaunt is seldom, if ever, voluntary, there are still several amongst the lower classes who are acquainted with a few stanzas. It does not appear that it is usual for the performers to row and sing at the same time. Although the verses of the Jerusalem are no longer casually heard, there is yet much music upon the Venetian canals ; and upon holi- days, those strangers who are not near or informed enough to distinguish the words, may fane) that many of the gondolas still resound with the strains of Tasso. The writer of some remarks which appeared in the Curiosities of Literature must excuse his being twice quoted ; for, with the exception of some phrases a little too ambitious and extravagant, he has furnisned a very exact, as well as agreeable, description. " In Venice the gondoliers know by heart long pas- sages from Ariosto and Tasso, and often chaunt them with a peculiar melody. But this talent seems at present on the decline : at least, after taking some pains, I could find no more than two persons who delivered to me in this way a passage from Tasso. I must add, that the late Mr. Berry once chaunted to me a passage in Tasso in the manner, as he assured me, of the gondoliers. " There are always two concerned, who alternately sing the strophes. We know the melody eventually by Rousseau, to whose songs it is printed ; it has properly no melodious movement; and is a sort of medium between the canto fermo and the canto figurato ; it approaches to the former by recitativical declamation, and to the lattei by passages and course, by which one syllable is detained and embellished. " I entered a gondola by moonlight ; one singer placed himself forwards, and the other aft, and thus proceeded to St. Georgio. One began the song : when he had ena&l his strophe, the other took up the lay, and so continued the song alternately. Throughout the whole of it, Inn same notes invariably returned, but, according to ai (08 BYRON'S WORKS. subject matter of the strophe, they laid a greater or a xmaller stiriss, sometimes on one, and sometimes on another note, and indeed changed the enunciation of the whole s'rophe as the object of the poem altered. " On the whole, however, the sounds w^ hoarse and screaming : they seemed, in the manner of all rude un- civilized men, to make the excellency of their singing in the force of their voice : one seemed desirous of conquer- ing the other by the strength of his lungs ; and so far from receiving delight from this scene (shut up as I was in the box of the gondola), I found myself in a very un- pleasant situation. " My companion, to whom I communicated this cir- cumstance, being very desirous to keep up the credit of his countrymen, assured me that this singing was very delightful when heard at a distance. Accordingly we got out upon the shore, leaving one of the singers in the gondola, while the other went to the distance of some hundred paces. They now began to sing against one another, and I kept walking up and down between them both, so as always to leave him who was to begin his part. I frequently stood still and hearkened to the one and to the other. " Here the scene was properly introduced. The strong declamatory, and, as it were, shrieking sound, met the ear from far, and called forth the attention ; the quickly- succeeding transitions, which necessarily required to be sung in a lower tone, seemed like plaintive strains suc- ceeding the vociferation of emotion or of pain. The other, who listened attentively, immediately began where the former left off", answering him in milder or more vehement notes, according as the purport of the strophe required. The sleepy canals, the lofty buildings, the plendour of the moon, the deep shadows of the few gondolas, that moved like spirits hither and thither, in- creased the striking peculiarity of the scene ; and, amidst all these circumstances, it was easy to confess the char- acter of this wonderful harmony. " It suits perfectly well with an idle solitary mariner, lying at length in his vessel at rest on one of these canals, waiting for his company, or for a fare, the tiresomeness of which situation is somewhat alleviated by the songs and poetical stories he has in memory. He often raises his voice as loud as he can, which extends itself to a vast distance over the tranquil mirror, and as all is still around, he is, as it were, in a solitude in the midst of a large and populous town. Here is no rattling of carriages, no noise of foot passengers : a silent gondola glides now and then by him, of which the splashing of the oars is scarcely to be heard. "At a distance he hears another, perhaps utterly un- known to him. Melody and verse immediately attach the two strangers ; be becomes the responsive echo to the former, and exerts himself to be heard as he had heard the other. By a tacit convention they alternate verse for verse ; though the song should last the whole night through, Uiey entertain themselves without fatigue ; the hearers, who ure passing between the two, take part in Se amusement. " This vocal performance sounds best at a great dis- tance, and is then inexpressibly charming, as it only fulfils its des.gn in the sentiment of remoteness. It is plaintive, but. not dismal in its sound, and at times it is wa r ceiv rw>ssible to refrain from tears. My companion, woo otherwise was not a very delicately organized person, said quite unexpectedly : ' e singolare come quel canii intenerisce, e molto piu quando lo cantano meglio.' "I was told that the women of Libo, the long ro\ of islands that divides the Adriatic from the Lagouns, ' particularly the women of the extreme districts of Ma!a- mocca and Palestnna, sing in like manner the works of Tasso to these and similar tunes. " They have the custom, when their husbands are fishing out at sea, to sit along the shore in the evenings and vociferate these songs, and continue to do so with great violence, till each of them can distinguish the responses of her own husband at a distance." 2 The love of music and of poetry distinguishes all classes of Venetians, even amongst the tuneful sons of Italy. The city itself can occasionally furnish respectable au- diences for two and even three opera-houses at a time ; and there are few events in private life that do not call forth a printed and circulated sonnet. Does a physician or a lawyer take his degree, or a clergyman preach his maiden sermon, has a surgeon performed an operation, would a harlequin announce his departure or his benefit, are you to be congratulated on a marriage, or a birth, or a law-suit, the Muses are invoked to furnish the same num- ber of syllables, and the individual triumphs blaze abroad in virgin white or party-coloured placards on half the cor- ners of the capital. The last curtsy of a favourite " prima donna" brings down a shower of these poetical tributes from those upper regions, from which, in our theatres, nothing but cupids and snow-storms are accustomed to descend. There is a poetry in the very life of a Venetian, which, in its common course, is varied with those surprises and changes so recommendable in fiction, but so different from the sober monotony of northern existence ; amuse- ments are raised into duties, duties are softened into amusements, and every object being considered as equal- ly making a part of the business of life, is announced and performed with the same earnest indifference and gay assiduity. The Venetian gazette constantly closes iu columns with the following triple advertisement : Charade. Exposition of the most Holy Sacrament in the church of St. Theatres. St. Moses, opera. St. Benedict, a comedy of characters. St. Luke, repose. When it is recollected what the Catholics believe then consecrated wafer to be, we may perhaps think it worth> of a more respectable niche than between poetry and the playhouse. Note 4. Stanza x. Sparta hnth many a worthier eon than he. The answer of the mother of Brasidas to the strangers who praised the memory of her son. Note 5. Stanza ft. ft. Mark yet sees his lion wliere he stood Stand. The lion has lost nothing by his journey to the In valides, but the gospel which supported the paw that ' now on a level with the other foot. The horses, _sa, are returned to the ill-chosen spot whence they set ou, and are, as before, half hidden under me porcn window of St. Mark's church. 1 Tho writer meant I Ado, which is not a long row of is;a,.as, but a long island littua, the shore. 2 Curiosities of Literature, vol. ii. p. 156 sdit. 1807 ; and Appendix xxbc. to Black't Life of Tasso. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. Their history, after a dv.-pcrate struggle, has been atisfactorily explored. The decisions and doubts of Erizzo and Zanetti, and lastly, of the Count Leopold Cicognara, would have given them a Roman extraction, and a pedigree not more ancient than the reign of Nero. But M. de Schlegel stepped in to teach the Venetians the value of their own treasures, and a Greek vindicated, at last and for ever, the pretension of his countrymen to this noble production. 1 Mr. Mustoxidi has not been left without a reply ; but, as yet, he has received no answer. It should seem that the horses are irrevocably Chian, and were transferred to Constantinople by The- sdosius. Lapidary writing is a favourite play of the Italians, and has conferred reputation on more than t ne of their literary characters. One of the best speci- Jiens of Bodoni's typography is a respectable volume of inscriptions, all written by his friend Pacciaudi. Several were prepared for the recovered horses. It is to be hoped that the best was not selected, when the following words were ranged in gold letters above the cathedral porch : QCATUOR . EQUORCM . SIGNA . A . VENETIS . BY- ZANTIO . CAPTA . AD . TEMP . D . MAR . A . R . 8 . MCC1V . POSITA . QUJE . HOSTILIS . CUPIDITAB . A . MDCCCIII . ABSTULERAT . FRANC . I . IMP . PACIS . ORBI . SATS . TROPH.KUM . A . MDCCCXV . VICTOR . REDUXIT. Nothing shall be said of the Latin, but it may be per- mitted to observe, that the injustice of the Venetians in transporting the horses from Constantinople was at least equal to that of the French in carrying them to Paris, and that it would have been more prudent to have avoided all allusions to either robbery. An apostolic prince should, perhaps, have objected to affixing, over the principal entrance of a metropolitan church, an in- scription having a reference to any other triumphs than those of religion. Nothing less than the pacification of the world can excuse such a solecism. Note 6. Stanza xii. The Suabiao sued, and now the Austrian rnipns An emperor tramples where an emperor knelt. After many vain efforts on the part of the Italians, entirely to throw off the yoke of Frederic Barbarossa, and as fruitless attempts of the emperor to make him- self absolute master throughout the whole of his Cisal- pine dominions, the bloody struggles of four-and-twenty years were happily brought to a close in the city of Ven- ice. The articles of a treaty had been previously agreed upon between Pope Alexander III. and Barba- rossa, and the former, having received a safe-conduct, had already arrived at Venice from Ferrara, in com- pany with the ambassadors of the king of Sicily and the consuls of the Lombard league. There still remained, lowever, many points to adjust, and for several days the peace was believed to be impracticable. At this Juncture it was suddenly reported that the emperor had arrived at Chioza, a town fifteen miles from the capital. The Venetians rose tumultuously, and insisted upon immediately conducting him to the city. The Lombards took the alarm, and departed towards Tre- viso. The Pope himself was apprehensive of some dis- aster if Frederic should suddenly advance upon him, DUI was re-assured by the prudence and address of 1 Sui qnattro caval.i del'a Basilica Hi S. Marco in Venezia. Lettcra di Andrea Mustoxidi Corcirese. Padovn per Bettoni comoagni, L81& Sebastian Ziani, the Doge. Se\eral embassies passe/* between Chioza and the capital, until, at last, the emporov relaxing somewhat of his pretensions, "laid aside hi leonine ferocity, and put on the mildness of the lamb." " On Saturday the 23d of July, in the year 1177, sa. Venetian galleys transferred Frederic, in great pomp from Chioza to the island of Lido, a mile from Venice. Early the next morning, the Pope, accompanied by the Sicilian ambassadors, and by the envoys of Lombardy whom he had recalled from the main land, togethei with a great concourse of people, repaired from the patriarchal palace to Saint Mark's church, and solemnly absolved the emperor and his partisans from the ex- communication pronounced against him. The chan- cellor of the empire, on the part of his master, re- nounced the anti-popes and their schismatic adherents. Immediately the doge, with a great suite both of tht clergy and laity, got on board the galleys, and waiting on Frederic, rowed him in mighty state from the Lido to the capital. The emperor descended from the galley at the quay of the Piazetta. The doge, the patriarch, his bishops and clergy, and the people of Venice, with their crosses and their standards, marched in solemn procession before him to the church of Saint Mark. Alexander was seated before the vestibule of the ba- silica, attended by his bishops and cardinals, by the patriarch of Aquileja, by the archbishops and bishops of Lombardy, all of them in state, and clothed in their church robes. Frederic approached " moved by tho Holy Spirit, venerating the Almighty in the person of Alexander, laying aside his imperial dignity, and throw- ing off his mantle, he prostrated himself at full length at the feet of the Pope. Alexander, with tears in his> eyes, raised him benignantly from the ground, kissed him, blessed him ; and immediately the Germans of the train sang, with a loud voice, ' We praise thee, O Lord. The emperor then taking the Pope by the right hand, led him to the church, and, having received his bene- diction, returned to the ducal palace." 2 The ceremony of humiliation was repeated the next day. The Pope himself, at the request of Frederic, said mass at Saint Mark's. The emperor again laid aside his imperial mantle, and, taking a wand in his hand, officiated as verger, driving the laity from the choir, and preceding the pontiff to the altar. Alexander, after reciting tho gospel, preached to the people. The emperor put him- self close to the pulpit in the attitude of listening ; and the pontiff, touched by this mark of his attention, for he knew that Frederic did not understand a word ho said, commanded the patriarch of Aquileja to translate the Latin discourse into the German tongue. The creed was then chaunted., Frederic made his oblation, and kissed the Pope's feet, and, mass being over, led him by the hand to his white horse. He held the stirrup, and would have held the horse's rein to the water side, had not the Pope accepted of the inclination for the per- formance, and affectionately dismissed him with his benediction. Such is the substance of the account 'eft by the archbishop of Salerno, who was present at ihe ceremony, and whose story is confirmed by every sub- sequent narration. It would not be worth to minute a record, were it not the triumph of liberty as well n 1 "Qnibus auditis, imperator. operanle eo, qui corda prin- cipum iicut vult ct quando vult humililer mclinat, lcon:nl teritate deposits, ovinam mansuetudinem induit." RnmujidJ Snlernitam. Chromcon. apud Script. Her. Itai. Un. VII. p *S> 2 Ibid. p. 23L BYRON S WORKS. of superstition. TV states of Lombardy owed to it the confirmatiin of iheir privileges; and Alexander had reason to tiiank the Almighty, who had enabled an in- firm, unarmed old man to subdue a terrible and potent sovereign. 1 Note 7. Stanza xii. Oh, for one hour of blind old Dandolo ! Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe. The reader will recollect the exclamation of the high- lander, Oh, for one hour of Dundee! Henry Dandolo, when elected doge, in 1192, was eighty-five years of age. When he commanded the Venetians at the taking of Constantinople, he was consequently ninety-seven years old. At this age he annexed the fourth and a half of the whole empire of Romania, 2 for so the Roman em- pire was then called, to the title and to the territories of the Venetian Doge. The three-eighths of this empire were preserved in the diplomas until the dukedom of Giovanni Dolfino, who made use of the above designa- tion in the year 1357. 3 Dandolo led the attack on Constantinople in person : two ships, the Paradise and the Pilgrim, were tied to- gether, and a drawbridge or ladder let down from their higher yards to the walls. The doge was one of the first to rush into the city. Then was completed, said the Venetians, the prophecy of the Erythraean sybil. " A gathering together of the powerful shall be made amidst the waves of the Adriatic, under a blind leader : they shall beset the goat they shall profane Byzantium they shall blacken her buildings her spoils shall be dis- persed ; a new goat shall bleat until they have measured out and run over fifty-four feet, nine inches, and a half." 11 Dandolo died on the first day of June, 1205, having reigned thirteen years, six months, and five days, and was buried in the church of St. Sophia, at Constanti- nople. Strangely enough it must sound, that the name of the rebel apothecary who received the doge's sword, and annihilated the ancient government in 1796-7, was Dandolo. Note 8. Stanza xiii. But is not Doria's menace come to pass 1 Are they not bridled ? After the loss of the battle of Pola, and the taking of Chioza on the 16th of August, 1379, by the united armament of the Genoese and Francesco da Carrara, 1 See the above-cited Romuald of Salerno. In a second sermon which Alexander preached, on the first day of Au- gust, before the e\.>peror, he compared Frederic to the prodigal son, and himself to the forgiving father. 2 Mr. Gibbon has omitted the important , and has written Romani instead of Romania: Decline and Fall, chap. Ixi. note 9. But the title acquired by Dnndolo runs thus in the chronicle of his namesake, the Doge Andrew Dandolo: Duc.ali titulo addiilit, " Quartx partis et dimidia* totius im- peril Romania." And. Dand. Chronicon. cap. iii. para x.xxvii. ap. Script. Rer. Ital. torn. xii. page 3.11. And the Romania) is observed in the subsequent acts of the doges. Indeed the continental possessions of the Greek empire in Europe, were then generaUy known by the name of Romania, and that ap- pellation is still seen in the maps of Turkey as applied to Thrace. 3 See the continuation of Dandolo's Chronicle, ibid. p. 498. Mr. Gibbon appears not to include Dolfino, following Sanudo, *ho says, " il gual titnlo si uan fin al Doge Giovanni Dol- fiao." SPP Vite de' Duchi de Venezia, ap. Script. Rer. Ital. em. xxii. 530. 641. fr " Fiet pntentinm in aquis Adriaticis congregatio, caero pnediico, Hircum ainlngent, Ryznntium prophanabunt, a>di- ficia denigralumt; spolia disporgentur, Hircus novus balabit uque dum LIV. pe give up to us, I will not have them : take them back ; for, in a few days hence, I shall come and let them out of prison myself, both these and all the others." ' In fact, the Genoese did advance as far as Malamocco, within five miles of the capital ; but their own danger, and the pride of their enemies, gave courage to the Venetians, who made prodigious efforts, and many individual sacrifices, all of them care- fully recorded by their historians. Vettor Pisani was put at the head of thirty-four galleys. The Genoese broke up from Malamocco, and retired to Chioza in October ; but they again threatened Venice, which was reduced to extremities. At this time, the 1st of Janu- ary, 1380, arrived Carlo Zeno, who had been cruising on the Genoese coast with fourteen galleys. The Venetians were now strong enougli to besiege the Ge- noese. Doria was killed on the 22d of January by a stone bullet a hundred and ninety-five pounds weight, discharged from a bombard called the Trevisan. Chioza was then closely invested ; five thousand auxiliaries amongst whom were some English Condottieri, com- manded by one Captain Ceccho, joined the Venetians. The G enoese, in their turn, prayed for conditions, bul none were granted, until, at last, they surrendered al discretion ; and, on the 24th of June, 1380, the Doge Contarini made his triumphal entry into Chioza. Four thousand prisoners, nineteen galleys, many smaller vessels and barks, with all the ammunition and arms, and outfit of the expedition, fell into the hands of the conquerors, who, had it not been for the inexorable answer of Doria, would have gladly reduced their do- minion to the city of Venice. An account of these transactions is found in a work called the War of Chioza, written by Daniel Chinazzo, who was in Ven ice at the time. 2 Note 9. Stanza, xiv. The " Planter of the Lion." Plant the Lion that is, the Lion of St. Mark, the 1 " Alia fe di Dio, Signori Veneziani, non haverete mai pace dal Signore di Padoua, ne dal nostro comune di Geneva, se primieramente non mettemo le hriglie a quelli vostri cavallr sfrenati, che sono su la Reza del Vostro Evangelista S. Marco. Infrenati che gli havremo, vi faremo stare in buona pace. B questn e la intenzione nostrn, e del nostro comune. Questi miei fratelli Genovesi, che havete menati con voi per donarci non li voglio ; rimanetegli in dietro perche io intendo da qui a pochi giorni venirgli a riscuoter dalle vostre prigioni e lora e gli allri." 2 "Chronica della guerra di Chioza." ttc.Scrip' Rt 111 torn, xv p. 699 to 804. CHLLDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. Ill standard of the republic, which is the origin of the word pantajoon Pianta-ieone, Pantaleone, Pantaloon. Note 10. Stanza xv. Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must Too oft remind her who and what enthrals. The population of Venice at the end of the seventeenth century amounted to nearly two hundred thousand souls. At the last census, taken two years ago, it was no more than about one hundred and three thousand, and it diminishes daily. The commerce and the official employments, which were to be the unexhausted source of Venetian grandeur, have both expired. 1 Most of th< patrician mansions are deserted, and would gradually disappear, had not the government, alarmed by the de- molition of seventy-two, during the last two years, ex- pressly forbidden this sad resource of poverty. Many remnants of the Venetian nobility are now scattered and confounded with the wealthier Jews upon the banks of the Brenta, whose palladian palaces have sunk, or are sinking, in the general decay. Of the " gentil uomo Veneto," the name is still known, and dial is all. He is but the shadow of his former self, but he is polite and kind. It surely may be pardoned to him if he is que- rulous. Whatever may have been the vices of the re- public, and although ths natural term of its existence may be thought by foreigners to have arrived in the due course of mortality, only one sentiment can be expected from the Venetians themselves. At no time were the ubjects of the republic so unanimous in their resolution to rally round the standard of St. Mark, as when it was for the last time unfurled ;. and the cowardice and the tieachery of the few patricians who recommended the fatal neutrality, were confined to the persons of the traitors themselves. The present race cannot be thought to regret the loss of their aristocratical forms, and too despotic gov- ernment; they think only on their vanished indepen- dence. They pine away at the remembrance, and on this subject suspend for a moment their gay good-hu- mour. Venice may be said, in the words of the scrip- ture, " to die daily ;" and so general and so apparent is the decline, as to become painful to a stranger, not reconciled to the sight of a whole nation expiring as it were, before his eyes. So artificial a creation, havin" lost that principle which called it into life and sup- ported its existence, must fall to pieces at once, and sink more rapidly than it rose. The abhorrence of slavery, which drove the Venetians to the sea, has, since their disaster, forced them to the land, where they may be at least overlooked amongst the crowd of dependants, and not present the humiliating specta- cle of a whole nation loaded with recent chains. Their liveliness, their affability, and that happy indifference which constitution alone can give, for philosophy aspires to it in vain, have not sunk under circumstances ; but many peculiarities of costume and manner have by degrees been lost, and the nobles, with a pride com- mon to all Italians who have "been masters, have not been persuaded to parade their insignificance. That splendour which was a proof and a portion of their power, they would not degrade into the trappings of their subjection. They retired from the space wh-k they had occupied in the eyes of their fellow-citizens their continuance in which would have been a symptom of acquiescence, and an insult to those who suffered b the common misfortune. Those who remained in th degraded capita' might be said rather to haunt thu scenes of their departed power, than to live in them. The reflection, " who and what enthrals," will hardly bear a comment from one who is, nationally, the friend and the ally of the conqueror. It may, however, be allowed to say thus much, that, to those who wish to recover their independence, any masters must be an object of detestation ; and it may be safely foretold that this unprofitable aversion will not have been corrected before Venice shall have sunk into the slime of her choked canals. Note 11. Stanza xvi. Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse. The story is told in Plutarch's Life of Nicias. Note 12. Stanza xviii. And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakspeare's art. Venice Preserved ; Mysteries of Udolpho ; the Ghost- seer, or Armenian ; the Merchant of Venice ; Othello. Note 13. Stanza xx. But from their nature will the tannen grow Loftiest on lot'tiest and least shelter'd rocks. Tannen is the plural of tonne, a species of fir pecu- liar to the Alps, which only thrives in very rocky parts, where scarcely soil sufficient for its nourishment can ba found. On these spots it grows to a greater height than any other mountain tree. Note 14. Stanza xxviii. A single star is at her side, and reigns With her o'er half the lovely heaven. The above description may seem fantastical or exag- gerated to those who have never seen an oriental or ac Italian sky ; yet it is but a literal and hardly sufficient delineation of an August evening (the eighteenth), as contemplated in one of many rides along the banks of the Brenta near La Mira. Note 15. Stanza xxx. Watering the tree which bears his lady's name With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. Thanks to the critical acumen of a Scotchman, we now know as little of Laura as ever. 1 The discoveries of the Abbe de Sade, his triumphs, his sneers, can no longer instruct or amuse. 2 We must not, however, think that these memoirs are as much a romance as Belisarius or the Incas, although we are told so by Dr. Beattie, a great name, but a little authority. 3 His "la- bour " has not been in vain, notwithstanding his "love" has, like most other passions, made him ridiculous. 4 The hypothesis which overpowered the struggling Ita- 1 " Nonnullorum e nobilitate immense sunt opes, adeo ut vir cstimari possint : id quod tribus e rebus oritur, parsimonia, eommercio, atque iis emolumentis, qus e Repub. porcipiunt, quie hanc ob causam diuturna fore creditur." See l)e Prin- upatibus Italia? Tractalus, edit. 1631. 1 See A historical and critical Essay on the Life nd Char- acter of Petrarch ; and a Dissertation on a Historical Hy- pothesis of the Abbe de Sade: the first appeared about iha rear 17S4 ; the other is inserted in the fourth volume of the Transactions of the Royal Society of Edinburgh ; and both have been incorporated into a work, published under the fiml title, by Baiiantyne in 1810. 2 Memoirs pour la Vie de Petrarque. 3 Life of Beattie, by Sir. W. Forbes, t. ii. p. Hfc 4 Mr. Gibbon called his Memoirs " a tab.mr of lore," (se Decline and Fall, cap. Ixx, note 1.) and followe 1 >iiin with confidence and delight. The compiler of a very vo.ummouf work must take much criticism upon trust: Mr. Gibbon >ia dune BO, though not so readily as some other authors. 112 BYRON'S WORKS. lians, and cairied along ess interested critics in its current, is run out. We have another proof that we can never be sure that the paradox, the most singular, and therefore having the most agreeable and authentic air, will not give place to the re-established ancient prejudice. It seems then, first, that Laura was born, lived, died, and was buried, not in Avignon, but in the country. The fountains of the Sorga, the thickets of Cabrieres, may resume their pretensions, and the exploded de la Sastie again be heard with complacency. The hypo- thesis of the Abbe had no stronger props than the parchment sonnet and medal found on the skeleton of the wife of Hugo de Sade, and the manuscript note to the Virgil of Petrarch, now in the Ambrosian library. If these proofs were both incontestable, the poetry was written, the medal composed, cast, and deposited, with- in the space of twelve hours ; and these deliberate du- ties were performed round the carcass of one who died of the plague, and was hurried to the grave on the day of her death. These documents, therefore, are loo de- cisive : they prove, not the fact, but the forgery. Either the sonnet or the Virgilian note must be a falsification. The Abbe cites both as incontestably true ; the conse- quent deduction is inevitable they are both evidently false. 1 Secondly, Laura was never married, and was a haughty virgin rather than that tender and prudent wife who honoured Avignon by making that town the theatre of an honest French passion, and played off for one-and- twenty years her little machinery of alternate favours and refusals 1 upon the first poet of the age. It was, indeed, rather too unfair that a female should be made responsible for eleven children upon the faith of a mis- interpreted abbreviation, and the decision of a librarian. 3 It is, however, satisfactory to think that the love of Petrarch was not platonic. The happiness which he prayed to possess but once and for a moment was surely not of the mind, 1 and something so very real as a mar- riage project, with one who has been idly called a shadowy nymph, may be, perhaps, detected in at least six places of his own sonnets. 5 The love of Petrarch was neither platonic nor poetical ; and, if in one passage of his works he calls it " amore veemenceissimo ma unico ed onesto," ho confesses, in a letter to a friend, 1 The sonnet had before awakened the suspicions of Mr. Horace Walpole. See his letter to Wharton in 1763. 2 " Par ce petit manege, cette alternative de favours et de rigueurs bien menagee. une femme tendre et gage amuse, pendant vingt-un ans, le plus grand poete de son siecle, sans faire la momdre breche a son honneur." Mem. pour la Vie de Petrarque. Preface aux Francais. The Italian editor of the London edition of Petrarch, who has translated Lord Woodhouselee, renders the " femme tendre et sage," "rif- finatu civetta." Rillessioni intorno a Madonna Laura, p. 234. vol. iii. ed. 1811. II In a dialogue with 8t. Augustin, Petrarch has described Laura as having a body exhausted with repeated ptuhs. The old editors read and printed perturbqtionihus; but M. Capn^r- pnier, librarian to the French King, in 1762, who saw the MS. in the Paris library, made an attestation that " on lit et qu'on (jit lire, pnrtubus exhaustum." De Sarte joined the names of Messrs. Doudot and Bejut with M. Capperonier, and in the whole discussion on this j, tubs, showed himself a downright literary rogue. See Riflessioni. etc., p. 267. Thomas Aquinas i* called in to settle whether Petrarch's mistress was a chaste maid or a continent wife. 4 " Pismalion. quanto lodarti del Dell' iromagine tua, so, mille volte N* avotiquel rh' i' sol una vorrei." Snnetto 53, Quando piunsc a Simon I' alto concetto. Le Rime, etc., par. i. pair. 189. edit. Ven. 1756. Stc RiBessioni, etc., p. 291. that it was guilty and perverse, that i\ aosorbed hut quite, and mastered his heart. 1 In this case, however, he was perhaps alarmed for the culpability of his wishes ; for the Abbe de Sade himself, who certainly would not have been scrupu- lously delicate, if he could have proved his descent from Petrarch as well as Laura, is forced into a stout defence of his virtuous grandmother. As far as relates to the poet, we have no security for the innocence, except perhaps in the constancy of his pursuit. He assures us, in his epistle to posterity, that, when arrived at his fortieth year, he not only had in horror, but had lost all recollection and image of any "irregularity." 2 But the birth of his natural daughter cannot be assigned earlier than his thirty-ninth year ; and either the mem- ory or the morality of the poet must have failed him, when he forgot or was guilty of this slip. 3 The weakest argument for the purity of this love has been drawn from the permanence of effects, which survived the object of his passion. The reflection of M. de la Bastie, that virtue alone is capable of making impressions which death cannot efface, is one.of those which every body applauds, and every body finds not to be true, the mo- ment he examines his own breast or the records of human feeling. 4 Such apophthegms can do nothing for Petrarch or for the cause of morality, except with the very weak and the very young. He that has made even a little progress beyond ignorance and pupilage, cannot be edified with any thing but truth. What is called vindicating the honour of an individual or a nation, is the most futile, tedious, and uninstructive of all writing; although it will always meet with more applause than that sober criticism, which is attributed to the malicious desire of reducing a great man to the common standard of humanity. It is, after all, not unlikely, that our historian was tight in retaining his favourite hypothetic salvo, which secures the author, although it scarcely saves the honour of the still unknown mistress of Petraich.* Note 16. Stanza xxxi. They keep his dust in A/qua, where he died. Petrarch retired to Arqua immediately on his return from the unsuccessful attempt to visit Urban V. at Rome, in the year 1370, and, with the exception of his cele- brated visit to Venice in company with Francesco No- vello de Carrara, he appears to have passed the four last years of his life between that charming solitude and Padua. For four months previous to his death he was in a state of continual languor, and in the morning of July the 19th, in the year 1374, was found dead in his library chair with his head resting upon a book. The chair is still shown amongst the precious relics of Arquii, which, from the uninterrupted veneration that has been attached to every thing relative to this great man, from 1 " duella rea e perversa passione che solo tutto mi occu pava e mi regnava nel cuore." 2 Azion disonesta, are his words. 3 " A questa confessione cosi sincere died? forse occaiiona unanuova caduta ch' ei fece. " Tiraboschi, Storia, etc., torn, v. lib. iv. par. ii. pag. 492. 4 " 11 n'v a Que la vertu settle qui spit rapnlile de faire del impressians que la mart n' efface pan." M. He Bimard. Baron de la Bastie, in the Memoires dp 1'Arademie Hes Inscription* et Belles-Letties fur 1740 and 1751. See also Rilles.sioni etc p. 295. 5 " And if the virtue or prudence of Laura was inexo cbl he enjoyed, and might boast of enjoyinz the ryinph n! o >e 17." Decline and Fall, cap. Ixx. p. 327. vol. xii OCL ID. haps the if is here meant for although CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 113 .he moment of his death to the present hour, have, it may be hoped, a better chance of authenticity than the Shakspearian memorials of Stratford-upon-Avon. Arqui (for the last syllable is accented in pronun- ciation, although the analogy of the English language has been observed in the verse), is twelve miles from Padua, and about three miles on the right of the high road to Rovigo, in the bosom of the Euganean hills. After a walk of twenty minutes, across a flat well- wooded meadow, you come t; a little blue lake, clear but fathom- less, and to the foot of a succession of acclivities and hills, clothed with vineyards and orchards, rich with fir and pomegranate trees, and every sunny fruit-shrub. From the banks of the lake, the road winds into the hills, and the church of Arqua is soon seen between a cleft where two ridges slope towards each other, and nearly inclose the village. The houses are scattered at intervals on the steep sides of these summits ; and that of the poet is on the edge of a little knoll overlooking two de- icents, and commanding a view not only of the glowing gardens in the dales immediately beneath, but of the wide plains, above whose low woods of mulberry and willow thickened into a dark mass by festoons of vines, tall single cypresses, and the spires of towns are seen in the distance, which stretches to the mouths of the Po and the shores of the Adriatic. The climate of these volcanic hills is warmer, and the vintage begins a week sooner than in the plains of Padua. Petrarch is laid, for he cannot be said to be buried, in a sarcophagus of red marble, raised on four pilasters on an elevated base, and preserved from an association with meaner tombs. It stands conspicuously alone, but will be soon over- shadowed by four lately-planted laurels. Petrarch's fountain, for here every thing is Petrarch's, springs and expands itself beneath an artificial arch, a little below the church, and abounds plentifully, in the driest season, with that soft water which was the ancient wealth of the Euganean hills. It would be more attractive, wer* it not, in some seasons, beset with hornets and wasps. No other coincidence could assimilate the tombs of Petrarch and Archilochus. The revolutions of centu- ries have spared these sequestered valleys, and the only violence which has been offered to the ashes of Petiarch, was prompted, not by hate, but veneration. An attempt was made to rob the sarcophagus of its treasure, and one of the arms was stolen by a Floren- tine, through a rent which is still visible. The injury is not forgotten, but has served to identify the poet with the country where he was bom, but where he would iiot live. A peasant boy of Arqui being asked who Petrarch was, replied, "that the people of the par- sonage knew all about him, but that he only knew that he was a Florentine." Mr. Forsyth ' was not quite correct in saying, that Petrarch never returned to Tuscany after he had once quitted it when a boy. It appears he did pass through Florence on his way from Parma to Rome, and on his return in tfye year 1350, and remained there long enough to form some acquaintance with its most distinguished inhabitants. A Florentine gentleman, ashamed of the aversion of the poet for his native country, was eager to point out this trivial error in our accomplished traveller, *noru he knew and respected for an extraordinary 1 Remarks, etc. on Italy, p, 9.'<, rote, 3d edit. 20 capacity, extensive erudition, and refined taste, joined to that engaging simplicity of manners which has beeo so frequently recognised as the surest, though it is rer tainly not an indispensable, trait of superior genius. Every footstep of Laura's lover has been anxious)) traced and recorded. The house in which he lodged it shown in Venice. The inhabitants of Arezzo, in orda to decide the ancient controversy between their city ana the neighbouring Ancisa, where Petrarch was carried when seven months old, and remained until his seventl year, have designated, by a long inscription, the spol where their great fellow-citizen was bom. A tablet has been raised to him at Parma, in the chapel of St. Agatha, at the cathedral, J because he was archdeacon of that society, and was only snatched from his intended sepul- ture in their church by a. foreign death. Another tablet with a bust has been erected to him at Pavia, on ac- count of his having passed the autumn of 1368 in thai city, with his son-in-law Brossano. The political con- dition which has for ages precluded the Italians from the criticism of the living, has concentrated their attention to the illustration of the dead. Note 17. Stanza xxxiv. Or, it may be, with demons. * The struggle is to the full as likely to be with demon? as with our better thoughts. Satan chose the wilder- ness for the temptation of our S-iviour. And our un- sullied John Locke preferred the presence of a child t complete solitude. Note 18. Stanza xxrvni. In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire ; And Boileau, whose rash envy, etc. Perhaps the couplet in which Boileau depreciate* Tasso, may serve as well as any other specimen to jus- tify the opinion given of the harmony of French verse. A Malherbe, a Raran, preferer Theophile, t le clinquant du Tasse a tout 1'or de Virgile. Sat. ix. verse 176. The biographer Serassi, 2 out of tenderness to the repu- tation either of the Italian or the French poet, is eager to observe that the satirist recanted or explained away this censure, and subsequently allowed the author of the Jerusalem to be a " genius sublime, vast, and happily bom for the higher flights of poetry." To this we wilJ add, that the recantation is far from satisfactory, when I D. O. M. Francisco Petrarcha Parmensi Archidiacono. Parentibus prseclaris genere peranliquo Elhices Chiistianic scriptori eximio Romans lingua* restituturi Etruscce principi Africae ob carmen bac in urbe peractum regibus accho S. P. Q. R. laurea donate. Tanti Viri Juvenilium juvenig senilium genex StudiosUsimus Comes Nicolaus Canonicus Cicogntrm Marmorea proxima ara excilata. Ibique cundilo Diva; Januariae crucnto corpore H. M. P. Suffectum Bed infra meritum Francisci sepulchre Sumrna hac in cede efferri mandautii Si Parma? occumberet Extcra rnorte heu nbbis erepti. 2 La vita dehTasgo, lib. iii. p. 284. torn, u edit tsejsam 1790. fvl BYRON'S WORKS. we examine the whole anecdote as reported by Olivet. ' The sentence pronounced against him by Bohours 2 is ecorded only to the confusion of the critic, whose pa- knodia the Italian makes no effort to discover, and would not perhaps accept. As to the opposition which tho Jerusalem encountered from the Cruscan academy, who degraded Tasso from all competition with Ariosto, oelow Bojardo and Pulci, the disgrace of such opposition must also, in some measure, be laid to the charge of Alphonso, and the court of Ferrara. For Leonard Sal- viati, the principal and nearly the sole origin of this attack, was, there can be no doubt, 3 influenced by a hope to acquire the favour of the House of Este : an object which he thought attainable by exalting the repu- tation of a native/ poet at the expense of a rival, then a prisoner of state. The hopes and efforts of Salviati must serve to show the cotemporary opinion as to the nature of the poet's imprisonment ; and will fill up the measure of our indignation at the tyrant jailor. 4 In fact, the antagonist of Tasso was not disappointed in the reception given to his criticism ; he was called to the court of Ferrara, where, having endeavoured to heighten his claims to favour, by panegyrics on the family of his sovereign, 5 he was in his turn abandoned, and expired in neglected poverty. The opposition of the Cruscans was brought to a close in six years after the commence- ment of the controversy ; and if the academy owed its first renown to having almost opened with such a para- dox, 6 it is probable that, on the other hand, the care of his reputation alleviated rather than aggravated the imprisonment of the injured poet. The defence of his father and of himself, for both were involved in the censure of Salviati, found employment for many of his solitary hours, and the captive could have been but little embarrassed to reply to accusations, where, amongst other delinquencies, he was charged with invidiously omitting, in his comparison between France and ItaJy, to mane any mention of the cupola of St. Maria del Fiore at Florence.' The late biographer of Ariosto seems as if willing to renew the controversy by doubting the interpretation of Tasso's self-estimation, 8 related 1 Histoire de 1'Aciulemie Franeaise, depuis 1652 jusqu'k 1700, par 1'abbe d'Olivct, p. 181. edit. Amsterdam, 1730. "Mais, ensuite, vcnant k 1'usage qu'Ll a fait de ses talcns, j'aurais montr6 quc le bon sens n'est pas toujours ce qui do- mine chez lui," p. 183. Boileau said he had not changed his opinion : " J'enuisi peu change, dit-il," etc. p. 181. 2 La maniere de bien penser dans Ics ouvrages de I'esprit, lec. dial. p. 89. edit. 1692. Philanthpa is for Tasso, and says, in the outset, "de tous les beaux esprits que 1'Italie a pones, le Tassc cst pcut-etre cclui qui pcnse le plus noblement." But Bohours seems to speak in Ecdoxus, who closes with the absurd comparison, "Faites valoire le Tasse tant qu'il vous plaira, jc m'en ticns pourmoi i Virpile,"etc. ib. p. 102. 3 La Vita, etc. lib. iii. p. 90, torn. ii. The English reader may see an account of me opposition of the Crusca to Tasso, in Dr. Black, Life, etc. cap. xvii. vol. ii 4 For further, and, it is hoped, decisive proof, that Tasso >vas neither more nor less than a prisoner of stntr. the reader is referred to " Historical Illustrations of the IVth Canto of Childe Harold," p. 5, and following. 5 Orazioni funetiri. . . . Delle lodi di Don'Luigi Cardinal d'Esto . . . Deile lodi di Donno Alfonzo d'Este. See La Vita, lib. iii. pag. 117. 6 It was founded in 1582. and the Cruscan answer to Pel- egrmol's Ca.ra.ffa or epica poesia, was published in 1584. 7 "Cotanto pole sempre in lui il veleno della sua pessima olonta. r.ontro alia nazion Fiorentana." La Vita, lib. iii. pp. Sf. 8. torn, il 8 La Vita di M. L. Ariosto, scritta dall' Abate Giro lamo Uaruffaldi giuniore, etc., Ferrara, 1807. lib. iii. page 262. 4ee Historical Illustrations, etc n 9(5. in Scrassi's life of the poet. But Tiraboschi had beforu laid that rivalry at rest, 1 by showing, that between Ariostc and Tasso it is not a question of comparison, but of preference. Note 19. Stanza xli. The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust Thp iron crown of laurel's mimick'd leaves. Before the remains of Ariosto were removed from the Benedictine church to the library of Ferrara, his bust, which surmounted the tomb, was struck by lightning, and a crown of iron laurels melted away. The event has been recorded by a writer of the last century. 2 The transfer of these sacred ashes on the 6th of June, 1801, was one of the most brilliant spectacles of the short- lived Italian Republic, and to consecrate the memory of the ceremony, the once farm us fallen Intrepidi were revived and re-formed in the Ailostean academy. The large public place through which the procession paraded was then for the first time called Ariosto Square. Th author of the Orlando is jealously claimed as the Ho- mer, not of Italy, but Ferrara. 3 The mother of Ari- osto was of Reggio, and the house in which he was born is carefully distinguished by a tablet with these- words : " Qui nacque Ludovico Ariosto il giorno 8 di Settembre deW anno 1474." But the Ferrarese make light of the accident by which their poet was born abroad, and claim him exclusively for their o\vn. They possess his bones, they show his arm-chair, and his ink-stand, and his autographs. " hie illius arma. Hie currus fuit " The house where he lived, the room where he died, sre designated by his own replaced memorial, 4 and by a recent inscription. The Ferrarese are more jealous of their claims since the animosity of Denina, arising from a cause which their apologists mysteriously hint is not unknown to them, ventured to degrade their soil and climate to a Kffiotian incapacity for all spiritual produc- tions. A quarto volume has been called forth by the detraction, and this supplement to Baretti's Memoirs of the illustrious Ferrarese, has been considered a tri- umphant reply to the " Quadro Storico Statistico dell' Alta Italia." Note 20. Stanza xli. For the true laurel-wreath which glory weaves Is of tho tre\! no bolt of thunder cleaves. The eagle, the sea-calf, the laurel, 5 and the white vine, 6 were, amongst the most approved preservatives against lightning: Jupiter chose the first, Augustus Cae- sar the second, 7 and Tiberius never failed to wear a wreath of the third when the sky threatened a thunder- storm. 8 These superstitions may be received without a 1 Storia della Lett., etc. lib. iii. torn. vii. par. iii. p. 1230 sect. 4. 2 "Mi raccontarono quo" monaci, ch' essendo caduto un fulmine nella loro chiesa schianto esso dalle tcmpie la corona di lauro a auelP immortale poeta." Op. di Bianconi, vol. iii. p. 17fi. ed. Milano, 1802 ; lettera al Signor Guido Savini Ar- cifisiocritico, suit' indole di un fulmine caduto in Dresila anno 1759. 3 "Appassionato ammiratore cd invitto apqjogista the confusion of the Tassisti, lio. iii. pp 162 265. La Vila di M. L. Ariosto. etc. 4 " Parva, sed apta mihi, sed nulli obnoxia, sed n>n Sordida, parta mpo sed tamcn sere dcmus." 5 Aquila, vituhis marinus, et laurug. fulmino o>n fci un'ur Plin. Nat. Hist. lib. ii. cap. Iv. 6 Columella, iib. x. 7 Sucton. in Vit. August, cnp.'xc 8 Id. in Vit. Tiberii. cap. Ixiz. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 115 sneer in a country where the magical properties of the hazei-twig have not lost all their credit ; and perhaps the reader may not be much surprised to find that a com- mentator on Suetonius has taken upon himself gravely lo disprove the imputed virtues of the crown of Tibe- rius, by mentioning that, a few years before he wrote, a laurel was actually struck by lightning at Rome. Note 21. Stanza xli. Know that the lightning sanctifies below. The Curtian lake and the Ruminal fig-tree in the Forum, having been touched by lightning, were held sacred, and the memory of the accident was preserved by a puleat, or altar, resembling the mouth of a well, witli a little chapel covering the cavity supposed to be' made by the thunderbolt. Bodies scathed and persons struck dead were thought to be incorruptible ; J and a stroke not fatal conferred perpetual dignity upon the man so distinguished by Heaven. 3 Those killed by lightning were wrapped in a white garment, aud buried where they fell. The superstition was not confined to the worshippers of Jupiter : the Lombards believed in the omens furnished by lightning, and a Christian priest confesses that by a diabolical skill in interpreting thunder, a seer foretold to Agilulf, duke of Turin, an event which came to pass, and gave him a queej and a crown.* There was, however, somethin equivocal in this sign, which the ancient inhabitants ol Rome did not always consider propitious ; and as the fears are likely to last longer than the consolations oi superstition, it is not strange that the Romans of the age of Leo X. should have been so much terrified at some misinterpreted storms as to require the exhortations ol a scholar, who arrayed all the learning on thunder and cghtning to prove the omen favourable ; beginning with the flash which struck the walls of Velitrae, and includ- ing that which played upon a gate at Florence, anc foretold the pontificate of one of its citizens. 5 Note 22. Stanza Ixii. Italia, oh Italia, etc. The two stanzas, XLII. and XLIII., are, with the ex- ception of a line or two, a translation of the famous sonnet of Filicaja : " Italia, Italia, O tu cui fco la sorte." Note 23. Stanza xfiv. Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him, The Roman friend of Rome's least mortal mind. The celebrated letter of Servius Sulpicius to Cicero, on the death of his daughter, describes as it then was, anc now is, a path which I often traced in Greece, both by sea and land, in different journeys and voyages. " On my return from Asia, as I was sailing frorr /Egina towards Megara, I began to contemplate th prospect of the countries around me : ^Egina was behind Megara before me ; Piraeus on the right, Corinth on th left ; all which towns, once famous and flourishing, now fie overturned and buried in their ruins. Upon thi tight, I could not but think presently within mysell Alas ! how do we poor mortals fret and vex ourse.ves it any of our friends happen to die or be killed, whoss ife is yet so short, when the carcasses of so many ns>->*6 ities lie here exposed before me in one view." ' Note 24. Stanza xlvi. Note 2. pap. 409. edit. Lugd. Bat. 1667. Vid. J. C. liullcnger, de Terrse motu et Fulminibus, lib i, cap. xi. 3 OtxJtif xcpavviaOas ari/io$ tari, SOtv ai if riii'lra'. Pint. Sympos., vid. J. C. Bulleng. ut sup. 4 Pauli Diaconi, dp gestis Langobard. lib. iii. cap. xiv. fo tv. edit. Taurin. 1527. 5 1. P. Valerian!, ile fulminum significationihus declamatio p. Gripv. Antiq. Rom. turn. v. p. 593. The declamation is addressed to Julian of Media'*. -and we pass The skeleton of her Titanic form. It is Poggio, who, looking from the Capitoline hi upon ruined Rome, breaks forth into the exclamation ' Ut nunc omni decore nudata, prostrata jacet, insta/ pgantei cadaveris corrupti atque undique exesi." 