LIBRARY OF WELLESLEY COLLEGE PRESENTED BY Maud Mason Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2013 http://archive.org/details/poemsOObyro He raised his arm, and fiercely raised, And sternly shook his hand on high. The Giaour. ♦&* POEMS BY LORD BYRON WITH ILL US TEA TIONS LONDON GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL NEW YORK : 416 BROOME STREET ._.._ As -•■o* ^^3^3 HOUTLEDGE'S RED LINE POETS. COWPBR. MILTON. WOBDS WORTH. SOUTHEY. GOLDSMITH. BURNS. MOORE. BYRON. POPE. SCOTT. HERBERT. CAMPBELL. SHAKSPERE. CHAUCER. ■WILLIS. SACRED TOEMS. FAMILIAR QUOTATIONa MRS. Hi: MANS. SHELLEY. COLERIDGE. HOOD. COMIC TOETRY. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. LORD LYTTON'S POEMS. LORD LYTTON'S DRAMAS. PR HB$o £%0 ^ <■)■ *€> ♦4 ADVERTISEMENT. Instead of an excuse, the Publishers have to offer a oongratcla« taon to the Public upon being pnabled, by the lapse of copyrights, to add most of the Poetical Works of Byron to their cheap, but ilegant series of our most esteemed poets. This volume contains all Lord Byron's Poems of which the copyright is free, with the exception of Don Juan, from which extraordinary work, as it ia their wish that their books should be welcomed in every family circle, they have only presented carefully-selected beautiful passages, with which English readers are so well acquainted, thai they would naturally look for theeo. 4* CONTENTS. ^o'jTtsj of Idleness :— Proiaco Pqi& I Ou tuj ~Bt ath of a Young Lady — " Hush'd are the winds " . . . . 8 To E " Let folly smile " 8 To D " In thee I fondly hoped " 4 Epitaph on a Friend — " Oh, friend ! for ever " 4 A Fragment — " When to their airy hail " 5 On leaving Newstead Abbey — " Through thy battlements "'. . 5 Answer to Lines written in " Letters to an Italian Nun and an English Gentleman," &c. — " Dear simple girl " 6 Adrian's Address to his Soul when Dying — " Ah ! gentle " . . 7 Translation from Catullus — ' ' Equal to Jove " 7 Translation of the Epitaph on Virgil and Tibullus — " Ho who sublime " 8 Imitation of Tibullus—" Cruel Cerinthna " 8 Translation from Catullus — " Ye Cupids" 8 Imitated from Catullus. To Ellen—" Oh ! might I kiss " . . 9 Translation from Horace — " The man of firm and noble soul " 9 From Anacreon — " I wish to tune " 9 „ „ — " 'Twas now the hour " 10 ,, the Prometheus Vinctus, &c. — " Great Jove" 10 To Emma — " Since now the hour " 11 „ M. S. G.— " Whene'er I view those lips " 12 „ Caroline—" Think'st thou I saw " 13 „ ,, — " When I hear you express " 14 ,, ,, — "Oh! when shall the grave " 14 Stanzas to a Lady, with the Poems of Camoens — " This votive pledge " 15 The First Kiss of Love — " Away with your fictions " 15 On a Change of Masters at a Great Public School — " Where are those honours " 16 To the Duke of Dorset — " Dorset ! whose early steps " 17 Fragment, written shortly after the Marriage of Miss Oha- worth— " Hills of Annesley " 19 Granta. A Medley—" Oh ! could Le Sage's " 19 On a Distant View of the Village and School of Harrow-on- the-Hill— " Ye scenes of my childhood " 22 To M " Oh ! did those eyes " 23 3 , Woman — " Woman ! esperience might " * . 23 „ M. S. G.— " When I dream that you love me" 24 M Mar/, on receiving her Picture — " This fainfc" 2-4 *xh vl CONTENTS. Hours 07 Idleness— continued. To Lesbia — " Lesbia ! since far from you " Pct^u 25 Lines addressed to a Young Lady, alarmed by a bullet hiss- ing- near her — " Doubtless, sweet girl " 26 Love's last Adieu — " The roses of love" 27 J >amaetas — " In law an infant " 28 To Marion — " Marion I why that pensive brow " 28 To a Lady who presented to the Author a Lock of Hair braided with his own — " These locks '' , . . . 30 Oscar of Alva. A Tale — " How sweetly shines " 31 The Episode of Nisus and Euryalus — " Nisus, the guardian" 38 Translation from the Medea of Euripides — " When fierce" 46 Thoughts suggested by a College Examination — " High in the midst " 47 To a beautiful Quaker — " Sweet girl ! though only once " . . 49 The Cornelian — " No specious splendour " 50 An Occasional Prologue to "The Wheel of Fortune" — " Since the refinement " 50 On the Death of Mr. Fox, with the Author's Reply — " Oh factious viper " 51 The Tear—" When Friendship or Love " 52 Reply to some Verses of J. M. B. Pigot, Esq., on the Cruelty of his Mistress — " Why, Pigot, complain " 53 To the sighing Strephon — " Your pardon, my friend " .... 54 To Eliza — " Eliza, what fools are the Mussulman sect " . . . . 55 Lachia y Gair — " Away, ye gay landscapes " 55 To Romance — " Parent of golden dreams " 56 Answer to some elegant Verses sent by a Friend to the Author — " Candour compels me " 58 Elegy on Newstead Abbey — " Newstead ! fast-falling" .... 59 ChiToich Recollections — " When slow disease" 63 Answer to a beautiful Poem, entitled " The Common Lot" — M Montgomery ! true, the common lot" 71 Lines addressed to the Rev. J. T. Becher, on his advising the Author to mix more with Society — " Dear Becher, you tell me " 72 The Death of Calmar and Orla— " Dear are the days " 73 To Edward Noel Long, Esq. — " Dear Long, in this " 76 To a Lady—" Oh ! had my fate " , 78 " I would I were a careless child " 79 ■• When I roved a young Highlander " 80 To George, Earl Delawar — " Oh ! yes, I will own " 81 To the Earl of Clare—" Friend of my youth " 82 Lines written beneath an Elm in the Churchyard of Harrow — " Spot of my youth " 84 lines inscribed upon a Cup formed from a Skull — " Start not— nor deem ' 85 On rsvuating Harrow — " Here once engaged " ri6 English Bards and Scotch Reviewers 87 PosUoript to the Second Edition 114 Lines written in an Album at Malta — " As o'ei the cold" .... 115 To Florence—" Oh Lady ! when I left " 115 StuuQiHS oomposed during a Thunder-storm — " Chill and niirk" 110 -;> CONTENTS. VII Stanzas written on passing the Ambracian Gulf — " Througn cloudless skios " P&yt " The spell is broke, the charm is flown " ltoply to Lines written in the Travellers' Book at Orchomenus — " The modest bard " " Maid of Athens, ere we part " Written after Swimming from Sestos to Abydos— " if, in tho month " Lines writton beneath a Picture — " Dear object " Translation of the famous Greek War Song — " Sors of the Greeks" Translation of the Romaic Song — " I enter thy garden " .... The Curse of Minerva On Parting — " The kiss, dear maid " To Thyrza— " Without a stone " " Away, away, ye notes of woe " " One struggle more, and I am free " Euthanasia — " When Time, or soon or late " " And thou art dead, as young as fair " " If sometimes in the haunts of men " On a Cornelian Heart — " Ill-fated heart n Lines to a Lady Weeping — " Weep, daughter " " The chain I gave was fair to view " To Samuel Rogers, Esq. — " Absent or present " Address, spoken at the opening of Drury Lane Theatre, Satur- day, October 10, 1812— " In one dread night " Verses found in a Summer-house at Hales-Owen — " When Dryden's fool " ■ The Waltz • an Apostrophic Hymn To Time — " Time ! on whose arbitrary wing " " Thou art not false, but thou art fickle " " Remember him, whom passion's power " The Giaour : A Fragment of a Turkish Tale Impromptu, in Reply to a Friend — " When, from the heart " The Bride of Abydos : A Turkish Tale To Genevra — " Thine eyes' blue tenderness" The Corsair Windsor Poetics — " Famed for contemptuous "' Poems on Napoleon Stanzas for Music — " I speak not, I trace not ' " Fill the goblet again ! for I never before " Address intended to have been spoken at the Caledonian Meet- ing, 1814— " Who hath not glow'd " Lara : A Tale Condolatory Address to Sarah, Countess of Jersey — " When the vam triumph " Elegiac Stanzas on the Death of Sir Peter Parker, Bart. — " There is a tear " To Belshazaar — " Belshazzar ! from the banquet " 1U 118 119 Ui 120 120 121 122 123 129 130 131 132 133 34 J6 37 37 37 1 1 1 1 1 138 138 140 141 148 149 150 152 182 183 210 212 252 253 262 262 263 265 291 292 5^3 ♦#- viii CONTENTS. Eebrew Melodies — " She walks in beauty " Page 294 * ' The harp the monarch minstrel swept " 291- i( If that high world" _ 295 « The wild gazelle " , 295 w Oh ! weep for those n r 296 ** On Jordan's banks" 296 Jephtha's Daughter — " Since our Country " 296 " Oh ! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom " 297 " My soul is dark " 297 11 I saw thee weep " 298 " Thy days are done " 298 Song of Saul before his last battle — " Warriors and chiefs" 299 Saul—" Thou whose spell " 299 All is Vanity — " Fame, wisdom, love " 300 " When coldness wraps this suffering clay " 300 Vision of Belshazzar — " The King was on his throne " .... 301 " Sun of the sleepless " 302 " Were my bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be " 302 Herod's Lament for Mariamne — " Oh ! Mariamne " 303 On the day of the Destruction of Jerusalem — " From the last hill " 303 By the Rivers of Babylon — " We sate down and wept " . . . . 304 Destruction of Sennacherib — " The Assyrian came " 304 *' A spirit pass'd before me " 305 Stanzas for Music — " There be none" 305 The Siege op Corinth 306 Stanzas for Music — " Thero's not a joy " 328 Parisika 330 " Fare thee well ! and if for ever" 343 K Sketch—" Born in the garret " 344 Btanzas to Augusta — " When all around " 34 fi The Prisoner op Chillon 34ft Monody on the Death of Sheridan — " When the last sunshine" 358 Stanzas to Augusta — " Though the day w 361 Epistle to Augusta — " My sister ! my sweet sister " 362 The Dream „ 365 Darkness — " I had a dream " , . . . J>69 Churchill's Grave — " I stood beside the grave " 371 Prometheus — " Titan ! to whose immortal eyes" 372 A Fragment—" Could I remount" 373 To Lake Leman — " Rousseau — Voltaire, &c. w 374 LiutoS on hearing that Lady Byron was ill — " And thou wert sad" 374 Manfred : A Dramatic Poem 876 *' Bright be the place of thy soul " 406 Stanzas for Music — " They say that hope " 407 The Lament op Tasso 408 Cain : A Mystery , 4 Li The Vision of Judgment? ,. ., 46* ^h CO A TEATS. IX H eaven and Earth ! A Mystery Page 481 Childb Harold's Pilgrimage *....,..*. 607 Canto I 610 Canto II 632 Canto III 555 Canto IV 683 Beppo 624 Mazeppa i. ,, .. 643 M [SCELLANEOUS— Epitaph, on John Adams, ot Southwell ....,<.,,.,»...».. 66) " Farewell ! if ever fondest prayer" 661 " When we two parted" 661 To a youthful Friend 662 11 Well ! thou art happy" 664 Inscription on the Monument of a Newfoundland Dog .... 665 To a Lady . . . , 666 " Remind me not, remind me not" 666 " There was a time, I need not name" 667 " And wilt thou weep when I am low Sf" 667 Stanzas to a Lady, on leaving England 668 " Remember him, whom passion's power" 669 A very mournful Ballad 671 To Thomas Moore 673 Translation of a Romaic Love Song 674 Extracts from Don Juan — " The Isles of Greece" 675 Fame— "What is the end of fame" 677 The shipwreck— " The wind increased" 677 First Love—" 'Tis sweet to hear" 690 Evening — " Ave Maria ! blessed be the hour" 692 Haidee— " They carpeted their feet" 693 Vain Regrets — " But now at thirty " 695 The Slave-market — " 'Twas a raw day " 696 Th© Lovers — ' ' The heart — which may be broken " 697 The Assassination — " The other evening" 698 Auld Lang Syne—" And all our little feuds " 699 A Dream — " She dream'd of being alone" 700 Fame — " Of Poets who come down" 701 Love and Glory—" O Love ! O Glory f 702 The Maniac— " A vein had burst" 703 The Black Friar — " Beware ! beware" 705 Norman or Newstead Abbey — " To Norman Abbey whirl' d the noble pair" 706 Julia's Portrait — " Her eye (I'm very fond of handsome eyes") 708 Juan in Love — " Young Juan wander'd" 709 A Scene in Greece — " And further on a troop" 710 Twilight—" Sv>eet hour of twilight ! " 711 A Group of Beauties — " Of those who had most genius" . . 711 A Picture — " She stood a moment as a Pythoness" 712 War — " All was prepared" 7±3 ' 'ontemporary Poets — " Sir Walter reigu'd before me" .... 714 \ ; 4 4- K CONTENTS. Worldly Wealth — " Why call the miser miserable °. . 716 Match-making — " How all the needy" 7 ltf Quixotism — " Rough Johnson, the great moralist M 717 Human Motives — " I hate a motive" 718 Truth— " 'Tis strange, but true " P 713 Depertod Pleasures- — u The evaporation of e j *©■ .r LIFE OF LORD BYRON. " He Is now at rest 1 And praise and blame fall on his ears alike, Now dull in death. Yes, Byron, thou art gone I Gone like a star that through the firmament Shot and was lost, in its eccentric course, Dazzling, perplexing." <- Rogers. Is the time yet come for a just and reliable life of Byron to be written ? May the veil be lifted from the brow of truth without making revealments that would annoy, if not injure, still living actors in his short but eventful drama T Not yet. The principal heroine of that drama still exists, and, amidst contumely, harsh interpretations, and doubts, contending with a nation's partiality for one of its greatest geniuses, she has borne her faculties so meekly, and her wrongs so unobtrusively, that the respect of silence is due to the repose of the sunset of a life whose meridian was so disturbed by storms. The first thing that strikes a writer who would produce a life of Byron, however short, is his universally-acknowledged genius — a genius so exalted, so various, and, in every view, so extraordinary, that we say with his friend, the poet whose lines I have adopted as my motto, it is dazzling, perplexing I Genius is that aptitude for a particular object of the human mind which, like the rays con- centrated in the focus of the burning glass, produces intense effect where it is directed. Mankind vary in this faculty as wonderfully as they do in their features, and wisely has Providence so ordered it, for thus this divine emanation becomes universally beneficial. But as, whilst acknowledging gratefully the common and least showy blessings that surround us on the earth, our love and admi- ration are principally given to its sublime sunsets, its mildly beautiful moonlights, its glittering stars, its more near and dear sweet flowers, so have the efforts of genius, which have beeo ■*d xii LIFE OF BYRON. principal!/ directed to the enjoyments of life, ever engrossed the warmest of our sympathies. Among these, as if by general accord, Poetry stands highest; it is considered to contain more divine inspiration than any other faculty of the mind, and the great Poets of the world are more glorified by it than its warriors, its statesmen, or its philosophers : it is not my business either to question or admit the justice of this, but so it is. Byron was, then, a man of extraordinary genius, and was a Poet ; this was the talent intrusted to him ; let us seo how, in a short but fitful career, he employed it. As it never, for a moment, was absent from his own thoughts, and as he never allows hie millions of readers to forget it, he was not only of God's nobility, but man's ; his family, both by father and mother, was of high rank. Pie is said to be descended from one of the Norman ad- venturers who came over with William ; some ancestors dis- tinguished themselves in the Crusades, others in the Wars of the Roses. Sir John Byron had the good fortune to be a favourite oi that capricious tyrant, Henry VIII., at a time when the dissolution of the monasteries placed rich gifts in the hands of the monarch, and to him the family owed the possession of Newstead Abbey, which the poet's fame has converted into a shrine sacred to genius. In the troubles of the reign of Charles I., the Byrons were con- spicuous for their loyalty, there having been no less than eight brothers of the family in the field at once. The monarch's grati- tude raised them from a knightly to a nob)e house, and they became Barons Byron, of Rochdale. They were moderately wealthy, but Charles could bestow honours more easily than estates, and the extravagances and eccentricities of several of the poet's ancestors did not leave him a very rich inheritance. His descent was no less noble on the mother's side ; indeed, she said more so, as she boasted she was of the old stock of the Gordons, which claimed priority even over the branch now holding ihe ducai title in that family. His mother was an heiress, which appears to have boon her only attraction in the eyes of the gay Captain Byron, for theirs proved a most unhappy marriage, embittered and em- broiled by the debts and extravagance of the husband, and tbe violent, passionate disposition of the wife. It was one of those strange circumstances upon which Lord Byron delighted to dwell, as denoting him of a peculiar race, that his father, his great-uncie whom he succeeded, and himself, were all separated from their wives : all, indeed, were eccentric, and under the dominion of their passions. Sometimes living together, sometimes apart, Byron's parents never afforded him the remembrance of a happy, peaceful home ; and the death of his father, when he was only in the third year of his age, left him under the control of a mother as little T LIFE OF BYRON, xiii Utiatlfiad to bring up a boy of a wayward and spirited disposition as she possibly could be. It is so completely an established fact, that all superior men have had superior mothers, that even to remark upon it is trite ; but it is no less true, that mothers who are not remarkable for capacities or virtues, have a great influence upon their sons, particularly when circumstances make the son an object of more than common interest. Now, George Byron waa an only child, and there was, moreover, only one life between him and a baronial title and estates, and this, with a proud woman like Mrs. Byron, led to injudicious indulgences and vauntings which the furies of her violent temper could not counteract. Amidst , quarrels, beatings, the flight of all sorts of missiles, and the most coarse intemperate language, he was never allowed to forget he was of the old stock of the Gordons of Gight, and of that of the Barons of Newstead. There can be no doubt that the disposition which was the foundation of most of his aberrations was due to the misfortune of his having a mother whose conduct made her the object of his ridicule, and who never commanded his respect. George Gordon Byron was born in Holies Street, London, on the 22nd of January, 1788. In 1790, his mother took him to Aberdeen, where he was brought up as injudiciously as was to be expected from such a mother in straitened circumstances. Owing, as ha afterwards used to declare, to the temper of his mother, he receive-! an injury at his birth, by which one of his feet became deformed, and rendered him lame for life. We have no space for any account of the little anecdotes related of his early boyhood, nor, indeed, do we attach much consequence to such ; for, although there may be some foundation for them, whenever the man proves remarkable, all related of the boy is so highly coloured, that we have no regret \n consigning his verses to the Old Woman and the Moon, to the same apochryphal chapter as Johnson's Epitaph to the Duck. All that is told makes him appear exactly what he afterwards proved to be-^passionate, self-willed, spirited, shrewd, with occasional but rare glimpses of feeling — indeed, he had nothing to bestow feeling or affection upon. He became quite a Scotch boy, in manners and language, receiving no notice or encouragement from his great- uncle, even when the death of the relation who stood between him and the title, had made him the presumptive heir : the old baron only spoke of him as "the little boy at Aberdeen." In 1798, when he was in his eleventh year, his great-uncle died, and he succeeded to the family titles and estates, upon which he was made a ward of Chancery, and removed from Aberdeen to Newstead Abbey. His accession of rank made his lameness a matter of increased con- sequence, and he was placed in the hands oi an empiric at Notting- ham, who onlj inflicted pain upon him, without- -any bonofit* %£J xiv LIFE OF BYRON. Finding no g/>od result from this, he was taken to London, for th« advice of Dr. Baillie ; but all proved in vain. His education, which had amounted to nothing at Aberdeen, now became a serious subject, and he was placed under Dr. Glennie. of Dulwich ; but all the worthy doctor's efforts were rendered abortive by the miscond-uct of his mother ; no regularity in his attendance, no persistency in his studies required, he found, if he made an obj ect of ehe boy's continuance with him, that he should be the slave of ooth son and mother. There are some little pleasing anecdotes of this period related by the doctor, but I really can only consign them to the apochryphal chapter before mentioned. Here, how- ever, his guardian, Lord Carlisle, interfered, and he was sent to Harrow. Some account for his character in one way, some in another : one says it was created by becoming a lord at so early an age ; another, more weakly, attributes it to a disappointed passion — but, it is my opinion, it was stamped by his being sent to Harrow. Had he been placed with one of the many worthy and learned men who, with a limited number of pupils, undertake the education of the morals and the heart, as well as of the intellect, at a distance from London, and out of the reach of his mother's influence, he might have become a good, useful member of society, as well as an orna- ment to it. He was plunged into the vortex of a great publio school, without a single home affection to counteract the pernicious effects of associating with boys becoming men, proud of their initiatory steps in vice, and of their sphere in life, which rendered them, in their young opinions, above control. It is true his mind was cultivated, and his genius here imped its wings, but it was at the expense of his moral character. Nothing can be worse than educating boys in large masses, where there is great disparity in ages ; and where the youngest, on entering, become the slaves of the elders, and the spectators and auditors of all they do and say. The fag treasures all the lessons burnt into his memory, to practise (.hem when his turn comes. At Harrow, however, he was better on* than he would have been at Westminster ; there was a gentle- manly tone preserved in his errors. He was not only under an able master, but he was contemporary with several boys who have turned out eminent men. He made up for lost time by rapid im- provement, but, like all great poets, he was rather a desultory reader than an ardent votary of any particular branch of know- ledge. The quantity he read, after he had acquired a love of reading, is astonishing, particularly when we see how, according to his own account, he passed his school leisure, "in rowing, rebolling, breaking bounds, and mischinf of every kind." One <> LIFE OF BYRON. xv peat advantage was gained — the groat public school was above the Dontrol of his mother. In the third year after going to Harrow, he passed his vacation at Nottingham, about ten miles from Newstead, and, in a visit to Annesley, the residence of a neighbouring gentleman, formed a boyish attachment, which he was afterwards accustomed to assert, had a great influence on his life. Miss Mary Chaworth's family name was associated with that of Byron in a way to create a romantic feeling in a mind like his. The great-uncle whom he succeeded, seems to have been a violent man, completely the slave of his passions and caprices ; and he had, in consequence of a foolish quarrel about the quantity of game on their relative estates, killed the grandfather of that young lady in a duel. It is strange that so many accounts have said that the gentleman who fell in this fatal affair was Miss Chaworth's father ; even so respectable a work as "Chambers's Cyclopaedia of English Literature" has it so. The duel took place at least twenty years before Miss Chaworth was born. Upon this episode I must beg to say a few words. When these young persons met at this period, Byron was a fat, lomewhat uncouth boy of sixteen, brusque in his manners and hot .In disposition. Miss Chaworth was a handsome young lady of eighteen, formed for the world, moving in it, with her hand and affections engaged to a gentleman of the name of Musters. From his infancy, Byron had given way to the impulses of his wishes, and continued to do so through the whole of his life, without any reference to the feelings of others. Although aware of Miss Chaworth's position, he seems rather to have cherished than checked the passion he conceived for her, and which she, with characteristic mildness, received as a transient boyish fancy, and* while candidly revealing the state of her own affections, offered him her friendship. There is nothing in the tenor of his life and actions to lead us to place faith in the depth of this juvenile at- tachment ; it was poetical to recur to it occasionally, but it was likewise inconsiderate towards the object of it, and no proof of its truth : he who truly toves, places her happiness above the gratifica- tion of showing he can write affecting verses. Miss Chaworth's mar- riage proved to be anything but a happy one : and the unenviab'e notoriety which Byron's attachment procured her, I am assured, made a bad husband worse. From the first, she had treated him with single-hearted candour, and he had nothing to complain of but his own weakness or selfishness. As to his disappointment Having any effect upon his after-career, it is preposterous to Imagine ; there is not a single trait of character to show that be could ever have settled down into happy domestic life ; if he had xvi LIFE OF BYRO.V. married Miss Chaworth, she would have experienced the s&ine fate as Lady Byron's, without, perhaps, that lady's means and firmness to free herself from a life of misery. The '* Dream" is a beautiful poem, but that is all ; and the reader must not be led by it to suppose that the lady's sorrows proceeded from her having refused the love of one who had rendered himself famous. Sho, with a family, had too many real griefs to be affected by anything so factitious as his persistent poetical whining, more the effects of wounded vanity than of disappointed love. We can only account for the importance Moore attaches to this affair, by the circum- stance of his being himself a poet. As regarded his education, his residence at Harrow of five years produced as much benefit as could be expected ; he acquired quite scholarship enough for an original poet, or to qualify him for the position his rank entitled him to take. The pride of birth, so carefully instilled by his mother, acted here as strongly as it did in his after-life ; he had his pets among the untitled and the weak, but his principal associates were the noble by descent and d aring in action ; he could patronize poor little Peel, but he formed no con- nection with him to last beyond school-fellowship. From Harrow he went to Cambridge, where he managed, in the easy way known to the noble, to take a degree, but certainly benefited but little otherwise. He distinguished himself, however, by many eccen- tricities, among which may be reckoned his strange animal par- tialities. He kept a bear ; and his canine favourites were of the bull-dog breed, or others of a large and formidable strength and size. Considering his lameness, he was a pretty good cricketer, and was expert in boxing, single-stick, and other athletic exercises. But his physical deficiency did not extend to the water ; he was an excellent swimmer, and could handle an oar manfully. He speaks frequently of his riding, but he never was a good horseman ; and that cannot be attributed to his deformed foot, for the Lord Barry- more, surnamed Cripplegate, was much more lame, in the same way, than Lord Byron, and he was a first-rate rider, though a heavy man. The Marquis of Anglesea, though he left a leg beneath a monument at Waterloo, continued, as he had been, oije. of the best gentlemen riders in Europe. His position was a dangerous one for a young man of his temper- ment. Endowed by nature with an exceedingly handsome face and person, a warm constitution, and a boundless imagination, instead of laying down for himself a plan of honourable exertion and self-government, that might have enabled him to relieve his estates from their encumbrances, and support the peerage with dignity, he gave himself up to the unchecked control of his passions. Unfortumtoly, he had no family check ; his mother ho dc^piaod* -> X- LIFE OF BYRON. xvii and not without cause ; whilst Lord Carlisle, his only relative who might, from his own position, have interfered with any chance ol success, did not seem to think him worth notice. He was a peer, though not rich ; when he came of age he would be possessed of estates ; and such a young man can generally find usurers bold and calculating enough to furnish him for a time with the means of indulgence. From the time he went to Cambridge, he plunged recklessly into dissipations, which gave a tone and colour to all he afterwards wrote. He had, unfortunately, no home ; I say so, although convinced he would never have been a domesticated man ; but if he had had any one he loved to direct his energies in a light course, his genius might have been a far greater public blessing than it has proved. But this person must have been some one he held in awe, whom he respected more than he loved ; the equal passion of husband and wife would never have effected good. His passions always took their birth from impulses, consequently they were sensual and evanescent. We frequently indulge in historical calculations of what would have happened if such and such things had not taken place — what might Byron have proved if his father had been a Chatham to give an impetus to his genius ? The nature of his early readings, he says, however, made him a poet, and his position gave a colouring to his writings. Before ha left Cambridge, he had composed many pieces of various merits, some little more than school-boy rhymes, others denoting the "nre that burned within him," and he became ambitious to see himsel! in print ; but, at the solicitations of a friend, submitted to the cruel sacrifice of burning his darling offspring, after they were in type. In his twentieth year, he, however, published the collection entitled "Hours of Idleness," began an epic poem, called "Bosworth Field," and wrote part of a novel : and this amidst dissipation of the wildest and least refined nature. With scanty means, and uncountenanced by any leaders of rank and fashion, he did not now enjoy the entrie into families of distinction, which his fame after- wards procured him; so that his pleasures were of a gross, unsocial nature. But this was part of his poetical education ; his wildest excess*** furnished materials for his great poems, both as to facts and reflections: "Almost all Don Juan," he said, "is real life, either my own or other people's." Had Byron not been a lord, his juvenile poetical effusions «n>uld, most likely, have been allowed to glide unnoticed down tko stream of oblivion ; but the intrusion of a peer into the republic of letters, was as bold as that of a parvenu savant into the society of peers, and a great Northern critic undertook to whip the rhyming fancy o'it of the noble young poet. This is not the only mistake of tee kind critics have made— Keats they are said to have killed «« xviii LIFE OF BYRON. the whipping ; but they only roused the patrician blood of Byron ; instead of finding an humble victim, they caught a Tartar. When anything otf ended him, he was a prey to rage of the most appalling nature, but, contrary to the generality of passionate people, his anger was deep-rooted, and sought vent in action. Soon after fehe appearance of the critique in the Edinburgh Review, he took up his residence at Newstead, and sot about the composition of "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers." One of the most surprising peculiarities of his poetical writings, is that they were produced whilst he was in a state of excitement of the strongest kind, and of a nature apparently opposed to composition. His mode of life at Newstead has, no doubt, been exaggerated, as was almost all he ever did. He entertained an idea that a Byron must be eccentric, and his orgies were marked by peculiarity a* much as by excess. The crew of which he was the Comus, were clothed as monks ; they quaffed their wine from a cup made of a ikull, and in their conversation, morals, and habits, they took an unboundedly free and unusual latitude. This society, notwith ^ anding the talents of several of its members, always appeared to me to be a poor copy of the same sort of party over which Jack Wilkes had presided half a century before. The worst result of this was, that it hardened his nature prematurely ; he made the most of his obliquities, and boasted of his profligacy. On the 22nd of January, 1809, he came of age ; on the 13th of March he took his seat in the House of Lords, and on the 16th of the same month published his celebrated reply to the Edinburgh Review, in " English Bards and Scotch Reviewers." This reply Touchstone would, no doubt, have characterized as " a counter- check quarrelsome :" it angered great part of the literary world ; but it, at the same, proved the ability of thw young poet, and that he was too good a master of the fence of satire to be again attacked with impunity. His coming of age was celebrated at Newstead Abbey in the old English baronial fashion ; a roasted ox, floods of ale, &c, being bestowed upon the tenantry, and offered to all oomers. His appearance in the House of Lords, though an affair of consequence to him, excited but little attention in that august assembly ; they did not dream of the genius that was come among them, and his connection was so limited that his unfriended position affected him deeply. Even his relation, Lord Carlisle, offered him no countenance, and the Chancellor was so dilatory and indifferent in preparing the necessary papers, that when he apologized for the delay, Byron could not restrain the cynical reply that rose spontaneously to his lips : — " Your Lord- ship," said he, "is like Tom Thumb — you have done your d;»tj.^ but you have done no more." <> LIFE OF EYRON. xix With utrong and never regulated passions, great pride of birth, b full sense of his abilities, and little but debts and destitution before him, he was so dopressed in spirits that a profound oynicisnj took possession of his mind, and from that hour was the prevailing feature of his character. Mr. Moore, in his Memoirs, talks a great deal of what I think nonsense about a disappointed heart am! waste affections ; Lord Byron was not the man to be crushed by such poetical feelings. He was, perhaps, as vain a man as ever lived, he was extravagantly sensitive, deeply alive to neglect, and looking for too much admiration before he had earned it. Witp the pride of a poet, Moore says, " Luckily he became a poet and not a legislator." Had his poetry proved such as to have been a blossing to his fellow-men, instead of only dazzling and astonishing them, I should have agreed with him ; as it is, I cannot but think one good law would weigh very heavily in the balance against it. A man who is a born British peer is born to honourable duties, and the chance possessor of that elevated rank, has no right to boast of it when he neglects them. He could not say with hi# favourite Pope : " I left no calling for this idle trade, No duty broke." With his vast talents, and the position he was placed in, he should have shaken off his annoyances and difficulties " like dewdrops from the lion's mane," and have become a great, good man, as well as a splendid genius. It cannot be denied that mauy circum- stances conspired to give the bias to his genius, and the tone to his character; the poetical mind is too apt to let the idiosnycrasy of the man associate itself with the flights of imagination, which is sure to engender vanity, egotism, disappointment, and cynicism. The poet fancies his mission so exalted, that all the world should pay it homage, whereas nine hundred and ninety-nine out of every thousand of his fellow-men care not a straw for him or his verse. While struggling with the difficulties created by high rank, pride of birth, ungovernable passions, and a slender income, the severe criticism of the Edinburgh Review seems to have decided his fate : he answered that review, his answer proved his ability and was very miich admired ; he had found he possessed a weapon which could wound the world which he falsely thought his enemy, and from that hour to the day of his death, he became a cynic and a. satirist ; the joyous spirit which had given zest to his debauche- ries was changed to gibing mockery, and everybody and every- thing was viewed through the distorted medium of selfishness, embittered by poverty and cynicism, rendered almost super* Lamaclv keen br extraordinary genius. xx LIFE OF BYRON. ouch was the tone of mind in which Lord Byron left England ta the summer of the year he came of age, to travel, more with the hope of getting ride of home, that is of his country, than with the view of acquiring knowledge. But such a penetrating, observant mind could not avoid accumulating additions to his stores at every step, and few great writers have enjoyed such extraordinary opportunities. No poetry of a high rank was ever so completely founded upon facts as Byron's ; it is true his brilliant fancy threw those facts out in new and striking lights, or covered them with beautiful ornaments, but all were drawn from himself, his friends, the scenes he had actually beheld, or the books he had read. This gives a solidity, if I may be allowed the word, to all he wrote, because it makes it all intelligible. Nothing could be more different than his genius and that of Shelley, in this respect. Shelley was possessed of an inventive, unbounded fancy ; if there is a reality in his poetry, it lies too deep for common observers, and whilst idolized by a few, he will never be generally understood 01 appreciated as he perhaps deserves. Consistently with this self-painting, the poem with which his mind must have been busy during his first travels, is entirely eslf- L LIFE OF BYRON. x>i AH Pasha. Gratified with his interview, he returned to Joantnni. and there began to transfer to paper the impressions of his pil- grimage, in the poem which will prove his principal claim to © ttiche in the Temple of Fame. 1 have not space to follow him through his delightful wanderings ■midst classic regions, though perfectly entering into his enjoy- ment of them. No place illustrated by great men or importani events was neglected, and, in addition to the great poem, which must have been always prominent in his mind, the muse was frequently called upon to commemorate striking scenes and incidents, or interesting persons. From his self-acknowledged libertine character, every female he writes verses upon is supposed to have been a mistress ; but, although by no means disposed to be the champion of his continence, I am convinced there are many exceptions to this, and that to the above-mentioned foolish boasting may be added a considerable quantity of the fiction of poetical license. He remained six weeks at Athens, for the sake of viewing all the classic scenes of that interesting country ; anl though he addressed "Maid of Athens, &c." to the daughter of the house in which he was located, before he quitted that city, there is not even a suspicion that he did not leave her untainted by the scant morality of London and Cambridge. He seemed determined to leave no spot he had ever read of un vi- sited ; from Athens he went to Smyrna, where he wrote the second santo of " Childe Harold." He next explored the ruins of Ephesus, and from thence proceeded to Constantinople. As a poet, he could not be so near the great scene of Homer's action, without making a pilgrimage to the Troad, which, in spite of Mr. Bryant, confirmed nim in his Homeric faith. But he was not satisfied with believing la Homer, he wished to prove one of the poetically-registered wonders of antiquity practicable, and, without the hope of having a Hero to welcome him on his landing, he rivalled Leander by swimming from Sestos to Abydos. Of this feat he was always very proud, as indeed he was of everything that proved his courage, Bgility, or strength: when, in his later travels, he was compelled, as he says, " to give an impertinent fellow a good English punch in the guts," he did not fail to mention it in more than one letter. He made another short sojourn at Constantinople, during which, lie enjoyed an excursion through the Bosphorus to the Black Sea tad Cyanean Symplegades ; he then returned to Athens, where, after a trip to Corinth, and a tour of the Moroa to visit Velay Pasha, he seemed to linger as loath to depart, and took up his residence at the Franciscan convent. While he^e he wrote many of the beautiful smaller pieces rendered interesting by local cir« Gimefcaaoes and personal associations, by which they are to be XXll LIFE OF BY ROW traced, among which may be particularly noted " The Curse rf Minerva," — a severe, though perhaps well-deserved castigatAon oi Lord Elgin, for his depredations upon the sculi>tural remain* of Greece. After an absence of two years he, in July 1S11, returned to England, " a wiser, but I fear not a better man." Whether he had been as various and successful in his amours as he would lead his readers to think, I know not ; but there was always a reckless- ness of the peace of others which led him to write versos to every lady ho admired, whatever her position might be. Thoso to Mrs. Musters (Miss Chaworth), on his leaving England were, to say the least, inconsiderate, and showed no regard for the happiceas of the person to whom they were addressed. Of the same class were lines to " Florence" (Mrs. Spenser .Smith), each piece beautifully proving to the ladies of what little value was his boasted love ; take for instance, the last lino of the address to " Mrs. Musters," and the verses to " Florence," and the " Maid of Athens," which so quickly followed ! Neither in his life nor his writings did Byron show the least acquaintance with true, pure love, or a proper appreciation of the character of woman. He has a poet's eye for beauty, but it is likewise the eye of a sensualist. I! ems addressed to " Thyrza," seem to be the only ones on which Bocrecy placed its finger ; he never would tell even his most intimate friends who she was. Some persons protended that thore was likewise a mystery about a period of his travels in Greece, in which a tale of horror was mixed up, but I can find nothing to prove there was any foundation for it, beyond the character of his writings, and the mystification he sometimes delighted to deal in. On his return to England, he proposed settling at Xewstead. and »ent down some furniture to render it more comfortable. He had •stablished his mother there before his departure, reversing, in bis last letter, the position of mother and son, by sending her advice to behave properly to her neighbours, " for you know," he a 11 you are a vixen." Mrs. Byron had for some years enjoyed a pension from government of £300 a year ; why granted nobody could discover ; but it must have been a great relief to her needy son. His coming home proved the signal for her death ; for, when the upholsterer appeared with the furniture, she, from some little mistake od his part, flew into one of those fits of rage that used to amuse her son so much, but which, in this instance, she carried beyond a joke, as the passion produced a fit, and the fit death. JLs the mother of a Byron, he, of course, paid her decent respect, but he was not likely even to aflect grief. Cnce more in London, he fell willingly into the vortex of pleasure / IFF OF I xxiii to w'ticn, very shortly great inducements were add~d. On the 27th of February, he made his first speech in the House of Lords ; it was respectable, but yet did not hold out a promise of much oratorical excellence, and he seldom spoke afterward*. But, as " English Bards" had been closoly connected with his taking his Beat, so his first speech was as quickly followed by the gToat event of his life, the publication of " Child* Harold." Like several other poets, he preforred other comparatively worthless works to this Liis host, and was with great difficulty prevailed upon to publish it. He however, was persuaded by his distant relation, Mr. Dallas, the author of some novels, to whom he gave the copyright. He was soon made aware of his error ; for the sensation created by the poem was immonse; as he expresses it: " I awoke one morning, and found myself famous!" He had no longer to complain of tin world's neglect, the danger now was of his being spoiled bj adulation. To him who three years before could not gain entrance to good society, not only was every door of the great and the rich thrown open, but all the fascinations of beauty and pleasure were put in force to allure the titled genius into their magic circle. His unexpected success put an end to all ideas of retirement ; no man ever coveted admiration more keenly, and he now enjoyed it to satiety. The very persons he had so freely vituperated in his Aatire, felt their anger melt away beneath the rays of his genius, and eagerly sought his friendship. It is impossible to trace the various reconciliations without a smile. Moore, whom he had sharply censured under the name of Little, began with something approaching to hostility, but he was easily mollified, and became the noble poet's Fidus Achates. I do not say he became his friend, in the exalted and scarcely in the wordly meaning of the word ; in a letter to Moore, after they had long been on the most intimate relations, he says: " I don't know what to say about friendship, I never was in friendship but once, in my nineteenth year, and then it gave me as much trouble as love. I am afraid, as Whitbread'a sire said to the king, who wanted to knight him, I am too old ; but, nevertheless, no one wishes you more friends, fame, and felicity, than yours, kc." Moore felt this cold-blooded, flippant declaration deeply, and made no reply for some time. In fact, Byron only told the truth ; he could be kind and generous as a patron or protector, but his friendships were like his loves — selfish and not proof against absence. His letters are exceedingly pleasant reading, but we feel assured that Moore has suppressed many that would have betrayed double dealing, and the bulk of them are addressed to persons who could be of use to him. The romantio friendship he declared for Lord Clare was like his love for Mary Duff and Miss Cb.av,orib t nothing but the dream of a xxir LIFE OF BYROM. youthful fancy, that only rose to his mind when in a more than csually morbid state, and never influenced a single action of his life. To attempt to remark upon " Childe Harold," or the numerous poems that now poured from his copious genius like a flood, wera & work of supererogation ; England, Europe, the world are ac- quainted with their beauties, their peculiarities and their faults. Well do I recollect when the question of every intellectual person you met was : " Have you seen the G, I, A, 0, U, R ? " for no one could pronounce the word, and therefore spelt it. Byron proved that no poet since Shakespeare had so deep an insight into so many and various objects for poetry : the deepest passions, — the most evanescent trifles, — the profoundest feelings, — the most heartless cynicisms, — all flowed chaotically from his pen, the most astounding discords jostling against each other, and harmonizing into a beautiful whole. But wonder was the predominant feeling his works created, for they wanted the divine principle of goodness; they made man proud of his fellow-man's intellect, but they left him no better, and gave birth to no love. Through the whole of his writings from "English Bards to the last Canto of "Don Juan," there is one prominent character in the scene. I know not whether he wished it; if he did, he failed in concealing the original from which he drew ; according to the time, the place, and the circumstances, u Harold," the " Giaour," the " Corsair," " Lara," " Manfred," ay, even " Cain," are all himself. Almost the only exception to this is the " Prisoner of Chillon," and it is therefore, in my opinion, toe more beautiful. When his domestic differences were so blameably brought before the world, this was very much against him ; Byron was inseparably connected with his heroes — and a man with " one virtue and a thousand crimes," was not deemed likely to make a good husband, particularly when that single virtue itself looked very like a vice. Amidst dissipation, amours, poetry, boxing, and most in- congruous pursuits, he seems to have given free course to hi* pleasures for a year ; then his increasing difficulties forced upon him the necessity for a wealthy marriage or more foreign travel. He planned a voyage to Abyssinia, but, in the mean time made pro- posals for the hand of Miss Milbanke, an heiress, and a peeress in prospective, but was rejected. For a length of time, his pride prevented his deriving any pec *niary advantage from his writings, and his early copyrights were given away ; but when his scruples were once overcome by the kind representations of Mr. Murray, the eminent publisher, he seems to have had no objection to aU that could be obtained from them, and strikes us, in his letters, aa Djo bad hand at driving a bargain. But that time had not yot -CIV rr LIFE OF BYRO.V. xx* Vrrived, and, with no diminution in his pleasures, hia debts and wants increased. Another year passed away, a* the preceding one had done ; dissipation seemed to have no power to dull the powers of his mind, or clog the wings of his fancy, some of his tnost popular pieces being produced at this time. As a pit-aller, he resolved again to enlist Hymen in his favour ; and when we see the manner in which his inauspicious marriage was concocted, w» cannot at all wonder at the result. He consulted with a friend whether he should make proposals to a lady he had not then addressed on the subject, or whether he should repeat his offer to Miss Milbanke, with whom, though rejected, he had kept up a friendly correspondence. His friend, who saw the incompatibility of a union with Miss Milbanke, advised him to writ* to the newly- mentioned lady, which he accordingly did, and was by her like- wise rejected. He then fell back upon Miss Milbap'ce, and wrote such " a pretty letter " that his friend's objections were overruled, and the important missive was sent. The text of the Memoirs gives us no means of telling the sex of this friend, but from the "pretty letter," I should think it was a lady — perhaps Lady Melbourne. Whether dazzled by his increasing fame, or affected by the "pretty letter," no one can tell, but anybody can see that Miss Milbanke actad quite as imprudently as Lord Byron, in entering into aunion the dangers of which must have been so apparent. I-ord Byron was capable of entertaining for a time what he called iove, but then it must be with a nature looking up to him, holding him as an object worthy of almost worship — this might be a nature soft as we are led to suppose the Countess Guiccioli was, or fiery as that of Marianna or the Fornarina — but not like Miss Milbanke's, metaphysical, mathematical, and reflective. Miss Milbanke was good, pious, learned, and highly intellectual — Byron was dissipated, to use the mildest word, a sceptic, a man of fiery genius, and boasting in his wilfulness — such a match was like the bringing together of fire and water, and it is surprising that the lady's mother, who is said to have exercised so much influence after it had taken place, did not prevent it. After an absence from each other of ten months, on the 2nd of January, 1815, they were married. A wit has said that the marriage which ends a comedy, is frequently the commencement of a tragedy, and truly fluoh should I suspect this to have been. Mr. Moore, though, throughout his work, more a friendly advocate than a biographer, confesses that there was not a particle of love on either side. II such was the case, we are totally at a loss to fathom the lady's object ; Lord Byron's, notwithstanding his professions to the contrary, may be more easily guessed. But little immediate advantage accrued; so far, ir.deed, to the r -*- <<> xx vi LIFE OF BY ROW aontrary, tLe news of his wealthy marriage brought his creditors upon him, and he had eight executions in his house within a year, Some few months before, he had expressed a determination not to write any more, and to endeavour to suppress what he had already published ; but for a man who had inhaled the incense of popularity in such copious draughts this was impossible, and he soon appeared to write more than ever. He likewise very imprudently mixed himself up with the affairs of Drury Lane Theatre ; which, in addition to the dangers of les coulisses to such a man, cculd not, it any way, be productive of good. One short year put an end to his ill-assorted marriage. How it had been passed by the parties with respect to each other no one ; nk to ;t are due the brilliact effusions -&♦ L 1FE OF B YR OX. x x vii he poured out during the short remainder of his career ; but, whilst admitting the splendour, the versatility, the profundity, of his genius, I cannot but think that it might have been better directed. Such powers are given to so few, that the possessor ought to prove a certain blessing to his species — the clever, the dazzling, the perplexing, however wonderful, do not constitute all ire have a right to expect from God's nobility. Lord Byron, at first, as he had done with respect to his writings, refusod to benefit by his wife's fortune, but did not persevere iD the resolution. He had been on the eve of selling Newstead, and had received forfeiture from the proposed purchaser ; but he had not effected the sale at his departure. He took a different course from his first voyage ; travelling through Flanders, and up the Rhine, he chose Switzerland as his first resting-place. With his usual felicity, he made his journeyings among the Alps subservient to his muse, and he here collected the machinery and scenery of his sublime dramatic poem of "Manfred," the hero of the piece he had not to travel far in search of. Byron is so essentially a painter from realities, that this conscience-stricken metaphysician would almost lead us to attach consequence to horrid tales that wei e in circulation relative to a part of his sojourn in Greece ; but no,— with all his errors, he was an Englishman, and I will not think them even possible. In Switzerland he renewed his intimacy with Madame de Stael, who was more kind to him than she h?.d been in London. The author of " Delphine " and " Corinne " was too well versed in the theory, if not the practice of love, to be deceived by Byron's pretences to the passion. " She attacked me furiously last night," ; said he ; " she said I had no right to make love — that I had used * * * barbarously — that I had no feeling, and was totally insensible to la belle passion, and had been all my life." This might be sharp, but it was nevertheless true. But now, in her own territory of Copet, and the poet being in a sort of banishment, she was not only a hospitable hostess, but a friend. He became acquainted with Shelley at Geneva, and notwithstanding the difference of their genius, formed something like a friendship for him. Shelley was of a knightly family, had great talents, and was sceptical and peculiar in his opinions. This all "jumped with Byron's humour," but, to judge from his letters, they were never very intimate friends. Shelley's genius was of too delicate and fanciful a nature to consort completely with the bold, dashing, eccentric spirit of Byron — as I before said, in Shelley all was imagination, as in Byron all was real. As an excuse for this, the latter was accustomed to say : " There should always be some foundation of fact for the most airy fabric, and pure invention is 4* *©* xxviii LIFE OF BYRON. teoi the talent of a liar." Whilst here he wrote " Lines on hoarin^ Lady Byron was ill," which are much more cruel than even the celebrated " Farewell," and began "Manfred." In October he left Switzerland for Italy, a country in which be seemed more at home than in any other, and shortly took up a kind of settled residence at Venice. He entered upon his initiation in Italian manners by falling in love with Marianna, the wife of the person in whose house he lodged. He wrote to Rogers "that Venice was a famous place for women," which, indeed, he seemed to think, for his dissipations wero such as to bring him down to a serious illness. But the inexhaustible stores of his mind were never left to rust — the third canto of "Childe Harold" was finished, " Manfred " had a third act added, a fourth canto of " Childe Harold " was begun, and " Beppo " was written. After producing " Mazeppa," his genius took its most eccentric, and, perhaps, most surprising flight, and he began " Don Juan." Of this astonishing production it is difficult to speak, — its elements are so extraordinary, bo diversified, and yet each so perfect in its way — the sublime, the ridiculous, the pathetic, the humorous, the sarcastic, the benevolent, the moral, and the obscene, seem to chase each other along every Line, "with artless heed and giddy cunning," till the brain of the reader becomes bewildered in the pursuit. And yet, every friend to the poet, every friend to morality, must wish that " Don Juan " b id never been written — the greater tho genius displayed, the more insidious the danger. Another amour soon engaged him. He accidentally met with a low-born woman, the wife of a miller, with whom ho became infatuated. This was one of his magnificent Juno-like charmers, and the contests between her and her rival seem to have amused him highly : what the reader of his life must think on seeing the English Peer of the highest genius so amused is another thing. All this time his pen was as active as ever, and though he affected to hate the very name of England, no event happened there without engaging his attention so far as to set it to work ; his letters xmtradict themselves in this respect. Poor Southey seems to havo ever remained a favourite butt; the "Vision of Judgment" was Bovere, but was almost warranted by the absurdity of the Laureate's original. In 1820, he had the good fortune to become acquainted with the Countess Guiccioli, the wife of an elderly nobleman, and tho daughter of a Count Gamba. I say good fortune, as this connection, in a ^reat degree, weaned him from the course of low libertinism into which he had fallen. The husband became jealous, the young wife extravagantly in love with her celebrated foreign lover, and her fiunily slightly anxious about their honour. But matters were *cf>* LIFE OF BYRON, xxix tnnnnged as they do those things in Italy ; all parties, at length, ssemed tolerably satisfied, except the poor husband, who wax compelled to pay his wife a certain income, although deprived oi her, and quite conscious that she and the noble poet were happy in their loves. A great deal more has been said about Byron's attachment to this lady than I think it deserves. With the true ** Don Juan " spirit, when he was struck with her beauty, diffi- cilties only enhanced the pleasure of the pursuit ; but when tboce difficulties were overcome, his conduct, his letters, and his asso- ciations prove that his love was no more, or at most little more, than one of the hundred evanescent flames that had been kindled in his inflammable breast. He had been rather cooler in his pursuit of pleasure, and the countess, as a lady, associated rather more with his mental occupations and gentlemanly feelings than the low women with whom he had of late been connected. But that was all. He appears, after the first, to be always ready to leave her, and it is her attachment to him that produces the appearance of constancy on his part. He was anxious to got an eminent portrait-painter over — but it was to paint two portraits ; not only that of the fair, beautiful, lady-like countess, but that of his vixen love, the magni- ficent Italian, the miller's wife. As the melancholy close ap- proaches, there is no mention of this lady, and if it be true that the ruling passion is strong in death, the evidence is conclusive— for, in no account is there any proof of her having engaged one cC his last thoughts ; the names of his sister and his daughter were murmured from his dying lips, but not that of the devoted Guiccioli. Madame de Stael was right ; Byron had never an idea of pure exalted love. Of all his multifarious heroines, there is not one to excite the sympathies of a well-directed mind. Haide*e has been pronounced innocent, but it is the innocence of ignorance, and, from the finding of the half-naked boy to the last scene of her episode, it is nothing but animal passion. About this period occurred one of those abortive attempts which the Italians occasionally make to regain their liberty ; attempts so ill planned and feebly carried out, that they only serve to rivet their chains the tighter. In fact, since Italy became a nation of artists, it has ceased to be a nation of freemen ; and such will be the case with all countries ; when wealth and luxury lead to un- due encouragement of the arts, the manly virtues, in every empire, have speedily died away. Very wrongly as well as imprudently, Lord Byron took not only an interest, but a part in this ill-con- certed rising. However strong his sympathies may be with what he considers a suffering people, a man allowed to live in a foreign country can never be justified in interfering in its revolutione. Bypon managed to keep out of the hands of the Aus>trians, \x& <> xxx LIFE OF BYRON, when, as Madame Guir-cioli said, " the Italians had proved them* ■selves only fit to compose operas," his lady-love and her father and brother were forced to leave Ravenna. Byron was induced to follow them very unwillingly. Before quitting a place to which he had become attached, he sent for Shelley, who obeyed the voice ol friendship. They then went together, and resided near each other at Genoa. Here he was joined, I believe on invitation, by Leigh Hunt and his family, to whom he had been introduced by Moore, when Hunt was suffering under royal persecution. This uus an association that could not lead to good. Hunt had made himself a name by his talents, and was, perhaps justly, vain of it. Byron had very far superior talents, and was, at the same time, nobly born and aristocratically bred — the habits, the prejudices, the very abilities of the two men clashed when they came in contact, and neither of them gained honour by the association. Byron disap- pointed the hopes of a man struggling with an adverse world, and Hunt, by the publication of a book on the subject, proved himself ungrateful for what benefits he had received. In conjunction with Hunt's brother, John, they started a periodical, called the " Liberal ; " but it came to nothing. Byron wus not the mun to work in partnership with anybody. While residing here, the melancholy death of Shelley took place, a circumstance as worldly-wide known as the genius of the man. Much as 1 admire his writings, I have not space to comment upon them or him : a few garbled remarks would be unworthy of the subject. I have not judged it noccssary to mention Lord Byron's works regularly as they came out, because the very naming of them must lead to a notice of their merits, and that would fill a volume, whereas my task is bounded to a few pages. But if we look at the list of his writings and contemplate their bulk, and then reflect that they were all written in eighteen years, between eighteen and thirty-six, we are almost as much astonished at their number as their brilliancy. I am led to make this remark by the prodigality with which he seems to have poured out one great production after another, while resident in Italy. Neither dissipation, love, conspiracy, friendships nor enmities, seem to have checked the stream, but rather to have increased its abundance. He had sold Newstead, and the death of Lady Noel added con- siderably to his income, which was now ample. I will not venture upon any discussion of her ladyship's conduct in the unfortunate separation ; but, if we consider Byron's writings on the occasion, and his frequent coarse verbal and written allusions to the mother of his wife — and that lady's resentment, which carried her so far as to leave instructions in her will, that Lord Bjron's daughter was LIFE OF BYRON. xxxl not to be allowed to see her father's portrait for many yoars — we am brought to the conviction that there was more petty spite than dignified anger on both sides. But now a fresh and a concluding change oame over his dream of a life. Deeply imbued with a love of classic literature, admiring Greece as a country which he had traversed with the eye and feelings of a poet, he forgot, in his enthusiasm, that there was not a man in Greece able to write a line of that which had created his love, or one inspired by the smallest spark of that worship of liberty which had created an Epaminondas or led to the self- sacrifice of a Leonidas, and he plunged headlong into a visionary scheme for the rescuing of Greece from the hands of the Turk. His residence in Greece, and his poetry connected with it, had rendered him familiar to the Greeks ; their hopes magnified the extent of his wealth, and they hailed the promise of his coming among them as an omen of certain success. The Greek committee for promoting the insurrection, established in London, too, forgetting it was a very different thing to make a poetical Corsair attack upon the Pasha Seyd, and to restore liberty to a country that had been enslaved four hundred years, appointed him to a high command, which no circumstance of his antecedent life could have led them to think he was qualified for. A Washington would not have bestowed attention upon the splendid helmets with the Byron crest, or have wasted his time in pistol-practice ; he would have known that his own personal achievements could be of but little importance in a great national revolution. Beyond furnishing money, and making his sojourn with one or another of the various parties into which this imeute was divided a subject of constant quarrel and intrigue, I cannot see any effects produced by Byron's going into Greece. Of all the plots the world has pro- duced, and some of them have been extraordinary in their ill-construction, this was one of the worst digested, and most confusedly carried out. That bane of all man's great projects, self-interest, prevailed even more strongly than it usually does in such cases ; and, from his supposed inexhaustible wealth, Lord Byron was the bone all contended for. What may have been his ambitious anticipations in going to Greece no one can say, though most may divine ; but he soon found that his calculations were wrong ; the people he had to deal with were quite untractable, and he said in bitterness, " I was a fool to come here ;" they only wanted his money. As, however, he had embarked in the cause, he knew he was too conspicuous in the yyes of that world which it had been his object to defy, to retreat without disgrace, and he was about to command an attack upon Lervfuto, wh^n he waa overtaken by diseace and death. The xxxii LIFE OF BYRON. causes of this melancholy catastrophe were many. Bdisso JonghJ, to which he had been confined by stress of weather, is a dismal, unhealthy swamp ; his mind was incessantly harassed by finding himself involved in an affair out of which his talents could not extricate him ; his dissipated life had weakened his constitution ; on the 15th of February, he had a convulsion fit — and as he was little amenable to the advice of either friends or physicians, these altogether rendered a cold, which at another time might have been got over, formidable. His last illness was only ten days ic duration, and is a scene of confusion, discomfort, and privations melancholy to contemplate, as the departure of such a man. He evidently did not expect death, and there is little in the account ol his last moments for 4he religionist or the philosopher to theorize upon. Every one was taken by surprise ; every one was absorbed in his own interests. Fletcher, his servant, and Count Ganibt, the brother of the Countess Guiccioli, were the only persoos deeply affected by the loss. Lord Byron, as I have said, formed strong attachments for those beneath him and dependent upo* him, and was, consequently, beloved by his servants. In his Timon-like feeling for England, he had desired to b^ buried anywhere but in his own country ; but this was, wisely, nc/. acted upon. His remains were brought to England, and consigned to the family vault in the village of Hucknall, a spot so similar to Missolonghi, that the pilgrim to the tomb of genius who has see", both cannot help being struck with the dreary resemblance. In this sketch, which must be unsatisfactory from its shortness, I have ventured so many remarks upon Lord Byron's character aud writings, that, unless I had much more room at my command, I can add nothing else. As a man most highly gifted, and as writings of transcendent genius, Byron and his works must ever remain subjects of pride to his country ; whether, if the life of the man might have been purer, and, if it had, whether the works would have been more brilliant and beneficial, must be left to the speculations of the moralist ; the biographer has only to declare that there has boen no genius so universal since Shakspeare, and th%t no one man's writings belonging to modern times have been ware generally reexi. ♦$* ♦&■ HOURS OF IDLENESS: A SERIES OF POEMS, ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED. Vlrglnlbufl puerisque canto.— Horace, lib. 111. Ode L M»'/t' ap jue /j. HOURS OF IDLENESS. ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY,M COUSIN TO TAB AUTHOR, AND VERT DEAR TO HIM. Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening gloom, Not e'en a zephyr wanders through the grove, Whilst I return, to view my Margaret's tomb, And scatter flowers on the dust I love. Within this narrow cell reclines her clay, That clay, where once auch animation beam'd ; The King of Terrors seized her as his prey ; Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem' d. Oh ! could that King of Terrors pity feel, Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate ! Not here the mourner would his grief reveal, Not here the muse her virtues would relate. But wherefore weep ? Her matchless spirit soars Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day ; And weeping angels lead her to those bowers Where endless pleasures virtue's deeds repay. And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven arraign, And, madly, godlike Providence accuse ? Ah ! no, far fly from me attempts so vain ; — I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse. Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear, Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face ; Still they call forth my warm affection's tear, Still in my heart retain their wonted place. ioc& TO E- LET Folly smile, to view the names Of thee and me in friendship twined ; Yet Virtue will have greater claims To love, than rank with vice combined. • The author claims the Indulgence of the reader more for this piece, than, perhaps, any other in the oollection ; but as it was written at an earlier period than the rest (beinf composed at the age ol fourteen), and his first essay, he preferred submitting it to th# Indulgence of his friends in its present state, to making either addition or alteration. t The daughter of Admiral Parker, who died at the age of fifteen. B 2 4 * ^ 4 BYRON'S POEMS. And though unequal is thy fate, Since title deck'd my higher birth I Yet envy not this gaudy state ; Thine is the pride of modest worth. Our souls at least congenial meet, Nor can thy lot my rank disgrace ; Our intercourse is not less sweet, Since worth of rank supplies the place. Ncnerbro, ISA TO D- In thee, I fondly hoped to clasp A friend, whom death alone could sevor ; Till envy, with malignant grasp, Detach' d thee from my breast for ever. True, she has forced thee from my breast, Yet, in my heart thou keep'st thy seat ; There, there thine image still must rest, Until that heart shall cease to beat. And when the grave restores her dead. When life again to dust is given, On thy dear breast I'll lay my head — Without thee, where would be my heaven? FebiUbry, 139 EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. Aa-rrjp wpii' /Lt€v JXa/iirer tvi faolaiv iot. — Laertit^. Oh, Friend ! for ever loved, for ever dear ! What fruitless tears have bathed thy honour'd bier ! What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath. Whilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of death I Could tears retard the tyrant in his course ; Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force, Could youth and virtue claim a short delay, Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey ; Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sight, Thy comrade's honour and thy friend's delight* If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie, Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart, A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art. No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, But living statues there are seen to weep ; Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb, A Auction's self deplores thy youthful doom. What though thy sire lament his failing Lbu, A father's sorrows cannot equal mine 1 •©■ • -6* HOURS OF IDLENESS. Though none, like thee, his dying hour will choor, Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here : But, who with me shall hold thy former place ? Thine image, what new friendship can efface ? Ah I 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. 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 I 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 ! That, only that, shall single out the spot ; By that remember' d, or with that forgot. UHL ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY. "' Why dost thon build the hall, son of the winged days T Thou loo feast from thy towe to-day : yet a few years, and the blast of the desert comes, it howls in thy empty court. ••OBsLuT. Through 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-laurell' wreath ; Near Askalon's towers John of Horistan 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 ean t«D« 4* ■6* ♦& *M 6 BYRON'S POEMS. On Marston, with Kupert, 'gainst traitors contending,* Four brothers enrich' d with their blood the bleak held ; For the rights of a monarch their country 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'll think upon glory and you. Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret , Far distant he goes, with the same emulation, — The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. That fame, and that memory, still will 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 ! 1808. J LINES WRITTEN IN " LETTERS TO AN ITALIAN NUN AND AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN : BY J. J. ROUSSEAU : FOUNDED ON FACTS." " Away, »w»y, your flattering art* May now betray some simple hearts; And you will smile at their believing, And they shall weep at your deceiving." ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING, ADDRESSED TO MTSS . Dear simple girl, those nattering arts, From which tnou'dst guard frail female hearts, Exist but in imagination, — Mere phantoms oi thine own creation ; For he who views that witching grace, That perfect form, that lovely face, With eyes admiring, oh ! believe me, He never wishes to deceive thee : Once in thy polish'd mirror glance, Thou'lt there descry that elegance Which from our sex demands such praises, But envy in the other raises : Then he who tells thee of thy beauty, Believe me, only does his duty : Ah ! fly not from the candid youth ; It is not flattery, — 'tis truth. July, 1804. • The battle of Marston Moor, where the adherents of Charles I. were defatted. Rupert, ton «1 the Elector Palatine, and nephew to Charles L He afterwards cominandod the flee> In the rei«n of Charles li. <> ■*€ *4* HOURS OF IDLENESS. ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL WKE3 DYINQ, Ah ! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite, Friend and associate of this clay ! To what unknown region borne, Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight I No more with wonted humour gay, But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. AD LESBIAM. Equal to Jove that youth must be — Greater than Jove he seems to me — Who, free from Jealousy's alarms, Securely views thy matchless charms, That cheek, which ever dimpling glows. That mouth, from whence such music floTa, To him, alike are always known, Reserved for him, and him aloi,e. Ah ! Lesbia ! though 'tis 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 adheren, My pulse beats quick, my breath heavee aborts My limbs deny their slight support, Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread, With deadly languor droops my head, My ears with tingling echoes ring, And life itself is on the wing ; My eyes refuse the cheering light, Their orbs are veil'd in starless night : Such pangs my nature sinks beneath, And feels a temporary death. * Animula I vagula, blandulr^ Hospea comesque corporis, Quae nunc abibis in loca— Pallid ula, rigida, nndula. Hec, at golea, dabk jcoco } h(J)+ BYRON'S POEMS TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS. BY DOMITIUS MARSUS. Hb who sublime in epic numbers roll'd, And he who struck the softer lyre of love^ By Death's unequal hand alike con troll' d,* Fit comrades in Elysian regions move i IMITATION OF TIBULLUS. " Sulplcia ad Certnthum." — Lib. 4. Cruel Cerinthus ! does the fell disease Which racks my breast your fickle bosom ploase \ Alas ! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain, That I might live for love and you again : But now I scarcely shall bewail my fate ; By death alone I can avoid your hate. TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. Ya Cupids, droop each little head, Nor let your wings with joy be spread, My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead, Whom dearer than her eyes she loved : For he was gentle, and so true, Obedient to her call he flew ; No fear, no wild alarm he knew, But lightly o'er her bosom moved : And softly fluttoring here and there, He never sought to cleave the air, But chin-up' d oft, and, free from care. Tuned to her ear his grateful strain. Now having pass'd the glcomy bourne From whence he never can return, His death and Lesbia's grief I mourn, Who sighs, alas ! but sighs in vain. Oh ! curst be thou, devouring grare I Whose jaws eternal victims crave, Fx*om whom no earthly power can savo ; For thou hast ta'en the bird away : From thee, my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow, Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow ; Thou art the cause of all her woe, Receptacle of life's decay. • ffho bind of Death Is said to i* unju*t or unequal, at Virgil tu ooDddoTabiy olds than TiocHuo ot uis decease. !•$■ <> HOURS OF IDLENESS. TMTTATED 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 dissarer J Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever ; E'en though the numbers did exceed The yellow harvest's countless seed. To part would be a vain endeavour : Could I desist ? — ah ! never — never ! TRANSLATION FROM HORACE. The man of firm and noble soul No factious clamours can control ; No threat'ning tyrant's darkling brow Can swerve him from his just intent : Gales the warring waves which plough, By Auster on the billows spent, To curb the Adriatic main, Would awe his fix'd determined mind in vain. Ay, and the red right arm of Jove, Hurtling his lightnings from above, With all his terrors there unfurl'd, He would, unmoved, rnawed behold. The flames of an expiring world, Again in crashing chaos roll'd, In vast promiscuous ruin hurl'd, Might light his glorious funeral pile : Still dauntless 'midst the wreck of earth he'd smile* FROM AN VCREON. I WISH to tune my quivering lyre To deeds of fame and notes of fire ; To echo, from its rising swell, How heroes fought and nations fell, When Atreus' sons advanced to war, Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar ; But still, to martial strains unknown, My lyre recurs to love alone : Fired with the hope of future fame, I seek some nobler hero's nam* : *w r 10 BYRON'S POEMS. The dying chords are strung anew, To war, to war, my harp is due : With glowing strings, the epic strain To Jove's great son I raise again ; Alcides and his glorious deeds, Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds* All, all in vain ; my wayward lyre Wakes silver notes of soft desire. Adieu, ye chiefs renown'd in arms I Adieu, the clang of war's alarms ! To other deeds my soul is strung, And sweeter notes shall now be sung ; My harp shall all its powers reveal, To tell the tale my heart must feel : Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim, In songs of bliss and sighs of flame. FROM ANACREON. 'TwaS now the hour when Night had drftefl 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 ceased to weep : At this lone hour, the Paphian boy, Descending from the realms of joy, Quick to my gate directs his course, And knocks with all his little force. My visions fled, alarm'd I rose, — " What stranger breaks my blest repoeo I*' " Alas ! " replies the wily child, In faltering accents sweetly mild, " A hapless infant here I roam, Far from my dear maternal home. Oh ! shield me from the wintry blast I The nightly storm is pouring fast. No prowling robber lingers here. A wandering baby w*o can fear ?" I heard his seeming artless tale, ] 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 { H is 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 i *& ^ )h ►< HOURS OF IDLENESS II His glossy curls, his azure wing, Which droop with nightly showers, I wriug ; 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 lust : I fear, relax'd with midnight dews, The strings their former aid refuse." With poison tipt, his arrow flies, Deep in my tortured heart it lies ; Then loud the joyous urchin laugh'd :— " My bow can still impel the shaft : 'Tis firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it ; Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it ? ' FBOM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS OF .ESCHYLUS. Great Jove, to whose almighty throno Both gods and mortals homage pay, Ne'er may my soul thy power disown, Thy dread behests ne er disobey. Oft shall the sacred victim fall In sea-girt Ocean's mossy hall ; My 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, Tne 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, 1&& TO EMMA. Since now the hour is come at last, When you must quit your anxious lover ; Since now our dream of bliss is past, One pang, my girl, and all is over. Alas ! that pang will be severe, Which bids us part to meet no more ; Which tears me far from one so dear, — Departing for a distant shore. Well ! we have pass'd some happy hours, And joy will mingle with our tears ; When thinking on these anient towers, The shelter of our infant •ears ; ♦€> 4 ♦4k *M 12 BYKOV'S POEMS. Where from this Gothic casement's beicht. We view'd the lake, the park, the dell ; And still, though tears obstruct our sight, We lingering look a last farewell. O'er fields through which we used to run. And spend the hours in childish play ; O'er shades where, when our race was don£, Reposing on my breast you lay ; Whilst I, admiring, too remiss, Forgot to scare the hovering flioe, Yet envied every fly the kiss It dared to give your slumbering eyce : See still the little painted bark, In which I row'd you o'er the lake ; See there, high waving o'er the park, The elm I clamber'd for your sake. These times are past — our joys are gon6, You leave me, leave this happy vale ; These scenes I must retrace alone : Without thee, what will they avail ? Who can conceive, who has not proved, The anguish of a last embrace ? When, torn from all you fondly loved, You bid a long adieu to peace. rhis is the deepest of our wo&s, For this these tears our checks bodexr J ["his is of love the final close, Oh, God ! the fondest, last adieu 1 4 TO It. S. G. Whene'er I view those lips of thine. Their hue invites my fervent kiss ; Yet I forego that bliss divine, Alas ! it were unhallow'd bliss. Whene'er I dream of that pure breast, How could I dwell upon its snows ! Yet is the daring wish repress'd ; For that — would banish its repose. A glance from thy soul-searching eye Can raise with hope, depress with fear ; Yet I conceal my love, — and why \ I would not force a painful tear. I ne'er have told my love, yet thou Hast seen my ardent flame too well ; And shall I plead my passion now, To make thy bosom's heaven a hell I •*• HOURS OF IDLENESS, 13 No ! for thou novor canst bo mine, United by the priest's decree : By any ties b''.c those divine, Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er shalt be. Then let the secret fire consume, Let it consume, thou shalt not know : With joy I court a certain doom, Rather than spread its guilty glow. I will not ease my tortured heart, By driving dove-eyed peace from thine J Rather than such a sting impart, Each thought presumptuous I resign. Yes ! yield those lips for which I'd brave More than I here shall dare to tell ; Thy innocence and mine to save, — I bid thee now a last farewell. Yes ! yield that breast, to seek despair, And hope no more thy soft embrace ; Which to obtain my soul would dare All, all reproach — but thy disgrace At least from guilt shalt thou be free, No matron shall thy shame reprovf Though cureless pangs may prey on me, No martyr shalt thou be to love. TO CAROLINE. Think'st thou I saw thy beauteous eyea, Suffused in tears, implore to stay ; And heard unmoved thy plenteous sighs, Which said far more than words can say f Though keen the grief thy tears express'd, When love and hope lay both o'erthrown | Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast Throbb'd with deep sorrow as thine own. But when our cheeks with anguish glow'd, When thy sweet lips were join'd to mine, The tears that from my eyelids flow'd Were lost in those which fell from thine. Thou couldst not feel my burning cheek, Thy gushing tears had quench'd its flar And a*? thy tongue essay'd to speak, In sighs alone it breathed my name. And yet, my girl, we weep in vain, In vain our fate in sighs deplore ; Remembrance only can remain, — But that will make us weep the more* L4, BYXON'S POEMS. Again, thou best beloved, adieu 5 A.h ! if thou canst, o'ercome regret ; Nor let thy mind past joys review ;— Our only hope is to forget ! •6* TO CAROLINE. ^hen I hear you express an affection so warm, Ne'er think, my beloved, that I do not believe ; For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm, And your eye beams a ray which can never deceive. Yet, still, this fond bosom regrets, while adoring, That love, like the leaf, must tall into the sear ; That age will come on, when remombrauce, deploring, Contemplates the scenes of her youth with a tear. That time must arrive, when, no longer retaining Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to the breeze, When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining, Prove nature a prey to decay and disease. Tis this, my beloved, which spreads gloom o'er my feature^ Though I ne'er shall presume to arraign the decree Which God has proclaim'd as the fate of His creatures, In the death which one day will deprive you of me. Mistake not, sweet sceptic, the cause of emotion, No doubt can the mind of your lover invade ; He worships each look with such faithful devotion, A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade. But as death, my beloved, soon or late shall o'ertake us, And our breasts, which alive with such sympathy glow, Will sleep in the grave till the blast shall awake us, When calling the dead, in earth's bosom laid low. Oh ! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of pleasure, Which from passion like ours may unceasingly flow : Let us pass round the cup of love's bliss in full measure, And quaff the contents as our nectar below. iaoc TO CAROLINE. Oh ! when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrows ? Oh ! when shall my soul wing her flight from this claj ? The present is hell, and the coming to-niorrow But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day. From my eye flows no tear, from my lips flow no curses, I blast not the fiends who have huiTd me from blise : For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearse Its querulous jjrief, when in anguish like this. — *& -<> HOURS OF IDLENESS* 15 Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury-flakes bright'ning. Would my lips breathe a flame which DO Stream could assuago, On our foes should my glance launch in vengoanco its lightning With transport my tongue give a loose to its rage. But now tears and curses, alike unavailing, Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight ; Could they view us our sad separation bewailing, Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight. Yet still, though we bend with a feign'd resignation, Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer, L<>ve and hope upon earth bring no more consolation ! In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear. Oh ! when, my adored, in the tomb will they place mo, Since, in life, love and friendship for ever are fled I If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee, Perhaps they will leave unmolcsteJ the dead. 1901 STANZAS TO A LADY. WITH THE POEMS OF CAMOENS. This votive pledge of fond esteem, Perhaps, dear girl ! for me thou'lt prize ; It sings of Love's enchanting dream, A theme we never can despise. Who blames it but the envious fool, The old and disappointed maid ; Or pupil of the prudish school, In single sorrow doom'd to fade? Then read, dear girl ! with feeling read, For thou wilt ne'er be one of those ; To thee in vain I shall not plead In pity for the poet's woes. He was in sooth a genuine bard ; His was no taint, fictitious flame : Like his, may love be thy reward, But not thy hapless fate the same. THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE. 'A Bap/3i-ror hh xoo&ait *'Ep-i>Ta novvov nx e '-— AJfACRBtw. Aw AT with your fictions of flimsy romance ; Tlwee tissues of falsehood which folly has wove ! Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glanoe, Or the rapture which dwolls on the first kiss of love* £ ♦- 16 BYRON'S POEMS. Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy glow, Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove ; From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flov?, Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love ! If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse, Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rove. Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse, And try the effect of the first kiss of love ! X nate you, ye cold compositions of art ! Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprove, I court the effusions that spring from the heart Which throbs with delight to the first kiss of love ! Y»ur shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes, Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move. Arcadia displays but a region of dreams : What are visions like these to the first kiss of love ? Oh ! cease to affirm that man, since his birth, From Adam till now, has with wretchedness strove : Some portion of paradise still is on earth, And Eden revives in the first kiss of love. When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past, For years fleet away with the wings of the dove, The dearest remembrance will still be the last, Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love -&♦ ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS AT A GREAT PUBLIC SCHOOL. Where are those honours, Ida ! once yo\ir own, When Probus fill'd your magisterial throne \ As ancient Rome, fast falling to disglt&Sfc Hail'd a barbarian in her Caesar's place ; So you, degenerate, share as hard a fate, And seat Pomposus where your Probus sate. Of narrow brain, yet of a narrower soul, Pomposus holds you in his harsh control ; Pomposus, by no social virtue sway'd, With florid jargon, and with vain parade ; With noisy nonsense, and new-fangled rules, Such as were ne'er before enforced in school^ Mistaking pedantry for learning's laws. He governs, sanction'd but by self-appiause ; With him the same dire fate attending Rome, Ill-fated Ida ! soon must stamp your doom : Like her o'erthrown, for ever lost to fame, No trace of science left you, but the name. ffafy,UK& <> —^* ^ HOCKS OF ID>LEX ESS. 17 TO THE DUKE OF DORSET.* Dorset ! whoso early steps with mine have stray'd, Exploring every path of Ida's glade ; Whom s* ill affection taught me to defend, And madv me less a tyrant than a friend, Though the harsh custom of our youthful bc\nd Bade thee obey, and gave vie to command ; + Thee, on whose head a few short years will shov^er The gift of riches and the pride of power ; E'en now a name illustrious is thine own, Ronown'd in rank, not far beneath the throne. Yet, Dorset, let not this seduce thy soul To shun fair science, or evade control, Though passive tutors, fearful to dispraise X The titled child, whose future breath may raise, View ducal errors with indulgent eyes, And wink at faults they tremble to chastise. When youthful parasites, who bend the knee To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee, And even in simple boyhood's opening dawn Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn, — When these declare, " that pomp alone should r/ait On one by birth predestined to be great ; That books were only meant for drudging fools, That gallant spirits scorn the oommon rules ;" Believe them not ; — they point the path to shame, And seek to blast the honours of thy name. Turn to the few in Ida's early throng, Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong ; Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth, None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth, Ask thine own heart ; 'twill bid thee, boy, forbear ; For well I know that virtue lingers there. Yes ! I have mark'd thee many a passing day, But now new scenes invite me far away ; Yes ! I have mark'd within that gc-nerous mind A soul, if well matured, to bless mankind. Ah ! though m}'self, 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 lovo the virtues which I cannot claim. • In looking over my papers to select a few additional poems for this second edition, I fouud the above lines, which I had totally forgotten, composed i'l the summer of 1S05, a ttiort time previous to my departure from Harrow. They wer A- «A<— *&* 20 B YRON 'S POEMS. Lo ! candidates and voters lie All lull'd in sleep, a goodly number • A race renown'd for piety, Whose conscience won't disturb their shimber. Lord II , indeed, may not demur ; Fellows are sage reflecting men : They know preferment can occur But very seldom, — now and then. They know the Chancellor has got Some pretty livings in disposal : Each hopes that one may be his lot, And therefore smiles on his proposal. Now from the soporific scene I'll turn mine eye, as night grows later, To view, unheeded and unseen, The studious sons of Alma Mater. There, in apartments small and damp, The candidate for college prizes Sits poring by the midnight lamp ; Goes late to bed, yet early rises. He surely well deserves to gnin them, With all the honours of his collegb. Who, striving hardly to obtain them, Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge : Who sacrifices hours of rest To scan precisely metres Attio ; Or agitates his anxious breast In solving problems mathematio. Who reads false quantities in Seale,* Or puzzles o'er the deep trianele ; 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 ; tnwfs publication on Ureek metres displays considerable talent and Ingenuity, \tO\_ *t nii^ht be expected in so difficult a work, is not remarkable for accuracy. \ The Latin of the schools is of the canin<> spccus, and not very inteliU***" J The discovery of Pythagoras, that t>ie square of the bypothenure 1» equal to the tooarw of Ui« oti'er two suit* of a right-angled triaugle. : ';> 4 —+4h HOURS 01' IDLENESS. 21 Whose daring revels shock the sight. When vice and infamy combine, When drunkenness and dice invite, As every sense is stoep'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 spirift> Their exultation in their trial, Detracts most largely from the merifc Of all their boasted self-denial. 'Tis morn : — from these I turn my sight. What scene is this which meets the eye? A numerous crowd, array'd in white, Across the green in numbers fry. Loud rings in air the chapel bell : 'Tis hush'd — what sounds are these I hoar? The organ's soft celestial swell Rolls deeply on the list'ning ear. To this is join'd the sacred song, The royal minstrel's hallow' d strain ; Though he who hears the music long Will never wish to hear again. Our choir would scarcely be excused, Even as a band of raw beginners ; All mercy now must be refused To such a set of croaking sinners. If David, when his toils were ended, Had heard these blockheads sing before him, To hs his psalms had ne'er descended, — In furious mood he would have tore 'em. The luckless Israelites when taken By some inhuman tyrant's order, Were ask'd to sing, by joy forsaken, On Babylonian river' 3 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 5 My pen is blunt, my ink is low ; 'Tis almost time to stop, indeed. *e* ■><} 22 BY ROM'S POEMS. Therefore, farewell, old Granta's spires : No more, like Cleofas, I fly ; No more thy theme my muse inspired : The reader '« tired, and so am I. 180* ON A DISTANT VIEW OF THE VILLAGE AND SCHOOL OF HARROW-ON-THE-HILL. ** O 1 mJM praeteritos referat «i Jupiter annos." — Vibgil. Ye scenes of my childhood, whose loved recollection Embitters the present, compared with the past ; Where science first dawn'd on the powers of reflection, And friendships were form'd, too romantic to last ; Where fancy yet joys to trace the resemblance Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied ; How welcome to me your ne'er-fading remembrance, Which rests in the bosom, though hope is denied ! Again I revisit the hills where we sported, The streams where we swam, and the fields where we fought ; The school, where, loud warn'd by the bell, we resorted, To pore o'er the precepts by pedagogues taught. Again I behold where for hours I have ponder'd, As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone I lay ; Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wander'd. To catch the last gleam of the sun's setting ray. I once more view the room, with spectators surrounded, Where, as Zanga, I trod on Alonzo o'erthrown ; While, to swell my young pride, such applauses resounded, I fancied that Mossop himself was outshone.* Or, as Lear, I pour'd forth the deep imprecation, By my daughters, of kingdom and reason deprived ; Till, fired by loud plaudits and self-adulation, I regarded myself as a Garrick revived. Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret you ! Unfaded your memory dwells in my breast ; Though sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget you : Your pleasures may still be in fancy possess'd. To Ida full oft may remembrance restore me, While fate shall the shades of the future unroll ! Since darkness o'ershadows the prospect before me, More dear is the beam of the past to my soul. But if, through the course of the years which await me, Some new scene of pleasure should open to view, I will say, while with rapture the thought shall elate me " Oh ! such were the days which my infancy knew ! " 1KB. * A. cesiteaiooraxv of Garrick, fluamu for his performance cf Zajag% ^> HOURS OF IDLENESS. 23 TO M Oh ! did those eyes, Instead of firo, With bright but mild affection shiao, Though they might kindle less desire, Love more than mortal would be tbiu* ^or thou art form'd so heavenly fair, Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam, We must admire, but still despair; That fatal glance forbids esteem. When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth. So much perfection in thee shone, She fear'd that, too divine for earth, The skies might claim thee for their own ; Therefore, to guard her dearest work, Lest angels might dispute the prize, She bade a secret lightning lurk Within those once celestial eyes. These might the boldest sylph appal. When gleaming with meridian blazo ; Thy beauty must enrapture all ; But who can dare thine ardent gaze ? 'Tis said that Berenice's hair In stars adorns the vault of heaven ; But they would ne'er permit thee there,— Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven. For did those eyes as planets roll, Thy sister-lights would scarce appear : E'en suns, which systems now control, Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.* 138& TO WOMAN. Woman ! experience might have told mo. That all must love thee who behold thee : Surely experience might have taught Thy firmest promises are nought : But, placed in all thy charms before me, All I forget, but to adore thee. O memory ! thou choicest blessing, When join'd with hope, when still possessing \ But how much cursed by every lover When hope is fled, and passion s s over. • •• Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven. Having some business, do entreat her eyes Xo twinkle in their spheres till they return."— Sttursnsifflk ■$♦ +£}* ^ 24 BYRON'S POEMS. Woman, that fair and foud deceiver, How prompt are striplings to believe her 1 How throbs the pulse when first we vieTT The eye that rolls in glossy blue, Or sparkles black, or mildly throws A beam from under hazel brows ! How quick we credit every oath, And hear her plight the willing troth : Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye, — When lo ! she changes in a day. This record will for ever stand, " Woman ! thy vows are traced in sand." • <& TO M. S. G. Wren I dream that you love me, you'll surely forgive Extend not your anger to sleep ; For in visions alone your affection can live, — I rise, and it leaves me to weep. Then, Morpheus ! envelop my faculties fast, Shed o'er me your languor benign ; Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last, What rapture celestial i3 mine ! They tell us that slumber, the sister of death, Mortality's emblem is given : To fate how I long to resign my frail breath, If this be a foretaste of heaven ! Ah ! frown not, sweet lady, unbend you/ soft brow, Nor deem me too happy in this ; If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now, Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss. Though in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you may smile. Oh ! think not my penance deficient ! When dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile, To awake will be torture sufficient. TO MARY, ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE. THIS faint resemblance of thy charms, Though strong as mortal art could give, My constant heart of fear disarms, Revives my hopes, and bids me live. • This line is almost * Literal translation from a Spanish proverb. 4. HOURS OF IDLENESS. 25 Here I can tr^ce the locks of gold Which rouiul thy snowy forehead wave, The cheeks which sprung from beauty's mould, The lips which made me beauty's slave. Here I can trace — ah, no ! that eye, Whose azure floats in liquid fire. Must all the painter's art defy, And bid him from the task retire. Here I behold its beauteous hue ; But where's the beam so sweetly straying, Which gave a lustre to its blue, Like Luna o'er the ocean playing ? Sweet copy ! far more dear to me, Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art, Than all the living forms could be, Save her who placed thee next my heart. She placed it, sad, with needless fear, Lest time might shake my wavering soul, Unconscious that her image there Held every sense in fast control. Through hours, through years, through time, 'twill chew My hope, in gloomy moments raise ; In life's last conflict 'twill appear, And meet my fond expiring gaze. TO LESBIA. Lesbia t since far from you I've ranged, Our souls with fond affection glow not ; You say 'tis I, not you, have changed ; I'd tell you why, — but yet I know not. Your polish'd brow no cares have cross'd ; And, Lesbia ! we are not much older Since, trembling, first my heart I lost, Or told my love, with hope grown bolder. Sixteen was then our utmost age, Two years have lingering past away, love ! And now new thoughts our minds engage, At least I feel disposed to stray, love ! Tis I that am alone to blame, I, that am guilty of love's treason ; Since your sweet breast is still the same, Canrice must be my only reason. 1 do not, love ! suspect your truth, With jealous doubt my bosom heaves net,; W arm was the passion of my youth, One trace of dark deceit it leaves not. ■Ht +&+ 4 26 BYRON'S POEMS. No, no, my flame was not pretended ; For, oh ! I loved you most sincerely ; And — though our dream at last is endod— My bosom still esteems you dearly. No more we meet in yonder bowers ; Absence has made me prone to roving - ; But older, firmer hearts than ours Have found monotony in loving. Your cheek's soft bloom is unimpair'd, New beauties still are daily bright'ning, Your eye lor conquest beams prepared, The forge of love's resistless lightning. Arm'd thus to make their bosoms bleed, Many will throng to sigh like me, love ! More constant they may prove, indeed ; Fonder, alas ! they ne'er can be, love ! LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY, WHO HAD BEEN ALARMED BY A BULLET FIRED BY THS AUTHO* WHILE DISCHARGING HIS PISTOLS LN A GARDEN. Doubtless, sweet girl ! the hissing lead, Wafting destruction o'er thy charms, And hurtling o'er thy lovely head,* Has fill'd that breast with fond alarms. Surely some envious demon's force, Vex'd to behold such beauty here, Impell'd the bullet's viewless course, Diverted from its first career. Yes ! in that nearly fatal houi The ball obey'd some hell-born guide ; But Heaven, with interposing power, In pity turn'd the death aside. Yet, as perchance one trembling tear Upon that thrilling bosom fell ; Which I, th' unconscious cause of fear, Extracted from its glistening cell : Say, what dire penance can atone For such an outrage done to thee ? Arraign'd before thy beauty's throne, What punishment wilt thou decree ? * TMa word 1b used by Gray, 1b his poem to the Fatal Sisters j— Iron sleet of arrowy shower Hurtle* through the daxken'd air." ♦ $+ -^ HOURS OF IDLENESS. 27 Might I pei form the judge's part, The sentence I should scarce deplore ; It only would restore a heart Which but belong'd to thee before. The least atonement I can make Is to become no longer free ; Henceforth I breathe but for thy sake, Thou shalt be all in all to me. But thou, perhaps, mayst now reject Such expiation of my guilt : Come, then, some other mode elect ; Let it be death, or what thou wilt. Choose then, relentless ! and I swear Nought shall thy dread decree prevent ; Yet hold — one little word forbear ! Let it be ought but banishment. LO V E'S LAST ADIEU. 'Aci, 6' uet jxe ent7-«8tek > ^ 4* HOURS OF IDLENESS. 29 He in dimpling smiles appears, Or mourns in sweetly timid tonm, Or bends the languid eyelid down, But shuns the cold forbidding frown. Then resume thy former fire, — Some will love, and all admire ; "While that icy aspect chills us, Nought but cool indifference thrills us. Wouldst thou wandering hearts beguile, Smile at least, or seem to smile. Eyes like thine were never meant To hide their orbs in dark restraint ; Spite of all thou fain wouldst say, Still i» truant beams they play. Thy lips — but here my modest muso Her impulse chaste must needs refuse : She blushes, curt'sies, frowns — in short she Dreads lest the subject should transport me j And flying off in search of reason, Brings prudence back in proper season ; All I shall therefore say (whate'er I think, is neither here nor there) Is, that such lips, of looks endearing, Were form'd for better things than sneering Of smoothing compliments divested, Advice at least's disinterested ; Such is my artless song to thee, From all the flow of flattery free ; Counsel like mine is like a brother's, My heart is given to some others ; That is to say, unskill'd to cozen, It shares itself among a dozen. Marion, adieu ! oh, pr'ythee slight not This warning, though it may delight not ; And, lest my precepts be displeasing To those who think remonstrance teasing, At once I'll tell thee our opinion Concerning woman's soft dominion : Howe'er we gaze with admiration On eyes of blue or lips carnation, Howe'er the flowing locks attract us, Howe'er those beauties may distract ua, Still fickle, we are prone to rove, These cannot fix our souls to \o\ e : It is not too severe a stricture To say they form a pretty pictvus ; But wouldst thou see the secret chain Which binds us in your humble trais^ T© hail you queens of all creation, Kaaow, in a word, 'tis ANIMATION. j* *$■ ♦<|* — k^ 30 B Y RON'S POEMS. TO A LADY, WHO PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR A LOCK OF HAIR fcRATDEB WITH HIS OWN, AND APPOINTED A NIGHT IN DECEMBER TO HEET HIM IN THE GARDEN. These locks, which fondly thus entwine, In firmer chains our hearts confine, Than all th' unmeaning protestations Which swell with nonsense love orations. Our love is fix'd, I think we've proved it, Nor time, nor place, nor art have moved it ; Then wherefore should we sigh and whine, With groundless jealousy repine, With silly whims, and fancies frantic, Mereby to make our love romantic ? Why should you weep like Lydia Languish, And fret with self-created anguish ? Or doom the lover you have chosen, On winter nights to sigh half-frozen ; In leafless shades to sue for pardon, Only because the scent; 's a garden ? For gardens seem, by one consent, Since Shakspeare set the precedent, Since Juliet first declared her passion, To form the place of assignation.* Oh ! would some modern muse inspire, And seat her by a sea-coal fire ; Or had the bard at Christmas written And laid the scene of love in Britain, He surely, in commiseration, Had changed the place of declaration. In Italy I've no objection : Warm nights are proper for reflection J But here our climate is so rigid, That love itself is rather frigid : Think on our chilly situation, And «.urb this rage for imitation ; Then let us meet, as oft we've done, Beneath the influence of the sun ; Or, if at midnight I must meet you, Within your mansion let me greet you : There we can love for hours together, Much better, in such snowy weather, Than placed in all th' Arcadian groves That ever witness'd rural loves ; • l» the above little piece, the author ha* been accused by sore* cnnHd t ea*i«T» of Introducing the name of a lady from whom he was some hundred mile* distant At the tiuv. this was written ; and poor Juliet, who has slept so long in " l.te tomb of all th* Capulets," has been converted, with a trifling alteration of hei name, into an English damsel, walking in a garden of their own creation, during the montn of December, in a village where the author never passed a winter. Such has been the candour of «om« Ingenious critics. We would advise these liberal commentaWi oa taste and arbiters aS iecuruiu to read Sbakspeaxe. 4 <> & HOURS OF IDLENESS. 31 Then, if my passion fail to please, hiext ni^;M I'll be content to freeao ; Ho more i il give a loose to laughter, But curse ray fate for ever after.* OSCAR OF ALVA.r A TALE. How sweetly shines through azure skioa The lamp of heaven on Lora's whore ; Where Alva's hoary turrets rise, And hear the din of arms no more. But ofton has yon rolling moon On A1t a's casques of silver play'd ; And view'd at midnight's silent noon Her chiefs in gleaming mail array 'd : And on the crimson'd rocks beneath, Which scowl o'er ocean's sullen flow, Pale in the scatter'd ranks of death, She saw the gasping warrior low ; While many an eye which ne'er again Could mark the rising orb of day, Turn'd feebly from the gory plain, Beheld in death her fading ray. Once to those eyes the lamp of Love, They bless'd her dear propitious light ; But now she glimmer' d from above, A sad, funereal torch of night. Faded is Alva's noble race, And gray her towers are seen afar ; No more her heroes urge the chase, Or roll the crimson tide of war. But who was last of Alva's clan ? Why grows the moss on Alva's stono ? Her towers resound no steps of man, They echo to the gale alone. And when that gale is fierce and high, A sound is heard in yonder hall ; It rises hoarsely through the sky, And vibrates o'er the mouldering wall. Having heard that a very severe and indelicate censure has been passed ca the afeewa poem, I beg leave to reply, in a quotation from an admired work, — " Carr's Stranger ia Trance." — " As we were contemplating a painting on a large scale, in which, among oth«r lgures, la the uncovered whole-length of a warrior, a prudish -looking lady, who seemed to have touched the age of desperation, after having attentively surveyed it through hei flags, observed to her par+y, that there was a great deal of indecorum in that picture tfadame S. shrewdly whispered in my ear that the indecorum was in the remark." t The catastrophe of this tale was suggested by the story of " Jeronyme and Lorenzo,* in the first volume of Schiller's " Armenian, or the Ghost-Seer." It also hews eoaoc rasemblanoe to a scene in th« third act - f " Hacbeth. u 32 BYRON'S POEMS.) Yes, when the eddying tempest s : gas, It shakes the shield of Oscar brave ; But there no more his banners rise, No more his plumes of sable wave. Fair shone the sun on Oscar's birth, When Angus hail'd his eldest born ; The vassals round their chieftain's hearth Crowd to applaud the happy morn. They feast upon the mountain deer, The pibroch raised its piercing note : To gladden more their Highland cheer, The strains in martial numbers float ; And they who heard the war-notes wild, Hoped that one day the pibroch's strain Should play before the hero's child, While he should lead the tartan train. Another year is quickly past, And Angus hails another son ; His natal day is like the last, Nor soon the jocund feast was done. Taught by their sire to bend the bow, On Alva's dusky hills of wind, The boys in childhood chased the roe, And left their hounds in speed behind. But ere their years of youth are o'er, They mingle in the ranks of war ; They lightly wheel the bright claymore, And send the whistling arrow far. Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair, Wildly it stream'd along the gale ; But Allan's locks were bright and fair, And pensive seem'd his cheek, and pale. But Oscar own'd a hero's soul, His dark eye shone through beams of truth 5 Allan had early learn' d control, And smooth his words had been from youth. Both, both were brave : the Saxon spear Was shiver' d oft beneath their steel ; And Oscar's bosom scorn'd to fear, But Oscar's bosom knew to feel ; While Allan's soul belied his form. Unworthy with such charms to dwell s Keen as the lightning of the storm, On foes his deadly vengeance fell. From high Southannon's distant tower Arrived a young and noble dame ; With Kenneth's lauds to form her dower, GlenalvouVblue-eyed daughter came ; t #* HOURS OF IDLENESS. 33 And Oscar claim'd the beauteous bridi. And Angus on his Oscar smiled ; It soothed the father's feudal pride Thus to obtain Glenalvon's child. Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note ! Hark to the swelling nuptial song I In joyous strains the voices float, And still the choral peal prolong. See how the heroes' blood-red plumes Assembled wave in Alva's hall ; Each youth his varied plaid assumes, Attending on their chieftain's call. It is not war their aid demands, The pibroch plays the song of peace ; To Oscar's nuptials throng the bands, Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease. But where is Oscar ? sure 'tis late : Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame ? While thronging guests and ladies wait, Nor Oscar nor his brother came. At length young Allan join'd the bride : " Why comes not Oscar ?" Angus said ; " Is he not here ?" the youth replied ; " With me he roved not o'er the glade. " Perchance, forgetful of the day, 'Tis his to chase the bounding roe ; Or ocean's w r aves prolong his stay ; Yet Oscar's bark is seldom slow." ** Oh, no ! " the anguish'd sire rejoin'd, "Nor chase nor wave my boy delay ; Would he to Mora seem unkind ? Would aught to her impede his way ? " Oh, search, ye chiefs ! oh, search around 1 Allan, with these through Alva fly ; Till Oscar, till my son is found, Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply." A.H is confusion — through the vale The name of Oscar hoarsely rings, It rises on the murmuring gale, Till night expands her dusky wings ; It bieaks the stillness o\ the night, But echoes through her shades in vain, It sounds through morning's misty light, But Oscar comes not o'er the plain. Three days, three sleepless nights, the Chief For Oscar search' d each mountain cave i Then hope is lost ; in boundless grief, His locks in gray-torn ring tots wave. *& BYRON'S POEMS. " Oscar ! my son ! — thou God of hos-v 5 !!, Restore the prop oi sinking age I Or i1 that hope uo more is given. Yield his assassin to my rage. ■' Yes, on some desert rocky shore My Oscar's whiten'd bones must lie ; Then grant, thou God ! I ask no more, With him his frantic sire may die ! •' Yet he may live — away, despair ! Be calm, my soul ! he yet may live ; T arraign my fate, my voice forbear ! God ! my impious prayer forgive. *' What, if he live for me no more, 1 sink forgotten in the dust, The hope of Alva's age is o'er ; Alas ! can pangs like these be just '" Thus did the hapless parent mourn, Till Time, which soothes severest vso% Had bade serenity return, And made the tear-drop cease to tloF. For still some latent hope survived That Oscar might once more appear ; His hope now droop'd and now revived-, Till Time had told a tedious year. Days roll'd aloug, the orb of light Again had run his destined race ; No Oscar bless' d his father's sight, And sorrow left a fainter trace. For youthful Allan still remain'd, Aud dow his lather's only joy : And Mora's heart was quickly gain'd, For beauty crown'd the fair-hair'd boy. She thought that Oscar low was laid. And Allan's face was wondrous fair ; H Oscar lived, some other maid Had claim'd his faithless bosom's caxz. And Angus said, if one year more In frutless hope was pass'd away, His fondest scruples should be o'er, And he would name their nuptial day. Blow roll'd the moons, but blest at lest Arrived the dearly destined morn ; The year of anxious trembling past, What smiles the lovers' cheeks adcmi Hark to the pibroch's pleasiug note ! Hark to the swelling nuptial song ] In ioyous strains the voices float. And still the choral peal prolong. 4- -4 HOURS OF ID LEX ESS. 35 Again the clan, in festive crowd, Throng through the gate of Alva's hall ; The sounds of mirth re-echo loud, And all their former joy recall. But who is he, whose darken'd brow Glooms in the midst of goneral mirth T Before his eyes' far fiercer glow The blue flames curdle o'er the hearth, Dark is the robe which wraps his form, And tall his plume of gory red ; His voice is like the rising storm, But light and trackless is his tread. "Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round, The bridegroom's health is deeply quaff' d ; With shouts the vaulted roofs resound, And all combine to hail the draught. Sudden the stranger-chief arose, And all the clamorous crowd are hush'd ; And Angus' cheek with wonder glows, And Mora's tender bosom blush'd. " Old man !" he cried, "this pledge ia dont ; Thou saw'st 'twas duly drunk by me : It hail'd the nuptials of thy son : Now will I claim a pledge from thee. "While all around is mirth and joy, To bless thy Allan's happy lot, Say, hadst thou ne'er another boy ? Say, why should Oscar be forgot '( " '* Alas ! " the helpless sire replied, The big tear starting as he spoke, •• When Oscar left my hall, or died, This aged heart was almost broke. •' Thrice has the earth revolved her course Since Oscar's form has bless'd my sight ; And Allan is my last resource, Since martial Oscar's death or flight." '•'Tis well," replied the stranger stern, And fiercely flash'd his rolling eye : Thy Oscar's fate I fain would learn : Perhaps the hero did not die. " Perchance, if those whom most he loved Would call, thy Oscar might return ; Perchance the chief has only roved ; For him thy beltane yet may burn.* < Reltaoe rree, % Highland festival *;: the Qrat of May, held near fir* lighted for tile DMMlon. u 2 4 <\ 36 BYRON'S POEMS. " Fill high the bowl the table round, We will not claim the pledge by stealth J With wine let every cup be crown'd ; Pledge me departed Oscar's health." " Witb all my soul," oil Angus said, And fill'd his goblet to the brim ; " Here's to my boy ! alive or dead, I ne'er shall find a son like him." " Bravely, old man, this health has sped ; But why does trembling Allan stand ? Come, drink remembrance of the dead. And raise thy cup with firmer hand." The crimson glow of Allan's face Was turn'd at once to ghastly hue ; The drops of death each other chaso Adown in agonizing dew. Thrice did he raise the goblet high, And thrice his lips refused to taste ; For thrice he caught the stranger's eye On his with deadly fury placed. " And is it thus a brother hails A brother's fond remembrance hero ? If thus affection's strength prevails, What might we not expect from fear?" Roused by the sneer, he raised the bowl, " Would Oscar now could share our mirth i" Internal fear appall' d his soul ; He said, and dash'd the cup to earth. " 'Tis he ! I hear my murderer's voice !" Loud shrieks a darkly-gleaming form ; " A murderer's voice ! ' the roof replies, And deeply swells the bursting storm. The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink. The stranger 's gone, — amidst the crew A form was seen in tartan green, And tall the shade terrific grew. His waist was bound with a broad belt round, His plume of sable stream'd on high ; But his breast was bare, with the red wounda ^h<&re, And fix'd was the glare of his glassy eye. And thrice he smiled, with his eye so wild, On Angus bending low the knee ; And thrice he frown'd on a chief on the ground, Whom shivering crowds with horror see. The bolts loud roll, from pole to pole The bunders through the welkin ring, And che gleaming lbrni, through the midst of the stona, Was borne «d high by the whirlwind's wing. o *t: HOURS OF IDLENESS. 