2 Note 25. Stanza xlix. There, too, the goddess loves in stone. The view of the Venus of Medicis instantly suggests he lines in the Seasons, and the comparison of the ob- ect with the description proves, not only the correct- ness of the portrait, but the peculiar turn of though^ and, if the term may be used, the sexual imagination ol the descriptive poet. The same conclusion may be de- duced from another hint in the same episode of Musi- dora ; for Thomson's notion of the privileges of favoured ove must have been either very primitive, or rather deficient in delicacy, when he made his grateful nymph nform her discreet Damon that in some happier mo- ment he might perhaps be the companion of her bath: " The time may come you need not fly." The reader will recollect the anecdote told in the life of Dr. Johnson. We will not leave the Florentine Eallery without a word on the JVhelter. It seems strange that the character of that disputed statue should not be entirely decided, at least in the mind of any one who has seen a sarcophagus in the vestibule of the Basilica of St. Paul without the walls, at Rome, where the whole roup of the fable of Marsyas is seen in tolerable pre- servation ; and the Scythian slave whetting the knife is represented exactly in the same position as this celebrated masterpiece. The slave is not naked but it is easier to get rid of this difficulty than to suppose the knife in the hand of the Florentine statue an in- strument for shaving, which it must be, if, as Lanzi supposes, the man is no other than the barber of Ju- lius Ccesar. Winkelmann, illustrating a bas-relief of the same subject, follows the opinion of Leonard Agos- tini, and his authority might have been thought con- clusive, even if the resemblance did not strike the mo?t careless observer. 3 Amongst the bronzes of the same princely collection is still to be seen the inscribed tablet copied and com- mented upon by Mr. Gibbon. 4 Our historian found some difficulties, but did not desist from his illustra- tion : he might be vexed to hear that his criticism has been thrown away on an inscription now generally re- cognised to be a forgery. Note 26. Stanza !i. his eyes to thee upturn. Feeding on thy'swect cheek. 6 BYRON'S WORKS. Note 27. Stanza liv. IP Santa Grace's holy precincts lie. This name will recall the memory, not only of those *ho?e tombs have raised the Santa Croce into the centre of pi'grimage, the Mecca of Italy, but of her whose eloquence was poured over the illustrious ashes, and whose voice is now as mute as those she sung. CORISNA is no more ; and with her should expire the fear, the flattery, and the envy, which threw too daz zling or too dark a cloud round the march of genius, and forbad the steady gaze of disinterested criticism. We have her picture embellished or distorted, as friend- ship or detraction has held the pencil: the impartial portrait was hardly to be expected from a contempo- rary. The immediate voice of her survivors will, it is probable, be far from affording a just estimate of her ingular capacity. The gallantry, the love of wonder, Bid the hope of associated fame, which blunted the edge of censure, must cease to exist. The dead have no sex ; they can surprise by no new miracles ; they can confer no privilege: Corinna has ceased to be a woman she is only an author : and it may be foreseen that many will repay themselves for former complai- sance, by a severity to which the extravagance of pre- vious praises may perhaps give the colour of truth. The latest posterity, for to the latest posterity they will assuredly descend, will have to pronounce upon her various productions ; and the longer the vista through which they are seen, the more accurately minute will be the object, the more certain the justice of the deci- sion. She will enter into that existence in which the great writers of all ages and nations are, as it were, associated in a world of their own, and from that su- perior sphere shed their eternal influence for the con- trol and consolation of mankind. But the individual will gradually disappear as the author is more dis- tinctly seen : some one, therefore, of all those whom the charms of involuntary wit, and of easy hospitality, attracted within the friendly circles of Coppet, should rescue from oblivion those virtues which, although they are said to love the shade, are, in fact, more fre- quently chilled than excited by the domestic cares of private life. Some one should be found to portray the unaffected graces with which she adorned those dearer relationships, the performance of whose duties is rather discovered amongst the interior secrets, than seen in the outward management, of family inter- course ; and which, indeed, it requires the delicacy of genuine affection to qualify for the eye of an indiffer- ent spectator. Some one should be found, not to celebrate, but to describe, the amiable mistress of an open mansion, the centre of a society, ever varied, and always pleased, the creator of which, divested of the ambition and the arts of public rivalry, shone forth only to give fresh animation to those around her. The mo- ther tenderly affectionate and tenderly beloved, the friend unboundedly generous, but still esteemed, the charitable patroness of all distress, cannot be forgotten by those whom she cherished, protected, and fed. Her loss will be mourned the most where she was known the best ; and, to the sorrows of very many friends and "ioie dependants, may be offered the disinterested re- giet of a stranger, who, amidst the sublimer scenes of the Leman lake, icceived his chief satisfaction from contemplating th engaging qualities of the incompa- r*o.e Corinna. Note 28. Stanza liv. -here repose Angelo's, Alfieri's bones. Alfieri is the great name of this ag. The Italian's, without waiting for the hundred years, consider him aa " a poet good in law." His memory is the more dear to them because he is the bard of freedom ; and because, as such, his tragedies can receive no countenance from any of their sovereigns. They are but very seldom, and but very few of them, allowed to be acted. It was ob- served by Cicero, that nowhere were the true opinions and feelings of the Romans so clearly shown as at. the theatre. 1 In the autumn of 1816, a celebrated improv- visatorc exhibited his talents at the Opera-house of ]Vi- laa. The reading of the theses handed in for the sub- jects of his poetry was received by a very numerous ai 1 dience, for the most part in silence, or with laughter ; but when the assistant, unfolding one of the papers, ex- claimed, " The apotheosis of Victor jllfieri," the whole theatre burst into a shout, and the applause was con- tinued for some moments. The lot did not fall on Al- fieri ; and the Signor Sgricci had to pour forth his ex- temporary commonplaces on the bombardment of Al- giers. The choice, indeed, is not left to accident quite so much as might be thought from a first view of the ceremony ; and the police not only takes care to look at the papers beforehand, but, in case of any prudential after- thought, steps in to correct the blindness of chance. The proposal for deifying Alfieri was received with immediate enthusiasm, the rather because it was conjectured there would be no opportunity of carrying it into effect. Note 29. Stanza liv. Hero Machiavelli's earth return'd to whence it rose The affectation of simplicity in sepulchral inscrip- tions which so often leaves us uncertain whether the structure before us is an actual depository, or a ceno- taph, or a simple memorial not of death but life, has given to the tomb of Machiavelli no information as to the place or time of the birth or death, the age or pa- rentage, of the historian. TANTO NOMINI NVLLVM PAR ELOGIVM NICCOLAV3 MACHIAVELLI. There seems at least no reason why the name should not have been put above the sentence which alludes to it. It will readily be imagined that the prejudices which have passed the name of Machiavelli into an epithel proverbial of iniquity, exist no longer at Florence. His memory was persecuted as his life had been for an at- tachment to liberty, incompatible with the new system of despotism, which succeeded the fall of the free gov- ernments of Italy. He was put to the torture for be- ing a " lihertine," that is, for wishing to restore the re- public of Florencfi ; and such are the undying efforts 1 The free expression of their honest sentiments survived their liberties. Titus, the friend of Antony, presented them with games in the theatre of Pompey. They did not suffer tho brilliancy of the spectacle to efface from their memory that the man who furnished them with the entertainment had mui- dered the son of Pompey. They drove him from the tlientro with curses. The moral sense of a populace, spontaneously expressed, is never wrong. Even the soldiers of the triumviri joined in the execration of the citizens, by shouting -fiund the chariots of Lepidus and Plancus, who had proscribed l-heii brothers, De ffermanis nan de Gallis duo triumvhant i Jn sulet; a saying worth a record, were it nothing but 8 |cxi4 pun. C. Veil. Paterculi Hist. lib. ii. cap. Uxix, pag. 71 eort Elzevir. 1639. Ibid. lib. ii. cap. luvii CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. o<" those who are interested in the perversion not only of the nature of actions, but the meaning of words, that what was once patriotism, has by degrees come to signify debauch. We have ourselves outlived the old meaning of " liberality," which is now another word for treason in one country and for infatuation in all. It seems \i have been a strange mistake to accuse the au- Jior of tn* Prince, as being a pander to tyranny ; and to think that the inquisition would condemn his work for such a delinquency. The fact is, that Machiavelli, as is usual with those against whom no crime can be proved, was suspected of and charged with atheism ; and the first and last most violent opposers of the Prince were both Jesuits, one of whom persuaded the inqui- sition " benche fosse tardo, y ' to prohibit the treatise, and the other qualified the secretary of the Florentine republic as no better than a fool. The father Possevin was proved never to have read the book, and the father Lucchesini not to have understood it. It is clear, how- ever, that such critics must have objected not to the slavery of the doctrines, but to the supposed tendency of a lesson which shows how distinct are the interests of a monarch from the happiness of mankind. The Jesuits are re-established in Italy, and the last chapter of the Prince may again call forth a particular refuta- tion, from those who are employed once more in moulding the minds of the rising generation, so as to receive the impressions of despotism. The chapter bears for title, " Esortazione a liberare la Italia dai Bar- bari," and concludes with a lilertine excitement to the future redemption of Italy. " Nan si deve adunque lasciar passare questa occasione, acciocchb la Italia teo two years' banishment, and to a fine of eight thousand lire ; on the non-payment of which he was further punished by the sequestration of all his property. The republic, however, was not content with this satisfaction, for in 1772 was discovered in the archives at Florence a sentence in which Dante is the eleventh of a list of fifteen condemned in 1302 to be ournt alive ; Talis perveniens igne combwatur sic quod moriatur. The pretext for this judgment was a proof if unfair barter, extortions, and illicit gains: Baracte- riarum iniquarum, extorsionum, et illiritorum lucro- um, 2 and with such an accusation it is not strange that Jante should have always protested his innocence, and 1 II Principe di Niccolo Machiavelli, etc., con la prefazione t le note istoriche e politiche di M. Amelot de la Hnnssaye, e 'egamee confbtazione dell" opera.... Cosmopoli, ITti'J. 2 Storia della Lett. Ital. torn. v. lib. iii. par. 2. pag. 448. Tiralionchi is incorrect : the dates of the three decrees against liante are A. O. 1302, 1314, and 1316 the injustice of his fellow-iitizL'hs. His appeal to Flo- rence was accompanied l:y another to the Empe'oi Henry, and the death of that sovereign, in 1313, \v a the signal for a sentence of irrevocable banishment. II > had before lingered near Tuscany, with hopes of recal then travelled into the north of Italy, where Verona had to boast of his longest residence, and he finalU settled at Ravenna, which was his ordinary but not constant abode until his death. The refusal of the Vo- netians to grant him a public audience, on the part of Guido Novello da Polenta, his protector, is said to have been the principal cause of this event, which happened in 1321. He was buried (" in sacra minorum aede,") at Ravenna, in a handsome tomb, which was erected by Guido, restored by Bernardo Bembo in 1483, pretor for that republic which had refused to hear him, again restored by Cardinal Corsi in 1692, and replaced by a more magnificent sepulchre, constructed in 1780 at the expense of the Cardinal Luigi Valenti Gonzaga. The offence or misfortune of Dante was an attachment to a defeated party, and, as his least favourable biographers allege against him, too great a freedom of speech and haughtiness of manner. But the next age paid honours almost divine to the exile. The Florentines, having in vain and frequently attempted to recover his body, crowned his image in a church,' and his picture is stil. one of the idols of their cathedral. They struck medals, they raised statues to him. The cities of Italy, no\ being able to dispute about his own birth, contendeo for that of his great poem, and the Florentines though* it for their honour to prove that he had finished the seventh Canto, before they drove him from his native city. Fifty-one years after his death, they endowed a professional chair for the expounding of his verses, anci Boccaccio was appointed to this patriotic employment. The example was imitated by Bologna and Pisa, and the commentators, if they performed but little service to literature, augmented the veneration which beheld a sacred or moral allegory in all the images of his mystic muse. His birth and his infancy were discovered to have been distinguished above those of ordinary men : the author of the Decameron, his earliest biographer, relates that his mother was warned in a dream of the importance of her pregnancy; and it was found, by others, that at ten years of age he had manifested his precocious passion for that wisdom or theology which, under the name of Beatrice, had been mistaken for a substantial mistress. When the Divine Comedy had been recognised as a mere mortal production, and at the distance of two centuries, when criticism and com- petition had sobered the judgment of Italians, Dante was seriously declared superior to Homer, 1 and though the preference appeared to some casuists " a heretical blasphemy worthy of the flames," the contest was vig- orously maintained for nearly fifty years. In later times, it was made a question which of the lords of Verona could boast of having patronized him, 3 and the jealous scepticism of one writer would not allow Ra venna the undoubted possession of his bones. Even the critical Tiraboschi was inclined to believe that the 1 So relates Ficino, hut some think hig coronation only an allegory. See Storia, etc., ut sup. p. 453. 2 By Varchi, in his Ercolano. The controversy continue* from 1570 to 1616. See Storia, etc., torn. vii. lib. v\ par iii 3 Gio. Jacopo Dionisi canonico di Verona. Serie di AIM* doti, n. 2. See Storia, etc,, torn. v. lib. i. par. p. 24. 118 BYRON'S WORKS. poet h id foreseen and foretold one of the discoveries of G Jileo. Like the great originals of other nations, his popularity has not always maintained the same level. The last age seemed inclined to undervalue him as a model and a study ; and Bettinelli one day rebuked his pupil Monti, for poring over the harsh and obsolete extravagancies of the Commedia. The present genera- tion, having recovered from the Gallic idolatries of Cesarotti, has returned to the ancient worship, and the Danteggaire of the northern Italians is thought even indiscreet by the more moderate Tuscans. There is still much curious information relative to the life and writings of this great poet, which has not as yet been collected even by the Italians ; but the cele- brated Ugo Foscolo meditates to supply this defect ; and it is not to be regretted that this national work has been reserved for one so devoted to his countrv and the cause of truth. Note 31. Stanza Ivii. Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore; Thy factions, in their worse than civil war. Proscribed, etc. The elder Scipio Africanus had a tomb, if he was not buried, at Liternum, whither he had retired to volun- tary banishment. This tomb was near the sea-shore, and the story of an inscription upon it, Ingrala Patria, having given a name to a modern tower, is, if not true, sn agreeable fiction. If he was not buried, he certainly bved there. 1 In cosi angusta e solitaria villa Era 'I grand' uomo che d'Africa s'appella Perche prima col terro al vivo apprilla. " Ingratitude is generally supposed the vice peculiar to republics ; and it seems to be forgotten, that, for one instance of popular inconstancy, we have a hundred examples of the fall of courtly favourites. Besides, a people have often repented a monarch seldom or net er. Leaving apart many familiar proofs of this fact, a short story may show the difference between even an aristocracy and the multitude. Vettor Pisani, having been defeated in 1354 at Porto- longo, and many years afterwards in the more decisive action of Pola, by the Genoese, was recalled by the Venetian government, and thrown into chains. The Avvogadori proposed to behead him, but the supreme tribunal was content with the sentence of imprison- ment. Whilst Pisani was suffering this unmerited dis- grace, Chioza, in the vicinity of the capital, 3 was, by the assistance of the Signer of Padua, delivered into the hands of Pietro Doria. At the intelligence of that disaster, the great bell of St. Mark's tower tolled to arms, and the people and the soldiery of the galleys were summoned to the repulse of the approaching enemy ; but they protested they would not move a step, unless Pisani were liberated, and placed at their head. The great council was instantly assembled : the prisoner was called before them, and the Doge, Andrea Contarini, informed him of the demands of the people *nd the necessities of the state, whose only hope of satpty was reposed on his efforts, and who implored hiir to forgive the indignities he had endured in her 1 Vilam Liferni egit sine desiderio urbis. See T. Liv. Hist, lib. xxxviii. Livy reports tha*. some said he was buried at l.iternum, others at Rome. 1U cap. Iv. 2 Trionfo Jclla Castiu. i Bee note to stanza XIII. service. " I have submitted," replied the magnanimous republican, "I have submitted to your deliberations ithout complaint ; I have supported patiently the pains of imprisonment, for they were inflicted at your com- mand : this is no time to inquire whether I deserved them the good of the republic may have seemed to require it, and that which the republic resolves is always resolved wisely. Behold me ready to lay down my lil'a for the preservation of my country." Pisani was ap- pointed generalissimo, and, by his exertions, in conjunc- tion with those of Carlo Zeno, the Venetians soon re- covered the ascendancy over their maritime rivals. The Italian communities were no less unjust to they citizens than the Greek republics. Liberty, both with the one and the other, seems to have been a national, not an individual object : and, notwithstanding the boa ed equality before the laws, which an ancient Green writer ' considered the great distinctive mark between his countrymen and the barbarians, the mutual rights of fellow-citizens seem never to have been the principal scope of the old democracies. The world may have not yet seen an essay by the author of the Italian Republics, in which the distinction between the liberty of former states, and the signification attached to that word by the happier constitution of England, is ingeniously devel- oped. The Italians, however, when they had ceased to be free, still looked back with a sigh upon those times of turbulence, when every citizen might rise to a share of sovereign power, and have never been taught fully to appreciate the repose of a monarchy. Sperone Speroni, when Francis Maria II. Duke of Rovero proposed the question, " which was preferable, the republic or the principality tKe perfect and not durable, or the less perfect and not so liable to change," replied, " that our happiness is to be measured by its quality, not by its duration ; and that he preferred to live for one day like a man, than for a hundred years like a brute, a stock, or a stone." This was thought, and called, a mag nificent answer, down to the last days of Italian ser vitude. 2 Note 32. Stanza Ivii. -and the crown Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely wore, Upon a far and foreign soil had grown. The Florentines did not take the opportunity of Pe trarch's short visit to their city, in 1350, to revoke the decree which confiscated the property of his father, who had been banished shortly after the exile of Dante. His crown did not dazzle them ; but when, in the next year, they were in want of his assistance in the formation of their university, they repented of their injustice, and Boccaccio was sent to Padua to entreat the laureat tc conclude his wanderings in the bosom of his native country, where he might finish his immortal Africa, and enjoy, with his recovered possessions, the esteem of all classes of his fellow-citizens. They gave him the op- tion of the book, and the science he might condescend to expound: they called him the glory of his countrv. who was dear, and would be dearer to them ; and they added, that if there was any thing unpleasing in thcu- letter, he ought to return amongst them, were it only to 1 The Greek boasted that he was to-ovo/ios See thn law chapter of the first book of Dionysuis of Halicarrmssus. 2 " E intorno alia magnif.cn. risposta," etc. Sc r assi V't* del Tasso, lib. iii. pag. 149. torn. ii. edit. 2, Bergamo. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. .13 correct their slyie. 1 Petrarch seemed at first to listen to the flattery and to the entreaties of his friend, but he did not return to Florence, and preferred a pilgrimage to the tomb of Laura and the shades of Vaucluse. Note 33. Stanza Iviii. Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeath'd His dust. Boccaccio was buried in the church of St. Michael and St. James, at Certaldo, a small town in the Valdelsa, which was by some supposed the place of his birth. There he passed the latter part of his life in a course of laborious study, which shortened his existence ; and there might his ashes have been secure, if not of honour, at least of repose. But the "hyaena bigots" of Certaldo tore up the tombstone of Boccaccio, and ejected it from the holy precints of St. Michael and St. James. The occasion, and, it may be hoped, the excuse of this eject- ment, was the making of a new floor for the church : but the fact is, that the tombstone was taken up and thrown aside at the bottom of the building. Ignorance may share the sin with bigotry. It would be painful to relate such an exception to the devotion of the Italians for their great names, could it not be accompanied by a trait more honourably conformable to the general char- acter of the nation. The principal perjon of the district, the last branch of the house of Medicis, afforded that protection to the memory of the insulted dead which her best ancestors had dispensed upon all cotemporary merit. The Marchioness Lenzoni rescued the tombstone of Boccaccio from the neglect in which it had some time lain, and found for it an honourable elevation in her own mansion. She has done more : the house in which the poet lived has been as little respected as his tomb, and is falling to ruin over Ae head of one indifferent to the name of its former tenant. It consists of two or three little chambers, and a low tower, on which Cosmo II. affixed an inscription. This house she has taken meas- ures to purchase, and proposes to devote to it that care and consideration which are attached to the cradle and to the roof of genius. This is not the place to undertake the defence of Boc- caccio ; but the man who exhausted his little patrimony in the acquirement of learning, who was amongst the first, if not the first, to allure the science and the poetry of Greece to the bosom of Italy ; who not only invented a new style, but founded, or certainly fixed, a new lan- guage ; who, besides the esteem of every polite court of Europe, was thought worthy of employment by the pre- dominant republic of his own country, and, what is more, of the friendship of Petrarch, who lived- the life of a philosopher and a freeman, and who died in the pursuit of knowledge, such a man might have found more consideration than he has met with from the priest of Certaldo, and from a late English traveller, who strikes off his portrait as an odious, contemptible, li- centious writer, whose impure remains should be suf- fered to rot without a record. 1 That English traveller, 1 " Aceingiti innoltre. se cie 'ecito ancor I'esorlarti, a com- pire 1' immortal tu-i Africa.... ?e ti nyviene d'incontrare ncl nostro stile cosa che ti disoiaecia, cib debb' essere un nliro motive ad esau:lire i desiderj della tin patria." Storia della l.ctt. Tia!. torn, v, par. i. lib. i. pae. 70. 2 Classical Tour. cap. ix. vol. ii. p. 355. Hit. 3d. " Of Roccarri >. the modern Petronius, we say nothing: the abuse of genius is more odions :>nd more contemptible than its ab- sence ; and it imports little where the impure remnins of a li- ivntini s author are consigned to their kindred ilu^t. For tbe arne reason the traveller may pass unnoticed the tomb of the naiiziiiuit Aretino." unfortunately for those who have to deplore the loss of a very amiable person, is beyond all criticism ; but the mortality which did not protect Boccaccjo from Mr. Eustace, must not defend Mr. Eustace from the impar- tial judgment of his successors. Death may canonize his virtues, not his errors ; and it may be modestly pro- nounced that he transgressed, not only as an author, but as a man, when he evoked the shade of Boccaccio in company with that of Aretino, amidst the sepulchres of Santa Croce, merely to dismiss it with indignity. As far as respects " II flasello de' Principi. II divin Pietro Aretino," 'it is of little import what censure is passed upon a coi- comb who owes his present existence to the above bur- lesque character given to him by the poet whose amber has preserved many other grubs and worms : but to classify Boccaccio with such a person, and to excom- municate his very ashes, must of itself make us doubt of the qualification of the classical tourist for writing upon Italian, or, indeed, upon any other literature ; for ignorance on one point may incapacitate an author merely for that particular topic, but subjection to a pro- fessional prejudice must render him an unsafe directoj on all occasions. Any perversion and injustice may be made what is vulgarly called " a case of conscience," and this poor excuse is all that can be offered for the priest of Certaldo, or the author of the Classical Tour. It would have answered the purpose to confine the cen- sure to the novels of Boccaccio, and gratitude to that source which supplied the muse of Dryden with her last and most harmonious numbers, might perhaps have re- stricted that censure to the objectionable qualities of the hundred tales. At any rate, the repentance of Boc- caccio might have arrested his exhumation, and it should have been recollected and told, that in his old age he wrote a letter entreating his friend to discourage the reading of the Decameron, for the sake of modesty, and for the sake of the author, who would not have an apolo- gist always at hand to state in his excuse that he wrote it when young, and at the command of his superiors. 1 It is neither the licentiousness of the writer, nor the evil propensities of the reader, which have given to the De- cameron alone, of all the works of Boccaccio, a perpet- ual popularity. The establishment of a new and delight- ful dialect conferred an immortality on the works in which it was first fixed. The sonnets of Petrarch were, for the same reason, fated to survive his sclf-admirea Africa, the "favourite of Mngx." The invariable traits of nature and feeling, with which the novels, as well as the verses, abound, have, doubtless, been the chief source of the foreign celebrity of both authors ; but Boccaccio, as a man, is no more to be estimated by that work, than Petrarch is to be regarded in no other light than as the This dubious phrase is hardly enoueh to save the tourist from the suspicion of another blunder respecting the huriai- place of Aretino. whose tomb was in the church of St. Luke at Venice, and eave rise to the famous controversy of wh'ch some notice is taken innarte. Now the words of Mr. En- tace would lead us to think the tomb was at Florence, or at least was to be somewhere recoenised. Whether the nscrip- lion so much disputed was ever written on the tomr cannot now he decided, for all .nemorial of this author has disap- peared from tbe church of St. Luke, which is now changed into a lamp warehouse. 1 "\on enim ubique ert, qtii in excusationem meam COP siirgens dicat, juvenis scripsit. el majoris coactus imoerio. The letter was addressed to Maphmard rf Cavalcanti. mr shal of the kinHorn of Sicily. See Tin.boschi Storia torn. v. par. ii. lib. iii. oag. 525. ed. Ven. 17!I5. BYRON'S WORKS. (over of Laura. Even, however, had the father of the Tuscan prose been known only as the author of the Decameron, a considerate writer would have been cau- tious to pronounce a sentence irreconcileable with the unerring voice of many ages and nations. An irrevoca- ble value has never been stamped upon any work solely recommended by impurity. The true source of the outcry against Boccaccio, which began at a very early period, was the choice of his scan- dalous personages in the cloisters as well as the courts ; out the princes only laughed at the gallant adventures so unjustly charged upon Queen Theodclinda, whilst the priesthood cried shame upon the debauches drawn from the convent and the hermitage ; and, most probably, for the opposite reason, namely, that the picture was faithful to the life. Two of the novels are allowed to be facts usefully turned into tales, to deride the canonization of rogues and laymen. Ser Ciapdelletto and Marcellinus are cited with applause even by the decent Muratori. ' The great Arnaud, as he is quoted in Bayle, states, that a new edition of the novels was proposed, of which the expurgation consisted in omitting the words "monk" and "nun," and tacking the immoralities to other names. The literary history of Italy particularizes no such edition ; but it was not long before the whole of Europe had but one opinion of the Decameron ; and the absolution of the author seems to have been a point set- tled at least a hundred years ago : " On se ferait siffler si I'on pretendait convaincre Boccace de n'avoir pas etc onnte homme, puisqu'il a fait le Decameron." So said one of the best men, and perhaps the best critic, that ever lived the very martyr to impartiality. 2 But as this infoimation, that in the beginning of the last century oie would have been hooted at for pretending that Boc- caccio was not a good man, may seem to come from one of those enemies who are to be suspected, even when they make us a present of trull', a more accept- able contrast with the proscription of the body, soul, and muse of Boccaccio may be found in a few words trom the righteous, the patriotic contemporary, wno thought one of the tales of this impure writer worthy a Latin version from his own pen. " / have remarked elsewhere" says Petrarch, writing to Boccaccio, " that the book itself has been worried by certain dogs, but ttoutly defended by your staff" and voice. Nor was I astonished, for I have had proof of the vigour of your mind, and I know you have fallen on that unaccom- modating incapable race of mortals tvho, whatever they either like not, or know not, or cannot do, are sure to reprehend in others, and on those occasions only put on a show of learning and eloquence, but otlierwise are entirely dumb. 3 It is satisfactory to find that all the priesthood do not resemble those of Certaldo, and that one of them who did not possess the bones of Boccaccio would not lose (he opportunity of raising a cenotaph to his memory. 1 Dissertazioni supra le antichi& Italiano. Diss. Iviii. p. 233. lorn. iii. edit. Milan, 1751. 2 F.clairctssemcnt, etc. etc. p. 638. edit. Basle, 1741, in the Supplement to Bayle's Dictionary. 3 ' Animadvert! alicubi librum ipsum canum dentibus la- tessitum tuo tamen baculo egregie tuaque voce defensum. Nee miratus sum: nam et vires ingenii tui novi, et scio exper- .*us esses hnminum genus insolens et ignavum, qui, quicqnid ipai vel nolunt, vel nesciunt, yel non ppssunt, in aliis repre- nendunt; ad hoc unum docti et arguti, Bed elineues ad relt- nua " Epist Joan Boccatio. opp. torn. i. o. 340 ediu Basil Bevius, canon of Padua, at the beginning of the 16th century, erected at Arqua, opposite to the tomb of the laureat, a tablet, in which he associated Boccaccio t the equal honours of Dante and Petrarch. Note 34. Stanza Ix. What is her pyramid of precious stones ? Our veneration for the Medici begins with Cosmo, and expires with his grandson ; that stream is pure only tt the source ; and it is in search of some memorial of the virtuous republicans of the family, that we visit the church of St. Lorenzo at Florence. The tawdry, glaring, unfinished chapel in that church, designed for the mau- soleum of the Dukes of Tuscany, set round with crowns and coffins, gives birth to no emotions but those of con- tempt for the lavish vanity of a race of despots, whilst the pavement slab, simply inscribed to the Father of his Country, reconciles us to the name of Medici. 1 It was very natural for Corinna 2 to suppose that the statue raised to the Duke of Urbino in the capella de depositi, was intended for his great namesake ; but the magnifi- cent Lorenzo is only the sharer of a coffin half hidden in a niche of the sacristy. The decay of Tuscany dates from the sovereignty of the Medici. Of the sepulchral peace which succeeded to the establishment of the reign- ing families in It&ly, our own Sidney has given us a glowing, but a faithful picture. "Notwithstanding all the seditions of Florence, and other cities of Tuscany, the horrid factions of Guelphs and Ghibelins, Neri and Bianchi, nobles and commons, they continued populous, strong, and exceeding rich ; but in the space of less than a hundred and fifty years, the peaceable reign of the Medices is thought to have destroyed nine parts in ten of the people of that province. . Amongst other things it is remarkable, that when Philip the Second of Spain gave Sienna to the Duke of Florence, his ambassador then at Rome sent him word, that he had given away more than 650,000 subjects ; and it is not believed there are now 20,000 souls inhabiting that city and terri- tory. Pisa, Pistoia, Arezzo, Cortona, and other towns, that were then good and populous, are in the like pro- portion diminished, and Florence more than any. When that city had been long troubled with seditions, tumults, and wars, for the most part unprosperou?, they still retained such strength, that when Charles VIII. of France, being admitted as a friend with his whole army, which soon after conquered the kingdom of Naples, thought to master them, the people taking arms struck such a terror into him, that he was glad to depart upon such conditions as they thought fit to impose. Machiavel reports, that, in that time, Florence alone, with the Val d'Arno, a small territory belonging to that city, couid, in a few hours, by the sound of a bell, bring together 135,000 well-armed men ; whereas now that city, with all the others in that province, are brought to such despicable weakness, emptiness, poverty, and base- ness, that they can neither resist the oppressions of their own prince, nor defend him or themselves if they were assaulted by a foreign enemy. The people are dispersed or destroyed, and the best families sent to seek habita- tions in Venice, Genoa, Rome, Naples, and Lucca. This is not the effect of war or pestilence ; they enjoy a perfect peace, and suffer no other plague than *he governmenl 1 Cosmus Medices, Decreto Publico, Pater Patria. 2 Corinne, T/iv. xviii. cap. iii. vol. iii. page 246 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 12/ Ihcy are under. 1 From the usurper Cosmo down to the imbecile Gaston, we look in vain for any of those unmixed qualities which should raise a patriot to the command of his fellow-citizens. The Grand Dukes, and particularly the third Cosmo, had operated so entire a change in the Tuscan character, that the candid Florentines, in excuse 'or some imperfections in the philanthropic system cf ..jeopold, are obliged to confess that the sovereign was the i nly liberal man in his dominions. Yet that excellent ince himself had no other notion of a national as- sembly, than of a body to represent the wants and wishes, not the will of the people. Note 35. Stanza Ixiii. An earthquake reel'd unheededly away ! "And such was their mutual animosity, so intent were they upon the battle, that the earthquake, which overthrew in great part many of the cities of Italy, which turned the course of rapid streams, poured back the. sea upon the rivers, and tore down the very moun- tains, was not felt by one of the combatants." 2 Such is the description of Livy. It may be doubted whether modern tactics would admit of such an abstraction. The site of the battle of Thrasimene is not to be mis- taken. The traveller from the village under Cortona to Jasa di Piano, the next stage on the way to Rome, has, for the first two or three miles, around him, but more particularly to the right, that flat land which Hannibal laid waste in order to induce the Consul Flaminius to move from Arezzo. On his left, and in front of him, is a ridge of hills, bending down towards the lake of Thrasimene, called by Livy "monies Cortonenses," and now named the Gualandra. These hills he approaches at Ossaja, a village which the itineraries pretend to have been so de- nominated from the bones found there : but there have been no bones found there, and the battle was fought on the other side of the hill. From Ossaja the road begins lo rise a little, but does not pass into the roots of the mountains until the sixty-seventh mile-stone from Flo- rence. The ascent thence is not steep but perpetual, and continues for twenty minutes. The lake is soon seen below on the right, with Borghetto, a round tower close upon the water ; and the undulating hills partially covered with wood amongst which the road winds, sink by degrees into the marshes near to this tower. Lower than the road, down to the right amidst these woody hillocks, Hannibal placed his horse, 3 in the jaws of or rather above 13 pass, which was between ihe lake and the present oad, and most probably close to Borghetto, just und^r the lowest of the " tumuli."* On a summit to the left, above the road, is an old circular ruin which the peasants call " the Tower of Hannibal the Carthaginian." Arrived at the highest point of the road, the traveller has a partial view of the fatal plain, which opens fully upon him as he descends the Gualandra. He soon finds himself in a vale inclosed to the left and in front and behind him by the Gualandra hills, bending round in a segment larger than a semicircle, and running down at each end to the lake, which obliques to the right, and forms the chord of tlus mountain arc. The position cannot be guessed at fron the plains of Cortona, nor appears to be so complete.y inclosed unless to one who is fairly within the hills. I then, indeed, appears " a place made as it were on pur- pose for a snare," "locus insidiis natus." Borghetto is then found to stand in a narrow marshy pass close to the hill and to the lake, whilst there is no other outlet at the opposite turn of the mountains than through the little town of Pasignano, which is pushed into the water by the foot of a high rocky acclivity. ' There is a woody emi- nen\.e branching down from the mountains into the up- per end of the plain nearer to the side of Passignano, and on this stands a white village called Torre. Poly bius seems to allude to this eminence as the one on which Hannibal encamped and drew out his heavy-armed Africans and Spaniards in a conspicuous position. 2 From this spot he 1 On Government, chap. ii. sect. xxvi. paeeSOS. edit. 1751. Sidney is, together with Locke and Hoadlcy, one of Mr. Hume's "despicable" writers. 2 "Tantusque fuit ardor animorum, adeo intentus pugnfe animus, utcuin terrae tnotum qui multarum urbium llaliae magnas paries prostravit, avertitque cursu rapido amnes, mare flum'milms invexit, monies lapsu ingenti proruit, nemo pug- oantium sanserif...." Tit. Liv. lib. XXH. cap. xn. 3 " Eiinites ad ipsas fauces saltus, tumulia apte tegentibus, local." Tit- Liv. lib. xxii. cap. iv. 4 " Ubi raaxime monies Cortonenses Thrasimenus subit.' Ibid. o2 21 through the Gualandra heights to the right, so as to arrive unseen, and form an ambush amongst the broken accli- vities which the road now jasses, and to be ready to act upon the left flank and above the enemy, whilst the horse shut up the pass behind. Flaminius came to the lake near Borghetto at sunset ; and, w' thout sending any spies before him, marched through the pass the next morning before the day had quite broken, so that he perceived nothing of the horse and light troops above and about turn, and saw only the heavy-armed Carthaginians in front on the hill of Torre. 3 The consul began to draw )ut his army in the flat, and in the mean time the horse n ambush occupied the pass behn.d him at Borghetto. Thus the Romans were completely inclosed, having the lake on the right, the main army on the hill of Torre in front, the Gualandra hills filled with the light-armed on their left flank, and being prevented from receding by the cavalry, who, the farther they advanced, stopped up all the outlets in the rear. A fog rising from the lake now spread itself over the army of the consul, but the high lands were in the sunshine, and all the different corps in ambush looked towards the hill of Torre for the order of attack. Hannibal gave the signal, and moved down from his post on the height. At the same moment all his troops on the eminences behind and in the flank of Flaminius, rushed forward as it were with one accord into the plain. The Romans, who were forming their array in the mist, suddenly heard the shouts of the enemy amongst them, on every side, and, before they could fall into their ranks, or draw their swords, or see by whom they were attacked, felt at once that they were surrounded and lost. There are two little rivulets which run from the Gua landra into the lake. The traveller crosses the first of these at about a mile after he comes into the plain, and this divides the Tuscan from the Papal territories. The second, about a quarter of a mile further on, is called " the bloody rivulet," and the peasants point out an open spot to the left between the " Sanguinctto" anil 1 " Inde colles assurgunt." Tit. Liv. lib. xxii. cap iv. 2 Toy fifv Kara 7r/50<7u>7ro- tnf rofeias \6fov airtt icareAa'fitfo, *ai rot> Ai'Stiuj KOI roij ]()iipas cxwv pa/vure 124 BYRON'S WORKS. listor'-Ai Dion ilso reco.ds as having suffered the same aocide it as is iJluded to by the orator. 1 The question agitated by the antiquaries is, whether the wolf now in the conservator's palace is that of Livy and Dio- nysius, or that of Cicero, or whether it is neither one nor the other. The earlier writers differ as much as the moderns : Lucius Faunus 2 says, that it is the one alluded to by both, which is impossible, and also by Virgil, which may be. Fulvius Ursinus 3 calls it the wolf of Dionysius, and Marlianus * talks of it as the one mentioned by Cicero. To him Rycquius trem- blingly assents. 4 Nardini is inclined to suppose it may be one of the many wolves preserved in ancient Rome ; but of the two rather bends to the Ciceronian statue. 6 Montfaucon T mentions it as a point without doubt. Of the later writers the decisive Winkelmann 8 pro- claims it as having been found at the church of Saint Theodore, where, or near where, was the temple of Romulus, and consequently makes it the wolf of Dionysius. His authority is Lucius Faunus, who, how- ever, only says that it was placed not found, at the Ficus Ruminalis by the Comitium, by which he does not seem to allude to the church of Saint Theodore. Rycquius was the first to make the mistake, and Winkelmann followed Rycquius. Flaminius Vacca tells quite a different story, and says tqne lactantem, iiberibus lupinis inhiantem fuisse meminis- lis." In C'atilin. iii. 8. " Hie sylvestris erat Roman! nominis altrix Murtia. quie paryos Mavortis semine natos Uberibus gravidis vitali rore rigabat, ft u SB turn cum pueris flammato fulminis ictu Concidit, atque avulsa peduin vestieia liquit." De Consulatu, lib. ii. (lib. i. de Divinat. cap. ii.) 1 'Ev yap rip KairijruAi'cj; av&pidvres TI TroXAoi IK& Ktpavvuv mivtxwvevQiitrav, xai nyaA//ara aXXa TC, leal AiJf l~i xiovos tfipv/itvov, tlx&v re TI; \VKalvris svvirt r<3 Pw/xijD Kai avv r-5 Pw//i5A<|j 't&pv/jtevri er:carj. Dion. Hist. lib. xxxvii. pag. 37. edit. Rob. Steph. 1548. He goes on to mention that the letters of the columns on which the laws were written were liquefied and become Auvip'f. All that the Romans did was to erect a large statue to Jupiter, looking towards the east: no mention is afterwards made of the wolf. This happened in A. U. C. 689. The Abate Fea, in noticing this passage of Dion, (Storia delle arti, etc., torn, i. p. 202. note x.) says, .\"nn ostante, aggiunee Diane, eke fosse ben-fermata (the wolf), by which it is clear the Abate translated the Xylandro-Leuclavian version, which puts quamvis stabilita for the original l&pvfierri, a word that does not mean ben-fermata. but only raised, as may be. distinctly seen from another passage of the same Dion: i\Sov\^9rj iifv oliv b kyplTriraf KO.L rbv Avyovarov ivravBa i&pvaai. Hist. lib. Ivi. Dion says that Agrippa " wished to raise a statue of Augustus in the Pantheon." 2 " In eadem porticu a?nea lupa, cujus uberibus Romulus ac Remus lactantes inhiant, conspiciuir: de hac Cicero et Virgilius semper intelloxere. Livius hoc signum ab .'Kdilibus ex pecuniis puihus mulctati cssent freneratores. positum in- puit. Antea in Comitiisad Ficum Ruminalem. quo loco pueri luermit expositi locaturn pro certo est." Luc. Fauni, de Antiq. Urb. Rom. lib. ii. cap. vii. pp. Sallengre, torn. i. p. BIT. In his XVlIth chapter he repeats that the statues were there, but not that they were found there. 3 Ap. Nardini, Roma Vetus, lib. v. cap. iv. 1 Marliani, Urb. Rom. topograph. lib. ii. cap. ix. He men- tions another wolf and twins in the Vatican, lib. v. cap. xxi. 5 " Non desur.t qui hanc ipsam esse putent, quam adpinxi- mus, nuae e comitio in Basilicam Lateranam, cum nonnutlis uliis antiquitatum reliquiis, atque hinc in Cnpitolium postea relata sit. quamvis Marlianus antiquam Capitolinam esse maluit a Tullio descriptam. cui ut in re nimis dubia, trepide nsspntimur." Just. Rycquii de Capit. Roraun. Comm. cap. xiv. pag. 250. edit. Lugd. Bat. 1696. 6 Nardini Roma Vetus, lib. v. cap. iv. 7 " Lupa ho,lieque in capitolinis prostat edibus, cum vcs- IIKIO fulminis quo ictam narrat Cicero." Diarium Italic, torn. i. D. 174. - Storm delle arti, do., lib. iii. cap. iii. $ ii. note 10. Win- telmann has made a strange blunder in the note, by saying tti Uicuronian wolf waa not in tha Capitol, ?nd that Dion *u wrong in saying go. he had heard the wo?f with the twins was found ' near the arch of Seplimius Severus. The commentator on Winkelmann is of the same opinion with that learned person, and is incensed at Nardini for not having re- marked that Cicero, in speaking of the wolf struck with lightning in the Capitol, makes use of the past tense. But, with the Abate's leave, Nardini does not positively assert the statue to be that mentioned by Cicero, and, if he had, the assumption would not per- haps have been so exceedingly indiscreet. The Abate himself is obliged to own that there are marks very like the scathing of lightning in the hinder legs of the present wolf and, to get rid of this, adds, that the wolf seen by Dionysius might have been also struck by light- ning, or otherwise injured. Let us examine the subject by a reference to the words of Cicero. The orator in two places seems to particularize the Romulus and the Remus, especially the first, which his audience remembered to have been in the Capitol, as being struck with lightning. In his verses he records that the twins and wolf both fell, and that the latter left behind the marks of her feet. Cicero does not say that the wolf was consumed : and Dion only mentions that it fell down, without alluding, as the Abate has made him, to the force of the blow, or the firmness with which it had been fixed. The whole strength, therefore, of the Abate's argument, hangs upon the past tense ; which, however, may be some- what diminished by remarking that the phrase only shows that the statue was not then standing in its former position. Winkelmann has observed, that ths present twins are modern; and it is equally clear that there are marks of gilding on the wolf, which might therefore be supposed to make part of the ancient group. It is known that the sacred images of the Capi- tol were not destroyed when injured by time or accident, but were put into certain underground depositories called favissce. 3 It may be thought possible that tho wolf had been so deposited, and had been replaced in some conspicuous situation when the Capitol was re- built by Vespasian. Rycquius, without mentioning his authority, tells that it was transferred from the Comi- tium to the Lateran, and thence brought to the Capitol. If it was found near the arch of Severus, it may have been one of the images which Orosius 3 says was thrown down in the Forum by lightning when Alaric took the city. That it is of very high antiquity the workman- ship is a decisive proof; and that circumstance induced Winkelmann to believe it the wolf of Dionysius. The Capitoline wolf, however, may have been of the same early date as that at the temple of Romulus. Lactan- tius 4 asserts that, in his time, the Romans worshipped a wolf; and it is known that the Lupercalia held out to J " Intesi dire, che 1'Ercole di bronzo. che oggi si trova nella sala del Campidoglio, fu trovato nel foro Romano a.ipr'sso Parco di Settimio : e vi fu trovata anche la lupa di bronzo che allatta Romolo e Remo. esta nella Loggia de' conservatori." Flam. Vacca. Memorie, num. iii. pag. i. ap. Montfaucon, Diar. Ital. torn. i. 2 Luc. Faun. ibid. 3 See note to stanza LXXX. in Historical Illustrations. 4 " Rnmuli nutrix Lupa honoribus cst affecta divinis, el ferrcm si animal ipsum fuisset, cujus figurant gerit." Lac- tant. de falsa religione. Lib. i. cap. 20. pag. 101. edit, vario* 1660 j that is to say, he would rather adore a wolf than a prostitute. His commentator has observed, that the opiniop of Livy concerning Laurentia being figured in this volf wai not universal. Strabo thought so. Rycquius is wror.g in say- ing that Lactantius mention! the wolf was in the CaritoL CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 12J a very .ate period ' after every other observance of the ancient superstition had totally expired. This may ac- count for the preservation of the ancient image longer than the other early symbols of paganism. It may be permitted, however, to remark that the wolf was a Roman symbol, but that the worship ol that symbol is an inference drawn by the zeal of Lac- tamms. The early Christian writers are not to be trusted in the charges which they make against the pagans. Eusebius accused the Romans to their faces of worshipping Simon Magus, and raising a statue to him in the island of the Tyber. The Romans had prob- ably never heard of such a person before, who came, lowever, to play a considerable, though scandalous part in the church nistory, and has left several tokens of his aerial combat with St. Peter at Rome ; notwithstanding that an inscription found in this very island of the Tyber showed the Simon Magus of Eusebius to be a certain indigenal god, called Semo Sangus orFidius. 2 Even when the worship of the founder of Rome had been abandoned, it was thought expedient to humour the habits of the good matrons of the city by sending them with their sick infants to the church of St. Theo- dore, as they had before carried them to the temple of Romulus. 3 The practice is continued to this day ; and Jie site of the above church seems to be thereby iden- tified with that of the temple : so that if the wolf had been really found there, as Winkelmann says, there would be no doubt of the present statue being that seen by Dionysitis.* But Faunus, in saying that it was at the Ficus Ruminalis by the Comitium, is only talking of its ancient position as recorded by Pliny ; and even if he had been remarking where it was found, would not have alluded to the church of St. Theodore, but to a very different place, near which it was then thought the Ficus Ruminalis had been, and also the Comitium ; that is, the three columns by the church of Santa Maria Liberatrice, at the corner of the Palatine looking on the Forum. It is, in fact, a mere conjecture where the image was ctually dug up, 5 and perhaps, on the whole, the marks 1 To A. D. 496. "Quis credere possit," says Baronius, (Ann. Eccles. torn. viii. pug. 602. in an. 496.) " viguisse adhuc Romae ad Gelasii tempora. quae fuere ante exordia urbis al- lata in Italiam Lupercalia?" Gelasius wrote a letter which occupies four folio pages to Andromachus, the senator, and others, to show that the rites should he given up. 2 Eusebius has these words-. Kai avSptavrt nap' vp'iv (Lf 5ed{ TtrifiriTai, iv r!f TiStpi //ora//