37 Cold was the foast, the revel ceased, — Who lies upon the stony floor ? Oblivion press'd old Angus' breast, At length his life-pulse throbs once mora. *' Away ! away ! lot the leech essay To pour the light on Allan's eyes "" His sand is done, — his raoo is run ; Oh 1 naver more shall Allan rise 1 But Oscar's breast is cold as clay, His locks are lifted by the gale: And Allan's barbed arrow lay With him in dark Glentanar's vale. And whence the dreadful stranger came, Or who, no mortal wight can tell ; But no one doubts the form of flame, For Alva's sons knew Oscar well. Ambition nerved young Allan's hand, Exulting demons wing'd his dart ; While Envy waved her burning brand, And pour'd her venom round his heart. Swift is the shaft from Allan's bow ; Whose streaming life-blood stains his side? Dark Oscar's sable crest is low, The dart has drunk his vital tide. And Mora's eye could Allan move, She bade his wounded pride rebel ; Alas ! that eyes which beam'd with lovo Should urge the soul to deeds of hell. Lo ! seest thou not a lonely tomb Which rises o'er a warrior dead ? It glimmers through the twilight gloom ; Oh ! that is Allan's nuptial bed. Far, distant far, the noble grave Which held his clan's great ashes stood ; And o'er his corse no banners wave, For they were stain'd with kindred blood. What minstrel gray, what hoary bard, Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raiso ? The song is glory's chiei reward, But who can strike a murderer's praise ? Unstrung, untouch' d, the harp must stand, No minstrel dare the theme awake ; G uilt would benumb his palsied hand, His harp in shuddering chords would bred& No lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse, Shall sound his glories high in air ; A dying father's bitter curse. A brother's death-groan echoes there. 4* 38 BYRON'S POEMS. THE EPISODE OF NTSUS AND EURYALUS. A PARAPHRASE FROM THE jENEID, LIB. IX. Nisns, the guardian of the portal stood, Eager to gild his arms with hostile blood ; Well skill'd in fight the quivering lance to wield, Or pour his arrows through th' embattled field : From Ida torn, he left his sylvan cave, And sought a foreign home, a distant grave. To watch the movements of the Daunian host, With him Euryalus sustains the post ; No lovelier mien adorn'd the ranks of Troy, And beardless bloom yet graced the gallant boy ; Though few the seasons of his youthful life, As yet a novice in the martial strife, 'Twas his, with beauty, valour's gifts to share — A soul heroic, as his form was fair : These bum with one pure flame of generous love ; In peace, in war, united still they move ; Friendship and glory form their joint reward ; And now combined they hold their nightly guard. " What god," exclaim'd the first, " instils this fire » Or, in itself a god, what great desire ? My labouring soul, with anxious thought oppress'd, Abhors this station of inglorious rest ; The love of fame with this can ill accord, Be't mine to seek for glory with my sword. Soest thou yon camp, with torches twinkling dira, Where drunken slumbers wrap each lazy limb ? Where confidence and ease the watch disdain, A nd drowsy Silence holds her sable reign ? Then hear my thought : — In deep and sullen gri-sf Our troops and leaders mourn their absent chief: Now could the gifts and promised prize be thine (The deed, the danger, and the fame be mine), Were this decreed, beneath yon rising mound, Methinks, an easy path perchance were found : Which past, I speed my way to Pallas' walls, kxxd lead ./Eneas from Evander's halls." With equal ardour fired, and warlike joy, His glowing friend address'd the Dardan boy : — " These deeds, my Nisus, shalt thou dare alone ? Must all the fame, the peril, be thine own ? Am I by thee despised, and left afar, As one unfit to share the toils of war ? Not thus his son the great Opheltes taught , Not thus my sire in Argive combats fought ; Not thus, when Ilion fell by heavenly hate, I track'd ^Eneas through the walks of fate : Thou know'st my deeds, my breast devoid or fear, And hostile life-drops dim my gory spear. 4 HOURS OF IDLENESS, 3y 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 ularms, Thy heart beats fiercely to the din of arms. More dear thy worth and valour than my owo, I swear by him who fills Olympus' throne I So may I triumph, as I speak the truth, And clasp again the comrado of my youth ! But should I fall, — and he who dares advance Through hostile legions must abide by chance, — If some RutiUian arm, with adverse blow, Should lay the friend who ever loved thee lov.', 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 toroo^ Or wealth redeem from foes ny captive corse ; Or, if my destiny these last deny, If in the spoiler's power my ashes lie, Thy pious care may raise a simple tomb, To mark thy love, and signalize my doom. Why should thy doting wretched mother we*=p 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 beloro, 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 ki£^. Now o'er the earth a solemn stillness ran, And lull'd alike the cares of brute and man ; Save where the Dardan leaders nightly hold Alternate converse, and their plans unfold. On one great point the council are agreed, An instant message to their prinee decreed ; Each lean'd upon the lance he well could wiei<3, And poised with easy arm his ancient shield ; When Nisus and his triend their leave request To offer something to their high behest. With anxious tremors, yet unawed by fear, The faithful pair before the throne appear ; lulus greets them ; at his kind command, The elder first address'd the hoary band. ' ' With patience " (thus Hyrtacides began) " Attend, nor judge from youth our humble pi&&» 4* &*■ * «.o BYRON'S POEMS. Where yonder beacons half expiring beam, Our slumbering foes of future conquest dream, Nor heed that we a secret path have traced, Between the ocean and the portal placed. Beneath the covert of the blackening smoke, Whose shade securely our design will cloak ; If you, ye chiefs, and fortune will allow, We'll bend our course to yonder mountain's brov, Where Pallas' walls at distance meet the sight, Seen o'er the glade, when not obscured by night : Then shall ./Eneas in his pride return, While hostile matrons raise their offspring's urn ; And Latian spoils and purpled heaps of dead Shall mark the havoc of our hero's tread. Such is our purpose, not unknown the way ; Where yonder torrent's devious waters stray, Oft have we seen, when hunting b) T 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, Stiil dwells the Dardan spirit in the boy ; When minds like these in striplings thus ye raicc, Yours is the godlike act, be yours the praise ; Ju gallant youth, my fainting hopes revive, And 1 lion's wonted glories still survive." Then in his warm embrace the boys he press'd, And, quivering, strain'd them to his aged breast j With tears the burning cheek of each bedew' d, And, sobbing, thus his first discourse renew'd : " What gift, my countrymen, what martial priso Can we bestow, which you may not despise f Our deities the first best boon have given — Internal virtues are the gift of Heaven. What poor rewards can bless your deeds on flartb. Doubtless await such young, exalted worth. iEneas and Ascanius shall combine To yield applause far, far surpassing mine." lulus then : — " By all the powers above ! By those Penates who my country love! By hoary Vesta's sacred fane, I swear My hopes are all in you, ye generous pair I 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'erthrovni ; 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 : 4- NOVA'S OF IDLENESS. 4 1 But when the hostile chiofs at length bow down, "When great ^Eneas wears Hesperia's crown, The casque, the buckler, and the fiery steed Which Turnus guides with more than mortal speed, Are tb\ne ; no envious lot shall then be cast, I pledge my word, irrevocably past : Nay, more, twelve slaves, and twice six captive dames, To soothe thy softer hours with amorous Hames, And all the realms which now the Latins sway, The labours of to-night shall well repay. But thou, my generous youth, whose tender years Are near my own, whose worth my heart reveres, Henceforth affection sweetly thus begun, Shall join our bosoms and o\ir souls in one; Without thy aid, no glory shall be mine ; Without thy dear advice, no great design ; Alike through life esteem' d, thou godlike boy, In war my bulwark, and in peace my joy." To him Euryalus : — "No day shall shame The rising glories which from this I claim. Fortune may favour, or the skies may frown, But valour, spite of fate, obtains renown. Yet, ere from hence our eager steps depart, One boon I beg, the nearest to my heart : My mother, sprung from Priam's royal line, Line thine ennobled, hardly less divine, Nor Troy nor King Acestes' realms restrain Her feeble age from dangers of the main ; Alone she came, all selfish fears above, A bright example of maternal love. Unknown the secret enterprise I brave, Lest grief should bend my parent to the grave ; From this alone no fond adieus I seek, No fainting mother's lips have press'd my cheek 9 By gloomy night and thy right hand I vow Her parting tears would shake my purpose noir . 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 : 80 dear a hope must all my soul inflame, To rise in glory, or to fall in fame." Struck with a filial care so deeply felt, In tears at once the Trojan warriors melt : Faster than all, lulus' eyes o'erflow ; Such love was his, and such had been his woe. "All thou hast ask'd, receive, " the prince replied 5 " 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.* • Kie mother of lulu*, lott on the ni^tat when Troy was t&Jsso. i> ^ 42 E Y RON'S POEMS. Fortune an adverse wayward course may ran. 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 vowM, 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 th' assembled train, To aid their cause, implore the gods in vain. More than a boy, in wisdom and in grace, lulus holds amidst the chiefs his place : His prayer he sends ; but what can prayers avoU, Lost in the murmurs of the sighing gale ! The trench is pass'd, and, favour'd by the night, Through sleeping foes they wheel their wary filghS When shall the sleep of many a foe be o'er? Alas ! some slumber who shall wake no more ! Chariots and bridles, mix'd with arms, are seen ; And flowing flasks, and scatter'd troops between : Bacchus and Mars to rule the camp combine ; A mingled chaos this of war and wine. " Now," cries the first, " for deeds of blood prcpars, With me the conquest and the labour share : Here lies our path ; lest any hand arise, Watch thou, while many a dreaming chieftain dies : I'll carve our passage through the heedless foe, And clear thy road with many a deadly blow." His whispering accents then the youth repress'd, And pierced proud Rhamnes through his panting bre&st : Stretch'd at his ease, th' incautious king reposed ; Debauch, and not fatigue, his e} r es had closed : To Turnus dear, a prophet and a prince, His omens more than augur's skill evince ; But he, who thus foretold the fate of all, Could not avert his own untimely fall. Next Remus' armourbearer, hapless, fell, And three unhappy slaves the carnage swell ,* The charioteer along his courser's sides Fxpires, the steel his sever' d neck divides ; And, last, his lord is number'd with the dead . Bounding convulsive, flies the gasping head ; From the swoll'n veins the blackening torrente poll? ; Stain 'd is the couch and earth with clotting gore. Young Lamyrus and Lamus next expire, And gay Seranus, fill'd with youthful fire ; ♦^ ^ -4 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 43 Half the long night in childish games was paas'd, Lull'd by the potent grape, he slept at last : Ah ! happier far had he the morn survey 'd, And till Aurora's dawn his skill display'd. In slaughter'd fold, the keepers lost in sleep, His hungry fangs a 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 ; In seas of gore the lordly tyrant foams. Nor less the other's deadly vengeance cams, But falls on feeble crowds without a name ; His wound unconscious Fadus scarce can feel, Yet wakeful Rhssus sees the threatening steel ; His coward breast behind a jar he hides, And vainly in the weak defence confides ; Full in his heart, the falchion search'd his veins, The reeking weapon bears alternate stains ; Through wine and blood, commingling as they flo'tf, One feeble spirit seeks the shades below. Now where Messapus dwelt they bend their way, Whose fires emit a faint and trembling ray ; There, unconfined, behold each grazing steed, Unwatch'd, unheeded, on the herbage feed : Brave Nisus here arrests his comrade's arm, Too flush'd with carnage, and with conquest warm : " Hence let us haste, the dangerous path is pass'd ; Full foes enough to-night have breathed their last: Soon will the day those eastern clouds adorn ; Now let us speed, nor tempt the rising morn." With silver arms, with various art emboss'd, What bowls and mantles in confusion toss'd, They leave regardless ! yet one glittering prizs Attracts the younger hero's wandering eyes ; The gilded harness Rhamnes' coursers felt, The gems which stud the monarch's golden belfc : This from the pallid corse was quickly torn, Once by a line of former chieftains worn. Th' exulting boy the studded girdle wears, Messapus' helm his head in triumph bears ; Then from the tents their cautious steps they b©£d, To seek the vale where safer paths extend. Just at this hour, a band of Latian horse To Turnus' camp pursue their destined course: While the slow foot their tardy march delay, The knights, impatient, spur along the way : Three hundred mail-clad men, by Volscens led, To Turnus with their master's promise sped ; Now they approach the trench, and view the wali% When, on the left, a light reflection falh ; +0* *&♦ BYRON'S POEMS. The plunder' d helmet, tbTough 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 ? From whence, to whom ? " — He meets with no cepij t Trusting the covert of the night, they fly : The thicket's depth with hurried pace they trea i, While round the wood the hostile squadron spread. With brakes entangled, scarce a path between, Dreary and dark appears the sylvan scene : Euryalus his heavy spoils impede, The boughs aud winding turns his steps mislead ; But Nisus scours along the forest's maze To where Latinus' steeds in safety graze, Then backward o'er the plain his eyes extend, On every side they seek his absent friend. " God ! my boy," he cries, "of me bereft, In what impending perils art thou left ! " Listening he runs — above the waving trees, Tumultuous voices swell the passing breeze ; The war-cry rises, thundering hoofs around Wake the dark echoes of the trembling ground. Again he turns, of footsteps hears the noise ; The sound elates, the sight his hope destroys : The hapless boy a ruffian train surround, While lengthening shades his weary way confound ; Him with loud shouts the furious knights pursue, Struggling in vain, a captive to the crew. What can his friend 'gainst thronging numbers dare \ Ah ! must he rush his comrade's fate to share ] What force, what aid, what stratagem essay, Back to redeem the Latian spoiler's prey ? His life a votive ransom nobly give, Or die with him for whom he wish'd to live ? Poising with strength his lifted lance on high, On Luna's orb he cast his frenzied eye : — " Goddess serene, transcending every star ! Queen of the sky, whose beams are seen afar ! By night heaven owns thy sway, by day the grovs, 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." Thu3 having said, the hissing dart he flung ; Through parted shades the hurtling weapon Bong ; 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, Unconscious whence the death, with horror gaze. While pale they stare, through Tagus' temples rivo^ A. second shaft with equal force is driven. /ay safely hope to win the wordy race. The sons of science these, who, thus repaid, Linger in ease in Granta's sluggish shade ; Where on Cam's sedgy bank supine they he Unknown, unhonour'd live, unwept for die : Dull as the pictures which adorn their halls, They think all learning fix'd within their walls ; In manners rude, in foolish forms precise, All modern arts affecting to despise ; Yet prizing Bentley's, Brunck's or Person's note,*? More than the verse on which the critic wrote : *fain as their honours, heavy as their ale, bad as their wit, and tedious as their tale ; To friendship dead, though not untaught to fee* When Self and Church demand a bigot zeal. With eager haste they court the lord of power, Whether 'tis Pitt or Petty rules the hour ;£ To him, with suppliant smiles, they bend the he-id, While distant mitres to their eyes are spread. But 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 price they pay. — • Demosthenes. ♦ Porson, Greek professor of Trinity College, Cambridge ; a man wliose powers of n-.md »Q'I writings may, perhaps, justify their preference. I Since this was written, Lord Henry Petty has lost his place, and subsequently (I nad almost said consequently) the honour of representing the University. A tact so gbuin* SeqiiirM no oomniout. O <^ HOUKS OF IDLEAESS. 49 TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER. Swkbt fiprl ! though only once we mot, That meeting I shall ne'er forget ; And though we ne'er may meet again, Remembrance will thy form retain. I would not say, " I love," but still My senses struggle with my will ; In vain, to drive thee from my breast, My thoughts are more and more represa'd ; In vain I check the rising sighs, Another to the last replies : Perhaps this is not love, but yet Our meeting I can ne'er forget. What though we never silence broke, Our eyes a sweeter language spoke , The tongue in flattering falsehood deals. And tells a tale it never fet^s : Deceit the guilty lips impart ; And hush the mandates of the heart ; But soul's interpreters, the eyes, Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise. As thus our glances oft conversed, And all our bosoms felt rehearsed, No spirit, from within, reproved us, Say rather, "'twas the spirit moved uu" Though what they utter' d I repress, Yet I conceive thou'lt partly guess ; For as on thee my memory ponders, Perchance to me thine also wanders. This for myself, at least, I'll say, Thy form appears through night, through <{*£■ \ Awake, with it my fancy teems ; In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams : The vision charms the hours away, And bids me curse Aurora's ray, For breaking slumbers of delight, Which make me wish for endless night. Since, oh ! whate'er my future fate, Shall joy or woe my steps await, Tempted by love, by storms beset, Thine image I can ne'er forget. Alas ! again no more we meet, No more our former looks repeat ; Then let me breathe this parting prayer, The dictate of my bosom's care : " May heaven so guard my loveiy Quaker, That anguish never can o'ertake her ; That peace and virtue ne'er forsake ber, But bliss be aye her heart's partaker I Oh ! may the happy mortal, fated To be, by dearest ties, related, m i umu i *mi.-~ ■&* 50 B YRON 'S POEMS. For her each hour new ioys discover, And lose the husband in tne lover ! Way that fair bosom never know What 'tis to feel the restless woe, Which stings the soul with vain regr^X Of him who never can forget ! " THE CORNELIAN. No specious bplendour of this stone Endears it to my memory ever ; With lustre only once it shone, And blushes modest as the giver. Some, who can sneer at friendship's ties, Have, for my weakness, oft reproved ruf Vet still the simple gift I prize, — For I am sure the giver loved me. He offer'd it with downcast look, As fearful that I might refuse it ; 7 told him when the gift I took, My only fear should be to lose it. This pledge attentively I view'd, And sparkling as I hold it near, Wethought one drop the stone bedewed, A.nd ever since I've loved a tear Still, to adorn his humble youth, Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yieVd ; B':t he who seeks the flowers ol truth, Must quit the garden for the field. 'Tis not the plant uprear'd in sloth, Which beauty shows, and sheds perfumo ; The flowers which yield the most of both In Nature's wild luxuriance bloom. Had Fortune aided Nature's care, For once forgetting to be blind, His would have been an ample share, If well proportion'd to his mind. But had tiie goddess clearly seen, His form uad fix'd her fickle breast : Her countless hoards would his have been, And none remain 'd to give thee rest. AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUB, DiXIVlSSED PRFYTOUS TO THE PERFORMANCE OF " TU= \THETiC OF FORTUNE" AT A PRIVATE THEATRE. Since the refinement of this polish'd age Has swept immoral raillery from the stage; ^ , ^ ■ -? 52 B\ RON'S POEMS. When Pitt expired in plenitude of power, 1 hough ill success obscured his dying houv. J*»ty her dewy wings before him spread, For noble spirits " war not with the dead : ** His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave, As «U1 his errors slumber'd in the grave ; Re sunk, an Atlas bending 'neath the weicrht Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state ; When, lo ! a Hercules in Fox appear'd, Who for a time the ruin'd fabric rear'd : He, too. is fall'n, who Britain's loss supplied, With him our fast-reviving hopes have died j Not one great people only raise his urn, All Europe's far-extended regions mourn. "These feelings wide, let sense and truth undue, To give the palm where Justice points its due ;" Yet let not canker'd Calumny assail, Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil. Fox ! o'er whose corse a mourning world must wt*;,», Whose dear remains in honour'd marble sleep ; For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan, While friends and foes alike his talents own ; Fox shall in Britain's future annals shine, Nor e'en to Pitt the patriot's palm resign ; "Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask For Pitt, and Pitt alone, has dared to ask. THE TEAR. O laclirrmjvnim ("on*, t«nero sacro* Dni-.iitiinn ortus ex aiiimo ; quat«r Felix ! in imo e the coquette. October rtt, 1UUC. TO TflE SIGHING STREPHON. Your pardon, my friend, if my rhymes did offend, Your pardon, a thousand times o'er : From friendship, I strove your pangs to remove, But I swear I will do so no more. Since your beautiful maid your flame has repaid, No more I your folly regret ; She's now most divine, and I bow at the snrine Of this quickly reformed coquette. Yet still, I must own, I should never have known From your verses, what eise she deserved ; Your pain seem'd so great, I pitied your fate, As your fair was so devilish reserved. Since the balm-breathing kiss of this magical misg Can such wonderful transports produce ; ^:nce the " world you forget, when your lips once have met/ My counsel will get but abuse. You say, when "I rove, I know nothing of love ;** 'Tis true, I am given to range : tf I rightly remember, Eve loved a good number, Yet there's pleasure, at least, in a change. i * HOURS 01' IDLENESS. 55 I will not advance, by the rules of romance, To humour a whimsical fair ; Though a smile may delight, yet a frown won't affright, Or drive me to dreadful despair. While my blood is thus warm, I ne'er shfll refonu, To mix in the Platonists' school ; Of this I am sure, was my passion so pure, Thy mistress would think me a fool. And if I should shun every woman for one Whose image must till my whole breast Whom I must prefer, and sigh but for her— What an insult 'twould be to the rest ! Now, Strephon, good bye ; I cannot deny Your passion appears most absurd ! Such love as you plead is pure love iudeec, For it only consists in the word. TO ELIZA. Eliza, what fools are the Mussulman sect, Who to women deny the soul's future existence ; Could they see thee, Eliza, they'd own their defect, And this doctrine would meet with a general resistanocx Had their prophet possess'd half an atom of sense, He ne'er would have women from paradise driven ; Instead of his houris, a flimsy preteuce, With women alone he had peopled his heaven. Yet still, to increase your calamities more, Not content with depriving your bodies of spirit, He allots one poor husband to share amongst four ! — With souls you'd dispense ; but this last who could bear It ? His religion to please neither party is made ; On husbands 'tis hard, to the wives most uncivil ; Still I can't contradict, what so oft has been said, " Though women are angels, yet wodloek 's the devil." LACHIN Y GALR.» Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses 1 In you let the minions of luxury rove ; Restore me the rocks, where the snow-flake roposes, Though still they are sacred to freedom and love : • Laehvn y &air, or, as it Is pronounced In the Erse, Loch na Oarr, towers proudly pre-eminent In the Northern Highlands, near Invercauld. One of our modern tourist* mentions it as the highest mountain, perhaps, in Great Britain. Be this as it may, it ia certainly one of the most sublime and picturesque amongst our " Caledonian Alps." ltd appearance is of a dusky hue, but the summit is the seat oi eterual snows. Near Lauhin y Gair I speut some of the early part ol m> life, the ssoollection of which has giveu birth to Utaae ataoiEf. •*&♦ 4 K-B-e 56 BYRON'S POEAiS. Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains, Round their white summits though elements war ; Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fount&hkS, I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr. Ah ! there my young footsteps in infancy wandei 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 nought 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 voicec 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, though brave, did no visions foreboding^" Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?" Ah ! were you destined to die at Culloden,^: Victory crown'd not your fall with applause : Still were you happy in death's earthy slumber, You rest with your clan in the caves of 13 raemar ;§ The pibroch resounds, to the piper's loud number, Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr. Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you, Years must elapse ere I tread you again ; Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you. Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain. England ! thy beauties are tame and domestic To one who has roved o'er the mountains afarf Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic ! The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na U&rr. TO ROMANCE. Parent of golden dreams, Romance ! Auspicious queen of childish joy*, Who lead'st along, in airy dance, Thy votive train of girls and boys ; * Thto word ts erroneously pronounced plad : the proper pronunciation (aMoodin[?^f thejjootch) is ahjwn by the orthography. I allude here to my maternal ancestors, " the Gordon*," many of whom fought for the unfortunate Prince Charles, better known by the name of the Pretender. Tkia branch was zmrly allied by blood, as weil as attachment, to the Stuarts. George, the Becond Earl of HuntJev, married the Princess Annabella Stuart, daughter of James th« First ol Scotland. By her ho loft four sons : the third, Sir William Gordon, I have the honour to claim as one of my progenitors. J Whether any perished in the battle of Culloden, I am not certain ; bnt, as many fell lii the insurrection, I have used the name of the principal action, ' pnrg pro to to." H A tract of tb« Highlands so ceiled. There is alsv a CaeUe ol Bra«nk*r. ♦*♦ +4"' HOURS OF IDLENESS, 57 At length, in spells no longer bound, ] break the ."otters of my youth ; No more 1 tread thy mystic round, But leave thy realms for those of Trutk, And yet 'tis hard to quit the dreams Which haunt the unsuspicious soul, Where every nymph a goddess seems, Whose eyes through rays iir mortal roll ; While Fancy holds her boundless reign, And all assume a varied hue ; When virgins seem no longer vain, And even woman's smiles are true. And must we own thee but a name, And from thy hall of clouds descend ? Nor find a sylph in every dame, A Pylades* in every friend ? But leave at once thy realms of air To mingling bands of fairy elves ; Confess that woman 's false as fair, And friends have feeling for — themselvoc f 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 de&r ; 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, With cypress crown' d, array'd in weeds, Who heaves with thee her simple sigh, Whose breast for every bosom bleeds ; And call thy sylvan female choir, To mourn a swain for ever gone, Who once could glow with equal fire, But bends not now before thy throne, f e genial nymphs, whose ready tears, On all occasions swiftly flow ; Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears, With fancied flames and phrensy glow ; • It Is t&rdly necessary to add, that Pylades was the companion of Orecte*. and a partner in one of those friendships which, with those of Achilles and Patroclus, Nitus aac" Euryalus, Damon and Pythias, have been handed down to posterity as remarkable Instances of attachments, which in all probability never existed beyond the imagination af the poet, or the page of an historian, or modern novelist. *&♦ 58 BYRON'S POEMS. Say, will you mourn my absent nam«^ Apostate from your gencle train f An infant bard at least may claim From you a sympathetic strain- Adieu, fond race ! a long adieu ! The hour of fate is hovering nich ; E'en now the gulf appear* in view, Where unlamented you must lie : Oblivion's blackening lake is seen, Convulsed by gales you cannot weather ; Where you, and eUe your gentle queen, Alas I must perish altogether. ANSWER TO SOME ELEGANT VERSES, r one or SMNT BY A FRIEND TO THE AUTHOR, COMPLAINING THAT ONE O flIS DESCRIPTIONS WAS RATHER TOO WARMLY DRAWN. " But If any old lady, knight, priest, or physician. Should condemn me for printing a second edition ; If good Madame Squintum my work should abuse. May 1 venture to give her a smack of my muse T" — Sew Bath Onid*. Candour compels me, Becher ! to commend The verse which blends the censor with the friend. Your strong yet just reproof extorts applause From me, the heedless and imprudent cause. For this wild error which pervades my strain, 1 sue for pardon, — must I sue in vain ? The wise sometimes from Wisdom's ways depart : Can youth then hush the dictates of the heart ? Precepts of prudence curb, but can't control, The fierce emotions of the flowing soul. When Love's delirium haunts the glowing mind, Limping Decorum lingers far behind : Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace, Outstripp'd and vanquish'd in the mental chase. The young, the old, have worn the chains of lovo : Let those they ne'er confined my lay reprove : Let those whose souls contemn the pleasing power, Their censures on the hapless victim shower. Oh ! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song, The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng, Whose labour'd lines in chilling numbers flow, To paint a pang the author ne'er can know ! The artless Helicon I boast is youth ; — My lyre, the heart ; my muse, the simple truth. Far be't from me the "virgin's mind" to " taint ;* Seduction's dread is here no slight restraint. The maid whose virgin breast is void of guile, Whose wishes dimple in a modest smile, Whose downcast eye disdains the wanton leer, Firm in her virtue s strength, yet not sever* — *fV- ~&* * — &♦ HOURS OF IDLENESS. 59 bhe whom a conscious grace shall thus refine, Will ue'er be " tainted" by a strain of mine. But for the nymph whose premature desires Torment her bosom with unholy tires, No net to snare her willing heart is spread ; She would have fallen, though she ne'er had road. For me, I fain would please the chosen few, Whose souls, to feeling and to nature true, Will spare the childish verse, and not destroy The light effusions of a heedless boy. I seek not glory from the senseless crowd ; Of fancied laurels I shall ne'er be proud ; Their warmest plaudits I would scarcely prize, Their sneers or censures I alike despise. Novembei Ifc5th, 1QGC ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY.* • It U the voice of years that are gone 1 they roll beiore uie wi'-o aIi their deedi."'— ftairtw. Newstead ! fast-falling, once resplendent dome ! Religion's shrine ! repentant Henry's 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 their pillar'd state ; Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted halL Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate. No mail-clad serfs, X obedient to their lord, In grim array the crimson cross demand ;§ Or gay assemble round the festive board Their chief's retainers, an immortal band : Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye Retrace their progress through the lapse of time, Marking each ardent youth, ordain' d to die, A votive pilgrim in Judea's clime. But not from thee, dark pile ! departs the chief; His feudal realm in other regions lay ; . In thee the wounded conscience courts relief, Retiring from the garish blaze of day. Yes ! in thy gloomy cells and shao"os 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. * Ab one poem on this subject 1b already printed, the author had, originally, no ictot* tion of inserting this piece. It is now added at the particular request of some friends. t Benry II. founded Newstead soon after the murder ol Thomas & Becket. J This word is used by Walter Scott, in his pueni, " The Wild Huntsman f syaony items with vassal. § The red cross was the hod^e of the crusaden &* * <* ♦&* 60 BYRON'S POEMS. A monarch bade thee from that wild anse, Where Sherwood's outlaws once were wont to prowl J And Superstition's crimes, of various dyes, Sought shelter in the priest's protecting cowl. Where now the grass exhales a murky dew, The humid pall of life-extinguish' d clay, In sainted fame the sacred fathers grew, Nor raised their pious voices but to pray. Where now the bats their wavering wings extend, Soon as the gloaming* spreads her waning shadt^ The choir did oft their mingling vespers blend, Or matin orisons to Mary paid.f Years roll on years ; to ages, ages yield ; Abbots to abbots, in a line, succeed ; Religion's charter their protecting shield, Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed. One holy Henry rear'd the Gothic walls, And bade the pious inmates rest in peace ; Another Henry the kind gift recalls, X 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 Goc. Hark how the hall, resounding to the strain, Shakes with the martial music's novel din ! The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign, High-crested banners wave thy walls within. Of changing sentinels the distant hum, The mirth of feasts, the clang ot burnish* d arms, The braying trumpet and the hoarser drum, Unite in concert with increased alarms. An abbey once, a regal fortress now, Encircled by insulting rebel powers, War's dread machines o'erhang thy threatening brow, And dart destruction in sulphureous showers. Ah, vain defence ! the hostile traitor's siege, Though oft repulsed, by guile o'ercomes the brave ; His thronging foes oppress the faithful liege, Rebellion's reeking standards o'er him wave. Not unavenged the raging baron yields ; The blood of traitors smears the purple plain ; Unconquer'd still, his falchion there he wields, And days of glory yet for him remain. • As " gloaming," the Scottish word for twilight, is far more poetical, and cm tK«* recommended by many eminent literary men, particularly by Dr. Moore in l.u Letter) to Burns, I have ventured to use it on account of its harmony. * The priory was dedicated to the Virgin. I At the iissolution of the mouaiiteries, Henry VIII. bestowed Ne*ste*d Abbey ol- SLc iohu Byron, H"H*- 4 4- HOURS OF IDLENESS. 61 Btill in Uiat hour the warrior wish'd to strew Self- gather' d laure>.« on a self-sought grave ; But Charles' protecting genius hither new, The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to save. Trembling, she snatch'd him 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 fell. "^ From thee, poor pile ! to lawless plunder given, While dying groans their painful requiem sounds 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. Grave's, long with rank and sighing weeds o'erspreao Ransack'd, resign perforce their mortal mould ; From ruffian fangs escape not e'en the dead, Raked from repose in search for buried gold. Hush'd is the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre, The minsti-el's palsied hand reclines in death ; No more he strikes the quivering chords with fire, Or sings the glories of the martial wreath. At length the sated murderers, gorged with prey Retire ; the clamour of the fight is o'er ; Silence agrin resumes her awful sway, And sable Horror guards the massy door. Here desolation holds her dreary court : What satellites declare her dismal reign ! Shrieking their dirge, ill-omen'd birds resort, To flit their vigils in the hoary fane. Soon a new morn's restoring beams dispel The clouds of anarchy from Britain's skies ; The fierce usurper seeks his native hell, And Nature triumphs as the tyrant dies. With storms she welcomes his expiring groans ; Whirlwinds, responsive, greet his labouring breath ; Earth shudders as her caves receive his bones, Loathing the offering of so dark a death. % • Ioixl Byron, and his brother Sir William, held high commands in the roy&l army. The former was general in chief in Ireland, lieutenant of the Tower, and governor tfi James, Duke of York, afterwards the unhappy James II. ; the latter had a prineip&l ihare in many actions. t Lucius Cary, Lord Viscount Falkland, the most accomplished man of his age, wee killed at the battle of Newbury, eharging in the ranks of Lord Byron's regiment of cavalry. \ This Is an historical fact. A violent tempest occurred immediately subsequent to the death or interment of Cromwell, which occa^.oned many disputes between his partisans and the cavaliers : both interpreted the circumstance into divine interposition ; but whether as approbation or condemnation, we leave for the casuists of that age to deoid* I Usri? soade euch use of the occurrence as tinted the subject of my peera. ■e* *^> *&i 62 BYRON'S POEMS. The legal ruler dow resumes the helm,* He guides through gentle seas the prow of state 5 Hope cheers, with wonted smiles, the peaceful ret»lra. And heals the bleeding wounds of weaned hate. The gloomy tenants, Newstead ! of thy cells, Howling, resign their violated nest ; Again the master on his tenure dwells, Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraptured seet. 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 breeto. Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys shake : What fears, what anxious hopes, attend the chase ! The dying stag seeks refuge in the Lake ; Exulting shouts announce the finish'd raoe. Ah, happy days ! too happy to endure ! Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew : No splendid vices glitter'd to allure ; Their joys were many, as their cares were few. From tbese 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 thiuo ! Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay ! The last and youngest of a noble line Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway. Deserted now, he scans thy gray worn towers ! Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep ; Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers : These, these he views, and viewy them but to" weep, Yet are his tears no emblem of regret : Cherish'd affection only bids them flow. Prvie, hope, and love forbid him to forget, But warm his bosom with impassion' d glow. ITet he prefers thee to the gilded domes Or gewgaw grottos of the vainly great : Yet lingers, 'mid thy damp and mossy tombs. Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the will of fate Haply thy sun, emerging, yet may shine, Thee to irradiate with meridian ray ; Hours splendid as the past may still be thrae, And bless thy future as thy former day. Charles II * HOURS OF ID LEX ESS. 63 CIin.PTSH RECOLLECTIONS. •• I cannot nut remember such things were, UiJ were most dear to me." When slow disease, with all her host of pains, Chills the warm tide which flows along the vein*. , When Health, affrighted, spreads her rosy wing, And flies with every changing gale of .spring; Not to the aching frame alone confined, Unyielding pangs assail the drooping mind : What grisly forms, the spectre-train of woe, Bid shuddoring Nature shrink beneath the blow, With Resignation wage relentless strife, While Hope retires appall'd, and clings to life. Yet less the pang, when, through the tedious hour, Remembrance sheds around her genial power, Calls back the vanish'd days to rapture given, When love was bliss, and beauty form'd our heaven ; Or, dear to youth, portrays each childish scene, Those fairy bowers, where all in turn have been. \s when through clouds that pour the summer stoin\ The orb of day unveils his distant form, Gilds with faint beams the crystal dew9 of rain, And dimly twinkles o'er the watery plain ; Thus, while the future dark and cheerless gleams, The sun of memory, glowing through my dreamo, Though sunk the radiance of his former blaze, To scenes far distant points his paler rays : Still rules my senses with unbounded sway, The past confounding with the present day. Oft does my heart indulge the rising thought, Which still recurs, unlook'd for and unsought ; My soul to fancy's fond suggestion yields, And roams romantic o'er her airy fields : Scenes of my youth, developed, crowd to view, To which I long have bade a last adieu ! Seats of delight, inspiring youthful themes ; Friends lost to me for aye, except in dreams ; Some who in marble prematurely sleep, Whose forms I now remember but to weep ; Some who yet urge the same scholastic coursu Of early science, future fame the source ; Who, still contending in the studious race. In quick rotation fill the senior place , These with a thousand visions now unite, To dazzle, though they please, my aching sight. Ida ! blest spot, where Science holds her reign, How joyous once I join'd thy youthful train 1 Bright in idea gleams thy lofty spire, Again I mingle with thy playful quire ; Our tricks of mischief, every childish game, Unchanged by time or distance, ^eem the sasn <^ ^ 64 BYRON'S POEMS. Througn winding paths along the glade, I trace The social smile of every welcome face ; My wonted haunts, my scenes of joy and wo*j, Each early boyish friend, or youthful foe, Our feuds dissolved, but not my friendship past :— I bless the former and forgive the last. Hours of my youth ! when, nurtured in my breaiit^ To love a stranger, friendship made me blest ; — Friendship, the dear peculiar bond of youth, When every artless bosom throbs with truth ; Untaught by worldly wisdom how to feign, And check each impulse with prudential rein ; When all we feel, our honest souls disclose — In love to friends, in open hate to foes ; No varnish'd tales the lips of youth repeat, No dear-bought knowledge purchased by deceit. Hypocrisy, the gift of lengthen'd years, Matured by age, the garb of prudence wears. When now the boy is ripen'd into man, His careful sire chalks forth some wary plan ; Instructs his son from candour's path to shrink, Smoothly to speak, and cautiously to think ; Still to assent, and never to deny — A patron's praise can well reward the lie : And who, when Fortune's warning voice is heard, Would lose his opening prospects for a word ? Although against that word his heart rebel, And truth indignant all his bosom swell. Away with themes like this ! not mine the task From flattering fiends to tear4,he hateful mask ; Let keener bards delight in satire's sting ; My fancy soars not on Detraction's wing : Once, and but once, she aim'd a deadly blow, To hurl defiafnco on a secret foe ; But when that foe, from feeling or from shame, The cause unknown, 3 T et still to me the same, Warn'd by ?ome friendly hint, perchance, retired, With this submission all her rage expired. From dreaded pangs that feeble foe to save, She hush'd her young resentment, and forgave ; Or, if my muse a pedant's portrait drew, Pomposus' virtues are but known to few ; I never fear'd the young usurper's nod, And he who wields must sometimes feel the rod. If since on Granta's failings, known to all Who share the converse of a college hall, She sometimes trifled in a lighter strain, Tis past, and thus she will not sin again. Soon must her early song for ever cease, And all may rail when I shall rest tn peaea. Here first remember'd be the joyous band. Who hail'd me chief, obedient to command ; "^^* ~& HOURS OF IDLENESS. 65 Who ioin'd with me in every boyish sport — Their first adviser, and their last resort ; Nor shrunk beneath the upstart pedant's froMiu O* all the sable glories of his gown ; Who, thus transported from his lather's school — Unfit to govern, i^^orant °f rule— Bucceeded him, whom all unite to praise, The dear preceptor of my early days ; Probus, the pride of science, and the bot*st,* To Ida now, alas ! for ever lost. With him, for years, we search'd the classio pago, And fear'd the master, though we loved the sa^o : Ketired at Lost, his small yet peacefid seat, From learning's labour is the blest retreat. Pomposus fills his magisterial chair ; Pomposus governs, — but, my muse, forbear: Contempt, in silence, be the pedant's lot ; His name and precepts bo alike forgot ! No more his mention shall my verse degrade, — To him my tribute is already paid. High, through those elms, with hoary branchos crouTi'd, Fair Ida's bower adorns the landscape round ; There Science, from her favour'd seat, surveys The vale where rural Nature claims her praise ; To her awhile resigns her youthful train, Who move in joy, and dance along the plain ; In scatter'd groups, each favour'd haunt pursue j Repeat old pastimes, and discover new ; Flush'd with his rays, beneath the noontide sun*, In rival bands, between the wickets run, Drive o'er the sward the ball with active force, Or chase with nimble feet its rapid course. But these with slower steps direct their way, Where Brent's cool waves in limpid currents stray ; Wliile yonder few search out some green retreat, And arbours shade them from the summer heat : Others again, a pert and lively crew, Some rough and thoughtless stranger placed in view, With frolic quaint their antic j ests expose, And tease the grumbling rustic as he goes ; Nor rest with this, but many a passing fray Tradition treasures tUr a future day : '"Twas here the gather\5 swains for vengeance fought, And here we earn'd the cooquest dearly bought ; Here have we fled before su^rior might, A.nd here renew' d the wild tumultuous fight." • I\r. Drury. This most able and excellent nwu retired from his situation In March. IUUG, after having resided thirty -five years at Ha."row ; the last twenty as head -masters nc office he held with equal honour to himself and advantage to the very extensive school «jver which he presided. Panegyric would hero be iupernuoua : it would be useless f*i •numerate qualifications which were never doubted. A considerable contest tookrifijfc b^veeu three rival candidates for his vacant chair : of this I can only »y, Si mea cum vestria valuissent vota, Pelassri J Non foret ambiguos tanti certaminis faserea. *w 66 BYRON'S POEMS. While thus our souls with early passions swell, In lingering tones resounds the distant bell : Th' allotted hour of daily sport is o'er, And Learning beckons from her temple's door. No splendid tablets grace her simple hall, But ruder records fill the dusky wall ; There, deeply carved, behold ! each tyro's name Secures its owner's academic fame ; Here mingling view the names of sire and eol., The one long graved, the other just begun : These shall survive alike when son and siro Beneath one common stroke of fate expire : Perhaps their last memorial these alone, Denied in death a monumental stone, Whilst to the gale in mournful cadence wave The sighing weeds that hide their nameless grave And here my name, and many an early friend's, Along the wall in lengthen'd line extends. Though still our deeds amuse the youthful race, Who tread our steps, and fill our former place, Who young obey'd their lords in silent awe, Whose nod commanded, and whose voice was law ^ And now, in turn, possess the reins of power, To rule, the little tyrants of an hour ; — Though sometimes, with the tales of ancient day, They pass the dreary winter's eve away — "And thus our former rulers stemm'd the tide, And thus they dealt the combat side by side ; Just in this place the mouldering walls they scaled. Nor bolts nor bars against their strength avail'd ; Here Probus came, the rising fray to quell, And here he talter'd forth his last farewell ; A.nd here one night abroad they dared to roam, While bold Pomposus bravely stay'd at home ;" — While thus they speak, the hour must soon arrive, When names of these, like ours, alone survive : Yet a few years, one general wreck will whelm The faint remembrance of our fairy realm. Dear honest race ! though now we meet no more^ One last long look on what we were before — Our first kind greetings, and our last adieu — Drew tears from eyes unused to weep with you. Through splendid circles, fashion's gaudy world, Whore folly's glaring standard waves unfurl'd, t plunged to drown in noise my fond regret, A.nd all I sought or hoped was to forget. Vain wish ! if chance some well-reraember'd fsioCj Borne old companion of my early race, Advanced to claim his friend with honest joy, My eyes, my heart, proclaim'd me still a boy ; The glittering scene, the fluttering groups around* Were quite forgotten when my friend was found ; The smiles of beautv — (for, alas ! I've kuuwn ^ r— — — — -+ ■K^* HOURS OB IDLENESS. 67 What 'tis to bend before Love's mighty throne) — The smiles of beauty, though those smiles were dear, Could hardly charm me, when that friend was near ' My thoughts bewilder'd in the fond surprise, The woods of Ida danced before my eyes ; I saw the sprightly wand'rers pour along, I saw and join d again the joyous throng ; Panting, again I traced her lofty grove, And friendship's feelings triumph'd over love. Yet, why should I alone with such delight. Retrace the circuit of my former flight ? Is there no cause beyond the common claim, Endear'd to all in childhood's very name ? Ah ! sure come stronger impulse vibrates here, Which whispers friendship will be doubly dear, To one who thus for kindred hearts must roam, And seek abroad the love denied at home. Those hearts, dear Ida, have I found in thee — A home, a world, a paradise to me. Stern Death forbade my orphan youth to share The tender guidance of a father's care. Can rank, or e'en a guardian's name, supply The love which glistens in a father's eye ? For this can wealth or title's sound atone, Made, by a parent's early loss, my own ? What brother springs a brother's love to seek ? What sister's gentle kiss has press'd my cheek ? For me how dull the vacant moments rise, To no fond bosom link'd by kindred ties ! Oft in the progress of some fleeting dream Fraternal smiles collected round me seem ; While still the visions to my heart are press'd, The voice of love will murmur in my rest : I hear — I wake — and in the sound rejoice ; I hear again, — but ah 1 no brother's voice. A hermit, 'midst of crowds, I fain must stray 4.1one, though thousand pilgrims fill the way ; •Vhile these a thousand kindred wreaths entvciae I cannot call one single blossom mine : What then remains ? In solitude to groan, To mix in friendship, or to sigh alone Thus must I cling to some endearing hand, And none more dear than Ida's social band. Alonzo ! best and dearest of my friends, Thy naiiie ennobles him who thus commends : From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praiso ', The praise is his who now that tribute pays. Oh ! in the promise of thy early youth, If hope anticipate the words of truth, Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorxms narae, To build his own upon thy deathless fame. Friend &f my heart, and foremost of the li£t F 2 i> 4j 68 BYRON'S POEMS. Of those with whom I lived supremely blest, Oft have we drain'd the font of ancient lore ; Though drinking deeply, thirsting still the more. Yet, when confinement's lingering hour was done^ Our sports, our studies, and our souls were one * Together we impell'd the flying ball ; Together waited in our tutor's hall : Together join' d in cricket's manly toil, Or shared the produce of the river's spoil ; Or, plunging from the green declining shore, Our pliant limbb the buoyant billows bore ; In every element, unchanged, the same, All, all that brothers should be, but the name Nor yet are you forgot, my jocund boy ! Davus, the harbinger of childish joy ; For ever foremost in the ranks of fun, The laughing herald of the harmless pun ; Yet with a breast of such materials made — Anxious to please, of pleasing half afraid ; Candid and liberal, with a heart of steel In danger's path, though not untaught to foel. Still I remember, in the factious strife, The rustic's musket aim'd against my life : High poised in air the massy weapon hung, A cry of horror burst from every tongue ; Whilst I, in combat with another foe, Fought on, unconscious of th' impending blow ; Your arm, brave boy, arrested his career — Forward you sprung, insensible to fear ; Disarm'd and baffled by your conquering hand, The grovelling savage roll'd upon the sand: An act like this, can simple thanks repay, Or all the labours of a grateful lay ? Oh no ! whene'er my breast forgets the deed, That instant, Davus, it deserves to bleed. Lycus ! on me thy claims are justly great : Thy milder virtues could my muse relate, To thee alone, unrivall'd, would belong The feeble efforts of my lengthen'd song. Well canst thou boast, to lead in senates fit, A Spartan firmness with Athenian wit : Though yet in embryo these perfections shine, Lycus ! thy father's fame will soon be thine. Where learning nurtures the superior mind, What may we hope from genius thus refined ! When time at length matures thy growing years,, How wilt thou tower above thy fellow peers ! Prudence and sense, a spirit bold and free, With honour's soul, united beam in thee. Shall fair Euryalus pass by unsung, Vrom ancient lineage, not unworthy, sprung ? * <> HOURS OF IDLENESS. 69 What though one sad dissension bade us part. That name is yet embalm'd within my heart ; Yet at the mention does that heart rebound, And palpitate, responsive to the sound. Envy dissolved our ties, and not our will : We once were friends, — I'll think we are so stiiL A form unmatch'd in nature's partial mould, A heart untainted, we in thee behold : Yet not the senate's thunder thou shalt wield. Nor seek for glory in the tented field ; To minds of ruder texture these be given — Thy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven. Haply, in polish'd courts might be thy seat, But that thy tongue could never forge deceit : The courtier's supple bow and sneering smile, The flow of compliment, the slippery wile, Would make that breast with indignation burn, And all the glittering snares to tempt thee spum. Domestic happiness will stamp thy fate ; Sacred to love, unclouded e'er by hate ; The world admire thee, and thy friends adore ;— Ambition's slave alone would toil for more. Now last, but nearest, of the social band, See honest, open, generous Cleon stand ; With scarce one speck to cloud the pleasing soea©! No vice degrades that purest soul serene. On the same day our studious race begua, On the same day our studious race was run ; Thus side by side we pass'd our first career, Thus side by side we strove for many a year ; At last concluded our scholastic life, We neither oonquer'd in the classic strife : As speakers each supports an equal name,* And crowds allow to both a partial fame : To soothe a youthful rival's early pride, Though Cleon's candour would the palm divid^ Yet candour's self compels me now to own, J ustice awards it to my friend alone. Oh ! friends regretted, scenes for ever dear. Remembrance hails you with her warmest teat [ Drooping, she bends o'er pensive Fancy's unv, To trace the hours which never can return ; Yet with the retrospection loves to dwell, And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell ! Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind, As infant laurels round my head were twined % When Pi obus' praise repaid my lyric song, Or placed me higher in the studious throng ; Or when my first harangue received applause, His sage instruction the primeval cause, • This aUudes to the public speeches delivered at the school where the sntatr vk edtieuted. +& 70 B YR ON 'S FOE MS. What gratitude to him my soul possess'd, While hope of dawning honours fill'd my breasfcl For all my humble fame, to him alone The praise is due, who made that fame my own. Oh ! could I soar above these feeble lays, These young effusions ot my early days, To hiui my muse her noblest strain would give : The song might perish, but the theme might livew Yet why for him the needless verse essay T His honour' d name requires no vain display : By every son of grateful Ida blest, It finds an echo in each youthful breast ; A fame beyond the glories of the proud, Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd. Ida ! not yet exhausted is the theme, Nor closed the progress of my youthful dream. How many a friend deserves the grateful strain 1 What scenes of childhood still unsung remain ! Yet let me kush this echo of the past, This parting song, the dearest and the last ; And brood in secret o'er those hours of joy, To me a silent and a sweet employ, While future hope and fear alike unknown, I think with pleasure on the past alone ; Yes, to the past alone my heart confine, And chase the phantom of what once was mine. Ida ! still o'er thy hills in joy preside, And proudly steer through time's eventful tide ; Still may thy blooming sons thy name revere, Smile in thy bower, but quit thee with a tear ; — That tear, perhaps, the fondest which will flow O'er their last scene of happiness below. Tell me, ye hoary few, who glide along, The feeble veterans of some former throng, Whose friends, like autumn leaves by tempests whiri'd* Are swept for ever from this busy world ; Revolve the fleeting moments of your youth, While Care as yet withheld her venom'd tooth ; Say if remembrance days like this endears Beyond the rapture of succeeding years ? Say, can ambition's fever'd dream bestow So sweet a balm to soothe your hours of woe ? Can treasures, hoarded for some thankless son, Can royal smiles, or wreaths by slaughter woe,, Can stars or ermine, man's maturer toys iFor glittering baubles are not left to boys), Wcall one scene so much beloved to view As those where Youth her garland twined for yoa\ Ah, no ! amidst the gloomy calm of age You turn with faltering hand life's varied page ; Peruse the record of your days on earth, Unsullied only where it marks your birth ; <> -H- ^H ^ HOURS OF IDLENESS. 71 Still lingering pause above each chequor'd loaf, And blot with tears the sable lines of grief ; Where Passion o'er the theme her mantle threw. Or weeping Virtue sigh'd a faint adieu ; But bless the scroll which fairer words adorn, Traced by the rosy finger of the morn ; When Friendship bow'd befoie the shrine of t r uth, And Love, without his pmion, smiled on youth * ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POE&, ENTITLED "THE COMMON LOT."t Montgomery ! true, the common lot Of mortals lies in Letbe's wave ; Yet some shall never be forgot — Some shall exist beyond the grave. *' Unknown the region oi his birth," The hero rolls the tide of war ; % Yet not unknown his martial worth. Which glares a meteor from afar. His ioy or grief, his weal or woe, Perchance may 'scape the page of fame, Yet nations now unborn will know The record of his deathless name. The patriot's and the poet's frame Must share the common tomb of all : Their glory will not sleep the same ; That will arise, though empires fall. The lustre of a beauty's eye Assumes the ghastly stare of death ; The fair, the brave, the good must die, And sink the yawning grave beneath. Once more the speaking eye revives, Still beaming through the lover's strain J For Petrarch's Laura still survives : She died, but ne'er will die again. The rolling seasons pass away, And Time, untiring, waves his wing ; Whilst honour's laurels ne'er decay, But bloom in fresh, unfading spring. All, all must sleep in grim repose, Collected in the silent tomb ; The old and young, with friends and foes, Festering alike in shrouds, consume. o a I/amltiS est l'amour sans ailes," is a French proveTb. t Written by James Montgomery, author of " The Wanderer In Switzerland," &0. J No particular hero is here alluded to. The exploits of Bayard, Nemours, Edward th» EJacb Prince, and in more modern times the fame of Marlborough, Frederick the Great, ftuint Saxe, Charles of Sweden, &c, are familiar to every historical reader, but the exact placet of their birth ave known to a vary small proportion of tb«ir admirers. 72 BYRON'S POEMS. The mouldering marble lasts its day, Yet falls at length an useless fane ; To ruin's ruthless fangs a prey, The wrecks of] tillar'd pride remain. What, though tho sculp ture be destroy'd, From dark oblivdon meant to guard ; L bright renown 3ball be enjoy'd By those whose i virtues claim reward. Then do not say the common lot Of all lies deop in Lethe's wave ; Some few who ne'er will be forgot Shall burbt the bondage of the grave. 180b. LINES ADDRESSED TO THE REV. J. T. BECZZr., CN HIS ADVISINO TBI AUTHOR TO MIX MORE WITH SOCIETY. Dear Becher, you tell me to mix with mankind ; — 1 cannot deny such a precept is wise ; But retirement accords with the tone of ray mind : I will not descend to a world I despise. Did the senate or camp my exertions require, Ambition might prompt me, at once, to go forth ; When infancy's years of probation expire, Perchance I may strive to distinguish my birth. The fire in the cavern of Etna conceal'd, Still mantles unseen in its secret recess ; — At length, in a volume terrific reveal'd, No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress. Oh ! thus, the desire in my bosom for fame Bids me live but to hope for posterity's praise. Could I soar with the phoenix on pinions of flame, With him I would wish to expire in the blaze. For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death, What censure, what danger, what woe would I brave 1 Their lives did not end when they yielded their brei& I Their glory illumines the gloom of their grave. Yet why should I mingle in Fashion's full herd ? Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her rules I Why bend to the proud, or applaud the absurd ? Why search for delight in the friendship of fools f I have tasted the sweets and the bitters of love ; In friendship I early was taught to believe ; My passion the matrons of prudence reprove ; I have found that a friend may profess, yet deceive. ■^ HOURS OF IDLENESS. 73 Vo me what is wealth ? — it may pass in an hour, If tyrants prevail, or if Fortune should frown ; To me what is title ? — the phantom of power ; T> me what is fashion ? — I seek but renowu. Deceit is a stranger as yet to my soul ; T still am unpractised to varnish the truth : Then why should I live in hateful control ? Why waste upon folly the days of my youth \ 18% THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA. AN IMITATION OF MASPHERSON'S OSSIAN.* Dear are the days of youth ! Age dwells on their remembranoe 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 the steel before my fathers ! " Past is the race of heroes ! But their fame rises on the harp ; their souls ride on the wings of the wind ; they hear the sound through the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in their hall of clouds ! Such is Calmar. The gray stone marks his narrow house. He looks down from eddying tempests : he rolls his form in the whirlwind, and hovers on the blast of the mountain. In Morven dwelt the chief ; a beam of war to Fingal. His steps in the field were marked in blood. Lochlin's sons had fled before his angry spear ; but mild was the eye of Calmar ; soft was the flow of his yellow locks, they streamed like the meteor of the night. No maid was the sigh of his soul : his thoughts were given to friendship, — to dark-haired Orla, destroyer of heroes ! Equal were tneir 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. Fingal roused his chiefs to combat. Their ships cover the ocean. Their hosts throng on the green hills. They come to the aid of Erin. Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies : but the blazing oaks gleam through the valley. The sons of Lochlin slept : their dreams were of blood. They lift the spear in thought, and Fingal flies. Not so the host of Morven. To watch was the post of Orla. Calmar stood by his side. Their spears were in their hands. Fingal called his chiefs : they stood around. The king was in the midst. Gray were his locks, but strong was the arm of the king. Age withered not his powers. " 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. Who will speed through Lochlin to the hero, and call the chief to arms ? The path is by the swords of foes j but many are my heroes. They are thunderbolts of war. Speak, ye chiefs ! Who will arise ? " • It may be necessary to observe, that the story, though considerably varied In the catastrophe, is taken frcm " Nisua and Euryalus," of which episode a translation is elre&dy given in the present volume. 74 BYRON'S POEMS. "Sou of Trenmor! mine be the deed," said dark-haired Orla " and mine alone. What is death to me ? I love the sleep of th* mighty ; but little is the danger. The sons of Lochlin dream. 1 will seek car-borne Cuthullin. If I fall, raise the song of bards ; and lay me by the stream of Lubar." — "And shalt thou fall alone? ' said fair- haired Calmar. "Wilt thou leave thy friend afar ? Chief of Oithona ! not feeble ie my arm in fight. Could I Bee 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 Qithona ; ours be the narrow dwelling on the banks of Lubar." "Calmar," said the chief ot Oithona, " why should thy 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 stops of the hunter on the heath, and thinks it is the ti ead of Calmar. Let him not say, ' Calmar has fallen by the steel of Lochlin : he died with gloomy Orla, the chief of the dark brow.' Why should tears dim the azure eye of Mora? Why should her voice curse Orla, the destroyer of Calmar ? Live, Calmar ! Live to raise my stone of moss ; live to revenge me in the blood of Lochlin. Join the song of bards above my grave. Sweet will be the song of death to Orla, from the voice of Calmar. My ghost shall smile on the notes of praise." " Orla," said the son 01 Mora, " could I raise the song ot 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 tog-ether. 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 eleep ! their shields beneath their heads. Their swords gleam at distance in heaps. The fires are faint ; their embers tail in smoke. All is hush'd ; but the gale sighs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel the heroes through the slumbering band. Half the journey is past, when Mathon, resting on his shield, meets the eye of Orla. It rolls in flame, and glistens through the shade. His spear is raised on high. " Why dost thou bend thy brow, chief of Oithona ? " said fair-haired Calmar : " we are in the midst ot toes. Is this a time for delay? " " It is a time for vengeance," said Orla of the gloomy brow. "Mathon of Lochlin sleeps : seest thou his spear ? Its point is dim with the gore of my father. The blood of Mathon shall reek on mine ; but shall I slay him sleeping, son of Mora ? No ! he shall feel his wound : my fame shall not soar on the blood of slumber. Rise, Mathon, rise ! The son of Conna calls ; thy life is his ; rise to combat." Mathon starts from sleep , but did he rise alone ? No : the gathering chiefs bound on tho plain. " Fly ! Calmar, fly ! " said dark-haired Orla. " Mathon is mine : I shall die in joy : but Lochlin crowds around. Fly through the shade of nignt." 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 f all : hie ■^* HOURS OF IDLENESS. 75 wrath rises : his weapon glitters on the head of Orla : but a spear pierced his eye. His brain gushes through the wound, and foams on the spear of Calmar. As roll the waves of the Ocean on two mighty barks of the north, so pour the men of Lochlin on the chiefs. As, breaking the surge in foam, proudly steer the barks of the north, so rise the chiefs of Morven on the scattered orests of Lochlin. The din of arms came to the ear of Fingal. He strikes his shield ; his sons throng around ; the people pour along the heath. Ryno bounds in joy. Ossian stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes the spear. The eagle wing of Fillan floats on the wind. Dreadful is the clang of death ! many are the widows of Lochlin ! Morven prevails in its strength. Morn glimmers on the hills : no living foe is seen ; but the sleepers are many ; grim they lie on Erin. The breeze of ocean lifts their locks ; yet they do not awake. The hawks scream above their prey. Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a chief % Bright as the gold of the stranger, they mingle with the dark hair of his friend. 'Tis Calmar : he lies on the bosom of Orla. Theirs is 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 un- closed. His hand is grasped in Calmar's ; but Calmar lives ! he lives, though low. " Rise," said the king, " rise, son of Mora : 'tis mine to heal the wounds of heroes. Calmar may yet bound on the hills of Morven." " Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morven with Orla," Baid the hero. "What were the chase to me alone ? Who should phare the spoils of battle with Calmar ? Orla is at rest ! Rough was thy soul, Orla ! yet soft to me as the dew of morn. It glared on others in lightning : to me a silver beam of night. Bear my sword to blue-eyed Mora ; let it hang in my empty hall. It is not pure from blood : but it could not save Orla. Lay 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. 'Tie Orla, the brown chief of Oithona. He was un- matched in war. Peace to thy soul, Orla ; thy fame will not perish. Nor thine, Calmar ! Lovely wast thou, son of blue -eyed Mora ; but not harmless was thy sword. It hangs in thy cave. The ghosts of Lochlin shriek around its steel. Hear thy praise, Calmar ! It dwells on the voice of the mighty. Thy name shakes on the echoes of Merven. Then raise thy fair locks, son of Mora. Spread them on the arch of the rainbow ; and smile through th« tears of the storm."* i rear Laing's late edition has completely overthrown every hope that Macpherson't Ossian might prove the translation of a series of poems complete in themselves ; hut while the imposture is discovered, the merit of the work remains undisputed, though not without faults — particularly, in some parts, turgid and bomhastic diction. The present humble imitation will be pardoned by the admirers of the original as an attempt, however inferior, which evinces an attachment to their favourite author. 7 6 BYRON'S POEMS. TO EDWARD NOEL LONG, Esq. Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico.— HohacS* Dear Long, in this sequester'd scene, While all around in slumber he, The joyous days which ours have been Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye ; Thus if amidst the gathering storm, While clouds the darken'd noon defornv Yon heaven assumes a varied glow, I hail the sky's celestial bow, Which spreads the sign of future peace, And bids the war of tempests cease. Ah ! though the present brings but pain, I think those days may come again ; Or if, in melancholy mood, Some lurking envious fear intrude, To check my bosom's fondest thought, And interrupt the golden dream, I crush the fiend with malice fraught, And still indulge my wonted theme,. Although we ne'er again can trace, In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore ; Nor through the groves of Ida chase Our raptured visions as before ; Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion. And Manhood claims his stern dominion Aire will not every hope destroy, But yield some hours of sober joy. Yes, I will hope that Time's broad win£ Will shed around some dews of spring : But if his scythe must sweep the flowers Which bloom among the fairy bowers, Where smiling youth delights to dwellj And hearts with early rajiture swell ; If frowning Age, with cold control, Confines the current of the soul, Congeals the tear of Pity's eye, Or checks the sympathetic sigh, Or hears unmoved misfortune's groan^ An i bids me feel for self alone ; Oh, may my bosom never learn To soothe its wonted heedless flow K 9 Still, still despise the censor stern, But ne'er forget another's woe. Yes, as you knew me in the days O'er which Remembrance yet delays* Still may I rove, untutor'd, wild, And even in age at heart a child. Though now on airy visions borne, To you nay soul is still the same. •$■ HOURS OF IDLENESS. 77 Oft has it been my fate to mourn, And all my former joys are tame. But, hence ! ye hours of sable hue ! Your frowns are pone, my sorrows o'er : By every bliss my childhood knew, I'll think upon your shade no more. Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is post, And caves their sullen roar inclose, We heed no more the wintry blast. When lull'd by zephyr to repose. Full often has my infant Muse Attuned to love her languid lyre ; JBut now without a theme to choose, The strains in stolen sighs expire. My youthful nymphs, alas ! are flown : E is a wife, and C a mother, And Carolina sighs alone, And Mary 's given to another ; And Cora's eye, which roll'd on me, Can now no more my love recall : Cn truth, dear Long, 'twas time to flee ; For Cora's eye will shine on all. And though the sun, with genial rays, His beam alike to all displays, And every lady's eye 's a sun, These last should be confined to one. The soul's meridian don't become her, Whose sun displays a general summer! Thus faint is every former flame, And passion's self is now a name. As, when the ebbing flames are low, The aid which once improved their light; And bade them burn with fiercer glow, Now quenches all their sparks in night J Thus has it been with passion's fires, As many a boy and girl remembers. While all the force of love expires, Extinguish' d with the dying embers. But now, dear Long, 'tis midnight's noco ; And clouds obscure the watery moon, Whose beauties I shall not rehearse, Described in every stripling's verse ; For why should I the path go o'er, Which every bard has trod before ? Yet ere yon silver lamp of night Has thrice perform'd her stated rounds Has thrice retraced her path of light, And chased away the gloom profound, I trust that we, my gentle friend, Shall see her rolling orbit wend Above the dear-loved peaceful seat Which once contain'd our youth's retreat $ *T* —*tp1 78 BYRON'S POEMS. And then with those our childhood knew, We'll mingle in the festive crew ; While many a tale of former day Shall wing the laughing hours away ; And all the flow of soul shall pour The sacred intellectual shower, Nor cease till Luna's waning horn Scarce glimmers through the mist of mcru» TO A LADY. Oh ! had my fate been join'd with thine, As once this pledge appear'd a token, These follies had not then been mine, For then my peace had not been broken. To thee these early faults I owe, To thee, the wise and old reproving : They know my sins, but do not know 'Twas thine to break the bonds of loving. For once my soul, like thine, was pure, And all its rising I'res could smother ; But now thy vows no more endure, Bestow'd by thee upon another. Perhaps his peace I could destroy, And spoil the blisses that await him ; Yet let my rival smile in joy, — For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. Ah ! since thy angel form is gone, My heart no more can rest with any ; But what it sought in thee alone, Attempts, alas ! to find in many. Then fare thee well, deceitful maid ! 'Twero vain and fruitless to regret thee \ Nor Hope, nor Memory yield their aid. But Pride may teach me to forget th*e. Yet all this giddy waste of years, This tiresome round of palling pleasure* ; These varied loves, these matron's fears, These thoughtless strains to passion's measures— If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd : — This cheek now pale from early riot, With passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd, But bloom' d in calm domestic quiet. Yes, once the rural scene was sweet, For Nature seem'd to smile before thsoi A.nd once my breast abhorr'd deceit, — For then it beat but to adore theo. ■<> HOURS OF IDLENESS. 79 But now T seek for other joys : To think would drive my soul to madness r In thoughtless throngs and empty noise, I conquer half my bosom's sadness. Yet, even in these a thought will steal, In spite of every vain endeavour, — 4.nd tends might pity what I feel, — To know that thou art lost for ever. I WOULD I WERE A CARELESS CHILD. I would I were a careless child, Still dwelling in my Highland cave, Or roaming through the dusky wild, Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave ; The cumbrous pomp of Saxon* pride Accords not with the freeborn soul, Which loves the mountain's craggy side, And seeks the rocks where billows roll. Fortune ! take back these cultured lands, Take back this name of splendid sound ! I hate the touch of servile hands, I hate the slaves that cringe around. Place me along the rocks I love, Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar ; I ask but this — again to rove Through scenes my youth hath known before. Few are my years, and yet I feel The world was ne'er design'd for me : Ah ! why do dark'ning shades conceal The hour when man must cease to be ? Once I beheld a splendid dream, A. visionary scene of bliss : Truth ! — wherefore did thy hated beam Awake me to a world like this ? I loved — but those I love are gone ; Had friends — my early friends are fled : How cheerless feels the heart alone When all its former hopes are dead ! Though gay companions o'er the bowl Dispel awhile the sense of ill ; Though pleasure stirs the maddening soisL, The heart — the heart — is lonely still. How dull ! to hear the voice of those Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power, Have made, though neither friends nor foes, Associates of the festive hour. ■a»**»nach, or Saxon, a Gaelic worn, signifying either Lowland or Engli&t ♦a* i (D < 80 BYRON'S POEMS. Give me again a faithful few, In years and feelings still the saCiO, And 1 will fly the midnight crew, Where boist'reus joy is but a name. And woman, lovely woman ! thou, My hope, my comforter, my all ! How cold must be my bosom now, When e'en thy smiles begin to pall I Without a sigh would I resign This busy scene of splendid woe, To make that calm contentment mine, Which virtue knows, or seems to know. Fain would I fly the haunts of men — I seek to shun, not hate mankind ; My breast requires the sullen glen, Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind. Oh ! that to me the wings were given Which bear the turtle to her nest f Then would I cleave the vault of heaven, To flee away, and be at rest.* WHEN 1 ROVED A YOJNG HIGHLANDER, When I roved a young Highlander o'er the dark heafch ; And climb'd thy steep summit, Morven, of snow \f To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath, Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below, £ Untutor'd by science, a stranger to tear, And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew, No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear ; Need I say, my sweet Mary, 'twas center' d in yowl Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name, — ■ What passion can dwell in the heart of a child ! But still I perceive an emotion the same As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover' d wild : One image alone on my bosom impress'd, I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new ; And few were my wants, for my wishes were bless'd ; And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with you. I arose with the dawn ; with my dog as my guide, From mountain to moimtain I bounded along ; * •* And I said, Oh that I had wings like a dove ; for then would I fly avw, &c 4 <* HOURS OF IDLENESS. 83 A.S when one parent spring supplies Two streams which from one fountain rise, Together join'd in vain ; How soon, diverging from their source, Each, murmuring, seeks another course, Till mingled in the main ! Our vital streams of weal or woe, Though near, alas ! distinctly flow, Nor mingle as before : Now swift or slow, now black or clear, Till death's unfathom'd gulf appear, And both shall quit the shore. Our souls, my friend ! which once stippllM One wish, nor breathed a thought beside, Now flow in different channels : Disdaining humbler rural sports, 'Tis yours to mix in polish'd courts, And shine in fashion's annals ; 'Tis mine to waste on love my time. Or vent my reveries in rhyme, Without the aid of reason ; For sense and reason (critics know it) Have quitted every amorous poet, Nor left a thought to seize on. Poor Little ! sweet, melodious bard I Ot late esteem'd it monstrous hard, Tuat he, who sang before all, — He who the lore of love expanded,— By 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 j And though myself may be the next By critic sarcasm to be vex'd, I really will not fight them.+ Perhaps they would do quite as well To break the rudely-sounding shell Of such a young beginner. • These stasias were written soon after the appearance of a severe critique, in ft aorthern review, on a new publication of the British Anacreon, t A bard (horresco referens) defied his reviewer to mortal combat. If this example becomes prevalent, our periodical censors must be dipped in the river Stvx ; tor what elK eaa secure then< fr-*» the numerous host of their eDrag-ed assfulaDtc J Q 2 -4 •& ^ 84 B V RON'S POEMS. He who offends at pert nineteen. Ere thirty may become, I we«E, A very harden'd sinner. Now, Clare, I must return to you j And, sure, apologies are due: Accept, then, my concession. In truth, dear Clare, in fancy's nig*/, i soar along from left to right ! My muse admires digression. ] think I said 'twould be your fate To add one star to royal state ; — May regal smiles attend you ! And should a noble monarch reign, You will not seek his smiles in vain, If worth can recommend you. Yet since in danger courts abound, Where specious rivals glitter round, From snares may saints preserve you ; And grant your love or friendship ne'er From any claim a kindred care, But those who best deserve you ! Not for a moment may you stray From truth's secure, unerring way 1 May no delights decoy ! O'er roses may your footsteps move, Your smiles be ever smiles of love, Your tears be tears of joy ! Oh ! if you wish that happiness Your coming days and years may bless, And virtues crown your brow ; Be still as you were wont to be, Spotless as you've been known to me, — Be still as you are now. And though some trifling share of praififc. To cheer my last declining days. To me were doubly dear ; Whilst blessing your beloved name, I'd waive at once a poets fame, To prove a prophet here. LINES WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN THE CHURCH. YARD OF HARROW. Spot 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. vVith those I loved, the soft and verdant sod ; .> -I *4h HOURS OF IDLENESS. 85 With those who, ecatterM far, perchance deplore^ Like me, the happy scones they know before : Oh ! as I trace again thy winding hill, Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still, Thou drooping elm ! beneath whose boughs I lay. And frequent mused the twilight hours away ; Where, as they once were wont, ray limbs recline, But ah ! without the thoughts which then were mine How do thy branches, moaning to the blast, Invite the bosom to recall the past, And seem to whisper, as they gently swell, " Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last farewell ! * When fate shall chill, at length, this fever'd breast, And calm its cares and passions into rest, Oft have I thought, 'twould soothe my dying hour, — If aught may soothe when life resigns her power, — To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell, Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell. With this fond dream, methinks, 'twere sweet to die— And here it linger' d, here my heart might he ; 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, Press'd 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. September 2nd, V&33. LINES INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED FROM A SKULL. Start not — nor deem my spirit fled ; In me behold the only skull From which, unlike a living head, Whatever flows is never dull. I lived, I loved, I quaff 'd, like thoo : I died : let earth my bones resign : Fill up— thou canst not injure me ; The worm hath fouler lips than thine. Better to hold the sparkling grape, Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood ; And circle in the goblet's shape The drink of gods, than reptile's food. Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone; In aid of others' let me shine ; And when, alas ! our brains are gone, What nobler substitute than wine i ■0" 4- 86 BYRON'S POEMS. Quaff while thou canst : another race, When thou and thine, like me, are sped, May rescue thee from earth's embrace, And rhyme and revel with the dead. Why not — since through life's little day Our heads such sad effects produce ? Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay, This chance is theirs, to be of use. ON REVISITING HARROW.* HEBE once engaged the stranger's view, Young Friendship's record simply traced ; Jew were her words, but yet, though few, Resentment's hand the line defaced. Deeply she cut — but not erased, The characters were still so plain, T/Jat Friendship once return'd, and gazed,— Till Memory hail'd the words again. Repentaace placed them as before ; Forgiveness join'd her gentle name ; So fair the inscription seem'd once more, That Friendship thought it still the same. Thus might the record now have been : But, an ! in spite of Hope's endeavour, Or Friendship's tears, Pride rush'd between, And blotted out the line for ever.+ * i"hfe>e lines were suggested by finding the names of himself and a friend, which hfid tfaa cnt as a memorial, craned by that friend on account of eome offence taken. t " The recording angel dropp'd a tear upon the wcrd as h« wrote it, sua Uutled It * & *o» 88 BYRON'S POEMS. tioner may, in cases of absolute necessity, be allowed to prescribe hte nostrum to prevent the extension of so deplorable an epidemic, provided there be no quackery in nis treatment of the malady. A caustic is here offered, as it is to be feared nothing short of actual cautery can recover the numerous patients afflicted with the present prevalent and distressing rabies for rhyming. As to the Edinburgh Reviewers, it would, indeed, require a Hercules fr> crush the Hydra: but if the author succeeds in merely " br.ising one of the heads of the serpent," though his own hand should suPer iu the ancoujitet, be will be amply satisfied. ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS/ Still must I hear ? — shall hoarse Fitzgeraldf bawl His breaking couplets iu a tavern hall, And I not siDg, lest, haply, Scotch reviews Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my muse? Prepare for rhyme — I'll publish, right or wrong ; Fools are my theme, let satire be my song. Oh ! nature's noblest gift — my gray goose-quill ! Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen, That mighty instrument of little men ! The pen ! foredoom'd to aid the mental throes Of brains that labour, big witlrverse or prose, Thougu nymphs forsake, and critics may deri«l-, The lover's solace, and the author's pride. What wits, what poets, dost thou daily raise ! How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise ! Condemn'd at length to be forgotten quite, With all the pages which 'twas thine to write. But thou, at least, mine own especial pen ! Once laid aside, but now assumed again, Our task complete, like Hamet's shall be free ;% Though spurn'd by others, yet beloved by 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 pl^m ; Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain. • Written at Nevitead lu 18J8. ♦ iMTiTios : — Semper ego auditor tantum T nunquamne reponani, Vexatus totiea rauci Theseide Codri ?— JrvEKAL, Satire 1. l)[r. Fitzgerald, facetiously termed by Cobbett the " Small Beer Poet," inAiHs Uc annual tribute of verse on the " Literary Fund :" not content with writing, he spouts :a person, after the company have imbibed a reaso^-We quantity of bad port, to enable them to sustain the operation. t Cid Huonet Benengell promises repose to his pen In the last chapter of " Dou Q'lixote." Oh! that our voluminous gentry would follow the enauiyle of Did Etun-4 lieneugelL <> *♦ ENGLISH BARDS & SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 89 When Vice triumphant holds her sov'reign 87/ay, And men, through lifo 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 follies, e'en for me to chase, And yield at least amusement in the race : Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame ; The cry is up, and scribblers are my game. Speed, Pegasus ! — ye strains of great and 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 schoolboy freak, unworthy praise or blame ; I printed — older children do the same. 'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print ; A book's a book, although there's nothing in't. Not that a title's sounding charm can 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.* .No matter, George continues still to write, t Though now the name is veil'd from public sight. Moved by the great example, I pursue The self-same 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. Take hackney'd jokes from Miller, got by rote, With just enough of learning to misquote ; A mind well skill'd to find or forge 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 he, 'twill seem a lucky hit ; Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit ; Care not for feeling — pass your proper jest, And stand a critic, hated yet caress' d. 8 vlils ingenious youth is mentioned more particularly, with his prodiwKcfi, } ir, the " Edinburgh Review." *&- 90 B YR ON 'S POE MS. And shall we own such judgment ? No— as ooou Seek roses in December — ice in June ; Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff ; Believe a woman, or an epitaph, Or any other thing that's lalse, before You trust in critics, who themselves are sore ; Or yield one single thought to be misled By Jeffrey's heart, or Lambe's Boeotian head.* To these young tyrants, by themselves misplaced^ Combined usurpers on the throne of taste ; To these, when authors bend in humble awe,t And hail their voice as truth, their word as lav/ — While these are censors, 'twould be sin to spare ; While such are critics, why should I forbear ? But yet, so near all modern worthies run, 'Tis doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun ; Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike, Our bards and censors are so much alike. Then should you ask me, why, I venture o'er X The path that Pope and Gifford § trod before ; If not yet sicken'd, you can still proceed : Go on ; my rhyme will tell you as you read. u But hold !" exclaims a friend, — " here's some neglwt : This — that — and t'other line seem incorrect." What then ? the self-same blunder Pope has got, And careless Dryden — " Ay, but Pye has not." Indeed ! — 'tis granted, faith ! but what care 1 I Better to err with Pope, than shine with Pye. Time was, e'er yet in these degenerate days Ignoble themes obtain'd mistaken praise, When sense and wit with poesy allied, No fabled graces, fiourisk'd side by side ; From the same fount their inspiration drew, And, rear'd by taste, bloom'd fairer as they grevv. Then, in this happy isle, a Pope's pure strain Sought the wrapt soul to charm, nor sought in vaiu ; A polish'd nation's praise aspired to claim, And raised the people's, as the poet's fame. Like him great Dryden ponr'd the tide of song, In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly strong. Then Congreve's || scenes could cheer, or Otway'sU melt ; For nature then an English audience felt. • Messrs. Jeffrey and Lambe are the Alpha and Omega, the first and last, of the " Salr> Varpii Review ? the others are mentioned here&Xter. 1 Lhitation :— Stulta est dementia, cam tot ablque occarr&s periturse parcere charts. — JcvkkaL, Satire 1. 1 Imitation : — Cur tamen hoc libeat potius decurrere campo Per quern inagnus equos Auruncx flexit alumnus : Si vacat, et placidi rationem admittitis, edam. — JtmafAJL, Satire I. § A uthor of the " Baviad " and " Maeviad," and first editor of the " Quarterly Kevieu - . Us became, afterwards, the friend and Aristarchus of Lord Byron. 1 The great wit of the Augustan age, author of " Love for Love," *o. *c. *i The most yathetie of fell English writers of tragedy : author of " t'cido? Preserved," t*. Ac +£$* >■{&+ -*■ ENGLISH BARDS &* SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 91 But why these names, or greater still, retrace, When all to foebler bards resign their place ? Yet to such times our lingering looks are cast, When taste and reason with those times are past. Now look around, and turn each trifling page, Survey the precious works thtA please the age ; This truth at least let satire's self allow, No dearth of bards can be complain'd of now 1 The loaded press beneath her labour groans, And printers' devils shake their weary bones ; While Southey's epics cram the creaking si 1 elves, And Little's* lyrics shine in hot-press'd twelves. Thus saith the preacher : " Nought beneath the sunt Is new ; " yet still from change to change we run ; What varied wonders tempt us as they pasct The cow-pox, tractors, galvanism, and gas, In turns appear, to make the vulgar stare, Till the swoln bubble bursts — and all is air I Nor less new schools of poetry arise, Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize : O'er taste awhile these pseudo-bards prevail : Each country book-club bows the knee to Baal, „ And, hurling lawful genius from the throne, Erects a shrine and idol of its own ; Some leaden calf — but whom it matters not, From soaring Southey down to grovelling Stott. J Behold ! in various throngs the scribbling crew, For notice eager, pass in long review : Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace, And rhyme and blank maintain an equal raoe 5 Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode ; And tales of terror jostle on the road ; Immeasurable measures move along, For simpering folly loves a varied song, To strange mysterious dulness still the friend, Admires the strain she cannot comprehend. Thus Lays of Minstrels — may they be the last ! Q — On half-strung harps whine mournful to the blast ; • r. Moore's early amatory poems were published under the name of Thomas Little. f Bcclesiaste*, cap. 1. t Stott, better known In the " Morning Post " by the name of Hafiz. This person 1» at present the most profound explorer of the bathos. I remember, when the reigning famify '•ft Portugal, a special ode of Master Stott's, beginning thus : (Stott loquitur quoad Hibernia.) •* Princely offspring of Braganza, Erin greets thee with a stanza," &r&. && Aieo a sonnet to rats, veil worthy of the subject, and a most thunderizg *1e, coaxiaadng iu follows : — " Oh ! for a lay I loud as the surge That lashes Lapland's sounding shore." Lord have mercy on us ! the " Lay of the Last Minstrel " was nothing to this. § See the " I-ay of the Last Minstrel," passim. Never was any plan so incongruous *nd absurd as the groundwork of this production. The entrance of Thunder and Light- ning prologuizing to Bayes' Tragedy, unfor unate^ ia *JX away the merit of originality from the dialogue between Slessmirs the Spirits ti ilood and Fell in the first canto. 4* 92 JSYXON'S POEMS. While mountain spirits prate to river spritce. That dames may listen to the sound at nights ; And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner's brood,* Decoy young border nobles through the wood, And skip at every step, Lord knows how high, And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows why ; While high-born ladies in their magic cell, Forbidding knights to read who cannot spell. Despatch a courier to a wizard's grave. And fight with honest men to shield a Jcnavo. Next view in state, proud prancing on his reejia, The golden-crested haughty Marmion, Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight, Not quite a felon, yet but half a knight, The gibbet or the field prepared to grace ; A mighty mixture of the great and base. And think'st thou, Scott ! by vain conceit perchance, On public taste to foist thy stale romance ? Though Murray with his Miller may combine To yield thy muse just half a crown per line ? No ! when the sons of song descend to trade, Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade. Let such forego the poet's sacred name, Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame ; Low may they sink to merited contempt, And scorn remunerate the mean attempt ! Such be their meed, such still the just reward Of prostituted muse and hireling bard ! For this we spurn Apollo's venal son, And bid a long "good night to Marmion. "t These are the themes that claim our plaudits now ; These are the bards to whom the muse must bow : While Milton, Dryden, Pope, alike forgot, Resign their hallow'd bays to Walter Scott. The time has been, when yet the muse was young, When Homer swept the lyre, and Maro+ sung, An epic scarce ten centuries could claim, While awe-struck nations hail'd the magic name ; Then we have the amiable William of Delor&ine, " a stark mosstrooper," vxdelioet, •» happy compound of poacher, sheep-stealer, and highwayman. The propriety of hJC magical lady's injunction not to read can only be equalled by his candid acknowledgmeuk of Ids independence of the trammels of spelling, although, to use his own elegant phra*ft- " 'twas his neck -verse at Harribee," ». e. the gallows. • The biography of Gilpin Horner, and the marvellous pedestrian page, who travelled twice as fast as his master's horse, without the aid of seven-leagued boots, are cheft- &' aru ere in the improvement of taste. For incident we have the invisible, but by no means sparing, box on the ear, bestowed on the page, and the entrance of a knight aim charger into the castle, under the very natural disguise of a wain of hay. Marmion, th« hero of the latter romance, is exactly what William of Deloraine would have been, had as been able to read and write. The poem was manufactured for Messrs. Constable, Murray, wad Miller, worshipful booksellers, in consideration of the receipt of a sum of monev \ uid truly, considering the inspiration, it is a very creditable production. If Mr. Scott will write for hire, let him do his best for his paymaster?, but not disgrace his gemot, which is undoubtedly great, by a repetition of black letter ballad Imitations. t " Good night to Marmion " — the pathetic and also prophetic exclamation of Heus tlount, Esquire, on the death of honest Manuioa. I Virgil. 4 o ♦*. ENGLISH BARDS dr> SC01CII REVIEWERS. 93 The work ot each immortal hard appears The single wonder of a thousand years.* Empires have moulder'd from the face of earth, Tongues have expired with those who gave them birtL, Without the glory such a strain can give, As even in ruin bids the language live. Not so with us, though minor bards content, On one great work a li^e of labour spent : With eagle pinion soaring So the skies, Behold the ballad-monger Southey rise ! To him let Camoens, Milton, Tasso yield, Whose annual strains, like armies, take the field. First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance, The scourge of England, and the boast of France ! Though burnt by wicked Bedford for a witch, t Behold her statue placed in glory's niche ; Her fetters burst, and just released from prison, a virgin phoenix from her ashes risen. Next see tremendous Thalaba come on, X Arabia's monstrous, wild, and wondrous son ; Domdaniel's dread destroyer, who o'erthrew More mad magicians than the world e'er knew. Immortal hero ! all thy foes o'ercome, For ever reign — the rival of Tom Thumb ! Since startled metre fled before thy face, Well wert thou doom'd the last of all thy race ! Well might triumphant genii bear thee hence, Illustrious conqueror of common sense ! Now, last and greatest, Madoc spreads his sails, Cacique in Mexico, and Prince in Wales ; Tells us strange tales, as other travellers do, More old than Mandeville's, and not so true.§ Oh ! Southey, Southey, cease thy varied song ![| A bard may chant too often and too long ; As thou art strong in verse, in mercy spare ! A fourth, alas ! were more than we could bear. But if, in spite oi all the world can say, Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weary way ; • A* the " Odyssey" is so closely connected with the story of the " niad," th«y nay ikmost be classed as one grand historical poem. In alluding to Milton and Tasst,, we consider the " Paradise Lost," and " Gierusalemme Liberata," as their standard efforts ; since neither the " Jerusalem Conquered " of the Italian, nor the " Paradise Regained " of the English bard, obtained a proportionate celebrity to their former poems. Query : Which of Mr. Southey's will survive ? f Some French authors now say that she was not burnt, and that her descendants art •Jive to prove it. X " Thalaba," Mr. Southey's second poem, is written in open defiance of precedent anO poetry. Mr. S. wished to produce something novel, and succeeded to a miracle. " Joan of Ale" was marvellous enough, but '* Thalaba" was one of those poems " which," in the »ords of Porson, " will be read when Homer and Virgil are forgotten, but — not till then.' S A celebrated traveller, of very doubtful veracity. f We beg Mr. Southey's pardon : " Madoc disdains the degraded titJe of epic." See hii preface. Why is Epic degraded t and by whom ? Certainly the late romaunts of Masters Oottle, Laureate Pye, Ogilvy, Hole, and gentle Mistress Cowley, have not exalted ths Epic Muse ; but as Mr. Soutney"s poem " disdains the appellation," allow us to ask. — has be substituted anything better in its stead ? or must he be content to rival Six Richard EU&ckmore in the quantity aa well as quality of his vera T t* 4 ^> 94 BYRON'S POEMS, If still in Berkeley ballads most uncivil, Thou wilt devote old women to the devil,* The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue : " God help thee," Southey, and thy readers too.f Next comes the dull disciple of thy school, That mild apostate from poetic rule, The simple Wordsworth, framer of a lay As soft as evening in his favourite Ma}', 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 beat,, Yet still obscurity 's a welcome guest. If Inspiration should her aid refuse To him who takes a pixy for a muse,|| Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass The bard who soars to elegise an ass. How well the subject suits his nobie mind ! "A fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind.** Oh ! wonder-working Lewis ! monk, or bard, Who fain wouldst make Parnassus a churchyard ! Lo ! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow, Thy muse a sprite, Apollo's sexton thou ! • Ece, " The Old Woman of Berkeley," a ballad by Mr. Southey, wherein an aged em Utwoman is carried away by Beelzebub, on a " high trotting horse." t The last line, " God help thee," is an evident plagiarism from the " An ti -Jacobin ; - tt Xi. Southey, on his Dactylics. '* God help thee, silly one."— Toetry of the A nti JaooKn, ptge 23. I " Lyrical Ballads," page 4, — " The tables turned." Stanza L " Up, up, my friend, and clear your look* ; Why all this toil and trouble ? Up, up, my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you'U grow doable." 5 Mr. W. In his preface labours hard to prove that prose and verse are much Voe Mine | ■nr certainly his precepts and practice are strictly conformable. ** And thus to Betty's question he Made answer, like a traveller bold, The cock did crow to-whoo, to-whoo, And the sun did shine so cold," 4c *c. — Lyrical Ball-adt, page 19 I Coleridge'? Poems, p. 11, " Songs of the Pixies," i. e. Devonshire Fairiee ; p. 4$, •% i*ve " Junes to a Young L&dy," and p. 52, " Lines to a Young Aaa," 4 *H-H- 4" +& ENGLISH BARDS & SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 95 Whethor on ancient tombs thou tak'st thy etand, By gibb'ring spectres hail'd, thy kindred band ; Or tracest chaste descriptions on thy page, To please the females of our modest age ; All hail, M.P. ! from whose infernal brain* Thin-sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train ; At whose command "grim women " throng in crowdf, 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 : Even Satan's self with thee might dread to dwell, And in thy skull discern a deeper hell. Who in soft guise, surrounded by u 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 hu&h'cLS 'Tis Little ! young Catullus of his day, As sweet, but as immoral, in his lay ! Grieved to condemn, the muse must still be just, Nor spare melodious advocates of lust. Pure is the flame which o'er her altar burns ; From grosser incense with disgust she turns : Yet, kind to youth, this expiation o'er, She bids thee " mend thy line, and sin no more." For thee, translator of the tinsel song, To whom such glittering ornaments belong, Hibernian Strangford ! with thine eyes of blue,T And boasted locks of red, or auburn hue, Whose plaintive strain each love-sick miss admires, And o'er harmonious fustian half expires, Learn, if thou canst, to yield thine author's sense, Nor vend thy sonnets on a false pretence. Think' st thou to gain thy verse a higher place, By dressing Camoens in a suit of lace ? Mend, Strangford ! mend thy morals and thy taste ; Be warm, but pure ; be amorous, but be chaste : Cease to deceive ; thy pilfer' d harp restore, Nor teach the Lusian bard to copy Moore. In many marble-cover'd volumes view Hayley, in vain attempting something new ; Whether he spin his comedies in rhyme, Or scrawl, as Wood and Barclay walk, 'gainst tlrac^ His style in youth or age is still the same, For ever feeble and for ever tame. • " For every one knows little Matt 's an MP."— See a Poem to JSi. Lrwte, b. th« • fttatMrnan," supposed to be written by Mr. JekylL t The reader who may wish for an explanation of this, may refer to " Strangford'* O.iaoSns," p. 127, note to page 56 or to the last page of the Edinburgh review of Strang - ford's Camoens. It is also to be remark sd, that the things fliven to the public as poems of Camoens, ars co more to be found in the original Portuguese, than in the Song of Solomon. ~^h ♦& <> 96 BYRON'S POEMS. Triumphant first see "Temper's Triumphs" shinoi At least I'm sure they triumph'd over mine. Of "Music's Triumphs," all who read may swear, That luckless music never triumph'd there.* Moravians, rise ! bestow some meet reward On dull devotion — Lo ! the Sabbath bard, Sepulchral Grahame, pours his notes sublime, In mangled prose, nor e'en aspires to rhyme. Breaks into blank the Gospel of St. Luke, And boldly pilfers from the Pentateuch ; And, undisturb'd by conscientious qualms, Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the Psalms. f Hail, Sjunpathy ! thy soft idea brings K thousand visions of a thousand things, And shows, dissolved in thine own melting tears, The maudlin prince of mournful sonneteers. And art thou not their prince, harmonious Eowlec I Thou first, great oracle of tender souls ? Whether in sighing winds thou seek'si relief, Or consolation in a yellow leaf ; Whether thy muse most lamentably tells What merry sounds proceed from Oxford bollc*? 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, All love thy strain, but children like it best. 'Tis thine, with gentle Little's moral song, To soothe the mania of the amorous throng ! With thee our nursery damsels shed their 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, • flayiey'a two most notorious verse productions, are " Triumphs of Temper," orv£ 1 Triumphs of Music." He has also written much comedy in rhyme, epistles, Ac. &c i,s i»e is rather an elegant writer of notes and biography, let us recommend Pope's ad vice to Wyoherley, to Mr. H.'s consideration : viz. " to convert his poetry into prose," which liiny easily be done by taking away the final syllable of each couplet. t Mr. Grthame has poured forth two volumes of cant, under the name of " Sabbath Walks," and " Biblical Pictures." I See Bowles's Sonnete, Ac. — " Sonnet to Oxford," and " Stanzas on hearing the BeJi ef OsteDd." § " Awake a loader," 4c. &c, Is the first line in Bowles's " Spirit of Discovery," a very •vjiied and pretty dwarf epic. Among other exquisite lines we have the following . - •• A kiss Stole on the list'ning silence, never yet Here heard ; they trembled even as if the power," &o. Tint is, the woods of Madeira trembled to a kiss, very much astonished, u wal iLcy ituolit be, at such a phenomenon. 1 -H- ENGL1SH BARDS &- SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 97 By more or less, are sung in every book, From Captain Noah down to Captain Cook, Not this alone ; but, pausing on the road, The bard sighs forth a gentle episode ;* And gravely tells — attend, each beauteous miss I When first Madeira trembled to a kiss. Bowles ! in thy memory let this precept dwell, Stick to thy tonnets, man ! — at least they sell. But if some new-born whim, or larger bribe, Prompt thy crude brain, and claim thee for a scri'i)©^ If chance some bard, though once by dunces fear'd-. Now, prone in dust, can only be revered r If Pope, whose fame and genius, from the first, Have foil'd the best of critics, needs the worst, Do thou essay ; each fault, each failing scan : The first of poets was, alas ! but man. Rake from each ancient dunghill ev'ry pearl, Consult Lord Fanny, and confide in Curll ;+■ Let all the scandals of a former age Perch on thy pen, and flutter o'er thy page ; Affect a candour which thou canst not feel, Clothe envy in the garb of honest zeal ; Write, as if St. John's soul ct mid still inspire^ And do from hate, what Maliet 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 gainn, And link'd thee to the Dunciad for thy pains. y Another epic ! who inflicts again More books of blank upon the sons of men ? Boeotian Cottle, rich Bristowa's boast, Imports old stories from the Cambrian coast, And sends his goods to market — all alive ! Lines forty thousand, cantos twenty-five ! Fresh fish from Helicon ! who'll buy ? who'll buy ? The precious bargain 's cheap — in faith, not I. Too much in turtle Bristol's sons delight. Too much o'er bowls of rack prolong the night ! If Commerce fills the purse, she clogs the brain, And Amos Cottle strikes the lyre in vain. • The episode above alluded to, is the story of " Kobert a Machin," and " Anno fl-Arfet," a pair of constant lovers, who performed the kiss above mentioned, that startled the woods of Madeira. t Curll is one of the heroes of the " Dunciad " and was a bookseller, lord Fanny is the poetical name of Lord Hervey, author of " Lines to the Imitator of Horace." J Lord Bolingbroke hired Mallet to traduce Pope after his decease, because the poet bad retained some copies of a work by Lord Bolingbroke (the " Patriot King "\ which that splendid but malignant genius had ordered to be destroy ad. § Dennis, the critic, and Ralph, the rhymester. " Silence, ye wolves ! while Ralph to Cynthia howls, Making night hideous ; answer him, ye owls ! " — Dunciad. 5 See Bowles's late edition of Pope's works, for which he received 300 pounds : thus B£r. B. has experienced how much easier it is to profit t»y th» reputation of another, if&vi %o el&v«x« hi* own. ■& 98 BY A' OX'S POEMS. In him an auther's luckless lot behold, Condemn'd to mako the books which once he aold, Oh, Amos Cottle ! — Phoebus ! what a name, To fill the speaking trump of future fame ! Oh, Amos Cottle ! for a moment think What meagre profits spring from pen and ink ! When thus devoted to poetic dreams, Who will peruse thy prostituted reams " Oh, pen perverted ! paper misapplied ! jiad Cottle still adorn'd the counter's side,* Bent o'er the desk, or, born to useful toils, Been taught to make the paper which he soils, Flough'd, delved, or plied the oar with lusty L.mb, He had not sung of Wales, nor I of him. As Sisyphus against the infernal steep Rolls th© huge ruck, whose motions ne'er may sleep, So up thy hill, ambrosial Richmond ! heaves Dull Maurice all his granite weight of leaves :+ Smooth, solid monuments of mental pain ! The petrifactions of a plodding brain, That ere they reach the top fall lumbering back agpin. With broken lyre, and cheek serenly pale, Lo ! sad Alcaeus wanders down the vale ; Though fair they rose, and might have bloom'd at last, His hopes have perish'd by the northern blast : Nipp'd in the bud by Caledonian gales, His blossoms wither as the blast prevails ! O'er his lost works let classic Sheffield weep ; May no rude hand disturb their early sleep ' X 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 prow r . ; A coward brood, which mangle as they prey, By hellish instinct, all that cross their way ; A.ged 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 held ? Why tamely thus before their fangs retreat, Nor hunt the bloodhounds back to Arthur's Seat ? § Health to immortal Jeffrey ! once, in name, England could boast a judge almost the same ; • Mr. Cottle, Amoi, Joseph, I don't know which, but one or both, once seller? of boods "rjev did not write, and now writers of book* mat do not sell, have published a pen oi ides. " Alfred " (poor Alfred I Pye has been at him too 1) " Allred " and the " Fall ■% Cambria." t Mr. Maurice hath manufactured the component parts of a ponderous quarto, up ill the rnhjar tongue, and endeth thus : — " Instead of money and rings, I wot, The hammer's bruises were her lot ; Thus Odin's son his hammer got." I Th- Reverend Sydney Smith, the reputed author of" Pet«r Plymley's Letters," ana •und-r criticisms. § Mj Hs'ilam reviewed Payne Knight's " Taste," and was exceedingly severe on somt Greek vensei, therein : it was not discovered that the lines were Pindar's till th? prasi rendered it impossible to cancel the critique, which still stands an everlasting monument of Hallam's ingenuity. The said Hallam is incensed, because ho is falsely accused, seeing that he never dineth at Holland House. If this be true, I am sorry — not for having said so, but on his eccount, as I understand his lordship's feasts are preferable to his eonii>ositions. If he did not review Lord Holland's performance, I am glad, because it must have been painful to rr.id, and irksome to praise it. If Mr. Hallam will tell me who did review it, the real name shall find a place in the text; provided, nevertheless, the said name be of two orthodox musical syllables, and will come into the verse ; till then, Hallam must stand ft-r want of a better. I 1'illans is a tutor at Eton. \ iht Ilunuurabl* (i. Laiafcs reviewed Bernaford's Miseriaa." and is Moreover authioi •' *+•■ •*•! *&♦ ENGLISH BARDS &» SCOTCH REVIEWERS, ioi 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 ssJe, Turn beef to bannocks, cauliflowers to kail." Thus having said, the kilted goddess kiss'd Her son, and vanish'd in a Scottish mist."f Illustrious Hollan d ! hard would be his lot, His hirelings mention 'd, and himself forgot ! Holland, with Henry PettyJ 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 the unusual grape, Some glowing thoughts should to the press escape, And tinge with red the female reader's cheek, My lady skims the cream of each critique ; Breathes o'er the page her purity of soul, Reforms each error, and refines the whole. || Now to the Drama turn — Oh ! motley sighv, What precious scenes the wondering eyes invite ! Puns, and a prince within a barrel pent,^I And Dibdin's nonsense yield complete content.** ef a farce enacted with much applause at the Priory, Stanmore ; and damned with great expedition at the late theatre, Covent Garden. It wag entitled " Whistle for It." • Mr. Brougham, in No. XXV. of the " Edinburgh Review," throughout the article concerning Don Pedro de Cevalios, has displayed more polities 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, hut a Borderer, and his nam* Is pronounced Broom, from Trent to Tay : — So be it. * T ought to apologize to the worthy deities for introducing a new goddess with short petticoats to their notice : but alas ! what was to be done ? I could not say Caledonia's genius, it being well known therj *,s no genius to be found from Clackmannan to Caith- ness ; yet without supernatural agency, how was Jeffrey to be saved ? The national " kelpies," Ac. are too unpoetical, and the " brownies " and " gude neighbours " (spirits of % good disposition) refused to extricate him. A goddess, therefore, has been called fo» the purpose, and great ought to be the gratitude of Jeffrey, seeing it is the only commu- nication he ever held, or is likely to hold, with anythiag heavenly. I Marquis of Lansdowne. § Lord H. has translated some specimens of Lope de Vega, inserted in his life of the author : both are bepraised by his disinterested guests. (( Certain it is, her ladyship is suspected of having displayed her matchless wit in the " Edinburgh Review." However that may be, we know, from good authority, that ths manuscripts are submitted to her perusal — no doubt for correction. % In the melo-drama of " Tekeli," that heroic prince is okipt into a barrel on tie stage ; a new asylum for distressed heroes. •* Thomas Dibclin, author of " The Cabinet," " English Fleet," " Mother Goes©," Ht> jce of the great English lyrist. 102 BYRON'S POEMS. Though now, thank Heaven ! the Kosciouiamt 'e ©\jr t * And full-grown actors are endured once more ; Yet what avail their vain attempts to please, While British critics sufler scenes like these ? While Reynolds vents his "daromes!" "poohs !" &nd "zounds !"*|" And common-place and common sense confound* ? While Kenney's + " World " just suffer'd oo proceed, Proclaims the aiu.ience very kind indeed ! And Beaumont's pilfer'd Caratach affords A tragedy complete in all but words ? § Who but must mourn, while these are all the rag - ©, The degradation of our vaunted stage ? Heavens ! is all sense of shame, and talent gone ? Have we no living bard of merit ? — none ? Awake, George Colman ! Cumberland, awake ! King the alarum-bell ! let folly quake ! Oh, Sheridan ! if aught can move thy pen, Let Comedy resume her throne again ; Abjure the mummery of German schools, Leave new Pizarros to translating fools ; Give, as thy last memorial to the age, One classic drama, and reform the stage. Gods ! o'er those boards shall FoI!y rear her head, Where Garrick trod, and Kemble lives to tread ? On those shall Farce display Buffoon'ry's mask, And Hook conceal his heroes in a cask ? Shall sapient managers new scenes produce From Cherry, Skemngton, and Mother Goose ? While Shakspeare, Otway, Massinger, forgot, On stalls most moulder, or in closets rot? Lo ! with what pomp the daily prints proclaim The rival candidates for Attic fame ! In grim array though Lewis' spectres rise, Still Skeffington and Goose divide the prize. And sure grtai Skemngton must claim our praise, For skirtless coats and skeletons of plays Renown 'd alike ; whose genius ne'er confines Her flight to garnish Greenwood's gay designs ;|| Nor sleeps with "Sleeping Beauties,' but anon In five facetious acts comes thundering on,^j While poor John Bull, bewilder'd with the scene, Stares, wondering what the devil it can mean ; But as some hands applaud — a venal few — Rather than sleep, why John applauds it too. • Master Betty had tna»le his fortune, and was gone to school, a* a boy ot his >J» itcul.t. t All these are favourite egressions of Mr. &., and prominent Id his comedies, h.