t\ovatv, a-xoOvfjaKct vto$. T yap Savclv oiix aicr^p&v, dXX' ata^pla; S-avctv. Rich. Franc. Phil. Brunck. Poeta: Gnomici, p. 231. edit. 1784. Note 51. Stanza cvii. Behold the Imperial Mount ! The Palatine is one mass of ruins, particularly on the side towards the Circus Maximus. The very soil is formed of crumbled brick-work. Nothing has been told, nothing can be told, to satisfy the belief of any but a Roman antiquary. See Historical Illustrations, page *06. Note 52. Stanza cviii. There is the moral of all human tales ; 'T is but the same rehearsal of the past. First fieedom, and then glory, etc. The author of the Life of Cicero, speaking of the opinion entertained of Britain by that orator and his cotemporary Romans, has the following eloquent pas- sage : " From their railleries of this kind, on the bar- barity and misery of our island, one cannot help re- flecting on the surprising fate and revolutions of king- doms, how Rome, once the mistress of the world, the seat of arts, empire, and glory, now lies sunk in sloth, ignorance, and poverty, enslaved to the most cruel as well as to the most contemptible of tyrants, superstition, and religious imposture : while this remote country, anciently the jest and contempt of the polite Romans, is become the happy seat of liberty, plenty, and letters ; flourishing in all the arts and refinements of civil life ; yet running perhaps the same course which Rome it- self had run before it, from virtuous industry to wealth ; Irom wealth to luxury ; from luxury to an impatience of discipline, and corruption of morals : till, by a total degeneracy and loss of virtue, being grown ripe for destruction, it fall a prey at last to some hardy oppress- or, and, with the loss of liberty, losing every thing that U valuable, sinks gradually again into its original bar- bansn.."* 4 Academ. I. 13 8 The History of the Life of M. Tullius Cicero, sect. vi. oL ii. pag. i02. The contrast has been reversed in a late trcaoidi'iarf instance. A gentleman was thrown into prison Note 53. Stanza ex. 7and apostolic statues climb To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime. The column of Trajan is surmounted by St. Peter that of Aurelius by St. Paul. See Historical Illustration! of the IVth Canto, etc. Note 54. Stanza cxi. Still we Trajan's name adore. Trajan was proverbially the best of the Roman princes : ' and it would be easier to find a sovereign uniting exactly the opposite characteristics, than one possessed of all the happy qualities ascribed to this emperor. " When he mounted the throne," says the historian Dion, 2 " he was strong in body, he was vigor- ous in mind ; age had impaired none of his faculties ; he was altogether free from envy and from detraction ; he honoured all the good and he advanced them ; and on this account they could not be the objects of his fear or of his hate ; he never listened to informers ; he gave not way to his anger ; he abstained equally from unfair exactions and unjust punishments ; he had rather be loved as a man than honoured as a sovereign ; he was affable with his people, respectful to the senate, and universally beloved by both ; he inspired none with dread but the enemies of his country." Note 55. Stanza cxiv. Rienzi, last of Romans ! The name and exploits of Rienzi must be familiar to the reader of Gibbon. Some details and inedited man- uscripts, relative to this unhappy hero, will be seen in the Illustrations of the IVth Canto. Note 50. Stanza cxv. Eeeria ! sweet creation of some heart Which found no mortal resting-place so fair As thine ideal breast. The respectable authority of Flaminius Vacca would incline us to believe in the claims of the Egerian grotto. 3 He assures us that he saw an inscription on the pave- ment, stating that the fountain was that of Egeriadedi at Paris , efforts were made for his release. The French min- ister continued to detain him, under the pretext that he was not nn Englishman, but only a Roman. See " Interesting facts relating to Joachim Murat," pag. 139. 1 " Hujus tantum memories delatum est, ut, usque ad nos- tram tetatem non aliter in Senatu principibus acclamatur, nisi, FEUCIOR. AVGVSTO. MELIOR. TRAJANO." Eutrop. Brev. Hist. Rom. lib. viii. cap. v. 2 Tiji Tt yap aupari sfiptaro Kai TJJ if v^r; ?Kfiac>>, uij jnfiff 1 in:3 ynpus ajj6\\>vs.<:Qai icai ovr' \ip66vti, ovrt KaQfipti TIVO, aXXa /cat rra'vu rai/raf rot's ayaOoii( criua Kai l/icyuAvW Kai iid TOVTO OVTC t^oStlrd riva avriav, OVT ifiiaet Sta8o\a!s rt Jjxiora tnartlit, Kai Apyrj riKiara ldov\ovTO. T&V Tt xpiHidriav r&v aXXa rpltiiv too. KOI 6vij)V riav OO/JCIDV airti%iTo 0iXot!/j- v6; TC oi'V ir' airoif jmXXoi/ '; ri/ioi/icvos ^ai/)' Kai r$ T tirjiiu jitr 1 iirit'iKtias trvvcyivcTO, Kai Trj ynpovcia atp- vorptTrws &p(\ti' aya:r)Td; fiev Traaf (/loScpof <51 firiScvl, i:\rjv ffoX^u'oit S>v. Hist. Rom. lib. Ixviii. cap. ii. vii. torn, ii. p. 1123, 1124. eiiit. Hamb. 1750. 3 " Poco lontano dal dctto luogo si gcende ad un casaletto, del quale ne sono Padroni Ii Cafarelli, che con questo nome e chiamato il luogo; vi 6 una fontana sotto una gran vnlte antica, che al presente si gode. e Ii Roinani vi vamm 1'estata a ricrearsi ; nel pavimentod in six niches ; and Juvenal certainly does not allude to any individual cave. s Nothing can be collected from the satirist but that somewhere near the Porta Capena was a spot in which it was supposed Numa held nightly consultations with his nymph, and where there was a grove and a sacred fountain, and fanes once consecrated to the Muses ; and that from this spot there was a descent into 1 "In villa Justiniana extat ingens lapis quadratus solidus in quo sculpta litec ciuo Ovidii carmina sunt .e valley. It is probable, from the inscription and position, that the cave now shown may be one of the " artificial cav- erns," of which, indeed, there is another a little way higher up the valley, under a tuft of alder bushes : but a single grotto of Egeria is a mere modern invention, grafted upon the application of the epithet Egerian to these nymphea in general, and which might send us to look for the haunts of Numa upon the banks of tho Thames. Our English Juvenal was not seduced into mistrans- lation by his acquaintance with Pope : he carefully pre- serves the correct plural " Thence slowly winding down the vale, we view The Egerian grots ; oh, how unlike the true !" The valley abounds with springs, 2 and over these springs, which the Muses might haunt from their neigh- bouring groves, Egeria presided : hence she was said to supply them with water ; and she was the nymph of the grottos through which the fountains were taught to flow. The whole of the monuments in the vicinity of the Egerian valley have received names at will, which have been changed at will. Venuti 3 owns he can see no traces of the temples of Jove, Saturn, Juno, Venus, and Diana, which Nardini found, or hoped to find. The mutatorium of Caracalla's circus, the temple of Honour and Virtue, the temple of Bacchus, and, above all, the temple of the god of Rediculus, are the antiquaries' despair. The circus of Caracalla depends on a medal of that emperor cited by Fulvius Ursinus, of which the reverse shows a circus, supposed, however, by some to repre- sent the Circus Maximus. It gives a very good idea of that place of exercise. The soil hxs been but little raised, if we may judge from the small cellular structure at the end of the Spina, which was p'obably the chaptJ of the god Consus. This cell is hall bereith the soil, as it must have been in th circus itse'ij f">r Dionysius 4 could not be persuaded t Dclieve that th'"3 divinity was the Roman Neptune, because his altar was under ground. Note 57. Stanza cxxvii. Yet let us ponder boldly. " At all events," says the author of the Academic*, Questions, " I trust, whatever may be the fate of tnjr own speculations, that philosophy will regain that *iU- mation which it ought to possess. The free and phi- losophic spirit of our nation has been the theme of ad- miration to the world. This was the proud distinction of Englishmen, and the luminous source of all their glory. Shall we then forget the manly snd dignified 1 Lib. iii. cap. iii. 2 " Undique e iolo aquse scaturiunt." Vadiui, lib iii. eP i. 3 Echinard, etc. Cie. cit. pp. 297, 2*V* 4 -\utiq. Horn lib. ii. cap. zud 128 BYRON'S WORKS. sentiments of our ancestors, to prate in the language of the mother or the nurse about our good old prejudices ? This is not the way to defend the cause of truth. It was not thus that our fathers maintained it in the bril- liant periods of our history. Prejudice may be trusted to guard the outworks for a short space of time, while reason slumbers in the citadel : but if the latter sink into a lethargy, the former will quickly erect a standard for herself. Philosophy, wisdom, and liberty, support each other ; he who will not reason, is a bigot ; he who cannot, is a fool ; and he who dares not, is a slave." Preface, p. xiv. xv. vol. i. 1805. Note 58. Stanza cxxxii. f real Nemesis ! Here, where the ancient paid ilice homage long. We read, in Suetonius, that Augustus, from a warn- ing received in a dream, ' counterfeited once a-year the oeggar, sitting before the gate of his palace, with his hand hollowed, and stretched out for charity. A statue formerly in the Villa Borghese, and which should be now at Paris, represents the emperor in that posture of supplication. The object of this self-degradation was the appeasement of Nemesis, the perpetual attendant on good fortune, of whose power the Roman conquerors were also reminded by certain symbols attached to their cars of triumph. The symbols were the whip and the crotalo, which were discovered in the Nemesis of the Vatican. The attitude of beggary made the above statue pass for that of Belisarius ; and until the criti- cism of Winkelmann - had rectified the mistake, one fiction was called in to support another. It was the same fear of the sudden termination of prosperity that made Amasis, king of Egypt, warn his friend Polycrates of Samos, that the gods loved those whose lives were chequered with good and evil fortunes. Nemesis was supposed to lie in wait particularly for the prudent : that is, for those whose caution rendered them accessible only to mere accidents ; and her first altar was raised on the banks of the Phrygian ^Esepus by Adrastus, probably the prince of that name, who killed the son of Croesus by mistake. Hence the goddess was called Adrastea. 3 The Roman Nemesis was sacred and august ; there was a temple to her in the Palatine, under the name of Rhamnusia : * so great indeed was the propensity of the ancients to trust to the revolution of events, and to be- lieve in the divinity of fortune, that in the same Pala- tine there was a temple to the fortune of the day. 6 This is the last superstition which retains its hold over the human heart ; and from concentrating in one ob- ject the credulity so natural to man, has always appeared strongest in those unembarrassed by other articles of 1 Sucton. in vit. August!, cap. 91. Casaubon, in the note, refers to Plutarch's Lives of Camillas and ^Emilius Paulus, and also to his apophthegms, for the character of this deily. The hollowed hand wns reckoned the last degree of degra- dation: and when the dead body of the prefect Rufinus was ome about in triumph by the people, the indignity was in- creased by putting his hand in that position. 2 Storia delle arti, etc., lib. xii. cap. iii. torn. ii. p. 422. Viaconti calls the statue, however, a Cybele. It is given in trip Museo Pio Clemeot, torn. i. par. 40. The Abate Fea Spiegaziode dei Kami. Storia, etc., torn. iii. p. 513.) calls it Chnsippus 2 Diet, de Bayle, article Adrastea. 4 It is enumerated by the regionary Victor. i " Fortune liujusce diei." Cicero mentions her, de legib. b ii. beliefl The antiquaries have supposed tnis goddess to be synonymous with fortune and with fate : ' but it was in her vindictive quality that she was worshipped under the name of Nemesis. Note 59. Stanza cxl. I see before me the gladiutor lie. Whether the wonderful statue which suggested this image, be a laquearian gladiator, which in spite ol Winkelmann's criticism, has been stoutly maintained, * or whether it be a Greek herald, as that great antiquary positively asserted, 3 or whether it is to be thought a Spartan or barbarian shield-bearer, according to the opinion of his Italian editor, 4 it must assuredly seem a copy of that masterpiece of Ctesilaus, which repre- sented "a wounded man dying, who perfectly expressed what there remained of life in him." 5 Montfaucon 6 and Maffei * thought it the identical statue ; but that statue was of bronze. The gladiator was once in the villa Ludovizi, and was bought by Clement XII. The right arm is an entire restoration of Michael Angelo. Note 60. Stanza cxli. -he. their sire. Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday. Gladiators were of two kinds, compelled and volun- tary ; and were supplied from several conditions ; from slaves sold for that purpose ; from culprits ; from bar- barian captives, either taken in war, and, after being led in triumph, set apart for the games, or those seized and condemned as rebels ; also from free citizens, some fighting for hire (auctorati), others from a depraved ambition : at last even knights and senators were ex hibited, a disgrace of which the first tyrant was naturally the first inventos. 9 In the end, dwarfs, and even wo- men, fought ; an enormity prohibited by Severus. Of these the most to be pitied, undoubtedly, were the bar- barian captives ; and to this species a Christian writer 10 justly applies the epithet " innocent," to distinguish them 1 DEAE NEMESI S1VE FORTVNAE PISTORIVS RVGIANVS V. C. LEGAT. LEG. XIII. G. GORD. See Questiones Romanae, etc., Ap. Graev. Antiq. Roman torn. v. p. 942. See also Muratori. Nov. Thesaur. Inscript Vet. torn. i. pp. 88, 89. where there are three Latin and one Greek inscription to Nemesis, and others to Fate. 2 By the Abate Bracci, dissertazione sopra un clipeo-votivo, etc. Preface, pag. 7, who accounts for the cord round the neck, but not for the horn, which it does not appear the gla- diators themselves ever used. Note (A.) Storia delle arti, torn. ii. p. 205. 3 Either Polifontes, herald of Laius, killed by CEclipus ; or Cepreas, herald of Euritheus, killed by the Athenians when he endeavoured to drag the Heraclidct from the altar of mercy, and in whose honour they instil ited annual gamri, continued to the time of Hadrian ; or Anthemocritus, the Athenian herald, killed by the Megarenses, who never recov- ered the impiety. See Storia delle arti, etc., torn. ii. pp. 20H 204, 205, 206, 207. lib. ix. cap. ii. 4 Storia, etc., torn. ii. p. 207. Not. (A.) 5 " Vulneratum deficientem fecit in quo possit intelligl quantum restat animae." Plin. Nat. Hist, xxxiv. cap. 8. 6 Antiq. torn. iii. par. 2. tab. 155. 7 Race. stat. tab. 64. 8 Mus. Capitol, torn. iii. p. 154. edit. 1755. 9 Julius Caesar, who rose by the fall of the aristocracy, brought Furius Leptinus ant" A. Calenus upon tHo srena. 10 Tertullian ; "certe quirtem et innocentcs g'Hiliiit/ies ife ludum veniunt, ut voluptatu publicae liostiae tail' " Uit Nips. Saturn. Sermon, lib. L *ap. iii. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 129 >om the professional gladiators. Aurelian and Claudius supplied great numbers of these unfortunate victims ; the one after his triumph, and the other on the pretext of a reoetlion. 1 No war, says Lipsius, 2 was ever so de- structive to the human race as these sports. In spite of the laws of Constantino and Constans, gladiatorial shows survived the old established religion more than seventy years ; but they owed their final extinction to the courage of a Christian. In the year 404, on the ka- icnds of January, they were exhibiting the shows in the Flavian amphitheatre before the usual immense con- course of people. Almachius or Telemachus, an eastern monk, who had travelled to Rome intent on his holy purpose, rushed into the midst of the area, and endea- voured to separate the combatants. The praetor Alypius, a person incredibly attached to these games, 3 gave instant orders to the gladiators to slay him ; and Telemachus gained the crown of martyrdom, and the title of saint, which surely has never, either before or since, been awarded for a more noble exploit. Honorius immedi- ately abolished the shows, which were never afterwards revived. The story is told by Theodoret * and Cassiodo- rus, s and seems worthy of credit, notwithstanding its place in the Roman martyrology. 6 Besides the torrents of blood which flowed at the funerals, in the amphi- theatres, the circus, the forums, and other public places, gladiators were introduced at feasts, and tore each other to pieces amidst the supper tables, to the great delight and applause oi the guests. Yet Lipsius permits him- self to suppose the loss of courage, and the evident de- generacy of mankind, to be nearly connected with the abolition of these bloody spectacles. 7 Note 61. Stanza cxlii. Here, where the Roman million's blame or praise Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd. When one gladiator wounded another, he shouted " he has it," " hoc habet," or " habet." The wounded combatant dropped his weapon, and, advancing to the edge of the arena, supplicated the spectators. If he had fought well, the people saved him ; if otherwise, or as they happened to be inclined, they turned down their thumbs, and he was slain. They were occasionally so savage, that they were impatient if a combat lasted longer than ordinary without wounds or death. The emperor's presence generally saved the vanquished : and t is recorded as an instance of Caracalla's ferocity, that *ie sent those who supplicated him for life, in a spec- tacle at Nicomedia, to ask the people ; in other words, handed them over to be slain. A similar ceremony is observed at the Spanish bull-fights. The Magistrate pre- 1 Vopiscus, in vit. Aurel.; anJ, in vit. Claud, ibid. 2 "Credo, imo scio, nullum bellum tantam cladem vastiti- emque goneri humane intulissc. quam has ad voluptatcm "udos." Just. Lips. ibid. lib. i. cap. xii. 3 Augustanus, (lib. vi. confess, cap. viii.) " Aiypium suum ladiatnrii ipeclaculi inhiatu incredibiliter abreptum," scnbit. bid. lib. i. cap. xii. 4 Hist Eccles. cap. xxvi. lib. v. 5 Cossiod. Tripartita. 1. x. c. xi. Saturn, ib. ib. 6 Baronius ad ann. et in notia nd Martyrol. Rom. 1. Jan. ^ec Maranponi delle momorie sacree profane dell' Amfiteatro f'lavio. p. 25. edit. 1746. 7 " Guod 1 non tu Lipsi momentum aliquod habuisse censes \d virtutcm 1 Maenum. Tempora nostra, nosque ipsos videa- Oius. Oppidum ecce unum alterumve captum. direptum est; umultus circa nos, non in nobis : et taincn concidimus et tur- tmmur. Ubi robur, ubi tot per annos meditata sapienlix stu- dia? ubi ille animus qui possit dicere. .i fractua illabarur erbisl" etc. ibid., lib. ii. cap. xxy. The prototype of Mr. Windham's panegyric on bull-baiting. P 22 sides ; and, after the horsemen and piccadores have fought the bull, the matadore steps forward and bow to him for permission to kill the animal. If the bull has done his duty by killing two or three horses, or a man, which last is rare, the people interfere with shouts, tha ladies wave their handkerchiefs, and the animal is saved. The wounds and death of the horses are accompanied with the loudest acclamations, and many gestures oi delight, especially from the female portion of the audi- ence, including those of the gentlest blood. Every thing depends on habit. The author of Childe Harold, the writer of this note, and one or two other Englishmen, who have certainly in other days borne the sight of a pitched battle, were, during the summer of 1809, in the governor's box at the great amphitheatre of Santa Ma- ria, opposite to Cadiz. The death of one or two horses completely satisfied their curiosity. A gentleman pre- sent, observing them shudder and look pale, noticed that unusual reception of so delightful a sport to somo young ladies, who stared and smiled, and continued their applauses as another horse fell bleeding to the ground. One bull killed three horses off his own horns. He was saved by acclamations, which were redoubled when it was known he belonged to a priest. An Englishman, who can, be much pleased with see- ing two men beat themselves to pieces, cannot bear to look at a horse galloping round an arena with his bowels trailing on the ground, and turns from the spec tacle and spectators with horror and disgust. Note 62. Stanza cxliv. Like laurels on the bald first Caesar's head. Suetonius informs us that Julius Cffisar was particu larly gratified by that decree of the senate, which en- abled him to wear a wreath of laurel on all occasions. He was anxious, not to show that he was the conqueror of the world, but to hide that he was bald. A stranger at Rome would hardly have guessed at the motive, nor should we without the help of the historian. Note 63. Stanza cxlv. "While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand," etc. This is quoted in the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire : and a notice on the Coliseum may be seen in the Historical Illustrations to the IV th Canto of Childe Harold. Note 64. Stanza cxlvi. spared and blest by time. " Though plundered of all its brass, except the ring which was necessary to preserve the aperture above, though exposed to repeated fires, though sometimes flooded by the river, and always open to the rain, no monument of equal antiquity is so well preserved as this rotunda. It passed with little alteration from the Pagan into the present worship ; and so convenient were its niches for the Christian altar, that Michael Angelo, ever studious of ancient beauty, introduced their de- sign as a model of the Catholic church." Forsyth's Remarks, etc., on Italy, p. 137. se.:. edit. Note 65. Stanza cxlvii. And they who feel for genius may repose Their eyes on honour'd forirs, whose buiU around them cioso The Pantheon has been made a receptacle for tho busts of modern great, or, at least, distinguished men. The flood of light which once fell through the large orn above on the whole circle of divinities, now shines every thing which the poet has told us of his retreat, we may feel tolerably secure of our site. The hill which should be Lucretilis is called Cam- panile, and by following up the rivulet to the pretended Bandusia, you come to the roots of 'he higher mountain Gennaro. Singularly enough, the only spot of ploughed and in the whole valley is on the knoll where this Bandusia rises, " Tu frigus amabile Fessis voiiiriB tauris Prtcbes, et pecori vago." The peasants show another spring nea* the mosaic pave- ment, which they call " Oradina," and which flows down the hills into a tank, or mill-dam, and thence trickles over into the Digentia. But we must not hope " To trace the Musos upwards to their spring," exploring the windings of the romantic valley in search of the Bandusian fountain. It seems strange that 1 IMP. CAESAR VF.SPASTANVS PONTIFEX MAXIM VS. TRIB. POTEST. CENSOR. /EDEM VICTORIA. VETVSTATE ILLAPSYM SVA. 1MPENSA, BEariTVJT. CHILDE HAROLD S PILGRIMAGE. 13 anyone should have thought Bandusia a fountain of the Digentia Horace has not let drop a word of it ; and this immortal spring has, in fact, been discovered in pos- session of the holders of many good things in Italy, the monks. It was attached to the church of St. Gervais and Protais, near Venusia, where it was most likely to oe found. 1 We shall not be so lucky as a late traveller in finding the occasional pine still pendant on the poetic villa. There is not a pine in the whole valley, but there are two cypresses, which he evidently took, or mistook, for the tree in the ode. a The truth is, that the pine is now, as it was in the days of Virgil, a garden tree, and it was not at all likely to be found in the craggy accliv- ities of the valley of Rustica. Horace probably had one of them in the orchard close above his farm, immediately overshadowing his villa, not on the rocky heights at some distance from his abode. The tourist may have easily supposed himself to have seen this pine figured in the above cypresses, for the orange and lemon- trees which throw such a bloom over his description of the royal exhortations of the moralist, may haw> niade this wort something more and better than a oook of 'ravels bui they have not made it a book of travels ; and this OD- serration applies more especially to that enticing meth *. of instruction conveyed by the perpetual introductioh of the same Gallic Helot to reel and bluster before the rising generation, and terrify it into decency by >hr display of all the excesses of the revolution. An am mosity against atheists and regicides in general, an Frenchmen specifically, may be honourable, and maj be useful, as a record ; but that antidote should eithei be administered in any work rather than a tour, or, a. least, should be served up apart, and not so mixed witX the whole mass of information and reflection, as 10 give a bitterness to every page : for who would choose to have the antipathies of any man, however just, for his travelling companions ? A tourist, unless he aspires to the credit of prophecy, is not answerable for the changes which may take place in the country which he describes : but his reader may very fairly esteem all his political gardens at Naples, unless they have been since displaced, portraits and deductions as so much waste paper, the were assuredly only acacias and other common garden j moment they cease to assist, and more particularly if shrubs. 3 The extreme disappointment experienced by* they obstruct, his actual survey. choosing the Classical Tourist as a guide in Italy, must be allowed to find vent in a few observations, which, it is asserted without fear of contradiction, will be con- firmed by every one who has selected the same con- ductor through the same country. This author is, in fact, one of the most inaccurate, unsatisfactory writers that have in our times attained a temporary reputation, and is very seldom to be trusted even when he speaks of ob- jects which he must be presumed to have seen. His errors, from the simple exaggeration to the downright misstatement, are so frequent as to induce a suspicion that he had either never visited the spots described, or nad trusted to the fidelity of former writers. Indeed the Classical Tour has every characteristic of a mere com- pilation of former notices, strung together upon a very slender thread of personal observation, and swelled out by fnose decorations which are so easily supplied by a systematic adoption of all the commonplaces of praise, applied to every thing, and therefore signifying nothing. The style which one person thinks cloggy and cum- brous, and unsuitable, may be to the taste of others, and such may experience some salutary excitement in ploughing through the periods of the Classical Tour. It must be said, however, that polish and weight are apt to beget an expectation of value. It is amongst the pains of the damned to toil up a climax with a huge round stone. The tourist had the choice of his words, but there was no such latitude allowed to that of his sentiments. The love of virtue and of liberty, which must have dis- tinguished the character, certainly adorns the pages of Mr. Eustace, and the gentlemanly spirit, so recom- mendatory either in an author or his productions, is very conspicuous throughout the Classical Tour. But these generous qualities are the foliage of such a performance, and may be spread about it so prominently and pro- r usely, as to embarrass those who wish to see and find the fruit at hand. The unction of the divine, and the 1 See Historical Illustrations of the Fourth Canto, p. 43. 2 See Classical Tour, etc. chap. vii. p. 250. vol. ii. 3 " Under our windows, and bordering on the beach, is the rnyfii garden, laid out. in parterres, and walks shuded by rows furane uees " Classical Tour, etc.. chap. xi. vul ii ocL m Neither encomium nor accusation of any government, or governors, is meant to be here offered ; but it is stated as an incontrovertible fact, that the change ope- rated, either by the address of the late imperial system, or by the disappointment of every expectation by those who have succeeded to the Italian thrones, has been so considerable, and is so apparent, as not only to put Mr. Eustace's Antigallican philippics entirely out of date, but even to throw some suspicion upon the competency and candour of the author himself. A remarkable ex- ample may be found in the instance of Bologna, _over whose papal attachments, and consequent desolation, the tourist pours forth such strains of condolence and revenge, made louder by the borrowed trumpet of Mr. Burke. Now, Bologna is at this moment, and has been for some years, notorious amongst the states of Italy for its attachment to revolutionary principles, and was almost the only city which made any demonstra tions in favour of the unfortunate Murat. This change may, however, have been made since Mr. Eustaco visited this country ; but the traveller whom he has thrilled with horror at the projected stripping of the copper from the cupola of St. Peter's, must be much relieved to find that sacrilege out of the power of the French, or any other plurjderers, the cupola being cov- ered with If.ad. ' If the conspiring voice of otherwise rival critics had not given considerable currency to the Classical Tour, it would have been unnecessary to warn the reader, that, however it may adorn his library, it wili DC of little or no service to him in his carriage ; and if the judgment of those critics had hitherto been suspended, no attempt would have been made to anticipate their decision. At it is, those who stand in the relation of posterity to Mr. Eustace, may be permitted to appeal from cotem- porary praises, and are perhaps more likely to beal Are seen to prove the Mos.ein's zeal. To-night, set Rhamazani's sun; 10 ight the Bairatn feast 's begun ; To- night bul wno and what art thou, O' foreign garb and fearful brow 7 And what are these to thine or tiiec, That th'.u shouldst either pause or flee? He stood some dread was on h'.s face, Soon hatred settled in its pluc-j: It rose not with the reddening flush Of transient anger's darkening blush, But pale as marble o'er the tomb, Whose ghastly whiteness aids its gloom. His brow was bent, his eye was glazed, He raised his arm, and fiercely raised, And sternly shook his hand on high, As doubting to return or fly : Impatient of his flight delay'd, Here loud his raven charger neigh'd Down glanced that hand, and grasp'd his blart That sound had burst his waking dream, As slumber starts at owlet's scream. The spur hath lanced his courser's sicks t Away, away, for life he rides ; Swift as the hurl'd on high jerreed, ' Springs to the touch his startled steed ; The rock is doubled, and the shore Shakes with the clattering tramp no mor ; The crag is won, no more is seen His Christian crest and haughty mien. 'T was but an instant he restrain'd That fiery barb so sternly rem'd : 'T was but a moment that he stood, Then sped as if by death pursued ; But in that instant o'er his soul Winters of memory seem'd to roll, And gather in that Jrop of time A life of pain, an age of crime. O'er him who loves, or hates, or fears, Such moment pours the grief of years : What felt he then, at once opprest By all that most distracts the breast ? That pause, which ponder'd o'er his fate, Oh, who its dreary length shall date ! Though in time's record nearly nought, It was eternity to thought ! For infinite as boundless space The thought that conscience must embrace, Which in itself can comprehend " Woe without name, or hope, or end. The hour is past, the Giaour is gone ; And did he fly or fall alone? Woe to that hour he came or went ! The curse for Hassan's sin was sent, To turn a palace to a tomb : He came, he went, like the simoom, 10 That harbinger of fate and gloom, Beneath whose widely-wasting breath The very cypress droops to death Dark tree, still sad when others' grief is floJ, The only constant mourner o'er the dead ! The steed is vanish'd from the stall ; No serf is seen in Hassan's hall ; The lonely spider's thin gray pall Waves slowly widening o'er the wall ; The ba. builds in his haram bower ; And in the fortress of his power The owl usurps the bcacon-towei ; The wild-dog howls o'er the fountain's ^ir'-m With baffled thirst, and famine prim: THE GIAOUR. For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed, Where the weeds and the desolate dust are spread, 'T was sweet of yore to see it play And chase the sultriness of day, As, springing high, the silver dew In whirls fantastically flew, And flung luxurious coolness round The air, and verdure o'er the ground. *T was sweet, when cloudless stars were bright, To view the wave of watery light, And hear its melody by night, And oft had Hassan's childhood play'd Around the verge of that cascade ; And oft upon his mother's breast That sound had harmonized his rest ; And oft had Hassan's youth along Its bank been soothed by beauty's song ; And softer seem'd each melting tone Of music mingled with its own. But ne'er shall Hassan's age repose Along the brink at twilight's close : The stream that fill'd that font is fled The blood that warm'd his heart is shed ! And here no more shall human voice Be heard to rage, regret, rejoice ; The last sad note that swell'd the gale Was woman's wildest funeral wail : That quenched in silence, all is still, But the lattice that flaps when the wind is shrill : Though raves the gust, and floods the ram, No hand shall close its clasp again. On desert sands 't were joy to scan The rudest steps of fellow man So here the very voice of grief Might wake an echo like relief; At least 't would say, " all are not gone ; " There lingers life, though but in one " For many a gilded chamber 's there, Which solitude might well forbear ; Within that dome as yet decay Hath slowly work'd her cankering way But gloom is gathered o'er the gate, Nor there the fakir's self will wait ; Nor there will wandering dervise stay, For bounty cheers not his delay ; Nor there will weary stranger halt To bless the sacred " bread and salt." " Alike must wealth and poverty Pass heedless and unheeded by, For courtesy and pity died With Hassan on the mountain side. His roof, that refuge unto men, Is desolation's hungry den. The guest flies the hall, and the vassals from labour, Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre! la I hear the sound of coming feet, But not a voice mine ear to greet ; More near each turban I can scan, And silver-sheathed ataghan ; l3 The foremost of the band is seen, An emir by his garb of green. : '* "Ho! who art thou? this low salad-* Replies of Moslem faith I am. The burthen ye so gently bear, Seems one that claims your utmost care, And, doubtless, nolds some precious freight, My humble bark would gladly wait." "Thou speakest sooth, thy skiff unmoor. And waft us from the silent shore ; Nay, leave the sail still furl'd, and ply The nearest oar that 's scattcr'd by ; And midway to those rocks where sleep The channeled waters dark and deep, Rest from your task so bravely done, Our course has been right swiftly run ; Yet 't is the longest voyage, I trow, That one of " Sullen it plunged, and slowly sank, The calm wave rippled to the bank ; I watch'd it as it sank, methought Some motion from the current caught Bestirr'd it more, 't was but the beam That cliequer'd o'er the living stream : I gazsd, till vanishing from view, Like lessening pebble it withdrew ; Still less and less, a speck of white That gemm'd the tide, then mock'd the sigh 1 And all its hidden secrets sleep, Known but to genii of the deep, Which, trembling in their coral caves They dare not whisper to the waves. As rising on its purple wing The insect-queen 16 of eastern spring, O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer Invites the young pursuer near, And leads him on from flower to flower A weary chase and wasted hour, Then leaves him, as it soars on hign. With panting heart and tearful eye : So beauty lures the full-grown chad, With hue as bright, and wing as wild , A chase of idle hopes and fears, Begun in folly, closed in tears. If won, to equal ills betray'd, Woe waits the insect and the maid , A life of pain, the loss of peace, From infant's play, and man's caprice The lovely toy so fiercely sought Hath lost its charm by being caught. For every touch that wooed its stay Hath brush'd its brightest hues away, Till, charm, and hue, and beauiy gone, 'T is left to fly or fall alone. With wounded wing, or bleeding breast. Ah! where shall either victim rest? C?n this with faded pinion soar Froin rose to ttili|> -\s before 1 Or beauty, blighted in an houi, Find joy within her broken bower ! No : gayer insects fluttering by Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that d.e. And lovelier things have mercy shown To every failing but their own, 136 BYRON'S WORKS And everv woe a tear can claim Except an erring sister's shame. The mind, that broods o'er guilty woes, Is like the scorpion girt by fire, In circle narrowing as it glows, The flames around their captive close, Till, inly search'd by thousand throes, And maddening in her ire, One sad and sole relief she knows, The sting she nourish'd for her foes, Whose venom never yet was vain, Gives but one pang, and cures all pain, And darts into her desperate brain : So do the dark in soul expire, Or live like scorpion girt by fire ; |f So writhes the mind remorse hath riven, Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven, Darkness above, despair beneath, Around it flame, within it death ! Black Hassan from the haram flies, Nor hends on woman's form his eyes ; The unwonted chase each hour employs, Yet shares he not the hunter's joys. Not thus was Hassan wont to fly When Leila dwelt in his Serai. Doth Leila there no longer dwell? That tale can only Hassan tefl : Strange rumours in our city say Upon that eve she fled away, When Rhamazan's " last sun WES set, And, flashing from each minaret, Millions of lamps proclaim'd the feast Of Bairam through the boundless east. thv fancy well ; As .arge, as languishingly dark, tut mtu\ beam'd forth in every spark That Parted from beneath the lid, Bright as '.he jewel of G'amschid. 90 Yea, soul, and should our prophet sav That form was nought but breathing clay. By Alia ! I would answer nay ; Though on Al-Sirat's 21 arch I stood, Which totters o'er the fiery flood, With paradise within my view, And all his houris beckoning through. Oh! who young Leila's glance could lead, And keep that portion of his creed a * Which saith that woman is but dust, A soulless toy for tyrant's lust? On her might mufiis gaze, and own That through her eye the Immortal shone ; On her fair cheek's unfading hue The young pomegranate's 23 blossoms strew Their bloom in blushes ever new ; Her hair in hyacinthine 34 flow, When left to roll its folds below, As 'midst her handmaids in the hall She stood superior to them all, Hath swept the marble where her feet Gleam'd whiter than the mountain sleet, Ere from the cloud that gave it birth It fell, and caught one stain of earth. The cygnet nobly walks the water ; So moved on earth Circassia's daughter, The loveliest bird of Franguestan ! " As rears her crest the ruffled swan, And spurns the wave with wings of pride, When pass the steps of stranger man Along the banks that bound her tide ; Thus rose fair Leila's whiter neck : Thus arm'd with beauty would she check Intrusion's glance, till folly's gaze Shrunk from the charms it meant to praise. Thus high and graceful was her gait ; Her heart as tender to her mate ; Her male stem Hassan, who was he' Alas ! that name was not for thee ! *** Stem Hassan hath a journey ta'en, With twenty vassals in his train, Each arm'd, as best becomes a man, With arquebuss and ataghan ; The chief before, as deck'd for war, Bears in his belt the scimitar Stain'd with the best of Arnaut blood, When in the pass the rebels stood, And few return'd to tell the tale Of what befell in Fame's vale. The pistols which his girdle bore Were those that once a pacha wore, Which still, though gemm'd and boss'd with goia. Even robbers tremble to behold. 'T is said he goes to woo a bride More true than her who left his side ; The faithless slave that broke her bower, And, worse than faithless, for a Giaour ' The sun's last rays are on the hill, And sparkle in the fountain rill, Whose welcome waters, cool and clear, Draw blessings from the mountaineer : Here may the loitering merchant Greek Find that repose 'twere vain to seek THE GIAOUR. 13? In cities lodged too near his lord, And trembling for his secret hoard- Here may he rest where none can see, In crowds a slave, in deserts free ; And with forbidden wine may stain The bowl a Moslem /dust tiot drain. The foremost Tartar's in the gap, Conspicuous by his yellow cap ; The rest in lengthening line the while Wind slowly through the long defile : Above, the mountain rears a peak, Where vultures whet the thirsty beak, And theirs may be a feast to-night, Shall tempt them down ere morrow's light , Beneath, a river's wintry stream Has shrunk before the summer beam, And .eft a channel bleak and bare, Save shrubs that spring to perish there : Each side the midway path there lay Small broken crags of granite gray, By time, or mountain lightning, riven From summits clad in mists of heaven ; For where is he that hath beheld The peak of Liakura unveil'd ? Thev reach the grove of pine at last : " Bismillah ! ss now the peril 's past ; For yonder view the opening plain, And there we '11 prick our steeds amah) :" The Chiaus spake, and as he said, A bullet whistled o'er his head ; The foremost Tartar bites the ground ! Scarce had they time to check the rein, Swift from their steeds the riders bound ; But three shall never mount again: Unseen the foes that gave the wound, The dying ask revenge in vain. With steel unsheathed, and carbine bent, Some o'er their coursers' harness leant, Half shelter'd by the steed ; Some fly behind the nearest rock, And there await the coming shock, Nor tamely stand to bleed Beneath the shaft of foes unseen, Who dare not quit their craggy screen. Stern Hassan only from his horse Disdains to light, and keeps his course, TIB fiery flashes in the van Proclaim too sure the robber-clan Have well secured the only way Could now avail the promised prey ; Then curl'd his verv beard * T with ire, And glared his eye with fiercer fire : " Though far and near the bullets hiss, I 've scaped a bloodier hour than this," And now the foe their covert quit, And call his vnssals to submit ; But Hassan's frown and furious word Are dreaded more than hostile sword, Nor of his little band a man Resign'd carbine nr aUghan, Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun ! ** In fuller sight, more near and near, The lately ambush'd foes appear, And, issuing from the grove, advance Some who on battle-charger prance. Who leads them on with foreign brand, Far flashing in his red right hand ? "Ti he! 'tis he! I know him now; I know him by his pallid brow ; I know him by the evil eye * That aids his envious treachery ; I know him by his jet-black barb : Though now array'd in Arnaut garb, Apostate from his own vile faith, It shall not save him from the death : 'Tk he! well met in any hour ! Lost Leila's love, accursed Giaour!" As rolls the river into ocean, In sable torrent wildly streaming ; As the sea-tide's opposing motion, In azure column proudly gleaming, Beats back the current many a rood. In curling foam and mingling flood, While eddying whirl, and breaking wave, Roused by the blast of winter, rave ; Through sparkling spray, in thundering clam, The lightnings of the waters flash In awful whiteness o'er the shore, That shines and shakes beneath the roar : Thus as the stream and ocean greet, With waves that madden as they meet Thus join the bands, whom mutual wrong. And fate, and fury, drive along. The bickering sabres' shivering jar, And pealing wide or ringing near Its echoes on the throbbing ear, The death-shot hissing from afar, The shock, the shout, the groan of war Reverberate along that vale, More suited to the shepherd's tale : Though few the numbers theirs the strife That neither spares nor speaks for fife ! Ah ! fondly youthful hearts can press, To seize and share the dear caress ; But love itself could never pant For all that beauty sighs to grant With half the fervour hate bestows Upon the last embrace of foes, When grappling in the fight they fold Those arms that ne'er shall loose their btki Friends meet to pan ; love laughs at faith. True foes, once met, are join'd till death ! With sabre shiverM to the hilt, Yet dripping with the blood he spil ; Yet strain'd within the severed hand Which quivers round that faithless brand ; His turban far behind him rolPd, And cleft in twain its firmest fold ; His flowing robe by falchion torn, And crimson as those clouds of morn That, streak'd with dusky red, portend The day shall have a stormy end ; A stain on every bush that bore A fragment of his Dalampore,'" BYRON'S WORKS His- breast with wounds unnurnber'd riven, His back to earth, his face to heaven, Fallen Hassan lies his unclosed eye Yet lowering on his enemy, As if the hour that seal'd his fate Surviving left hid quenchless hate ; And o'er him bends that foe with brow As dark as his that bled below. " Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave, But his shall be a redder grave ; Her spirit pointed well the sleel Which taught that felon heart to feel. He call'd the Prophet, but his power Was vain against the vengeful Giaour He call'd on Alia but the word Arose unheeded or unheard. Thou Paynim fool ! could Leila's prayer Be pass'd, and thine accorded there ? I watch'd my lime, I leagued with these, The traitor in his turn to seize ; My wrath is wreak'd, the deed Is done, And now I go but go alone." The browzing camels' bells are tinkling : His mother look'd from her lattice high She saw the dews of eve besprinkling The pasture green beneath her eye, She saw the planets faintly twinkling : ' 'T is twilight sure his train is nigh." She could not rest in the garden-bower, But gazed through the grate of his steepest towet ' Why comes he not ? his steeds are fleet, Nor shrinx they from the summer heat; Why sends not the bridegroom his promised gift ? Is his heart more cold, or his barb less swift ? Oh, false reproach ! yon Tartar now Has gain'd our nearest mountain's brow, And warily the steep descends, And now within the valley bends; And he bears the gift at his saddle-bow How could I deem his courser slow? Right well my largess shall repay His welcome speed, and weary way." The Tartar lighted at the gate, But scarce upheld his fainting weight: His swarthy visage spake distress, But this might be from weariness ; His garb with sanguine spots was dyed, But these might be from his courser's side ; He drew the token from his vest Angel of Death ! 't is Hassan's cloven crest ! His calpac " rent his caftan red " Lady, a fearful bride thy son hath ved : Me, not from mercy, did they spare, But this empurpled pledge to bea.. Peace to the brave ! whose blood is spilt' Woe to the Giaour ! for his the guilt." A turban ** carved in coarsest stone, A pillar with rank weeds o'ergrown, Whereon can now be scarcely read The Koran verse that mourns the d^ane, But such can ne'er be all his own ; Too timid in his woes to share, Too meek to meet, or brave despair ; And sterner hearts alone may feel The wound that time can never heal. The rugged metal of the mine Must burn before its surface shine, But plunged within the furnace-flame, It bends and melts though still the same ; Then temper'd to thy want, or will, T will serve thee to defend or kill ; A breastplate for thine hour of need, Or blade to bid thy foeman bleed ; But if a dagger's form it bear, Let those who shape its edge beware ! Thus passion's fire, and woman's art, Can turn and tame the sterner heart ; From these its form and tone are ta'en, And what they make it, must remain, But break before it bend again. If solitude succeed to grief, Release from pain is slight relief; The vacant bosom's wilderness Might thank the pang that made it less. We loathe what none are left to share : Even bliss 'twere woe alone to bearj The heart once left thus desolate Must fly at last for ease to hate. It is as if the dead could feel The icy worm around them steal, And shudder, as the reptiles creep To level o'er their rotting sleep, Without the power to scare away The cold consumers of their clay ! It is as if the desert-bird, 39 Whose beal inlocks her bosom's stream To still her 'Amish'd nestlings' scream, Nor mourns a life to them transferr'd, Should rend her rash devoted breast, And find them flown her empty nest. The keenest pangs the wretched find Are rapture to the dreary vtid, The leafless desert of the mir d, The waste of feelings unemploy'd. Who would be doom'd to gaze upon A sky without a cloud or sun ? I, ess hideous far the tempest's roar Than ne'er to brave the billorvs more Thrown, when the war of winds is o'er, A lonely wreck on fortune's shore, 'Mid sullen calm, and silent bay, Unseen to drop by dull decay : Better to sink beneath the shock, Than moulder piecemeal on the rock ! ****** " Father ! thy days have pass'd in peace, 'Mid counted beads, and countless prayer To bid the sins of others cease, Thyself without a crime or care, Save transient ills that all must bear, Has oeen thy lot from youth to age ; And thou wi'. bless thee from the rage Of passions fierce and uncontrtll'd, Such as thy penitents unfold, Whose secret sins and sorrows rest Within thy pure and pitying breast. My days, though few, have pass'd brlow In much of joy, but more of woe ; Yet still in hours of love or strife, I 've 'scaped the weariness ol life : Now leagued with friends, now girt by foes, I loathed the languor of repose. Now nothing left to love or hate, No more with hope or pride elate, I 'd rather be the thing that crawls Most noxious o'er a dungeon's walls, Than pass my dull, unvarying days, Condemn'd to meditate and gaze. Yet, lurks a wish within my breast For rest but not to feel 't is rest. Soon shall my fate that wish fulfil ; And I shall sleep without the dream Of what I was, and would be still, Dark as to thee my deeds may seem : My memory now is but the tomb Of joys long dead ; my hope, their doom : Though better to have died with those Than bear a life of lingering woes. My spirits shrunk not to sustain The searching throes of ceaseless pain ; Nor sought the self-accorded grave Of ancient fool and modern knave : Yet death I have not fear'd to meet ; And in the field it had been sweet. Had danger woo'd me on to move The slave of glory, not of love. I 've braved it not for honour's boast , I smile at laurels won or lost ; To such let others carve their way, For high renown, or hireling pay: But place again before my eyes Aught that I deem a worthy prize ; The maid I love, the man I hate, And I will hunt the steps of fate, To save or slay, as these require, Through rending steel, and rolling fire : Nor need's! thou doubt this speech from one Who would but do what he hath done. Death is but what the haughty brave, The weak must bear, the wretch must crave j Then let life go to him who gave : I have not quail'd to danger's brow When high and happy need I now ? "I loved her, friar! nay, adored - But these are words that all can use I proved it more in deed than word ; There's blood upon that din'.ed sword, A stain ils steel can never lose: 'T was shed for her, who died for me, It warm'd the heart of one abhorr'd : Nay, start not no nor bend thy knee, Nor midst my sins such act record : Thou wilt absolve me from the deed, For he was hostile to thy creed ! The very name of Nazarene Was wormwood to his Pavn'in spleen. THE GIAOUR. 14 Ungrateful fool ! since '.ut for brands Well wielded in some hard}' hands, \jid wounds by Galileans given, The surest pass to Turkish heaven, For him his Houris still might wait Impatient at the prophet's gate. I loved her love wijtfiiid its way Through paths where wolves would fear to prey, l.nd if it dares enough, 't were hard f passion met not some reward No matter how, or where, or why, I did not vainly seek, nor sigh : Vet sometimes, with remorse, in vain I wish she had not loved again. She died I dare not tell thee how ; But look 't is written on my brow ! There read of Cain the curse and crime In characters unworn by time : Still, ere thou dost condemn me, pause ; Not mine the act, though I the cause. Yet did he but what I had done Had she been false to more than one. Faithless to him, he gave the blow ; But true to me, I laid him low : Howe'er deserved her doom might be, Her treachery was truth to me ; To me she gave her heart, that all Which tyranny can ne'er enthral ; And I, alas ! too late to save ! Yet all I then could give, I gave, 'T was some relief, our foe a grave. His death sits lightly ; but her fate Has made me what thou well may'st hate. His doom was seal'd he knew it well, /\Tam'd by the voice of- stern Taheer, Deep in whose darkly-boding ear 40 The death-shot peal'd of murder near, As filed the troop to where they fell ! He died too in the battle broil, A time that heeds nor pain nor toil ; One cry to Mahomet for aid, One prayer to Alia all he made : He knew and cross'd me in the fray I gazed upon him where he lay, And watch'd his spirit ebb away : Though pierced like pard by hunters' steel, He felt not half that now I \'eel. I search'd, but vainly search'd, to find The workings of a wounded mind ; Each feature of that sullen corse Betray'd his rage, but no remorse. Oh, what had vengeance given to trace Despair upon his dying face ! The late repentance of that hour, When penitence hath lost her power To tear one terror from the grave, And will not soothe, and cannot save. **** " The cold in clime are cold in blood, Their love can scarce deserve the name ; But mine was like the lava flood That boils in ^Etna's breast of flame. I cannot prate in puling strain Of ladye-lovo, and beauty's chain : If changing cheek, and scorching vein, Q Lips taught to writhe, but not complain, If bursting heart, and madd'ning brain, And daring deed, and vengeful steel, And all that I have felt, and feel, Betoken love that love was mine, And shown by many a bitter sign. 