-tuf nd defunct. ' Author of the excellent farce of " Raising the Wind," and other clever pieces. $ Mr. T. Sheridan, the new manager of Drury Lane Theatre, stripped the tragedy 3* " Bouduca" of Uie dialogue, ami exhibited the scene* as the spectacle of Caractarns Was this worthy of his sire ? or of himself t I Mr. Greenwood Is, we believe, scene-painter to Drury Lane theatre — as such. Mi. &. Is much Indebted to li'iu •J Mr. S. Is the Ulustrious author of the " Sleeping Beauty ;" and some comedlee, porU' QUtrly " Maids and Bachelors r" Baccalauxti baculo marts quam muxv digni. ♦O ENGLISH BARDS & SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 103 Such are we now. Ah ! wherefore should we turn. To what our lathers were, unless to mourn ? Degenerate Britons ! are ye dead to shame, Or, kind to dulness, do you fear to blame X Well may the nobles of our present race Watch each distortion of a Naldi's face ; Well may they smile on Italy's buffoons, And worship Catalani's pantaloons,* Since their own drama yields no fairer trace Of wit than puns, of humour than grimace. Then let Ausonia, skill'd in every art To soften manners, but corrupt the heart, Pour her exotic follies o'er the town, To sanction vice, and hunt decorum down : Let wedded strumpets languish o'er Deshayes. And bless the promise which his form displays : While Gayton bounds before th' enraptured looks Of hoary marquises and stripling dukes ; Let high-born lechers eye the lively Presle Twirl her light limbs, that spurn the needless veil ; Let Angiolini bare her breast of snow, Wave the white arm, and point the pliant toe ■ Collini trill her love-inspiring song, Strain her fair neck, and charm the listening throng ! Raise not your scythe, suppressors of our vice 1 Reforming saints ! too delicately nice ! By whose decrees, our sinful souls to save, No Sunday tankards foam, no barbers shave ; And beer undrawn, and beards unmown, display Your holy reverence for the Sabbath-day. Or, hail at once the patron and the pile Of vice and folly, GreviLta and Argyle '+ Where yon proud palace, fashion's hallow* d fane, Spreads wide her portals for the motley train, Behold the new Petronius of the day,£ The arbiter of pleasure and of play ! There the hired eunuch, the Hesperian choir, The melting lute, the soft lascivious lyre, The song from Italy, the step from France, The midnight orgy, and the mazy dance, • N Udi and Catalan! require little notice, — for the visage of the one and th» Vkry at (Jif ot'.er will enable us loi.g to recollect these amusing vagabond* ; besides, w. jt still black *nd blue from the squeeze on the first night of the lady's appearance In trousers. t T > prevent any blunder, such as mistaking a street for a man, I beg leave U> state thai it is the institution, and not the duke of that name, which is here alluded to. a gentleman, with whom I am slightly acquainted, lost in the Argyle Booms several thousand pounds at backgammon : it is but Justice to the manager in this Instance to say, that some degree of disapprobation was manifested ; but why are the Implement; of gaming allowed in a place devoted to the society of both sexes T A pleasant thing for tbfc wives and daughters of those who are blest or curet with such connection*, to hear the billiard tables rattling In one room, and the dice In another 1 That thin Is the case, ! myself can testify, as a late unworthy member of an Institution which materially arWU the morals of the higher orders, wuile the lower may not even move to the sound Uf s tabor and flddJe vitiiout Xht eiiance of 'uiuiciuieut Cut riotous behaviour. J Petronius, " Arbiter elegantlarum " to Nero, " and a very pretty fellow tn his day." *i fl&r (Jongreve's " Old Bachelor " anith. * W* rod BYRON'S POEMS. rhe smile of beauty, and the flush of wine, For fops, fools, gamesters, knaves, and lords combine : Each to his humour — Comus all allows ; Champaign, dice, music, or your neighbour's spouse. Talk not to us, ye starving sons of trade ! Oi piteous ruin, which ourselves have made ; In Plenty's sunshine Fortune's minions bask, Nor think of poverty, except " en masque," When for the night some lately titled ass Appears the beggar which his grandsire was. The curtain dropp'd, the gay burletta o'er, The audience take their turn upon the floor ; Now round the room the circling dow'gers sweep, Now in loose waltz the thin-clad daughters leap : The first in lengthen'd line majestic swim, The last display the free, unfetter'd limb ! Those for Hibernia's lusty sons repair With art the charms which nature could not spurs \ 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 Spaiu, Cuts the light pack, or calls the rattling main ; The jovial caster 's set, and seven 's the nick, Or — -done ! — a thousand on the coming trick ! If, mad with loss, existence 'gins to tire, And all your hope or wish is to expire, Here's Powell's pistol ready for your life, And, kinder still, a Paget for your wife : Fit consummation of an earthly race, Begun in folly, ended in disgrace ; While none but menials o'er the bed of death, Wash thy red wounds, or watch thy wavering breath ' Traduced by liars, and forgot by all, The mangled victim of a drunken brawl,* To live like Clodius, and like Falkland fall.f Truth ! rouse some genuine bard, and guide his oand, To drive this pestilence from out the land. E'en I — least thinking of a thoughtless throng, Jast skill'd to know the right and choose the vrong, • WtrA Falkland was killed In a duel by Captain Powell, f Mutato nomine cie te Fibula narratur. 1 knew the late Lord Falkland well. On Sunday night I beheld him presiding »t hii ewij table, in all the honest pride of hospitality; on Wednesday morning, at three o'clock, 1 saw stretched before me all that remained of courage, feeling, and a boat of pR88i>ns. He was a gallant and successful officer : his faults were th« faults of a sailor ; w st« - h, Britons will forgive them. He dit d like a brave man in a better cause ; for had he fallen in like manner on the deck of the frigate to which he was just appointed, hi* tact tusmeuta would have been held up by his countrymen as an example to succeeding heroec * but do not know how to bring for'h. •&- 4 -<> ENGLISH BARDS & SCO J CM REVIEWERS. 107 Him too the mania, not the muse, has seized ; Not inspiration, hut a mind diseased : And uow no boor can seek his last abode, No common be inclosed, without an ode.* Oh ! since increased refinement deigns to smile On Britain's sons, and bless our genial isle. Let poesy go forth, pervade the whole, Alike the rustic and mechanic soul. Ye tuneful cobblers ! still your notes prolong, Compose at once a slipper and a song ; So shall the fair your handiwork peruse, Your sonnets sure shall please — perhaps your shoe*" May Moorland weavers boast Pindaric skill, t 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 duo, Neglected genius ! let me turn to you. Come forth, Campbell ! give thy talents scope ;J Who dares aspire if thou must cease to hope ? And thou, melodious Rogers ! rise at last, Recall the pleasing memory of the past ; Arise ! let blest remembrance still inspire, And strike to wonted tones thy hallow'd lyre ; Restore Apollo to his vacant throne, Assert thy country's honour and thine own. What ! must deserted poesy still weep Where her last hopes with pious Cowper sleep ? Unless, perchance, from his cold bier she turns To deck the turf that wraps her minstrel, Burns ! No ! though contempt hath mark'd the spurious brood. The race who rhyme from folly, or for food, Yet still some genuine sons 'tis hers to boast, Who, least affecting, still affect the most : Feel as they write, and write but as they feel — Bear witness Gifford, Sotheby, Macneil.§ 1 ' Why slumbers Gifford V once was ask'd in vain ! |[ 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 sint for satire's bard to greet ? Stalks not gigantic Vice in every street ? • See Nathaniel Bloomfi eld's ode, elegy, or whatever he or any one ah e chooeM W cvl) j, on the inclosure of" Honington Green." f Vide " RaeolleCS^ns of a Weaver in the Moorlands of Staffordshire." J It would be superfluous to recall to the mind of the reader the authors of " The Pleasures of Memory " and " The Pleasures of Hope," the most beautiful didactic poeme in our language, if we except Pope's " Essay on Man ;" but so many poetasters have started up, that even the names of Campbell and Rogers become strange. § Gifford, author of the '* Baviad and Masviad," the first satires of the day, and (jtlm- lator of Juvenal. Sotheby, translator of Wieland's " Oberon " and Virgil's " Georgics," and auUiu>«>ef " Saul," an epic poem, \ IKIacneil, whose poems are deservedly popular ; particularly " Scotland's Scaith, or the Waes if War," of which ten thousand copies were sold in one month. || Mr. Gifford promised publicly that the " Baviad and Maeviad " should not be Ma laasl arigi ual works ; let htm remember " Moz in relnctantes dr&cosies.." io8 BYRON'S POEMS. Shall peers or princes tread pollution's path, And 'scape alike the law's and muse's wrath ? Nor blaze with guilty glare through future time^ Eternal beacons of consummate crime ? Arouse thee, Gifford ! be thy promise claim' d, Make bad men better, or at least ashamed. Unhappy White ! whilo life was in its spring,* And thv young muse just waved her joyous wiug, The spoiler came ; and all thv oromise fair Has sought the grave, to sleep for evrr ther9. 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 fruiU 'Twas thine own genius gave the fina 5 blow, And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee 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 impel I'd the steel ; While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest, Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast, t There be, who say, in these enlighten'd days, That splendid lies are all the poet's praise ; That strain'd invention, ever on the wing, Alone impels the modern bard to sing : Tis true, that all who rhyme — nay, all who write. Shrink from that fatal word to genius — trite ; Yet truth will sometimes lend her noblest fires. And decorate the verse herself inspires : This fact in Virtue's name let Crabbe attest ; Though nature's sternest painter, yet the best. And here let Shee and genius find a place,^ Whose pen and pencil yield an equal grace : To guide whose hands the sister arts combine, And trace the poet's or the painter's fine ; Whose magic touch can bid the canvas glow, Or pour the easy rhyme's harmonious Sow, While 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 ; Henry Kirke White died at Camtiridge, In October, 1806, in consequence of to* much rtioa i» the pursuit of studies that would have matured a mind which disease wid poverty could not impair, and which death itself destroyed rather than subdued. His poems abound in such beauties as must impress the reader with the liveliest regret that *o short a period was allotted to talents which would have dignified even the tacred fuxjctions hn wns destined to assume. f This is one of the finest Images in all Lord Byron's works : whether quit* originally hie own I will not ke bound to say. I Mr. Shee, author of " Kb vmes on Art," and " Elements of Art." i *6^* ENGLt'SH BARDS 6- SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 109 Whose steps have press'd, whose eye has mark'd afar, The clime that nursed the sods 01 s&♦ —*£ no BYROADS POEMS. Let others spin their meagre lines for hire , Enough for genius, if itself inspire ! Let Southey sing, although his teeming muse, Prolific every spring, be too profuse ; Let simple Wordsworth chime his childish vers«, A.nd brother Coleridge lull the babe at nurse ; Let spectre-mongering Lewis aim, at most, To rouse the galleries, or to raise a ghost ; Let Moore be lewd : let Strangford steal from M(jcro> And swear that Camoens sang such notes of yore ; Let Hayley hobble on ; Montgomery rave ; And godly Grahame chant a stupid stave ; Let sonneteering Bowles his strains refine, And whine and whimper to the fourteenth line ; Let Stott, Carlisle, Matilda, and the rest* Of Grub Street, and of Grosvenor Place the best, Scrawl on, till death release us from the strain. Or Common Sense assert her rights again. But thou, with powers that mock the aid of praise, Shouldst leave to humbler bards ignoble lays : Thy country's voice, the voice of all the nine, Demand a hallow'd harp — that harp is thine. Say ! will not Caledonia's annals yield The glorious record of some nobler field, Than the wild foray of a plundering clan, Whose proudest deeds disgrace the name of man? Or Marmion's acts of darkness, fitter food For outlaw'd Sherwood's tales of Robin Hood ? Scotland ! still proudly claim thy native bard, And be thy praise his firet, his best reward ! Yet not with thee alone his name should live, But own the vast renown a world can give ; Be known, perchance, when Albion is no more, And tell the tale of what she was before ; To future times her faded fame recall, And save her glory, though his country fall. • It may be asked why I have censured the Earl of Carlisle, my guardian and ivlf.tlve, to whom 1 dedicated a volume of puerile poems a few years ago. The guardianship wa§ nominal, at least as far as I have been able to discover ; the relationship I cannot help, and am very sorry for It ; but as his lordship seemed to forget it on a very easeTituvl invasion te me, I shall not burden my memory with the recollection. I do not thiLk tn&t personal differences sanction the unjust condemnation of a brother scribbler ; but I see no reason why they should act as a preventive, when the author, noble or ignobW, has, for a series of years, beguiled a " discerning public " (as the advertisements have it) with divers reams of most orthodox, Imperial nonsense. Besides, I do not step asde i» vituperate the earl ; no — his works come fairly in review with those of other patrician literati. If, before I escaped from my teens, I said anything in favour of his loidsiiip'i paper books, it was In the way of dutiful dedication, and more from tht advice of others than my own Judgment, and I seize the first opportunity of pronouncing my sincere recantation. I have heard that some persons conreive me to be under obligations tc Loro Carlisle ; if so, I shall be most particularly happy to learn what they are, and when conferred, that they may be duly appreciat. d, and publicly acknowledged. What I have humbly advanced as an opinu>D on his printed things, I am prepared to support, if neces- sary, by quotations from elegies, eulogies, odes, episodes, and certain factious and iainty tragedies bearing bis name and mark : — " What can ennoble knaves, or /ooI#, or cowards I Alas 1 not all the blood of all the fiowalds 1 " So says Pope. Amen 1 4>- 4 > «> ENGLISH BARDS & SCOTCH REVIEWERS, ill Yet what avails the sanguine poet's hope, To conquer ages, and with time to cope? New eras spread their wings, new nations rise, And other victors fill the applauding skies ;* A few brief generations fleet along, Whose sons forget the poet and his song : E'en now, what once-loved minstrels scarce may claim The trarsient mention of a dubious name ! When fame's loud trump hath blown its noblest blast, Though long the sound, the echo sleeps at last ; And glory, like the phoenix 'midst her fires, Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires. Shall hoary Granta call her sable sons, Expert in science, more expert at puns ( Shall these approach the muse? ah, no ! she flies, And even spurns the great Seatonian prize ; Though printers condescend the press to soil With rhyme by Hoare, and epic blank by Hoyle : Not him whose page, if still upheld by whist, Requires no sacred theme to bid us list.t Ye ! who in Granta's honours would surpass, Must mount her Pegasus, a full-grown ass ; A foal well worthy of her ancient dam, Whose Helicon is duller than her Cam. There Clarke, still striving piteously " to please," Forgetting doggrel leads not to degrees, A would-be satirist, a hired buffoon, A monthly scribbler of some low lampoon, Comdemn'd to drudge, the meanest of the mean, And furbish falsehoods for a magazine, Devotes to scandal his congenial mind ; Himself a \iving libel on mankind. X Oh ! dark asylum of a Vandal race ! § At once the boast of learning, and disgrace ; So sunk in dulness, and so lost to shame, That Smythe and Hodgson scarce redeem thy fame ! ([ But where fair Isis rolls her purer wave, The partial muse delighted loves to lave ; On her green banks a greener wreath is wove, To crown the bards that uaunt her classic grove ; • " Tollere taumo, victorque virum volitare per ora." — Virqh. t The " Games of Hoyle," well known to the votaries of whist, chess, 4c, are not to d« superseded by the vagaries of his poetical namesake, whose poem comprised, aa ts- pisssly stated in the advertisement, all the " plagues of Egypt." J This [lerson, who has lately betrayed the most rabid symptoms of confirmed author- »bip, is writer of a poem denominated the " Art of Pleasing," as " lucus a non luoendn " containing little pleasantry, and less poetry. He also acts as monthly stipendiary and collector of calumnies for the " Satirist." If this unfortunate young man would exchange the magazines for the mathematics, and endenvour to take a decent degree in his univer- iity, it mlgnt eventually prove more Kerviceable than his present salary. § " Into Cambridgeshire the emperor Probus transported a considerable body ctf Vandals." — Gibbon's " Decline and Fall," vol. ii. page 83. There is no reason to doubt the truth of this assertion ; the breed is still in high perfection. ( Mr. Hodgson's name requires no praise ; the man who in translation displays unques- tionable genius, may well be expected to excel In original composition, of which it is io bt hoysd we shall soon tee a gpjendid specimen. u H2 BYRON'S POEMS. Where Richards wakes a genuine poet's fires, And modem Britons justly praise their sir6*.* For me, who, thus unask'd, have dared to tell My oountry, what her sons should know too weii, Zeal for her honour bade me here engage The host of idiots that infest her age ; No just applause her honour'd name shall lose, As first in freedom, dearest to the muse. Oh ! would thy bards but emulate thy fame, And rise more worthy, Albion, of thy name ! What Athens was in science, Rome in power, What Tyre appear'd in her meridian hour, 'Tis thine at once, fair Albion ! to have been — Earth's chief dictatress, ocean's mighty queen : But Rome decay'd, and Athens strew'd the 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 fate,1* With warning ever scoff'd at, till too late ; To tnemes less lofty still my lay confine, And urge thy bards to gain a name like thine. Then, hapless Britain ! be thy rulers blest, The senate's oracles, thy people's jest, Still hear thy motley orators dispense The flowers of rhetoric, though not of sense, While Canning's colleagues hate him for his wit, And old dame Portland X fills the place of Pitt. Yet once again, adieu ! ere this the sail That wafts me hence is shivering in the gale ; And Afric's coast and Calpe's adverse height. § And Stain boul's || minarets must greet my sight : Thence shall I stray through beauty's native clime. ^J Where Kaff** is clad in rocks, and crown'd with snows sublicaek But should I back return, no letter'd rage Shall drag my common-place book on the stage. Let vain Valentiaft rival luckless Carr, And equal him whose work he sought to mar ; Let Aberdeen and Elgin*:; still purwue The shade of fame througti regions of virtu ; • The " Aboriginal Britons," an excellent poem by Richards. 1 The mad, prophetic daughter of Priam, whose predictions were never believe* I A friend of mine being asked why his Grace of P. was likened to an old woaau 1 replied, " he supposed it was because he was past bearing." $ Calpe is the ancient name of Gibraltar. j Stamboul is the Turkish word for Constantinople. *j Georgia, remarkable for the beauty of its inhabitants. '• Mount Caucasus. •f Lord Valentia (whose tremendous travel* are forthcoming with due decoration*, graphical, topographical, and typographical) deposed, on Sir John C.irr's unlucky suit, tiiat Dubois's satire prevented his purchase of the " Stranger in Ireland." — Oh, He, u ENGLISH BARDS & SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 113 Wivsto useless thousands on thoir Phidian freaks, Misshapen monuments and maim'd antiques ; And make their grand saloons a general mart For all the mutilated blocks of art. Of Dardan tours let dilettanti tell, I leave topography to classic Gell ;* 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 nor, obtrusive, yet not quite unknown, My voice was heard again, though not so loud, My page, though nameless, never disavow'd ; And now at once I tear the veil away : — Cheer on the pack — the quarry stands at bay, Unscared by all the din of Melbourne House, By Lambe's resentment, or by Holland's spouse, By Jeffrey's harmless pistol, Hallani's rage, Edina's brawny sons and brimstone page. Our men in buckram shall have blows enough, And feel they too " are penetrable stuff :" And though I hope not hence unscathed to go, Who conquers me shall find a stubborn foe. The time hath been, when no harsh sound would fall From lips that now may seem imbued with gall ; Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise The meanest thing that crawl'd beneath my eyea ; 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 frown, I, too, can hunt a poetaster down ; And, arm'd in proof, the gauntlet cast at on^e To Scotch marauder, and to southern dunce. Thus much I've dared to do ; how far my lay Hath wrong'd these righteous times, let others say : This, let the world, which knows not how to spare, Yet rarely blames unjustly, now declare. • Mr. Gell's " Topography of Troy and Ithaca " cannot fail to insure the apprcbatloo 6 rvery man possessed of classical taste, as well for the information Mr. G. convey* t*" thp mind of the reader, as for the ability and research the respective works display. *-H4 114 BYRON'S POEMS. POSTSCRIPT. I have been Informed, since the present edition went to the press, thaf my trusty and well-beloved cousins, the Edinburgh Reviewers, are pre- paring a most vehement critique on my poor, gentle, unresisting Muse, whom they have already so bedevilled with their ungodly ribaldry : • Tantaene anirnls caelestibus ime ! " I suppose I must say of Jeffrey as Sir Andrew Aguecneek saith, " An I had known he was so cunning of fence, I had seen him damned ere I had fought him." What a pity it is that I shall be beyond the Bosphorus before the next number has passed the Tweed. But I yet hope to light my pipe with it in Persia. My Northern friends have accused me, with justice, of personality towards their great literary Anthropophagus, Jeffrey ; but what else was to be done with him and his dirty pack, who feed by " lying and slander- jig," and slake their thirst by " evil speaking?" I have adduced facta 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 personal ; those who do not, may one day be convinced. Since the publication of this thing, my name has not been concealed ; I have been mostly in London, ready to answer for my transgressions, and in daily expectation of sundry cartels ; but, alas ! " the age of chivalry is over," or in the vulgar tongue, there is no spirit nowadays. There is a youth yclept Hewson Clarke (subaiidi, Esquire) a Sizer of Emanuel College, and 1 believe a denizen of Berwick-upon-Tweed, whom I have introduced in these pages to much better company than he lias been accustomed to meet; he is, notwithstanding, a very sad dog, and for no reason that I can discover, except a personal quarrel with a bear kept by me at Cambridge to sit for a fellowship, and whom the jealousy oi his Trinity contemporaries prevented from success, has been abusing me, and what is worse, the defenceless innocent above mentioned, in the " Satirist," for one year and some months. I am utterly unconscious of having given him any provocation ; indeed, I am guiltless of having heard his name till coupled with the " Satirist." He has therefore no reason to complain, and I dare say that, like Sir Fretful Plagiary, he is rather pleased than otherwise. I have now mentioned all who have done me the honour to notice me and mine, that is, my ear band my book, except the editor of the " Satirist," who, it seems, is a gentleman, God wot ! I wish he could impart a little of his gentility to his subordinate scribblers. I hear that Mr. Jerningham is about to take up the cudgels for his Maecenas, Lord Carlisle. I hope not : he was one of the few, in the very short inter- course I had with him, treated me with kindness when a boy ; and what- ever he may say or do, *' pour on, I will endure." I have nothing furthel to add, save a general note of thanksgiving to readers, purehasera, and publisher ; and in the words of Scott, I wish " To all and each a fair good night, And roc}' dre»uis *r>d slumbers light." ^ **• TO FLORENCE. "5 LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM AT MALTA. As o'er the oold sepulchral stone Some name arrests the passer by ; Thus,* when thou view'st this page alone, May mine attract thy pensive eye ! And when by thee that name is rep.d, Perchance in some succeeding year, Reflect on me as on the dead, And think my heart is buried here. September 14, 1800 TO FLORENCE. OH Lady ! when I left the shore, The distant shore which gave me birth* I hardly thought to grieve once more, To quit another spot on earth : Yet here, amidst this barren isle, Where panting Nature droops the head, Where only thou art seen to smile, I view my parting hour with dread. Though far from Albin's craggy shore, Divided by the dark blue main, A few, brief, rolling seasons o'er, Perchance I view her cliffs again : But wheresoe'er I now may roam, Thiough scorching clime and varied sea, Though Time restore me to my home, I ne'er shall bend mine eyes on thee : On thee, in whom at once conspire All charms, which heedless hearts can move. Whom but to see is to admire, And, oh 1 forgive the word — to love. Forgive the word, in one who ne'er With such a word can more offend ; And since thy heart I cannot share, Believe me, what I am, thy friencL And who so cold as look on thee, Thou lovely wand'rer, and be less ? Nor be, what man should ever be, The friend of beauty in distress ? Ah ! "who would think that form had pass'd Through Danger's most destructive path, Had braved the death-wing'd tempest's blast- And 'scaped a tyrant's fiercer wrath \ I 2 4- 4- 1 1 6 BORON'S POEMS. Lady ! when I shall view the wallc Where free Byzantium once arose, And Stamboul's Oriental halls The Turkish tyrants new inclose ; Though mightiest in the lists of fame, That glorious city still shall be ; On me 'twill hold a dearer claim, As spot of thy nativity : And though I bid thee now farewell, When I behold that wondrous scene, Since where thou art I may not dwell, 'Twill soothe to be where tbou hast been. SepUinbei, 190% STANZAS 0OKPO3ED DURING A THUNDER-STORM, AND WniLE BEWILDERED NEAR MOUNT PINDUS, IN ALBANIA. Chill and mirk is the nightly blast, Where Pindus' mountains rise, And angry clouds are pouring fast The vengeance of the skies. Our guides are gone, our hope is lost, And lightnings, as they play, But show where rocks our path have eroee'd Or gild the torrent's spray. Is yon a cot I saw, though low ? When lightning broke the gloom — How welcome were its shade ! — ah, no ! Tis but a Turkish tomb. Through sounds of foaming waterfalls, I hear a voice exclaim — My way-worn countryman, who calls On distant England's name. A shot is fired — by foe or friend T Another — 'tis to tell The mountain-peasants to descend, And lead us where they dwell. Oh ! who in such a night will dare To tempt the wilderness ? And who mid thunder-peals can hear • Our signal of distress ? And who that heard our shouts would rlee To try the dubious road ? Nor rather deem from nightly ones That outlaws were abroad. *©*■ f Q ■&♦ STANZAS. H7 Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour ! More fiercely pours the storm ! Yet here one though* has still the power To keep my bosom jrarm. While wand'ring through eaoh broken path* O'er brake and craggy brow ; While elements exhaust their wrath, Sweet Florence, where art thou I Not on the sea, not on the sea, Thy bark hath long been gone : Oh, may the storm that pours on me, Bow down my head alone ! Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc, When last I press'd thy lip ; And long ere now, with foaming shock, Impell'd thy gallant ship. Now thou art safe ; nay, long ere now Hast trod the shore of Spain ; 'Twere hard if aught so fair as thou Should linger on the main. And since I now remember thee In darkness and in dread, As in those hours of revelry Which mirth and music sped ; Do thou, amid the fair white walls, If Cadiz yet be free, At times, from out her latticed halls, Look o'er the dark blue sea ; Then think upon Calypso's isles, Endear' d by days gone by ; To others give a thousand smiles, To me a single sigh. And when the admiring circle mark The paleness of thy face, A halt-form'd tear, a transient spark Of melancholy grace, Again thou'lt smile, and blushing shun Some coxcomb's raillery ; Nor own for once thou thought's^ on OE&. Who ever thinks on thee. Tnough smile and sigh alike are vain, When sever'd hearts repine, My spirit flies o'er mount and main, And mourns in search of thine. 4* »H- 4 118 BYRON'S POEMS. STANZAS WRITTEN ON PASSING THB AMBRACIAN GULP.* Through cloudless skies, in silvery sheen. Full beams the moon on Actium's coast ; And on these waves, for Egypt's queen, The ancient world was won and lost. And now upon the scene I look, The azure grave of many a Roman , Where stern ambition once forsook His wavering crown to follow woman. Florence ! whom I will love as well As ever yet was said or sung, (Since Orpheus sang his spouse from hell), Whilst thou art fair and I am young ; Sweet Florence ! those were pleasant times, When worlds were staked for ladies' eyes : Had bards as many realms as rhymes, Thy charms might raise new Antonies. Though Fate forbids such things to be, Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curl'd ! I cannot lose a world for thee, But would not lose thee for a world. N*v.mber 14. 190A. THE SPELL IS BROKE, THE CHARM IS FLOWN I WRITTEN AT ATHENS, JANUARY 16, 1810. The spell is broke, the charm is flown ! Thus is it with life's fitful fever : We madly smile when we should groan ; Delirium is our best deceiver. Each lucid interval of thought Recalls the woes of Nature's charter. And he that acts as wise men ought, But lives, as saints have died, a martyr. • The lady referred to In this and the two following pieces — the wife of icr. Spcnoec Smith, and daughter of Baron Herbert, Austrian ambassador at Constantinople, where »he was born — was a very remarkable person, and experienced a variety of striking adventure*. She was unhappy in her marriage, yet of unblemished reputation ; had engaged In some plots against Bonaparte, which excited his vengeance; was m»>i< prisoner, but subsequently escaped ; afterwards suffered shipwreck — and all before she was twenty-five years of age. The poet met her at U.tlta, on her way to England to join Uer husband ; and these poems. Mid a reference to hex In " Childe Harold, " trt- meinc* rial* of their brief ocqusisloaoe. "I -&♦ MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART. 119 LINES WRITTEN IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK AT ORCHOMENUS. IN THIS BOOK A TRAVELLER HAD WRITTEN : — " Faik Albion, smiling, sees her son depart. To trace the birth and nursery of art : Noble his object, glorious is his aim ; He comes to Athena, and h« writes his name 1" BENEATH WHICH LORD BYRON INSERTED THE FOLLOWING :— The modest bard, like many a bard unknown, Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own ; But yet, whoe'er he be, to say no worse, His name would bring more credit than his versa. MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART. Z, odg aya7Tuu. By that lip I long to taste ; By that zone-encircled waist ; By all the token-flowers that tell + What words can never speak so well ; By love's alternate joy and woe, Zwif fiov y 120 BYRON'S POEMS. Though I fly to Istambol,* Athens holds my heart and soul : Can I cease to love thee ? No ! TjWT) noil, adg ayairio. A'heti 1816. WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOSTO ABYDOS.-j If, in the month of dark December, Leander, who was nightly wont (What maid will not the tale remember ?) To cross thy stream, broad Hellespout ! If, when the wintry tempest roar'd, He sped to Hero, nothing loath, And thus of old thy current pour'd, Fair Venus ! how I pity both ! For me, degenerate modern wretch, Though in the genial month of May, My dripping limbs I faintly stretch, And think I've done a feat to-day. But since he cross'd the rapid tide, According to the doubtful story, To woo — and — Lord knows what beside, And swam for Love, as I for Glory ; 'Twere hard to say who fared the best : Sad mortals ! thus the gods still plague you ! He lost his labour, I my jest ; For he was drown' d, and I've the ague. Iua> 9, IOA LINES WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE. Dear object of defeated care ! Though now of love and thee bereft, To reconcile me with despair, Thine image and my tears are left. • Constantinople. f On the 3rd of May, 1810, while the " Salsette " (Captain Bathurst) was lying In tb« Dardanelles, Lieutenant Ekenhead of that frigate and the writer of these rh. vines swam from the European shore to the Asiatic — by tie bye, from Abydos to Sestos would hare been more correct. The whole distance from the place whence we started to cur landing on the other side, including the length we were carried by the current, was computed by those on board the frigate at upwards of four English miles ; though the actual breadth is barely one. The rapidity of the current is such that no boat can row directly across, and it may, in some measure, be estimated from the circumstance of the whole dist-anos being accomplished by one of the parties in an hour and five, and by the other in an hour and ten minutes. The water was extremely cold, from the melting of the mountain snows. About three weeks before, tn April, we had made an attempt ; but having ridden all the way from the Troad the same morning, and the water being of an icy chiUnest, xve found it necessary to postpone the completion till the frigate anchored below the cststles, when we swam the straits, as just stated ; entering a considerable way above tee European, and landing below the Asiatic, fort. Chevalier says that a young Jew swam the same distance for his mistress ; and Oliver mentions its having been done by a Neapolitan ; but our consul, Tarragona, remembered neither of these circumstances, and tried to dissuade us from the attempt. A number of the " Salsette's " crew wt-re known to have accomplished a greater distance ; and the only thing that surprised me was, that, ti doubts had been entertained of the truth of Leander's story, no travallsr had «v€C ■ndcfevouxed to ascertain it* practicability. ■b 4- <*> TRANSLATION Of GREEK WAR SO AC !2I 'Tis said with Sorrow Time can cope ; But this, I feel can ne'er be true ; For by the death-blow of my Hope My Memory immortal grew. TRANSLATION OF TIIE FAMOUS GREEK WAR SQNGL " Atvre naidet rwv 'EXX^oov.'** Sons of the Greeks, arise ! The glorious hour 's gone forth, And, worthy of such ties, Display who gave us birth. CHORUS. Sons of Greeks ! let us gpo In arms against the foe, Till the hated blood shall flow In a river past our feet. Then manfully despising The Turkish tyrant's yoke, Let your country see you rising, And all her chains are broke. Brave shades of chiefs and sages, Behold the coming strife ! Hellenes of past ages, Oh, start again to life ! At the sound of my trumpet, breaking Your sleep, oh, join with me ! And the seven-huTd city seeking,*!* Fight, conquer, till we're free. Sons of Greeks, &o. Sparta, Sparta, why in slumbers Lethargie dost thou lie ? Awake, and join thy numbers With Athens, old ally 1 Leonidas recalling, That chief of ancient song. Who saved ye oiice from falling, The terrible ! the strong ! Who made that bold diversion In old Thermopylae, And warring with the Persian To keep his country free ; With his three hundred waging The battle, long he stood, And like a non raging, Expired in seas of blood. Sons of Greeks, &c The song wa» written by Riga, who perished in the attempt to revolutionize Greece. This translation Is as literal as the author could make it in Terse. It is o£ the same measure as that of the original, ♦ Constantinople * *r 1 22 B YRON 'S POEMS. TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC SOJG, " M7ren») fiet 'to - ' rr*pi/96*»* 'flpaioTaTri Xar)<5- - />" &C* I ENTER thy garden of rosea, Beloved and fair Haidee, Each morning where Flora reposes, For surely I see her in thee. Oh, Lovely ! thus low I implore thee, Receive this fond truth from my tongue, Which utters its song to adore thee, Yet trembles for what it has sung ; As the branch at the bidding of Nature, Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree, IThrough her eyes., through her every feature^ Shines the soul of the young Haidee. But the loveliest garden grows hateful When love has abandon'd the bowers ; Bring me hemlock — since mine is ungrateful, That herb is more fragrant than flowers. The poison, when pour'd from the chalice, Will deeply embitter the bowl ; But when drunk to escape from thy malico, The draught shall be sweet to my soul. Too cruel ! in vain I implore thee My heart from these horrors to save : Will nought to my bosom restore thee? Then open the gates of the grave. As the chief who to combat advances Secure of his conquest before, Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances, Hast piereed through my heart to its cure. Ah, tell me, my soul ! must I perish By pangs which a smile would dispel ? Would the hope, which thou once bud'st me cheriil: For torture repay me too well ? Now sad is the garden of roses, Beloved but false Haidee ! There Flora all wither'd reposes, And mourns o'er thine absence with me. The song from which this is taken is a great favourite with the young girls of Athcv of allclaose*. Their manner of singing it is l>y verses in rotation, the whule *w«fc«' present joining Lu th« ciiorua. The cor is plaintive tnd pretty. ♦f~ -•*> ♦ THE CURSE OF MINERVA." 'Pallas te hoc vulnere, Pallas Immolat, et pumuin scelerato ex sanguine suinlt."— ^■vVA tfU ffc Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, Along Morea's hills the setting sun ; Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, But one unclouded blaze of living light ; O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he thrown Gilds the green wave that trembles as it glows , On old ^Egina's rock and Hydra's isle The god of gladness sheds his parting smile ; O'er his own regions lingering loves to shine, Though there his altars are no more divine. Descending fast, the mountain-shadows kiss Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis ! Their azure arches through the long expanse, More deeply purpled, meet his mellowing glance, And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heavea ; Till darkly shaded from the land and deep, Behind his Delphian rock he sinks to sleep. On such an eve his palest beam he cast When, Athens ! here thy wisest look'd his last. How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray, That closed their murder'd sage's + latest day; Not yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill, The precious hour of parting lingers still ; But sad his light to agonizing eyes, And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes ; Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour The land where Phoebus never frown'd before 4 But ere he sunk below Cithaeron's head, The cup of woe was quaff 'd — the spirit fled ; The soul of him that scorn'd to fear or fly, Who lived and died as none can live or die, But, lo ! from high Hymettus to the plain The queen of night asserts her silent reign ; J No murky vapour, herald of the storm, Hides her fair face, or girds her glowing k>rm» • This severe animadversion upon Lord Elgin for bringing to England the treasures id 3>e Parthenon was suppressed by Lord Byron, but the opening lines are in the " Corsair." t Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sunset (the hour of execution)., ua6 withstanding the entreaties of his disciples to waittill the sun went down. — B. { The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our own country ; the days i» wit*** ut longer, but in summer of leas duration, — S. 124 BYRON'S POEMS. With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play, There the white column greets her grateful ray, And bright around, with quivering beams beset, Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret : The groves of olive scatter'd dark and wide, Where meek Cephisus sheds his scanty tide, The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque, The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk,* And sad and sombre 'mid the holy calm, Near Theseus' fane, yon solitary palm ; All, tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye ; And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by. Again the ^Egean, heard no more afar, Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war ; Again his waves in milder tints unfold Their long expanse of sapphire and of gold, Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle, That frown, where gentler ocean deigns to smile. As thus, within the walls of Pallas' fane,+ I mark'd the beauties of the land and main, Alone, and friendless, on the magic shore, Whose arts and arms but live in poets' lore ; Oft as the matchless dome I turn'd to scan, Sacred to gods, but not secure from man, The past return'd, the present seem'd to cease, And glory knew no clime beyond her Greece ! Hours rolled along, and Dian's orb on high Had gain'd the centre of her softest sky; And yet unwearied still my footsteps trod O'er the vain shrine of many a vanish'd god : But chiefly, Pallas ! thine ; when Hecate's glare, Check'd by thy columns, fell more sadly fair O'er the chill marble, where the startling tread Thrills the lone heart like echoes from the dead. Long had I mused, and treasured every trace The wreck of Greece recorded of her race, When, lo ! a giant form before me strode, And Pallas hail'd me in her own abode ! Yes, 'twas Minerva's self ; but, ah ! how changed Since o'er the Dardan field in arms she ranged ; Not such as erst, by her divine command, Her form appear'd from Phidias' plastic hand : Gone were the terrors of her awful brow, Her idle aegis borj) no Gorgon now ; Her nelm was dinted, and the broken lance Seem'd weak and shaftless e'en to mortal glance ; The olive branch, which still she deign'd to clasp, Shrunk from her touon, and withered in her grasp ; • The kiosk is a Turkish summer-house ; the palm is without the present wal'i* eg Athens, not far from the temple of Theseus, between which and the tree the wall Intel* teiies. Cephisus' stream is indeed scanty, and IU&iub has no stream at all. — B. t The Parthenon, or Temple of Minerva. ♦€>- £ H-f-H* THE CURSE OF MINERVA. 125 And, ah ! though still the brightest of the sky, Celestial tears bedimm'd her large blue eye ; Round the rent casque her owlet circled slow, And mourn'd his mistress with a shriek of woe ! "Mortal !"- 'twas thus she spake — "that 61' «h of ihaine Proclaims thee Briton, once a noble name ; First of the mighty, foremost of the free, Now honour'd less by all, and least by me : Chief of thy foes shall Pallas still be found. Seek'st thou the cause of loathing ? — look around. Lo ! here, despite of war and wasting fire, I saw successive tyrannies expire. 'Scaped from the ravage of the Turk and Goth, Thy country sends a spoiler worse than both. Survey this vacant, violated fane ; Recount the relic?, torn that yet remain : These Cecrops placed, this Pericles adorn'd,* That Adrian rear'd when drooping Science mourn'd. What more I owe let gratitude attest — Know Alaric and Elgin did the rest. That all may learn from whence the plunderer came, The insulted wall sustains his hated name ; For Elgin's fame thus grateful Pallas pleads, Below, his name — above, behold his deeds ! Be ever hail'd with equal honour here The Gothic monarch and the Pictish peer : Arms gave the first his right, the last had none, But basely stole what less barbarians won. So when the lion quits his fell repast, Next prowls the wolf, the filthy jackal last : — Flesh, limbs, and blood the former make their own, The last poor brute securely gnaws the bone. Yet still the gods are just, and crimes are cross'd : See here what Elgin won, and what he lost ! Another name with his pollutes my shrine : Behold where Dian's beams disdain to shine ! Some retribution still might Pallas claim, When Venus half avenged Minerva's shame,"1° She ceased awhile, and thus I dared reply, To soothe the vengeance kindling in her eye : " Daughter of Jove 1 in Britain's injured name, A true-born Briton may the deed disclaim. Frown not on England ; England owns him not ; Athena, no ! thy plunderer was a Scot. Ask'st thou the difference ? From fair Phyle's towera Survey Boeotia ; — Caledonia 's ours. • Wtii& \b spoken of the city ia general, and not of the Acropolis in particular. Th% temple of Jupiter Olympius, by some supposed the Parthenon, was finished by Hadrian ; sixteen columns are standing, of the most beautiful marble architecture. — B. t His lordship's name, and that of one who no longer bears it, are carved conspicuously •n the Parthenon ; above, in a part not far distant, are the torn Ftmmuits of the ' rabevoa, destroyed in % v»^b attempt to remove them.— S. *<>< 126 BY EON'S POEMS, And well I know within that bastard 1 iiui* Hath Wisdom's goddess never held comniaud > A barren soil, where Nature's germs, confined To stern sterility, can stint the mind ; Whose thistle well betrays the niggard earth, Emblem of all to whom the land gives birth ■ Each genial influence nurtured to resist ; A land of meanness, sophistry, and mist. Each breeze from foggy mount and marshy plrrn Dilutes with drivel every drizzly brain. Till, burst at length, each watery head o'erflow.*, Foul as their soil, and frigid as their snows. Then thousand schemes of petulance and prido Despatch her scheming children far and wide : Some east, some west ; some everywhere but Dorthf In quest of lawless gain, they issue forth. And thus — accursed be the day and year ! — She sent a Pict to play the felon here. Yet Caledonia claims some native worth, As dull Boeotia gave a Pindar birth ; So may her few, the letter'd and the brave, Bound to no clime, and victors of the gr;i\e, Shake off the sordid dust of such a land, And shine like children of a happier strand ; As once of yore in some obnoxious place, Ten names (if found) had saved a wretched race." " Mortal ! " the blue-eyed maid resumed, " onoe more Bear back my mandate to thy native shore. Though fallen, alas ! this vengeance yet is mine, To turn my counsels far from lands like thine. Hear then in silence Pallas' stern behest ; Hear and believe, for Time will tell the rest. " First on th6 head of him who did this dee I e Qfiked If it was not " a stone shop 1" — He was right : it is a shop. — B. t He who gained immortality by setting fire to the temple of Diana at Ephestu. ^ ^ *$* ; ^ 128 BYRON'S POEMS, So may ye perish ! — Pallas, when she gave Your free-born rights, forbade ye to enslave.* " Look on your Spain ! — she clasps the hand she hates. But boldly clasps, and thrusts you from her gates. Bear witness, bright Barossa ! thou canst tell Whose were the sons that bravely fought and fell. But Lusitania, kind and dear ally, Can spare a few to fight, and sometimes fly. Oh, glorious field ! by Famine fiercely won, The Gaul retires for once, and all is done ! But when did Pallas teach, that one retreat Retrieved three long Olympiads of defeat ? " Look last at home — ye love not to look there ; On the grim smile of comfortless despair : Your city saddens : loud though Revel howls, Here Famine faints, and yonder Rapine prowle. See all alike, of more or less bereft ; No misers tremble when there's nothing left. 1 Blest paper credit, + who shall dare to sing? It clogs like lead Corruption's weary wing. Yet Pallas pluck'd each premier by the ear, Who gods and men alike disdain'd to hear ; But one, repentant o'er a bankrupt state, On Pallas calls, — but calls, alas ! too late: Then raves for * * ; to that Mentor bends, Though he and Pallas never yet were friends. Him senates hear, whom never yet they heard, Contemptuous once, and now no less absurd. So, once of yore, each reasonable frog Swore faith and fealty to his sovereign ' \o%.' Thus hail'd your rulers their patrician clod, As Egypt chose an onion for a god. '* Now fare ye well ! enjoy your little hour ; Go, grasp the shadow of your vanish'd power ; Gloss o'er the failure of each fondest scheme ; Vour strength a name, your bloated wealth a dream Bone is that gold the marvel of mankind, A.nd pirate's barter all that's left behind. X No more the hirelings, purchased near and far, Crowd to the ranks of mercenary war ; The idle merchant on the useless quay Droops o'er the bales no bark may bear away ; Or, back returning, sees rejected stores Rot piecemeal on his own encumber'd shores : The starved mechanic breaks his rusting loom, And desperate mans him 'gainst the coming doom. Then in the senate of your sinking state Show me the man whose counsels may have weight. Vain is each voice where tones could once command 1 E'en factions cease to charm a factious land : • l«ftt« events might prove his lordship a prophet as well as a poet f " Blest paper credit ! last and best supply. That lends Corruption lighter wings tc fly !" — I*oml— H. I 7V» D«ttl and Dover traffickers in ip»ci*.— b. 4* *&♦ ON PARTING. 129 Yet jarring sect* convulse a sister isle, And light with maddening hands the mutual pile. " 'Tis done, 'tis past, since Pallas warns in vain ; The Furies seize her abdicated reign ; Wide o'er the realm they wave their kindling brands^ And wring her vitals with their fiery hands. But one convulsive struggle still remains, And Gaul shall weep ere Albion wear her chains. The banner'd pomp of war, the glittering files, O'er whose gay trappings stern Bellona smiles ; The brazen trump, the spirit-stirring drum, That bid the foe defiance ere they come ; The hero bounding at his country's call, The glorious death that cousecrates his fall. Swell the young heart with visionary charms, And bid it antedate the joys of arms. But know, a lesson you may yet be taught, With death alone are laurels cheaply bought : Not in the conflict Havoc seeks delight, His day of mercy is the day of fight. But when the field is fought, the battle won, Though drench'd with gore, his woes are but beguii : His deeper deeds as yet ye know by name ; The slaughter'd peasant and the ravish'd dame, The rifled mansion and the foe-reap'd field, 111 suit with souls at home, untaught to yield. Say with what eye along the distant down Would flying burghers mark the blazing town ? How view the column of ascending flames Shake his red shadow o'er the startled Thames? Nay, frown not, Albion ! for the torch was thine That lit such pyres from Tagus to the Rhine : Now should they burst on thy devoted coast, Go, ask thy bosom who deserves them most. The law of heaven and earth is life for life, And she who raised, in vain regrets, the strife." ON PARTING. The kiss, dear maid ! thy lip has left Shall never part from mine, Till happier hours restore the gift Untainted back to thine. Thy parting glance, which fondly beams, An equal love may see : The tear that from thine eyelid streams Can weep no change in me. I ask no pledge to make me blest In gazing when alone ; Nor one memorial for a breast Whose thoughts are all thine owe K ♦4> -*■£> I3 o BYRON'S POEMS. Nor need I write — to tell the tale My pen were doubly weak : Oh ! what can idle words avail, Unless the heart could speak 1 By day or night, in weal or woe, That heart, no longer free, Must bear the love it cannot show, And silent, ache for thee. |otms to C&grjs. TO THYRZA. WITHOUT a stone to mark the spot, And say, what Truth might well have s&iii, By all, save one, perchance forgot, Ah ! wherefore art thou lowly laid ? By many a ;hore and many a sea Divided, yet beloved in vain ! The past, the future fled to thee, To bid us meet — no — ne'er again ! Could this have been — a word, a look, That softly said, " We part in peace," Had taught my bosom how to brook, "With fainter sighs, thy boul's release. And didst thou not, since Death for thea Prepared a light and pangless dart, Once long for him thou ne'er shalt see, Who held, and holds thee in his heart ? Oh ! who like him had watch'd thee hero? Or sadly mark'd thy glazing eye, In that dread hour ere death appear, When silent sorrow fears to sigh. Till all was past ! But when no more 'Twas thine to reck of human woe, Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er, Had flow'd as fast — as now they flow. Shall they not flow, when many a day In these, to me, deserted towers, Ere call'd but for a time away, Affection's mingling tears were ours ? ♦<|> ■ : ^ <>* AWAY, AWAY, YE NOTES OF WOE. 131 Ours too the glance none saw beside ; The smile none else might understand ; The whisper'd thought of hearts allied, The pressure ot the thrilling hand ; The kiss, so guiltless and refined, That Love each warmer wish forbore ; Those eyes proclaim'd so pare a mind, Even passion blush' d to plead for more. The tone, that taught me to rejoice, When prone, unlike thee, to repine ; The song, celestial from thy voice, But sweet to me from none but thine ; The pledge we wore — I wear it still, But where is thine ? — Ah ! where art thou \ Oft have I borne the weight of ill, But never bent beneath till now ! Well hast thou left in life's best bloom The cup of woe for me to drain. If rest alone be in the tomb, I would not wish thee here again ; But if in worlds more blest than this Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere, Impart some portion of thy bliss, To wean me from mine anguish here. Teach me — too early taught by thee ! To bear, forgiving and forgiven : On earth thy love was such to me, It fain would form my hope in heaven ! October 11, 1811. AWAY, AWAY, YE NOTES OF WOE. Away, away, ye notes of woe ! Be silent, thou once soothing strain, Or I must flee from hence — for, oh ! I dare not trust those sounds again. To me they speak of brighter days — But lull the chords ; for now, alas I I must not think, I may not gaze, On what I am— on what I was. The voice that made those sounds more gweefc Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled \ And now their softest notes repeat A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead ! Yes, Thyrza ! yes, they breathe of thee. Beloved dust ! since dust thou art ; And all that once was harmony Is worse than discord to my heart, K 2 ^y — — -+ih &«. *< 132 B \ RON 'S POEMS. Tis silent all ! — but on my ear The well-remember' d echoes thrill, I hear a voice I would not hear, A voice that now might well be stilL Tet oft my doubting soul 'twill shake ; Even si umber osvns its gentle tone. Till consciousness will vainly wake To listen, though the dream be flown. uweet Thyrza ! waking as in sleep, Thou art but now a lovely dream ; A star that trembled o'er the deep, Then turn'd from earth its tender beam. But he who through life's dreary way Must pass when heaven is veil'd in wrath, Will long lament the vanish'd ray That scatter' d gladness o'er his path. D*coniber 6, IflU. ONE STRUGGLE MORE, AND I AM FREE. One struggle more, and I am free From pangs that rend my heart in twain ; One last long sigh to love and thee, Then back to busy life again. It suits me well to mingle now With things that never pleased before : Though every joy is fled below, What future grief can touch me more ? Then bring me wine, the banquet bring! Man was not form'd to live alone ; T'll be that light, unmeaning thing, That smiles with all, and weeps with nca«. It was not thus in days more dear, It never wou»d have been, but thou Hast fled, and left me lonely here ; Thou'rt nothing — all are nothing now. In vain my lyre would lightly breathe ! The smile that sorrow fain would weer But mocks the woe that lurks beneath, Like roses o'er a sepulchre. Though gay companious o'er the bowl Dispel awhile the sense of ill , Though pleasure fires the maddening sou^ The heart — the heart is lonely still 1 On many a lone and lovely night It soothed to gaze upon the sky ; ?or then I deem'd the heavenly light Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye : And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon, When sailing o'er the iEgean wav&t a Now Thyrza gazes on that moon" — Alas, it gleam* d upon her grave i < ■ -K;; 4 EUTHANASIA. 133 When stretch' d on fever's sleepless bed, And sickness shrunk my th robbing veine, "'Tis comfort still," I faintly said, " Tkat Thyrza cannot know my pains t " Like freedom to the time-worn slavo, A boon 'tis idle then to give, Relenting Nature vainly gave My life, when Thyrza ceased to live! My Thyrza' s pledge in better days, When love and life alike were new ! How different now thou meet'st my gaz< I How tinged by time with sorrow's nue I The heart that gave itself with thee Is silent — ah, were mine as still ! Though cold as e'en the dead can be, It feels, it sickens with the chill. Thou bitter pledge ! thou mournful token ! Though painful, welcome to my breast ! Still, still, preserve that love unbroken, Or break the heart to which thou'rt press* ♦<>« 4> 134 BYRON'S POEMS. But vain the wish — for Beauty still Will shrink, as shrinks thj ebbing breath ; And woman's tears, produced at will, Deceive in life, unman in death. Then lonely be my latest ho\ir, Without regTet, without a groan ; For thousands Death hath ceased to lower. And pain been transient or unknown. "Ay, but to die, and go," alas ! Where all have gone, and all must go ! To be the nothing that I was Ere born to life and li ring woe. Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen, Count o'er thy days from anguish free, And know, whatever thou hast been, 'Tis something better not to be. AND THOU ART DEAD, AS YOUNG AS FAT'.! " Hen, quanto minus est cum rellqute veraari quam tui memloUa* I* And thou art dead, as young and fair, As aught of mortal birth ; And form so soft, and charms so rare, Too soon return'd to Earth ! Though Earth received them in her bed, And o'er the spot tV>e crowd miy tread In carelessness or mirth, There is an eye which could Dot brook A moment on that grave to look. 1 will not ask where thou liest low, Nor gaze upon the spot ; There flowers or weeds at w^ll may grow, So I behold them not : It is enough for me to prove That what I loved, and long must love, Like common earth can rot ; To me there needs no stone to tell, 'Tis Nothing that I loved so well. Yet did I love thee to the last As fervently as thou, Who didst not change through all the past, And canst not alter now. The love where Death has set his seal, Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, Nor falsehood disavow : And, what were worse, thou canst not seo Or wrong, or change, or fault in me. +£h -€>♦ i.T, OCTOBER 10, 1812. In one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd, Bow'd to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride ; In one short hour beheld the blazing fane, Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign. Ye who beheld (oh ! sight admired and moura'd. Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn'd !) Through clouds of fire the massive fragments riven, Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from heaven , Saw the long column of revolving flames Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames, While thousands, throng'd around the burning dome, Shrank back appall'd, and trembled for their home, As glared the volumn'd blaze, and ghastly shone The skies, with lightnings awful as their own, Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall Usurp'd the Muse's realm, and mark'd her fall ; Say — shall this new, nor less aspiring pile, Rear'd where once rose the mightiest in our isle, * Know the same favour which the former knew, A shrine for Shakspeare — worthy him and you ' Yes — it shall be — the magic of that name Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame \ On the same spot still consecrates the scene, And bids the Drama be where she hath been. : This fabric's birth attests the potent spell — Indulge our honest pride, and say, How veil I As soars this fane to emulate the last, ^>h ! might we draw our omens frcm the pa^t, -& < <> ADDRESS. 139 Some bour propitious to our prayei s may boast Names such as hallow still the dome we lost. On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art O'erwhelm'd the gentlest, storm'd the sternest heart- On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew ; Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew, Sigh'd his last thanks, and wept his last adieu ; But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom, That only waste their odours o'er the tomb. Such Drury claim'd and claims — nor you refuse One tribute to revive his slumbering muse ; With garlands deck your own Menander's head 1 * Nor board your honours idly for the dead ! Dear are the days which made our annals bright, Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write. Heirs to their labours, like all high-born heirs, Vain of our ancestry as they of theirs ; While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo's glaas To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass, And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine Immortal names, emblazon'd on our line, Pause — ere their feebler offspring you condemn, Reflect how hard the task to rival them ! Friends of the stage ! to whom both Players and Plays Must sue alike for pardon or for praise, Whose judging voice and eye alone direct The boundless power to cherish or reject ; If e'er frivolity has led to fame, And made us blush that you forbore to blame ; If e'er the sinking stage could condescend To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend A 11 past reproach may present scenes refute, And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute ! Oh ! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws, Forbear to mock us witn mispiaced applause ; So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers, And reason's voice be echo'd back by ours ! This greeting u er, the ancient rule obey'd, The Drama's homage by ner neraid paid, Receive our welcome too, whose every tone Springs from our hearts, and lain would win your oufiL. The curtain rises — may our stage unfold Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old ! Britons our judges, Nature for our guide, Still may wc please — long, long may ytu preside J • StioiiAan. *©"*■ r4o BYRON'S POEMS, VERSES FOUND IN A SUMMER-FJUSE AT HALES-OWEN. When Dryden's fool,* "unknowing what he sought," His hours in whistling spent, " for want of thought," This guiltless oaf his vacancy of sense Supplied, and amply too, by innocence. Did modern swains, possess'd of Cymon's powera, In Cymon's manner waste their leisure hours, The offended guests would not, with blushing, set? These fair green walks disgraced by infamy. Severe the fate of modern fools, alas ! When vice and folly mark them as tbey pasg, Like noxious reptiles o'er the whiten'd wall, The filth they leave still points out where the} crawl. f • " Cytiion, a clown, wto ne'er had dreamt of love." — Drydkn's Modernization of Chaucer. t At Halet-Owen the peet Staenstone was burled, and " The Leasowes" was iininediafcCy contiguous to It. It was probably some desecration of the post's tomb, or of his work* B) toils, that guve birth to these lines. fcffla — ►« THE WALTZ : AN APOSTBOPHIC HYMN. " Quails In EuroUe ripis, nut per juga Cyntbl, Exercct Diana chorot." Vmon. " Such on Eurota'n banks, or Cynthia's height, Diana seems : and so she charms the sight, When in the dance the graceful goddess leads lite quire of nymphs, and overtops their heads."— Dnroaar'a Fit-fit, TO THE PUBLISHER. Sin,— I am a country gentleman of a midland county. I might have toe^n a parliament-man for a certain borough, having had the offer of aft many votes as General T. at the general election in 1812.* But I was all for domestic happiness ; as, fifteen years ago, en a visit to London, I married a middle-aged maid of honour. We lived happily at Hornem Hall toll last season, when my wife and I were invited by the Countess of Waltzaway (a distant relation of my spouse) to pass the winter in town. Thinking no harm, and our girls being come to a marriageable (or, as they call it, marketable) age, and having besides a Chancery suit Inveterately entailed upon the family estate, we came up in our old chariot, of which, by the bye, my wife grew so much ashamed in less than a week, that I was obliged to buy a second-hand barouche, of which I might mount the box, Mrs. H. says, if I could drive, but never see the inside — that place being reserved for the Honourable Augustus Tiptoe, her partner- general and opera-knight. Hearing great praises of Mrs. H.'s dancing (she was famous for birthnight minuets in the latter end of the last century), I unbooted, and went to a ball at the Countess's, expecting to see a country dance, or, at most, cotillons, reels, and all the old paces to the newest tunes. But judge ©f my surprise, on arriving, to see poor dear Mrs. Hornem with her arms half round the loins of a huge hussar-looking gentleman I never set eyes on before; and his, to say truth, rather more than half round her waist, turning round, and round, and round, to a d d see-saw up-and-down sort of tune, that reminded me of the "Black joke," only more "affettuoso," till it made me quite giddy with wondering they were not so. By-and-by they stopped a bit, and 1 thought they would sit or fall down . — but no j with Mrs. H.'s hand on his shoulder, "quam familiariter" t (as Terence said when I was at school), they walked about a minute, and then at it again, like two cockchafers npitted upon the same bodkin. I asked what all this meant, when, with a loud laugh, a child no older than our Wilhelmina (a name I never heard but in the Vicar of Wakefield, though her mother would call her after the Princess of Swappenbach) said, " Lord, Mr. Hornem, can't you see they are valtzing ! " or waltzing ( I forget which ) ; and then up she got, and her mother and sister, and away they went, and round-abouted it till supper, time. Now, that I know what it is, I like it of all things, and so doss • State of the poU (last day), 5. t My Latin is all forgotten, if a man can be said to have forgotten what he never feaaembered ; but I bought my title-page motto of a Catholic priest for a three-shilling '9»nk token, after much haggling for the even sixpence. I grudged the money to a papist, feeing all for the memory of Perceval and " No popery," and quite regretting th« do-wnfaU Of the pope, because ve can't bur» him any n\ jtq. <> " •ty I42 BYRON'S POEMS. Mrs. II. (though I have broken my shins, and four times overturned Mrs. Homem's maid, in practising the preliminary steps in a morning). Indeed so much do I like it, that having a turn for rhyme, tastily displayed in some election ballads, and songs in honour of all the victories (but till lately I have had little practice in that way), I sat down, and, with the aid of William Fitzgerald, Esq., and a few hints from Dr. Busby (whose recitations 1 attend, and am monstrous fond of Master Busby's mauner of delivering his father's late successful "Drury Lane Address "), I composed the following hymn, wherewithal to make my sentiments known to the public i whom nevertheless, I heartily despise, as well as the critic* I am, Sir, yours, &c. &c. HORACE HORNE&J THE WALTZ. Muse of the many-twinkling feet ! whose charms* Are now extended up from legs to arms ; Terpsichore ! — too long misdeem'd a maid — Reproachful term — bestow'd but to upbraid — Henceforth in all the bronze of brightness shine, The least a vestal of the virgin Nine. Far be from thee and thine the name of prude ; Mock'd, yet triumphant ; sneer'd at, unsubdued ; Thy legs must move to conquer as they fly, If but thy coats are reasonably high ; Thy breast — if bare enough — requires no shield ; Dance forth, — sans armour thou shalt take the field, And own — impregnable to most assaults, Thy not too lawfully begotten " Waltz." Hail, nimble nymph ! to whom the young hussar, The whisker'd votary of waltz and war, His night devotes, despite of spur and boots ; A sight unmatch'd since Orpheus and his brutes : Hail, spirit-stirring Waltz ! — beneath whose banners A modern hero fought for modish manners ; On Hounslow's heath to rival Wellesley's fame,+ Cock'd — fired — and miss'd his man — but gain'd his aim ; • ■ Glance their many-twinkling feet." — Gray. t To rival Lord Wellesley's, or his nephew's, as the reader pleases : — the one gained! pretty woman, whom he deserved, by fighting for ; and the other, has been fighting i| the Peninsula many a long day, " by Shrewsbury clock," without gaining anything lb that country but the title of " *he Great Lord f and " the Lord ;" which savours of pro- fanation, having been hitherto tpplied only to that Being to whom " Te Deums " foi carnage are the rankest blasphemy. It is to be presumed that the general will one tion annexed by the Inhabitants of the Peninsula to the name of a man who has not yet saved them— query, are they worth saving, even in this world T for, according to the mildest modifications of any Christian creed, those three words make the odds mueh tgainst them in the next. " Saviour of the world," quotha J— it were to be wished that he, or any one else, could save a corner of it— his country. Tet this stupid misnomer, although it shows the near connection between superstition and impiety, so far has its use, that it proves there can be little to dread from those Catholics (inquisitorial Catho- lics too) who can confer such an appellation on a Protestant. I suppose next year he will be entitled the " Virgin Mary f if so, Lord George Gordon himself would have nothing to object to such liberal bastards of our Lady of Babylon. -*£■)+ <> xi I44 BYRON'S POEMS. While unburnt Moscow yet had news to send,* Nor owed her fiery exit to a friend, She came — Waltz came — and with her certain sets Of true despatches, and as true gazettes : Then flamed of Austerlitz the blest despatch, Which Moniteur nor Morning Post can match ; And — almost crush'd beneath the glorious news — Ten plays — and forty tales of Kotzebue's ; One envoy's letters, six composers' airs, And loads from Frankfort and from Leipsic fairs ; Meiner's four volumes upon v omankind, Like Lapland witches to insure a wind ; Rrunck's heaviest tome for ballast, and, to back it, Of Heyne, such as should not sink the packet. Fraught with this cargo — and her fairest freight, Delightful Waltz, on tiptoe for a mate, The welcome vessel reach'd the genial strand, And round her flock' d toe daughters of the land. Not decent David, when, before the ark, His grand pas-seul excited some remark ; Not love-lorn Quixote, when his Sancho thought The knight's fandango friskier than it ought ; Not soft Herodias, when, with winning tread, Her nimble feet danced off another's head ; Not Cleopatra on her galley's deck, Display'd so much of leg, or more of neck, Than thou, ambrosial Waltz, when first the moon Beheld thee twirling to a Saxon tune ! To you, ye husbands of ten years ! whose brows Ache with the annual tributes of a spouse ; To you of nine years less, who only bear The budding sprouts of those that you shall wear, With added ornaments around them roil'd Of native brass, or law-awarded gold ; To you, ye matrons, ever on the watch To mar a son's, or make a daughter's match ; To you, ye children of — whom chance accords — A Iways the ladies, and sometimes the lords ; To you, ye single gentlemen, who seek Torments for life, or pleasures for a week ; As Love or Hymen your endeavours guide, To gain your own, or snatch another's bride ; — * The patriotic arson of our amiable allies cannot be sufficiently commended — no* subscribed for. Amongst other details omitted in the various despatches of our eloquent embassador, he did not state (being too much occupied with the exploits of Colonel C— - — , in swimming rivers frozen, and galloping over roads impassnble) that one entire province perished by famine in the most melancholy manner, as follows : — In General Rostopchin'6 consummate conflagration, the consumption of tallow and train oil was so great, that the market was inadequate to the demand ; and thus one hundred and thirty-three thousand persons were starved to death, by being reduced to wholesome diet. The lamplighters of London have since subscribed a pint (of oil) apiece, and the tallow-chandlers hav- 1 4 6 B YR OK r S POEMS. Seductive Waltz ! — though on thy native shorv Even Werter's self proclaim'd thee half a whore* Werter — to decent vice though much inclined, Yet warm, not wanton ; dazzled, but not blind — Though gentle Gen lis, in her strife with Stae'L, Would e'en proscribe thee from a Paris ball ; Thee fashion hails — from countesses to queens, And maids and valets waltz behind the scenes ; Wide and more wide thy witching circle spreads, And turns — if nothing else — at least our heads ; With thee even clumsy cits attempt to bounce, And cockneys practise what they can't pronounce. God ! how the glorious theme my strain exalts. And rhyme finds partner rhyme in praise of Waltt. 1 Blest was the time Waltz chose for her debut ; The court, the Regent, like herself were new ;* New face for friends, for foes some new rewards ; Now ornaments for black and royal guards ; New laws to hang the rogues that roar'd for bread ; New coins (most new) to follow those that tied ;t New victories — nor can we prize them less, Though Jenky+ wonders at his own success ; New wars, because the old succeed so well, That most survivors envy those who fell ; New mistresses — no, old — and yet 'tis true, Though they be old, the thing is something new ; Each new, quite new — (except some ancient trick?), § New white-sticks, gold-sticks, broom-sticks, all new Bticks 1 With vests or ribbons deck'd alike in hue, New troopers strut, new turncoats blush in blue ; So saith the muse : my , what say you ?(J Such was the time when Waltz might best maiutain Her new preferments in this novel reign ; Such was the time, nor ever yet was such ; Hoops are no more, and petticoats not much ; Morals and minuets, virtue and her stays, And tell-tale powder — all have had their days. The ball begins — the honours of the house First duly done by daughter or by spouse, • An anachronism — Waltz and the 6attle of Austerlits are before said to hare opened J* Kill together; the bard means (if he means anything), Waltx was not so much in TOgue till the Regent attained the acino of his popularity. Waltz, the comet, whiskers, and the new government, illuminated heaven and earth, in all their glory, much \tvut the same time ; of those the comet only L.v disappeared ; the other three couiiniu to (astonish us still. — Printer'! Devil. t Amongst others a new niuei>ence — a creditable coin now forthcoming, worth a pownd, in paper at the fairest calculation. | Jenkin.«on. ft " Oh that right should thus overcome might I" Who does not remember the " delicate Investigation " in the " Merry Wives of Windsor T" — *' ford. — PTay you, " 'lue near : if 1 suspect without cans*, why then make sport .t ine : then let me be your jest ; I deserve it. How now f whither bear you this ? " Mr*. Furd. — What have you to do whither they bear it? — you were best meddle with buck -washing." The ge.ii*'e, or ferocious, reader may till up the blank as he pleases — there are several dissyllabic names at his servke (being already in the Regent's) ; it would uot be fair to beck any peculiar initial against the alphabet, as every mouth will add to the list now entered for the sweepstake* : — a distinguished consonant is &aid to te the favourite, muos> gainst the wishes of the knowing one*. ■€>* ■ THE WALTZ. 147 Some potentate — or royal or serene — W»th Kent's gay grace, or sapient Gloster's mien, Leads forth the ready dame, whoso rising flush Might once have boon mistaken for a blush. From where the garb just leaves the bosom free, That spot whore hearts were once supposed to be j* Round all the confines of the yieldod waist, The stranger's hand may wander undisplaced ; The lady's in return may grasp as much As princely paunches offer to her touch. Pleased round the chalky floor how well they trip, One hand reposing on the royal hip ; The other to the shoulder no less royal Ascending with affection truly loyal ! Thus front to front the partners move or stand, The foot may rest, but none withdraw the hand ; And all in turn may follow in their rank, The Earl of — Asterisk, and Lady — Blank ; Sir — Such-a-one — with those of fashion's host, For whose blest surnames — vide " Morning Post " (Or if for that impartial print too late, Search Doctors' Commons six months from my date). Thus all and each, in movements swift or slow, The genial contact gently undergo ; Till some might marvel, with the modest Turk, If " nothing follows all this palming work ? "t True, honest Mirza ! — you may trust my rhyme — Something does follow at a fitter time ; The breast thus publicly resign'd to man In private may resist him if it can. ye who loved our grandmothers of yore, Fitzpatrick, Sheridan, and many more ! And thou, my Prince ! whose sovereign taste and will It is to love the lovely beldames still ! Thou ghost of Queensbury ! whose judging sprite Satan may spare to peep a single night, Pronounce — if ever in your days of bliss Asmodeus struck so bright a stroke as this? To teach the young ideas how to rise, Flush in the cheek, and languish in the eyes ; Rush to the heart, and lighten through the frame, With half-told wish and Hi-dissembled flame : For prurient nature still will storm the breast — Who, tempted thus, can answer for the rest ? But ye — who never felt a single thought For what our morals are to be, or ought ; * " We have jflAuged all that," Bays the Mock Doctor — 'tis all gone — Asmodeu* kaowi wbere. After all, it is of no great importance how women's hearts are disposed of ; th#y have nature's privilege to distribute them as absurdly as possible. But there are also •ome men w'tb hearts so thoroughly bad, as to remind us of those phenomena oftes mentioned :i» aaturs." history ; viz. a mass of solid stone — only to be opened by force — *nd when divided, you hud a toad in the centre, lively, and with the reputation of being venomous. t In Turkey a pertinent, here an Impertinent and superfluous, question — literally pat, as in the text by a Persian to Morier, on seeing a waits in Per*.— Fid* Morier"* IVwdii L 2 ♦& -<> 1 48 B YR ON 'S PO EMS. Who wisely wish the charms you view to reap, Say — would you make those beauties quite so chea*? 1 Hot from the hands promiscuously applied, Round the slight waist, or down the glowing side, Where were the rapture then to clasp the form From this lewd grasp and lawless contact warm I At once love's most endearing thought resign, To press the hand so press'd by none but thine ; To gaze upon that eye which never met Another's ardent look without regret ; Approach the lip which all, without restraint, (Join© near enough — if not to touch — to taint ; 1 f such thou lovest — love her then no more, Or give — like her — caresses to a score ; Her mind with these is gone, and with it go The little left behind it to bestow. Voluptuous Waltz ! and dare I thus blasphemo ? Thy bard forgot thy praises were his theme. Terpsichore, forgive ! — at every ball My wife now waltzes and my daughters shall ; My son — (or stop — 'tis needless to inquire — These little accidents should ne'er transpire ; Some ages hence our genealogic tree Will wear as green a bough for him as me) — Waltzing shall rear, to mttks our name amende, Grun-dsons for me — in heirs to all hit; friends TO TIME. Time ! on whose arbitrary wing The varying hours must flag or fly. Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring, But drag or drive us on to die — Hail, thou ! who on my birth bestow* d Those boons to all that know thee known ', \ et Detter 1 sustain thy load, For now I bear the weight alone. 1 would not one fond heart should share The bitter moments thou hast given ; A.nd pardon thee, since thou couldst spare All that I loved, to peace or heaven. To them be joy or rest, on me Thy future ills shall press in vain : I nothing owe but years to thee, A debt already paid in pain. Yet even that pain was some relief ; It felt, but still forgot thy power : The active agony of grief Ketards: but never counts the hour. 4 > 4h T//0 U A R T NO T FA LSE, D UT PICK I . E . i 49 In joy I've sigh'y Byron in this poem, and not less by Beckfort on Vathek," means " infidel," and U pronounced Djiur, like fhamtcKid and *iier Uai*niMBMfc s THE GIAOUR: Wo breath of air to break the wave That rolls belo^ the Athenian's grave, That tomb wmch, gleaming o'er the clifl,* First greets the homeward-veering skill, High o'er the land he saved in vain ; When shall such hero live again ? w * * * * Fair clime ! where every season smilee, Benignant o'er those blessed isles, Which, seen from far Colonna's height, Make glad the heart that hails the sight, And lend to loneliness delight. There mildly dimpling, Ocean's cheek Reflects the tints of many a peak Caught by the laughing tides that lave These Edens of the Eastern wave : And if at times a transient breeze Break the blue crystal of the seas, Or sweep one blossom from the trees. How welcome is each gentle air That wakes and wafts the odours therfc 1 For there — the Rose o'er crag or vale, Sultana of the Nightingale, + The maid for whom his melody, His thousand songs are heard on high, Blooms blushing to her lover's tale ; His queen, the garden queen, his Rose, Unbent by winds, unchill'd by snows, Far from the winters of the West, By every breeze and season blest, Returns the sweets by nature given In softest incense back to heaven ; And grateful yields that smiling sky Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh. And many a summer flower is there, And many a shade that love might share, And many a grotto, meant for rest, That holds the pirate for a guest ; * A tomb above the rocks on the promontory, by some supposed the sepakhra of Hi«!in istocles — B. * The attachment of the nightingale to the rose is a well-known Persian fable. It I mistalsa not, the " Bulbul of a thousand tales '" is one of his appellations.— & 4* 154 By RON'S POEMS. Whose bark in sheltering cove below Lurks for the passing peaceful prow. Till the gay mariner's guitar* Is heard, and seen the evening star ; Then stealing with the muffled oar, Far shaded by the rocky shore, Rush the night-prowlers on the prey, And turn to groans his roundelay. Strange — that where Nature loved to trnce> As if for Gods, a dwelling-place, And every charm and grace hi.zh mix'd Within the paradise she fix'd, There man, enamo»ir'd of distress, Should mar it into wilderness, And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower That tasks not one laborious hour ; Nor claims the culture of his hand To bloom along the fairy land, But springs as to preclude his care. And sweetly woos him — but to spare ! Strange — that where all is peace beside, There passion riots in her pride, And lust and rapine wildly reign To darken o'er the fair domain. It is as though the fiends prevail'd Against the seraphs they assail'd, And, fix'd on heavenly thrones, should dwell The freed inheritors of hell ; So soft the scene, so form'd for joy, So curst the tyrants that destroy ! He who hath bent him o'er the dead Ere the first day of death is fled, The first dark day of nothingness, The last of danger and distress, (Before Decay's effacing fingers Have swept the lines where beauty lingers;, And mark d the mild angelic air, The rapture of repose that's there, The fix'd yet tender traits that streak The languor of the placid cheek, And — but for that sad shrouded eye, That fires not, wins not, weeps not new, And but for that chill, changeless brow, Where cold Obstruction's apathyt Appals the gazing mourner's heart, As if to him it could impart The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ; Yes, but for these and these alone, Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour, He still might doubt the tyrant's power ; * The gnitar is the constant amusement of the Greek sailor by night : with a tU^Af fair wind, atd during a calm, It is accompanied always by the voice, and often by dancifig. — & f " Ay, but to die and go we know not where. To lie in cold obstruction."— M eature for Manure, Act iii. 6c. i. <>• THE GIAOUR. i55 So fair, so calm, so softly scal'd, The first, last look by death reveal'd !* Such is the aspect of this shore ; 'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more 1 So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, We start, for soul is wanting there. Hers is the loveliness in death, That parts not quite with parting breath ; But beauty with that fearful bloom, That hue which haunts it to the tomb, Expression's last receding ray, A gilded halo hovering round decay, The farewell beam of Feeling past away ! Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish'd earth I Clime of the unforgotten brave ! + Whose land from plain to mountain-cave Was Freedom's home, or Glory's grave 1 Shrine of the mighty ! can it be That this is all remains of thee ? Approach, thou craven crouching slave : Say, is not this Thermopylae ? These waters blue that round you lave, Oh servile offspring of the free — Pronounce what sea, what shore is this ? The gulf, the rock of Salamis ! These scenes, their story not unknown, Arise, and make again your own ; Snatch from the ashes of your sires The embers of their former fires ; And he who in the strife expires Will add to theirs a name of" fear That Tyranny shall quake to hear, And leave his sons a hope, a fame, They too will rather die than shame : For Freedom's battle once begun, Bequeath'd by bleeding Sire to Son, Though baffled oft is ever won. Bear witness, Greece, thy living page, Attest it many a deathless age ! While kings, in dusty darkness hid, Have left a nameless pyramid, Thy heroes, though the general doom Hath swept the column from their tomb, • I trust that few of my readers have ever had an opportunity of witnesginf uiiat li here attempted in description ; but those who have will probably retain a painful remem- brance of that singular beauty which pervades, with few exceptions, the features of the dead, a few hours, and but for a few hours, after " the spirit is not there." It is to be remarked in cases of violent death by gun-shot wounds, the expression is always that of languor, whatever the natural energy of the sufferer's character ; but in death from a st*b, the countenance preserves its traits of feeling or ferocity, and the mind its bias, te th» last,— A t It is the fact of Grecian history and poetry having been the studies of the brigm morning of our youth that imparts such a charm to all that belongs to this country. Its poetry and arts, still, it is true, preserve their supremacy ; but in practical lessons, the history of our own Immortal 17th century, and that of the Netherlands, an quite as sbuudeat. 4y ■© 1 56 B V A' OX'S POEMS. A mightier monument command, The mountains of their native land ! There points thy muse to stranger's eye The graves of those that cannot die : 'Twere long to tell, and sad to trace, Each step from splendour to disgrace : Enough — no foreign foe could quell Thy soul, till from itself it fell ; Yes ! Self-abasement paved the way To villain-bonds and despot sway. What can he tell who treads thy shore T No legend of thine olden time, No theme on which the muse might soaL', High as thine own in days of yore, When man was worthy of thy climw. The hearts within thy valleys bred, The fiery 6ouls that might have led Thy sons to deeds sublime, Now crawl from cradle to the grave, Slaves — nay, the bondsmen of a slave,* And callous, save to crime ; Stain'd with each evil that pollutes Mankind, where least above the brutes ; Without even savage virtue blest, Without one free or valiant breast. Still to the neighbouring ports they waft Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft; In this the subtle Greek is found, For this, and this alone, renown'd. In vain mic:ht Liberty invoke The spirit to its bondage broke, Or raise the neck that courts the yoke . No more her sorrows I bewail, Yet this will be a mournful tale, And they who listen may believe, Who heard it first had cause to grieve. Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing, The shadows of the rocks advancing, Start on the fisher's eye like boat Of island-pirate or Mainote ; And fearful for his light caique, He shuns the near but doubtful creek : Though worn and weary with his toil, And cumber'd with his scaly spoil, Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar, Till Port Leone's safer shore * Athens Is the property of the Kislar Aga (the slave of the seraglio and guardian of tfe* women) , who appoint; the Waywode. A pander and eunuch — these are not polite yut true appellations — now govern* the governor of Athens. — B. Such was the case when Byron wrote this note, and Lady Morgan wrote " Ida if Athsnt." Since then the powers of Europe have made Oreeoe a kingdom, and given hex at monarch] •nether she has reason to be proud in either case, we can hardly say. «<*> h© THE GIAOUR. 157 Recoires him by tho lovely light That best becomes an Eastern night. ♦ * • » • Who thundering comes on blackest steed, With slacken'd bit and hoof of speed ? Beneath the clattering iron's sound The cavern'd echoes wake around Jn lash for lash, and bound for bound ; The loam that streaks the courser's side Seems gather'd from the ocean-tide : Though weary waves are sunk to rest, There's none within his rider's breast ; And though to-morrow's tempest lower, 'Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour I I know thee not, I loathe thy race, But in thy lineaments I trace What time shall strengthen, not efface : Though young and pale, that sallow front Is scathed by fiery passion's brunt ; Though bent on earth thine evil eye, As meteor-like thou glidest by, Right well I view and deem thee one Whom Othman's sons should slay or shun. On — on he hasten'd, and he drew My gaze of wonder as he flew : Though like a demon of the night He pass'd, and vanish'd from my sight, His aspect and his air impress'd A troubled memory on my breast, And long upon my startled ear Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear. He spurs his steed ; he nears the steep, That, jutting, shadows o'er the deep ; He winds around ; he hurries by ; The rock relieves him from mine eye ; For well I v*een unwelcome he Whose glance is fix'd on those that fles ; And not a star but shines too bright On him who takes such timeless flight. He wound along ; but ere he pass'd, One glance he snatch' d, as if his last, A moment check'd his wheeling steed, A moment breathed him from his speed, A moment on his stirrup stood — Why looks he o'er the olive wood T The crescent glimmers on the hill, The mosque's high lamps are quivering suii : Though too remote for sound to wake In echoes of the far tophaike,* • " Tophaike," musket. — The Bairam is announced by the cannon at sunset : the lllu* a&n&tion of the mosques, and the firing of all kinds of small arms, loaded with tail, proclaims it during the ■>i#bi « •*H- - wifc& reat force and precision. It is a favourite eicercise of the Mussulmans ; but I know net it can be called a manly one, since the most expert in the art are the black eunuchs of Constantinople. I think, next to these- a Ahunluuk at Smyrna was the most jkil/ul tb»t came within mv observation.— Jt. *± -Kiv THE GIAOUR. 159 Whioh in itself can comprehend Woe without name, or hope, or end. The hour is past, the Giaour is gone J 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,* 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 fledj The only constant mourner o'er the dead ! The steed is vanish'd from the stall ; No serf is seen in Hassan's hall ; The lonely Spider's thin gray pall Waves slowly widening o'er the wall ; The Bat builds in his Haram bower, And in the fortress of his power The Owl usurps the beacon-tower ; The wild-dog howls o'er the fountain's brim, With baffled thirst, and famine grim ; For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed, Where the weeds and the desolate dust are spread. 'Twas sweet of yore to see it play And chase the sultriness of day, As springing high the silver dew In whirls fantastically flew, And flung luxurious coolness round The air, and verdure o'er the ground. 'Twas sweet, when cloudless stars were bright, To view the wave of v» atery light, And hear its melody by might. 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 1 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 : Thai quench'd in silence, all is still, But the lattice that flaps when the wind is shrill ; * TW blast oi ' it ' '--t-sct, fatal to everything living, and often alludeil to in iHtfteg) peuuy.-A 4h 1 60 BYR ON >S POEMS. Though raves the gust, and floods the raix^ No hand shall close its clasp again. On desert sands 'twere joy to scan The rudest steps of fellow man ; So here the very voice of Grief Might wake an Echo like relief — At least 'twould say, " All are not gone ; There lingers Life, though but in one" — For many a gilded chamber 's there, Which Solitude might well forbear ; Within that dome as yet Decay Rath slowly work'd her cankering way — Uut gloom is gather 'd o'er the gate, Nor there the Fakir's self will wait ; Nor there will wandering Dervise stay, For bounty cheers not his delay ; Nor there will weary stranger halt To bless the sacred "bread and salt." * Alike must Wealth and Poverty Pass heedless and unheeded by, For Courtesy and Pity died With Hassan on the mountain side. His roof, that refuge unto men, Is Desolation's hungry den. The guest flies the hall, and the vassal from Inbour, Since his turban was cleft by the Infidel's sabre 1 f I hear the sound of coming feet, But not a voice mine ear to greet ; More near — each turban I can scan, And silver-sheathed ataghan ; £ The foremost of the band is seen An Emir by his garb of green : § "Ho ! who art thou?" — " This low sal am [| Replies of Moslem faith I am. " " The burthen ye so gently bear Seems one that claims your utmost care, And, doubtless, holds some precious freight, My humble bark would gladly wait.*' " Thou speakest sooth ; thy skiff unmoor, And waft us from the silent shore ; • Vo pwtake of food, to break bread and salt with your host, insures the safety of tUc puest : even though an enemy, his person from that moment is sacred. — B. t I need hardly observe, that charity and hospitality are the first duties enjoined by Mahomet ; and to say truth, very generally practised by his disciples. The first praia* that can be bestowed on a chief, is a panegyric on his bounty ; the next, on his valour.— B. I The ataghan, a long dagger worn with pistols in the belt, in a metal scabbard, generally of silver ; and, among the wealthier, gilt, or of gold. — B. § Green is the privileged colour of the Prophet's numerous pretended descendants ; with them, as here, faith (the family inheritance) is supposed to supersede the necessity of good works : they are the worst of a very indifferent brood. — B. I! " Salam aleikoum 1 aleikoum salam ! " — " Peace be with you ; be with you peaoe " — the salutation reserved for the faithful: — to a Christian, " Urlarula 1" — "A too^ Journey j" or, " Saban hlresem, saban serula " — " CJood morn, good sven ; " and hii^ Uflaaa, " M*y your «&d be (aypy," are the usual salutes. — 6. •b THE GIAOUR. 161 ^ay, leave the sail still furl'd, and ply The nearest oar that's scatter' d by, And midway to those rocks where sleep The channell'd waters dark and deep. Rest from your task — so — bravely done, Our course has be-jn right swiftly run ; Yet 'tis the longest vovage, 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, — 'twas but the beam That checker'd o'er the living stream : I gazed, till vanishing from view, Like lessening pebble it withdrew ; Still less and less, a speck of white That gemm'd the tide, then mock'd the eight \ 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 of eastern spring,* O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer Invites the young pursuer near, And leads him on from flower to flower, A weary chase and wasted hour, Then leaves him, as it soars on high, With panting heart and tearful eye : So Beauty lures the full-grown child, With hue as bright, and wing as wild ; A chase of idle hopes and fears, Begun in folly, closed in tears. If won, to equal ills betray* d, Woe waits the insect and the maid ; A life of pain, the loss of peace, From infant's play and man's caprice ; The lovely toy so fiercely sought, Hath lost its charm by being caught, For every touch that woo'd its stay Hath brush' d its brightest hues away, Till charm, and hue, and beauty gone, 'Tis left to fly or fall alone. With wounded wing or bleeding breast, Ah ! where shall either victim resi '{ Can this with faded pinion soar From rose to tulip a& before ? Tfu Wue-wiaged butterfly oi Kashmeer. the must rare *ad Wuil/ul of ittposLK • M -i> [62 BYRON'S POEMS. Or Beetity, blighted in an hour. Find joy within her broken bower ? No : gayer insects fluttering by Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that dle^ &n r I lovelier things have mercy shown To every failing but their own, And every woe a tear can claim, Except an erring sister's shame. The Mind, that broods o'er guilty woo&, Is like the Scorpion girt by fire, In circle narrowing as it glows, The flames around their captive close, Till inly search'd by thousand throes, And maddening in her ire, One sad and sole relief she knows, The sting she nourish' d for her foes, Whose venom never yet was vain, Gives but one pang, and cures all pain, And darts into her desperate brain : So do the dark in soul expire, Or live like Scorpion girt by fire ;* So writhes the mind 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 bends on woman's form his eyes ; The unwonted chase each hour employs, Yet shares he not the hunter's joys. Not thus was Hassan wont to fly When Leila dwelt in his Serai. Doth Leila there no longer dwell ? That tale can only Hassan tell : Strange rumours in our city say Upon that eve she fled away When Rhamazan's last sun was set,+ And flashing from each minaret Millions of lamps proclaim'd the feast Of Bairam through the boundless Eaat. 'Twas then she went as to the bath, Which Hassan vainly search'd in wratL ; For she was flown her master's rage, In likeness of a Georgian page, And far beyond the Moslem's power Had wrong'd him with the faithless Giaour. • All rM lug to tko dubious suicide of the scorpion, bo placed for experimrrit by geatZc philosophers. Some maintain that the position of the sting, when turned towards ths bead, is merely a convulsive movement ; but others have actually brought in the vutdict, " FeJo de se." The scorpions are surely interested in a speedy decision of the question I t», if once fairly established as insect Catos, they will probably be allowed to live oo ioug «a they think Draper, without being martyred for the sake of an hypothesja,— B. t TL« cuidob at funset close the Rhamazan. See anti, note. p. 1(7. ♦^ 4 e THE GIAOUR. 163 Somewhat of this had Hassan deem'd But still so fond, so fair she seem'd, Too well he trusted to the slave Whose treachery deserved a grave : And on that eve had gone to mosque, And thence to feast in his kiosk. Such is the tale his Nubians tell, Who did not watch their charge too well ; But others say, that on that night, By pale Phingari's* trembling light, The Giaour upon his jet-black steed Was seen, but seen alone, to speed With bloody spur along the shore, Nor maid nor page behind him bore. * * # * • Her eye's dark charm 'twere vain to tell, But gaze on that of the Gazelle, It will assist thy fancy well ; As large, as languishingly dark, But Soul beam'd forth in every spark That darted from beneath the lid, Bright as the jewel of Giamschid.1" Yea, Soul, and should our Prophet say That form was nought but breathing clay, By Alia ! I would answer nay ; Though on Al-Sirat's + arch I stood, Which totters o'er the fiery flood, With Paradise within my view, And all his Houris beckoning through. Oh ! who young Leila's glance could read And keep that portion of his creed, § Which saith that woman is but dust, A soulless toy for tyrant's lust ? On her might Muftis gaze, and own That through her eye the Immortal shone ; On her fair cheek's unfading hue The young pomegranate's blossoms strew |j Their bloom in blushes ever new ; • Phingari , the moon.— B. t The celebrated fabulous ruby of Sultan GLamsehid, the embellisher of Istakhar ; froit Its splendour, named Schebgerag, " the Torch of Night ; " also, the " Cup of the Sun," 4c In the first edition, " Qiamschid " was written as a word of three syllables ; so D'Herbelot has it ; but I am told Richardson reduces It to a dissyllable, and writes " Jamshid." I nave left In the text the orthography of the one, with the pronunciation of the other. — B. Most writers now would prefix a D, which reconciles the Eastern with the Italian pronunciation. X Al-Sirat, the bridge of breadth, less than the thread of a famished spider, over which the Mussulmans must skate into Paradise, to which it is the only entrance ; but this is not the worst, the river beneath being hell itself, into which, as may be expected, the unskilful and tender of foot contrive to tumble with a " facilis descensus Avernl," not very pleasing in prospect to the next passenger. There is a shorter cut downwards to the Jew* and Christians. — B. § A vulgar error : the Koran allots at least a third of Paradise to well-T>ehaved women but by far the greater number of Mussulmans interpret the text their own way, and ■exclude their moieties from heaven. Being enemies to Platonics, they cannot discern " any fitness of things " in the souls of the other sex, conceiving them to be superseded oy the Hourles. — B. 1 An oriental simile, which may, perhaps, though fairly stolen, be deemed "pine irtoe qu'en Arahie." — B. M 2 ♦&- 4* 1 64 BYRON'S POEMS. Her hair in hyacinthine 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 sleot, 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 ! t As rears her crest the ruffled Swan, And spurns the wave with wings of pride. When pass the steps of stranger man Along the banks that bound her tide ; Thus rose fair Leila's whiter neck : — Thus arm'd with beauty would she check Intrusion's glance, till Folly's gaze Shrunk from the charms it meant to praise : Thus high and graceful was her gait ; Her heart as tender to her mate ; Her mate — stern Hassan, who was he ? Alas I that name was not for thee ! • » ♦ # ■ Stern Hassan hath a jon»ney ta'en With twenty vassals in hi/ train, Each arm'd, as best becomes a man, With arquebuss and ataghan ; The chief before, as deck'd for war, Beais in his belt the scimitar Staiii'd with the best of Arnaut blood, When in the pass the rebels stood, And few return'd to tell the tale Of w hat befell in Parne's vale. The pistols which his girdle bore Wei e those that once a pacha wore, Wb ch still, though gemm'd and boss'd with guld, Even robbers tremble to behold. f Tis said he goes to woo a bride More true than her who left his side ; The faithless slave that broke her bower, And, worse than faithless, for a Giaour ! • » * * • The sun's last rays are on the hill, And sparkle in the fountain rill, Whose welcome waters, cool and clear, Draw blessings from the mountaineer ; Here may the loitering merchant Greek Find that repose 'twere vain to seek, Hyadalfcine, in Arabic " Sunbul ,•" as oommon a thought in the MuCerti poetavd V»«e tiAiong the Greeks. — B. 1 " FranaueBtui," CircaBsia. -B, , <}* THE GIAOUR. 165 In cities, lodged too near his lord, And trembling for his secret hoard — Here may he rest whore none can sec, In crowds a slave, in deserts free ; And with forbidden wine may stain The bowl a Moslem must not drain. TWe 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 UgbtJ Beneath, a river's wintry stream Has shrunk before the summer beam, And left 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, rivet From summits clad in mists of heaven ; For where is he that hath beheld The peak of Liakura unveil' d ? * * * * • They reach the grove of pine at last : " Bismillah ! * now the peril 's past ; For yonder view the opening plain, And there we'll prick our steeds amain : " The Chiaus spake, and as he said, A bullet whistled o'er his head ; The foremost Tartar bites the ground ! Scarce had they time to check the rein, Swift from their steeds the riders bound ; But three shall never mount again : Unseen the foes that gave the wound, The dying ask revenge in vain. With steel unsheath'd, and carbine bent» Some o'er their courser's harness leant, Half sheltered by the steed ; Some fly behind the nearest rock, And there await the coming shock, Nor tamely stand to bleed Beneath the shaft of foes unseen, Who dare not quit their craggy screen. Stern Hassan only from his horse Disdains to light, and keeps his course, Till fiery flashes in the van Proclaim too sure the robber-clan fftiroilloh — " In the name of God ;" the commencement o< all the chapters of the ltoraa but vne, and of prayer and thanksgiving.— &. ~ 1 66 BYR ON 'S POEMS. Have well secured the only way Could now avail the promised prey ; Then curl'd his very beard with ire,* And glared his eye with fiercer fire : " Though far and near the bullets bias I've 'scaped a bloodier hour than this." And now the foe their covert quit, And call his vassals to submit ; But Hassan's frown and furious word Are dreaded more than hostile sword, Nor of his little band a man Resign'd carbine or ataghan, Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun \f In fuller sight more near and near, The lately ambush'd foes appear, And, issuing from the grove, advance Some who on battle charger prance. Who leads them on with foreign brand, Far flashing in his red right hand ? " 'Tis he ! tis he ! I know him now ; I know him by his pallid brow ; I know him by the evil eye £ That aids his envious treachery ; I know him by his jet-black barb ; Though now arrayM in Arnaut garb, Apostate from his own vile faith, It shall not save nim from the death : 'Tis 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 blasts of winter, rave ; Through sparkling spray, in thundering clash, The lightnings of the waters flash In awful whiteness o'er the shore, That shines and shakes beneath the roar ; Thus — as the stream and ocean greet, With waves that madden as they meet — Thus join the bands, whom mutual wrong, And fate, and fury, drive along. * A phenomenon not uncommon with an angry Mussulman. In 1809, Rte Oyl>j Pacha's whiskers at a diplomatic audience were no less lively with Indignation than a tiger cat's, to the horror of all the dragomans ; the portentous mustachios twisted, they stood erect of their own accord, and were expected every moment to change their colour, bat at last condescended to subside, which, probably saved more heads than they con- tained beirs.— B. I" Amaun," quarter, pardon. — B. The *■ evil eye," a common superstition In the Levant, and of wblch the inmg&aKy offsets am yet very singular on those who conceive themselves affected.— B. V +t}+ <> 7 HE GIAOUR. ^7 TLe bickering sabres' shivering jar ; And, pealing wide or ringing near, Its echoes on the throbbing ear, The deathshot hissing from afar ; The shock, the shout, the groan of war, Reverberate along that vale, More suited to the shepherd's tale : Though few the numbers — theirs the strife, That neither spares nor speaks for life I Ah ! fondly youthful hearts can press, To seize and share the dear caress ; But love itself could never pant For all that Beauty sighs to grant, With half the fervour Hate bestows Upon the last embrace of foes, When grappling in the fight they fold Those arms that ne'er shall lose their hold : Friends meet to part ; Love laughs at faith • True foes, once met, are join'd till death I With sabre shiver'd to the hilt, Yet dripping with the blood he spilt ; Yet strain'd within the sever'd hand Which quivers round that faithless brand ; His turban far behind him roll'd, And cleft in twain its firmest fold ; His flowing robe by falchion torn, And crimson as those clouds of morn That, streak'd with dusky red, portend The day shall have a stormy end ; A stain on every bush that bore A fragment of his palampore,* His breast with wounds unnumber'd riven, His back to earth, his face to heaven, Fall'n Hassan lies — his unclosed eye Yet lowering on his enemy, As if the hour that seal'd his fate Surviving left his auenchless hate ; And o'er him bends that toe, with brow As dark as his that bled below. — " Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave, But his shall be a redder grave ; Her spirit pointed well the steel Which taught that felon heart to feel. He call'd the Prophet, but his power Was vain against the vengeful Giaour : He call'd on Alia — but the worcr Arose unheeded or unheard. Thou Paynim fool ! could Leila's prayer Be pass'd, and thine accorded there ? * The flowered shawls generally worn by persons & rank.— B, <> TW 1 68 BYRON'S POEMS. I wateh'd my time, I leagued with these. The traitor in his turn to seize ; My wrath is wreak' d, the deed is d&ne, And now I go— but go alone." The browsing camels 5 bells are tinkling : Hia 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 : " 'Tis twilight — sure his train is nigh." She could not rest in the garden-bower, But gazed through the grate of his steepest tov/er i " Why comes he not ? his steeds are fleet, Nor shrink they from the summer heat ; Why sends not the bridegroom his promised gift f 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 bov/— How could I deem his courser slow ? Right well my largess shall repay His welcome speed, and weary way." The Tartar lighted at the gate, But scarce upheld his fainting weight ; His swarthy visage spake distress, But this might be from weariness ; His garb with sanguine spots was dyed, But these might be from his courser's side . He drew the token from his vest — Angel of Death ! 'tis Hassan's cloven crest 1 His calpac* rent — his caftan red — " Lady, a fearful bride thy Son hath wad : Me, not from mercy, did they spare, But this empurpled pledge to bear. Peace to the brave ! whose blood is spilt ; Woe to the Giaour ! for his the guilt." e • * * • A turban carved in coarsest stone,+ 1 pillar with rank weeds o'ergrown, W hereon can now be scarcely read Tl e Koran verse that mourns the dead, Point out the spot where Hassan fell \. victim in that lonely delh * The ealrao is the solid cap or oentre part of the head-dress ; the shawl 1* wousmI reuui It, and forms the turban.— B. t Tue turban, pillar, and inscriptive verse, decorate the tombs of the Oemanliss, whether in the cemetery or the wilderness. In the mountains you frequently pas* similar mementos ; and on inquiry yon are informed that they record some victim of retttUloa, plunder, or revenge— £, 4*T* " '^•■*f*■■^ fc *^ ,, •■* - ■ ■ ' ' ■ ■ — — *0: — < THE GIAOUR. 169 There sleeps as true an Osmanlie As e'er at Mecca bent the knee ; As ever scorn'd forbidden wine, Or pray'd with face towards the shrine, In orisons resumed anew At solemn sound of " Alia Hu ! " * Yet died he by a stranger's hand, And stranger in his native land ; Yet died he as in arms ho" «t°.°"». And unavenged, at least in blood.'" But him the maids ef Paradise Impatient to their halls invite, And the dark heaven of Houris' eyes On him shall glance for ever bright ; They comei — their kerchiefs green they v/ave,"^ And welcome with a kiss the brave ! Who falls in battle 'gainst a Giaour Is worthiest an immortal bower. But thou, false Infidel ! shall writhe Beneath avenging Monkir's scythe ; % And from its torments 'scape alone To wander round lost Eblis' § throne ; And fire, unquench'd, unquenchable, Around, within, thy heart shall dwell ; Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell The tortures of that inward hell ! But first, on earth as Vampire sent || Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent : Then ghastly haunt thy native place, And suck the blood of all thy race ; There from thy daughter, sister, wife, At midnight drain the stream of life ; Yet loath the banquet which perforce Must feed thy livid living corse : Thy victims, ere they yet expire, Shall know the demon for their sire, • " Alia Hu I " the concluding word* of the Muezzin's call to prayer from the highest jallery on the exterior of the minaret. On a still evening, when the Muezzin has a fine voice, which is frequently the case, the effect is solemn and beautiful beyond all the bells U. Christendom. — 3. t The following is part of a battle-song of the Turks : — " I see — I Bee a dark-eyed girl of Paradise, and she waves a handkerchief, a kerchief of green ; and cries aloud, ' Come, kiss me, for I love thee,'" Ac. — B. I Monkir and Nekir are the inquisitors of the dead, before whom the corpse undergoes • slight noviciate and preparatory training for damnation. If the answers are none af the clearest, he is hauled up with a scythe and thumped down with a red-hot mace till properly seasoned, with a variety of subsidiary probations. The office of these angels is no sinecure ; there are but two, and the number of orthodox deceased being in a small proportion to the remainder, their hands are always full. Consult Sale's Koran. — B. § Eblis, the Oriental Prince of Darkness. — B. if The Vampire superstition is still general in the Levant. Honest Tournefort tell* a long story, which Mr. Southey, in his notes on " Thalaba," quotes, about these " Vnra- colochas," as he calls them. The Romaic term is " Vardoulacha." I recollect a whole family being terrified by the scream of a child, which they imagined must proceed from such a visitation. The Greeks never mention the word without horror. I find that *' Broucolokas " is an old legitimate Hellenic appellation — at least is so applied to Arse- nius, who, according to the Creeks, was after his deatn animated by the Devil. — Tba taederna, however, use the word I mention. — B 4 4 *"©"♦ 17° BYRON'S POEMS. As cursing thee, tho^i cursing them, Ihy flowers are wither'd on the stern. But one that for thy crime must fall, The youngest, most beloved of all, Shall bless thee with a fathers name- That word shall wrap thy heart in flame t Yet must thou end thy task, and mark Her cheek's last tinge, her e^-' \ *.- * And the last glassy %h a •• . ■» B s H st s P anc 5 Which freeze* v ? i ^ce must view " , n ^i - vOfn; ul"its lifeless blue; Tni jnfii unhallow'd hand shalt tear The Tresses of her yellow hair, Of which in life a lock when shorn Affection's fondest pledge was worn ; But now is borne away by thee, Memorial of thine agony ! Wet with thine own best blood shall drip Thy gnashing tooth and haggard lip j Then stalking to thy sullen grave, Go — and with Gouls and Afrits rave ; Till these in horror shrink away From spectre more accursed than they I • # • • u How name ye yon lone Caloyer ? His features I have scann'd before In mine own \and : 'tis many a year, Since, dashing by the lonely shore, I saw him urge as fleet a steed As ever served a horseman's need. But once I saw that face, yet then It was so mark'd with inward pain, I could not pass it by again ; It breathes the same dark spirit now, As death were stamp'd upon his brow." ' ' 'Tis twice three years at summer tide Since first among our freres he came ; And here it soothes him to abide For some dark deed he will not name, But never at our vesper prayer, Nor e'er before confession chair Kneels he, nor recks he when arise Incense or anthem to the skies, But broods within his cell alone, His faith and race alike un known. The sea from Paynim land he eross'd, And here ascended from the coast ; Yet seems he not of Othman race, But only Christian in his face : I'd judge him some stray renegade, Repentant of the change he made, Save that he shuns our holy shrine, Nor tastes the sacred bread and wine. *Tlse freshness of the face, and the wetness of the lip with blood, an the wvsr-fafJJInj Eigne of » Vampire. The stories told in Hungary and Gieece ot there fool lesdtrs ait sLa*ulaj. and some of them most incredibly attested. — B. ■*> ■*<&* THE GIAOUR. 171 Great largess to these walls be brought. And tbus our abbot's favour bought ; But were I prior, not a day Should brook such stranger's further stay,. Or pert within oui penance cull Should doom him there for aye to dwell. Much in his visions mutters he Of maiden 'whelm'd beneath the sea ; Of sabres clashing, foemen flying, Wrongs avenged, and Moslem dying. On cliff he hath been known to stand* And rave as to some bloody hand, Fresh sever'd from its parent limb, Invisible to all but him, Which beckons onward to his grave, And lures to leap into the wave." Dark and unearthly is the scowl That glares beneath his dusky cowl : The flash of that dilating eye Reveals too much of times gone by ; Though varying, indistinct its hue, Oft will his glance the gazer rue, For in it lurks that nameless spell, Which speaks, itself unspeakable, A spirit yet unquell'd and high, That claims and keeps ascendancy : And like the bird whose pinions quake, But cannot fly the gazing snake, Will others quail beneath his look, Nor 'scape the glance they scarce can brook. From him the half-affrighted Friar When met alone would fain retire, As if that eye and bitter smile Transferr'd to others fear and guile : Not oft to smile descendeth he, And when he doth, 'tis sad to see That he but mocks at Misery. How that pale lip will curl and quiv T ! Then fix once more as if for ever ; As if his sorrow or disdain Forbade him e'er to smile again. Well were it so — such ghastly mirth From joyaunce ne'er derived its birth. But sadder still it were to trace What once were feelings in that face \ Time hath not yet the features fix'd, But brighter traits with evil mix'd ; And there are hues not always faded, Which speak a mind not all degraded, Even by the crimes through which it waded i The common crowd but see the gloom Of wayward deeds, and fitting doom ; >