'T is true I could not whine nor sigh, I knew but to obtain or die. I die but first I have possess' d, And, come what may, I have been blest. Shall I the doom I sought upbraid 1 No reft of all, yet undismay'd But for the thought of Leila slain, Give me the pleasure with the pain, So would I live and love again. I grieve, but not, my holy guide ! For him who dies, but her who died : She sleeps beneath the wandering wave Ah ! had she but an earthly grave, This breaking heart and throbbing head Should seek and share her narrow bed. She was a form of life and light, That, seen, became a part of sight ; And rose where'er I turn'd mine eye, The morning-star of memory ! " Yes, love indeed is light from heaven \ A spark of that immortal fire With angels shared, by Alia given, To lift from earth our low desire. Devotion wafts the mind above, But heaven itself descends in love ; A feeling from the Godhead caught, To wean from self each sordid thought ; A ray of him who form'd the whole ; A glory circling round the soul ! I grant my love imperfect, all That mortals by the name miscall ; Then deem it evil, what thou wilt ; But say, oh say, hers was not guilt ' She was my life's unerring light ; T."iat quench'd, what beam shall break my nijjU \ Oh ! would it shone to lead me still, Although to death or deadliest ill ! Why marvel ye, if they who lose This present joy, this future hope, No more with sorrow meekly cope ; In phrensy then their fate accuse : In madness do those fearful deeds That seem to add but guilt to woe ( Alas ! the breast that inly bleeds Hath nought to dread from outward blow , Who falls from all he knows of bliss, Cares little into what abyss. Fierce as the gloomy vulture's now To thee, old man, my deeds appear : I read abhorrence on thy brow, And this too was I born to bear ! 'T is true, that, like that bird of prey, With havoc have I mark'd my way . But this was taught me by the dov. To die and know no second love. This lesson yet hath man to learn, Taught by the thing he dares to smun. 142 BYRON'S WORKS. Tim kid lhat sings within the brake, The swan tiiat swims upon the lake, One mate, and one alone, will take. And let the fool still prone to range, And sneer on all who cannot change, Partake his jest with boasting boys ; I envy not his varied joys, But deem such feeble, heartless man, Less than yon solitary swan ; Far, far beneath the shallow maid He left believing and betray'd. Such shame at least was never mine Leila ! each thought was only thine ! My good, my guilt, my weal, my woe, My hope on high my all below. Earth holds no other like to thee, Or if it doth, in vain for me : For worlds I dare not view the dame Resembling thee, yet not the same. The very crimes that mar my youth, This bed of death attest my truth ! T is all too late thou wert, thou art The cherish'd madness of my heart ! " And she was lost and yet I breathed, But not the breath of human life : A serpent round my heart was wreathed, And stung my every thought to strife. Alike all time, abhorr'd all place, Shuddering I shrunk from nature's face, Where every hue that charm'd before The blackness of my bosom wore. The rest thou dost already know, And all my sins, and half my woe. But talk no more of penitence ; Thou see'st I soon shall part from hence : And if thy holy tale were true, The deed that 's done can'st thou undo ? Think me not thankless but this grief Looks not to priesthood for relief.*' My soul's estate in secret guess : Hut wouldst thou pity more, say less. When thou canst bid my Leila live, Then will I sue thee to forgive ; Then plead my cause in that high place Where purchased masses proffer grace. Go, when the hunter's hand hath wrung From forest-cave her shrieking young, And calm the lonely lioness : But soothe not mock not my distress ! " In earlier days, and calmer hours, When heart with heart delights to blend, Where bloom my native valley's bowers I had ah ! have I now ? a friend ! To him this pledge I charge thee send, Memorial of a youthful vow ; , I would remind him of my end : Though souls absorb'd like mine allow Brief thought to distant friendship's claim, Yet dear to him my blighted name. T is strange he prophesied my doom, And I have smiled I then could smile When prudence would his voice assume, Ana warn I reck'd not what the while : But now remembrance whispers o'er Tho IKWODI* scarcely mark'd before. Say that his bodings came to pass, And he will start to hear their truth, And wish his words had not been sooth : Tell him, unheeding as I was, Through many a busy bitter scene Of all our golden youth had been, In pain, my faltering tongue had tried To bless his memory ere I died ; But Heaven in wrath would turn away, If guilt should for the guiltless pray. I do not ask him not to blame, Too gentle he to wound my name ; And what have I to do with fame ? I do not ask him not to mourn, Such cold request might sound like scuri r And what than friendship's manly tear May better grace a brother's bier ? But bear this ring, his own of old, And tell him what thou dost behold ! The wither'd frame, the ruin'd mind, The wreck by passion left behind, A shrivell'd scroll, a scatter'd leaf, Sear'd by the autumn blast of grief! " Tell me no more of fancy's gleam, No, father, no, 't was not a dream ; Alas ! the dreamer first must sleep, I only watch'd, and wish'd to weep, But could not, for my burning brow Throbb'd to the very brain as now : I wisli'd but for a single tear, As something welcome, new, and dear . I wish'd it then, I wish it still Despair is stronger th^n my will. Waste not thine orison, despair Is mightier than thy pious prayer : I would not, if I might, be blest ; I want no paradise, but rest. 'T was then, I tell thee, father ! then I saw her ; yes, she lived again ; And shining in her white symar,* 1 As through yon pale gray cloud the star Which now I gaze on, as on her, Who look'd and looks far lovelier ; Dimly I view its trembling spark : To-morrow's night shall be more dark , And I, before its rays appear, That lifeless thing the living fear. I wonder, father ! for my soul Is fleeting towards the final goal. I saw her, friar ! and I rose Foigetful of our former woes ; And rushing from my couch, I dart, And clasp her to my desperate heart I clasp what is it that I clasp ? No breathing form within my grasp, No heart that beats reply to mine. Yet, Leila ! yet the form is thine ! And art thou, dearest, changed so much, As meet my eye, yet mock my touch? Ah ! were thy beauties e'er so cnJd I care not ; so my arms enfold The all they ever wish'd to hold Alas ! around a shadow prest, They shrink upon my lonely brea ; THE GIAOUR. 143 Vet still 't is ihcre ! in silence stands, And beckons with beseeching hands ! With braided hair, and bright-black eye I knew 't was false she could not ilie ! But he is dead ! within the dell I saw him buried where he fell ; He comes not, for he cannot break From earth ; why then art thou awake 7 They told me wild waves roll'd above The fac I view, the form I love ; They told me 't was a hideous tale ! I 'd tell it, but my tongue would fail : If true, and from thine ocean-cave Thou com'st to claim a calmer grave, Oh ! pass thy dewy fingers o'er This brow that then will burn no more ; Or place them on my hopeless heart : But, shape or shade ! whate'er thou art, In mercy ne'er again depart ! Or farther with thec bear my soul, Than winds can waft, Waters roll ! " Such is my name, and such my tale. Confessor ! to thy secret ear I breathe the sorrows I bewail, And thank thee for the generous tear This glazing eye could never shed. Then lay me with the humblest dead, And, save the cross above my head, Be neither name nor emblem spread, By prying stranger to be read, Or stay the passing pilgrim's tread." He pass'd nor of his name and race Hath left a token or a trace, Save what the father must not say Who shrived him on his dying day : This broken tale was all we knew Of her he loved, or him he slew. 4J NOTES. Note 1. Page 132, line 3. That tomb which, gleaming o'er the cliff. A tomb above the rocks on the promontory, by some supposed the sepulchre of Themistocles. Note 2. Page 132, line 22. Sultana of the nightingale. The attachment of the nightingale to the rose is a well-known Persian fable. If I mistake not, the " Bul- bul of a thousand tales" is one of his appellations. Note 3. Page 132, line 40. Till the gay mariner's guitar. The guitar is the constant amusement of the Greek sailor by night : with a steady fair wind, and during a calm, it is accompanied always by the voice, and often tv dancing. Note 4. Page 133, line 40. Where cold obstruction's apathy. " \y, but to die and go we know not where, To lie in cold obstruction." Mcarxrcfor Measure, Act III. 130. Sc. 2. Note 5. Page 133, line 48. The first, last look by death reveal'd. 1 trust that few of my readers have ever had an op portunity of witnessing what is here attempted in do-, scription, but those who have, -will probably retain a painful remembrance of that singular beauty whici pervades, with few exceptions, the features of the deaa a few hours, and but for a few hours, after " the spirit is not there." It is to be remarked, in cases of violent death by gun-shot wounds, the expression is always that of languor, whatever the natural energy of tnti sufferer's character ; but in death from a stab the coun tcnance preserves its traits of feeling or ferocity, and the mind its bias to the last. Note 6. Page 133, line 110. Slaves nay, the bondsmen of a slave. Athens is the property of the Kislar Aga (the slave of the seraglio, and guardian of the women), who ap- points the Waywode. A pander and eunuch those are not polite, yet true appellations now governs the governor of Athens ! Ti Infidel. Note 7. Page 134, line 23. calmer than thy heart, young Giaour Note 8. Page 134, line 58. In echoes of the far tophaike. "Tophaike," musket The Bairam is announce* by the cannon at sunset; the illumination of the Mosques, and the firing of all kinds of small arms, loaded with ball, proclaim it during the night. Note 9. Page 134, line 84. Swift as the hurl'd on high jcrrued. Jerreed, or Djerrid, a blunted Turkish javelin, which is darted from horseback with great force and precision. It is a favourite exercise of the Mussulmans ; but 1 know not if it can be called a manly one, since the most expert in the art are the Black Eunuchs of Constanti- nople I think, next to these, a Mamlouk at Smvrna was the most skilful that came within my observation. Note 10. Page 134, line 115. He came, he went, like the simoom. The blast of the desert, fatal to every thing living, and often alluded to in eastern poetry. Note 11. Page 135, line 47. To bless the sacred " bread and salt." To partake of food, to break bread and sail with your host, insures the safety of the guest; even though an enemy, his person from that moment is sacred. Note 12. Page 135, line 55. Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre. I need hardly observe, that Charity and Hospitality are the first duties enjoined by Mahomet ; and, to saj truth, very generally practised by his disciples. Tli* first praise that can be bestowed on a chief is a gyric on his bounty ; the next on his valour. Note 13. Page 135, line J>9. And silver-sheathed atagnau. The ataghan, a long dagger worn with pistols in um belt, in a metal scabbard, generally of silver; ami. among the wealthier, gilt or of gold, 144 BYRON'S WORKS. Note. 14. Page 135, line 61. '\n emir by his garb of greon. Green is the privileged colour of the prophet's nu- merous pretended descendants ; with them, as here, faith (the family inheritance) is supposed to supersede ihe necessity of good works : they are the worst of a very indirferent brood. Note 15. Page 135, line 62. 'Ho ! who art (hou? this low salam," etc. Salam ateiKoum ! aleikoum salam ! peace be with you ; oe with you peace the salutation reserved for the faithful : to a Christian, " Urlarula," a good journey ; or saban hiresem, saban serula ; good morn, good even ; and sometimes, " may your end be happy j" are the usual salutes. Note 16. Page 135, line 93. The insect-queen of eastern spring. The blue-winged butterfly of Kashmeer, the most rare and beautiful of the species. Note 17. Page 136, line 15. Or live like scorpion girt by fire. Alluding to the dubious suicide of the scorpion, so placed for experiment by gentle philosophers. Some maintain that the position of the sting, when turned towards the head, is merely a convulsive movement : but others have actually brought in the verdict, "Felo de so." The scorpions are surely interested in a speedy decision of the question ; as, if once fairly established as insect Catos, they will probably be allowed to live as long as they think proper, without being martyred for the sake of a hypothesis. Note 18. Page 136, line 30. When Rharr-azan's last sun was set The cannon at sunset close the Rhamazan. See note 8. Note 19. Page 136, line 49. By pa/e Pliingari's trembling lighf Phingari, the moon. Note 20. Page 136, line 60. B'ip'it as the jewel of Giamschid. The celebrated fabulous ruby of Sultan Giamschid, the embellisher of Istakhar ; from its splendour, named Sehebgerr.g, "the torch of night ;" also, "the cup of the sun," etc. In the first editions, " Giamschid " was written as a word of three syllables, so D'Herbelot hae it ; but I am told Richardson reduces it to a dis- syllable, and writes "Jamshid." I have left in the ext the orthography of the one with the pronunciation 3f the other. Note 21. Page 136, line 64. Though on Al-Sirat's nrch I stood. Al-Sirat, the bridge, of breadth less than the thread of a famished spider, over which the Mussulmans must tkate into paradise, to which it is the only entrance ; but this is not the worst, the river beneath being hell Itself, into which, as may be expected, the unskilful and tender of foot contrive to tumble with a "facilis iliscenjs Averni," not very pleasing in prospect to the next passenger. There is a shorter cut downwards for ne Jews and Christians. Note 22. Page 136, line 69. And keep that portion of his creed. A iu!gar error' the Koran allots at least a ,lur<\ of paradise to well-behaved women : but by far trie greater number of Mussulmans interpret the text their own way, and exlude their moieties from heaven. Being enemies to Platonics, they cannot discern " any fitness of things " in the souls of the other sex, conceiving them to ba superseded hy the Houris. Note 23. Page 136, line 75. The young pomegranate's blossoms strew. An oriental simile, which may, perhaps, though fairly stolen, be deemed "plus Arabe qu'en Arabic." Note 24. Page 136, line 77. Her hair in hyacinthino flow. Hyacinthine, in Arabic, " Sunbul ;" r.s common a thought in the eastern poets, as it wrvs among the Greeks. Note 25. Page 136, line 87. The loveliest bird of Franguestan. "Franguestan," Circassia. Note 26. Page 137, line 26. " Bismillah ! now the peril 'g past," etc. Bismillah " In the name of God ;" the commence- ment of all the chapters of the Koran but one, and of prayer and thanksgiving. Note 27. Page 137, line 51. Then curl'd his very heard with ire. A phenomenon not uncommon with an angry Mussul- man. In 1809, the Capitan Pacha's whiskers at a diplomatic audience, were not less lively with indigna- tion than a tiger cat's, to the horror of all the drago- mans ; the portentous mustachios twisted, they stood erect of their own accord, and were expected every moment to change their colour, but at last condescended to subside, which probably saved more heads than they contained hairs. Note 28. Page 137, line 61. Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun ! " Amaun," quarter, pardon. Note 29. Page 137, line 70. I know him by the evil eye. The " evil eye," a common superstition in the Le- vant, and of which the imaginary effects ure yet very singular, on those who conceive themselves affected Note 30. Page 137, line 124. A fragment of his palnmpore. The flowered shawls, generally worn by persons of rank. Note 31. Page 138, line 51. His calpac rent his caftan red. The " Calpac" is the solid cap or centre part of the head-dress ; the shawl is wound round it, and forms the turban. Note 32. Page 138, line 57. A turban carved in conrsc *t stone. The turban, pihar, and inset iptive verse, decori!e the tombs of the Osmanlies, whether in the cemetery or the wilderness. In the mojntains you frequently pass similar mementos ; and, on inquiry, you arc in- formed, that they record some victim ot rebellion, plunder, or revenge. Note 33. Page 138, foie fA At solemn sound of "All i Hu ' 'Ali Hu ." the concluding w jrds of ..-e M.mzzn'f THE GIAOUR. 143 call to prayer from the highest gallery on the exterior ot the minaret. On a still evening, when the Muezzin has a fine voice, which is frequently the case, the ef- fact is solemn and beautiful beyond all the bells in Christendom. Note 34. Page 138, line 77. They come their kerchiefs green they wave. The following is part of a battle-song of the Turks : " I see I see a dark-eyed girl of paradise, and she wares a handkerchief, a kerchief of green ; and cries aloud, Come, kiss me, for I love thee," etc. Note 35. Page 138, line 82. Beneath avenging Monkir's scythe. Monkir and Nekir are the inquisitors of the dead, before whom the corpse undergoes a slight noviciate and preparatory training for damnation. If the an- swers are none of the clearest, he is hauled up with a scythe and thumped down with a red-hot mace till prop- erly seasoned, with a variety of subsidiary probations. The office of these angels is no sinecure ; there are but two, and the number of orthodox deceased being in a small proportion to the remainder, their hands are al- ways full. Note 36. Page 138, line 84. To wander round lost Eblis' throne. Eblis, the Oriental Prince of Darkness. Note 37. Page 138, line 89. But first, on earth, as vampire sent. The Vampire superstition is still general in the Le- vaiu. Honest Tournefort tells a long story, which Mr. Southey, in the notes on Thalaba, quotes about these " Vroucolochas," as he calls them. The Romaic term is "Vardoulacha." I recollect a whole family being terri- fied by the scream of a child, which they imagined must proceed from such a visitation. The Greeks never mention the word without horror. I find that " Broucolokas" is an old legitimate Hellenic appellation at least is so applied to Arsenius, who, according to the Greeks, was after his death animated by the Devil. The moderns, however, use the word I mention. Note 38. Page 138, line 115. Wet with thine own best blood shall drip. The freshness of the face, and the wetness of the lip with blood, are the never-failing signs of a Vampire. The stories told in Hungary and Greece of these foul feeders are singular, and some of them most incredibly attested. Note 39. Page 140, line 36. It ia as if the desert-bird. 1 he pelican is, I believe, the bird so libelled, by the mputation of feeding her chickens with her blood. Note 40. Page 141, line 36. Deep in whose darkly-boding ear. This superstition of a second-hearing (for I never met with downright second-sight in the east) fell once under *iy own ooservation On my third journey to Cape Jolonna early in 1811, as we passed through the defile hat. leads from the hamlet between Keratia and Colonna, observed Dervish Tahiri riding rather out of the path, and leaning his head upon his hand, as if in pain. I rode up and inquired. " We are in peril," he answered. " What peril ? we are not now in Albania, nor in the a 2 24 passes to Ephesus, Messalunghi, or Lepanto ; there are plenty of us, well armed, and the Choriates have no. courage to be thieves." " True, Affendi ; but never theless the shot is ringing in my ears." " The shot ! not a tophaike has been fired this morning." "I hear it notwithstanding Bom Bom as plainly as I hear yom voice." "Psha." "As you please, Affendi; ,' it is written, so will it be." I left this quick-eared predesti narian, and rode up to Basili,his Christian compatriot whose ears, though not at all prophetic, by no means relished the intelligence. We all arrived at Colonna, re- mained a few hours, and returned leisurely, saying a var riety of brilliant things, in more languages than spoiled the building of Babel, upon the mistaken seer ; Romaic, Arnaout, Turkish, Italian, and English were all exercised, in various conceits, upon the unfortunate Mussulman. While we were contemplating the beautiful prospect, Dervish was occupied about the columns. I thought he was deranged into an antiquarian, and asked him if he had become a " Palaocastro " man. "No," said he, " but these pillars will be useful in making a stand ;" and added other remarks, which at least evinced his own belief in his troublesome faculty oifure-heanng. On oar return to Athens, we heard from Leone (a prisoner se* ashore some days after) of the intended attack of the Mainotcs, mentioned, with the cause of its not taking place, in the notes to Childe Harold, Canto 2d. I wa at some pains to question the man, and he described the dresses, arms, and marks of the horses of our party ss accurately, that, with other circumstances, we could not doubt of his having been in " villanous company," and ourselves in a bad neighbourhood. Dervish became a soothsayer for life, and I dare say is now hearing more musketry than ever will be fired, to the great refresh- ment of the Arnaouts of Berat, and his native moun- tains. I shall mention one trait more of this singular race. In March 1811, a remarkably stout and active Arnaout came (I believe the 50th on the same errand) to offer himself as an attendant, which was declined : "Well, Affendi," quoth he, "may you live! you would have found me useful. I shall leave the town foi the hills to-morrow ; in the winter I return, perhaps you will then receive me." Dervish, who was present, remarked, as a thing of course, and of no consequence, " in the mean time he will join the Klephtes" (rob- bers), which was true to the letter If not cut off", they came down in the winter, and pass it unmolested in some town, where they are often as well known as their exploits. Note 41. Page 142, line 36. Looks not to priesthood for relief. The monk's sermon is omitted. It seems to have had so little effect upon the patient, that it could have nc hopes from the reader. It may be sufficient to say, that it was of a customary length (as may be perceived from the interruptions and uneasiness of the penitent), ana was deli vered in the nasal tone of all orthodox preachem Note 42. Page 142, line 102. And shining in her white symar. " Symar" shroud. Note 43. Page 143, line 37 The circumstance to which the above story remits was not very uncommon in Turkey. A few years ago the wife of Muchtar Pacha comulaineu to i.s father <* 146 BYRON'S WORKS. his son's v t )pose<-' infiinlity ; he asked with whom, and she had vhe bartwity to give in a list of the twelve handsomest women in Yanina. They were seized, fast- ened up in sacks, and drowned in the lake the same night ! One of the guards who was present informed me, that not one of the victims uttered a cry, or showed a symptom of terror at so sudden a " wrench from all we know, from all we love." The fate of Phrosine, the fairest of this sacrifice, is the subject of many a Romaic and Arnaout ditty. The story in the text is one told of a young Venetian many years ago, and now nearly for- gotten. I heard it by accident recited by one of the coffee-house story-tellers who abound in the Levant, and sing or recite their narratives. The additions and interpolations by the translator will be easily distin- guished from the rest by the want of Eastern imagery ; and I regret that my memory has retained so few frag' ments of the original. For the contents of some of the notes I am indebted partly to D'Herbelot, and part y to that most eastern, and, as Mr. Weber justly entitles it, "sublime tale," the "Caliph Vathek." I do not know from what source the author of that singular volume may have drawn his materials ; some of his incidents are to be found in the " Bibliotheque Orientate ;" but for correctness of cos- tume, beauty of description, and power of imagination, it far surpasses all European imitations ; ana bears s'ich marks of originality, that those who have visited the East will find some difficulty in believing it to be more than a translation. As an Eastern tale, even Rasselas must bow before it ; his " Happy Valley " will not bear a comparison with the " Hall of Eblis." SBrUjre of A TURKISH TALE. Had we never loved go kindly. Had we never loved so blindly. Never met or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted. BURNS. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD HOLLAND, THIS TALE IS INSCRIBED, WITH EVERY SENTIMENT OF REGARD AND RESPECT, BV HIS GRATEFULLY OBLIGED AND SINCERE FRIEND, BYRON. CANTO I. I. Rtrow ys the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime ? Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, N*w meh into sorrow, now madden to crime ! Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine; Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with perfume, Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gull ' in her bloom ; Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute ; Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, In colour though varied, in beauty may vie, And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye ; Where the virgins a>e soft as the roses they twine, And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? T is the clime of the east ; 't is the land of the sun Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done? 2 Oh ! w:M as the accents of lovers' farewell Are the hearts which they bear, and the talrr which they II. Begirt with many a gallant slave, Apparell'd as becomes the brave, Awaiting each his lord's behest, To guide his steps, or guard his rest, Old GiafHr sate in his Divan : Deep thought was in his aged eye ; And though the face of Mussulman Not oft betrays to slanders by The mind within, well skill'd to hide All but unconquerable pride, His pensive cheek and pondering brow Did more than he was wont avow. III. "Let the chamber be clear'd." The train disappear'')) "Now call me the chief of the Haram guard." With Giaffir is none but his only son, And the Nubian awaiting the sire's aware " Haroun when all the crowd that wait Are pass'd beyond the outer gate (Woe to the head whose eye beheld My child Zulcika's face unveil'd !) Hence, lead my daughter from her tow> ; Her fate is fix'd this very hour : THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. i'et not to her repeat my thought ; By me alone be duty taught !" " Pacha ! to hear is to obey." No more must slave to despot say- Then to the tower had ta'en his way, Hut here young Selim silence brake, First lowly rendering reverence meet: And downcast look'd, and gently spake, Sti 1 standing at the Pacha's feet : For son of Moslem must expire, Ere dare to sit before his sire ! " Father ! for fear that thou shouldst chide My sister, or her sable guide, Know for the fault, if fault there be, Was mine ; then fall thy frowns on me So lovelily the morning shone, That let the old and weary sleep I could not ; and to view alone The fairest scenes of land and deep, With none to listen and reply To thoughts with which my heart beat high, Were irksome for, whate'er my mood, In sooth I love not solitude ; I on Zuleika's slumber broke, And, as thou knowest that for me Soon turns the Haram's grating key, Before the guardian slaves awoke, We to the cypress groves had flown, And made earth, main, and heaven our own ! There linger'd we, beguiled too long With Mejnoun's tale, or Sadi's song;* Till I, who heard the deep tambour * Beat thy Divan's approaching hour, To thee and to my duty true, Warn'd by the sound, to greet thee flew : But there Zuleika wanders yet Nay, father, rage not nor forget That none can pierce that secret bower But those who watch the women's tower." IV. " Son of a slave !" the Pacha said "From unbelieving mother bred, Vain were a father's hope to see Aught that beseems a man in thee. Thou, when thine arm should bend the bow, And hurl the dart, and curb the steed, Thou, Greek in soul if not in creed, Must pore where babbling waters flow, And watch unfolding roses blow. Would that yon orb, whose matin glow Thy listless eyes so much admire, Would lend thee something of his fire ! Thou, who wouldst see this battlement By Christian cannon piecemeal rent; w Nay, tamely view old Stambol's wall Before the dogs of Moscow fall, Nor strike one stroke for life and death Against the curs of Nazareth! Uo let thy less than woman's hand Assume the distaff no', the brand. But, Haroun ! to my daughter speed: And hark of thine own head take heed If thus Zuleika oft takes wing Thou seeSt yon bow it hath a atnng!" V. No sound from Selim's lip was neard, At least that met old Giaffir's ear, But every frown and every word Pierced keener than a Christian's sword. " Son of a slave ! reproach'd with fear ! Those gibes had cost another dear. Son of a slave ! and who my sire ?" Thus held his thoughts their dark career And glances even of more than ire Flash forth, then faintly disappear. Old Giaffir gazed upon his son And started ; for within his eye He read how much his wrath had done ; He saw rebellion there begun : " Come hither, boy what, no reply ? I mark thee and I know thee too ; But there be deeds thou daresl not do : But if thy beard had manlier length, And if thy hand had skill and strength, I 'd jov to see thee break a lance, Albeit against my own perchance." As sneeringly these accents fell, On Selim's eyes he fiercely gazed : That eye return'd him glance for glance. That proudly to his sire's was raised, Till Giaffir's quail'd and shrunk askance And why he felt, but durst not tell. " Much I misdoubt this wayward boy Will one day work me more annoy; I never loved him from his birth, And but his arm is little worth, And scarcely in the chase could cope With timid fawn or antelope, Far less would venture into strife Where man contends for fame and life I would not trust that look or tone : No nor the blood so near my own. That blood he hath not heard no more I '11 watch him closer than before. He is an Arab * to my sight, Or Christian crouching in the fight But hark! I hear Zuleika's voice ; Like Houris' hymn it meets mine ear : She is the offspring of my choice ; Oh ! more than even her mother dear, With all to hope, and nought to fear My Peri ! ever welcome here ! Sweet, as the desert-fountain's wave To lips just cool'd in time to save Such to my longing sight art thou ; Nor can they waft to Mecca's shrine More thanks for life, than I for thine, Who blest thy birth, and bless thee no^f . VI. Fair, as the first that fell of womankind, When on that dread yet lovely serpent smiling. Whose image tiien was stamp'd upon her mind- But once beguiled and ever more beguiling ; Daz'ling, as that, oh ! too transcendent vision To S'HTOW'S phantom-peopled slumber given, When heart meets heart again in dreams Elysian. And paints the lost on earth reviveo in heaven . Soft, as the memory of buried love ; Pure, as the prayer which childhood waits U' .48 BYRON'S WORKS. Was ne the daughter of that rude old chief, Who met the maid with tears but not of grief. Who hath not proved how feebly words essay To fix one spark of beauty's heavenly ray 7 Who doth not feel, until his failing sight Faints into dimness with its own delight, His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess The might the majesty of loveliness ? Such was Zuleika such around her shone The nameless charms unmark'd by her alone : The light of iove, the purity of grace, The mind, the music breathing from her face,' The heart whose softness harmonized the whole And, oh ! that eye was in itself a soul ! Her graceful arms in meekness bending Across her gently-budding breast ; At one kind word, those arms extending, To clasp the neck of him who blest His child caressing and carest, Zuleika came and Giaflir felt His purpose half within him melt : Not that against her fancied weal His heart, though stern, could ever feel ; Affection chain'd her to that heart ; Ambition tore the links apart. VII. " Zuleika ! child of gentleness ! How dear this very day must tell, When I forget my own distress, fci losing what I love so well, To bid thee with another dwell : Another ! and a braver man Was never seen in battle's van. We Moslem reck not much of blood ; But yet the line of Carasman* Unchanged, unchangeable hath stood First of the bold Timariot bands Thai won and well can keep their lands. EnoMgh that he who comes to woo Is kinsman of the Bey Oglou : His years need scarce a thought employ: I would not have thee wed a boy. And thou shall have a noble dower : And his and my united power Will laugh to scorn the death-firman, Which others tremble but to scan, And teach the messenger 8 what fate The bearer of such boon may wait. And now thou know'st thy father's will: All that thy sex hath need to know : ' F was mine to teach obedience still The way to love thy lord may show." VIII. i'i silence bow'j the virgin's head; And if hei eye was fill'd with tears, That stifled teeling dare not shed, And changed her cheek from pale to red, And red to pale, as through her cars Those win?eu wonis .IKO arrows sped, Whai could such be but maiden fears? So bright the tear in beauty's eye, Love half regrets to kiss it dry ; So sweet the blush of bashfulness, Even pity scarce can wish it less ! Whate'er it was the sire forgot ; Or, if remember'd, mark'd it not ; Thrice clapp'd his hands, and call'd Ins steoi Resign'd his gem-adorn'd Chibouke, 10 And mounting featly for the mead, With Maugrabee ' ' and Mamaluke, His way amid his Delis took, 12 To witness many an active deed With sabre keen, or blunt jerreed. The Kislar only and his Moors Watch'd well the Haram's massy doors. IX. His head was leant upon his hand, His eye look'd o'er the dark-blue water That swiftly glides and gently swells Between the winding Dardanelles ; But yet he saw nor sea nor strand Nor even his Pacha's turban'd band Mix in the game of mimic slaughter, Careering cleave the folded felt l3 With sabre stroke right sharply dealt ; Nor mark'if the javelin-darting crowd, Nor heard their Ollahs 14 wild and loua He thought but of old Giaffir's daughter ! X. No word from Selim's bosom broke ; One sigh Zuleika's thought bespoke : Still gazed he through the lattice grate, Pale, mute, and mournfully sedate. To him Zuleika's eye was turn'd, But little from his aspect learn'd : Equal her grief, yet not the same ; Her heart confess'd a gentler flame : But yet that heart alarm'd or weak, She knew not why, forbade to speak, Yet speak she must but when essay ? " How strange he thus should turn awav ' Not thus we e'er before have met ; Not thus shall be our parting yet." Thrice paced she slowly through the room And watch'd his eye it still was fix'd : She snatch'd the urn wherein was mix'd The Persian Atar-gul's ' s perfume, And sprinkled all its odours o'er The pictured roof 16 and marble floor: The drops, that through his glittering vest The playful girl's appeal addrest, Unheeded o'er his bosom flew, As if that breast were marble too. "What, sullen yet? it must not be Oh ! gentle Selim, this from thee !" She saw in curious order set The fairest flowers of Eastern land '" He loved them once ; may touch them y If offer' d by Zuleika's hand." The childish thought was hardly breath' d Before the rose was pluck'd and wreall ed ; The next fond moment saw her seat Her fairy form at Selim's feet : "This rose to calm rr.y brother's carei A message from the Bulbul 1T bears , It says to-night he will prolong For Selim's ear his s wee'.est song ; THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 19 And though his note is somewhat sad, He 11 try for once a strain more glad, With some faint hope his alter'd lay May sing these gloomy thoughts away. XI. " What ! not receive my foolish flower ? Nay then I am indeed unblest: On me can thus thy forehead lower? And know'st thou not who loves the* best ? Oh, Selim dear ! oh, more than dearest ! Say, is it me thou hat'st or fearest ? Come, lay thy head upon my breast, And I will kiss thee into rest, Since words of mine, and songs must faX Even from my fabled nightingale. I knew our sire at times was stern, But this from thce had yet to learn : Too well I know he loves thee not ; But is Zuleika's love forgot ? Ah ! deem I right ? the Pacha's plan This kinsman Bey of Carasman Perhaps may prove some foe of thine. If so, I swear by Mecca's shrine, If shrines that ne'er approach allow To woman's step admit her vow, Without thy free consent, command, The Sultan should not have my hand ! Think'st thou that I could bear to part With thee, and learn to "halve my heart? Ah ! were I sever'd from thy side, Where were thy friend and who my guide ? Years have not seen, time shall not see, The hour that tears my soul from thee : Even Azrael, 18 from his deadly quiver When flies that shaft, and fly it must, That parts all else, shall doom for ever Our hearts to undivided dust!" XII. He lived he breathed he moved he felt ; He raised the maid from where she knelt : His trance was gone his keen eye shone Wi'h thoughts that long in darkness dwelt ; With thoughts that burn in rays that melt. As the stream late conceal'd By the fringe of its willows ; When it rushes reveal'd In the light of its billows ; As the bolt bursts on high From the black cloud that bound it, Flash'd the soul of that eye Through the long lashes round it. A war-horse at the trumpet's sound, A lion roused by heedless hound, A tyrant waked to sudden strife By graze of ill-directed knife, Starts not to more convulsive life Than he, who heard that vow, display'd, And all, before repress'd, betray'd : " Now thou art mine, for ever mine, Witn life to keep, and scarce with life resign ; Now thou art mine, that sacred oath, Though sworn by one, hath bound us both. Yes, fondly, wisely hast thou done ; That vow hath saved more heads than vie : But blench not thou thy simplest tress Claims more 1'om me than tenderness ; I would not wrong the slenderest hair That clusters round thy forehead fair, For all the treasures buried far Within the caves of Istakar." This morning clouds upon me lower'd, Reproaches on my head were shower'd, And Giaffir almost called me coward ! Now I have motive to be brave ; The son of his neglected slave Nay, start not, 't was the term he gave- May show, though little apt to vaunt, A heart his words nor deeds can daunt. His son, indeed ! yet thanks to thee, Perchance I am, at least shall be ; But let our plighted secret vow Be only known to us as now. I know the wretch who dares demand From Giaffir thy reluctant hand ; More ill-got wealth, a meaner soul, Holds not a Musselim's 20 control : Was he not bred in Egripo? 21 A viler race let Israel show ! But let that pass to none be told Our oath ; the rest shall time unfold To me and mine leave Osman Bey ; I 've partisans for peril's day : Think not I am what I appear ; I 've arms, and friends, and vengeance near, XIII. " Think not thou art what thou appearest ! My Selim, thou art sadly changed : This mom I saw thee gentlest, dearest ; But now thou 'rt from thyself estranged. My love thou surely knew'st before, It ne'er was less, nor can be more. To see thee, hear thee, near thee stay. And hate the night I know not why, Save that we meet not but by day ; With thee to live, with thee to die. I dare not to my hope deny : Thy cheek, thine eyes, thy lips to kiss, Like this and this no more than this ; For, Alia ! sure thy lips are flame : What fever in thy veins is flushing ? My own have nearly caught the same, At least I feei my cheek too blushing. To soothe thy sickness, watch thy health, Partake, but never waste, thy wealth, Or stand with smiles unmurmuring by, And lighten half thy poverty ; Do all but close thy dying eye, For that I could not live to try ; To these alone my thoughts aspire : More can I do, or thou require ? But, Selim, thou must answer why We need so much of mystery ? The cause I cannot dream nor tell, But be it, since thou say'st 't is well ; Yet what thou mean'st by ' arms ' and ' frieon* Beyond my weaker sense extends. I meant that Giaffir should have heard The very vow I plighted thee ; His wrath would not revoke my word But s-irely he would leave me fre. Can this fond wish seem strange in one. BYRON'S WORKS To be what I have ever been 7 What other hath Zuleika seen From simple childhood's earliest hour 7 What other can she seek to see Th" thee, companion of her bower, The partner of her infancy ? These cherish'd thoughts with life begun, S?.y, why must I no more avow 7 What change is wrought to make me shun The truth ; my pride, and thine till now? To meet the gaze of stranger's eyes Our law, our creed, our God denies ; Nor shall one wandering thought of mine At such, our Prophet's will, repine : No ! happier made by that decree ! He left me all in leaving thee. Deep were my anguish, thus compell'd To wed with one I ne'er beheld : This wherefore should I not reveal 7 Why wilt thou urge me to conceal 7 I know the Pacha's haughty mood To thee hath never boded good ; And he so often storms at nought, Allah ! forbid that e'er he ought ! And why I know not, but within My heart concealment weighs like sin. If then such secrecy be crime, And such it feels while lurking here ; Oh, Selim ! tell me yet in time, Nor leave me thus to thoughts of fear. Ah ! yonder see the Tchocadar, 19 My father leaves the mimic war ; I tremble now to meet his eye- Say, Selim, canst thou tell me why 7" XIV. " Zuleika ! to thy tower's retreat Betake thee Giaffir I can greet ; And now with him I fain must prate Of firmans, imposts, levies, state. There 's fearful news from Danube's banks ; Our Vizier nobly thini. his ranks, For which the Giaour may give him thanks! Our Sultan hath a shorter way Such costly triumph to repay. But, mark me, when the twilight drum Hath warn'd the troops to food and sleep, Unto thy cell will Selim come : Then softly from the Haram creep Where we may wander by the deep : Our garden-battlements are steep ; Nor these will rash intruder climb To list o-w words, or stint our time, And . ue doth, I want not steel Which some have felt, and more may feel. Then shall thou learn of Selim more Than thou hast heard or thought before j Trust me, Zuleika fear not me ! Thou know'st I hold a Haram key. * ' Fear thee, my Selim ! ne'er till now Did word like this " Delay not tbou ; I ktop tne Key and Haroun's guard Have same, and hope of more reward. To-ni^h?, Zuleika, thou shall hear My talf, my purpose, and my fear: I hate and fear To-morrow Osman with his train Arrives to-night must break thy chain: And wouldst thou save that haughty Bev, Perchance his life who gave thee thine, With me this hour away away ! But yet, though thou art plighted mine, Wouldst thou recall thy willing vow, Appall'd by truths imparted now, Here rest I not to see thee wed : But be that peril on my head !" XXII. Zuleika, mute and motionless, Stood like that statue of distress, VN hrn, her last hope for ever gone, The mother harden'd into stone ; All in the maid that eye could see Was but a younger NioW. But ere her lip, or even her eye. Essay *d to speak, or look reply, Beneath the garden's wicket porch Far flash'd on high a blazing torch ! Another and another and another " Oh ! fly no more yet now my more than brcthar ' Far, wide, through every thicket spread, The fearful lights are gleaming red ; Nor these alone for each right hand Is ready w-ith a sheathless brand. They part, pursue, return, and wheel With searching flambeau, shining steel; And last of all, his sabre waving, Stern Giaffir in his fury raving : And now almost they touch the cave Oh ! must that grot be Selim's grave? XXIII. Dauntless he stood " 'tis come soon past- One kiss, Zuleika 't is my last : But yet my band not far from shore May hear this signal, see the flash ; Yet now too few the attempt were rash : No matter yet one effort more." Forth to the cavern mouth he slept ; His pistol's echo rang on high. Zuleika started not, nor wept, Despair benumb'd her breast and eye ! " They hear me not, or if they ply Their oars, 't is but to see me die ; That sound hath drawn my foes more nigh. Then forth my father's scimitar, Thou ne'er hast seen less equal war ! Farewell, Zuleika! Sweet! reljr*. Yet stay within here linger safe, At thee his rage will only chafe. Stir not lest even to thee perchance Some erring blade or ball should glance. Fear'st thou for him ? may I expire If in this strife I seek thy sire ! No though by him that poison pour'd ; No though again he call me coward ! But tamely shall I meet their steel'.' No as each crest save his may fet. ' XXIV. One bound he made, and gain'd the land : Already at his feet hatk sunk THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. The foremost of the prying band, A gasping head, a quivering trunk : Anotrier falls but round him close A swarming circle of his foes ; From right to left his path he cleft, And almost met the meeting wave : His boat appears not five oars' length His comrades strain with desperate strength Oh ! are they yet in time to save ? His feet the foremost breakers lave ; His band are plunging in the bay, Their sabres glitter through the spray ; Wet wild unwearied to the strand They struggle now they touch the land ! They come 't is but to add to slaughter His heart's best blood is on the water ! XXV. Escaped from shot, unharm'd by steel, Or scarcely grazed its force to feel, Had Selim won, betray'd, beset, To where the strand and billows met : There as his last step left the land, And the last death-blow dealt his hand Ah ! wherefore did he turn to look For her his eye but sought in vain ? That pause, that fatal gaze he took, Hath doom'd his death, or fix'd his chain. Sad proof, in peril and in pain, How late win lover's hope remain ! His back was to the dashing spray; Behind, but close, his comrades lay, When, at the instant, hiss'd the ball " So may the foes of Giaffir fall !" Whose voice is heard ? whose carbine rang 7 Whose bullet through the night-air sang, Too nearly, deadly aim'd to err ? T is thine Abdallah's murderer ! The father slowly rued thy hate, The son hath found a quicker fate : Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling, The whiteness of the sea- r oam troubling If aught his lips essay'd jo groan, The rushing billows choak'd the tone ! XXVI. Morn slowly rolls the clouds away ; Few trophies of the fight are there : The shouts that shook the midnight bay Are silent ; but some signs of fray That strand of strife may bear, And fragments of each shiver'd brand : Steps stamp'd ; and dash'd into the sand The print of many a struggling hand May there bo mark'd ; nor far remote A broken torch, an oarless boat ; And tangled on the weeds that heap The beach where shelving to the deep Tnere lies a white capote ! T is rent in twain one dark-red stain The wave yet ripples o'er in vain : But where s he who wore ? Ye ! who wonl-1 o'er his relics weep Go, neek them where the surges sweep Tlieir nurtnen round Sjg:r;um's steep, And cast on Lemnos' shore : The sea-birds shriek above ihe prey, O'er which their hungry beaks delay, As shaken on his restless pillow, His head heaves with the heaving bilW , That hand, whose motion is not life, Yet feebly seems to menace strife, Flung by the tossing tide on high, Then levell'd with the wave What recks it, though that corse shal. lie Within a living grave? The bird that tears that prostrate form Hath only robb'd the meaner worm ; The only heart, the only eye Had bled or wept to see him die, Had seen those scatter'd limbs composed, And mourn'd above his turban-stone, * That heart hath urst that eye was closed- Yea closed before his own ! XXVII. By Helle's stream there is a voice of wail ! And woman's eye is wet man's cheek is pale : Zuleika! last of Giaffir's race, Thy destined lord is come too late ; He sees not ne'er shall see thy face ! Can he not hear The loud Wul-wulleh 41 warn his distant ear? Thy handmaids weeping at the gate, The Koran-chaunters of the hymn of fate, The silent slaves with folded arms that wait Sighs in the hall, and shrieks upon the gale, Tell him thy tale ! Thou didst not view thy Selim fall ! That fearful moment when he left the cave Thy heart grew chill : He was thy hope thy joy thy love thine aft And that last thought on him thou couldst not ?avo Sufficed to kill ; Burst forth in one wild cry and all was still. Peace to thy broken heart, and virgin grave ! Ah ! happy ! but of life to lose the worst ! That grief though deep though fatal was thy fir^l Thrice happy ! ne'er to feel nor fear the force Of absence, shame, pride, hate, revenge, remorse ! And, oh ! that pang where more than madness lies The worm that will not sleep and never dies ; Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly night, That dreads the darkness, and yet loathes the light, That winds around, and tears the quivering heart ! Ah ! wherefore not consume it and depart ! Woe to thee, rash and unrelenting chief! Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thy head, Vainly the sackcloth o'er thy limbs doth spread By that same hand Abdallah Selim bled. Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief: Thy pride of heart, thv bride for Osman's bed, She, whom thy sultan had but seen to wed, Thy daughter 's dead ! Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely beam, The star hath set that shone on Helle's stream. What qnench'd its ray ? the blood that thou hast xht d ! ETark ! to the hurried question of despair : "Where is my child ?" an echo answers*' Wher '"" xxvm. Within the place of thousand tombs That shine beneath, while dark abrr BYRON'S WORKS. The sad but living cypress glooms And withers not, though branch and leaf Are stamp'd with an eternal grief, Like early unrequited love, One spot exists, which ever blooms Even in that deadly grove A single rose is shedding there Its lonely lustre, meek and pale : It looks as planted by despair So white so faint the slightest gale Might whirl the leaves on high ; And yet, though storms and blight assail, And hands more rude than wintry sky May wring it from the stem in vain To-morrow sees it bloom again ! The stalk some spirit gently rears, And waters with celestial tears ; For well may maids of Helle deem That this can be no earthly flower, Which mocks the tempest's withering hour, And buds unshelter'd by a bower ; Nor droops, though spring refuse her shower, Nor woos the summer beam : To it the livelong night there sings A bird unseen but not remote : Invisible his airy wings, But soft as harp that Houn strings His long entrancing note ! It were the bulbul ; but his throat, Though mournful, pours not such a strain : For they who listen cannot leave The spot, but linger there and grieve As if they loved in vain ! And yet so sweet the tears they shed, T is sorrow so unmix' d with dread, They scarce can bear the morn to break That melancholv spell, And longer yet would weep and wake, He sings so wild and well ! But when the day-blush bursts from high, Expires that magic melody. And some have been who could believe (So fondly youthful dreams deceive, Yet harsh be they that blame) That note so piercing and profound Will inape and syllable its sound Into Zuleika's name.* 3 T is from her cypress' summit heard, That melts in air the liquid word : T is from her lowly virgin earth That white rose takes its tender birth. There late wag laid a marble stone ; Eve saw it placed the morrow gone ! It was no mortal arm that bore That deep-fix'd pillar to the shore ; For there, as Helle's legends tell, Next morn 't was found where Selim fell ; Lash'd by the tumbling tide, whose wave Denied his bones a holier grave : And there, by night, reclined, 't is said. Is seen a ghastly turban'd head : And hence extended by the billow, T is named the " Pirate-phantom's pillow !" Where first it lay that mourning flower Hath tiourish'd ; flourjsheth this hour, Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale ; \f weening beauty's clicek at sorrow's tale ! NOTES. Note 1. Page 146, line 8. Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom "Gul," the rose. Note 2. Page 146, line 17. Can be smile on such deeds as his children have done 7 " Souls made of fire, and children of the sun. With whom revenge is virtue." Young'* Revengt. Note 3. Page 147, bne 31. With Mejnoun's tale, or Sadi's song. Mejnoun and Leila, the Romeo and Juliet of tn East. Sadi, the moral poet of Persia. Note 4. Page 147, line 32. Till I, who heard the deep tambour. Tambour, Turkish drum, which sounds at sunrise, noon, and twilight Note 5. Page 147, line 108. He a an Arab to my sight. The Turks abhor the Arabs (who return the compli- ment a hundred fold), even more than they hate the Christians. Note 6. Page 148, line 12. The mind, the music breathing from her face. This expression has met with objections. I will not refer to "him who hath not Music in his soul," but merely request the reader to recollect, for ten seconds,, the features of the woman whom he believes to be the most beautiful ; and if he then does not comprehend fully what is feebly expressed in the above line, I shall be sorry for us both. For an eloquent passage in the latest work of the first female writer of this, perhaps of any age, on the analogy (and the immediate com- parison excited by that analogy), between " painting and music," see vol. iii. cap. 10. DE L'ALLEMAGKE. And is not this connexion still stronger with the original than the copy ? with the colouring of nature than of art ? After all, this is ratber to be felt tnan described ; still I think there are some who will understand it, at least they would have done, had they beheld the coun- tenance whose speaking harmony suggested the idea ; for this passage is *iot drawn from imagination, but memory, that mirror which affliction dashes to the earth, and looking down upon the fragments, only be- holds the reflection multiplied ! Note 7. Page 148, line 34. But yet the line of Carasman. Carasman Oglou, or Kara Osman Oglou, is tne principal landholder in Turkey : he governs Magnesia: those who, by a kind of feudal tenure, possess land on condition of service, are called Timariots : they serve as Spah'is, according to the extent of territory, and bring a certain number into the field, generally cavalry. Note 8. Page 148, line 46. And teach the messenger what fate. When a Pacha is sufficiently strong to resist, the single messenger, who is always the first bearer of the order for his death, is strangled instead, und some- times five or six, one after the other, on the same errand, by command of the refractory patient ; if, on the contrary, he is weak or loyal, he bows, kLs& the THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 157 Sultan's rerpectable signuiure, and is bowstrung with groat complacency. In 1810, several of these presents were exhibited in the niche of the Seraglio gate ; uno^a oihcis, the head of the Pacha of Bagdat, a orave voung man, cut off by treachery, after a despe- tate resistance. Note 9. Page 148, line 65. Thrice elapp'd his bands, and call'd bin Bleed. Clapping of hands calls the servants. The Turks nate a superfluous expenditure of voice, and they have no bells. Note 10. Page 148, line 66. Resign'd his gem-adoro'd chibouque. Chibouque, the Turkish pipe, of which the amber mouth-piece, and sometimes the ball which contains the leaf, is adorned with precious stones, if in possession of the wealthier orders. Note 11. Page 148, line 68. With Maugrabee and Mamaluke. Maugrabee, Moorish mercenaries. Note 12. Page 148, line 69. His way amid his Delis took. Deli, bravos who form the forlorn hope of the cavalry, and always begin the action. Note 13. Page 148, line 81. Careering cleave the folded felt. A twisted fold of felt is used for scimitar practice by he Turks, and few but Mussulman arms can cut through tt at a single stroke : sometimes a tough turban is used for the same purpose. The jerreed is a game of blunt javelins, animated and graceful. Note 14. Page 148, line 84. Nor heard their Ollahs wild and loud " Ollahs," Alia il Allah, the " Leilies," as the Spanish poets call them, the sound is OUah ; a cry of which the Turks, for a silent people, are somewhat profuse, par- ticularly during the jerreed, or in the chase, but mostly in battle. Their animation in the field, and gravity in the chamber, with their pipes and comboloios, form an amusing contrast. Note 15. Page 148, line 103. The Persian Atar-gul'i perfume. "Atar-gul," ottar of roses. The Persian is the finest. Note 16. Page 148, line 105. The pictured roof and marble floor. The ceiling and wainscots, or rather walls, of the Mussulman apartments arc generally painted, in great houses, with one eternal and highly coloured view of Constantinople, wherein the principal feature is a noble contempt of perspective ; below, arms, scimitars, etc., are in general fancifully and not inelegantly disposed. Note 17. Page 148, line 121. A message from the Bulbul bears. It has been much doubted whether the notes of this "Lover of the rose," are sad or merry ; and Mr. Fox's remarks on the subject have provoked some learned controversy is to the opinions of the ancients on the "ibjecL I dare not venture a conjecture on the point, though a little inclined to the " errare mallem," etc., / Mr. Fox was mistaken. B 2 Note 18. Page 149, line 34. Even Azrael, from his deadly quiver. " Azrael" the angel of death. Note 19. Page 149, line 67. Within the caves of Ictakar. The treasures of the Preadamite Sultans. SeeD'Usa BELOT, article Istakar. Note 20. Page 149, line 83. Holds not a Musselira's control. Musselim, a governor, the next in rank after a Pacha; a Waywode is the third ; and then come the Agas. Note 21. Page 149, line 84. Was he not bred in Egripo ? Egripo the Negropont. According to the proverb, the Turks of Egripo, the Jews of Salonica, and tho Greeks of Athens, are the warst of their respective races. Note 22. Page 150, line 31. Ah ! yonder see the Tcbocadar. " Tchocadar" one of the attendants who precuks a man of authority. Note 23. Page 150, line 101. Thine own " broad Hellespont " still dashes The wrangling about this epithet, "the broad Hel- lespont " or the " boundless Hellespont," whether it means one or the other, or what il means at all, has been beyond all possibility of detail. I have even !._^.u it disputed on the spot ; and, not foreseeing a speedy conclusion to the controversy, amused myself with swimming across it in the mean time, and probably may again, before the point is settled. Indeed, tho question as to the truth of " the tale of Troy divine " still continues, much of it resting upon the talismanic word "am/>of :" probably Homer had the same notion of distance that a coquette has of time, and when he talks of boundless, means half a mile ; as the latter, by a like figure, when she says eternal attachment, simply specifies three weeks. Note 24. Page 150, line 112. Which Ammon'e son ran proudly round. Before his Persian invasion, and crowned the altar with laurel, etc. He was afterwards imitated by Cara- calla in his race. It is believed that the last also poisoned a friend, named Festus, for the sake of new Patroclan games. I have seen the sheep feeding on the tombs of -rEsietes and Antilochus j the first is in the centre of the plain. Note 25. Page 151, line 12. O'er which her fairy fingers ran. When rubbed, the amber is susceptible of a perfume, which is slight, but not disagreeable. Note 26. Page 151, line 15. Her mother's sainted amulet The belief in amulets engraved on gems, or incloeod in gold boxes, containing scraps from the Koran, worn round the neck, wrist, or arm, is still universal in the East. The Koorsee (throne) verse in the second chap, of the Koran describes the attributes of the mostHi-;h and is engraved in this manner, and wom by me pioii*, as the mo*t esteemed and sublime of all seii-'juv*. '58 BYRON'S WORKS. Page 151, line IS. And I r her Comboloio lies. u Combo 010" a Turkish rosary. The MSS., par- jcularly those of the Persians, are richly adorned and illuminated. The Greek females are kept in utter igno- rance ; but many of the Turkish girls are highly ac- complished, though not actually qualified for a Chris- tian coterie ; perhaps some of our own " blues" might tot be the worse for bleaching. Note 23. Page 151, line 96. la him wa some young Galkxtgee. Galiongee" or Galiongi, a sailor, that is, a Turk- ii* sailor ; the Greeks navigate, the Turks work the guns. Their dress is picturesque ; and I have seen the Captain Pacha more than once wearing it as a kind of ineug. Their legs, however, are generally naked. The buskins described in the text as sheathed behind with silver, are those of an Arnaout robber, who was my host (he had quitted the profession), at his Pyrgo, near Gastouni in the Morea ; they were plated in scales one orer the other, like the back of an armadillo. Note 29. Page 152, line 18. So may the Koran verse displayed. The characters on all Turkish scimitars contain some- times the name of the place of their manufacture, but more generally a text from the Koran, in letters of gold. Amongst those in my possession is one with a blade of singular construction ; it is very broad, and the edge notched into serpentine curves like the ripple of water, or the wavering of flame. I asked the Armenian who old it, what possible use such a figure could add : he aid, in Italian, that he did not know ; but the Mussul- mans had an idea that those of this form gave a severer wound ; and liked it because it was " piu feroce." I did not much admire the reason, but bought it for its peculiarity. Note ). Page 152, line 33. But like the nephew f a Cain. It is to be observed, that every allusion to any thing or personage in the Old Testament, such as the Ark, or Cain, is equally the privilege of Mussulman and Jew ; indeed the former profess to be much better acquainted with the lives, true and fabulous, of the patriarchs, than is warranted by our own Sacred writ, and not content with Adam, they have a biography of Pre- Adamites. Solomon is the monarch of all necromancy, and Moses a prophet inferior only to Christ and Mahomet, Zuleika M the Persian name of Potiphar's wife, and her amour with Joseph constitutes one of the finest poems in tJieir ansuage. It is therefore no violation of costume to put .he names of Cain, or Noah, into the mouth of a Moslem. Note 31. Page 152, line 49. And Pagwan's rebel hordes attest. Paswan Oglou, the rebel of Widin, who for the last *ars of his life, set the whole power of the Porte at nee. Note 32. Page 152, fine 61. They gave their horsetails to the wind. H >rseiau, jic standard of a Pacha. Note 33. Page 152, line 74. He drank ooe draught, nor needed more ! , Pacha of Argvro Castro, or Scutari, I am not sure which, was actually taken off by the A!">anian Ali, in the manner described in the text. Ali Pacha, while I was in the country, married the daughter of his victim, some years after the event had taken place at a bath in Sophia, or Adrianople. The poison was mixed in thfl cup of coffee, which is presented before the sherbet by the bath-keeper, after dressing. Note 34. Page 153, line 64. I sought by turns, and saw them all. The Turkish notions of almost all islands are confined to the Archipelago, the sea alluded to. Note 35. Page 153, line 87. The last of Lambro's patriots there. Lambro Canzani, a Greek, famous for his efforts m 1789-90 for the independence of his country: aban- doned by the Russians, he became a pirate, and the Archipelago was the scene of his enterprises. He is said to be still alive at Petersburgh. He and Riga are the two most celebrated of the Greek revolutionists. Note 36. Page 153, line 91. To snatch the Rayahs from their fate. " Rayahs," all who pay the capitation tax, called th " Haratch." Note 37. Page 153, line 95. Ay ! let me like the ocean-patriarch roam. This first of voyages is one of the few with which the Mussulmans profess much acquaintance. Note 3S. Page 153, line 96. Or only know on land the Tartar's home. The wandering life of the Arabs, Tartars, and Tuiko- ninns, ill be found well detailed in anv hook of Eastern travels. That it possesses a charm peculiar to itself can- not be denied. A young French renegado confessed to Chateaubriand, that he never found himself alone, gal- loping in the desert, without a sensation approaching to rapture, which was indescribable. Note 39. Page 153, line 116. Blooming as Aden in its earliest hour. " Jannat al Aden," the perpetual anode, the Mussrl- man Paradise. Note 40. Page 155, line 73. And mouin'd above his turban-stone. A turban is carved in stone above the giaves of men only. 41. Page 155, line 87. The loud \Vul wulleh warn his distant ear. The death-song of the Turkish women. The "silent slaves " are the men whose notions of decorum forbid complaint in public. Note 4-2. Page 155, line 123. " Where is my child ? " an echo answers " Where ? " I came to the place of my birth and cried, ' t)i friends of my youth, where are they ? ' and an Eclo answered, ' where are they ? ' " From on Arabic MS. The above quotation (from which the idea in the text is taken) must be already familiar to even- reader it is given in the first annotation, page 67, of "the Pleasures of Memory;" a poem so well kniwnasto rendei a reference almost superfluous; but to whose ragei iF will be delighted to recur. THE CORSAIR. Note 43. Pige 15, line 47. into ZrkakA'i name. * Aid airy toncuM tXu *yb*Xe meo'i name*." MJLTON. For a belief that the sou's of L 1 ^ ,4ort Acd doubt that joy which hails our coming short ; Yet thus sincere 't is cheering, though so brief; But, Juan ! instant guide us to our chief: Out greeting paid, we '11 feast on our return, And all shall hear what each may wish to learn." Ascending slowly by the rock-hewn way, To where his watch-tower beetles o'er the bay, By bushy brake, and wild-flowers blossoming, And freshness breathing from each silver spring, Whose scatter'd streams from granite basins burst, Leap into life, and sparkling woo your thirst ; From crag to cliff they mount Near yonder cave, What lonely straggler looks along the wave ? In pensive posture leaning on the brand, Not oft a resting-staff to that red hand. "'Tis he 'tis Conrad here as wont alone; On Juan ! on and make our purpose known. The bark he views and tell him we would greet His ear with tidings he must quickly meet : We dare not yet approach thou know'st his mood, When strange or uninvited steps intrude." VII. Him Juan sought, and told of their intent He spake not but a sign express'd assent. These Juan calls they come to their salute He bends him slightly, but his lips are mute. "These letters, Chief, are from the Greek the spy, Who still proclaims our spoil or peril nigh : Whate'er his tidings, we can well report, M irh that" "Peace, peace !" He cuts their pratin; short. Wondering they turn, abash'd, while each to each Conjectur^ whispers in his muttering speech : They watch his glance with many a stealing look, To gather how that eye the tidings took ; But, this as if he guess'd, with head aside, Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or pride, He read the scroll "My tablets, Juan, hark Where is Gonsalvo 7" "In the anchor'd bark." " There let him stay to him this order bear. Back to your duty for my course prepare : Myself this enterprise to-night will share." "To-night, Lord Conrad?" "Ay! at set of sun: The breeze will freshen when the day is done. My corslet cloak one hour and we are gone. Sling on thy bugle see that, free from rust, My carbine-lock springs worthy of my trust ; Be the edge sharpen'd of my boarding-brand, And give its guard more room to fit my hand. This let the armourer with speed dispose ; Last time, it more fatigued my arm than foes : Mark that the signal-gun be duly fired To tell us when the hour of stay 's expired." vm. They make obeisance, and retire in haste, Too soon to seek again the watery waste : Vet they repine not so that Conrad guides ; A"d w to dare question aught that he decides ? 26 That man of loneliness and mystery, Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sioh Whose name appals the fiercest of his crew, And tints each swarthy cheek with sallower hue Still sways their souls with that commanding art That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart. What is that spell, that thus his lawless train Confess and envy, yet oppose in vain? What should it be, that thus their faith can bind * The power of Thought the magic of the Mind ! Link'd with success, assumed and kept with skill, That moulds another's weakness to its will ; Wields with their hands, but, still to these unknown Makes even their mightiest deeds appear his owti. Such hath it been shall be beneath the sun The many still must labour for the one ! 'T is Nature's doom but let the wretch who toils Accuse not, hate not him who wears the spoils. Oh ! if he knew the weight of splendid chains, How light the balance of his humbler pains ! IX. Unlike the heroes of each ancient race, Demons in act, but gods at least in face, In Conrad's form seems little to admire, Though his dark eyebrow shades a glance of fire Robust, but not Herculean to the sight No giant frame sets forth his common height ; Yet, in the whole, who paused to look again, Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgar men ; They gaze and marvel how and still confess That thus it is, but why they cannot guess. Sun-burnt his cheek, his forehead high and pale The sable curls in wild profusion veil ; And oft perforce his rising lip reveals The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce conceals. Though smooth his voice, and calm his general mien Still seems there something he would not have seen : His features' deepening lines and varying hue, At limes attracted, yet perplex'd the view, As if within that murkiness of mind, Work'd feelings fearful, and yet undefined Such might it be that none could truly tell Too close inquiry his stern glance would quell. There breathe but few whose aspect might defy The full encounter of his searching eye ; He had the skill, when Cunning's gaze would seek To probe his heart and watch his changing cheek, At once the observer's purpose to espy, And on himself roll back his scrutiny, Lest he to Conrad rather should betray Some secret thought than drag that chiePs to-day. There was a laughing devil in his sneer, That raised emotions both of rage and fear , And where his frown of hatred darkly fell, 3ope withering fled and Mercy sigh'd farewell ' X. Slight are the outward signs of evil thought, iVithin within 't was there the spirit wrought Love shows all changes Hate, ambition, guile Betray no further than the bitter smile ; The lip's least curl, the lightest paleness thrown Along the govern'd aspect, sf>eak alone 3f deeper passions ; and to judge their mien. ie, who would see, must b<. liinis.nl onsee. 16? BYRON'S WORKS. Tliei Vith the hurried tread, the upward eye, The clcrcli-.il hand, the pause of agony, Thai listens., starting, lest the step too near Approach intrusive on that mood of fear : Then with each feature working from the heart, With feelinjjs loosed to strengthen not depart: That rise convulse contend that freeze, or glow, Mush in the cheek, or damp upon the brow ; Then stranger ! if thou canst, and tremblest not, Behold his soul the rest that soothes his lot ! Mark how that lone and blighted bosom sears The scathing thought of execrated years ! Behold but who hath seen, or e'er shall see, Man as himself the secret spirit free ? XI. Yet was not Conrad thus by nature sent To lead the guilty guilt's worst instrument ; His soul was changed, before his deeds had driven Him forth to war with man and forfeit heaven. Warp'd by the world in Disappointment's school, Jn words too wise, in conduct there a fool ; Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop, Doom'd by his very virtues for a dupe, He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill, And not the traitors who betray'd him still ; Nor deem'd that gifts bestow'd on better men Had left him joy, and means to give again. Fear'd shunn'd belied ere youth had lost her force, He hated man too much to feel remorse, And thought the voice of wrath a sacred call, To pay the injuries of some on all. He knew himself a villain but he deem'd The rest no better than the thing he seem'd; And scorn'd the best as hypocrites who hid Tho^e deeds the bolder spirit plainly did. He knew himself detested, but he knew The hearts that loathed him crouch'd and dreaded too. Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt From all affection and from all contempt : His name could sadden, and his acts surprise ; But they that fear'd him dared not to despise : Man spurns the worm, but pauses ere he wake The slumbering venom of the folded snake : The first may turn but not avenge the blow ; The last expires but leaves no living foe ; Fast to the doom'd offender's form it clings, And he may crush not conquer still it stings ! XII. None are all evil quickening round his heart, One softer feeling would not yet depart ; Ofl could hi sneer at others as beguiled By passions worthy of a fool or child ; Yet 'gainst that passion vainly still he strove, And even in him it asks the name of love ! Yes, it was love unchangeable unchanged, Felt but for one from whom he never ranged ; Though fairest captives daily met his eye, He shunn'd, nor soueht. but coldly pass'd them by ; Thougn n.anv a beauty croop'd in prison'd bower None ever soothed his most unguarded hour. Yes it was love if thoughts of tenderness, IViod in temptation, strengthen'd by distress, Unmoved by absence, firm in every clime, And yet Oh more than all ! untired by time ; Which nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile Could render sullen were she near to sirule. Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent On her one murmur of his discontent ; Which still would meet with joy, with calmness pait, Lest that his look of grief should reach her heart ; Which nought removed, nor menaced to remoi ; If there be love in mortals this was love ! He was a villain ay reproaches shower On him but not the passion, nor its power, Which only proved, all other virtues gone, Not guilt itself could quench this loveliest on i XIII. He paused a moment I ill his hastening men Pass'd the first winding downward to the glen. " Strange tidings ! many a peril have I past, Nor know I why this next appears the last ! Yet so my heart forebodes, but must not fear, Nor shall my followers find me falter here. 'T is rash to meet, but surer death to wait Till here they hunt us to undoubted fate ; And, if my plan but hold, and fortune smile, We '11 furnish mourners for our funeral-p'le. Ay let them slumber peaceful be the'r dreams ! Morn ne'er awoke them with such brilliant beam:* As kindle high to-night (but blow, thou breeze!) To warm these slow avengers of the seas. Now to Medora Oh ! my sinking heart, Long may her own be lighter than thou art ! Yet was I brave mean boast where all are brave ! Even insects sting for auuh' they seek to save. This common courage which with brutes we sht c, That owes its deadliest efforts to despair, Small merit claims but 't was my nobler hop* To teach my fe with numbers still to cope ; Long have I led them not to vainly bleed ; ^o medium now we perish or succeed ! So let it be it irks not me to die ; But thus to urge them whence they cannot fly. My lot hath long had little of my care, But chafes my pride thus baffled in the snare ; Is this my skill ? my craft ? to set at last Hope, power, and life upon a single cast ? 3h, fate ! accuse thy folly, not thy fate She may redeem thee still nor yet too late." XIV. Thus with himself communion held he, till Be reach'd the summit of his tower-crown'd hil There at the portal paused for wild and soft He heard those accents never heard too oft ; Through the high lattice far yet sweet they runji And these the notes his bird of beauty sung : Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells, Lonely and lost to light for evermore. Save when to thine my heart responsive swells Then trembles into silence as before. 2. " There, in its centre, a sepulchral lamp Burns the slow flame, eternal but unseen ; Which not the darkness of despair can damp Though vain its ray as ' had sever oeen. THE CORSAIR. * Remembei i.,e Oh ! pass not thou my grave Without ono the. 'ght whose relics there recline : The only pang m\ bosom dare not brave Must be to find c orgotfulness in thine. 4. " My fondest faintest latest accents hear : Grief for the dead not virtue can reprove ; Then give me all I ever asked a tear, Thj first last sole reward of so much love!" He pass'd the portal cross'd the corridore, And reach'd the chamber as the strain gave o'er: ' My own Medora ! sure thy song is sad " 'In Conrad's absence wouldst thou have u glad? Without thine ear to listen to my lay, Still must my song my thoughts, my soul betray : Still must each accent to my bosom suit, My heart unhush'd although my lips were mute ! Oh ! many a night on this lone couch reclined, My dreaming fear with storms hath wing'd the wind, And deem'd the breath that faintly fann'd thy sail The murmuring prelude of the ruder gale; Though soft, it seem'd the low prophetic dirge, That mourn'd thee floating on the savage surge : Still would I rise to rouse the beacon-fire, Lest spies less true should let the blaze expire ; And many a restless hour outwatch'd each star, And morning came and still thou wert afar. Oh ! how the chill blast on my bosom blew, And day broke dreary on my troubled view, And still I gazed and gazed and not a prow Was granted to my tears my truth my vow ! At length 't was noon I hail'd and blest the mast That met my sight it near'd Alas ! it past ! Another came Oh God ! 't was thine at last ! Would that those days were over ! wilt thou ne'er, Mv Conrad ! learn the joys of peace to share ? Sure thou hast more than wealth ; and many a home As bright as this invites us not to roam ; Thou know'st it is not peril that I fear, I only tremble when thou art not here : Then not for mine, but that far dearer life, Which flies from love and languishes for strife How strange that heart, to me so tender still, Should war with nature and its better will!" "Yes, strange indeed, that heart hath long been changed; Worm-like 't was trampled adder-like avenged, Without one hope on earth beyond thy love, And scarce a glimpse of mercy from above. Yet the same feeling which thou dost condemn, My very love to thee is hate to them, So closely mingling here, that, disentwined, I cease to love thee when I love mankind. Yet dread not this the proof of all the past Assures the future that my love will last ; But Oh, Medora ! nerve thy gentler heart, This hour again but not for long we part." "This hour we part! my heart foreboded this: Thus ever fade my fairy dreams of bliss. This hour i'. cannot be this hour away ! 1 on earn nain hardly anchored in the bay : Her consort still is absent, and her crew Have need of rest before they toil anew ; I My love ! thou mock'st my weakness ; and wouldst stw ' My breast before the time when it must feel But trifle now no more with my distress, Such mirth hath less of play than bitterness. Be silent, Conrad ! dearest ! come and share The feast these hands delighted to prepare ; Light toil ! to cull and dress thy frugal fare ! See, I have pluck'd the fruit that promised best, And where not sure, perplex'd, but pleas'd, I guessK At such as seem'd the fairest : thrice the hill My steps have wound to try the coolest rill ; Yes ! thy sherbet to-night will sweetly flow, See how it sparkles in its vase of snow ! The grape's gay juice thy bosom never cheers ; Thou more than Moslem when the cup appears ! Think not I mean to chide for I rejoice What others deem a penance is thy choice. But come, the board is spread ; our silver lamp Is trimm'd, and heeds not the Sirocco's damp : Then shall my handmaids while the time along, And join with me the dance, or wake the song ; Or my guitar, which still thou lov'st to hear, Shall soothe or lull or, should it vex thine ear, We '11 turn the tale, by Ariosto told, Of fair Olympia loved and left of old. 1 Why thou wert worse than he who broke his vort To that lost damsel, shouldst thou leave me now ; Or even that traitor chief I 've seen thee smile, When the clear sky show'd Ariadne's Isle, Which I have pointed from these cliffs the while : And thus, half sportive, half in fear, I said, Lest time shpuld raise that doubt to more than dreaa Thus Conrad, too, will quit me for the main And he deceived me for he came again !" " Again again and oft again my love ! If there be life below, and hope above, He will return but now, the moments bring The time of parting with redoubled wing : The why the where what boots it now to tell ? Since all must end in that wild word farewell ! Yet would I fain-i did time allow disclose Fear not these are no formidable foes ; And here shall watch a more than wonted guard, For sudden siege and long defence prepared : Nor be thou lonely though thy lord 's away, Our matrons and thy handmaids with thee stay ; And this thy comfort that, when next we meet, Security shall make repose more sweet : List ! 'tis the bugle Juan shrilly blew One kiss one more another Oh ! Adieu !" She rose she sprung she clung to his embrace. Till his heart heaved beneath her hidden face. He dared not raise to his that deep-blue eye, Which downcast droop'd in tearless agony. Her long fair hair lay floating o'er his arms, In all the wildness of dishevell'd charms ; Scarce beat that bosom where his image awelt So full that feehng seem'd almost unfelt ' Hark peals the thunder of the signal-gun : It told 't was sunset and he cursed that sun. Again again that form he madly press'd : Which mutely clasp'd, imploringly caress'd ' 164 BYRON'S WORKS. Ana. tottering to the couch, his bride he bore, One moment gazed as if to gaze no more ; Felt that for him earth held but her alone, Kiss'd her cold forehead turn'd is Conrad gone? XV. "And is he gone?" on sudden solitude How oft that fearful question will intrude ! " 'T was but an instant past and here he stood ! And now " without the portal's porch she rush'd, And then at length her tears in freedom gush'd ; Big bright and fast, unknown to her they fell ; But still her lips refused to send "farewell!" For in that word that fatal word howe'er We promise hope believe there breathes despair, O'er every feature of that still pale face, Had sorrow fix'd what time can ne'er erase ; The tender blue of that large loving eye Grew frozen with its gaze on vacancy, Till Oh, how far ! it caught a glimpse of him, And then it flow'd and phrensied seem'd to swim Through these long, dark, and glistening lashes, dew'd With drops of sadness oft to be renew'd. "He 's gone !" against her heart that hand is driven, Convulsed and quick then gently raised to heaven ; She look'd and saw the heaving of the main ; The white sail set she dared not look again ; But turn'd with sickening soul within the gate *' It is no dream and I am desolate !" XVI. From crag to crag descending swiftly sped Stern Conrad down, nor once he turn'd his head ; But shrunk whene'er the windings of his way Forced on his eye what he would not survey, His lone, but lovely dwelling on the steep, That hail'd him first when homeward from the deep : And she the dim and melancholy star, Whose ray of beauty reach'd him from afar, On her he must not gaze, he must not think, There he might rest, but on destruction's brink : Yet once almost he stopp'd and nearly gave His fate to chance, his projects to the wave ; But no it must not be a worthy chief May melt, but not betray to woman's grief. He sees his bark, he notes how fair the wind, And sternly gathers all his might of mind : Again he hurries on and as he hears The clang of tumult vibrate on his ears, The busy sounds, the bustle of the shore, The shout, the signal, and the dashing oar ; As marks his eye the sea-boy on the mast The anchor's rise, the sails unfurling fast, The waving kerchiefs of the crowd that urge That mute adieu to those who stem the surge ; And, more than all, his blood-red flag aloft, He marvell'd how his heart could seem so soft. Fire in his glance, and wildness in his breast, He feels of all his former self possest ; He bounds he flics until his footsteps reach The verge where ends the cliff, begins the beach, Theio check his speed ; but pauses less to breathe The brertZ" leshness of the deep beneath, Than there nis wonted statelier step renew ; Noi rush, d-isturli'd by haste, to vulgar view : 'or well had Conrad learn'd to curb .he crowd, Jy arts that veil, and oft preserve the proud ; lis was the lofty port, the distant mien, That seems to shun the sight and awes if seen [fie solemn aspect, and the high-born eye, That checks low mirth, but lacks not courtesy ; All these he wielded to command assent : Jut where he wish'd to win, so well unbent, That kindness cancell'd fear in those who heard, And others' gifts show'd mean beside his word, Vhen echoed to the heart as from his own lis deep yet tender melody of tone : But such was foreign to his wonted mood, cared not what he soften'd, but subdued ; The evil passions of his youth had made 3im value less who loved than what obey'd. XVII. Around him mustering ranged his ready guard ; Before him Juan stands "Are all prepared?" " They are nay more embark'd : the latest boat Waits but my chief " " My sworl and my capote." So firmly girded on, and lightly slung, His belt and cloak were o'er his shoulders flung. Call Pedro here !" He comes and Conrad beiu! With all the courtesy he deign'd his friends ; ' Receive these tablets, and peruse with care, Words of high trust and truth are graven there ; Double the guard, and when Anselmo's bark Arrives, let him alike these orders mark : [n three days (serve the breeze) the sun shall shine On our return till then all peace be thine !" This said, his brother Pirate's hand he wrung, Then to his boat with haughty gesture sprung. Flash'd the dipt oars, and sparkling with the stroke, Around the waves, phosphoric 2 brightness broke ; They gain the vessel on the deck he stands ; Shrieks the shrill whistle ply the busy hands- He marks how well the ship her helm obeys, How gallant all her crew and deigns to praise. His eyes of pride to young Gonsalvo turn Why doth he start, and inly seem to mourn ? Alas ! those eyes beheld his rocky tower, And live a moment o'er the parting hour ; She his Medora did she mark the prow ! Ah ! never loved he half so much as now ! But much must yet be done ere dawn of day Again he mans himself and turns away; Down to the cabin with Gonsalvo bends, And there unfolds his plan his means and en*U ; Before them burns the lamp, and spreads the cha_^. And all that speaks and aids the naval art ; They to the midnight watch protract debate ; To anxious eyes what hour is ever late ? Meantime, the steady breeze serenely blew, And fast and falcon-like the vessel flew ; Pass'd the high headlands of each clustering isUi, To gain their port long long ere morning smilt And soon the night-glass through the narrow fiay Discovers where the Pacha's galleys lay. Count they each sail and mark how there " Gulnare Gulnare I never felt till now My abject fortune, wither'd fame so low : Seyd is mine enemy : had swept my band From earth with ruthless but with open hand, And therefore came I, in my bark of war, To smite the smiter with the scimitar ; Such is my weapon not the secret knife Who spares a woman's seeks not slumber's life. Thine saved I gladly, lady, not for this Let me not deem that mercy shown amiss. Now fare thee well more peace be with thy breast! Night wears apace my last of earthly rest !" " Rest ! rest ! by sunrise must thy sinews shake. And thy limbs writhe around the ready stake. I heard the order saw I will not see If thou wilt perish, I will fall with thee. My life my love my hatred all below Are on this cast Corsair ! 't is but a blow ! Without it flight were idle how evade His sure pursuit ? my wrongs too unrepaid, My youth disgraced the long, long wasted years, One blow shall cancel with our future fears ; But since the dagger suits thee less than brand, I '11 try tne firmness of a female hand. The guards are gain'd one moment all were o'er Corsair ! we meet in safety or no more ; If errs my feeble hand, the morning cloud Will hover o'er thy scaffold, and my shroud." IX. She turn'd, and vanish'd ere he could repiy, But his glance follow'd far with eager eye ; And gathering, as he could, the links that bound His form, to curl their length, and curb their Round THE CORSAIR. fcince bar and bolt no more his steps preclude, He, fast as fetter'd limbs allow, pursued. 'T was dark and winding, and he knew not where That passage led ; nor lamp nor guard were there : He sees a dusky glimmering shall he seek Or shun that ray so indistinct and weak ? Chance guides his steps a freshness seems to bear Full on his brow, as if from morning air He reach'd an open gallery on his eye Gleam'd the last star of night, the clearing sky : Yet scarcely heeded these another light From a lone chamber struck upon his sight. Towards it he moved, a scarcely closing door Reveal'd the ray within, but nothing more. With hasty step a figure outward past, Then paused and turn'd and paused 'tis she atlast! No poniard in that hand nor sign of ill "Thanks to that softening heart she could not kill!" Again he iook'd, the .wildness of her eye Starts from the day abrupt and fearfully. She stopp'd threw back her dark far-floating hair, That nearly veil'd her face and bosom fair : As if she late had bent her leaning head Above some object of her doubt or dread. They meet upon her brow unknown forgot Her hurrying hand had left 't was but a spot Its hue was ajl he saw, and scarce withstood Oh ! slight but certain pledge of crime 't is blood ! X. He had seen battle h^iiad brooded lone O'er promised pangs to sentenced guilt foreshown ; He had been tempted chasten'd and the chain Yet on his arms might ever there remain: But ne'er from strife captivity remorse From all his feelings in their inmost force So thrill'd so shudder'd every creeping vein, As now they froze before that purple stain. That spot of blood, that light but guU'.y streak Had banish'd all the beauty from her cheek ! Blood he had view'd could view unmoved but then ft flow'd in combat, or was shed by men ! XI. "'Tis done he nearly waked but it is done. Corsair ! he perish'd thou art dearly won. All words would now be vain away away ! Our bark is tossing 't is already day. The few gain'd over, now are wholly mine, And these thy yet surviving band shall join : Anon my voice shall vindicate my hand, When once our sail forsakes this hated strand." XII. She clapp'd her hands and through the gallery pour, Equipped for flight, her vassals Greek and Moor; Silent but quick they stoop, his chains unbind ; Once more his limbs are free as mountai wid ! But on his heavy heart such As if they there transferr'd t No words are utter'd at her sigffj'a 'Joor Reveals the secret passage to the shore ; The city lies behind they speed, they reach The glad waves dancing on the yellow beach ; \nd Conrad following, at her beck, obey'd, Nor care4 he now if rescued or betray'd ; Resistance were as useless as if Seyd Yet lived to view the doom his ire decreed. XIII. Embark'd, the sail unfurl'd, the light breeze blew How much had Conrad's memory to review ! Sunk he in contemplation, till the cape Where last he anchor'd rear'd its giant shape. Ah ! since that fatal night, though brief the time Had swept an age of terror, grief, and crime. As its far shadow frown'd above the mast, He veil'd his face, and sorrow'd as he past ; He thought of all Gonsalvo and his band, His fleeting triumph and his failing hand, He thought on her afar, his lonely bride : He turn'd and saw Gulnare, the homicide ! XIV. She watch'd his features till she could not bear Their freezing aspect and averted air, And that strange fierceness, foreign to her eye, Fell quench'd in tears, too late to shed or dry. She knelt beside him, and his hand she prest "Thou may'st forgive, though Alla's self detest , But for that deed of darkness, what wert thou ? Reproach me but not yet Oh ! spare me now ! I am not what I seem- this fearful night My brain bewilder'd do not madden quite ! If I had never loved though less my guilt, Thou hadst not lived to hate me if thou wilt." XV. She wrongs his thoughts, they more himself upbraid Than her, though undesign'd, the wretch he made ; But speechless all, deep, dark, and unexprest, They bleed within that silent cell nis breast- Still onward, fair the breeze, nor rough the surge, The blue waves sport around the stern they urge ; Far on the horizon's verge appears a speck, A spot a mast a sail an armed deck ! Their little bark her men of watch descry, And ampler canvas woos the wind from high ; She bears "her down majestically near, Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier ; A flash is seen the ball beyond their bow Bdkps harmless, hissing to the deep below Ujofose keen Conrad from his silent trance, A long, long absent gladness in his glance ; " 'T is mine my blood-red flag ! again agam- I am not all deserted on the main !" They own the signal, answer to the hail, Hoist out the boat at once, and slacken sail. "Tis Conrad! Conrad!" shouting from the deci, Command nor duty could their transpoit check ! With light alacrity and gaze of pride, They view him mount once more his vessel's side , A smile relaxing in each rugged face, Their arms can scarce forbear a rough embrace. He, half-forgetting danger and defeat, Returns their greeting as a chief may greet. Wrings with a cordial grasp Anselmo's hand. And feels he yet can conquer and command ' XVI. These greetings o'er, the feelings that o'erflow. Yet grieve to win him back without a blow !74 * BYRON'S WORKS. They saiVd prepared for vengeance had they known A woman's hand secured that deed her own, She were their queen less scrupulous are they Than haughty Cinrad how they win their way. With many an asking smile, and wondering stare, They whisper round, and gaze upon Gulnare ; And her, at once above beneath her sex, Whom blood appall'd not, their regards perplex. To Conrad turns her faint imploring eye, Shr drops her veil, and stands in silence by ; Her arms are meekly folded on that breast, Which Conrad safe to fate resign'd the rest. Though worse than phrensy could that bosom fill, Extreme in love or hate, in good or ill, The worst of crimes had left her woman still ! XVII. This Conrad mark'd, and felt ah! could he less? Hate of that deed but grief for her distress ; What she has done no tears can wash away, And heaven must punish on its angry day : But it was done : he knew, whate'er her guilt, For him that pomard smote, that blood was spilt ; And he was free ! and she for him had given Her all on earth, and more than all in heaven ! And now he turn'd him to that dark-eyed slave, Whose brow was bow'd beneath the glance he gave, Who now seem'd changed and humbled: faint and meek, But varying oft the colour of her cheek Tc deeper shades of paleness all its red Tnat fearful spot which stain'd it from the dead ! He took that hand it trembled now too late So soft in love so wildly nerved in hate ; He clasp'd that hand it trembled and his own Had lost its firmness, ana nis voice its tone. "Gulnare!" but she replied not "dear Gulnare!" She raised her eye her only answer there At once she sought and sunk in his embrace : If he had driven her from that resting-place, His had been more or less than mortal heart, But good .or ill it bade her not depart. Perchance, but for the bodings of his breast, His latest virtue (hen had join'd the rest. Yet even Medora might forgive the kiss That ask'd from form so fair no more than this, The first, the last that frailty stole from faith To lips where love had lavish'd all his breath, To lips whose broken sighs such fragrance fling, As he had fann'd them freshly with his wing ! XVIII. Tnev gair. by twilight's hour their lonely isle : TM them the very rocks appear to smile ; T)i haven hums with many a cheering sound, The beacons blaze their wonted stations round, The boats Are darting o'er the curly bay, And sportive dolphins bend them through the spray ; Even the hoarse sea-bird's shrill discordant shriek Greets like the welcome of his tuneless beak ! Beneath each lamp that through its lattice gleams, Their fancy paints the friends that trim the beams. Oh . what can sanctify the joys of home, Like hope's gay glance from ocean's troubled foam ? XIX. The lights are high on beacon and from bower, And 'niidst them Conrad seeks Medora's tower: He looks in vain 'l is strange and all remark, Amid so many, hers alone is da/k. 'T is strange of yore its welcome never fail'd, Nor now, perchance, extinguistr'J, onl) icl'd. With the first boat descends he for the shore, And looks impatient on the lingering opr. Oh ! for a wing beyond the falcon's flight, To bear him like an arrow to that height! With the first pause the resting rowers gavi, He waits not looks not leaps into the wav. Strives through the surge, bestrides the beach, a/xl higl Ascends the path familiar to his eye. He reach'd his turret door he paused no sound Broke from within ; and all was night around. He knock'd, and loudly footstep nor reply Announced that any heard or deem'd him nigh ; He knock'd but faintly for his trembling hand Refused to aid his heavy heart's demand. The portal opens 't is a well-known face But not the form he panted to embrace ; Its lips are silent twice his own essay'd, And fail'd to frame the question they delay'd ; He snatch'd the lamp its light will answer all It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall. He would not wait for that reviving ray As soon could he have linger'd there for day ; But, glimmering through the dusky corridore, Another chequers o'er the shadow'd floor ; His steps the chamber gain his eyes behold All that his heart believed not yet foretold ! XX. He turn'd not spoke not sunk not fix'd his .nok, And set the anxious frame that lately shook : He gazed how long we gaze despite of pain, And know, but dare not own, we saze in vain! In life itself she was so still and fair, That death with gentler aspect wither'd there ; And the cold flowers IS her colder hand contain'd, In that last grasp as tenderly were strain'd As if she scarcely felt, but feign'd a sleep, And made it almost mockery yet to weep : The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow, And veil'd thought shrinks from all that lurk'd below. Oh ! o'er the eye death most exerts his might, And hurls the spirit from her throne of light ! Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse, But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips Yet, yet, they seem as they forbore to smile, And wish'd repose but only for a while ; But the white shroud, and each extended tress, Long fair but spread in utter lifelessness, Which, late the sport of every summer wind, Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind : These and the pale pure cheek, became the bier- But she is nothing wherefore is he here? XXI. He ask'd DO, question all were answer'd now By the fir>t glance on that still marble brow. It was en High she died what reck'd it how? The love fef youth, the hope of better years, The source of softest wishes, tenderest fear*. The only living thing he could not hate, Was reft at once and he deserved his fate, But did not feel it less ; the good explore, For peace, those realms where guilt can never soar THE CORSAIR. The proud the wayward who have fix'J below Their joy and find this earth enough for woe, Lose in that one their all perchance a mite But who in patience parts with all delight? Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern Mask hearts where grief hath little left to learn ; And many a withering thought lies hid, not lost In smiles that least befit who wear them most. XXII. By those, that u^nest feel, is ill exprest The indistinctness f the suffering breast ; Where thousand tli "his begin to end in one, Which seeks from al. .ne refuge found in none ; No words suffice the secret soul to show, For Truth denies all eloquence to Woe. On Conrad's stricken soul exhaustion prest, And stupor almost lull'd it into rest ; So feeble now his mother's softness crept To those wild eyes, which like an infant's wept: It was the very weakness of his brain, Which thus confess'd without relieving pain. None saw his trickling tears perchance, if seen, That useless flood of grief had never been : Nor long they flow'd he dried them to depart, In helpless hopeless brokenness of heart : The sun goes forth but Conrad's day is dim ; And the night cometh ne'er to pass from him. There is no darkness like the cloud of mind, On grief's vain eye the blindest of the blind ! Which may not dare not see but turns aside To blackest shade nor will endure a guide ! XXIII. HTS neart was form'd for softness warp'd to wrong ; Betray'd too early, and beguiled too long ; Each feeling pure as falls the dropping dew Within the grot like that had harden'd too ; Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials pass'd, But sunk, and chill'd, and petrified at last. Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the rock ; If such his heart, so shatter'd it the shock. There grew one flower beneath its rugged brow, Though dark the shade it shelter'd, saved till now. The thunder came that bolt hath blasted both, The granite's firmness, and the lily's growth : The gentle plant hath left no leaf to tell Its tale, but shrunk and wither' d where it fell, And of its cold protector, blacken round But shiver'd fragments on the barren ground ! XXIV. T is mom to venture on his lonely hour Few dare : though now Anselmo sought his tower. He was not there nor seen along the shore ; Ere night, akrm'd, their isle is traversed o'er : Another morn another bids them seek, And shout his name till echo waxeth weak ; Mount grotto cavern valley search'd in vain, They find on shore a sea-boat's broken chain : Their hope revives they follow o'er the main. T is idle all moons roll on moons away, And Conrad comes not came not since that day : Nor trace nor tidings of his doom declare Wnere lives his grief, or perish'd his despair ! f ..on" mourn'd his band whom none could mourn beside And fair tne monument uiev save his bride : For him they raise not the recording stone His death yet dubious, deeds too widelv known le left a Corsair's name to other times, jink'd with one virtue, and a thousand crimes." NOTES. THE time in this poem may seem too short for th occurrences ; but the whole of the j?Egean isles ar vithin a few hours' sail of the continent, and the readei must be kind enough to take the wind as I have oilea bund it. Note 1. Page 163, line 86. Of fair Olympia loved and left of old. Orlando, Canto 10. Note 2. Page 164, line 96. Around the waves phosphoric brightness broke. By night, particularly in a warm latitude, every stroke of the oar, every motion of the boat or ship, is bllowed by a slight flash like sheet lightning from the water. Note 3. Page 165, line 39. Though to the rest the sohcr berry's juice. Coffee. Note 4. Page Ifi5, line 41. The long Chibouque's dissolving cloud supply. Pipe. Note 5. Page 185, line 42. While dance the Almas to wild minstrelsy. Dancing-girls. NOTE TO CANTO II. Page 165, line 55. It has been objected that Conrad's entering disguised as a spy, is out of nature. Perhaps so. I find so:n> thing not unlike it in history. < Anxious to explore with his own eyes the state of the Vandals, Majorian ventured, after disguising the colour of his hair, o visit Carthage in the character of his own ambassador; and Genseric was afterwards mortified by the discovery, that he had entertained and dismissed the Emperor of the Romans. Such an anec- dote may be rejected as an improbable fiction ; but it is a fiction which would not have been imagined unless in the life of a hero." Gibbon, D. and F. Vol. VI. p. 180. That Conrad is a character not altogether out of na- ture, I shall attempt to prove by some historical coin- cidences which I have met with since writing "The Corsair." "Eccelin prisonnier," dit Rolandini, "s'enfermoit dans un silence menacant ; il fixoit sur la terre son visago feroce, et ne donnoit point d'essor k sa profonde in- dication. De toutes parts cependant les soldats et lr peuples accouroient, ils vouloient voir cet homme, Jadit si puissant, et la joie universelle eclatoit de toutes parts. ******** " Eccelin etoit d'une petite tailln ; mais tout i'aspecl de sa personne, tous ss mouvoments indiquoier.t u* soldat. Son langage etoit amer, son deportemer.l s-. perbe et par son scul regard il faisoit trembler k* plus hardis." Sismondi, tome ni. pp. 219, 220. "Gizericus (Genseric, king of the Vandals, the con qucror of both Carthage and Rome), statura mediocm I7C BYRON'S WORKS. el equi casu ch.udicans, animo profundus, sermone ra- rus, luxuri;c contemptor, ira turbidus, habendi cupidus, ad sollicitandas gentes providentissimus," etc., etc. Junumdes de Rebus Getids, c. 33. 1 b g leave to quote these gloomy realities, to keep in countenance rny Giaour and Corsair. Note 6. Page 166, line 19. And my stern vow and order's laws oppose. The Dervises are in colleges, and of different orders, as the Monks. Note 7. Page 166, line 54. They seize that Dervise ! seize on Zatanai ! Satan. Note 8. Page 166, line 75. He tore his beard, and foaming fled the fight. A common and not very novel effect of Mussulman anger. See Prince Eugene's Memoirs, page 24. " The Seraskier received a wound in the thigh ; he plucked up his beard by the roots, because he was obliged to quit the field." Note 9. Page 166, line 119. Brief time had 'Conrad now to greet Gulnare. Gulnare, a female name ; it means, literally, the flower of the pomegranate. Note 10. Page 168, line 100. Till even the scaffold echoes with their jest! In Sir Thomas More, for instance, on the scaffold, and Anne Boleyn in the Tower, when grasping her neck, she remarked, that " it was too slender to trouble the headsman much." During one part of the French Rev- olution, it became a fashion to leave some " mot " as a legacy ; and the quantity of facetious last words spoken during that period, would form a melancholy jest-book of a considerable size. Note 11. Page 169, line 113. That closed their murder'd sage's latest day ! Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sun- set (the hour of execution), notwithstanding the en- treaties of his disciples to wait till the sun went down. Note 12. Page 170, \. e 10. The queen of night asserts her silent reign. The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our own country; the days in winter are longer, but in summer of shorter duration. Note 13. Page 170, line 20. The gleaming turret of the gay Kiosk. The kiosk is a Turkish summer-house ; the palm is without the present walls of Athens, not far from the temple of Theseus, between which and the tree the wall intervenes. Cephisus' stream is indeed scanty, and Ilissus has no stream at all. Note 14. Page 170, line 30. That frown wlicre gentler ocean seems to smile. Trie opening lines as far as Section II. have, perhaps, little business here, and were annexed to an unpub- lished, (though printed) poem; but they were written or, the spot in the spring of 1811, and I scarce know why ihe reader must translated to York, November 28, 1724, as a reward, according to court scandal, for uniting George I. to the Duchess of Munster. This, however, appears to have seen an unfounded calumny. As archbishop, he behaved with great prudence, and was equally respectable as the uardian of the revenues of the see. Rumour whis- pered he retained the vices of his youth, and that a passion for the fair sex formed an item in the list of his weaknesses ; but so far from being convicted by seventy witnesses, he does not appear to have been directly criminated by one. In short, I look upon these asper- sions as the effects of mere malice. How is it possible a buccaneer should have been so good a scholar as Black- bourne certainly was ? he who had so perfect a know- ledge of the classics (particularly of the Greek trage- dians), as to be able to read them with the same ease as he could Shakspeare, must have taken great pains to acquire the learned languages ; and have had both leisure and good masters. But he was undoubtedly educated at Christ-church College, Oxford. He is al- lowed to have been a pleasant man : this, however, was turned against him, by its being said, ' he gained more hearts than souls.' " " The only voice that could soothe the passions of th savage (Alphonso 3d) was that of an amiable and vir tuous wife, the sole object of his love ; the voice of Donna Isabella, the daughter of the Duke of Savoy, and the grand-daughter of Philip II. King of Spain. Her dying words sunk deep into his memory ; his fiercs spirit melted into tears ; and, after the last embrace, Alphonso retired into his chamber to bewail his irre- parable loss, and to meditate on the vanity of human life." Miscellaneous Works of Gibbon, new edition, 8vo. vol. 5. page 473. A TALE. CANTO I. i. I HE serfs are glad through Lara's wide domain, \nd slavery half forgets her feudal chain ; Vie, their unhoped, but unfcrgotten lord, The long self-exiled chieftain is restored : Fhete be bright faces in the busy hall, Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall ; Far snookering o'er the pictured window, plays The unwonted faggots' hospitable blaze ; And gay retainers gather round the hearth, With tongues all loudness, and with eyes all mirth. T 2P n. The chief of Lara is return'd again : And why had Lara cross'd the bounding mam 7 Left by his sire, too young such loss to know, Lord of himself; that heritage of woe That fearful empire which the human breast But holds to rob the heart within of rest ! With none to check, and few to point in time The thousand paths that slope the way to crime , Then, when he most required commandment, Viefi Had Lara's daring boyhood govern'd men. It skills not, boots not, step by step to trace His youth through all the mazes of ; ts race ; Short was the course his restlessness had run. But long enough to leave him half undone. BYRON'S WORKS. BL And Lara lefiin) oath his father-land ; Bat from the boar be wared his parting hand Each trace waxM fainter of his course, tin aH Had Dearly ceased his memory to recall. His sire was dost, his vassals could declare, T was aO they knew, that Lara was out there ; Nor sent, nor came he, till conjecture grew Cold in the many, anxious in the few. His hal scarce echoes with his wonted name, His portrait darkens in its fijiijj,' frame, Another chief consoled his destined bride, Fbe young fcrgol him, and the old had died: * Yet doth be fire?" exclaims the impatient beir, And sighs for sables which he most not wear. A hawked 'scutcheons deck with gloomy grace The Laras 9 last and longest dweffing-phce ; But one is absent from the mouldering fife, That now were welcome in that Gothic pile. IV. IT*. ----- - _ !* M -,, ,1 I,,, i . m r... , . ne Mnnf.il ax last HKMITII loiieuness, And whence they know not, whj they need not goes* ; They more might marvel, when the greeting's o'er, Not that he came, but came not long before: No tram in his beyond a single page, Of foreign aspect, and of lender age. Years had roIPd on, and fast they speed away, T> those that wandW as to those that stay: But lack of tidings from another cfime, Had lent a flagging wing to weary time, They see, they recognise, yet almost deem The present dubious, or the past a dream. nor yet is passM his manhood's prime, Though searM by toil, and something tooeh'd by time: Bs tanks, whate'er they were, if scarce forgot, Might be untaoght him by bis varied lot ; Nor good nor 31 of late were known, his name Might yet uphold his patrimonial fame: His soul in youth was haughty, bnt Us sins No mute than pleasure from the stnpung wins And such, if not yet hardenM m their course, BAjgnt be redeem d, nor nsk & lung remorse. V. And they indeed were changed 'tis quickly seen Whate'er be be, 'twas not what he had been: That brow m furrowM fines had fix'd at last, And spake of passions, but of paanon past: The pride, bat not the fire, of early days, Coldness of mien, and carelessness of praise ; A high demeanour, and a glance that took Their thoughts from others by a single look ; And mat sarcastic levity of tongue, The stinging of a heart the world hath stung, That darts in seeming playfulness around, And makes those feel that wffl not own the wound ; AH these seem'd Ins, and somethmg more beneath, Than glance could weB reveal, or accent breathe. Ambition, glory, love, the common aim, That some can conquer, and that all would chum, Within ms breast appearM no more to strive, Yet MCM'd as lately they had been alive; And some deep teeing k were rain to trace At moments ughten'd o'er kts Evid face. VI. Not much he loved long question of the past. Nor told of wondrous wilds, and deserts vast. In those far lands where he had wan Jer'd lone, And as himself would hare it seem unknown Yet these in rain his ere could scarcely scan, Nor glean experience from his fellow-man ; Bat what be bad beheld he shunn'd to show, As hardly worth a stranger's care to know ; If stiffl more prying such inquiry grew, His brow fell darker, and his words more few. VIL Not unrejoiced to see him once again, Warm was his welcome to the haunts of men : Born of high lineage, link'd in high command, He mingled with the magnates of his land ; Join'd the caronsab of the great and gay, And saw them sonic or sigh their hours away Bat sal he only saw, and did not share The common pleasure or the general care ; He did not follow what they all pursued With hope still baffled, still to be renewM ; Nor shadowy honour, nor nh^nrial gain, Nor beauty's preference, and the rival's pain : Around him some mysterious circle thrown ReoeQ'd approach, and show'd him still alone ; Upon his eye sat somethmg of reproof That kept at least frivolity aloof; And things more timid that beheld him near, In silence gazed, or whisper'd mutual fear. And they the wiser, friendlier few confest They deem'd hint better than bis air expresu VIII. T was strange in youth al action and all life, Burning for pleasure, not averse from strife ; Woman the field the ocean all that gave Piomisc of gladness, peril of a grave, In torn he tried be ransack'd all below, And found his lecompensis in joy or woe, No tame, trite medium ; for his feelings sought In that intenseness an escape from thought : The tempest of his heart in scorn had gazed On that the feebler elements hath raised ; The rapture of his heart had iook'd on high, And ask'd if greater dwelt beyond the sky : Chain'd to excess, the slave of each extreme, How woke be from the wildness of that dream? Alas! he told not but be did awake To curse the wiiher'd bean that would not break IX. Books, for his volume heretofore was Man, With eye more curious he appear'd to scan, And oft, in sadden mood, for many a day From afl communion be would start away . And then, his rarely-caJPd attendants said, Through night's long hoars would sound his hutnna tread O'er the dark gallery, where his fathers jown'd In rode bat antique portraiture around : They beard, bat whisper'd, u that must not be known The sound of words less earthly than his own. Yes, they who chose might ramie, bnt some had seen They scarce knew what, toe lamp, a* loth to break the sight. Hark! there be murmurs heard in Lara's haft A sound voice- a shridt a fearful call. A long, kind shriek and silence did they near That frantic echo burst the deeping ear ?" They heard and rose, and, tremulously brae, Rush where the sound invoked their aid to save; They come with half-fit tapers m thesr hands, And snatch'd in startled haste unbelted brands. xm. Cold as the marble where bb length was bid, Pale as the beam that o'er hb features playM, Was Lara streteh'd ; bb half-drawn sabre near, Dropp'd it should seem in more than nature's fear ; Yet be was firm, or had been firm tiB now, And stifl defiance knk hb gather'd brow ; Though mixM with terror, senseless as he lay, There bred upon bb Ep the wish to slay ; Some halUarm'd threat m utterance there had dbtl, Some imprecation of despairing pride ; Hb eye was almost seaTd, but not forsook, Eve* m ks trance, the gladiator's look, That oft awake hb aspect could dbdose, d now was fix'd m horrible repose. They rake him bMibba; bush! be breathes, he spate The swarthy blush reoolonrs m hb cheeks, Hb Ep resumes ks red, hb eye, though dim, Rafts wide and wfld, each slowly-quivering finm In terms that seem not of his native tongoe; Distinct, but strange, enough they OB Vrstand To deem them accents of another lard; And such they were, and meant to meet an eai That hears hmt not mYnl that cannot hear' XIV. His page approachM, and be alone appeared To know the impart of the words they heard , They were not such as Lara should avow, Nor he interpret, yet with less surprise Than those around their chieftain's stale he eyes, But Lara's prostrate farm he bent beside, And m that tongue which seem'd hb own replied; And Lara heeds those tones that gently seem To soothe away the horrors of hb dream, If dream k were, that thus could overthrow A breast that heeded not ideal woe. XV. \Vh-eVr h.s pan n d or eye behrfci, If yet remember d ne'er to be reveaPd, Rests at bb heart. The 'customM mormng And breathed *ew vigour m hb shaken frame ; 1 snhre sought he me from priest nor As heretofore he flPd the passing hoars, Nor less he smies, nor more hb forehead lours, i* these were wont; and if die .in IIIL night AppearM less welcome now to Lara's sigm, He to bb marvelling vassals showd k nut, Whose shuddering proved Aar fear was In trembfing pan (alone they dare not) crawi The astoamVd slaves, and shon the fated haS The waving! ICO BYRON'S WORKS. The long dim shadows of surrounding trees, The flapping bat, the night-song of the breeze ; Aught they behold or hear their thought appals, As evening saddens o'er the dark gray walls. XVI. Vain thought ! that hour of ne'er unravell'd gloom Came not again, or Lara could assume A seeming of forgetfulness, that made His vassals more amazed nor less afraid Had memory vanish'd then with sense restor'd ? Since word, nor look, nor gesture of their lord Betray'd a feeling that recall'd to these That fevcr'd moment of his mind's disease. Was it a dream ? was his the voice that spoke Those strange wild accents ? his the cry that broke Their slumber ? his the oppress'd o'er-labour'd heart That ceased to beat, the look that made them start ? Could he who thus had suffer'd so forget, When such as saw that suffering shudder yet? Or did that silence prove his memory fix'd J'oo deep for words, indelible, unmix'd In that corroding secrecy which gnaws The heart to show the effect, but nrr 1 . the cause? Not so in him ; his breast had buried both, Nor common gazers could discern the growth Of thoughts that mortal lips must leave half-told ; They choke the feeble words that would unfold. XVII. In him inexplical. y mix'd appcar'd Much to be loved and hated, sought and fear'd ; Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot, In piaise or railing ne'er his name forgot; His silence form'd a theme for others' prate They guess'd they gazed they fain would know his fate. What had he been ? what was he, thus unknown, Who walk'd their world, his lineage only known? A hater of his kind ? yet some would say, With them he could seem gay amidst the gay ; But own'd, that smile, if oft observed and near, Waned in its mirth, and wither'd to a sneer ; That smile might reach his lip, but pass'd not by, None e'er could trace its laughter to his eye : Yet there was softness too in his regard, At times, a heart as not by nature hard, But once perceived, his spirit seem'd to chide Such weakness, as unworthy of its pride, And steel'd itself, as scorning to redeem One doubt from others' half-withheld esteem ; In self-inflicted penance of a breast Which tenderness might once have wrung from rest ; In vigilance of grief that would compel That soul to hate for having loved too well. XVIII. fhcie was in him a vital scorn of all : As if the worst had fall'n which could befall, He stood a stranger in this breathing world, An nrrmg spirit from another hurl'd ; A tlung of dark imaginings, that shaped By Choice the perils he by chance escaped , But 'scaped in vain, for in their memory yet His mind would half exult and half regret : With more capacity for love than earth Bestows on most of mortal mou'd and birth, His early dreams of good outstripp'd the truth, And troubled manhood follow'd baffled youth ; With thought of years in phantom chase mispent, And wasted powers for better purpose lent ; And fiery passions that had pour'd their wrath In hurried desolation o'er his path, And left the better feelings all at strife In wild reflection o'er his stormy life ; But haughty still, and loth himself to blame, He call'd on Nature's self to share the shame, And charged all faults upon the fleshly form She gave to clog the soul, and feast the worm ; Till he at last confounded good and ill, And half mistook for fate the acts of will : Too high for common selfishness, he could At times resign his own for others' good, But not in pity, not because he ought, But in some strange perversity of thought, That sway'd him onward with a secret pride To do what few or none would do beside ; And this same impulse would, in tempting time, Mislead his spirit equally to crime ; So much he soar'd beyond, or sunk beneath The men with whom he felt condemn'd to breathe, And long'd by good or ill to separate Himself from all who shared his mortal state ; His mind abhorring this had fix'd her throne Far from the world, in regions of her own : Thus coldly passing all that pass'd below, His blood in temperate seeming now would flow : Ah ! happier if it ne'er with guilt had glow'd, But ever in that icy smoothness flow'd ! 'T is true, with other men their path he walk'd, And like the rest in seeming did and talk'd, Nor outraged reason's rules by flaw nor start, His madness was not of the head, but heart ; And rarely wander'd in his speech, or drew His thoughts so forth as to offend the view. XIX. With all that chilling mystery of mien, And seeming gladness to remain unseen, He had (if 't were not nature's boon) an art Of fixing memory on another's heart : It was not love perchance nor hate nor aught That words can image to express the thought , But they who saw him did not see in vain, And once beheld, would ask of him again : And those to whom he spake remember'd well, And on the words, however light, would dwell: None knew, nor how, nor why, but he entwined Himself perforce around the hearer's mind ; There he was stamp'd in liking, or in hate, If greeted once ; however brief the date That friendship, pity, or aversion knew, Still there within the inmost thought he grew. You could not penetrate his soul, but found, Despite your wonder, to your own he wound , His presence haunted still ; and from the breast He forced an all-unwilling interest : Vain was the struggle in that mental net, His spirit seem'd to dare you to forget ! XX. There is a festival, where knights and dames, And aught that wealth or lofty linetge claim* LARA. 18' Appear a high-born and a welcome guest, To Otho's hall came Lara with the rest. The long carousal shakes the illumined hall, Well speeds alike the banquet and the ball ; And the gay dance of bounding beauty's train Links grace and harmony in happiest chain : Blest are the early hearts and gentle hands That mingle there in well-according bands ; Ii is a sight the careful brow might smooth, And make age smile, and dream itself to youth, And youth forget such hour was pass'd on earth, So springs the exulting bosom to that mirth ! XXI. And Lara gazed on these, sedately glad, His brow belied him if his soul was sad ; And his glance follow'd fast each fluttering fair, Whose steps of lightness woke no echo there : He lean'd against the lofty pillar nigh, With folded arms and long attentive eye, Nor mark'd a glance so sternly fix'd on his 111 brook'd high Lara scrutiny like this: At length he caught it, 't is a face unknown, But seems as searching his, and his alone ; Prying and dark, a stranger's jy his mien, Who still till now had gazed on him unseen ; At length encountering meets the mutual gaze Of keen inquiry, and of mute amaze ; On Lara's glance emotion gathering grew, As if distrusting that the stranger threw ; Along the stranger's aspect fix'd and stern, Flash'd more than thence the vulgar eye could learn. XXII. * T is he!" the stranger cried, and those that heard Re-echoed fast and far the whisper'd word. " 'T is he !" " 'T is who ?" they question far and near, Till louder accents rung on Lara's ear ; So widely spread, few bosoms well could brook The general marvel, or that single look : But Lara stirr'd not, changed not, the surprise That sprung at first to his arrested eyes, Seem'd now subsided, neither sunk nor raised, Glanced his eye round, though still the stranger gazed ; And drawing nigh, exclaim'd, with haughty sneer, " 'T is he! how came he thence ? whatdoth he here?" XXIII. It were too much for Lara to pass by Such question, so repeated fierce and high ; With look collected, but with accent cold, More mildly firm than petulantly bold, He turn'd, and met the inquisitorial tone " My name is Lara ! when thine own is known, Doubt not my fitting answer to requite The unlook'd-for courtesy of such a knight. 'T is Lara ! further wouldst thou mark or ask, I shun no question, and I wear no mask." " Thou shun'st no question ! Ponder is there none Thy heart must answer, though thine ear would shun? And deem'st thou me unknown too ? Gaze again ! At fcast thy memory was not given in vain. Oh ! never canst thou cancel half her debt, Eternitv forbids thee to forget." With slow and searching glance upon his face Grew Lara's eyes, but nothing there could trace They knew, or chose to know with dubious look He deign'd no answer, but his head he shook, And half-contemptuous turn'd to pass away ; But the stern stranger motion'd him to stay. " A word ! I charge thee stay, and answer he^s To one who, wert thou noble, were thy peer, But as thou wast and art nay, frown not, lord, If false, 't is easy to disprove the word But, as thou wast and art, on thee looks down, Distrusts thy smiles, but shakes not at thy frown. Art thou not he ? whose deeds " " Whate'er I be, Words wild as these, accusers like to thee I list no further; those with whom they weigh May hear the rest, nor venture to gainsay The wond'rous tale no doubt thy tongue can tell. Which thus begins so courteously and well. Let Otho cherish here his polish'd guest, To him my thanks and thoughts shall be expresl." And here their wondering host hath interposed " Whate'er there be between you undisclosed, This is no time nor fitting place to mar The mirthful meeting with a wordy war. If thou, Sir Ezzelin, hast aught to show Which it befits Count Lara's car to know, To-morrow, here, or elsewhere, as may best Beseem your mutual judgment, speak the rest, I pledge myself for thee, as not unknown, Though like Count Lara now return'd alone From other lands, almost a stranger grown ; And if from Lara's blood and gentle birth I augur right of courage &nd of worth, He will not that untainted 'ine belie, Nor aught that knighthood may accord deny." " To-morrow be it," Ezzelin replied, " And here our several worth and truth be tried ; I gage my life, my falchion to attest My words, so may I mingle with the blest!" What answers Lara ? to its centre shrunk His soul, in deep abstraction sudden sunk ; The words of many, and the eyes of all That there were gather'd, secm'd on him to fall ; But his were silent, his appear'd to stray In far forgetfulness away away Alas ! that heedlessness of all around Bespoke remembrance only too profound. XXIV. "To-morrow! ay, to-morrow!" further word Than those repeated none from Lara heard ; Upon his brow no outward passion spoke, From his large eye no flashing anger broke ; Yet there was something fix'd in that low tone, Which show'd resolve, determined, though unknown. He seized his cloak his head he slightly bow'd, And, passing Ezzelin, he left the crowd ; And, as he pass'd him, smiling met the *own With which that chieftain's brow would bear him down It was nor smile of mirth, nor struggling pride, That curbs to scorn the wrath it cannot hide ; But that of one in his own heart secure Of all that he would do, or could endure. Could this mean peace? the calmness of the good' Or guilt grown old in desperate hardihood ? Alas ! too like in confidence are each, For man to trust to mortal look or speecli , ,82 BYRON'S WORKS. from deeds, and deeds alone, may he discern Truths which it wrings the unpractised heart to learn. XXV. And Lara call'd his page, and went his way We J could that stripling word or sign obey : His only follower from those climes afar, Where the soul glows beneath a brighter star ; For Lara left the shore from whence he sprung, In duty patient, and sedate though young ; Silent as him he served, his faith appears Above his station, and beyond his years. Though not unknown the tongue of Lara's land, In such from him he rarely heard command ; But fleet his step, and clear his tones would come, When Lara's lip breathed forth the words of home : Those accents, as his native mountains dear, Awake their absent echoes in his ear, Friends', kindreds', parents', wonted voice recall, Now lost, abjured, for one his friend, his all : For him earth now disclosed no other guide ; What marvel then he rarely left his side ? XXVI. Light was his form, and darkly delicate That brow whereon his native sun had sate, But had not marr'd, though in his beams he grew, The cheek where uft the unbidden blush shone through; Yet not such blush as mounts when health would show All the heart's hue in that delighted glow ; But 't was a hectic tint of secret care That for a burning moment fever'd there ; And the wild sparkle of his eye seem'd caught From high, and lighten'd with electric thought, Though its black orb those long low lashes fringe, Had temper'd with a melancholy tinge ; Yet less of sorrow than of pride was there, Or if 't were grief, a grief that none should share : And pleased not him the sports that please his age, The tricks of youth, the frolics of the page : For hours on Lara he would fix his glance, As all-forgotten in that watchful trance ; And from his chief withdrawn, he wander'd lone, Brief were his answers, and his questions none ; Hi* walk the wood, his sport some foreign book ; HIT resting-place the bank that curbs the brook : H<- seem'd, like him he served, to live apart From all that lures the eye, and fills the heart ; Tu know no brotherhood, and take from earth No gift beyond that bitter boon our birth. XXVII. If aught he loved, 't was Lara ; but was shown His faith in reverence and in deeds alone ; In mute attention ; and his care, which guess'd Each wish, fulfill'd it ere the tongue express'd. Suil there was haughtiness in all he did, A pint dee]) that brook'd not to be chid ; Hi-i zeal, though more than that of servile hands, .n act al.ne obeys, his air commands ; As if 't was Lara's less than Us desire That tlms he served, but surely not for hire. fil'uhi wore the tasks enjoin'd him by his lord, To hold the stirrup, or to bear the sword ; 1 o tune his lute, or if he wiil'd it more, ')i> ?omes of ot.-ier times and tongues to pore; But ne'er to mingle with the menial train, To whom he show'd nor deference nor disdain, But that well-worn reserve, which proved he knew No sympathy with that familiar crew ; His soul, whate'er his station or his stem, Could bow to Lara, not descend to them. Of higher birth he seem'd, and better days, Nor mark of vulgar toil that hand betrays, So femininely white it might bespeak Another sex, when match'd with that smooth client, But for his garb, and something in his gaze, More wild and high than woman's eye betrays ; A latent fierceness that far more became His fiery climate than his tender frame : True, in his words it broke not from his breast, But, from his aspect, might be more than guess'd Kaled his name, though rumour said he bore Another, ere he left his mountain-shore ; For sometimes he would hear, however nigh, That name repeated loud without reply, As unfamiliar, or, if roused again, Start to the sound, as but remember'd then , Unless 't was Lara's wonted voice that spake, For then, ear, eyes, and heart would all awake. XXVIII. He had look'd down upon the festive hall, And mark'd that sudden strife so mark'd of all ; And when the crowd around and near him told Their wonder at the calmness of the bold ; Their marvel how the high-born Lara bore Such insult from a stranger, doubly sore, The colour of young Kaled went and came, The lip of ashes, and the cheek of flame ; And o'er his brow the damp'ning heart-drops threw The sickening iciness of that cold dew, That rises as the busy bosom sinks With heavy thoughts from which reflection shrinks. Yes there be things friat we must dream and dare, And execufe ere thought be half aware : Whate'er might Kaled's be, it was enow To seal liis lip, but agonize his brow. He gazed on Ezzelin till Lara cast That sidelong smile upon the knight he past ; When Kaled saw that smile, his visage fell, As if on something recognised right well ; His memory read in such a meaning, more Than Lara's aspect unto others wore : Forward he sprung a moment, both were gone, And all within that hall seem'd left alone ; Each had so fix'd his eye on Lara's mien, All had so mix'd their feelings with that' scene, That when his long dark shadow through the porcfc No more relieves the glare of yon high torch, Each pulse beats quicker, and all bosoms seeir To bound, as doubting from too black a dream, Such as we know is false, yet dread in sooth, Because the worst is ever nearest truth. And they are gone but Ezzelin is there, With thoughtful visage and imperious air : But long remain'd not ; ere an hour expired, He waved his hand to Otho, and retired. XXIX. The crowd are gone, the revellers at rest ; The courteous host, and all-approving LARA. 133 Again to that accustom'd couch must creep Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep, And man, o'er-labour'd with his being's strife, Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life : There lie love's feverish hope and cunning's guile, Hate's working brain, and lull'd ambition's wile : O'er each vain eye oblivion's pinions wave, And quench'd existence crouches in a grave. What better name may slumber's bed become ? Night's sepulchre, the universal home, Where weakness, strength, vice, virtue, sunk supine, Alike in naked helplessness recline; Glad for a while to heave unconscious breath, Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death, And shun, though day but dawn on ills increast, That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the least. CANTO II. i. NIGHT wanes tne vapours round the mountains curl'd Melt into morn, and light awakes the world. Man has another day to swell the past, And lead him near to little, but his last ; But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth, The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth ; Flowers in the valley, splendour in the beam, Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream. Immortal man ! behold her glories shine, And cry, exulting inly, "they are thine !" Gaze on, while yet thy gladden'd eye may see ; A morrow comes when they are nol for thee : And grieve what may above thy senseless bier, Nor earth nor sky will yield a single tear ; Nor cloud shall gather more, nor leaf shall fall, Nor gale breathe r orth one sigh for thee, for all ; But creeping things shall revel in their spoil, And fit thy clay to fertilize the soil. II. T is morn 't is noon assembled in the hall, The gather'd chieftains come to Otho's call ; 'T is now the promised hour, that must proclaim The me or death of Lara's future fame ; When Ezzelin his charge may here unfold, And whatsoe'er the tale, it must be told. His faith was pledged, and Lara's promise given, To meet it in the eye of man and heaven. Why comes he not '! Such truths to be divulged, Methinks the accuser's rest is long indulged. III. The hour is past, and Lara too is there, With self-confiding, coldly patient air; Why comes not Ezzelin ? The hour is past, And murmurs rise, and Otho's brow's o'ercast. " 1 know my friend ! his faith I cannot fear, ff yet he be on earth, expect him here ; The roof that held him in the valley stands Between my own and noble Lara's lands ; My InVU from such a guest had honour gain'd, Vor had Sir Ezzelin his host disoiain'd, But thai some previous prool forbade him stay, And urged him to prepare against to day ; The word I pledged for his I pledge again, Or will myself redeem his knighthood's stain." He ceased and Lara answer'd, " I am here To lend at thy demand a listening ear To tales of evil from a stranger's tongue, Whose words already might mv heart have wrung. But that I deem'd him scarcely less than mad, Or, at the worst, a foe ignobly bad. I know him not but me it seems he knew In lands where but I must not trifle too Produce this babbler or redeem the pledge ; Here in thy hold, and with thy falchion's edge." Proud Otho, on the instant, reddening, threw His glove on earth, and forth his sabre flew. " The last alternative befits me best, And thus I answer for mine absent guest." With cheek unchanging from its sallow gloom, However near his own or other's tomb ; With hand, whose almost careless coolness spoke Its grasp well used to deal the sabre-stroke ; With eye, though calm, determined not to spare, 'Did Lara too his willing weapon bare. In vain the circling chieftains round them closed ; For Otho's phrensy would not be opposed ; And from his lip those words of insult fell " His sword is good who can maintain them well." IV. Short was the conflict ; furious, blindly rash, Vain Otho gave his bosom to the gash : He bled, and fell, but not with deadly wound, Stretch'd by a dexterous sleight along the ground. " Demand thy life :" He answer'd not : and then From that red floor he ne'er had risen again, For Lara's brow upon the moment grew Almost to blackness in its demon hue ; And fiercer shook his an^ry falchion now Than when his foe's was levell'd at his brow , Then all was stern collectedness and art, Now rose the unleaven'd hatred of his heart ; So little sparing to the foe he fell'd, That when the approaching crowd his arm withhek He almost turn'd the thirsty point on those Who thus for mercy dared to interpose ; But to a moment's thought that purpose bent : Yet look'd he on him still with eye intent, As if he loathed the ineffectual strife That left a foe, howe'er o'erthrown, with life : As if to search how far the wound he gave Had sent its victim onward to his grave. V. They raised the bleeding Otho, and the leech Forbade all present question, sign, and speech , The others met within a neighbouring hall, And he, incensed and heedless of them all, The cause and conqueror in this sudden fray, In haughty silence slowly strode away ; He back'd his steed, his homeward path he took, Nor cast on Otho's towers a single look. VI. But where was he ? that meteor of a night, Who menaced but to disappear with light? Where was this Ezzelin? who cf.ne ana went, To leave no other trace of his intent. BVR IT-.: ".i:, sa.~_*. 5 r ; L-T..---5 TI: ?:";-. ; j^,; M :,:.;.;. z te*| : bH :r t I _^ % iVI .- S'.'w .';- r ^--,'? :L - F:r :--:. r: ,-L.r. Hi : Ht :^- ':. ... _:.:: L- : : L- - 7. :.-: -- :,f -::-'.. - .- ..- :-.. irii : I'- .L|f _ ~>-.'l '. ' "_*':: U7t* Vr r , : | ; ;,; Ini yr LARA. IS* Had Lara &M afatt aigH bi aecMca, TV Sttr^-i I: -m-u .:.: ;ui :-.:*:* a - ~~ JLn_ -.:5C*lL_':C **-:i- _ -I ^ bJM^ t XL fheint saccent* Lira's T\.t r %anr. i.: ncr-.s- '.: --HIT b JR :n' r.xrr. LI,; _M -J-P: n" it^s. !.i 'oat w 7-.. m*:* T:,'. -.I.:,: T v-r- : MMM^ -,>T, r ^ i frtr l*rt , i. ::,-: BV:,,^, A-,: M.:;. .:,. : ,u-- rt! OTAaeA^laii :"n,-.r-t T,--;.-'; | -;, T -j' '.: .-.-n't. A:,: Lu'i'i T: : t *^_tafc< fraanrnMte, 5, r k*e XTi : a^ t-b-i jrr-f 80 JiYRON'S WORKS. Hen-nance 't was but the moon's dj-< twilight threw Along his aspect an unwonted huo Of mournful paleness, whose deep tint exprest The truth, and not the terror of his breast. This Lara mark'd, and laid his hand on his . It trembled not in such an hour a? *his ; His lip was silent, scarcely beat r..s heart, His eye alone proclaim'd, "We will not part. Thy band may perish, or thy friends may flee, Farewell to life, but not adieu to tliee !" The word hath pass'd his lips, and onward driven, Pours the link'd band through ranks asunder riven ; Well has each steed obey'd the armed heel, And flash the scimitars, and rings the steel : Outnumber'd, not outbraved, they still oppose Despair to daring, and a front to foes ; And blood is mingled with the dashing stream, Which runs all redly till the morning beam. XV. Commanding, aiding, animating all, Where foe appear'd to press, or friend to fall, Cheers Lara's voice, and waves or strikes his steel, Inspiring hope, himself had ceased to feel. None fled, for well they knew that flight were vain; But those that waver turn to smite again, While yet they find the firmest of the foe Recoil before their leader's look and blow : Now girt with numbers, now almost alone, He foils their ranks, or reunites his own ; Himself he spared not once they seem'd to fly Now was the time, he waved his hand on high, And shook wny sudoen droops that plumed crest? The shaft is sped the arrow's in his breast! That fatal gesture left the unguarded ade, And Death hath stricken down yon - arm of pride. The word of triumph fainted from his tongue ; That hand, so raised, how droopingly it hung ! But yet the sword instinctively retains, Though from its fellow shrink the falling reins : These Kaled snatches : dizzy with the blow, And senseless bending o'er his saddle-bow, Perceives not Lara that his anxious page Beguiles his charger from the combat's rage : Meantime his followers charge, and charge again ; Too mix'd the slayers now to heed the slain ! XVI. Day glimmers on the dying and the dead, The cloven cuirass, and the helmless head ; Thii war-horse masterless is on the earth, And that last gasp hath burst his bloody girth ; And near, yet quivering with what life remain'd, The heel that urged him and the hand that rein'd ; And some too near that rolling torrent lie, Whose waters mock the lip of those that die ; That panting thirst which scorches in the breath Of those that die the soldier's fiery death, .n vaii 'mpels the burning mouth to crave One drop the last to cool it for the grave ; With feeble and convulsive effort swept, Their limbs along the crimson'd turf have crept; The faint remains of life such struggles waste, But yet they reach the stream, and bend to taste : They feel its freshness;, and almost partake Why oauw 7 No further thirst have they to slake It is unquench'd, and yet they feel it not ; It was ar. agony but now forgot ! XVII. Beneath a lime, remoter from the scene, Where but for him that strife had never Iteen, A breathing but devoted warrior lay : 'T was Lara, bleeding fiist from life away. His follower once, and now his only guide, Kneels Kaled, watchful o'er his welling side, And with his scarf would staunch the tides that rush. With each convulsion, in a blacker gush ; And then, as his faint breathing waxes low, In feebler, not less fatal tricklings flow : He scarce can speak, but motions him 't is vain, And merely adds another throb to pain. He clasps the hand that pang which would assuage, And sadly smiles his thanks to that dark page, Who nothing fears, nor feels, nor heeds, nor sees, Save that damp brow which rests upon his knees ; Save that pale aspect, where the eye, though dim. Held all the light that shone on earth for him. XVIII. The foe arrives, who long had search'd the field, Their triumph nought till Lara too should yield ; They would remove him, but they see 't were vain. And he regards them with a calm disdain, That rose to reconcile him with his fate, And that escape to death from living hate : And Otho comes, and, leaping from his steed, Looks on the Weeding foe that made him bleed, And questions of his state ; he answers not, Scarce glances on him as on one forgot, And turns to Kaled : each remaining word, They understood not, if distinctly heard ; His dying tones are in that other tongue, To which some strange remembrance wiidiy clung. They spake of other scenes, but what is known To Kaled. whom their meaning reach'd alone ; And he replied, though faintly, to their sound, While gazed the rest in dumb amazement round : They seem'd even then that twain unto tne last To half forget the present in the past ; To share between themselves some separate fate, Whose darkness none b-:side should penetrate. XIX. Their words, though faint, were many from the tone Their import those who heard could judge alone ; From this, you might have deem'd young Kaled's deal More near than Lara's by his voice and breath, So sad, so deep and hesitating, broke The accents his scarce-moving pale lips spoke ; But Lara's voice though low, at first was clear And calm, till murmuring death gasp'd hoarsely near, But from his visage little could we guess, So unrepentant, dark, and passionless, Save that, v.-hen struggling nearer to his last, Upon that page his eye was kindly cast ; And once as Kaled's answering accents ceast, Rose Lara's h in I, and pointed to the East : Whether (as then the breaking sun from hij;h Roll'd back the clouds) the morrow caught his eye, Or that 't was chance, or some remember'd scene That raised his arm to point where su^h h*d LARA. Id' Scarce Raled seem'd to know but tum'd away As if his heart abhorr'd that coming day. And shrunk his glance before that morning light, To look on Lara's brow where all grew night. Yet sense seern'd left, though better were its loss ; For when one near display'd the absolving cross, And proffer'd to his touch the holy bead, Of which his parting soul might own the need, He look'd upon it with an eye profane, And smiled Heaven pardon ! if 't were with disdain : And Kaled, though he spoke not, nor withdrew From Lara's face his fix'd despairing view, With brow repulsive, and with gesture swift, Flung back the hand which held the sacred gift, As if such but dislurb'd the expiring man, Nor seem'd to know his life but then began, That life of immortality, secure To none, save them whose faith in Clr-.-i is sure. XX. But gasping heaved the breath that Lara drew, And dull the film along his dim eye grew ; His limbs stretch'd fluttering, and his head droop'd o'er The weak, yet still untiring knee that bore ; He press'd the hand he held upon his heart- It beats no more, but Kaled will not part With the cold grasp, but feels, and feels in vain For that faint throb which answers not again. " It beats !" Away, thou dreamer ! he is gone It once was Lara which thou look'st upon. XXI. He gazed, as if not yet had pass'd away The haughty spirit of that humble clay ; And those around have roused him from his trance, But cannot tear from thence his fixed glance ; And when, in raising him from where he bore Within his arms the form that felt no more, He saw the head his breast would still sustain, Roll down like earth to earth upon the plain ; He did not dash himself thereby, nor tear The glossy tendrils of his raven hair, But su-ove to stand and gaze, but reel'd and fell, Scarce breathing more than that he loved so well. Than that he loved ! Oh ! never yet beneath Vhe breast of man such trusty love may breathe ! That trying moment hath at once reveal'd The secret long and yet but half conceal'd ; In baring to revive that lifeless breast, Its grief seem'd ended, but the sex confess'd ; And life retnrn'd, and Kaled felt no shame What now to her was Womanhood or Fame ! XXII. And Lara sleeps not where his fathers sleep ; But where he died his grave was dug as deep, Nor is his mortal slumber less profound, Fhough priest nor bless'd, nor marble deck'd the mound; \.nd he was mourn'd by one whose quiet grief, Less loud, outlasts a people's for their chief. Vain was all question ask'd her of the past, And vain even menace silent to the Isst, Sho to! & *< Sooth Seas, where they might more Mmanery tan. 10 become cannibals ; it would be less fagMSting that u>ey were brought up to devour the 4tad, than persecute the living. Schools do you call hem ? call them rather dunghills, where the riper of intolerance deposits her young, that, when their teeth ore cut and their poison is mature, they may issue forth, fclthy and venomous, to sting the Catholic. But are these the doctrines of the Church of England, or of churchmen ? No ; the most enlightened churchmen are of a different opinion. What says Paley? " I perceive no reason why men o( different religious persuasions, should not sit upon the same bench, deliberate in the tame council, or fight in the same ranks, as well as men of various religious opinions, upon any controverted topic of natural history, philosophy, or ethics." It may be answered that Paley was not strictly orthodox ; I know nothing of his orthodoxy, but who will deny that he was an ornament to the church, to human nature, to Christianity? I shall not dwell upon the grievance of tithes, so severely felt by the peasantry, but it mav be proper to ooserve that there is an addition to the burthen, a per- centage to the gatherer, whose interest it thus becomes to rate them as highly as possible, and we know that in many large livings in Ireland, the only resident Prot- estants are the tithe proctor and his family. Among many causes of irritation, too numerous for recapitulation, there is one in the militia not to be passed over, I mean the existence of Orange lodges amongst the privates ; can the officers deny this ? And if such lodges do exist, do they, can they tend to pro- mote harmony amongst the men, who are thus indi- ridually separated in society, although mingled in the ranks ? And is this general system of persecution to be permitted, or is it to be believed that with such a system the Catholics can or ought to be contented ? If they are, they belie human nature ; they are then, indeed, un- worthy to be any thing but the slaves you have made them. The facts stated are from most respectable au- thority, or I should not have dared in this place, or an place, to hazard this avowal. If exaggerated, there are plenty, as willing as I believe them to be unable, to disprove them. Should it be objected that I never was in Ireland, I beg leave to observe, that it is as easy to know something of Ireland without having been there, as it ap- pears with some to have been born, bred, and cherished there, and yet remain ignorant of its best interests. But there are, who assert that the Catholics have aiready been too much indulged: see (cry they) what has been done : we have given them one entire college, ve allow them food ana raiment, the full enjoyment ol the elcm^aits, and leave to fight for us as long as they have limns and lives to offer ; and yet they are never to be satisfied ! Generous and just dcclaimers ! To this, and to this only, amount the whole of your arguments, when stript of their sophistry. These personages re- mind me of the story of a certain drummer, who being railed upon in the course of duty to administer punish- ment to a friend tied to the halberts, was requested to Hog high ; he did to flog low, he did to flog in the mid-lie, he did high, low, down the middle, and up again, but all in vain, the patient continued his com- ixaints with the most provoking pertinacity, until the r, exhausted and angry, flung down his scourge, exclaiming, "the devil burn you, there 's no pleasing you, flog where one will !" Thus it is, you have flogged the Catholic, high, low, here, there, and every where, and then you wonder he is not pleased. It is true, that time, experience, and that weariness which attends even the exercise of barbarity, have taught you to floj a little more gently, but still you continue to Jay sn the lash, and will so continue, till perhaps the rod may he wrested from your hands, and applied to the backs oi yourselves and your posterity. It was said by someb'xly in a former debate (I forget by whom, and am not very anxious to remember), if th Catholics are emancipated, why not the Jews ? If this sentiment was dictated by compassion {or the Jews, it might deserve attention, but as a sneer against the Cath- olic, what is it but the language of Shy lock transferred torn his daughter's marriage to C atholic emancipation " Would any of the tribe of Barrabbas Should have il rather than a Christian." I presume a Catholic is a Christian, even in the opinion of him whose taste only can be called in ques- tion for his preference of the Jews. It is a remark often quoted of Dr. Johnson (whom I take to be almost as good authority as the gentle apostle of intolerance, Dr. Duigenan), that he who could enter- tain serious apprehensions of danger to the Church in these times, would have " cried tire in the deluge." This is more than a metaphor, for a remnant of these antediluvians appear actually to have come down to us, with fire in their mouths and water in their brains, to disturb and perplex mankind with their whimsical out- cries. And as it is an infallible symptom of that dis- tressing malady with which I conceive them to be afflicted (so any doctor will inform your Lordships) for the unhappy invalids to perceive a flame perpetually flashing before their eyes, particularly when their eyes are shut (as those of the persons to whom I allude have long been), it is impossible to convince these poor crea- tures, that the fire against which they arc perpetually warning us and themselves, is nothing but an ifnit r >jiuus of their own drivelling imaginations. What rhubarb, senna, or " what purgative drug can scour that fancy thence ?" It is impossible, they are given over, theirs is the true "Caput insanabile tribus Anticyris." These are your true Protestants. Like Bayle, who pro- tested against all sects whatsoever, so do they protest against Catholic petitions, Protestant petitions, all re- dress, all that reason, humanity, policy, justice, and common sense, can urge against the delusions of then absurd delirium. These are the persons who reverse the fable of the mountain that brought forth a mouse ; they are the mice who conceive themselves in labour with mountains. To return to the Catholics, suppose the Irish were actually contented under their disabilities, suppose them capable of such a bull as not to desire deliverance, ought we not to wish it for ourselves ? Have we nothing to gain by their emancipation ? What resources have beep wasted ! What talents have been lost by the selfish system of exclusion ! You already luiow the value of Irish aid ; at this moment the defence of England is entrusted to the Irish militia ; at this moment, whila the starving people ar'. rising in th<; fierceness of de- 7 fi PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. p*ir, the Irish are faithful to their trust. But till equal energy is imparted throughout by the extension of free- Join, you cannot enjoy the full benefit of the strength which you are glad to interpose between you and do- ftructioa. Ireland has done much, but win do more. At this moment the only triumph obtained through jong years of continental disaster has been achieved oy an Irish general ; it is true he is not a Catholic ; had ae been so, we should hare been deprived of his exer- tions ; but I presume no one will assert that his religion would hare unpaired his talents or diminished his pa- triotism, though in that case he must have conquered in the ranks, for he never could hare commanded an army. But while he is fighting the battles of the Catholics abroad, his noble brother has this night advocated their cause, with an eloquence which I shall not depre- ciate by the humble tribute of my panegyric, whilst a third of his kindred, as unlike as unequal, has been combating against his Catholic brethren in Dublin, with circular letters, edicts, proclamations, arrests, and dis- persions all the vexatious implements of petty war- ewe that could be wielded by the mercenary guerillas of government, dad in the rusty armour of their obso- lete statutes. Tour lordships will, doubtless, divide new honours between the saviour of Portugal, and the dis- penser of delegates. It is singular, indeed, to observe the difference between our foreign and domestic poli- cy ; if Catholic Spam, faithful Portugal, or the no less Catholic and faithful king of the one Sicily (of which, by the by, you hare lately deprived him), stand in need of succour, away goes a fleet and an army, an ambassador and a subsidy, sometimes to fight pretty hardly, generally to negotiate very badly, and always to pay very dearly for our Popish allies. But let four minions of fellow-subjects pray for relief, who fight and pay and. labour in your behalf, they must be treated as aliens, and although their " father's boose has many mansions," there is no resting-place for them. Allow me to ask, are yon not fighting for the emancipation of Ferdinand the Seventh, who certainly is a fool, and consequently, in all probability, a bigot ; and hare you aiore regard for a foreign sovereign than your own feDow-cubjects, who are not fools, for they know your interest better than yon know your own ; who are not bigots, for they return you good for evil ; but who are in worse durance than the prison of an usurper, inas- much as the fetters of the mind are more galling than those of the body. Upon the consequences of your not acceding to the claims of the petitioners, I shall not eipatiate ; yon know them, you wiH fed them, and your children's children when you are passed away. Adieu to that Union so called, as u LJ*M a mm baatdo," a Union from never uniting, which, in its first operation, gave ticiih-biow to the independence of Ireland, and in its last may be the cause of her eternal separation from Uiis country. If it must he called a Union, it is the uion of the shark with his prey ; the spoiler swallows op his victim, and thus they become one and indrri*- b!e. Thus has Great Britain swallowed up the par- iament, the constitution, the indeprcdenee of Ireland, ind refuses to disgorge even a aing?e privilege, although fcr the relief of her swollen and distempered body politic. Aud now, my lords, before I sit down, wifl bis maj- esty's minister* permit me to ray a few words, not oa their menu, for that would be superfluous, but on thr degree of estimation in which they are held by the people of these realms. The esteem in which they aw held has been boasted of in a triumphant tone on late occasion within these walls, and a comparison m stituted between their conduct, and that of noble lord on this side of the house. What portion of popularity may hare fallen to t w share of my noble friends (if such I may presume U caB them), I shall not pretend to ascertain ; but thai of bis majesty's ministers it were rain to deny. It is-, to be sure, a hide Eke the wind, w no one knows whence it cometh or whither it goeth," but they fed it, they enjoy it, they boast of it. Indeed, modest and unos- tentatious as they are, to what part of the kingdom, eren the most remote, can they flee to avoid the tri- umph which pursues them? If they plunge into the' midland counties, there they wifl be greeted by the manufacturers, with spurned petitions in their hands, and those hahers round their necks recently voted in their behalf; imploring blessings on the heads of those who so simply, yet ingeniously contrived to remove them from their miseries in this to a better world. If they journey on to Scotland, from Glasgow to Johnny Groat's, every where will they receive similar marks of approbation, if they take a trip from Portpatrick to Dona ghaHee, there will they rush at once into the em- braces of four Calholic miHimm, to whom their rot* of this night is about to endear them for ever. Whan they return to the metropolis, if they can pass undei Temple Bar without unpleasant sensations at the sigh) of the greedy niches over that ominous gateway, the] cannot escape the acclamations of the livery, and UK more tremulous, but cot less sincere, applause, the blessings not load bat deep" of baakrnpt merchants and doubting stockholders. If they look to the army, what wreaths, not of laurel, but of nightshade, are preparing for the heroes of Wakheren! It is true there are few bring deponents left to testify to then- merits on that occasion ; buta u doudof witnesses'' are gone above from that gallant army which they so generously and piously despatched, to recruit the "noble army of martyrs." What H; in the course of this triumphal career (m which they win gather as many pebbles as Caligula's army did on asimilar triumph, the prototype of their own), they do not perceive any of those memorials which a grateful people erect in honour of their benefactors; what although not eren a sign-post will condescend to depose the Saracen's bead in favour of the likeness of the con- querors of Waleheren, they will not want a picture who can always hare a caricature ; or regret the ontts- of a statue who will so often see themselves exalted But their popularity is not limited to the narrow bounds of an island; there are other ectmtrie* where their measures, and, above all, their conduct U the Catholics, must render them pre-eminently pofiulai If they are bdored here, in France they must be adored There is no measure more repugnant to the designs and feefings of Buonaparte than Caibooc emancipation ; no fine of conduct more propitious to bit projects, than that which has been puisued, i pursuing, and, I feat, win be pursued, towards Ireland. What s Eng!W without Ireland, and what is Ireland without the C* tholics? If is on the basis of your tyraont BYRON'S WORKS. hopes to build his own. So grateful must oppression of the Catholics be to his mind, that doubtless (as he has lately permitted some renewal of intercourse) the next cartel will convey to this country cargoes of Sevres china and blue ribands (tilings in great request, and of equal value at this moment), blue ribands of the legion of honour for Dr. Duigenan and his ministerial disciples. Such is that well-earned popularity, the result of those extraordinary expeditions, so expensive to ourselves, and so useless to our allies ; of those singular inquiries, so exculpatory to the accused, and so dissatisfactory to the people ; of those paradoxical victories, so honour- able, as we are told, to the British name, and so de- structive to the best interests of the British nation : above all, such is the reward of a conduct pursued by ministers towards the Catholics. 1 have to apologize to the House, who will, I trust, ' pardon one, not often in the habit of intruding upon their indulgence, for so long attempting to engage their attention. My most decided opinion is, as my vote will be, in favour of the motion. DEBATE ON MAJOR CARTWRtGHT'S PETITION, JUNE 1, 1813. LORD BYRON rose and said: MY LORDS, the Petition which I now hold for the purpose of presenting to the House, is one which I humbly conceive requires the particular attention of your lordships, inasmuch as, though signed but by a single individual, it contains statements which (if not disproved) demand most serious investigation. The grievance of which the petitioner complains is neither selfish nor imaginary. It is not his own only, for it has been, and is still felt by numbers. No one with- out these walls, nor indeed within, but may to-morrow be made liable to the same insult and obstruction, in the discharge of an imperious duty for the restoration of the true constitution of these realms by petitioning for reform in parliament. The petitioner, my Lords, is a man whose long life has been spent in one unceasing struggle for the liberty of the subject, against that undue influence which has increased, is increasing, and ought to be diminished ; and, wnatever difference of opinion may exist as to nis political tenets, few will be found to question the integrity of his intentions. Even now, oppressed with years, and not exempt from the infirm- ities attendant on his age, but still unimpaired in tal- ent, and unshaken in spirit u frangas non Jfectes" lie has received many a wound in the combat against corruption ; and the new grievance, the fresh insult of wftich he complains, may inflict another scar, but no dishonour. Tne petition is signed by John Cartwright, and it was in behalf of the people and parliament, in the lawful pursuit of that reform in the representation winch is the best srvice to be rendered both to parlia- ment and people, that he encountered the wanton out- rage which fon.is the subject matter of his petition' to /our lordships. It is couched in firm, yet respectful .menage- in the language of a man, not regardless of what * uue to himself, but at the same time, I trust, equally mindful of the deference to be paid to tnii House. The petitioner slates, amongst other matter of equal, if not greater importance, to all who are British in their feelings, as well as blood and birth, that on the 21st January, 1813, at Huddersfield, him- self and six other persons, who, on hearing of his ar- rival, had waited on him merely as a testimony of re- spect, were seized by a military and civil force, and kept in close custody for several hours, subjected to gross and abusive insinuations from the commanding officer relative to the character of the petitioner; that he (the petitioner) was finally carried before a magistrate ; and not released till an examination of his papers proved (hat there was not only no just, but not even statuta- ble charge against him ; and that, notwithstanding the promise and order from the presiding magistrates of a copy of the warrant against your petitioner, it was after- wards withheld on divers pretexts, and has never until this hour been granted. The names and condi- 'tion of the parties will be found in the petition. To the other topics touched upon in the petition, I shall not now advert, from a wish not to encroach upon the time of the House ; but I do most sincerely call the at- tention of your lordships to its general contents it is in the cause of the parliament and people that the rights of this venerable freeman have been violated, and it is, in my opinion, the highest mark of respect that could be paid to the House, that to your justice, rather than by appeal to any inferior court, he now commits himself. Whatever may be the fate of his re- monstrance, it is some satisfaction to me, though mix- ed with regret for the occasion, that I have this oppor- tunity of publicly stating the obstruction to which the subject is liable, in the prosecution of the most lawful and imperious of his duties, the obtaining by petition reform in parliament. I have shortly stated his com- plaint; the petitioner has more fully expressed h. Your lordships will, I hope, adopt some measure fully to protect and redress him, and not him alone, but the whole body of the people insulted and aggrieved in his person by the interposition of an abused civil, and un- lawful military force beUyeen them and their right of petition to their own representatives. His lordship then presented the petition from Major Cartwright, tf hich was read, complaining of the circum- stances at Huddersfield, and of interruptions given to the right of petitioning, in several places in the northern parts of the kingdom, and which his lordship moved should be laid on the table. Several Lords having spoken on the question, LORD BYRON replied, that he had, from motives of duty, presented this petition to their lordships' con- sideration. The noble Earl had contended that it was not a petition but a speech ; and that, as it contained no prayer, it should not be received. What was the necessity of a prayer? If that word were to be used in its proper sense, their lordships could not expect that any man should pray to others. He had only to say that the petition, though in some parts expressed strongly perhaps, did not contain any improper mode of adiiress. but was couched in respectful language towards chew lordships; he should therefore trust the r lorjjr she had not even one the worst of all. * XVII. Oh ! she was perfect past all parallel Of any modern female saint's comparison ; So far above the cunning powers of hell, He\ guardian angel had given up his garrison ; Even her minutest motions went as well As those of the best time-piece made by Harrison : In virtues nothing earthly could surpass her, Save thine "incomparable oil," Macassar ! 2 XVIII. Perfect she was, but as perfection is Insipid in this naughty world of ours, Where our first parents never Icarn'd to kiss Till they were exiled from their earlier bowers, tVHrs all was peace, and innocence, and bliss (I wonder how they got through the twelve hours), l/iii Jnse. ike a lineal son of Eve, A put plucking various fruit without her leave. XIX. He was a mortal of the careless kind, With no great love for learning, or the le&n'M, Who chose to go where'er he had a mind, And never dream'd his lady was concern'd ; The world, as usual, wickedly inclined To see a kingdom or a house o'erturn'd, Whisper'd he had a mistress, some said ttoo t But for domestic quarrels one will do. XX. Now Donna Inez had, with all her merit, A great opinion of her own good qualities ; Neglect, indeed, requires a saint to bear it, And such indeed she was in her moralities; But then she had a devil of a spirit, And sometimes niix'd up fancies with realities. And let few opportunities escape Of getting her liege lord into a scrape. XXI. This was an easy matter with a man Ofl in the wrong, and never on his guard ; And even the wisest, do the best they can, Have moments, hours, and days, so unprepared, That you might " brain them with their lady's fan ;* And sometimes ladies hit exceeding hard, And fans turn into falchions in fair hands, And why and wherefore no one understands. XXII. 'T is pity learned virgins ever wed With persons of no sort of education, Or gentlemen who, though well-born and bred, Grow tired of scientific conversation : I don't choose to say much upon this head, I 'm a plain man, and in a single station, But oh ! ye lords of ladies intellectual, Inform us truly, have they not hen-peck'd you all? XXIII. Don Jose and his lady quarrell'd why Not any of the many could divine, Though several thousand people chose to try, 'T was surely no concern of theirs nor mine : I loathe that low vice curiosity ; But if there 's any thing in which I shine, 'T is in arranging all my friends' affairs, Not having, of my own, domestic cares. XXIV. And so I interfered, and with the best Intentions, but their treatment was not kind ; I think the foolish people were possess'd, For neither of them could I ever tind, Although their porter afterwards confessed But that 's no matter, and the worst 's behind. For little Juan o'er me threw, down stairs, A pail of housemaid's water unawares. XXV. A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing, And mischief-making monkey from his birth ; His parents ne'er agreed except in doting Upon the most unquiet imp on earth ; Instead of quarrelling, had they been but both in Their senses, they 'd have sent young master fotUi To school, or had him wlnpp'd at home, To teach him manners for the time to come. (Vf.VTO 1. DON JUAN. 5(5.3 XXVI. Don Jose and the Donna Inez _ed Fv some time an unhappy sort of life, Wishing each other, not divorced, but dead ; Thoy lived respectably as man and wife, Fheir conduct was exceedingly well-bred, And gave no outward signs of inward strife, l^nti! at length the smother'd fire broke out, And put the business past all kind of doubt. xxvn. For Inez call'd some druggists and physicians, And tried to prove her loving lord was mad, But as he had some lucid intermissions, She next decided he was only bud; Yet when they askM her for her depositions, No sort of explanation could be had, Save that her duty both to man and God Required this conduct which seem'd very odd. XXVIII. She kept a journal, where his faults wt/e noted, And open'd certain trunks of books and letters, All which might, if occasion served, be quoted ; And then she had all Seville for abettors, Besides her good old grandmother (who doted) ; The hearers of her case became repeaters, Then advocates, inquisitors, and judges, Some for amusement, others for old grudges. XXIX. An'l then this best and meekest woman bore Vf Uh such serenity her husband's woes, Just as the Spartan ladies did of yore, TV ho saw their spouses kill'd, and nobly chose Never to say a word about them more Calmly she heard each calumny that rose, And saw his agonies with such sublimity, That all the world exclaim'd, * What magnanimity !" XXX. No doubt, this patience, when the world is damning us Is philosophic in our former friends ; T is also pleasant to be deemed magnanimous, The more so in obtaining our own ends ; And what the lawyers call a "malut animus? Conduct like this by no means comprehends ; Revenge in person 's certainly no virtue, But then 't is not my fault if other* hurt you. XXXI. And if our quarrels should rip up old stories, And help them with a lie or two additional, I'm not to blame, as you well know, no more is Any one else they were become traditional ; Besides, their resurrection aids our glories By contrast, which is what we just were wishing all ; And science profits by this resurrection Dead scandals form good subjects for dissection. xxxn. fheir friends had tried at reconciliation, Then their relations, who made matters worse (* T were hard to tell upon a like occasion To whom it may be best to have recourse can r t say much for friend or yet relation) : The lavyers did their utmost for divorce, But scarce a fee wai paid on either side Before, unluckily, Don Jose died. XXXIII. He died : and most unluckily, because. According to all hints I could collec* From counsel learned in those kinds of laws (Although their talk's obscure and circunrspect His death contrived to spoil a charming cans* ; A thousand pities also with respec* To public feeling, which on this occasion Was manifested in a great sensation. XXXIV. But ah ! he died ; and buried with him lay The public feeling and the lawyers' fees : His house was sold, his servants sent away, A Jew took one of his two mistresses, A priest the other at least so they say : I ask'd the doctors after his disease He died of the slow fever called the tertian, And left his widow to her own aversion. XXXV. Yet Jose was an honourable man, That I must say, who knew him very well; Therefore his frailties I '11 no further scan, Indeed there were not many more to tell ; And if his passions now and then outran Discretion, and were not so peaceable As Numa's (who was also named Pompilius), He had been ill brought up, and was born bilious. XXXVI. Whate'er might be his worthlessness or worth, Poor fellow ! he had many things to wound him, Let 's own, since it can do no good on earth ; It was a trying moment that which found him, . Standing alone beside his desolate hearth, Where all his household gods lavshiver'd round him, No choice was left his feelings or his pride Save death or Doctors' Commons so he died. XXXVII. Dying intestate, Juan was sole heir To a chancery-suit, and messuages, and lands, Which, with a long minority and care, Promised to turn out well in proper hands : Inez became sole guardian, which was fair, And answer'd but to nature's just demands; An only son left with an only mother Is brought up much more wisely than another. XXXVIII. Sagest of women, even of widows, she Resolved that Juan should be quite a paragon* And worthy of the noblest pedigree (His sire was of Castile, his dam from Arragoni Then for accomplishments of chiva'ry, In case our lord the king should go to w He leam'd the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery, And how to scale a fortress -or a nunnery. XXXIX. But that which Donna Inez most desired, And saw into herself each day before at The learned tutors whom for him she hired, Was that his breeding should be strictly mur Much into all his studies she inquired, And so they were submitted first to her, all. Arts, sciences, no hrancn was made a mystir* To Juan's eyes, excepting natural liL'loiv. 564 BYRON'S WORKS. CASIO 1, XL. The languages, especially the dead, The sciences, and irost of all the abstruse, The arts, at least all such as could be said To be the most remote from common use, In all these he was much and deeply read ; But not a page of any thing [that 's loose, Or hints continuation of the species, Was ever sufler'd, lest he should grow vicious. XLI. His classic studies made a little puzzle, Because of filthy loves of gods and goddesses, Who in the earlier ages raised a bustle, But never put on pantaloons or boddiccs; His reverend tutors had at times a tussle, And for their JEncids, Iliads, and Odysseys, Were forced to make an odd sort of apology, For Donna Inez dreaded the mythology. XLII. Ovid 's a rake, as half his verses show him ; Anacreon's morals are a slill worse sample ; Catullus scarcely has a decent poem ; 1 don't think Sappho's Ode a good example, Although 1 Longinus tells us there is no hymn Where the sublime soars forth on wings more ample ; But Virgil's songs are pure, except that horrid one Beginning with " Formosum pastor Corydon." XLIII. Lucretius' irreligion is too strong For early stomachs, to prove wholesome food, I can't help thinking Juvenal was wrong, Although no doubt his real intent was good, If K speaking out so plainly in his song, So much indeed as to be downright rude ; And then what proper person can be partial To all those nauseous epigrams of Martial ? XLIV. Juan was taught from out the best edition, Expurgated by learned men, who place, Judiciously, from out the school-boy's vision, The grosser parts ; but, fearful to deface Too much their modest bard by this omission, And pitying sore his mutilated case, They only add them all in an appendix,* Which saves, in fact, the trouble of an index ; XLV. For there we have them all " at one fell swoop," Instead of being scatter'd through the pages ; They stand forth marshali'd in a handsome troop, To meet the ingenuous youth of future ages, Till some less rigid editor shall stoop To call them back into their separate cages, Instead of standing staring altogether, I Jke garden gods and not so decent, either. XLVI. 7 he MI.5sal loo (it was the family Missal) Was ornamented in a sort of way Which ancient mass-books often are, and this all Kinds of grotesques illumined ; and how they Who saw tuuse figuies on the margin kiss all, Could turn t^eir optics to the text and pray Is more than 1 ic.iow but Don Juan's mother Kept Uiis herself, aiid gave her son another. XLVII. Sermons he read, and lectures he endured, And homilies, and lives of all the saints ; To- Jerome and to Chrysostom inured, He did not take such studies for restraints : But how faith is acquired, and then insured, So well not one of the aforesaid paints As Saint Augustine, in his fine Confessions, Which make the reader envy his transgressions XLVIII. This, too, was a seal'd book to little Juan I can't but say that his mamma was right, If such an education was the true one. She scarcely trusted him from out her sight ; Her maids were old, and if she took a new one You might be sure she was a perfect fright ; She did this during even her husband's life- I recommend as much to every wife. XLIX. Young Juan wax'd in goodliness and grace : At six a charming child, and at eleven With all the promise of as fine a face As e'er to man's maturcr growth was given . He studied steadily and grew apace, And seem'd, at least, in the right road to heaven For half his days were pass'd at church, the other Between his tutors, confessor, and mother. L. At six, I said he was a charming child, At twelve, he was a fine, but quiet boy ; Although in infancy a little wild, They tamed him down amongst them : to destroy His natural spirit not in vain they toil'd, At least at seem'd so ; and his mother's joy Was to declare how sage, and still, and steady, Her young philosopher was grown already. LI. I had my doubts, perhaps I have them still, But what I say is neither here nor there ; I knew his father well, and have some skill In character but it would not be fair From sire to son to augur good or ill: He and his wife were an ill-sorted pair- But scandal 's my aversion I protest Against all evil speaking, even in jest. LII. For my part I say nothing nothing but Thit I will say my reasons are my own That if I had an only son to put To school (as God he praised that I have nonej 'T is not with Donna Inez I would shut Him up to learn his catechism alone ; No no I 'd send him out betimes to college, For there it was I pick'd up my own knowledge. LIH. For there one learns 'tis not for me to boast, Though I acquired but I pass over that, As well as all the Greek I since have .ost : I say that there 's the place but Verb-urn A I think I pick'd up, too, as well as most, Knowledge of matters but, no mailer wna I never married but I think, I know, That sons should not be educated so. <: JJVTG /. DON JUAN. 505 LIV. Tonne Juan now was sixteen years of age, Tall, handsome, slender, but well knit ; he seem'd Active, though not so sprightly, as a page; And every body but his mother deem'd Him almost man ; but she flew in a rage, And bit her lips (for else she might have scream'd) If any said so, for to be precocious Was in her eyes a thing the most atrocious. LV. Amongst her numerous acquaintance, all Selected for discretion and devotion, There was the Donna Julia, whom to call Pretty were but to give a feeble notion Of many charms, in her as natural As sweetness to the flower, or salt to ocean, Her zone to Venus, or his bow to Cupid (But this last simile is trite and stupid). LVI. The darkness of her oriental eye Accorded with her Moorish origin : (Her blood was not all Spanish, by the by ; In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin). When rjroud Grenada fell, and, forced to fly, Boabdil wept, of Donna Julia's kin Some went to Africa, some stay'd in Spain, Her grjat-great-grandmamma chose to remain, LVII. She married (I forget the pedigree) With an Hidalgo, who transmitted do-.vn Flis blood less noble than such blood should be : At such alliances his sires would frown, In that point so precise in each degree That they bred in and m, as might be shown, Marrying their cousins nay, their aunts and nieces, Which always spoils the breed, if it increases. LVIII. This heathenish cross restored the breed again, Ruin'd its blood, but much improved its flesh ; For, from a root, the ugliest in Old Spain, Sprung up a branch as beautiful as fresh ; The sons no more were short, the daughters plain : But there's a rumour which I fain would hush T is said that Donna Julia's grandmamma Produced her Don more heirs at love than law. LIX. However this might be, the race went on Improving still through every generation, Until it center'd in an only son, Who left an only daughter ; my narration May have suggested that this single one Could be but Julia (whom on this occasion I shall have much to speak about), and she Was married, charming, chaste, and twenty-three. LX. tier eye (I 'ra very fond of handsome eyes) Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire Cntil she spoke, then through its soft diSguise Flash'd an expression more of pride than ire, And love lhan either; and there would arise A sometnirg in them which was not desirf, But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul LXI. Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow Bright with intelligence, and fair and smooth ; Her eyebrow's shape was like the aerial bow, Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth. Mounting at times to a transparent giow, As if her veins ran lightning ; she, in sooth, Possess'd an air and grace by no means comma* Her stature tall I hate a dumpy woman. LXII. Wedded she was some years, and to a man Of fifty, and such husbands are in plenty ; And yet, I think, instead of such a OE, 'T were better to have two of five-and-twenty, Especially in countries near the sun : And now I think on 't, " mi vien in mente," Ladies, even of the most uneasy virtue, Prefer a spouse whose age is short of thirty. LXIII. T is a sad thing, I cannot choose but say, And all the fault of that indecent sun Who cannot leave alone our helpless clay, But will keep baking, broiling, burning on, That, howsoever people fast and pray, The flesh is frail, and so the soul undone : What men call gallantry, and gods adultery, Is much more common where the climate 's sultry. LXIV. Happy the nations of the moral north ! Where all is virtue, and the winter season Sends sin without a rag on, shivering forth ('T was snow that brought Saint Anthony to reason), Where juries cast up what a wife is worth, By laying whale' er sum, in mulct, they please on The lover, who must pay a handsome price, Because it is a marketable vice. LXV. Alfonso was the name of Julia's lord, A man well looking for his years, and who Was neither much beloved nor yet abhorr'd: They lived together as most people do, Suffering each others' foibles by accord, And not exactly either one or two; Yet he was jealous, though he did not show h. For jealousy dislikes the world to know it. LXVI. Julia was yet I never could see why With Donna Inez quite a favourite friend : Between their tastes there was small sympathy, For not a line had Julia ever penn'd : Some people whisper (but no doubt they lie, For malice still imputes some private end) That Inez had, ere Don Alfonso's marriage, Forgot with him her very prudent carriage ; LXVII. And that, still keeping up the old connexion, Which time had lately render'd much more chasu She took his lady also in affection, And certainly this course was much the best. She flatter'd Julia with her sage" protection, And complimented Don Alfonso's taste ; And if she could not (who can?) silence scandai. Which struggled through and chasten'd down the whole, (At least she left it a more slender handJo. \ BYRON'S WORKS. CASTO L LXVIII. can't tell whether Julia saw the affair With oi her people's eyes, or if her own Disco /enes made, but none could be aware Of this, at least no symptom e'er was shown ; Perhaps she did not know, or did not care, Indifferent from the first or callous grown : I 'm really puzzled what to think or say, She kept her counsel in so close a way. LXIX. Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child, Caress'd him often, such a thing might be Quite innocently done, and harmless styled When she had twenty years, and thirteen he ; But I am not so sure 1 should have smiled When he was sixteen, Julia twenty-three : These few short years make wondrous alterations, Particularly amongst sun-burnt nations. LXX. Wliate'er the cause might be, they had become Changed ; for the dame grew distant, the youth shy, Their looks cast down, their greetings almost dumb, And much embarrassment in either eye ; Ther* surely will be little doubt with some That Donna Julia knew the reason why, But as for Juan, he* had no more notion Then he who never saw the sea of ocean. LXXI. Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind, And tremulously gentle her small hand Withdrew itself from his, but left behind A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland And slight, so very slight, that to the mind 'T was but a doubt ; but ne'er magician's wand Wrought change with all Armida's fiery art Luke what this light touch left on Juan's heart. LXXII. And if she met him, though she smiled no more, She look'd a sadness sweeter than her smile, As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store She must not own, but cherish d more the while, For that compression in its burning core ; Even innocence itself has many a wile, And will not dare to trust itself with truth, And love is taught hypocrisy from youth. LXXIII. But passion most dissembles, yet betrays Even by its darkness ; as the blackest sky Foretells the heaviest tempest, it displays Its workings through the vainly-guarded eye, And in whatever aspect it arrays Itself, 't is still the same hypocrisy ; Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate, Ate masks it often wears, and still too late. LXXIV. Tnen there were sighs, the deeper for suppression, And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft, And burning blushes, though for no transgression, Tremblings when met, and restlessness when left : A!! these are 'ittlc preludes to possession, Of which young passion cannot be bereft, And mer *,\y end to show how greatly love is Cuioa. ra*sM t first starting with a novice. LXXV. Poor Julia's heart was in an awkward state : She felt it going, and resolved to make The noblest efforts for herself and mate, For honour's, pride's, religion's, virtue's sake : Her resolutions were most truly great, And almost might have made a Tarqum quak She pray'd the Virgin Mary for her grace, As being the best judge of a lady's case. LXXVI. She vow'd she never would see Juan more, And next day paid a visit to his mother, And look'd extremely at the opening door, Which, by the Virgin's grace, let in another ; Grateful she was, and yet a little sore Again it opens, it can be no other, 'T is surely Juan now No ! I 'm afraid That night the Virgin was no further pray'd. LXXVII. She now determined that a virtuous woman Should rather face and overcome temptation , That flight was base and dastardly, and no man Should ever give her heart the least sensation ; That is to say a thought, beyond the common Preference that we must feel upon occasion For people who are pleasanter than others, But then they only seem so many brothers. LXXVIII. And even if by chance and who can tell ? The devil 's so very sly she should discover That all within was not so very well, And if, still free, that such or such a lover Might please perhaps, a virtuous wife can quell Such thoughts, and be the better when they 're ove And, if the man should ask, 't is but denial . I recommend young ladies to make trial. LXXIX. And then there are such things as love divine, Bright and immaculate, unmix'd and pure, Such as the angels think so very fine, And matrons, who would be no less secure, Platonic, perfect, "just such love as mine ;" Thus Julia said and thought so, to be sure, And so I 'd have her think, were I the man On whom her reveries celestial ran. LXXX. Such love is innocent, and may exist Between young persons without any dan?>:i ; A hand may first, and then a lip be kiss'd ; For my part, to such doings I 'm a stranger. But hear these freedoms for the utmost list Of all o'er which such love may be a ranger If people go beyond, 't is quite a crime, But not my fault I tell them all in time. LXXXI. Love, then, but love within its proper limits, Was Julia's innocent determination tn young D*n Juan's favour, and to him iis Exertion might be useful op occasion And, lighted at too pure a shrine to dim a Ethcrial lustre, with what sweet persuasion He might be taught, by love and ner together- [ really don't know what, nor Tu' a either. . or I zs ; IS KYKS . CANTO I. DON JUAN. 567 LXXXII. Fraught with this fine intention, and well fenced In mail of proof her purity of soul, She, for the future, of her strength convinced, And that her honour was a rock, or mole, Exceeding sagely from that hour dispensed With any kind of troublesome control. But whether Julia to the task was equal Is that which must be mention'd in the sequel. LXXXIII. Her plan she deem'd both innocent and feasible, And, surely, with a stripling of sixteen Not scandal's fangs could fix on much that 's seizable ; Or, if they did so, satisfied to mean Nothing but what was good, her breast was peaceable A quiet conscience makes one so serene ! Christians have burned each other, quite persuaded That all the apostles would have done as they did. LXXXIV. And if, in the mean time, her husband died, But Heaven forbid that such a thought should cross Her brain, though in a dream, (and then she sigh'd!) Never could she survive that common loss ; But just suppose that moment should betide, I only say suppose it inter nos (This should be enlre nous, for Julia thought [n French, but then the rhyme would go for nought). LXXXV. t only say suppose this supposition : Juan, being then grown up to man's estate, Would fully suit a widow of condition ; Even seven years hence it would not be too late ; And in the interim (to pursue this vision) The mischief, after all, could not be great, For he would learn the rudiments of love, I mean the seraph way of those above. LXXXVI. So much for Julia. Now we '11 turn to Juan. Poor little fellow ! he had no idea Of his own case, and never hit the true one ; In feelings quick as Ovid's Miss Medea, He puzzled over what he found a new one, But not as yet imagined it could be a Thing quite in course, and not at all alarming, Which, with a little patience, might grow charming. LXXXVII. Silent and pensive,' idle, restless, slow, His home deserted for the lonely wood, Tormented with a wound he could not know, His, like all deep grief, plunged in solitude. I 'm fond myself of solitude or so, But then I beg it may be understood By solitude I mean a sultan's, not A hermit's, with a haram for a grot. LXXXVIII. * Oh love ! in such a wilderness as this, Where transport and security entwine, .lore is the empire of thy perfect bliss, Am! here thoii art a god indeed divine." The bar! I quote from does not sing amiss,* With the exception ol the second line, Ki>" that same twining " transport and security " \ rr. twisted . to a uhrase of some obscurity. LXXXIX. The poet meant, no doubt, and thus appeals To the good sense and senses of mankind, The very thing which every body feels, As all have found on trial, or may find, That no one likes to be disturb'd at meals Or love: I r the Humane Society's beginning , Bv which men are unsuffbcated gratis; XV ht wondrous new machines have late been spinning CXXXI. CXXXH. This is the patent age of new inventions For killing bodies and for saving souls. All propagated with the best intentions : Sir Humphry Davy's lantern, by which coals Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions Tunbuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles Are ways to benefit mankind, as true, Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo. CXXXII1. Man's a phenomenon, one knows not what, And wonderful beyond all wondrous measuie, 'Tis pity though, in this sublime world, that Pleasure 's a sin, and sometimes sin '* a pleasure j Few mortals know what end they would be at, But whether glory, power, or love, or treasure, The path is through perplexing ways, and when The goal is gain'd, we die, you know and then C XXXIV. What then? I do not know, no more do you And so good night. Return we to our story: Twas in November, when fine days are few, And the far mountains wax a little hoary, And clap a white cape on their mantles blue ; And the sea dashes round the promontory. And the loud breaker boils against the rock, And sober suns must set at five o'clock. cxxxv. Twas, as the watchmen say, a cloudy night; No moon, no stars, the wind was low or loud By gusts, and many a sparkling hearth was bright Wi:h the piled wood, round which the f-unilv crowd 4 There's something cheerful in that sort of light, Even as a summer sky 's without a cloud : I 'm fond of fire, and crickets, and all that, A lobster salad, and champagne, and chat C XXXVI. 'T was midnight Donna Julia was in bed, Sleeping, most probably, when at her door Arose a clatter might awake the dead, If they had never been awoke before And that they have been so we all have read, And are to be so, at the least, once more The door was fasten'd, but, with voice and fist, First knocks were heard, then "Madam Madam hist! CXXXVII. "For God's sake, Madam Madam here's my mastet With more than half the city at his back Was ever heard of such a cursed disaster ? Tis not my fault I kept good watch Alack' Do, pray, undo the bolt a little faster They're on the stair just new, and ia * crac* Will all be here ; perhaps he yet may fly- Surely the window 's iW 10 ttrti bit S '" /. DON JUAN. 571 CX3LXV1IL By this time Don Alfonso was arrived, With torches, fiends, and servants in great number ; The major part of them had long been wived, And therefore paused not to disturb the slumber Of any wicked woman, who contrived By stealth her husband's temples to encumber : Examples of this kind are so contagious, Were one not punish'd, all would be outrageous. CXXXLJL I can't teD how, or why, or what suspicion Could enter into Don Alfonso's head, But for a cavalier of his condition It sorely was exceedingly ill-bred, Without a word of previous admonition, To hold a levee round his lady's bed, And summon lackeys, arm'd with fire and sword, To prove himself the thing he most abhorrM. CXL. Poor Donna Julia! starting as from sleep (Mind that I do not say rite had not slept), Began at once to scream, and yawn, and weep ; Her maid Antonia, who was an adept, Contrived to fling the bed-clothes in a heap, As if she had just now from out them crept: I can't tell why she should take all this trouble To prove her mistress had been sleeping doable. CXLL A&ionia maid But Julia 1 Appeard like two poor harmless Of goblins, but still more of men, afraid, Had thought one man might be deterr'd by two, And therefore side by side were gently laid, Until the hours of absence ho"H ran through. And truant husband should return, and say, u My dear, I was the first who came away." . CX1II. Now Julia found at length a voice, and cried, " In Heaven's name, Don Alfonso, what d* ye mean? Has madness seized you? would that 1 had died Ere such a monster's victim I had been! What may this midnight violence betide, A sudden fit of drunkenness or spleen? Dare you suspect me, whom the thought would kill? Search, then, the room !" Alfonso said, " I win." CXLHL He search'd,tfoy search'd, and rummaged every where, Closet and ckxhes'-press, chest and window-seat, And found much linen, lace, and several pair Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, complete, With other articles of ladies fair, To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat: Arras they prick'd and curtains wkh their swords, And wounded several shutters, and some boards. CXLIV. Coder tHe bed they search'd, and there they found- No matter what it was not that they sought, Fbey open'd windows, gazing if the ground Had signs or foot-marks, but the earth said nought: And then they stared each other's faces round: Tsf odd, not one of aO these seekers thought, And seems to me almost a sort of blunder, Of looking at the bed as TveD as under. CXLV. During this inquisition Julia's tongue Was not asleep "Yes, search and search," she cried, "Insult on insult heap, and wrong on wrong! It was for this that I became a bride! For this in silence I have suffer" d long A husband like Alfonso at my side ; But now 111 bear no more, nor here remain, If there be law, or lawyers, in aB Spain. "Yes, Don Alfa CXLVI. now 00 more, If ever yon indeed deserved the name, Is't worthy of your years ? you have threescore, Fifty, or sixty k is all the same Is 't wise or fitting causeless to explore For facts against a virtuous woman's fame? Ungrateful, perjured, barbarous Don Alfonso! How dare yoa think your lady would go on so ? CXLVIL "Is it for this I have disdain'd to bold The common privileges of my sex? That I have chosen a confessor so old And deaf, that any other H would vex. And never once be has had cause to scold, Bui lound my very miy^cence perp.^x So much, he always doubted I was married How sorry yoa will be when I ' ve miscarried ! CXLVUL Was it for this that no Cortejo ere I yet have chosen from oat the youth of SevOk? Is it for this I scarce went any where, Except to buB-figbts, mass, play, rout, and revel T Is k for this, whate'er my suitors were, I favoured DODO nay, was almost uncivil? Is it for this that General Count O'Reilly, Who took Algiers, declares I used him vflejy?* CXLLX. "Did not the Italian Musico Cazzani Sing at my heart six months at least in Tain? Did not his countryman, Count Corntani, Call me the only virtuous wife in Spain? Were there not also Ruffians, Engush, many? The Count Strongstroganoff I put in pain, And Lord Mount Coffeehouse, the Irish peer, Who bird himself for lore (with wine) last year. CL. "Have I not had two bishops at my feet, The Duke of Ichar, and Don Fernan Nunez? And is it thus a faithful wife you treat? I wonder in what quarter now the moon is. I praise your vast forbearance not to beat Me also, since the time so opportune is Oh, valiant man! with sword drawn and cocVd triggw Now, tell me, don't you cut a pretty figure ? CLL " Was it for this yon took your sudden jomnet . Under pretence of business indispensable, With that sublime of rascals your attorney. Whom I see standing mere, and lookmg sensuMr Of having phyM the fool? though both I spurn, he Deserves the worst, his conduct 's less i\r r rim*mm Because, no doubt, H was for bis dirty fee. And not for any love to you or me. BYRON'S WORKS. CANTO I CLIl. If he comes hei <> to take a deposition, By all means let the gentleman proceed ; You 've made the apartment in a fit condition : There 's pen and ink for you, sir, when you need Let every thing be noted with precision, I would not you for nothing should be fee'd But, as my maid 's undress'd, pray turn your spies out." "Oh!" sobb'd Antonia, "I could tear their eyes out." CLIII. " There is the closet, there the toilet, there The ante-chamber search them under, over : There is the sofa, there the great arm-chair, The chimney which would really hold a lover. I wish to sleep, and beg you will take care And make no further noise till you discover The secret cavern of this lurking treasure And, when't is found, let me, too, have that pleasure. CLIV. " And now, Hidalgo ! now that you have thrown Doubt upon me, confusion over all, Pray have the courtesy to make it known Who is the man you search for ? how d' ye call Him? what 's his lineage ? let him but be shown I hope he 's young and handsome is he tall ? Tell me and be assured, that since you stain My honour thus, it shall not be in vain. CLV. " At least, perhaps, he has not sixty years At that age he would be too old for slaughter, Or for so young a husband's jealous fears (Antonia! let me have a glass of water). I am ashamed of having shed these tears, They are unworthy of my father's daughter ; My mother dream'd not in my natal hour That I should fall into a monster's power. CLVI. " Perhaps 't is of Antonia you are jealous, You saw that she was sleeping by my side When you broke in upon us with your fellows : Look where you please we 've nothing, sir, to hide; Only another time, I trust, you '11 tell us, Or for the sake of decency abide A moment at the door, that we may be DressM to receive so much good company. CLVII. u And now, sir, I have done, and say no more ; The little I have said may serve to show The guileless heart in silence may grieve o'er The wtongs to whose exposure it is slow: I leave you to your conscience as before, T will one day ask you why you used me so ? God grant you feel not then the bitterest grief! An'onia' where 's my pocket-handkerchief ?" CLVIII. She ceased, and turn'd upon her pillow ; pale She lay. her dark eyes flashing through their tears LIKO skiw that rain and lighten ; as a veil Waved ar*d o'ershading her wan cheek, appears Her streaming hair ; the black curls strive, but fail, To hide tne giossy shoulder which uprears Its sauw through al! ; h<" soft lips lie apart, Anil b->)er than her breathing beats her heart. CLJX. The Senhor Don Alfonso stood confused ; Antonia bustled round the ransack'd room, AnH, turning up her nose, with looks abused Her master, and his myrmidons, of whom Not one, except the attorney, was amused ; He, like Achates, faithful to the tomb, So there were quarrels, cared not for the cause, Snowing they must be settled by the laws. CLX. With prying snub-nose, and small eyes, he stood Following Antonia's motions here and there, With much suspicion in his attitude ; For reputation he had little cars: So that a suit or action were made good, Small pity had he for the young and fair. And ne'er believed in negatives, till these Were proved by competent false witnesses. CLXI. But Don Alfonso stood with downcast looks, And, truth to say, he made a foolish figure ; When, after searching in five hundred nooks, And treating a young wife with so much rigour. He gain'd no point, except some self rebukes, Added to those his lady with such vigour Had pour'd upon him for the last half hour, Quick, thick, and heavy as a thunder-shower. CLXII. At first he tried to hammer an excuse, To which the sole reply were tears and sobs, And indications of hysterics, whose Prologue is always certain throes and throbs, Gasps, and whatever else the owners choose: Alfonso saw his wife, and thought of Job's ; He saw, too, in perspective, her relations, And then he tried to muster all his patience. cLxin. - He stood in act to speak, or rather stammer, But sage Antonia cut him short before The anvil of his speech received the hammer, With " Pray, sir, leave the room, and say no more. Or madam dies." Alfonso mutter'd " D n her." But nothing else, the time of words was o'er ; He cast a rueful look or two, and did, He knew not wherefore, that which he was bid. CLXIV. With him retired his "posse comitatus," The attorney last, who linger'd near the door, Reluctantly, still tarrying there as late as Antonia let him not a little sore At this most strange and unexplam'd "hiatus" In Don Alfonso's facts, which just now wore An awkward look ; as he revolved the case, The door was fasten'd in his legal face. CLXV. No sooner was it bolted, than Oh shame ! Oh sin ! oh sorrow ! and oh womankind ! How can you do such things and keep your fame, Unless this world, and t' other too, be blind ? Nothing so dear as an unfilch'd good name ! But to proceed for there is more behind : With much heart-felt reluctance be it said, Young Juan slipp'd, half-smother'd, from the bed CANTO I. DON JUAN. 573 CLXVti He had been hid I don't pretend to say How, nor can I indeed describe the where Foung, slender, and p&ck'd easily, he lay, No doubt, in little compass, round or square ; But pity him I neither must nor may His suffocation by that pretty pair ; T were better, sure, to die so, than be shut, With maudlin Clarence, in his Malmsev butt. CLXVII. And, secondly, I pity not, because He had no business to commit a sin, Forbid by heavenly, fined by human laws, At least 't was rather early to begin ; Hut at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws So much as when we call our old debts in At sixty years, and draw the accounts of evil, And find a deuced balance with the devil. CLXVIII. Of his position I can give no notion : 'T is written in the Hebrew Chronicle, How the physicians, leaving pill and potion, Prescribed, by way of blister, a young belle, When old King David's blood grew dull in motion, And that the medicine answer'd very well ; Perhaps 't was in a different way applied, For David lived, but Juai nearly died. CLXIX. What's to be done? Alfonso will be back The moment he has sent his fools away. Antonia's skill was put upon the rack, But no device could be brought into play And how to parry the renew'd attack ? Besides, it wanted but few hours of day : Antonia puzzled ; Julia did not speak, But press'd her bloodless lip to Juan's cheek. CLXX. He turn'd his lip to hers, and with his hand Call'd back the tangles of her wandering hair; Even then their love they could not all command, And half forgot their danger and despair: Antonia's patience now was at a stand " Come, come, 't is no time now for fooling there," She whisper'd in great wrath " I must deposit This pretty gentleman within the closet : CLXXI. 14 Pray keep your nonsense for some luckier night JVho can have put my master in this mood ? What will become on 't ? I 'm in such a fright ! The devil 's in the urchin, and no good Is this a time for giggling ? this a plight ? Why, don't you know that it may end in blood ? Fou '11 lose your life, and I shall lose my place, My mistress all, for that half-girlish face. CLXXII. * Had it but been for a stout cavalier Of twenty-five or thirty (come, make haste) dut for a child, what piece of work is here ! I really, madam, wonder at your taste Come, sir, get in) my master must be near. There, for the present at the least he 's fast, And, if we can but till the morning keep Our counsel (Juan, mind you must not sleep)." 3B CLXXIII. Now, Don Alfonso entering, but alone, Closed the oration of the trusty maid : She loiter'd, and he told her to be gone, An order somewhat sullenly obey'd ; However, present remedy was none, And no great good seem'd answer'd if she stay'J Regarding both with slow and sidelong view, She snuff'd the candle, curtsied, and withdrew. CLXXIV. Alfonso paused a minute then begun Some strange excuses for his late proceeding ; He would not justify what he had done, To say the best, it was extreme ill-breeding : But there were ample reasons for it, none Of which he specified in this his pleading : His speech was a fine sample, on the whole, Of rhetoric, which the leam'd call " rigmarole." CLXXV. Julia said nought ; though all the while there rose A ready answer, which at once enables A matron, who her husband's foible knows, By a few timely words to turn the tables, Which, if it does not silence, still must pose, Even if it should comprise a pack of fables ; 'T is to retort with firmness, and when, he Suspects with one, do you reproach with three. CLXXVI. Julia, in fact, had tolerable grounds, Alfonso's loves with Inez were well known ; But whether 't was that one's own guilt confounds But that can't be, as has been often shown ; A lady with apologies abounds : It might be that her silence sprang alone From delicacy to Don Juan's ear, To whom she knew his mother's fame was dear. CLXXVII. There might be one more motive, which makes two : Alfonso ne'er to Juan had alluded, Mention'd his jealousy, but never who Had been the happy lover, he concluded, Conceal'd amongst his premises; 'tis true, His mind the more o'er this its mystery brooded , To speak of Inez now were, one may say, Like throwing Juan in Alfonso's way. CLXXVIII. A hint, in tender cases, is enough ; Silence is best, besides there is a tact (That modem phrase appears to me sad stuff, But it will serve to keep my verse compact) Which keeps, whin push'd by questions rather rougti A lady always distant from the fact The charming creatures lie with such a grace, There's nothing so becoming to the face. CLXXIX. They blush, and we believe iiem ; at least I Have always done so ; 't u of no great use. In any case, attempting a reply, For then their eloquence grows quite profuse . And when at length they 're out of breath, they sigi,, And cast theii languid eyes down, and let loose A tear or two, and then we make it up : And then acd then tad then sit dov/n ar.d sm 574 BYRON'S WORKS. CANT-) L CLXXX. Alfons' clp'.-;. CANTO ii. DON JUAN. 57 CCXXII - Go, little book, from this my solitude ! I cast thee on the waters, go thy ways ! And if, as I believe, thy vein be good, The world will find thee after many days." When Southey 's read, and Wordswoi th understood, I can't help putting in my claim to praise The four first rhymes are Southey's, every line : For God's sake, reader ! take them not for mine. CANTO II. L OH ye ! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations, Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain, I pray ye flog them upon all occasions, It mends their morals ; never mind the pain : The best of mothers and of educations, In Juan's case, were but employ'd in vain, Since in a way, that 's rather of the oddest, he Became divested of his native modesty. II. riad he but been placed at a public school, In the third form, or even in the fourth, His daily task had kept his fancy cool, At least had he been nurtured in the north ; Spain may prove an exception to the rule, But then exceptions always prove its worth A lad of sixteen causing a divorce Puzzled his tutors very much, of course. HI. I can't say that it puzzles me at all, If all things be consider'd : first, there was His lady mother, mathematical, A , never mind ; his tutor, an old ass ; A pretty woman (that's quite natural, Or else the thing had hardly come to pass); A husband rather old, not much in unity With his young wife a time, and opportunity. IV. Well well, the world must turn upon its axis, And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails, \nd live and die, make love, and pay our taxes, And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails ; Hie king commands us, and the doctor quacks us, The priest instructs, and so our life exhales. A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame, fighting, devotion, dust perhaps a name. V. said, that Juan had been sent to Cadiz A pretty town, I recollect it well "Tis there the mart of the colonial trade is (Or was, before Peru learn'd to rebel); And such sweet girls I mean such graceful ladies, Their very walk would make your bosom swell ; * can't describe it, though so much it strike, Nor liken it I never saw the like : 3 n2 78 VI. An Arab horse, a stately stag, a barb New broke, a cameleopard, a gazelle, No none of these will do ; and then their gatb! Their veil and petticoat Alas ! to dwell Upon such things would very near absorb A canto then their feet and ancles ! well, Thank Heaven I 've got no met jgjhor quite ready, (And so, my sober Muse come'^et's be steady VII. Chaste Muse! well, if you must, you mus') the veil Thrown back a moment with the glancing hand, While the o'erpowering eye, that turns you pale, Flashes into the heart: all sunny land Of love ! when I forget you, may I fail To say my prayers but never was there plannM A dress through which the eyes give such a volley, Excepting the Venetian Fazzioli. VIII. But to our tale : the Donna Inez sent Her son to Cadiz only to embark; To stay there had not answer'd her intent, But why ? we leave the reader in the dark 'T was for a voyage that the young man was meant, As if a Spanish ship were Noah's ark, To wean him from the wickedness of earth, And send him like a dove of promise forth, IX. Don Juan bade his valet pack his things According to direction, then received A lecture and some money : for four springs He was to travel ; and, though Inez grieved (As every kind of parting has its stings), She hoped he would improve perhaps believed: A letter, loo, she gave (he never read it) Of good advice and two or three of credit. X. In the mean time, to pass her hours away, Brave Inez now set up a Sunday-school For naughty children, who would rather play (Like truant rogues) the devil or the fool ; Infants of three years old were taught that day Dunces were whipp'd or set upon a stool : The great success of Juan's education Spurr'd her to teach another generation. XI. Juan embark'd the ship got under weigh, The wind was fair, the water passing rough ; A devil of a sea rolls in that bay, As I, who 've cross'd it oft, know well enough And, standing upon deck, the dashing spray Flies in one's face, and makes it weather-tough And there le stood to take, and take again, His first perhaps his last farewell of Spain. XII. I can't but say it is an awkward sight To see one's native land receding through The growing waters it unmans one quite ; Especially when life is rather new : I recollect Great Britain's coast looks white But almost every other country's blue, When, gazing on them, mystified bv dis-'.ance. We enter on our nautical existence 0*3 BYRON S WORKS. CAX70 II Xllt. 8* Jou. SMMM *cmlder*d on the deck: TV t A P^. cordage strainY, and sailors swore, And tfesnncreak'd, the town became a speck, From w*cr ar ay so fur and fast they bore, fhe best jf lenwfies is a beefsteak Against sea-sickness ; try it, sir, before To* sneer, and I assure yua this is true. For I have fccnd it answer so may yoo. xiv. Don Juan stand, and, gating from the stem, BeheU bis native Spain reeedmgfkr: r ITT! T^**iiTii'> * >r".i : t**p ;" r: i TV: * o 1 *r JTT. * Even nations fed this when they go to war ; Tncre & sort, of uoexpress d ooooern^ A kind of shock that sets one's heart ajar: A* .tT;~j* fvf-r. U*.; 1 TtKt>; ::r<: .t .= >.'."/. v>cx~'. And places, oae keep* looking at the steeple. XT. Bat Joan had got many things to leave HH mother, and * mnesa, and no wife, So that he had much better cause to grieve Than many persons more advanced m fife; And, if we now and then a sigh most heave At quitting even those we quit in strife, No doubt we weep for those the heart endears That is, m deeper griefs congeal oar tan. XVL So Jnan wept, as wept the eaptrra Jews By Babel's water, stil uaaumlin'mg Sion: I'd weep, bat mine is not a weeping muse, And soch Eght griefs are not a thing to die on; Toang mca shonU travel, if but to amuse Themsehrcs; and the nexttane their serrants tie on Piihwiii their carnages their new portmanteau, Perhaps it any be fined with this mj canto. XVH. And Jnan wept, and much he sigh'd, and thooghl, Whie his aak teandrapt into the sak sea, "Sweets to the sweet;" (I nke so much to quote : Ton most excuse this extract, *t is where she, The4|neea of Denmark, for Opbe&a broogHt Flowers to the grave,) and sobbing often, he And serioosly resolved on xnn. r'areweu, my Spain! a fang farewefi !" he cried, Perhaps I may revisit thee no more, Bat die, as many an exiled heart hath died, Of ks own thirst to see again thy shore: FarpweO, my mother! and, since al is o'er, F*tewefl. too, dearest Jnfia! n (here be drew flrr fewer out again, and read k through.) XIX. And oh! if e'er I should forget, 1 Sooner shal this bue ocean mek to Sosner shal earth resolve ksctf to sea, Than I resign thine image, oh! my fair! Or think of any thmg, ciryptmg thee ; Ami Bert ir,e i \\ * Sooner shaH hearten kiss crth (Here he fell sio>*f Oh, Juba! what is every other vroc! (For God's sake, let me have a gtass of liquor Pedro! Battista! help me down bdow). Jofia, my love! (you rascal, Pedro, quicker) Oh, JuHa! (this cursed vessel pitches so) Beloved Julia! hear me stiU beseeching (nere he giew marticiuatQ with t etching). XXI. He fek that duffing heaviness of heart, Or rather stomach, which, alas ! attends, Beyond the best apothecary's art, The loss of love, the treachery of friends, Or death of those we doat on, when a part Of us dies with them, as each food hope ends : No doubt he would have been much more pathetic, Bat the sea acted as a strong emetic. XXII. Love's a capricious power; IVe known tt bold Out through a (ever caused by its own heat, Bat be much puzzled by a cough and cold. And find a quinsy very hard to treat ; Against an noble maladies he's bold, But vulgar mnesses don't like to meet, Nor that a sneeze should interrupt his sigh; Nor mfbmmations redden his bond eye. XXIII. But worst of all is nausea, or a pain About the lower region of the bowels ; Love, who heroically breathes a vein, Shrinks from the application of hot towels, And purgatives are dangerous to his reign, Sea-sickness death : his love was perfect, how e*j Could Juan's passion, while the billows roar, Resist his stomach, ne'er at sea before 1 XXIV. The ship, called the most holy "Trinidada," Was steering duly for the port Leghorn ; For there the Spanish family Moncada Were settled long ere Juan's sire was born: They were relations, and for them be had a Letter of introduction, which the morn Of his departure had been sent him by Hk Spanish friends for those in Italy. XXV. His sake consisted of three servants and A tutor, the licentiate Pedriilo, Who several languages did understand, Bat now by sick and speechless on his p.Uow, And, rocking in his hammock, long' d for land, His head-ache being increased by every billow ; And the waves oozing through the port-hole made His birth a liule damp, and him afraid. XXVI. Twas not without some reason, for the wind Increased at night, ur.til it blew a gale ; And though *t was not much to a naval mind, Some landsmen *rould have lookM t little pale, For sailors are, in fact, a different kind : At sunset they began to take in sa-L, For the sky show'd it would come on to blow, And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so. T n It. DON JUA*l. 579 XXVII. At toe o'Hoek, the Triad with Threw the chip right, art* Ibe tnotagh of the sea, Wiieh struck her afi,aad made aa wkwrd rift, Started the stern-post, also saanerM the Whole of her stem-fame, and, ere die eoaid ml Herself from oat her presort jeopardy, The raddcr tore waj: 'twas tine to Tbe pomps, ana there were four feet water xxvn. One gang of peop ouusdv was pot Upon the pamp t aad the rimimrtrr set To get op part of the cargo, aad what mat, Bat they eaatd M* came at the leak as jet; At tut they did get at it realy, hot StiB their sarratioawas aa eve* bet: The water rcab'd through m a. waj qnile White lhfeyOKigtri>c r X, tarswsl ask drink ram from the cade. XXXIV There's e*gbt,no dobi,s OMUI ibe sfisw culm. As mm and tnw reByon; tbns it was, The high wind nwde ** r*Me, snd ns bass The hoarse harsh wawes kept time; fiigfat enred tbr sea- sick maws Of i iM bJeUinj Cbmoor'd in chora* to the roaring ocean. XXXV. Perhaps man mbchief bad bean done, bat iar Oar Joan, who, with Got to the It with a pair of pbtob; and their fears, As if Death were anre dreaonl bybb door Of fire than water, spile of oaths aad tears. Kept stal aloof the erew, who, ere they sank, Thought itwoald be II iii t to die draak. XXXVI. Give as awre gmg," they cried, far *wfl be Al oae aa hoar beace." Jaaa aaswer'd. - No Tb true mat death awaits both yoa aad UK, Bat let as die hke mea,aot sink below aWi to And even Pedriaa,hb Wasfbr xxxvn. \^- made i. laal u^: Bepeated al hb cms, aad amde a last IflCffOCattbV wW < tCaWVtttMmly Nothmg shoaU tempt Ima amre (fhb peri To oil 1 of the efamie finhanan, To Mow Joan's wake ike Saad XXXVUJ. Bat now there came a fa* of hope Day brake, aad the wmd WFd : the m The leak incieased ; sboab roand her, bat Tbe vessel swam, yet stsl she heU her They tried the pamps again, aad sperale efibrfs seem'd al nadeas A J,rrnii| i of iiiinn'ir set some haads to The stronger pmapM, the weaker rhi amii'd a sal. TJader the wand's had the nal was paar'd, Aad far me moment it had aaaa efleetj Bat with aleak,and aot a stick of mast Sar rag af canvas, what eoaU they espeet? Bat sol lie best to ttrogele to me bat, Tb aever too late to be whaty wreekd: Aad tboaghtb tree Ta ti-y, XL. hndhmrd v**j n\ mvj y; F;r v^-r^i-- EavaJ ait r.^-r.-r H re. aaaietaay Oa which they anight repose, or A jaiy mill or ladder, or emid say The dap wodd swan aa hoar, which, hj gaod M exaedr a a dara. A80 BYRON'S WORKS. CANTO I) XLI. The wind, in fact, perhaps was rather less, But the ship labour'd so, they scarce could hope To weather out much longer ; the distress Was also great with which they had to cope, For want of water, and their solid mess Was scant enough ; in vain the telescope Was used nor sail nor shore appear'd in sight, Nought but the heavy sea, and coming night. XLII. Again the weather threaten'd, again blew A gale, and in the fere and after hold Water appear'd ; yet, though the people knew All this, the most were patient, and some bold, Until the chains and leathers were worn through Of all our pumps: a wreck complete she roll'd, At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are Like human beings during civil war. XLIII. Then came the carpenter, at last, with tear*, In his rough eyes, and told the captain he Could do no more ; he was a man in years, And long had voyaged through many a stormy sea, And if he wept at length, they were not fears That made his eyelids as a woman's be, But he, poor fellow, had a wife and children, Two things for dying people quite bewildering. XLIV. The ship was evidently settling now Fast by the head ; and, all distinction gone, Some went to prayers again, and made a vow Of candles to their saints but there were none To pay them with ; and some look'd o'er the bow ; Some hoisted out the boats : and there was one That begg'd Pedrillo for an absolution, Who told him to be damn'd in his confusion. XLV. Some lash'd them in their hammocks, some put on Their best clothes as if going to a fair; Some cursed the day on which they saw the sun, And gnash'd their teeth, and, howling, tore their hair ; And others wenv on, as they had begun, Getting the beats out, being well aware rhat a tight boat will live in a rough sea, Unless with breakers ciose beneath her lee. XLVI. The worst of all was, that in their condition, Having been several days in great distress, *T was difficult to get out such provision As now might render their long suffering less: Men, even when dying, dislike inanition ; Their stock was damaged by the weather's stress : Two casks of biscuit and a keg of butter Were all that could be thrown into the cutter. XLVII. But in the long-boat they contrived to stow Some pounds of bread, though injured by the wet ; Water, a twenty-gallon cask or so ; Sut flasks of wine and they contrived to get < portion of their oeef up from below, And with a piece of pork, moreover, met, Hut scarce enough to serve them for a luncheon ; Thtu there was rum, eight' gallons in a puncheon. XLVIII. The other boats, the yawl and pinnace, had Been stove in the beginning of the gale : And the long-boat's condition was but bad, As there were but two blankets for a sail, And one oar for a mast, which a young lad Threw in by good luck over the ship's rail ; And two boats could not hold, far less be stored, To save one half the people then on board. XLIX. 'T was twilight, for the sunless day went down Over the waste of waters ; like a veil, Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose thfi frown Of one whose hate is inask'd but to assail; Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown, And grimly darkled o'er their faces pale And the dim desolate deep ; twelve days had Fear Been their familiar, and now Death was here. L. Some trial had been making at a raft, With little hope in such a rolling sea, A sort of thing at which one would have laugh'd, If any laughter at such times could be, Unless with people who too much have quaff'd, And have a kind of wild and horrid glee, Half epileptical, and half hysterical : Their preservation would have been a miracle. LI. At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hen-coops, spars, And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose, That still could keep afloat the struggling tars, For yet they strove, although of no great use: There was no light in heaven but a few stars ; The boats put off o'ercrowded with their crews ; She gave a hesl, and then a lurch to port, And, going down head-foremost sunk, in short. LII. Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell ! Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave*; Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yell, As eager to anticipate their grave ; And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell, And down she suck'd with her the whirling wave. Like one who grapples with his enemy, And strives to strangle him before he die. LIII. And first one universal shriek there rush'd, Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash Of echoing thunder ; and then all was hush'd, Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash Of billows ; but at intervals there gush'd, Accompanied with a convulsive splash, A solitary shriek the bubbling cry Of some strong swimmer in his agony. LIV. The boats, as slated, had got off before, And in them crowded several of the crew ; And yet their present hope was hardly more Than what it had been, for so strong it blew, There was slight chance of reaching any shore ; And then they weie too many, thougn so few- Nine in the cutter, thirty in the bcal, Were counted in them whet they gol afloat n. DON JUAN. 581 LV. All the rest perish'd ; near two hundred souls Had left their bodies ; and, what 's worse, alas ! Wnen over Catholics the ocean rolls, The} mus*. wait several weeks, before a mass Takes off one peck of purgatorial coals, Because, till people know what 's come to pass, They won't lay out their money on the dead- It costs three francs for every mass that 's said. LVI. Juan got into the long-boat, and there Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place ; It seem'd as if they had exchanged their care, For Juan wore the magisterial face Which courage gives, while poor Pedrillo's pair Of eyes were crying for their owner's case ; Battista (though a name call'd shortly Tita) Was lost by getting at some aqua-vita. LVII. Pedro, his valet, too, he tried to save ; But the same cause, conducive to his loss, Left him so drunk, he jump'd into the wave, As o'er the cutter's edge he tried to cross, And so he found a wine-and-watery grave : They could not rescue him, although so close, Because the sea ran higher every minute, And for the boat the crew kept crowding in it. LVIII. A small old spaniel, which had been Don Jose's, His father's, whom he loved, as ye may think, For on such things the memory reposes With tjnderness, stood howling on the brink, Knowing, (dogs have such intellectual noses!) No doubt, the vessel was about to sink ; And Juan caught him up, and, ere he stepp'd Off, threw him in, then after him he leap'd. LIX. He also stuff'd his money where he could About his person, and Pedrillo's too, Who let him do, in fact, whate'er he would, Not knowing what himself to say or do, As every rising wave his dread renew'd ; But Juan, trusting they might still get through, And deeming there were remedies for any ill, Thus re-embark'd his tutor and his spaniel. LX. 'T was a rough night, and blew so stiffly yet, That the sail was becalm'd between the seas, Though on the wave's high top too much to set, They dared not take it in for all the breeze ; Each sea curl'd o'er the stern, and kept them wet, And made them bale without a moment's ease, So that themselves as well as hopes were damp'd, And the poor little cutter quickly swamp'd. LXI. Nine souls more w3nt in her: the long-boat still Kept above water, with an oar for mast, Two blankets stitch'd together, answering ill Instead of sail, were to the oar made fast ; Though every wave roll'd menacing to fill, And present peril all before surpass'd, They grieved for those who perish'd with the cutter, And also for the biscuit-casks and butter. LXII. The sun rose red and fiery, a sure sign Of the continuance of the gale : to run Before the sea, until it should grow fine, Was all that for the present could be done : A few tea-spoonfuls of their rum .and wine Was served out to the peop^j, who begun To faint, and damaged bread wet through the bags And most of them had little clothes but rags. us They counted thirty, crowded in a space Which left scarce room for motion or exertion : They did their best to modify their case, One half sate up, though numb'd with the immersi->n While t' other half were laid down in their place, At watch and watch ; thus, shivering like the tertian Ague in its cold fit, they fill'd their boat, With nothing but the sky for a great-coat. LXIV. 'T is very certain the desire of life Prolongs it ; this is obvious to physicians, When patients, neither plagued with friends nor w'fe. Survive through very desperate conditions, Because they still can hope, nor shines the knife Nor shears of Atropos before their visions : Despair of all recovery spoils longevity, And makes men's miseries of alarming brevity. LXV. 'T is said that persons living on annuities Are longer lived than others, God knows why Unless to plague the grantors, yet so true it is. That some, I really think, do never die ; Of any creditors the worst a Jew it is, And that 's their mode of furnishing supply : In my young days they lent me cash that way, Which I found very troublesome to pay. LXVI. 'Tis thus with people in an open boat, They live upon the love of life, and bear More than can be believed, or even thought, And stand, like rocks, the tempest's wear and tear ; And hardship still has been the sailor's lot, Since Noah's ark went cruising here and there-- She had a curious crew as well as cargo, Like the first old Greek privateer, the Argo. LXVII. But man is a carnivorous production, And must have meals, at least one meal a day He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon suction, * But, like the shark and tiger, must have prey : Although his anatomical construction Bears vegetables in a grumbling way, Your labouring people think, beyond all question, Beef, veal, and mutton, better for digestion. LXVIII. And thus it was with this our hapless crew ; For on the third day there came on a cann, And though at first their strength it might renfii* And, lying on their weariness like balm, Lull'd them like turtles sleeping on 'he blue Of ocean, when thoy woke they tell a qualm. And fell all ravenously on their provision, Instead of hoarding it with due precision . >S-2 BYRON'S WORKS. ro it. LHX. I/SsS OQB9B(jpEMMCC They ate ns>al they had ai^ drank their wiae, la spile of al remoasinneeK, aad then OB what, in feet, next day woe they to dme? Thr; hoped the wmd wooU nse, these fodfeh men ! Aad carry them to shore; these hopes were fine, Bat.astheyhadbataBcoar,and that bridle, It The foarth day came, tat Mt And ocean li I d fte an mnrean'd chad: The fifth day, aad their boat lay noatmg there, The ML and sky were Moe, and dear, and ntfd- With the* one oar (I wish they had had a pair) What coaM they do? aad 'mafei iVi rage grewwfld: aid, spite of hk mnralmg, kSFd, aaa porooo'd oat tor present eatmg. Oa the HUh dav they fed apon hk hide, Warn Hthoagh first denied). As a great favour, Which he abided warn Pedriao, wh Devoid 4, longing fir the other km f.TTn. 1W terratk day, aad BO mmt Ihu B BbsterM and scorchM; and, stagnant oa the sea, they Say ike taiiam.i ; aad hope ia the breeze that each Wi~ Theha^ngi of the ant) ia their wolfish eyes. Ti And oat they spoke of lots for fesh and blood, Aad who aaoaU das to he las felows* food. uorr. to this, they that day shared r- <* At kagtb the tots ware torn BB aad prepared, Bat TBBlerBb that aaatf. shock ihe aaae Haviag BO paper, tor the was* of better, TVrtook by farce fiwaJoaa Jaia's fetter. Laccr. TVe ion were aiBBf.iailBiiifc'd. aad aaVd, aad la UN uocn. He bat requested to be bied to death : The surgeon had his imMnnmats and bled PedriBo, aad so geatiy ebb'd his breath, Ton hardy cooid perceive when he vj He died as bora, a Catholic in faith, Like most in the belief in which they 're breo, And first a finle crucifix he lossM, And then held oat his jugular and wrist. Lxxvn. The suigeua, as there was no other foe, Had hb first choice of morsels for his pains; Bat being thirstiest at the moment, he Prefofd a draught from the fast-flowing Tens: Part was divided, part thrown in the sea, Aad sad* things as the entrails and the Drains Regaled two sharks, who foBow'd o'er the bilfew The salon ate the rest of poor Pednflo. Lxxvm. The sailors ate ban, al save three or foar. Who were not mate so fond of animal food J l~ *._" tt5-6 **':L? c.--~L J"J2Jj. Ttr.O. r-t'Z'TC \r-",fT.r r.;- ;WT. ?:-ar..v'.. harc^r cc-'j'.a Feel now ins appetite increased much mr e; Twas not to be expected that be should, Even m exbvjmay of then* disaster, Dine with them on lax pastor and his master. Twas better that he did not, far, to fact, The consequence was awfbi in the extreme: For Aey, who were most ravenous in the act, Went raging mad Lord! how they did biaspbeiae! And feaai aad rofl, with strange conTokaozts rack d. Drinking saltwater Eke a anaatain-stream, i 1 M iag, aad gnaaaag, howfing, sereechmg, swearmg, And, with hyena laughter, died despairing. LXXX. tiimn'd by tins mfBction, Aad al the rest were ihin enough, Heaven knows ; ad some of diem had lost their reeoBection, Happier thaa they who sd perceived their woes ; Bat others As if not wanf d soffioenliy by those Who had already perished, suffering madly, For having ased their appetites so sadly. LXXXJ. And next they thought upon the master's orate, As fattest; bat he saved himseX; because, esides btsag roach averse front such a fate There were some other reasons: the first was He had been rad>er indisposed of lale, Aad that which chiefly proved his saving dans* Was a smal present made to him at Cadiz, By general inbsuintina of the la dies. LXJLJUL Of poor Pedriao something stiS remained, Bat it was ased sparingly, come were afraid. And others stall their appetites ooMraia'd, Or bat at times a Etde soppei made; Al except Joan, who throughout abstained, Chewiag a pieee of bamboo, and some If ao At length theyeaagbt two boobies and a r*dfy And then ther left off eating uW dea^ bod CAXTO II. DON JUAN. 585 r vvxiii. And if PedriBo's fate should shocking he, To ea. tse bead of his arch-enemy The moment after he pofiteiy ends His tale; iffbeibefbodmhefi,atsea Tis surely fair to dme upon our friends. When shipwreck's short allowance grows too scanty. Without bemg much more horrible than Dante. LXXXIV. And the same night own fel a shower of ram. For which their months gaped. Eke the cracks of earth When dried to summer dust; al taught by pain, Men reaBy know not what good water 's worth: If you had been in Turkey or in Spain, Orwmhafamish'd boat's-crew had your mrth. Or in the desert beard the earners bel, FTd wish yourself where Truth is m a weL LXXXT. It poor'd down torrents, but they were no richer, Until they found a ragged piece of sheet, Which served mem as a sort of spongy pitcher, They nag k out, and, though a thirsty dkeher Might not have thought the scanty draught no sweet As a fbfl pot of porter, to their thinking They ne'er hi now had known the joys of drmkmg. LXXXVL And their baked fipc, wkh many a bioody crack, Sock'd in the moisture, which like nectar stream'd ; ofc tangoes were black. As the rich man's in bel, who Tandy screamM To beg the beggar, who could not rain back A drop of dew, when every drop had seem'd To taste of hearon if this be one, indeed, Some Christians have a comfortable creed, LXXXVn. There were two fathers in this ghastly crew, And with them their two sons, of whom the one Vas mujo niliunl and naiuy to the Tiew, Bnt he died early; and when he was gone, ffis nearest >! *! toU his sire, who threw One glance on him, and said, " Heaven's wnl be done! I can do nothing!" and he saw him thrown Into the deep, without a tear or groan. Lxxxvm. The other father had aweakier chid, Of a soft cheek, and aspect debate; Bat the boy bore op long, and with a mud And patient spirit, beil aloof his fete; Lktle he said, and now and then he smned, As if to win a part from oft" the weight He saw increasing on his father's heart, With die deep deadly thought, that they mnst part. LXXXIX. And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised His eyes from off his face, bat wiped the foam From his pale lips, and erer on him gued; And when the wish'd-ior shower at length was come. And the bey's eyes, which the dm* mm half glazed, .va'-i, *cd far a uunmnt seem'd to roam, He stiueezen 6-* <* a rag; some drops of rain IL*O hee dyvj XC. The boyezpwed-the father held the day. And iook'd upon k long, and when at bst Death left no doubt, and the dead burthen lay Stiff oo his heart, and puke and hope were He watched k wistfully, unti awmV T was borne by the'rude wave waerem h was . Then he mm** sunk down,al< And gave no signs of fife, save his XCI. Now over-head a rainbow, bunting through The scattering* Resting its bright base en the qmvermg fame: And al within fes arch appear d to he Clearer than that without, and its wide hue Wax'd broad and wavm* Eke a kumer fee, Then changed Eke to a bow that's bent, and tnos Forsook the dim eyes of these sfaipwreck'd men, xcn. b changed, of course; a heavenly chameleon. The airy chid of vapour and the ton. Brought firth in purple, cradled i rimBinu, Baptized in molten gold, and swashed in dun, Glittering Eke crescents o'er a Turk's paviion, boxwkkont the mufle), XCUL Our shipwreck'd seamen thought k a good oma It is asweS to think so, now and then; Twas an old custom of the Greek and Roman, And may riBtomc of great advantage when Fob are discouraged; and most surely no men Had greater need to nerve thcumJm. again Than mew, and so this ranmow looVd Ske hope JLCIF. bme,a beautnul whne bud. * \ Cm^lOOtBOuj WOt, mmmmwC ft OOVt SQC And pmmage (probablyk might have erHd Upon its course), pass'd oft benre their eyes, And tried to perch, akbough k saw and heard The men within the boat, and m this guise It came and went, and iutterM round them til Night fcB: imsseemM a better omen stiL XCV. But in this sxse I aim mnst remark, Twaswei thb bird of pronose did not perch, Because die tackle of oar shaiterM bark And had k been the doce from Noah's ark, Retuning there from her successful search, Winch in then- way mat miiininl chanced to ill, They wmmd have eat her, onve-branch and aE. xcn. Wkh twmght k again came on to blow, But not wkh violence ; the stars shoae out, The boat made way ; yet now they were so ln* They knew not where nor what they were abowl, Some fancied they saw land. and some sari -No'" The nauntut fa^banks gave them < . g ame swore that they heard breakers, otn^r And al undook about the otter once. 584 BYRON'S WORKS. CANTO 11 XCVII. As morning broke, the light wind died away, When he who had the watch^sung out., and swore If 't was not land that rose with the sun's ray He wish'J that land he never might see more : And the res' rubb'd their eyes, and saw a bay, Or thought they ?aw, and shaped their course for shore ; For shore it was, and gradually grew Distinct and high, and palpable to view. XCVIII. And then of these some part burst into tears, And others, looking with a stupid stare, Could not yet separate their hopes from fears, And seem'd as if they had no further care ; While a few pray'd (the first time for some years) And at the bottom of the boat three were Asleep ; they shook them by the hand and head, And tried to awaken them, but found them dead. XCIX. The day before, fast sleeping on the water, They found a turtle of the hawk's-bill kind, And by good fortune, gliding softly, caught her, Which yielded a day's life, and to their mind Proved even still & more nutritious matter, Because it left encouragement behind: They thought that in such perils, more than chance Had sent them this for their deliverance. C. The land appear'd, a high and rocky coast, And higher grew the mountstins as they drew, Set by a current, toward it : they were loi t In various conjectures, for none knew To what part of the earth they had been toss'd, So changeable had been the winds that blew ; Some thought it was Mount jEtna, some the highlands Of Candia, Cyprus, Rhodes, or other islands. CI. Meantime tke current, with a rising gale, Still set them onwards to the welcome shore, Like Charon's bark of spectres, dull and pale: Their living freight was now reduced to four ; And three dead, whom their strength could not avail To heave into the deep with those before, Though the two sharks still follow'd them, and dash'd The spray into their faces as they splash'd. CII. Famine, despair, cold, thirst, and heat had done Their work on them by turns, and thinn'd them to Such things, a mother had not known her son Amidst the skeletons of that gaunt crew ; By night chill'd, by day scorch'd, thus one by one They perish'd, until wither'd to these few, But chiefly by a species of self-slaughter, In washing down Pedrillo with salt water. CHI. A. they drew nigh the land, which now was seen, Unequal in its aspect here and there, They felt t)>e freshness of its g-owing green, That waved in forest tops, and smooth'd the air, And fell upon their glazed eyes as i screen From glistening waves, and skies so hot and bare I .ovely seem'd any object that should sweep /t .rv.- the vast. salt, dread, eternal deep. CIV. The shore look'd wild, without the trace uf map, And girt by formidable waves ; but they Were mad for land, and thus their course they ran. Though right ahead the roaring breakers lay A reef between them also now began To show its boiling surf and bounding spray. But, finding no place for their landing better, They ran the boat for shore, and overset her. CV. But in his native stream, the Guadalquivir, Juan to lave his youthful limbs was wont ; And, having learn'd to swim in that sweet river. Had often turn'd the art to some account. A better swimmer you could scarce see ever, He could, perhaps, have pass'd the Hellespont, As once (a feat on which ourselves we prided) Leander, Mr. Ekenhead, and I did. CVI So, here, though faint, emaciated, and stark, He buoy'd his boyish limbs, and strove to ply With the quick wave, and gain, ere it was dark, The beach which lay before him, high and dry : The greatest danger here was from a shark, That carried off his neighbour by the thigh ; As for the other two, they could not swim, So nobody arrived on shore but him. CVII. Nor yet had he arrived but for the oar, Which, providentially for him, was wash'd Just as his feeble arms could strike no more, And the hard wave o'erwhelm'd him as 't was dash'd Within his grasp ; he clung to it, and sore The waters beat while he thereto was lash'd ; At last, with swimming, wading, scrambling, he Roll'd on the beach, half senseless, from the sea : CVIII. There, breathless, with his digging nails he clung Fast to the sand, lest the returning wave, From whose reluctant roar his life he wrung, Should suck him back to her insatiate grave: And there he lay, full-length, where he was flung, Before the entrance of a cliff-worn cave, With just enough of life to feel its pain, And deem that it was saved, perhaps in vain. CIX. With slow and staggering effort he arose, But sunk again upon his bleeding knee And quivering hand ; and then he look'd for thoso Who long had been his mates upon the sea, But none of them appear'd to share his woes, Save one, a corpse from out the famish'd three. Who died two days before, and now had found An unknown barren beach for burial ground. ex. And, as he gazed, his dizzy brain spun fast, And down he sunk, and, as he sunk, the sand Swam round and round, and all his senses pass'd : He fell upon his side, and his stretch'd hand Droop'd dripping on the oar (their jury-mast), And, like a wither'd lily, on the land His slender frame and pallid aspect lay, As fair a thing as e'er was form'd of clay. CANTO II. DON JUAN. 585 CXI. How long in his damp trance young Juan lay He knew not, for the earth was gone for him, And time had nothing more of night nor day For his congealing blood, and senses dim : \nd how this heavy faintness pass'd away He knew not, till each painful pulse and limb, And tingling vein, seem'd throbbing back to life, far Death, though vanquish'd, still retired with strife. CXII. Elis eyes he open'd, shut, again unclosed, For all was doubt and dizziness: he thought He still was in the boat, and had but dozed, And felt again with his despair o'erwrought, And wish'd it death in which he had reposed ; And then once more his feelings back were brought, And slowly by his swimming eyes was seen A lovely female face of seventeen. CXIII. 'Twas bending close o'er his, and the small mouth Seem'd almost prying into his for breath ; And chafing him, the soft warm hand of youth Recall his answering spirits back from death: And, bathing his chill temples, tried to soothe Each pulse to animation, till beneath Vs gentle touch and trembling care, a sigh lb these kind efforts made a low reply. CX1V. fhen was f he cordial pour'd, and mantle flung Around his scarce-clad limbs ; and the fair arm Raised higher the faint head which o'er it hung ; And hci tid r isparent cheek, all pure and warm, Pillow'd his death-like forehead ; then she wrung His dewy curls, long drench'd by every storm ; And watch'd with eagerness each throb that drew A sigh from his heaved bosom and hers too. cxv. And lifting him wih care into the cave, The gentle girl, and her attendant, one Young yet her elder, and of brow less grave, And more robust of fig 1 ire, then begun To kindle fire, and as the new flames gave Light to the rocks which rooPd them, which the sun Had never seen, the maid, or whatsoe'er She was, appear'd distinct, and tall, and fair. CXVI. Her brow was overhung with coins of gold, That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair, Her clustering hair, whose longer locks were roll'd In braids behind, and, though her stature were Even of the highest for a female mould, They nearly reach'd her heel ; and in her air There was a something which bespoke command, As one who was a lady in the land. CXVII. Her hair, I said, was auburn ; but her eyes Were black as death, their lashes the same hue, Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies Deepest attraction, for when to the view Forth from its raven fringe the full glance flies, Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew ; Tis as the snake, late coil'd, who pours his length, And hurls at once his venom and his strength. 3C 79 CXVII1. Her brow was white and low, her cheeks' pute . By the watchman, or some such reality. Or by one's early valet's cursed knock . At least it is a heavy sound to me, Who like a morning slumber for the mgni Shows stars and wonv" w a better light. 588 BYRON'S WORKS. CANTO CLIII. And Juan, toe was help'd out from his dream, Or sj^ep, or n'latsoe'er it was, by feeling A most prodif. Ions appetite : the steam Of Zoe's cookery no doubt was stealing Upon his senses, and the kindling beam Of the new fire which Zoe kept up, kneeling To stir her viands, made him quite awake And long for food, but chiefly a beef-steak. CLIV. But beef is rare within these oxless isles ; Goats' flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton, And when a holiday upon them smiles, A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on : But this occurs but seldom, between whiles, For some of these are rocks with scarce a hut on, Others are fair and fertile, among which, This, though not large, was one of the most rich. CLV. I say that beef is rare, and can't help thinking That the old fable of the Minotaur From which our modern morals, rightly shrinking, Condemn the royal lady's taste who wore A cow's shape for a mask was only (sinking The allegory) a mere type, no more, That Pasiphae promoted breeding cattle, To make the Cretans bloodier in battle. CLVI. For we all know that English people are Fed upon beef I won't say much of beer, Because 'tis liquor only, and being far From this my subject, has no business here : We know, too, they are very fond of war, A pleasure like all pleasures rather dear ; So were the Cretans from which I infer That, beef and battles both were owing to her. CLVII. But to resume. The languid Juan raised His head upon his elbow, and he saw A s^>ht on which he had not lately gazed, A all his latter meals had been quite raw, Three or four things for which the Lord he praised, And, feeling still the famish'd vulture gn?w, He fell upon whate'er was offer'd, like A priest, a shark, an alderman, or pike. CLVIII. He ate, and he was well supplied ; and she, Who watch'd him like a mother, would have fed Him past all bounds, because she smiled to see Such appetite in one she had deem'd dead : But Zoe, being older than Haidee, Knew (by tradition, for she ne'er had read) That famish'd people must be slowly nursed, And fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst. CLIX. And so she took the liberty to state, Rather by deeds than words, because the case Was urgent, that the gentleman, whose fate Had made her mistress quit her bed to trace The sea-shore at this hour, must leave his plate, Unless he wish'd to die upon the place She snatch'd it, and refused another morsel, Saving. 1>, ha. I gorged enough to make a horse ill. CLX. Next they he being naked, save, \ "af'.er'd Pair of scarce decent trowge./ - jvcnt to work; And in the fire his recent rajs *hr,y sc:.tter'd, And dress'd him, for the present, like a Turk, Or Greek that is, although it not much matter'd, Omitting turban, slippers, pistols, dirk, They furnish'd him, entire except some stitches, With a clean shirt, and very spacious breecnes. CLXI. And then fair Haidee tried her tongue at speaking But not a word could Juan comprehend, Although he listen'd so that the young Greek in Her earnestness would ne'er have made an end f And, as he interrupted not, went eking Her speech out to her protege and friend, Till, pausing at the last her breath to take, She saw he did not understand Romaic. CLXII. And then she had recourse to nods, and signs, And smiles, and sparkles of the speaking eye, And read (the only book she could) the lines Of his fair face, and found, by sympathy, * The answer eloquent, where the soul shines And darts in one quick glance a Ion" reply ; And thus in every look she saw exprws'd A world of words, and things at which she guess'd. CLXIII. And now, by dint of fingers and of eyes, And words repeated after her, he took A lesson in her tongue ; but by surmise, No doubt, less of her language than her look : / As he who studies fervently the skies Turns oftener to the stars than to his book, Thus Juan learn'd his alpha beta better From Haidee's glance than any graven letter. CLXIV. 'T is pleasing to be school'd in a strange tongue By female lips and eyes that is, I mean, When both the teacher and the taught are young. As was the case, at least, where I have been ; They smile so when one 's right, and when one 's wrong They smile still more, and then there intervene Pressure of hnnds, perhaps even a chaste kiss ; I learn'd the little that I know by this : CLXV. That is, some words of Spanish, Turk, or Greek, Italian not at all, having no teachers, Much English I cannot pretend to speak, Learning that language chiefly from its preachers. Barrow, South, Tillotson, whom every week I study, also Blair, the highest reachers Of eloquence in piety and prose I hate your poets, so read none of those. CLX VI. As for the ladies, I have nought to say, A wanderer from the British world of fashion, Where I, like other " dogs, have had my day," Like other men, too, may have had my passion- But that, like other things, has pass'd away : And all her fools whom I could lay the lasn on, Foes, friends, men, women, now are nought to mo But dreams of what has been, no more to be. Mi & C E) E 7*. DON JUAN. CLXVil. Return we to Don Juan. He begun To hear new words, and to repeat them ; but Some feelings, universal as the sun, Were such as could not in his breast be shut More than within the bosom of a nun: He was in love as you would be, no doubt, With a young benefactress, so was she Just in the way we very often see. CLXVIII. And every day by day-break rather early For Juan, who was somewhat fond of rest She came into the cave, but it was merely To see her bird reposing in his nest ; And she would softly stir his locks so curly, Without disturbing her yet slumbering guest, Breathing all gently o'er his cheek and mouth, As o'er a bed of roses the sweet south. CLXIX. And every morn his colour frushlier came, And every day help'd on his convalescence, 'T was well, DC-cause health in the human frame Is pleasant, besides being true love's essence, For health and idleness to passion's flame Are oil and gunpowder ; and some good lessons Are also learnt from Ceres and from Bacchus, VVithout whom Venus will not long attack us. CLXX Vhile Venus fills the heart (without heart really Love, though good always, is not quite so good), Ceres presents a plate of vermicelli, For love must be sustain'd like flesh and blood. While Bacchus pours out wine, or hands a jelly: Eggs, oysters too, are amatory food ; But who is their purveyor from above Heaven knows, it may be Neptune, Pan, or Jove. CLXXI. When Juan woke, he found some good things ready, A bath, a breakfast, and the finest eyes That ever made a youthful heart less steady, Besides her maid's, as pretty for their size ; But I have spoken of all this already And repetition's tiresome and unwise, Well Juan, after bathing in the sea, Came always back to coffee and Haidee. CLXXII. Both were so young, and one sa innocent, That bathing pass'd for nothing ; Juan seem'd To her, as 't were the kind of being sent. Of whom these two years she had nightly dream'd, A something to be loved, a creature meant To be her happiness, and whom she deem'd To render happy ; all who joy would win Must share it, happiness was born a twin. CLXXIII. tt was such pleasure to behold him, such Enlargement of existence to partake Nature with him, to thrill beneath his touch, To welch him slumbering, and to ice him wake. I o live with him for ever wre too much ; But then the thought of parting ma^.e her quake : tie was her OWE, her ocean treasure, cast Like a rich wrerk he: first iov<>, an-1 her last. 3 =2 CLXXIV. And thus a moon roll'd on, and fair Haides Paid daily visits to her boy, and took Such plentiful precautions, that still he Remain'd unknown within his craggy nook: At last her father's prows put out to sea, For certain merchantmen upon the look, Not as of yore to carry off an lo, But three Ragusan vessels, bound for Scio. CLXXV. Then came her freedom, for she had no mother, So that, her father being at sea, she was Free as a married woman, or such other Female, as where she likes may freely pass, Without even the encumbrance of a brother, . The freest she that ever gazed on glass : I speak of Christian lands in this comparison, Where wives, at least, are seldom kept in garrison. CLXXVI. Now she prolong'd her visits and her talk (For they must talk), and he had learnt to say So much as to propose to take a walk, For little had he wander'd since the day On which, like a young flower snapp'd from the slati Drooping and dewy on the beach he lay, And thus they walk'd out in the afternoon, And saw the sun set opposite the moon. CLXXVII. It was a wild and breaker-beaten coast, With cliffs above, and a broad sandy shore, Guarded by shoals and rocks as by a host, With here and there a creek, whose aspect wore A better welcome to the tempest-toss'd ; And rarely ceased the haughty billows' roar, Save on the dead long summer days, which inaks The outstretch'd ocean glitter like a lake. CLXXVIII. And the small ripple spilt upon the beach Scarcely o'erpass'd the cream of your champagiw, When o'er the brim the sparkling bumpers reach, That spring-dew of the spirit ! the heart's rain ! Few things surpass old wine : and they may preach Who please, the more because they preach in vain, Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, Sermons and soda-water the day after. CLXXIX. Man, being reasonable, must get drunk ; The best of life is but intoxication : Glory, the grape, love, gold, in these are sunk The hopes of all men, and of every nation ; Without their sap, how branchless were the trunk Of IHe's strange tree, so fruitful on occasion: But to return, get very drunk ; and when You wake with head-ache, you shall see what then. CLXXX. Ring for your valet bid him quickly bring Some hock and soda-water, th<;n you "11 know A pleasure worthy Xerxes the great king ; For not the blest sherbet, sublimed with snow. Nor the first sparkle of the desert-spring. Nor Burgundy in all its sunset gluw. After long travel, ennui, love, or slaughtei , Vie with that draught of hock and sodn-watm . VjO BYRON'S WORKS. n CLXXXI. The coast--! think it was the coast that 1 Was just depcribing Yes, it was the coast Lay at this period quiet as the sky, The sands untuinbled, the blue waves untoss'd, And all was stillness, save the sea-bird's cry, And dolphin's leap, and little billow cross'd By some low rock or shelve that made it fret Against the boundary it scarcely wet. CLXXXII. And forth they wander'd, her sire being gone, As I have said, upon an expedition ; And mother, brother, guardian, she had none, Save Zoe, who, although with due precision She waited on her lady with the sun, Though daily service was her only mission, Bringing warm water, wreathing her long tresses, And asking now and then for cast-off dresses. CLXXXI1I. It was the cooling hour, just when the rounded Red sun sinks down behind the azure hill, Which then seems as if the whole earth it bounded, Circling all nature, hush'd, and dim, and still, With the far mountain-crescent half surrounded On one side, and the deep sea calm and chill Upon the other, and the rosy sky, With one star sparkling through it like an eye. CLXXXI V. And thus they wander'd forth, and hand in hand, Over the shining pebbles and the shells, Glided along the smooth and harden'd sand, And in the worn and wild receptacles Work'd by the storms, yet work'd as it were plann'd, In hollow halls, with sparry roofs and cells, They turn'd to rest ; and, each clasped by an arm, Yielded to the deep twilight's purple charm. CLXXXV. They look'd up to the sky, whose floating glow Spread like a rosy ocean, vast and bright ; They gazed upon the glittering sea below, Whence the broad moon rose circling into sight; They heard the waves splash, ad the wind so low, And saw each other's dark eyes darting light Into each other and, beholding this, Their lips drew near, and clung into a kiss ; CLXXXVI. A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth, and love, And beauty, all concentrating, like rays Into one focus kindled from above ; Such kisses as belong to early days, Wl>erc neart, and soul, and sense, in concert move, And the blood 's lava, and the pulse a blaze, Each kiss a heart-quake, for a kiss's strength, I think it must be reckon'd by its length. CLXXXVII. By length I mean duration'; theirs endured Heaven knows how long no doubt they never reckon'd ; And if they had, they could not have secured The sum of their sensations to a second: Thi:y had not spoken ; but they felt allured, As if their souls and lips each other beckon'd, WInr.li, bciiig jom'd, like swarming bees they clung Tlietr hearts tne flowers from whence the honey sprung. CLXXXVIII. They were alone, yet not alone as they Who, shut in chambers, think it .oneliness ; The silent ocean, and the star-light bay, The twilight glow, which momently grew less, The voiceless sands, and dropping caves, that lay Around them, made them to each other press, As if there were no life beneath the sky Save theirs, and that their life could never die. CLXXXIX. They fear'd no eyes nor ears on that lone beach, They felt no terrors from the night, they were All in all to each other: though their speech Was broken words, they thought a language there, And all the burning tongues the passions teach Found in one sigh the best interpreter Of nature's oracle first love, that all Which Eve has left her daughters since her fall. cxc. Haidee spoke not of scruples, ask'd no vows, Nor offer' d any; she had never heard Of plight and promises to be a spouse, Or perils by a loving maid incurr'd ; She was all which pure ignorance allows, And flew to her young mate like a young bird ; And, never having dreamt of falsehood, she Had not one word to say of constancy. CXCI. She loved, and was beloved she adored, And she was worshipp'd ; after nature's fashion, Their intense souls, into each other pour'd, If souls could die, had perish'd in that passion, But by degrees their senses were restored, Again to be o'ercomc, again to dash on ; And, beating 'gainst Ms bosom, Haidee's heart Felt as if never more to beat apart. CXCII. Alas ! they were so young, so beautiful, So lonely, loving, helpless, and the hour Was that in which the hear* is always full, And, having o'er itself no further power, Prompts deeds eternity cannot annul, But pays ofT moments in an endless shovei Of hell-fire all prepared for people giving Pleasure or pain to one another living. CXCIII. Alas ! for Juan and Haidee ! they were So loving and so lovely till then never, Excepting our first parents, such a pair Had run the risk of being damn'd for ever ; And Haidee, being devout as well as fair, Had, doubtless, heard about the Stygian river, And hell and purgatory but forgot Just in the very crisis she should not. CXCIV. They look upon each other, and their eyes Gleam in the moon-light ; and her white arm cl&spt Round Juan's head, and his around hers lies Half buried in the tresses which it grasps ; She sits upon his knee, and drinks his sighs, He hers until they end in broken gasps ; And thus they form a group that's quu<< antiue. Half naked, loving, natural, and Greek. CAXTO II. J)ON JUAN. cxcv. And when those deep and burning moments pass'd, And Juan sunk to sleep within her arms, She slept not, but all tenderly, though fast, Sustain d his head upon her bosom's charms, And now and then her eye to neaven is cast, And then on the pale cheek her breast now warms, Pillow'd on her o'erflowing neart, which pants With all it granted, and with a" it grants. CXCVI. An infant when it gazes on a light, A child the moment when it drains the breast, A devotee when soars the host in sight, An Arab with a stranger for a guest, A sailor, when the prize ha3 struck in fight, A miser filling his most hoarded chest, Feel rapture ; but not such true joy are reaping As they who watch o'er what they love while sleeping. CXCVII. For there it lies so tranquil, so beloved, All that it hath of life with us is living ; So gentle, stirless, helpless, and unmoved, And all unconscious of the joy 't is giving, All it hath felt, inflicted, pass''d, and proved, Hush'd into depths beyond the watcher's diving ; There lies the thing we love with all its errors, And all its charms, like death without its terrors. CXCVIII. The lady watch'd her lover and that hour Of Love's, and Night's, and Ocean's solitude, O'erflow'd her soul with their united power ; Amidsi the barren sand and rocks so rude She ani her wave-worn love had made their bower, Where nought upon their passion could intrude, And all the stars that crowded the blue space Saw nothing happier than her glowing face. CXCIX. Alas ! the love of women ! it is known To be a lovely and a fearful thing ; For all of theirs upon that die is thrown, And if 't is lost, life hath no more to bring To them but mockeries of the past alone, And their revenge is as the tiger's spring, Deadly, and quick, and crushing ; yet as real Torture is theirs what they inflict they feel. CC. They're right; for man, to man so oft unjust, Is always so to women ; one sole bond Awaits them, treachery is all their trust ; Taught to conceal, their bursting hearts despond Over their idol, till some wealthier lust Buys them in marriage and what rests beyond? A thankless husband, next a faithless lover, Then dressing, nursing, praying, and all 's over. CCI. Some take a lover, some take drams or prayers, Some mind their household, others dissipation, Some run away, and but exchange their cares, Losing the advantage of a virtuous station ; Few changes e'er can better their affairs, Theirs being an unnatural situation, From tne uisll palace to tl.e dirty hovel : Some play the devil, and then write a novel. ecu. Haidee was nature's bride, and knew not this Haidee was passion's child born where the sun Showers triple light, ?id scorches even the kiss Of his gazelle-eyed- 'daughters ; she was one Made but to love, to feel that she was his Who was her chosen : what was said or done Elsewhere was nothing She had nought to fear, Hope, care, nor love beyond, her heart beat here. ccm. And oh ! that quickening of the heart, that beat ' How much it costs us ! yet each rising throb Is in its cause as its effect so sweet, That wisdom, ever on the watch to rob Joy of its alchymy, and to repeat Fine truths ; even conscience, too, has a tough jo> To make us understand each good old maxim, So good I wonder Casllereagh don't tax 'em. CCIV. And now 'twas done on the lone shore were plighted Their hearts ; the stars, their nuptial torches, shed Beauty upon the beautiful they lighted : Ocean their witness, and the cave their bed, By their own feelings hallow'd and united, Their priest was solitude, and they were wed : And they were happy, for to their young eyes Each was an angel, and earth paradise. ccv. Oh love ! of whom great Caesar was the suitor, Titus the master, Antony the slave, Horace, Catullus, scholars, Ovid tutor, Sappho the sage blue-stocking, in whose grave All those may leap who rather would be neuter (Leucadia's rock still overlooks the wave) Oh Love ! thou art the very god of evil, For, after all, we cannot call thee devil. CCVI. Thou makest the chaste connubial state precarious, And jestest with the brows of mightiest men : Caesar and Pompey, Mahomet, Belisarius, Have much employ'd the muse of history's pen ; Their lives and fortunes were extremely various, Such worthies time will never see again : Yet to these four in three things the same luck holds, They all were heroes, conquerors, and cuckolds. CCVII. Thou makest philosophers : there 's Epicurus And Aristippus, a material crew ! Who to immoral courses would allure us By theories, quite practicable too ; If only from the devil they would insure us How pleasant were the maxim (not quite new), " Eat, drink, and love, what can the rest avail us /' So said the royal sage, Sardanapalus. CCVIII. But Juan ! had he quite forgotten Julia ? And should he have ibrgotten her so soon? I can't but say it seems t > me most truly a Perplexing question ; but, o doubt, the moon Does these tlrngs for us, and whenever new.y a Palpitation rises, 't is her boon, Else how the devil '