aht&t tus with her blood.— A +&■ *$ 1 74 B YR ON 'S POEMS. Latter to sink beneath the shock Than moulder piecemeal on the rock! » » * * 4 * Father ! thy days have pass'd in peace, 'Mid counted beads, and countless prayer J To bid the sins of others cease, Thyself without a crime or care. Save transient ills that all must bear, Has been thy lot from youth to age ; And thou wilt bless thee from the rago Of passions fierce and uncontroll'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 below In much of joy, but more of woe ; Yet still in hours of lovt> or strife, I've 'scaped the weariness of 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 walk, Than pass my dull, unvarying days, Condemn'd to meditate and gaze. Yet, lurks a wish within my breast For rest — but not to feel 'tis rest. Soon shall my fate that wish fulfil ; And I shall sleep without the dream Of what I was, and would be still, Dark as to thee my deeds may seem : My memory now is but the tomb Of joys long dead ; my hope, their doom \ Though better to have died with those Than bear a life of lingering woes. My spirit shrunk not to sustain The searching throes of ceaseless pain ; Nor sought the self-accorded grave Of ancient fool and modern knave : Yet death I have not fear'd to meet ; And in the field it had been sweet, Had danger woo'd me on to move The slave of glory, not of love. I've braved it — not for honour's boaot J 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 A.ught that I deem a worthy prize ; The maid I love, the man I hate, And I will hunt the steps of fate, To save or slay, as these require, Through rending steel, and rolling fire; & ^cv THE GIAOUR. 175 Nor need'st thou doubt this speech from on** Who would but do — what he hath done. Death is but what the haughty bravo, The weak must bear, the wretch must crave ; Then let Life go to Him who gave : I have not quaiPd to danger's brow When high and happy — need I now t « * * * • M I loved her, Friar ! nay, adored — But these are words that all can use — I proved it more in deed than word ; There's blood upon that dinted sword, A stain its steel can never lose : 'Twas shed for her, who died for me, It warm'd the heart of one abhorr'd : Nay, start not — no — nor bend thy knee, Nor midst my sins such act record ; Thou wilt absolve me from the deed, For he was hostile to thy creed — The very name of Nazarene Was wormwood to his Paynim spleen. Ungrateful fool ! since but for brands Well wielded in some hardy hands, And wounds by Galileans given, The surest pass to Turkish heaven, For him his Houris still might wait Impatient at the Prophet's gate. I loved her — love will find its way Through paths where wolves would fear to prey J And if it dares enough, 'twere hard If passion met not some reward — No matter how, or where, or why, I did not vainly seek, nor sigh : Yet sometimes, with remorse, in vain I wish she had not loved again. She died — I dare not tell thee how ; But look — 'tis written on my brow ! There read of Cain the curse and 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 — 'Twas some relief— our foe a grave. His death sits lightly ; but her fate Has made me — what thou well mayst hate. *- [78 B\ RON'S POEMS, In madness do those fearful deeds That seem to add but guilt to woe ? Alas ! the breast that inly bleeds Hath nought to dread from outward blow/ ? Who falls from all he knows of bliss, Cares little into what abyss. Fierce as the gloomy vulture's now To thee, old man, my deeds appear : t read abhorrence on thy brow, And this too was I born to bear ! Tis true, that like that bird of prey, With havoc have I mark'd my way : But this was taught me by the dove, To die — and know no second love. This lesson yet hath man to learn, Taught by the thing he dares to spurn: The bird that sings within the brake, The swan that swims upon the lake, One mate, and one alone, will take. And let the fool still prone to range, And sneer on all who cannot change, Partake his jest with boasting boys ; I envy not his varied joys, But deem such feeble, heartless man, Less than yon solitary swan ; Far, far beneath the shallow maid He left believing and betray'd. Such shame at least was never mine — Leila ! each thought was only thine • My good, my guilt, my weal, my woe, My hope on high — my all below. Earth holds no other like to thee, Or, if it doth, in vain for me : For worlds I dare not view the dame Resembling thee, yet not the same. The very crimes that mar my youth, This bed of death — attest my truth ! Tis all too late — thou wert, thou art The cherish'd madness of my heart ! " And she was lost — and yet I breathed, But not the breath of human life ; A serpent round my heart was wreathed, And stung my every thought to strife. Alike all time, abhorr'd all place, Shuddering I shrunk from Nature's fao©> Where every hue that charm'd before, The blackness of my bosom wore. The rest thou dost already know, And all my sins, and half my woe. But talk no more of penitence ; Thou seest I soon shall part from hence J And if thy holy tale were true, The deed that's done, sanst thou undo' i>- 4- THE GIAOUR. 179 "Think me not thankless — but this grief Looks not to priesthood for relief.* My soul*fc estate in secret guess : But wouldst thou pity more, say lesa. When thou canst bid my Leila liv», Then will I sue thee to forgive ; Then plead my cause in that high place Where purchased masses proffer grace. Go, when the hunter's hand hath wrung From forest-cave her shrieking young, And calm the lonely lioness : But soothe not — mock not my distress ! u In earlier days, and calmer hours, When heart with heart delights to blend, Where bloom my native valley's bowers, I had — Ah ! 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. 'Tis strange — he prophesied my doom, And I have smiled — I then could smile — When Prudence would his voice assume, And warn — I reck'd not what — the while : But now remembrance whispers o'er Those accents scarcely mark'd before. Say — that his bodings came to pass, And he will start to hear their truth, And wish his words had not been sooth • Tell him, unheeding as I was, Through many a busy bitter scene Of all our goldon youth had been, In pain, my faltering tongue had tried To bless his memory ere I died ; But Heaven in wrath would turn away, If Guilt should for the guiltless pray. I do not ask him not to blame, Too gentle he to wound my name ; And what have I to do with fame ? I do not ask him not to mourn, Such cold request might sound like scorn , And what than friendship's manly tear May better grace a brother's bier ? But bear this ring, his own of old, And tell him — what thou dost behold f The wither'd frame, the ruin'd mind, The wrack by passion left behind, • The monk's sermon 1b omitted. It seems to have Had so little effect upon th« patient, that It could have no 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), and was delivered in the nasal tone of all orthodox preachers.— B. s 2 ^-«- 180 BYRON'S POEMS. A shrivell'd scroll, a scatter' d leaf, Sear'd by the autumn blast of grief I • • * * " Tell me no more of fancy's gleam, No, father, no, 'twas not a dream ; Alas ! the dreamer first must sleep, — I only watch' d, and wish'd to weep ; But could not, for my burning' brow Throbb'd to the very brain as now : I wish'd but for a single tear, As something welcome, new, and dear ; I wish'd it then, I wish it still ; Despair is stronger than my will. Waste not thine orison, despair Is mightier than thy pious prayer : I would not, if I might, be blest ; I want no paradise, but rest. Twas then, I tell thee, father! then I saw her ; yes, she lived again ; And shining in her white symar,* As through yon pale gray cloud the 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 wander, father ! for my soul Is fleeting towards the final goal. I saw her, friar ! and I rose Forgetful of our former woes : And rushing from my couch, I dart, And clasp her to my desperate heart ; I clasp — what is it that I clasp ? No breathing form within my grasp, No heart that beats reply to mine, Yet, Leila ! yet the form is thine ! And art thou, dearest, changed so mucfo, As meet my eye, yet mock my touch ? Ah ! were thy beauties e'er so cold, I care not ; so my arms enfold The all they ever wish to hold. Alas ! around a shadow press' d, They shrink upon my lonely breast ; Yet still 'tis there ! In silence stands, And beckons with beseeching hands ! With braided hair, and bright black eye- I knew 'twas false — she could not die f Hut he is dead ! within the dell I saw him buried where he fell ; He comes not, for he cannot break Prom earth ; why then art thou awake * • " Symar," a shroud.— B 4 * • — ►<; <&• THE GIAOUR. 181 They told me wild waves l'oll'd above The face I viow, the form I love : They told me — 'twas a hideous talo I I'd tell it, but my tongue would fail : If true, and from thine ocean-cave Thou com'st to claim a calmer grave ; Oh ! pass thy dewy fingers o'er This brow, that then will burn no more ; Or place them on my hopeless heart : But, shape or shade ! whate'er thou art, In mercy ne'er again depart ! Or farther with thee bear my soul Than winds can waft or waters roll ! * * * * • " 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 — noi of bis name and race Hath left a token or a trace. Save what the father must not say Who shrived him on nis avmsr day : This broken tale was an ne Knew Of her he loved, or him he slew.* •The circumstance to which the above story relates, was not very uncommon in Turkey. A few years agu, the wife of Muchtar Pacha complained to his father of his son's sup- posed infidelity ; he asked with whom, ana she had the barbarity to give in a list of the twelve handsomest women in Yanina. They were seized, fastened up in sacks, and drowned in the lake the same night 1 One of the guards who was present informed me, that not one of the victims uttered a cry, or showed a symptom of terror, at so sudden a " wrench from all we know, from all we love." The fate of Phrosine, the fairest of this sacrifice, is the subject of many a Romaic and Arnaut ditty. The story in the text ia one told of a young Venetian many years ago, and now nearly forgotten. 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 distinguished from the rest, by the want of Eastern imagery ; and I regret that my memory has retained so few fragments of the original. For the contents of some of the notes, I am indebted partly to D'Herbelot, and partly to that most Eastern, and, as Mr. Webber justly entitles it, "sublime tale," the "Caliph Vathek." I do not know from what source the author of that singular volume may have drawn his materials ; sonae of his incidents are to be found in the " Bibliotheque Orientale ;" but for correct- ness of costume, beauty of description, and power of imagination, it far surpasses all European imitations ; and bears such marks of originality, that those who have visited the East will find some difficulty in believing it to be more than a translation. As an Eastern tale, even Basselas must bow before it ; his " Happy Valley " will not bwur • comparison with the " Hall of Eblis." — 3, K^ ^ 182 BYRON'S POEMS. IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND When, from the heart where Sorrow sits, Her dusky shadow mounts too high, And o'er the changing aspect flits, And clouds the brow, or fills the eye : Heed not that gloom, which soon shall eink : M v thoughts their dungeon know too well- — Back to my breast the wanderers shrir± And droop within their silent celL September, UD2 % l * mf .***-A*+m 4 & THE BMDii OF ABYDOS: A TURKISH TALE. Had we never loved so klr.dly, 11 id we never loved so blindly, Never ui^t or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted."— Bueut*. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD HOLLAND, THIS TALE IS INSCRIBED, WITH EVERY SBNTIMBNT OB REGARD AND BBSPBCT, BY HIS GRATEFULLY OBLIGED AND SINCEBB FBIRND, BY ROW CANTO THE FIRST. l. Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime, Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime ? Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine ; Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with perfume Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gill 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 are soft as the roses they twine, And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? 'Tis the clime of the East ; 'tis the land of the Sun — r^n he smile on such deeds as his children ha^e donefi* Oh ! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they telL. • " Gul," the rose. — B. f " fiouls made of fire, and children of the Sun, With whom Revenge is Virtue."— Young's jReveng*. — A ir ♦4 < 184 BYRON'S POEMS. If, 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 Giaffir sat in his Divan : Deep thought was in his aged eye ; And though the face of Mussulman Not oft betrays to standers by The mind within, well skill'd to hide All but unconquerable pride, His pensive cheek and pondering brow Did more than he was wont avow. nL v Let the chamber be clear'd." — The train disappeared— " Now call me the chief of the Haram guard. With Giaffir is none but his only son, j\ud the Nubian awaiting the sire's award. " Haroun — when all the crowd that wait A>-e pass'd beyond the outer gate, (Woe to the head whose eye beheld My child Zuleika's face unveil'd !) Hence, lead my daughter from her *>)wer ; Her fate is fix'd this very hour : Yet not to her repeat my thought ; By me alone be duty taught ! " " Pacha ! to hear is to obey." No more must slave to despot say — Then to the tower had ta'en his way ; But here young Selim silence brake, First lowly rendering reverence meet ; And downcast look'd, and gently spake, Still standing at the Pacha's feet : For son of Moslem must expire, Ere dare to sit before his sire ! " Father ! for fear that thou shouldst chid© My sister, or her sable guide, Know — for the fault, if fault there be, Was mine ; — then fall 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 be?.t high, Were irksome ; for whate'er nay 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 -£> X ©* THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 185 We to the cypress groves had flown, And made earth, main, and heaven our owu ! There hnger'd we, beguiled too long With Mejnoun's tale, or Sadi's song,* Till I, who heard the deep tambour f Beat thy Divan's approaching hour, To thee, and to my duty true, Warn'd by the sound, to greet thee flow : But there Zuleika wanders yet — Nay, father, rage not — nor forget That none can pierce that secret bowar 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 bou> And hurl the dart, and curb the steed, Thou, Greek in soul if not in creed, Must pore where babbling waters flow, And watch unfolding roses blow. Would that yon orb, whose matin glow Thy listless eyes so much admire, Would lend thee something of his fire ! Thou, who wouldst see this battlement By Christian cannon piecemeal rent ; Nay, tamely view old Stambol's wall Before the dogs of Moscow fall, Nor strike one stroke for life and death Against the curs of Nazareth ! Go ! let thy less than woman's hand Assume the distaff — not the brand. But, Haroun ! — to my daughter speed : And hark — of thine own head take heed — If thus Zuleika oft takes wing — Thou seest yon bow — it hath a string !" v. No sound from Selim's lip was heard, 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 eVn of more than ire Flash forth, then faintly disappear. * EI qj noun and Leila, the Borneo and Juliet of the East. Sadl, the mural cwl et Persia.— B. i Turkish drum, which sounds •* sunrise, noon *"ark of Beauty's heavenly ray 1 Who doth tot feed, until his tailing 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 love, the purity of grace, The mind, the Music breathing from her face, The heart whose softness harmonized the whole- Ac d, oh ! that eye was in itself a Soul ! Her graceful arms in meekness bending Across her gently -budding breast ; At one kind word those arms extending To clasp the neck of him who bless' d His child caressing and caress'd, Zuleika came — and Giaffir felt His purpose half within him melt : Not that against her fancied weal His heart though stern could ever feel , Affection chain'd her to that heart ; Ambition tore the links apart. vn. "Zuleika ! child of gentleness ! How dear this very day must tell, When I forget my own distress, In losing what I love so well, To bid thee with another dwell : Another ! and a braver man Was never seen in battle's van. We Moslem reck not much of blood ; * This 1b a mistake of poets and *omi theologians ; a child's player 1b meaningleetr— tn worthiest prayer is from man in the prime of his vigour and intellect— no child's praya can be compared to that of a Fenelon t This expression has met with objections. I will not refer to " him who hath not music in his soul," but merely request the reader to recollect, for ten seconds, the features of the woman whom he believes to be the most beautiful ; and if h* then does not com- prehend fully what is feebly expressed in the above line, I shall be sorry for us both. For an eloquent passage in the latest work of the first female writer of this, perhaps, ct any age, on the analogy (and the immediate comparison excited by that analogy) between " painting and music," see voL iii. cap. 10, " De l'Allemagne." And is not this con- nection still stronger with the original than the copy, — with the colouring of Nature than of Art ? After all, this is rather to be felt than described ; still, I think there are some who will understand it, at least they would have done had they beheld the counte- nance whose speaking harmony suggested the idea ; for this passage is not drawn from imagination but memory, that mirror which Affliction dashes to the earth, and, looking down ui>v>u the fragments, only beholds the reflection multiplied 1 — U. 188 BYRON'S POEMS. But yet the line of Carasman* Unchanged, unchangeable hath stood First of the bold Tiraariot bands That won and well can keep their lanverus Magnesia. Those who, by a kind of feudal tenure, possess land an condition of »er- •nce, are called Timariots ; they serve as Spahis, according to the extent of territory, and bring a certain number into the field, generally cavalry. — B. t When a Pacha is sufficiently strong to resist, the single messenger, who is always the flr»t bearer of the order for his death, is strangled instead, and sometimes 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, kisses the Sultan's respectable signature, and is bowstrung with great complacency. In 1810, several of " these presents " were exhi- bited in the niche of the Seraglio gate ; among others, the head of the Pacha of Bagdat, a brave young man, cut off by treachery, after a desperate resistance. — B. \ Clapping of the hands calls the servant*. The Turks hate a superfluous expenditure of voice, and they have no bells. — B. § Chibouque, the Turkish pipe, of which the amber mouth-piece, and sometimes the ball which contains the leaf, is adorned with precious stones, if in possession of the wealthier orders. — B. I| Maugrabee, M x>rish mercenaries. — B. •f Delis, bravos who form the forlorn hope of ihe cavalry and al-nays begin the oction.--£. ]' 4* <> «> THE BRIDE OFABYDOS. i S9 To witness many an active deed With sabre keen, or blunt jerreed. The Kislar only and his Moors Watch well the Haram's massy doors. IX. His head was lent upon his hand, His eye look'd o'er the dark blue water That swiftly glides and gently swells Between the winding Dardanelles ; But yet he saw nor sea nor strand, Nor even his Pacha's turban'd band Mix in the game of mimic slaughter, Careering cleave the folded felt* With sabre-stroke right sharply dealt ; Nor mark'd the javelin-darting crowd, Nor heard their Ollahs + wild and loud He thought but of old Giaflir's daughter j 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, ^he knew not why, forbade to speak, /et speak she must — but when essay ? ' ' How strange he thus should turn away ! 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 -gill's perfume, J And sprinkled all its odours o'er The pictured roof and marble floor ;§ The drops, that through his glittering veet The playful girl's appeal address'd, Unheeded o'er his bosom flew, As if that breast were marble too. • A twisted fold of felt is used for scimit-ar practice by the Turks, and few but Mtassul- inan arms can cut through it at a single stroke ; sometimes a tough Durban is used for the Baiae purpose. The jerreed is a game of blunt javelins, animated and graceful. — B. f " Ollahs," Alia il Allah, the " Leilies," aa the Spanish poets call them ; the sound is O'lah ; a cry of which the Turks, for a silent people, are somewhat profuse, particularly during the jerreed, or in the chase ; but mostly in battle. Their animation in the field, and gravity in the chamber, with their pipes and comboloioa, form an amusing contrast. — B. 1 " Atar-gul," ottar of roses. The Persian is the finest. — B. § The ceiling and wainscots, or rather walls, of the Mussulman apartments, are ^Tie- tally painted, in great houses, with one eternal and highly-coloured view of Constan- tinople, wherein the principal feature is a noble contempt of perspective ; below, arms, scimitars, «c, are in general fancifully and not inelegantly disposed. — 3. e* £ -o* I I go BYPO.\'S POEMS. " What, sullen yet ? it must not be- On ! gentle Selim, this from thee ! " She saw in curious order set The fairest flowers of eastern land — " He loved them once ; may touch them yet If offer'd by Zuleika's hand." The childish thought was hardly breathed Before the Rose was pluck'd and wreathed ; The next fond moment saw her seat Her fairy form at Selim's feet ; " This rose to calm my brother's cares A message from the Bulbul bears ;* It says to-night he will prolong For Selim's ear his sweetest song ; And though his note is somewhat sad, He'll try fcr once a strain more glad, With some faint hope his alter'd lay May sing these gloomy thoughts awav. XI. " What ! not receive my foolish flower? Nay then I am indeed unblest : On me can thus thy forehead lower ? And know'st thou not who loves thee best ? Oh, Selim dear ! oh, more than dearest ! Say, is it me thou hat'st or fearest ? Come, lay thy head upon my breast, And I will kiss thee into rest, Since words of mine, and songs must fail, Ev'n from my fabled nightingale. I knew our sire at times was stern, But this from thee had yet to learn : Too well I know he loves thee not ; But is Zuleika's love forgot ? Ah ! deem I right ? the Pacha's plan— - This kinsman Bey of Carasman Perhaps may prove some foe of 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 f Years have not seen, Time shall not see The hour that tears my soul from thee : * It bu been much doubted whether the notes of this " Lover of the rose " • are baa sails ** the Joy of grief" that is, s pleasing melanchoJ«- A. 4- THE BRIDE OF AD YD OS. 191 Even Azrael,* from his deadly quiver When tiies that shaft, and fly it mustj 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 With thoughts that long in darkness dwelt ; With thoughts that burn — in rays that melt. As the stream late conceal'd By the fringe of its willows, When it rushes reveal'd In the light of its billows ; As 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, With life to keep, and scarce with life resiga : 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 one : But blench not thou — thy simplest tress Claims more from me than tenderness ; I would not wrong the slenderest hair -j* That clusters round thy forehead fair, For all the treasures buried far Within the caves of Istakar.J This morning clouds upon me lower 'd, Reproaches on my head were shower 'u., And Giaffir almost caU'd me coward ! Now I have motive to be brave ; The son of his neglected slave, — Nay, start not, 'twas the term he gave, May show, though little apt to vaunt, A heart his words nor deeds can daunt. ** Aisi&el." vhe angel of death. — B. f "And now, my Kate, To thee, whose smallest ringlet's fate Conveys more Interest to my soul Than all the Powers, from pole to pole."— T. 3fc*re fe hU Sister The tvbMurto of the pre-Adamite eultans. See D'Herbelot, article ls«xkar.~- ft. *$• «> <> 1 92 BYRON'S POEMS. His son, indeed ! — yet, thanks to titf*?, Perchance I am, at least shall be ; But let our plighted secret vow Be only known to us as now. I know the wretch who dares demand From Giaffir thy reluctant hand ; More ill-got wealth, a meaner soul Holds not a Musselim's * control : Was he not bred in Egripo ?+ A viler race let Israel show ! But let that pass — to none be told Our oath ; the rest let time unfold. To me and mine leave Osman Bey ; I've partisans for peril's day : Think not I am what I appear ; I've arms, and friends, and vengeance ne&i." xin. "Think not thou art what thou appearest ! My Selim, thou art sadly changed : This morn I saw thee gentlest, dearest ; But now thou'rt from thyself estranged. My love thou surely knew'st before ; It ne'er was less, nor can be more. To see thee, hear thee, near thee stay, And hate the night, I know not why, 8ave 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 thi& ; For, Allah ! sure thy lips are flame : What fever in thy veins is flushing ? My own have nearly caught the same, At least I feel my cheek too blushing. To soothe thy sickness, watch thy health, Partake, but never waste thy wealth, Or stand with smiles unmurmuring by, And lighten hah thy poverty ; Do all but close thy dying eye, For that I could not live to try ; To these alone my thoughts aspire : More can I do ? or thou require ? But, Selim, thou must answer why We need so much of mystery ? The cause I cannot dream nor tell, But be it, since thou say'st 'tis well ; Yet what thou mean'st by ' arms ' and ' friendc/ Beyond my weaker sense extends. • Husselim, a governor, the next in rank after a Pacha ; a Waywode is the third ; aao then come the Agas. — B. f Rgiipo— the Negropont. According to the proverb, the Turk* of Ejrlp», th« Sem oi Salouioa, and the Gree*» (rf Athens, avs the worst of their respective rauct— u. THE BRIDE OF AD Y DOS. 193 t meant that Giaffir should have heard. The very vow I plighted thee ; His wrath would not revoke my word : But surely he would leave me free. Can this fond wish seem strange in me, To be what I havo ever been ? What other hath Zuleika seen From simple childhood's earliest hour? What other can she seek to see Than thee, companion of her bower, The partner of her infancy ? These cherish'd thoughts with life begun, Say, why must I no more avow ? What change is wrought to make me shuu 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 revtfai ? Why wilt thou urge me to conceal ? [ know the Pacha s haughty mood "o thee hath never boded good ; And he so often storms at nought, Allah ! forbid that e'er he ought ! And why I know not, but within My heart concealment weighs like sin. If then such secrecy be crime, And such it feels while lurking here ; Oh, Selim ! tell me yet in time, Nor leave me thus to thoughts of fear. Ah ! yonder see the Tchocadar,* My father leaves the mimic war : I tremble now to meet his eye — Say, Selim, canst thou tell me why ? " XIV. u 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 thins his ranks, For which the Giaour may give him thanks 1 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, * ° IVJjocadar," one of the attendants who precedes a man of authority. — £. O *> 194 BYRON'S POEMS. Unto thy cell will Selim come : Then softly from the Haram creep, Where we may wander by the deep i Our garden-battlements are steep ; Nor these will rash intruder climb To list our words, or stint our time ; And if he doth, I want not steel Which some have felt, and more may fccL Then shalt thou learn of Selim more Than thou hast heard or thought before: Trust me, Zuleika — fear not me ! Thou knov/st I hold a Haram key." "Fear thee, my Selim ! ne'er till now Did word like this " u Delay not thcv, I keep the key — and Haroun's guard Have some, and hope of more reward. To-night, Zuleika, thou shalt hear My tale, my purpose, and my (ear : I am not, love, what I appear." *$■ CANTO THE SECOND. 1. The winds are high on Helle's wave, As on that night of stormy water, When Love, who sent, forgot to save The young, the beautiful, the brave, Th6 lonely hope of Sestos' daughter. Oh ! when alone along the sky Her turret-torch was blazing high, Though rising gale, and breaking foam, And shrieking sea-birds wara'd him home And clouds aloft and tides below, With signs and sounds, forbade to go, He could not see, he would not hear, Or sound or sign foreboding fear ; His eye but saw the light of love, The only star it hail'd above ; His ear but rang with Hero's song, u Ye waves, divide not lovers long ! " That tale is old, but love anew May nerve young hearts to prove as true. n. The winds are high, and Helle's tide Rolls darkly heaving to the main ; And Night's descending shadows hide That field with blood bedew'd in vain, The desert of old Priam's pride ; The tombs, sole relics of his reign, "*T THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 195 All — Gave immortal dreams that could beguile The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle ! ill. Oh ! yet — for there my steps have been ; These feet have press'd the sacred shore, These limbs that buoyant wave hath borue— Minstrel ! with thee to muse, to mourn, To trace again those fields of yore, Behoving every hillc*»k green Contains no fableu nero's ashes, And that around the undoubted scene Thine own "broad Hellespont" still dashes/ Be long my lot, and cold were he Who there could gaze denying thee ! TV. The night hath closed on Helle's stream, Nor yet hath risen on Ida's hill That moon, which shone on his high theme J No warrior chides her peaceful beam, But conscious shepherds bless it still. Their flocks are grazingon the mound Of him who felt the Cardan's arrow : That mighty heap of gather'd ground Which Ammon's son ran proudly round, 1 By nations raised, by monarchs crown' d ; Is now a lone and nameless barrow ! Within — thy dwelling-place how narrow ! Without — can only strangers breathe The name of him that was beneath ; Dust long outlasts the storied stone ; But Thou — thy very dust is gone l V. Late, late to-night will Dian cheer The swain, and chase the boatman's fear ; Till then — no beacon on the cliff May shape the course of struggling skiff ; The scatter' d lights that skirt the bay, All, one by one, have died away ; The only lamp of this lone hour T s glimmering in Zuleika's tower • The wiangiing about this epithet, " the broad Hellespont," or the '* boundless Hel- lespont," whether it means one or the other, or what it means at all, has been beyond all possibility of detail. I have even heard it disputed on the spot ; and not foreseeing a »peedy conclusion to the controversy, amused myself with swimming across it in lie mean time, and probably may again, before the point is settled. Indeed, the question as to the truth of " the tale of Troy divine " still continues, much of it resting upon the talismanic word aneipos : probably Homer had the same notion of distance that a coquette has oftime.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. — B. t Before his Persian invasion, and crowned the altar with laurel, &c. He was after- wards imitated by Caracalla in his race. It is believed that the last also poisoned a friend, oamed Festus, for the sake of new Patrocian games. I have *een the sheep feeding OB the tombs ol .gsietes and Antilochna : the first is in the centre of the plain.— A o£ ■4f e 196 BYRON'S POEMS. Yes ! there is light in that lone chamber., And o'er her silken ottoman Are thrown the fragrant beads of amber. O'er which her fairy fingers ran ;* Near these, with emerald rays beset* (How could she thus that gem forget ?) Her mother's sainted amulet, f Whereon engraved the Koorsee text Could smooth this life, and win the next; And by her ComboloioJ lies A Koran of illumined dyes ; And many a bright emblazon'd rhyme By Persian scribes redeem'd from time ; And o'er those scrolls, not oft so mute, Reclines her now neglected lute ; And round her lamp of fretted gold Bloom flow'rs in urns of China's mould ; Tne richest work of Iran's loom, And Sheeraz' tribute of perfume ; All that can eye or sense delight Are gather'd in that gorgeous room : But yet it hath an air of gloom. She, of this Peri cell the sprite, What doth she hence, and on so rude a night? VL Wrapt in the darkest sable vest, Which none save noblest Moslem wear, To guard from winds of heaven the breast As heaven itself to Selim dear, With cautious steps the thicket threading, And starting oft, as through the glade The gust its hollow moanings made ; Till on the smoother pathway treadiDg, More free her timid bosom beat, The maid pursued her silent guide ; And though her terror urged retreat, How could she quit her Selim's side ? How teach her tender lips to chide t vn. They reach'd at length a grotto, hewn By nature, but enlarged by art, Where oft her lute she wont to tune, And oft her Korau conn'd apart ; " ■ jen rubbed, the amber is susceptible of a perfume, which If slight but not dLa , -jsble.-S. t The belief in amulets engraved on gems, or inclosed in gold boxes, containing Kraps from the Koran, worn round the neck, wrist, or arm, is still universal in the East. The Koorsee (throne) verse in the second chapter of the Koran describes the attributes of the Most High, and is engraved in this manner, and worn by the pious, as the most esteemed fcnd sublime of all sentences. — B. % " Comboloio "— a Turkish rosary. The MSS., particularly those of the Persians, are richly adorned and illuminated. The Greek females are kept in utter ignorance ; but many of the Turkish girls are highly accomplished, though not actually qualified for a Christian coterie. Perhaps some of our own " bluet" mij.:.' act be the worse lor bleach- ^< THE BRIDE OFABYDOS. 197 And oft in youthful reverie She dream'd what Paradise might be . Where woman's parted soul shall go Her Prophet had disdain'd to show ; But Selim's mansion was secure, Nor deem'd she, could he long- endure His bower in other worlds of bliss, Without her, most beloved in this ! Oh ! who so dear with him could dwell! What Houri soothe him half so well '/ vm. Since last she visited the spot Some change seem'd wrought within the grcfc : It might be only that the night Disguised things seen by better light : That brazen lamp but dimly threw A ray of no celestial hue ; But in a nook within the cell Her eye on stranger objects fell. There arms were piled, not such as wield The turban' d Delis in the field ; But brands of foreign blade and hilt, And one was red — perchance with guilt ! Ah ! how without can blood be spilt ? A cup too on the board was set That did net seem to hold sherbet. What may this mean ? she turn'd to see Her Selim— " Oh ! can this be he V IX. His robe of pride was thrown aside, His brow no high-crown'd turban bore, But in its stead a shawl of red, Wreathed lightly round, his temples wore ! That dagger, on whose hilt the gem Were worthy of a diadem, No longer glitter'd at his waist, Where pistols unadorn'd were braced ; And from his belt a sabre swung, And from his shoulder loosely hung The cloak of white, the thin capote That decks the wandering Candiote : Beneath — his golden plated vest Clung like a cuirass to his breast ; The greaves below his knee that wound With silvery scales were sheathed and bound. But were it not that high command Spake in his eye, and tone, and hand, All that a careless eye could see In him was some young Galiongee.* • "Galiongee" — or Galiongl, a sailor, that is, a Turkish sailor; the Greeks navigate, the Turks work the gnus. Their dress is picturesque; and I hare seen the Capitan PacUa *&« — — 4 198 BYRON'S POEMS. "I sdd 1 was not what I seem'd ; And now thou seest my words were true i I have a tale thou hast not dream'd. If sooth — its truth must others rue. My story now 'twere vain to hide, I must not see thee Osman's bride : But had not thine own lips declared How much of that young heart I shared, I could not, must not, yet have shown The darker secret of my own. In this I speak not now of love ; That, let time, truth, and peril prove : But first — Oh ! never wed another — Zuleika ? I am not thy brother ! " XI. " Oh ! not my brother ! — yet unsay — God ! am I left alone on earth To mourn — I dare not curse — the day That saw my solitary birth ? Oh ! thou wilt love me now no more ! My sinking heart foreboded ill ; But know me all I was before, Thy sister — friend — Zuleika still. Thou ledd'st me here perchance to kill ; If thou hast cause for vengeance, see My breast is offer'd — take thy fill ! Far better with the dead to be Than live thus nothing now to thee ; Perhaps far worse, for now I know Why Giaffir always seem'd thy foe ; And I, alas ! am Giaffir's child, For whom thou wert contemn'd, reviled. If not thy sister — wouldst thou save My life, oh 1 bid me be thy slave ! " xn. " My slave, Zuleika ! — nay, I'm thine : But, gentle love, this transport calm, Thy lot shall yet be link'd with mine ; I swear it by our Prophet's shrine, And be that thought thy sorrow's balm, 3o may the Koran verse display'd* Upon its steel direct my blade, raui* thsn once wearing it as a kind of incog. Their legs, however, are ^neraDy nak«*l The buskins described in the text as sheathed behind with silver, are those of an Amaal robber, who was my host (he had quitted the profession) at his Pyrgo, near Gastouni, in .ue Morea ; they were plated in scales one over the other, like the back of an anus- slillo.— B. * The characters on all Turkish scimitars contain sometimes the name of the place ol thoir 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 v road, and the edge notched into serpentine curves like the ripple of water, or the Aveiing of A&nie. I asked the Armenian who sold it what poseiUe use such ft ngiurt N/ <> THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 199 In danger's hour to guard us both, As I preserve that awful oatli ! The name in which thy heart hath pridtid Must change ; but, my Zuloika, know, That tie is widen'd, not divided, Although thy sire 's my deadliest fofe My father was to G iaffir all That Selim late was deem'd to tht ; That brother wrought a brother's i; But spared, at least, my infancy ; And lull'd me with a vain deceit That yet a like return may meet. He rear'd me, not with tender help, But like the nephew of a Cain ;* He watch'd me like a lion's whelp, That gnaws and yet may break his obsdx My father's blood in every vein Is boiling ; but for thy dear sake No present vengeance will I take : Though here I must no more reinaui. But first, beloved Zuleika ! hear How Giaffir wrought this deed of fear, xin. " How first their strife to rancour grow, If love or envy made them foes, It matters little if I knew ; In fiery spirits, slights, though few And thoughtless, will disturb repose. In war Abdallah's arm was strong, Remember'd yet in Bosniac song, And Paswan's rebel hordes attest t How little love they bore such guest : His death is all I need relate, The stern effect of Giaffir's hate ; And how my birth disclosed to me, Whate'er beside it makes, hath made mo free. XIV. " When Paswan, after years of strife, At last for power, but first for life, coold add : he said, in Italian, that he did not know ; but the Mussulmans tiad an 1ri.es that those of this form gave a severer wound ; and liked it because it was " piu faroce." I did not much admire the reason, but bought it for its peculiarity.— B. Another peculiarity of some Turkish scimitars is that they are hollow at the back of the blade, and that a ball of quicksilver is placed in this hollow, which, running with the blow, gives an additional weight or force to it. * It is to be observed, that every allusion to any thing or personage in the Old Testa- LD.eut, such as the Ark, or Cain, is equaUy 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-Adarnites. Solomon is the monarch of all necromancy, and Moses a prophet inferior only to Christ and Mahomet. Zuleika is the Persian name lI Potiphar's wife ; and her amour with Joseph constitutes one of the finest poems in their language. It is, therefore, no violation of costume to put the names of Cain, or Noah, Into the mouth of a Moslem. — B. t P»swan Oglou, the rebel of Widdin, who, tor the last yean of hia life, set the vhol« power of th» vnrtQ a t defiance. — 3 200 B YR ON 'S POEMS. \a Widdin's walls too proudly sate, Our Pachas rallied round the state ; Nor last nor least in high command, Each brother led a separate band ; They gave their hoi-setails to the wind,* And mustering in Sophia's plain, Their tents were pitch'd, their posts assign'd To one, alas ! assign'd in vain ! What need of words ? the deadly bowl, By Giaffir's order drugg'd and given, With venom subtle as his soul, Dismiss'd Abdallah's hence to heaven. Reclined and feverish in the bath, He, when the hunter's sport was up, But little deem'd a brother's wrath To quench his thirst had such a cup : The bowl a bribed attendant bore ; He drank one draught, nor needed more ! f If ttiou my tale, Zuleika, doubt, Call Haroun — he can tell it out. XV. " The deed once done, and Paswan's feud In part suppress'd, though ne'er subdued, Abdallah's pachalic was gain'd : — Thou know'st not what in our Divan Can wealth procure for worse than man— Abdallah's honours were obtain' d By him a brother's murder stain' d ; 'Tis true, the purchase nearly drain'd His ill got treasure, soon replaced. Wouldst question whence ? Survey the w^te, And ask the squalid peasant how His gains repay his broiling brow ! — Why me the stern usurper spared, Why thus with me his palace shared, I know not. Shame, regret, remorse, And little fear from infant's force ; Besides, adoption as a son By him whom Heaven accorded none, Or some unknown cabal, caprice, Preserved me thus ; but not in peace : He cannot curb his haughty mood, Nor I forgive a father's blood ! XVI. " Within thy father's house are foes ; Not all who break his bread are true : c '» Horse-tail," the standard of a Pacha.— B. + Giaffir, Pacha of Argyro Castro, or Scutari, I am not sure which . was actuilly t&ken off by the Albanian Ali, in the manner described in the text. Ali Pacha, while I was i» Che country, married the daughter of his victim, some years after the event had takei place at a bath in Sophia, or Adrianople. The poison was mixed in the cup of coft* which it presented before the sherbet by the bath -keeper, after dressing.— 3 <} THE BRIDE OF A B YD OS. 201 To theso should I my birth disclose, His days, his very hours, were few : They only want a heart to lead, A hand to point them to the deed. But Haroun only knows — or knew — This tale, whose close is almost nigh : He in Abdallah's palace grew, And held that post in his serai, Which holds he here — he saw him die ! Rut what could single slavery do ? Avenge his lord ? alas ! too late ; Or save his son from such a fate? Me chose the last, and when elate With foes subdued, or friends betray' d, Proud Giaffir in high triumph sate, He led me helpless to his gate, And not in vain it seems essay'd To save the life for which he pray'd. The knowledge of my birth secured From all and each, but most from me; Thus Giaffir's safety was insured. Removed he too from Roumelie To this our Asiatic side, Far from our seats by Danube's tide, With none but Haroun, who retains Such knowledge — and that Nubian feels A tyrant's secrets are but chains, From which the captive gladly steals, And this, and more, to me reveals : Such still to guilt just Alia sends — Slaves, tools, accomplices — no friends ! XVII. " All this, Zuleika, harshly sounds ! But harsher still my tale must be : Howe'er my tongue thy softness wounds, Yet I must prove all truth to thee. I saw thee start this garb to see, Yet is it one I oft have worn, And long must wear : this Galic«gee, To whom thy plighted vow is sworn, Is leader of those pirate hordes, Whose laws and lives are on their swords ; To hear whose desolating tale Would make thy waning cheek more pale : Those arms thou seest my band have brought; The hands that wield are not remote ; This cup too for the rugged knaves Is fill'd — once quaffd, they ne'er repine : Our Prophet might forgive the slaves ; They're only infidels in wine ! XVIII. " What could I be ? Proscribed at home And taunted to a wish to roam ; *£> ^ I* 202 BYRON'S POEMS, And listless left — for Gia Sir's fear Denied the courser and the spear — Though oft— Oh, Mahomet ! how oft ! In full Divan the despot scoff' d, As if my weak unwilling hand Refused the bridle or the brand : He ever went to war alone, And pent me here untried — unknoArn ; To Haroun's care with women left, By hope unblest, of fame bereft. While thou — whose softness long endear'cl, Though it unmann'd me, still had cheer' d— To Brusa's walls for safety sent, Awaitedst there the field's event, Haroun, who saw my spirit pining Beneath inaction's sluggish yoke, Ilis captive, though with dread, resigning My thraldom for a season broke, On promise to return before The day when Giaffir's charge was o'er " 'Tis vain — my tongue can not impart , My almost drunkenness of heart, When first this liberated ey« Survey'd Earth, Ocean, Sun, and Sky, As if my spirit pierced them througn, And all their inmost wonders knew ! One word alone can paint to thee That more than feeling — I was Free ! Ev'n for thy presence ceased to pine ; The World — nay — Heaven itself was mine J XIX. " The shallop of a trusty Moor Convey'd me from this idle shore ; I long'd to see the isles that gem Old Ocean's purple diadem : I sought by turns, and saw them all ;• But when and where I join'd the crew, With whom I'm pledged to rise or fail, When all that we design to do Is done, 'twill then be time more meet To tell thee, when the tale 's complete. XX. "'Tis true they are a lawless brood, But rough in form, nor mild in mood ; And every creed, and every race, With them hath found — may find — a place : But open speech, and ready hand, Obedience to their chief's command ; 9 The Turkish notions of almost all UlAnds are confined \» the Archipelago, *.!osa aiied&d to.— 3. «<> -6 <> THE BRIDE OE ABYDOS. 203 A soul for every enterprise, Thut never sees with terror's eyes ; Friendship for each, and faith to all, And vengeance vow'd for those who fall, Have made them fitting instruments For more than ev'n my own intents. And some — and T have studied all, Distingulsh'd from the vulgar rank, But chiefly to my council call The wisdom of the cautious Frank — And some to higher thoughts aspire, The last of Lambro's patriots there* Anticipated freedom share ; And oft around the cavern fire On visionary schemes debate, To snatch the Rayahs + from their fato>. So let them ease their hearts with prate Of equal rights, which man ne'er knew ; I have a love for freedom too. Ay ! let me like the ocean-Patriarch roam ; !£ Or only know on land the Tartar's home !§ My tent on shore, my galley on the sea, Are more than cities and serais to me : Borne by my steed, or wafted by my sail, Across the desert, or before the gale. Bound where thou wilt, my barb ! or glide, my prow 1 But be the star that guides the wanderer, Thou, Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my bark ; The Dove of peace and promise to mine ark ! Or, since that hope denied in worlds of strife, Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life ! The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray ! Blest — as the Muezzin's strain from Mecca's wall To pilgrims pure and prostrate at his call ; Soft — as the melody of youthful days, That steals the trembling tear of speechless praise ; Deal' — as his native song to Exile's ears, Shall sound each tone thy long-loved voice endears. For thee in those bright isles is built a bower Blooming as Aden in its earliest hour. || A thousand swords, with Selim's heart and hand, Wait — wave — defend — destroy — at thy command V * L^rabro Canzsni, a GreeSc, famous for his efforts in 1789-90 for the independence o{ biacouutry. Abandoned by the Russians, he became a pirate, and the Archipelago w,%* Lhe scene of his enterprises. He is said to be still alive at Petersburg. lie and Riga aw the two most celebrated of the Greek revolutionists. — B. | " Rayahs," — all who pay the capitation tax, called the "Haratch." — B. X The first of voyages is one of the few with which the Mussulmans profess mucb acquaintance. — B. § The wandering life of the Arabs, Tartars, and Turkomans, will be found well detailed in any book of Eastern travels. That it possesses a charm peculiar to itself, cannot be denied. A young French renegado confessed to Chateaubriand, that he nevei lound himself alone, galloping in the desert, without a sensation approaching V rapture, which was indescribable. — B. \ " Jannat al -Aden," the perpetual abode, the Mussulman parsdiat. — B. -^ 204 BYRON'S POEMS. Girt by my band, Zuleika at my side, The spoil of nations shall bedeck my bridG. The Haram's languid years of listless ease Are well resign'd for cares — for joys like these : Not blind to fate, I see, where'er I rove, Unnumber'd perils — but ene only love ! Yet well my toils shall that fond breast repay, Though fortune frown, or falser friends betray. How dear the dream in darkest hours of ill, Should all be changed, to find thee faithful stiii. i Be but thy soul, like Selim's, firmly shown ; To thes be Selim's tender as thine own ; To soothe each sorrow, share in each delight, Blend every thought, do all — but disunite ! Once free, 'tis mine our horde again to guide ; Friends to each other, foes to aught beside : Yet there we follow but the bent assign'd By fatal Nature to man's warring kind : Mark ! where his carnage and his conquests cease- ! He makes a solitude, and calls it — peace ! F like the rest must use my skill or strength, But ask no land beyond my sabre's length •» Power sways but by division — her resource The blest alternative of fraud or force ! Ours be the last ; in time deceit may come, When eities cage us in a social home : There ev'n thy soul might err — how oft the heart Corruption shakes which peril could not part ! And woman, more than man, when death or wo?, Or even Disgrace, would lay her lover low, Sunk in the lap of Luxury will shame- Away Suspicion ! — not Zuleika's name ! But life is hazard at the best ; and here No more remains to win, and much to fear : Y"es, fear — the doubt, the dread of losing thee, By Osman's power, and Giaffir's stern decree. That dread shall vanish with the favouring gale, Which Love to-night hath promised to my sail : No danger daunts the pair his smile hath bless'd, Their steps still roving, but their hearts at rest. With thee all toils are sweet, each clime hath chairns Earth — sea alike — our world within our arms ! Ay — let the loud winds whistle o'er the deck, So that those arms cling closer round my neck : The deepest murmur o\ this lip shall be No sigh for safety, but a prayer tor thee ! The war of elements no fears impart To Love, whose deadliest bane is human Art : There he the only rocks our course can check ; Here moments menace — there are years of wreck 1 But hence ye thoughts that rise in Horror's shape f This hour bestows, or ever bars escape. Few words remain of mine my tale to close : Of thine but one to waft us from our foes 1 —>& Dauntless he stood—" 'Tis come— soon past- One kiss, Zuleika— 'tis my last." Bride of Abydos, canto ii. 23 -e* THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 205 Yea — fo6t> — to me will Giaffir's hate decline ? A.nd is not Osman, who would part us, thine ? XXI. *'His head and faith from doubt and death Return'd in time my guard to save ; Few heard, none told, that o'er the wave From isle to isle I roved the while : And since, though parted from my band, Too seldom now I leave the land, No deed they've done, nor deed shall do, Ere I have heard and doom'd it too : I form the plan, decree the spoil, 'Tis fit I oftener share the toil. But now too long I've held thine ear ; Time presses, floats my bark, and here We leave behind but hate and fear. To-morrow Osman with his train Arrives — to-night must break thy chain : And wouldst thou save that haughty Bey, Perchance, his life who gave thee thine, With me this hour away — away ! But yet, though thou art plighted 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 !" xxn. Zuleika, mute and motionless, Stood like that statue of distress, When, her last hope for ever gone, The mother harden'd into stone ; All in the maid that eye could see Was but a younger Niobe. But ere her lip, or even her eye, Essay'd to speak, or look reply, Beneath the garden's wicket porch Far flash'd on high a blazing torch ! Another — and another — and another — ■ " Oh ! fly — no more — yet now my more than brother 1' Far, wide, through every thicket spread, The fearful lights are gleaming red ; Nor these alone — for each right hand Is ready with a sheathless brand. They part, pursue, return, and wheel With searching flambeau, shining steel ; And last of all, his sabre waving, Stern Giaffir in his fury raving : — s 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 — 'tis my last : H> 206 BYRON'S POEMS. But yet my band not far from shore May hear this signal, see the flash ; Yet now too few — the attempt were rasi. : No matter — yet one effort more. " Forth to the cavern mouth he stepp'd ; His pistol's echo rang on high, Zuleika started not, nor wept, Despair benumb'd her breast and eye ! — " They hear me not, or if they ply Their oars, 'tis but to see me die ; That sound hath drawn my foes moro nigb« Then forth my father's scimitar, Thou ne'er hast seen less equal war ! Farewell, Zuleika ! — Sweet ! retire : Yet stay within — here linger safe, At thee his rage will only chafe. Stir not — lest even to thee perchance Some erring blade or ball should glance. Fear'st thou for him ? — may L 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 feel ! " XXIV. One bound he made, and gain'd the sand : Already at his feet hath sunk The foremost of the prymg band, A gasping head, a quivering trunk : Another falls — but round him close A swarming circle of his foes ; From right to left his path he cleft, And almost met the meeting wave : His boat appears — not five oars' length — His comrades strain with desperate streugth- Oh ! are they yet in time to save ? His feet the foremost breakers lave ; His band are plunging in the bay, Their sabres glitter through the spray ; Wet- —wild — unwearied to the strand They struggle — now they touch the land ! They come — 'tis but to add to slaughter — His heart's best blood is on the water ! • XXV. Escaped from shot, unharm'd by steely 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, A nd the last death-blow dealt his hand — Ah ! wherefore did he turn to look ^or her his eye but soupht in vai^ ? ■q *<> THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. ZO y That pause, that fatal gaze he took, Hath doom'd his death or fix'd his chain, Sad proof, in peril and in pain, How late will Lover's hope remain ! His back was to the dashing spray ; Behind, but close, his comrades lay, When, at the instant, hiss'd the ball — " So may the foes of Giaffir fall ! " Whose voice is heard ? whose carbine rang ? Whose bullet through the night-air sang, Too nearly, deadly aim'd to err ? 'Tis thine — Abdallah's murderer ! The father slowly rued thy hate, The son hath found a quicker fate : Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling, The whiteness of the sea-foam troubling — If aught his lips essay'd to groan, The rushing billows choked the tone ! XXVI. Morn slowly rolls the clouds away ; Few trophies of the fight are there : The shouts that shook the midnight bay Are silent ; but some signs of fray That strand of strife may bear. And fragments of each shiver'd brand ; Steps stamp'd ; and dash'd into the sand The print of many a struggling hand May there be mark'd ; nor far remote A broken torch, an oarless boat ; Lnd tangled on the weeds that heap The beach where shelving to the deep There lies a white capote ! 'Tis rent in twain — one dark-red stain The wave yet ripples o'er in vain : But where is he who wore ? Ye ! who would o'er his relics weep, Go, seek them where the surges sweep Their burthen round Sigaeum's steep, And cast on Lemnos' shore : The sea-birds shriek above the prey, O'er which their hungry beaks delay, As shaken on his restless pillow, His head heaves with the heaving billow J That hand, whose motion is not hfe, Yet feebly seems to menace strife, Flung by the tossing tide on high, Then levell'd with the wave — What recks it, though that corse shall 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, H H^4 208 BYRON'S POEMS. Had seen those scatfcer'd limbs composed, And mourn'd above his turban-stone,* That heart hath burst — that eye was closed — Yea — closed before his own ! xxvn. By Helle's stream there is a voice of wail ! And woman's eye is wet — man's cheek is pale : Zuleika ! last of Giaffir's race, Thy destined lord is come too late : He sees not — ne'er shall see — thy face ! Can he not hear The loud Wul-wulleh warn his distant ear ?t Thy handmaids weeping at the gate, The Koran-chanters of the hymn of fate, The silent slaves with folded arms that wait, Sighs in the hall, and shrieks upon the gale, Tell him thy tale ! Thou didst not view thy Selim fall ! That fearful moment when he left the cave Thy heart grew chill : He was thy hope — thy joy — thy love — thine all — And that last thought on him thou couldst not save Sufficed to kill ; Burst forth in one wild 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 first I Thrice happy ! ne'er to feel nor fear the force Of absence, shame, pride, hate, revenge, remorse ! And, oh ! that pang where more than madness lies ! The worm that will not sleep — and never dies ; Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly night, That dreads the darkness, and yet loathes the light, That winds around, and tears the quivering heart ! Ah ! wherefore not consume it — and depart ! Woe to thee, rash and unrelenting chief! Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thy head, Vainly the sackcloth o'er thy limbs doth spread ; By that same hand Abdallah — Selim — bled. Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief : Thy pride of heart, thy bride for Osman's bed, She, whom thy sultan had but seen to wed, Thy Daughter 's dead ! Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely beam, The Star hath set that shone on Helle's stream. What quench'd its ray ? — the blood that thou hast shed ! Hark ! to the hurried question of Despair : "Where is my child?" — an Echo answers — "Where?" % • A turban is carved in stone above the graves of men only. — B. f The death -song of the Turkish women. The " silent slaves" are the mes, who&c actions of decorum forbid complaint in public. — B. % " I came to the pkice of my birth and cried, ' Tne friends of my youth, where are they 1' and an Echo answered, ' Where are they ?' "—From an Arabic MS. The above quotation (from which the idea in the text is taken) must be already famtfiax -4 ■$■ THE BRIDE OF ABTtDOS. 209 XXVIII. Within the place of thousand tomb*. That shine beneath, while dark above, The sad but living cypress glooms, And withers not, though branch and loaf Are stamp'd with an eternal grief, Like early unrequited Love, One spot exists, which ever bloomn, Ev'n in that deadly grove — A single rose is shedding there Its lonely lustre moek 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 Houri strings, His long entrancing note ! It were the Bulbul ; but his throat, Though mournful, pours not such a strain .' For they who listen cannot leave The spot, but linger there and grieve, As if they loved in vain ! And yet so sweet the tears they shed, 'Tis sorrow so unmix'd with dread, They scarce can bear the morn to break That melancholy spell, And longer yet would weep and wake, He sings so wild and well ! But when the day-blush bursts from high, Expires that magic melody. And some have been who could believe (So fondly youthful dreams deceive, Yet harsh be they that blame) That note so piercing and profound Will shape and syllable its sound Into Zuleika s name.* to •i?«ry Te. -&♦ SONNETS. 21 r i'EY check is pale with thought, but not from woe And vet so lovely, that it mirth could flush Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush, ''v heart would wish awuy that ruder glow : And dazzle not thy deep blue eyes — but, oh ! While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush, And into mine my mother's weakness rush, Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow. For, through thy long dark lashes low depending,, The soul of melancholy Gentleness Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending, Above all pain, yet pitying all distress ; At once such majesty with sweetness blendicg, 1 worship more, but cannot love thee less. v y h^+ ♦& THE C R 8 A I R. TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ,. !l?7 CKA» MoORK, ] uBinfATK to you the last production with which I shrill trespass on public patience, and your indulgence, for some years ; and I own that 1 teel anxious to avail myself of this latest and only opportunity of adorning my pages with a name, consecrated by unshaken public principle, and the most undoubted and various talents. While Ireland ranks you among the firmest of her patriots ; while you stand alone the first of her bards in U«r estimation, and Britain repeats and ratifies the decree, permit one, whose only regret, since our first acquaintance, has been the years he had lost before it commenced, to add the humble but sincere suffrage of friendship, to the voice of more than one nation. It will at least prove to you, that 1 have neither forgotten the gratification derived from your so- ciety, nor abandoned the prospect of its renewal, whenever your leisure or Inclination allows you to atone to your friends for too long an absence. It is said among those friends, I trust truly, that you are engaged in the com- position of a poem whose scene w r ill be laid in the East : none can do those scenes so much justice. The wrongs of your own country, the magnificent and fiery spiiit of her sons, the beauty and feeling' of her daughters, may there be found ; and Collins, when he denominated his Oriental his Iris4i Eclogues, was not aware how true, at least, was a part of his parallel. Your imagination will create a warmer sun, and less clouded sky ; but wildness, tenderness, and originality, are part of your national claim of oriental descent, to which you have already thus far proved your title more clearly than the most zealous of your country's antiquarians. May I add a few words on a subject on which all men are supposed to be fluent, and none agreeable ? — Self. I have written much, and published more than enough to demand a longer silence than I now meditate ; but. for some years to come, it is my intention to tempt no further the award of " Gods, men, nor columns." In the present composition I have at tempted not the most difficult, but, perhaps, the best adapted measure to our language, the good old and now neglected heroic couplet. The stanza of Spenser is perhaps too slow and dignified for narrative ; though, I confe ; s it is the measure most after my own heart : Scott alone, of the prese >t generation, has hitherto compietely triumphed over the fatal facility of the octosyllabic verse; and this is not the least victory of his fertile and mighty genius : in blank verse, Milton, Thomson, and our dramatists, are the beacons that shine along the deep, but warn us from the rough and barren rock on which they are kindled. The heroic couplet is not the most popu- lar measure, certainly ; but as I did not deviate into the other from a wish to flatter what is called public opinion, I shall quit it without further apology, and take my chance once more with that versification in which I have hitherto published nothing but compositions whose former circulation is part of my present, and will be of my future, regret. With regard to my story, and stories in general, I should have been glad to have rendered my personages more perfect and amiable, if possible, inasmuch as I have been sometimes criticised, and considered no less responsible for their deeds and qualities than if all had been personal. Be it so — if I have deviated into the gloomy vanity of" drawing from self," th« pictures are probably like, since they are unfavourable ; and if not, those <> ■H *&♦ THE CORSAIR. 213 who know me are undeceived, and those who do not, I have little interest In undeceiving. I have no particular desire that any but my acquaintance should think the author better than the beings of his imagining) but 1 cannot help a little surprise, and perhaps amusement, at some odd critical exceptions in the present instance, when I -ce several bards (far more deserving, I allow) in very reputable plight, and quite exempted from all participation in the faults of those heroes, who, nevertheless, might be found with little more morality than " The Giaour," and perhaps — but no — I must admit Childe Harold to be a very repulsive personage ; and as to his identity, those who like it must give him whatever "alias" they please. If, however, It were worth while to remove the impression, it might be of some service tome, that the man who is alike the delight of his readers and his friends, the poet of all circles, and the idol of his own, permits 01* here and elsewhere to subscribe myself, Most truly, And affectionately, His obedient servant, January 2, 1814. BYRON. THE CORSAIR. CANTO THE FIRST. O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea,* Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free, Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, Survey our empire, and behold our home ! These are our realms, no limits to their sway — Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey. Ours the wild life in tumult still to range From toil to rest, and joy in every change. Oh, who can tell ? not thou, luxurious slave ! Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave ; i* Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease ! Whom slumber soothes not — pleasure cannot please— Oh, who can tell save he whose heart hath tried, And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide, The exulting sense — the pulse's maddening play. That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way ? That for itself can woo the approaching fight, And turn what some deem danger to delight ; That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal, And where the feebler faint — can only feel — Feel — to the rising bosom's inmost core, It3 hope awaken and its spirit soar ? • The time in this poem may -seem too short for the occurrence* ; but the whole of the (Egean isles are within a few hours' sail of the continent, and the reader must be kind enough to take the wind as I have often found it. — B. t Byron's lameness made the water his element. Had he bsen a devoted hunter, or a soldier, his apostrophes would have been quite as wanr *n: ♦&* 2i 4 B IRON'S POEMS. No dread of death — if with us die our foes- — Save that it seems even duller than repose : Come when it will — we snatch the life of life — When lost — what recks it — by disease or strife i Let him who crawls enamour'd of decay, Cling to his couch, and sicken years away ; Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head J Ours — the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed. While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul, Ours with one pang — one bound — escapes control. His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave, And they who loath'd his life may gild his grave : Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed, When Ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead. For us, even banquets fond regrets supply In the red cup that crowns our memory • And the brief epitaph in danger's day, When those who win at length divide the prey, And cry, Remembrance saddening o'er each brow, How had the brave who fell exulted no+o I n. Such were the notes that from the Pirates' isle, Around the kindling watch-fire rang the while ; Such were the sounds that thrill'd the rocks alonj, And unto ears as rugged seem'd a song ! In scatter'd groups upon the golden sand, \They game — carouse — converse — or whet the brand J Select the arms — to each his blade assign, nd careless eye the blood that dims its shine ; pair the boat, replace the helm or oar, While others straggling muse along the shore ; For the wild bird the busy spring ^s set, Or spread beneath the sun the dripping ne l : Uaze where some distant sail a speck Bupf&tt, With all the thirsting eye of Enterprise ; Tell o'er the tales of many a night of toil, And marvel where they next shall seize a spoil : No matter where — their chief's allotment this ; Theirs, to believe no prey nor plan amiss, But who that Chief ? his name on every shore Is famed and fear'd — they ask and know no mors, With these he mingles not but to command ; Few are his words, but keen his eye and hand. Ne'er seasons he with mirth their jovial mess, But they forgive his silence for success. Ne'er for his up the purpling cup they fill, That goblet passes him un tasted still — And for his fare — the rudest of his crew Would that, in turn, have pass'd un tasted too ; Earth's coarsest bread, the garden's homeliest rootiv And scarce the summer luxury of fruits, His short repast in humbleness supply With ail a hermit's U>a.al would scarce iaay. +§*■ -4 * THE CORSAIR. 215 But while he shuns the grosser joys of sense, His mind seerns nourish'd by that abstinence. " Steer to that shore ! " — thoy sail. " Do this ! " — 'tis done ! " Now form and follow me ! " — the spoil is won. Thus prompt his accents and his actions still, And all obey and lew inquire his will ; To such, brief answer and contemptuous eye Convey reproof, nor further deign reply. III. " A sail ! — a sail ! " — a promised prize to Hope ! Her nation — flag — how speaks the telescope? No prize, alas ! — but yet a welcome sail : 1 he blood-red signal glitter? in the gale. Yes — she is ours — a home-returning bark — Blow fair, thou breeze ! — she anchors ere the dark. Already doubled is the cape — our bay Receives that prow which proudly spurns the spray. How gloriously her gallant course she goes ! Her white wings flying — never from her foes — She walks the waters like a thing of life, And seems to dare the elements to strife. Who would not brave the battle-fire — the wreck — To move the monarch of her peopled deck ? IV. Hoarse o'er her side the rustling cable rings : The sails are furl'd ; and anchoring round she swings ; And gathering loiterers on the land discern Her boat descending from the latticed stern. 'Tis mann'd — the oars keep concert to the strand, Till grates her keel upon the shallow sand. Hail to the welcome shout ! — the friendly speech ! When hand grasps hand uniting on the beach ; The smile, the question, and the quick reply, And the heart's promise of festivity ! The tidings spread, and gathering grows the crowd ; The hum of voices, and the laughter loud, And woman's gentler anxious tone is heard. — Friends' — husbands' — lovers' names in each dear word : " Oh ! are they safe ? we ask not of success — But shall we see them ? — will their accents bless ? ^'rom where the battle roars — the billows chafe — /hey doubtless boldly did — but who are safe ? Here let them haste to gladden and surprise, And kiss the doubt from these delighted eyes !" VI. " Where is our chief? for him we bear report — And doubt that joy — which hails our coming — short | Yet thus sincere — 'tis cheering, though so brief ; But, Juan ! instant fruide us to our chief : ^ & *e* 216 BYRON'S POEMS. Car greeting paid, we'll feast on oui 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— !N T ear 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." vn. 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 Much that" — " Peace, peace !" — he cuts their prating shcrt Wondering they turn, abash'd, while each to each Conjecture whispers in his muttering speech : They watch his glance with many a stealing look, To gather how that eye the tidings took ; But, this as if he guess'd, with head aside, Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or pride, He read the scroll — " My tablets, Juan, hark — Where is Gonsalvo?" "In the anchor'd bark.*' "There let him stay — to him this order bear. Back to your duty — for my course prepare : Myself this enterprise to-night will share." " To-night, Lord Conrad ? " " Ay ! at set of s*cr. : 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." & 4 -H-t THE CORSAIR. 217 VIII. They make obeisance and retire in haste, Too soon to seek again the watery waste : Yet they repine not — so that Conrad guides, And who dare question aught that he decides ? That man of loneliness and mystery, Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh ; Whose name appals the fiercest of his crew, And tints each swarthy cheek with sallower 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 own. Such hath it been— shall be — beneath the sun The many still must labour for the one ! Tis Nature's doom — but let the wretch who toils, Accuse not, hate not him who wears the spoils. Oh ! if he knew the weight of splendid chains, How light the balance of his humbler pains ! IX. Unlike the 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 vulgai men ; They gaze and marvel how — and still confess That thus it is, but why they cannot guess. Sun-burnt his cheek, his forehead high and pale The sable curls in wild profusion veil ; And oft perforce his rising lip reveals The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce conceals. Though smooth his voice, and calm his general miei% Still seems there something he would not have seeri i His features' deepening lines and varying hue At times attracted, yet perplex' d the view, As if within that murkiness of mind Work'd feelings fearful, and yet undefined ; Such might it be — that none could truly tell — Too close inquiry his stern glance would quell. There 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 bis changing cheek. 4" 4- & 2 1 8 BYRON'S POEMS. At once the observer's purpose to espy, And on himself roll back his scrutiny, Lest he to Conrad rather should betray Some secret thought, than drag that chief's to b THE CORSAIR. 221 Then give me all I ever ask'd — a tear, The first —last — sole reward of so muuh love 1 q He pass'd the portal — cross'd the corridore, /Ind reach'd the chamber as the strain gave c e; . "My own Medora ! sure thy song is sad"' — " In Conrad's absence wouldst thou have it glad ? Without thine ear to listen to my lay, itill must my song my thoughts, my soul betray : Still must each accent to my bosom suit, My heart unhush'd — although my lips were muto ! Oh ! many a night on this lono couch reclined, My dreaming fear with storms hath wing'd the win And where not sure, perplex'd, but pleased. 1 gueos'd At such as seem'd the fairest : thrice the hill My steps have wound to try the coolest rill ! Yes ! thy sherbet to-night will sweetly flow, — See how it sparkles in its vase of snow ! The grape's gay juice thy bosom never cheers ; Thou more than Moslem when the cup appears : Think not I mean to chide ; for I rejoice What others deem a penance is thy choice. But come, the board is spread ; our silver lamp Is trimm'd, and heeds not the sirocco's damp : Then shall my handmaids while the time along, And join with me the dance, or wake the song; Or my guitar, which still thou lov'st to hear, Shall soothe or lull — or, should it vex thine ear, We'll turn the tale by Ariosto told, Of fair Olympia, loved and left of old.* Why — thou wert worse than he who broke his vo'a To that lost damsel, shouldst thou leave me now ; Or even that traitor chief — I've seen thee smile, When the clear sky show'd Ariadne's isle, Which I have pointed from these cliffs the while ■ And thus, half sportive, half in fear, I said, Lest time should raise that doubt to more than dread Thus Conrad, too, will quit me for the main : Arid 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 i Since all must end in that wild word — farewell ! Yet would I fain — did time allow — disclose — Fear not — these are no formidable foes ; And here shall watch a more than wonted gu For sudden siege and long deferice prepared ; Nor be thou lonely — though thy lord 's away, Our matrons and thy handmaids with thee stay ; And tins thy comfort, that, when next we meet; Security shall make repose more sweet. • OrL-usdo Furioso. C^.nrc JO.— A ^ 4* She rose— she sprang — she clung' to his embrace, Till his heart heaved beneath her hidden face. Corsair, cant i. 14. -4* THE CORSATR. 223 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 al) the wildness of dishevell'd charms ; Scarce beat that bosom where his image dwelt So full — that feeling seem'd almost unfelt I Hark — peals the thunder of the signal-gun ! It told twas sunset — and he cursed that sun. Again — again — that form he madly press'd, Which mutely clasp'd, imploringly caress'd ! And tottering to the couch his bride he bore, One moment gazed — as if to gaze no more ; Felt — that for him earth held but her alone, Kiss'd her cold forehead — turn'd — is Conrad gone s xv. " And is he gone ?"— on sudden solitude How oft that fearful question will intrude ! " 'Twas but an instant past — and here he stood ! And now" — without the portal's porch she rush'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 those long, dark, and glistening lashes dew'd With drops of sadness oft to be renew'd. " He's gone ! " — against her heart that hand is drivea 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. "t <> 224 B YR ON ' S POEMS. On her he must not gaze, he must not think, There he might rest — but on Destruction's briak [ 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 seaboy on the mast, The anchors rise, the sails unfurling fast, The waving kerchiefs of the crowd that urge That mute adieu to those who stem the surge ; And more than all, his blood-red flag aloft, He marvell'd how his heart could seem so soft. Fire in his glance, and wildness in his breast, He feels of all his former self possess' d ; He bounds — he flies — until his footsteps reac h The verge where ends the cliff, begins the beach. There checks his speed ; but pauses less to bix The breezy freshness of the deep beneath, Than there his wonted statelier step renew ; Nor rush, disturb'd by haste, to vulgar view : For well had Conrad learn'd to curb the crowd, By arts that veil, and oft preserve the proud ; His was the loft} 7 port, the distant mien, That seems to shun the sight — and awes if seen : The solemn aspect, and the high-born eye, That checks low mirth, but lacks not courtesy ; All these he wielded to command assent : But where he wish'd to win, so well unbent, That kindness cancell'd fear in those who heard, And others' gifts show'd mean beside his word, When echo'd to the heart, as from his own, His deep yet tender melody of tone : But such was foreign to his wonted mood, He cared not what he soften'd, but subdued ; The evil passions of his youth had made Him value less who loved — than what obey'd. XVII. Around him mustering ranged his .'eady guard. Before him Juan stands — " Are all prepared \ " " They are — nay more — embark' d '. the latest boat "Waits but my chief " " My swoid, and m) eapcto/ Soon firmly girded on, and lightly slung, His belt and cloak were o'er his shoulders flung : " Call Pedro here ! " — He comes — and Conrad bends, With all the courtesy he deign'd his friends • *T* 4 +&> 7 HE CORSAIR. 22: "Receive these tablets, and peruse with care, Words of high trust and truth are graven thoro ; Double the guard, and when Ausehno's bark Arrives, let him alike these orders mark : In 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 dipp'd oars, and sparkling with the stroke, Around the waves' phosphoric* brightness broke ; They gain the vessel — on the deck he stands, Shrieks the shrill whistle —ply the busy hands — He marks how well the ship her helm obeys, How gallant all her crew — and deigns to praise. His eyes of pride to young Gonsalvo turn — Why doth he start, and inly seem to mourn ? Alas ! those eyes beheld his rocky tower, And live a moment o'er the parting 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 ends ; Before them burns the lamp, and spreads the cboxt, 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 falcondike the vessel new ; Pass'd the high headlands of each clustering isle, To gain their port — long — long ere morning smile : And soon the night-glass through the naiTOw bay Discovers where the Pacha's galleys lay. Count they each sail — and mark how there supine The lights in vain o'er heedless Moslem shine. Secure, unnoted, Conrad's prow pass'd by, A.nd anchor'd where his ambush meant to lie ; ■Screen'd from espial by the jutting cape, That rears on high its rude fantastic shape. Then rose his band to duty — not from sleep — Equipp'd for deeds alike on land or deep ; While lean'd their leader o'er the fretting flood, And calmly talk'd — and yet he talk'd of blood ! CANTO THE SECOND. "Conosceste i dubiosi deairi ?"— Dabib. I. In Coron's bay floats many a galley light, Through Coron's lattices the lamps are bright, For Seyd, the Pacha, makes a feast to-night : '* 0y r*ght, particularly in a wann latitude, every =tiofce «£ the oar, evc-ry naoKssi & itb bo»t or ship, Is foUowed bv a slight Hash like she-,t-'khtair j.. g t .j a i ^. l /.^^. i. m y. t ff u ^ u,. .. . ? o l M l ;, l v r ™T ' - ' Wl ' J. ? ' !*■■>>■. ' %"■ ' '* y SP- ».»"ji^jj H ^ 226 BYRON'S POEMS. A feast for promised triumph yet to como, When he shall drag the fetter'd Rovers homa; This hath he sworn by Alia and his sword, And faithful to his firman and his word, His summon'd prows collect along the coast, And great the gathering crews, and loud the boast; Already shared the captives and the prize, Though tar the distant foe they thus despise ; 'Vis but to sail — no doubt to-morrow's Sun Will see the Pirates bound — their haven won ! Meantime the watch may slumber, if they will, Nor only wake to war, but dreaming kill. Though fill, who can, disperse on shore and sock To flesh their glowing valour on the Greek ; IIow well such deed heroines the turban'd brave— To bare the sahre's edge before a slave ! Infest his dwelling — 1'Ut forbear to slay, Their anus are Btrong, yet merciful to-day, And do not deign to smite because they may ! Unless some gay eaprioe suggests the blow, To keep in practice for the coming foe. Revel and rout the evening hours beguile, And they who wish to wear a head must smile ; For Moslem mouths produce their choicest cheer, And hoard their curses, till the coast is clear. II. High in his hall reclines the turban'd Seyd ; Around — the bearded chiefs he came to lead. Removed the banquet* and the last pilaff — Forbidden draughts, 'tis said, he dared to quaff, Though to the rest the sober berry's juice,* The slaves bear round for riL r id Moslems' use ; The long chibouque's f dissolving cloud supply, While dance the Almas+ to wild minstrelsy. The rising morn will view the chiefs embark ; But waves are somewhat treacherous in the dark : And revellers may more securely sleep On silken couch than o'er the rugged deep, Feast there who can — nor combat till they must, And less to conquest than to Korans trust ; And yet the numbers crowded in his host Might warrant more than even the Pacha's boust. in. With cautious reverence from the outer gate, Slow stalks the slave, whose office there to wait, Bows his bent head — his hand salutes the floor, Ere yet his tongue the trusted tidings bore : "A captive Dervise, from the pirate's nest Escaped, is here — himself would tell the rest." § Coffee.— B. f Pipe — B. % Dancing girls.— A § It has been objected, that Conrad's entering disguised as a spy is oat of nuture y— Terhaps so. I nnd waamaias not unlike it in history. " Auiiuiu to eTplcrU wlllkilis Qwn eyes the suite of the Vanda's, Idajonaii venuirwd. & •f THE CORSAIR. *nt glittering casque, and sable plume, More glittering eve, and black brow's sabler gl< on;, Glared on the Moslems' eyea some a frit sprite, Whoso demon death-blow left ao hope for tight Thu wild confusion, and the swarthy glow Or flames on high and torches from below. The shriek of terror, and the mingling yell — For swords began to clash, and shouts to swell — Flung o'er that spot of earth the air of hell I Distracted, to and fro, the Hying slaves Behold but bloody shore and fiery waves ; Nought beeded they the Pacha's angry cry, They seize that Dervise ! — seize on Zatanai !* He saw their terror — check'd the first despair That urged him but to stand and perish there, Since far too early and too well obey'd, The flame was kindled ere the signal made : Ke saw their terror — from his baldric drew His bugle — brief the blast — but shrilly blew : 'Tis answer' d — " Well ye speed, my gallant crew ! Why did I doubt their quickness of career ? And deem design hail left me single here?" Sweeps his long arm — that sabre's whirling sway Sheds fast atonement for its first delay ; Completes his fury what their fear begun, And makes the many basely quail to one. The cloven turbans o'er the chamber spread, And scarce an arm dare rise to guard its head ■ Even Seyd, convulsed, o'erwhelmed with rage, surprise, Retreats before him, though he still defies. No craven he — and yet he dreads the blow, So much confusion magnifies his foe ! His blazing galleys still distract his sight, He tore his beard, and foaming fled the fight ;f For now the pirates pass'd the Haram gate, And burst within — and it were death to wait ; Where wild Amazement shrieking — kneeling throws The sword aside — in vain — the blood o'erflows ! The Corsairs pouring, haste to where within, Invited Conrad's bugle, and the din Of groaning victims, and wild cries for life, Proclaim'd how well he did the work of strife. They shout to find him grim and lonely there, A glutted tiger mangling in his lair ! But short their greeting — shorter his reply — "'Tis well — but Seyd escapes — and he must die — • Batan— B. A cemmon and not very novel effect of Mussulman anger. See Prices Eugene's Memoirs, p. 24. " The Seraskier reoeived a wound in the thigh ; he pluckbd 15 nifi be&flf by the roots, because he was obliged to &«it the field."— £, w ; ;>. 4 230 BYRON'S POEMS. Mucn hath been done — but more remains to do — Their galleys blaze — why not their city too !" v. Quick at the word — they seized him each a torch, And fire the dome from minaret to porch. A stern delight was fix'd in Conrad's eyo, But sudden sunk — for on his ear the cry Of women struck, and like a deadly knell Knock'd at that heart unmoved by battle's yell. "Oh ! burst the Haram — wrong not on your li.os One female form — remember — ice have wives. On them such outrage Vengeance will repay ; Man is our foe, and such 'tis ours to slay ; Rut still we spared — must spare the weaker prey. Oh ! I forgot— but Heaven will not forgive If at my word the helpless cease to live : Follow who will — I go — we yet have time Our souls to lighten of at least a crime." lie climbs the crackling stair — he bursts the door, Nor feels his feet glow scorching with the floor ; His breath choked gasping with the volumed snioko, But still from room to room his way he broke. They search — they find — they save: with lusty arms Each bears a prize of unregarded charms ; Calm their loud fears ; sustain their sinking frames With all the care defenceless beauty claims : So well could Conrad tame their fiercest mood, And check the very hands with gore imbrued. But who is she ? whom Conrad's arms convey From reeking pile and combat's wreck — away — Who but the love of him he dooms to bleed ? The Haram queen — but still the slave of Seyd f VI. Brief time had Conrad now to greet Gulnare,* Few words to re-p.ssure the trembling fair ; For in that pause compassion snatch'd from war, The foe before retiring fast and far, With wonder saw their footsteps unpursued, First slowlier fled — then rallied — then withstood. This Seyd perceives — then first perceives how lev, Compared with his, the Corsair's roving crew, And blushes o'er his error, as he eyes The ruin wrought by panic and surprise. Alia il Alia ! Vengeance swells the cry — Shame mounts to rage that must atone or die ! And flame for flame and blood for blood must tell, The tide of triumph ebbs that flow'd too well — When wrath returns to renovated strife, And those who fought for conquest strike for life. Conrad beheld the danger — he beheld His followers faint by freshening foes repell'd : Ouhiarr.s fon&le nfttnej it mean* Ut&raily, the Sower of the pom^-rax^t*. — Ok A <&• THE CORSAIR. 231 " One eflbrt — one — to break the circling host ! " They form — unite — charge— waver — all is lost! Within a narrower ring compress'd, boset, Hopeless, not heartless, strive and Btru fie yet — Ah ! now they fight in firmest file no more, Hemm'd in — cut off — cleft down — ami trampled o'erj But each Btrikea singly, silently, and homo, and sinks outwearied rather than o'eroome, His last faint quittanco rendering with his breath, Till the blade glimmers in the grasp of death ! VII. But first, ere came the rallying host to blows, And rank to rank, and hand to hand oppose, Gulnare and all her Ilaram handmaids heed, Safe in the dome of one who held their croed, By Conrad's mandate safely were bestow'd, And dried those tears for life and fame that flow'd : And when that dark -eyed lady, young Gulnare, Recall 'd those thoughts late wandering in despair, Much did she marvel o'er the courtesy That smooth'd his accents, sot'ten'd in his eye : 'Twas strange — that robber thus with gore bedew'd Seem'd gentler then than Seyd in fondest mood. The Pacha woo'd as if he deem'd the slave Must seem delighted with the heart he <^ave ; The Corsair vow'd protection, soothed affright. As if his homage were a woman's right. " The wish is wrong — nay, worse for female — vain : Yet much I long to view that chief again ; If but to thank for, what my fear forgot, The life — my loving lord remember'd not ! " VIII. And him she saw, where thickest carnage spread, But gather'd breathing from the happier dead ; Far from his band, and battling with a host That deem right dearly won the field he lost, Fell'd — bleeding — baffled of the death he sought, And snatch'd to expiate all the ills he wrought ; Preserved to linger and to live in vain, While Vengeance ponder' d o'er new plans of pahi, And stanch'd the blood she saves to shed again — But drop by drop, for Seyd's unglutted eye Would doom him ever dying — ne'er to die ! Can this be he ? triumphant late she saw, When his red hand's wild gesture waved, a law ! 'Tis he indeed — disarm'd, but undepress'd, His sole regret the life he still possess'd ; His wounds too slight, though taken with f hat will, Which would have kiss'd the hand that then could kilL Oh, were there none of all the many given, To send his soul — he scarcely ask'd to heaven ? Must he alone of all retain his breath, Who more than all had striven and struck for death 1 j**' ♦&■ 4; 232 ■ BYPON'S POEMS. He deeply felt — what mortal hearts must fee!, When thus reversed on faithless fortune's wheel, For crimes committed, and the victor's threat 0. lingering tortures to repay the debt — He deeply, darkly felt ; but evil pride That led to perpetrate — now nerves to hide. Still in his stern and self-collected mien A conqueror's more than captive's air is seen, Though faint with wasting toil and stiffening wound, But few that saw — so calmly gazed around : Though the far shouting of the distant crowd, Their tremors o'er, rose insolently loud, The better warriors who beheld him near, Insulted not the foe who taught them fear ; And the grim guards that to his durance led, In silence eyed him with a secret dread. IX. The Leech was sent — but not in mercy — there, To note how much the life yet left could bear ; He found enough to load with heaviest chain, And promise feeling for the wrench of pain : To-morrow — yea — to-morrow's evening sun Will sinking see impalement's pangs begun. And rising with the wonted blush of morn Behold how well or ill those pangs are bome. Of torments this the longest and the worst, Which adds all other agony to thirst, That day by day death still forbears to slake, While famish'd vultures Hit around the stake. " Oh ! water — water !" — smiling Hate denies The victim's prayer — for if he drinks — he dies. This was his doom ; — the Leech, the truard, were gone And left proud Conrad fetter'd and alone. 'Twere vain to paint to what his feelings grew — It even were doubtful if their victim knew. There is a war, a chaos of the mind, When all its elements convulsed — combined — Lie dark and jarring with perturbed force, And gnashing with impenitent Remorse ; That juggling fiend — who never spake before — But cries, " I warn'd thee ! " when the deed is cfdBk Vain voice ! the spirit burning but unbent, Hay writhe — rebel — the weak alone repent ! Even in that lonely hour when most it feels, And, to itself, all — all that self reveals, No single passion, and no ruling thought That leaves the rest as once unseen, unsought ; But the wild prospect when the soul reviews — All rushing through their thousand avenuet, Ambition's dreams expiring, love's regret, Endanger' d glory, liie itself beset ; 4 4 4h THE CORSAIR. 233 The joy untested, the contempi or hate 'Gainst those who fain would triumph in our fate ; The hopeless past, the hasting future driven Too quickly on to guess if hell or heaven ; Deeds, thoughts, and words, perhaps remember'd ac* tfo keenly till that hour, but ne'er forgot ; Things light or lovely in their acted time, But now to stern reflection each a crime ; The withering sense of evil unreveal'd, Not cankering less because the more conceal'd-— All, in a word, from which all eyes must start, That opening sepulchre — the naked heart Bares with its buried woes, till Pride awake, To snatch the mirror from the soul — and break. Ay — Pride can veil, and Courage brave it all. All — all — before — beyond — the deadliest fall. Each hath some fear, and he who least betrays, The only hypocrite deserving praise : Not the loud recreant wretch who boasts and flies ; But he who looks on death — and silent dies. So steel'd by pondering o'er his far career, He half-way meets him, should he menace near ! XT. In the high chamber of his highest tower Sate Conrad, fetter'd in the Pacha's power. His palace perish'd in the flame — this fort Contain' d at once his captive and his court. Not much could Conrad of his sentence blame. His foe, if vanquish'd, had but shared the same : — Alone he sate in solitude, and scann'd His guilty bosom — but that breast he mann'd : One thought alone he could not — dared not meet— " Oh, how these tidings will Medora greet ? " Then — only then — his clanking hands he raised, And strain'd with rage the chain on which he gazod ; But soon he found — or feign' d — or dream'd relief, And smiled in self-derision of his grief, " And now come torture when it will — or may, More need of rest to nerve me for the day !" This said, with languor to his mat he crept, And, whatsoe'er his visions, quickly slept. 'Twas hardly midnight when that fray begun, For Conrad's plans matured, at once were done: And Havoc loathes so much the waste of time, She scarce had left an uncommitted crime. One hour beheld him since the tide he stemm'd — Disguised — discover'd — conquering — ta'en — oondexna'd—' A chief on land — an outlaw on the deep — Destroying — saving — prison' d — and asleep ! xn. Es slept in calmest seeming — for his breath Wfcs hush'd so deep — Ah ! hnppy if 'n dejtth * * ♦e- 4 234 BYRON'S POEMS. He alept — Who o'er his placid slumber bends * His foes are gone — and here be hath no friende ; Is it some seraph sent to grant him grace ? No, 'tis an earthly form with heavenly face ! Its white arm raised a larup — yet gently hid, Lest the ray flash abruptly on the lid Of that closed eye, which opens but to pain, And once unclosed — but once may close again. That form, with eye so dark, and cheek so fair, And auburn waves of gemm'd and braided hair; With shape of fairy likeness — naked foot, That shines like snow, and falls on earth as mute — Through guards and dunnest night how came it there? Ah ! rather ask what will not woman dare? Whom youth and pity lead like thee, Gulnare ! She could not sleep — and while the Pacha's rest In muttering dreams yet saw his pirate-guest, She left his side — his si_rnet-rintr she bore, Which oft mi sport adorn'd her hand before — And with it, scarcely question'd, won her way Through drowsy Lruards that must that sign obey. Worn out with toil, and tired with changing blows, Their eyes had envied Conrad his repose; And chill and nodding at the turret door, They stretch their listless limbs, and watch no mo: 31 Just raised their heads to hail the signet-ring, Nor ask or what or who the sign may brhig. XIII. She gazed in wonder, " Can he calmly sleep, While other eyes his fall or ravage weep i And mine in restlessness are wandering here — What sudden spell hath made this man so dear T True — 'tis to him my life, and more, I owe, And me and mine he spared from worse than woe; 'Tis late to think — but soft — his slumber breaks — How heavily he sigha ! — he starts — awakes ! " Tie raised his head — and dazzled with the light, His eye seem'd dubious if it saw aright : He moved his hand — the grating of his chain Too harshly told him that he lived again. " What is that form ? if not a shape of air, Methinks, my jailer's face shows wondrous fair f w " Pirate ! thou know'st me not ; but I am one, Grateful for deeds thou hast too rarely done ; Look on me — and remember her, thy hand Snateh'd from the flames, and thy more fearful bai:d« I come through darkness — and I scarce know why- Yet not to hurt — I would not see thee die." •' If so, kind lady ! thine the only eye That would not here in that gay hope delieht : \?N»irs is the chance — and let them use their n^ho. ■$■ THE CORSAIR. 235 But still I thank their courtesy or thine, That would confess me at so fair a shrine ! " Strange though it seem — yet with extromest grief Is link'd a mirth — it doth not bring relief — That playfulness of sorrow ne'er beguiles, And smiles in bitterness — but still it smiles ; And sometimes with the wisest and the best, Till even the scaffold* echoes with their jest 1 Yet not the joy to which it seems akin — It may deceive all hearts, save that within. Whate'er it was that flash'd on Conrad, n<"W A laughing wildness half unbent his brow : And these his accents had a sound of mirth, As if the last he could enjoy on earth ; Yet 'gainst his nature — for through that short life, Few thoughts had he to spare from gloom and strife. XIV. " Corsair t thy doom is named — but I have power To soothe the Pacha in his weaker hour. Thee would I spare — nay more — would save thee now, But this — time — hope — nor even thy strength allow ; But all I can, I will : at least, delay The sentence that remits thee scarce a day. More now were ruin — even thyself were loth The vain attempt should bring but doom to both." "Yes! — loth indeed : — my soul is nerved to all, Or fall'n too low to fear a further fall : Tempt not thyself with peril ; me with hope Of flight from foes with whom I could not cope : Unfit to vanquish — shall I meanly fly, The one of all my band that would not die? Yet there is one — to whom my memory clings, Till to these eyes her own wild softness springs. My sole resources in the path I trod Were these — my bark — my sword — my love — my God! The last I left in youth — He leaves me now — And Man but works His will to lay me low. I have no thought to mock His throne with prayer Wrung from the coward crouching of despair ; It is enough — I breathe — and I can bear. My sword is shaken from the worthless hand That might have better kept so true a brand ; My bark is sunk or captive — but my love — For her in sooth my voice would mount above : Oh ! she is all that still to earth can bind — And this will break a heart so more than kind, And blight a form — till thine appear' d, Gulnare! Mine eye ne'er ask'd if others were as fair." • In Sir Thomas More, for instance, on the scaffold, and Anne Boieyn, in the Towel, vcen, grasping her neck, she remarked, that it " was too slender to trouble the head»« tuan much." During one part of the French revolution, it became a fashion to leave ■cine mot as a legacy ; and the quantity of facetious last words spoken during that psriod would form a melancholy jest-book of a considerable stcc. — i>. +<&* * 4*- 4h 236 B YRON'S POEMS. " Thou lov'st another then ? — but what to ma Is this — 'tis nothing — nothing e'er can be : But yet — thou lov'st — and — Oh ! I envy tho?o Whose hearts on hearts as faithful can repose, Who never feel the void — the wandering thought That sia;hs o'er visions — such as mine hath wrought," " Lady — methought thy love was his, for whom This arm redeem'd thee from a fiery tomb." " My love stern Seyd's ! Oh — No — No — not my love — Yet much this heart, that strives no more, onco btrovc To meet his passion — but it would not be. I felt — I feel — love dwells with — with the free. I am a slave, a favour'd slave at best, To share his splendour, and seem very blest ! Oft must my soul the question undergo, Of — ' Dost thou love?' and burn to answer, 'N>!' Oh ! hard it is that fondness to sustain, And struggle not to feel averse in vain ; But harder still the heart's recoil to bear, And hide from one — perhaps another there. He takes the hand I give not — nor withhold — Its pulse nor check'd — nor quicken'd — calmly cold : And when resign'd, it drops a lifeless weight From one I never loved enough to hate. No warmth these lips return by his impress'd, And chill'd remembrance shudders o'er the rest. Yes — had I ever proved that passion's zeal, The change to hatred were at least to feel : But still — he goes unmourn'd — returns unsought — And oft when present — absent from my thought. Or when reflection comes, and come it must — I fear that henceforth 'twill but bring disgust ; I am his slave — but, in despite of pride, 'Twere worse than bondage to become his bride. Oh ! that this dotage of his breast would cease ! Or seek another and give mine release, But yesterday — I could have said, to peace ! Yes — if unwonted fondness now I feign, Bemember — captive ! 'tis to break thy chain ; Bepay the life that to thy hand I owe; To give thee back to all endear'd below, Who share such love as I can never know. Farewell — morn breaks — and I must now away : 'Twill cost me dear — but dread no death to-day !" IV. She press'd his fetter' d fingers to her heart, And bow'd her head, and turn'd her to depart, And noiseless as a lovely dream is gone. And was she here ? and is he now alone ? What gem hath dropp'd and sparkles o'er his chjiin? The tear most sacred, shed for others' pain. ♦& <£. $* THE CORSAIR. 237 That starts at once — bright — pure — from Pity's min^ Already polish'd by tho hand divine I Oh ! too convincing — dangerously dear — In woman's eye the unanswerable tear ! That weapon of her weakness she can wield, To save, subdue — at once her spear and shield : Avoid it — Virtue ebbs and Wisdom errs, Too fondly gazing on that grief of hers ! What lost a world, and bade a hero fly ? The timid tear in Cleopatra's eye. iet be the soft triumvir's fault forgiven ; By this — how many lose not earth — but heaven, f Consign their souls to man's eternal foe, And seal their own to spare some wanton's woe. XVI. 'Tis morn — and o'er his alter'd features play The beams — without the hope of yesterday. What shall he be ere night ? perchance a thing O'er which the raven flaps her funeral wing : By his closed eye unheeded and unfelt, While sets that sun, and dews of evening melt, Chill — wet — and misty round each stiffeu'd limb, Refreshing earth — reviving all but him ! — CANTO THE THIRD. •• Come ve&l — aucor noii m' abbandona." — Dastb. I. Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, Along Morea's hills the setting sun ; Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, But one unclouded blaze of living light ! O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he thro-rT?^ Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows. On old ^Egma's rock, and Idra's isle, The god of gladness sheds his parting smile ; O'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine, Though there his altars are no more divine. Descending fast the mountain shadows kiss Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis ! Their azure arches through the long expanse More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance, And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaves J Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep. On such an eve, his palest beam he cast, When — Athens ! here thy Wisest look'd his last. ■»il ^»^ ft> Uj » J W W^« » _Mr iM^«! ^m i Vi >* -(|h ^ 238 BYAOATS rOEMS. How watcL'd thy better sons his farewell ray, That closed their murder'd sage's* latest dt»y \ Not yet — not yet— Sol pauses on the hill — The precious hour of parting lingers still ; But sad his light to agonizing eyes, And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes? Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour. The land, where Phoebus never frown'd before j B it ere he sank below Citbaeron's head, The cup of woe was quaflf'd — the spirit fled ; The soul of him who scorn'd to fear or fly — Who lived and died, as none can live or die I But lo ! from high Hymettus to the plain, The queen of night asserts her silent reign.+ No murky vapour, herald of the storm, Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form ; With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play, There the white column greets her grateful ray, And, bright around with quivering beams beset, Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret : The groves of olive scatter'd dark and wide Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty title, The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque, The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk, + And, dun and sombre 'mid the holy calm, Near Theseus' fane yon solitary palm, All tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye — And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by. Again the ^Egean, heard no more afar, Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war ; Again his waves in milder tints unfold Their long array of sapphire and of gold, Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle, That frown — where gentler ocean seems to smile. 3 II. Not now my theme — why turn my thoughts to thee ? Oh ! who can look along thy native sea, Nor dwell upon thy name, whate'er the tale, So much its magic must o'er all prevail ? Who that beheld that Sun upon thee set, Fair Athens ! could thine evening face forget ? Not he — whose heart nor time nor distance froos, Spell-bound within the clustering Cyclades ! • Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sunset (the hour of execution), THH- withstanding the entreaties of his disciples to wait till the sun went down. — B. f The twilight In Greece is much shorter lhau in our own country; the days in wintei are longer, but In summer of shorter duration. — B. 1 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 inter- Tenes. — Cephisus' stre.tiu ts indeed scanty, and llissus hits no stream at all. — B. S The opening lines, as far as section ii., have, perhaps, little business here, and were annexed to an unpublished (though printed) poem ; but they were written ou the spot in the spring of 1811, and, I scarce know why, the reader must excuse their appearauoo her* Lie can.— A !> e 4 7HE CORSAIR. 239 Nor seems this homage foreign to his strain, His Corsair's isle was once thine own domain — Would that with freedom it were thine again \ hi. The Sun hath sunk — and, darker than the night, Sinks with its bean upon the beacon height — Medora's heart — the third day 's come and gone-- With it he comes not — sends not — faithless one ! The wind was fair though light, and storms were none, Last eve Anselmo's bark return'd, and yet His only tidings that they had not met ! Though wild, as now, far different were the tale, Had Conrad waited for that single sail. The night-breeze freshens — she that day had paa&'d In watching all that Hope proclaim'd a mast ; Sadly she sate — on high — Impatience bore At last her footsteps to the midnight shore, And there she wander'd, heedless of the spray That dash'd her garments oft, and warn'd away : She saw not — felt not this — nor dared depart, Nor deem'd it cold — her chill was at her heart ; Till grew such certainty from that suspense — His very Sight had shock'd from life or sense ! It came at last — a sad and shatter'd boat, Whose inmates first beheld whom first they sought ; Some bleeding — all most wretched — these the few — Scarce knew they how escaped — this all they knev?. In silence, darkling, each appear'd to wait His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate : Something they would have said ; but seem'd to fear To trust their accents to Medora's ear. She saw at once, yet sank not — trembled not — Beneath that grief, that loneliness of lot, Within that meek fair form, were feelings high, That deem'd not till they found their energy. While yet was Hope — they soften'd — flutter' d — wept— All lost — that softness died not — but it slept ; And o'er its slumber rose that Strength which said, " With nothing left to love — there's nought to dread.* 1 'Tis more than nature's ; like the burning might Delirium gathers from the fever's height. " Silent you stand — nor would I hear you tell What — speak not — breathe not — for I know it well — Yet would I ask — almost my lip denies The — quick your answer — tell me where he lies." " Lady ! we know not — scarce with life we fled ; But here is one denies that he is dead : He saw him bound ; and bleeding — but alive." bhe heard no further — 'twas in vain to strive— *Q)-! — H$ 240 BYRON'S POEMS. So throbb'd each vein — each thought — till then withstood : Her own dark soul — these words at once subdued : She totters — falls — and senseless had the wave Perchance but snatch'd her from another grave ; But that with hands though rude, yet weeping eyee, They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies : Dash o'er her death-like cheek the Ocean dew, Raise — fan — sustain — till life returns anew ; Awake her handmaids, with the matrons leave That fainting form o'er which they gaze and grieve ; Then seek Anselmo's cavern, to report The tale too tedious — when the triumph short. IV. In that wild council words wax'd warm and strange With thoughts of ransom, rescue, and revenge ; All, save repose or flight : still lingering there Breathed Conrad's spirit, and forbade despair ; Whate'er his fate — the breasts he form'd and led, Will save him living, or appease him dead. Woe to his foes ! there yet survive a few, Whose deeds are daring as their hearts are tn^c. v. Within the Haram's secret chamber sate Stern Seyd, still pondering o'er his Captive's fate; His thoughts on love and hate alternate dwell, Now with Gulnare, and now in Conrad's cell ; Here at his feet the lovely slave reclined Surveys his brow — would soothe his gloom of mh:r. y ; While many an anxious glance her large dark eye Sends in its idle search for sympathy. His only bends in seeming o'er his beads,* But inly views his victim as he bleeds. "Pacha ! the day is thine ; and on thy cre3t Sits triumph — Conrad taken — fall'n the rest ' His doom is fix'd — he dies ; and well his fate Was earn'd — yet much too worthless for thy havj ; Methinks, a short release for ransom told With all his treasure, not unwisely sold ; Report speaks largely of his pirate hoard — Would that of this my Pacha were the lord ! While baffled, weaken'd by this fatal fray — ■ Watch' d — follow'd — he were then an easier prey ; But once cut off — the remnant of his band Embark their wealth and seek a safer strand." " Grulnare ! if for each drop of blood a gem Were offer'd rich as Stamboul's diadem ; If for each hair of his a massy mine Of virgin ore should supplicating shine ; If all our Arab tales divulge or dream Of wealth were here — that gold should not redeem * * Vfc-i Couiboloio, or Mahometan rosary ; the beadi tre In tuuiber aiu'iy-mao.- -il 4 *:•>■ ■ — ^^« J (-> 77/Zi CORSAIR. it had not now redeem 'd a single hour, But. that I know him fetter 'd, in my power ; And, thirsting for revenge, I ponder still On pangs that longest rack, and latest kill. ' " Nay, Seyd ! — I seek not to restrain thy rage, Too justly moved for mercy to assuage ; My thoughts were only to secure for thee His riches — thus released, he were not free : Disablod, shorn of half his might and band, His capture could but wait thy first command." " His capture could / — and shall I then resign One day to him — the wretch already mine ? Release my foe ! — at whose remonstrance ? — thine I Fair suitor 1 — to thy virtuous gratitude, That thus repays this Giaour's relenting mood, Which thee and thine alone of all could spare, No doubt — regardless if the prize were fair, My thanks and praise alike are due — now hear ! I have a counsel for thy gentler ear : I do mistrust thee, woman ! and each word Of thine stamps truth on all Suspicion heard. Borne in his arms through fire from yon Serai — Say, wert thou lingering there with him to fly ? Thou need'st not answer — thy confession speaks, Already reddening on thy guilty cheeks ; Then, lovely dame, bethink thee ! and beware : 'Tis not his life alone may claim such care ! Another word and — nay — I need no more. Accursed was the moment when he bore Thee from the flames, which better far — but — no — I then had mourn' d thee with a lover's woe — Now, 'tis thy lord that warns — deceitful thing ! Know^st thou that I can clip thy wanton wing ? In words alone I am not wont to chafe : Look to thyself — nor deem thy falsehood safe ! " He rose — and slowly, sternly thence withdrew, Rage in his eye and threats in his adieu : Ah ! little reck'd that chief of womanhood — Which frowns ne'er quell' d, nor menaces subdued ; And little deem'd he what thy heart, Gulnare ! When soft could feel, and when incensed could dare His doubts appear'd to wrong — nor yet she knew How deep the root from whence compassion grew-~ She was a slave — from such may captives claim A fellow-feeling, differing but in name ; Still half unconscious — heedless of his wrath, Again she ventured on the dangerous path, Again his rage repell'd— until arose That strife of thought — the source of woman's wooc I It t < 242 B YR ON % S POEMS, VI. Meanwhile — long anxious — weary — still — the same Roll'd day and night — his soul could never tame — This iearfu-1 interval ol doubt and dread, When every hour might doom him worse than deculj When every step that echo'd by the gate Might entering lead where axe and stake await ; When every voice that grated on his ear Might be the last that he could ever hear ; Could terror tame — that spirit stern and high Had proved unwilling as unfit to die ; 'Twas worn — perhaps decay'd — yet silent bore That conflict deadlier far than all before : The heat of fight, the hurry of the gale, Leave scarce one thought inert enough to quail ; 15ut bound and fix'd in fetter'd solitude, To pine, the prey of every ehaDging mood ; To gaze <>n thine own heart ; and meditate Irrevocable faults, and coming fate — Too late the last to .slum — the first to mend — To count the hours that struggle to thine end, With not a friend to animate, and tell To other ears that death became thee well ; Around thee toes to forire the ready lie, And blot life's 1 e with calumny ; Before thee tortures, which the soul can dare. Yet doubts how well the shrinking flesh may bear ; But deeply feels a single cry would shame, To valour's praise thy last and dearest claim ; The life thou leav'st below, denied above By kind monopolists of heavenly love ; And more than doubtful paradise — thy heaven Of earthly hope — thy loved one from thee ri\ u. Such were the thoughts that outlaw must sustain, And govern panga surpassing mortal pain : And those SUStain'd he — boots it well or iV * Since not to sink beneath, is sometiung still I VII. Tho first day pass'd — he saw not her — Gulnare— The second — third — and still she came not there ; But what her words avouch'd, her charms had done; Or else he had not seen another sun. The fourth day roll'd along, and with the night Came storm and darkness in their mingling might: Oh ! how he listen'd to the rushing deep, That ne'^r till now so broke upon his sleep ; And his wild spirit wilder wishes sent, Roused by the roar of his own element ! Oft had he ridden on that winged wave, And loved its roughness for the speed it gave i And now its dashing echo'd on his ear, A long known voice — alas ! too vainly near I •?* & THE CORSAIR. 343 Loud sung the wind above ; and, doubly loud, Shook o'er his turret cell the thunder-cloud ; And flash'd the lightning by the latticed bar, To him more genial than tho midnight star: Close to the glimmering grate he dragg'd his chain. And hoped that peril might not prove in vain. He raised his iron hand to heaven, and pray'd One pitying flash to mar tho form it made : His steel and impious prayer attract alike — The storm roll'd onward, and disdain'd to strike , Its peal wax'd fainter— ceased — he felt alone, As if some faithless friend had spurn'd his groan ! VIII. The midnight pass'd— «md to the massy door A light step came — it paused — it moved once more ; Slow turns the grating bolt and sullen key : 'lis as his heart foreboded — that fair she ! Whate'er her sins, to him a guardian saint, And beauteous still as hermit's hope can paint ; Yet changed since last within that cell she came, More pale her cheek, more tremulous her lrame : On him she cast her dark and hurried eye, Which spoke before her accents — " Thou must die I Yes, thou must die — there is but one resource, The last — the worst — if torture were not worse." " Lady ! I look to none — my lips proclaim What last proclaim'd they — Conrad still the same . Why shouldst thou seek an outlaw's lite to spare, And change the sentence 1 deserve to bear ? Well have I earn'd — nor here alone — the meed Of Seyd's revenge, by many a lawless deed." " Why should I seek ? because — Oh ! didst thou not Redeem my life from worse than slavery's lot ? Why should I seek ? — hath misery made thee blind To the fond workings of a woman's mind? And must I say ? albeit my heart rebel With all that woman feels, but should not tell — Because — despite thy crimes — that heart is moved : It fear'd thee — thank'd thee — pitied — madden' d — loved Reply not, tell not now thy tale again, Thou lov'st another — and I love in vain ; Though fond as mine her bosom, form more Pair, I rush through peril which she would not dare. If that thy heart to hers were truly dear, Were I thine own — thou wort not lonely here : An outlaw's spouse — and leave her lord to roam ! What hath such gentle dame to do with home ? But speak not now— o'er thine and o'er my head Hangs the keen sabre by a single thread ; \i thou hast courage still, and wouldst be free, Receive this poniard-— rise — and follow me 1 " a 2 * — >4> ^ 244 BYRON'S POEMS. "Ay — in my chains! my steps will gently tread, With these adornments, o'er each slumbering head ! Thou hast forgot — is this a garb for flight ? Or is that instrument more fit for fight ?" "Misdoubting Corsair ! I have gain'd the guard, Ripe for revolt, and greedy for reward. A single word of mine removes that chain : Without some aid how here could 1 remain? Well, since we met, hath sped my busy time, If in aught evil, for thy sake the crime : The crime — 'tis none to punish those of Seyd. That hated tyrant, Conrad — he must bleed ! I see thee shudder — but my soul is changed — Wrong'd, 6purn'd, reviled — and it shall be aveu_rec.- Accused of what till now my heart disdain'd — Too faithful, though to bitter bondage chain'd. Yes, smile ! — but he had little cause to sneer, I was not treacherous then — nor thou too dear ■ But he has said it — and the jealous well, Those tyrants, teasing, tempting to rebel, Deserve the fate their fretting lips foretell. I never lovtd — he bought me — somewhat high — Since with me came a heart he could not buy. I was a slave unmurmuring : he hath said, But for his rescue I with thee had fled. 'Twas false thou know'st — but let such augurs rue, Their words are omens Insult renders true. Nor was thy respite granted to my prayer ; This fleeting grace was only to prepare New torments for thy life, and my despair. Mine too he threatens ; but his dotage still Would fain reserve me for his lordly will ; When wearier of these fleeting charms an THE CORSA A\ 245 Soyd is mine enemy : had swept my bi\n<\ From earth with ruthless hut with open i. Ajad therefore came I, in my bark 01 war, To smite thesmiter with the scimitar ; Such is my weapon — not the secret knife — Who spares a woman's si eks not slumbor's life. Thine saved I gladly, Lady, not for this — Let me not deem that mercy shown amiss. Now fare thee well — more peace bo with thy breart 1 Night wears apace — my last of earthly rest 1 " "Rest ! rest ! by sunrise must thy sinews shake. And thy limbs writhe around the ready stake. 1 heard the order — saw — I will not see — If thou wilt perish, I will fall with thee. My life — my love — my hatred — all below Are on this cast — Corsair ! 'tis but a blow ! Without it flight were idle — how evade His sure pursuit ? my wrongs too unrepaid, My youth disgraced — the long, long wasted years, One blow shall cancel with our future fears ; But since the dagger suits thee less than brand, I'll try the firmness of a female hand. The guards are gain'd — one moment all were o'or — Corsair ! we meet in safety, or no more ; If errs my feeble hand, the morning cloud Will hover o'er thy scaffold and my shroud." IX. She turn'd, and vanish'd ere he could reply, But his glance follow'd far with eager eye ; And gathering, as he could, the links that bound His form, to curl their length, and curb their sound, Since V>ar and bolt no more his steps preclude, He, fast as fetter' d limbs allow, pursued. 'Twas dark and winding, and he knew not where That passage led ; nor lamp nor guard were there ? He sees a dusky glimmering — shall he seek Or shun that ray so indistinct and weak ? Chance guides his steps — a freshness seems to bca? Full on his brow, as if from morning air — He reach'd an open gallery — on his eye Gleam'd the last star of night, the clearing sky : Yet scarcely heeded these — another light From a lone chamber struck upon his sight. Towards it he moved ; a scarcely closing door Reveal' d the ray within, but nothing more. With hasty step a figure outward pass'd, Then paused — and turn'd — and paused — 'tis she at \atdj I No poniard in that hand — nor sign of ill — " Thanks to that softening heart — she could not kill '* Again he look'd, the wildness of her eye Starts from the day abrupt and fearfully '^h ■ H 24 f> BORON'S POEMS. She stopp'd — threw back her dark far-floating heir, That nearly veil'd her face and bosom fair, As ii she late had bent her leaning head Above some object of her doubt or dread. They meet — upon her brow — unknown — forgot — Her hurrying hand had left — 'twas but a spot — Its hue was all he saw, and scarce withstood — Oh ! slight but certain pledge of crime — 'tis blood ! X. He had seen battle — he had brooded lone O'er promised pangs to sentenced guilt foreshown ; He had been tempted — chasten'd — and the chain Yet on his arms might ever there remain : But ne'er from strile— captivity — remorse — From all his feeling 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 iruilty streak, Had banish'd all the beauty from her cheek ! Blood he had view'd — could view unmoved — but th>?r It flow'd in combat, or was shed by men ! XI. " 'Tis done — he nearly waked — but it is dona. Corsair! he perish'd — thou art dearly won. All words would now be vain — away — away ! Our bark is tossing — 'tis already day. The few gain'd over, now are wholly mine, And these thy yet surviving band shall join : Anon my voice shall vindicate my hand. When once our sail forsakes this hated strand." xn. She clapp'd her hands — and through the gallery pour, Equipp'd for flight, her vassals — Greek and Moor: Silent but quick they stoop, his chains unbind ; Once more his limbs are free as mountain wind ! But on his heavy heart such sadness sate, As if they there transferr'd that iron weight. No words are utter'd — at her sign, a door Reveals the secret passage to the shore ; The city lies behind — they speed, they reach The glad waves dancing on the yellow beach ; And Conrad following, at her beck, obey'd, Nor cared he now if rescued or betray'd ; Resistance was as useless as if Seyd Yet lived to view the doom his ire decreed. xni. Embark'd, the sail unfurl'd, the light breeze blew — Eow much h«d Conrad's memory to review ! Sunk he in Contemplation till the cape Where last he anchor' d rear'd its giant shape. ♦O J> THE CORSAIR. i\i Ah ! — since that fatal night, though brief the tiino, 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 ho pass'd ; Ue thought of all — Gonsalvo and his band, His Meeting triumph and his tailing hand ; rle thought on her afar, his lonely bride : He t'u-n'd and saw — Guluare, the homicide ! XIV. She watch'd his feahvres 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 sho press'd, 11 Thou mayst forgive though Alla's self detest ; But tor that deed of darkness what wert thou? Reproach me — but not yet — ! spare me now/ I am not what I seem — this tearful 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 — ii 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 unexpress'd, They bleed within that silent cell — his breast. Still onward, fair the breeze, nor rough the surge, The blue waves s.port around the stern they urge j 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 ISooms harmless, hissing to the deep below. l/p rose keen Conrad from his silent trance, A long, long absent gladness in his glance ; " 'Tis mine — my blood-red flag ! again — again— 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 deck 3 Command nor duty could their transport check ! With light alacrity and gaze of pride, They view him mount once more his vessel's side ; A smile relaxiag in each rugged face, Their arms can scarce forbear a rough embrace. He, half forgetting danger and defeat, Eeturns their greeting as a chief may greet, +*■■?*• 4h -+{j)« 248 BYRON'S POEMS. Wrings with a cordial grasp Anselmo's hand, And feels he yet can conquer and command I XVI. These greetings o'er, the feelings that o'erflow, Yet grieve to win him back without a blow ; They sail'd prepared for vengeance — had they known A woman's hand secured that deed her own, She were their queen — less scrupulous are they Than haughty Conrad how they win their way. With many an asking 6mile, and wondering stare, They whisper round, and gaze upon Gulnare ; And her, at once above — beneath her sex, Whom blood appall'd not, their regards perplex. To Conrad turns her faint imploring eye, She drops her veil, and stands in silence by ; Her arms are meekly folded on that breast, Which — Conrad safe — to fate resign'd the rest. Though worse than frenzy could that bosom fill, Extreme in love or hate, in good or ill, The worst of crimes had left her woman still ! xvn. This Conrad mark'd, and felt — ah ! could he less ? — Hate of that deed — but grief for her distress ; What she has done no tears can wash away, And Heaven must punish on its angry day : But — it was done : he knew, whate'er her guilt, For him that poniard smote, that blood was spilt ; And he was free ! — and she for him had given Her all on earth, and more than all in Heaven ! And now he turn'd him to that dark-eyed slave, Whose brow was bow'd beneath the glance he gave, Who now seem'd changed and humbled : — faint and meek. But varying oft the colour of her cheek To deeper shades of paleness — all its red, That fearful spot which stain'd it from the dead I He took that hand — it trembled— now too late — So soft in love — so wildly nerved in hate ; He clasp'd that hand — it trembled — and his own Had lost its firmness, and his voice its tone. ''Gulnare ! " — but she replied not — " dear Gulnare !" She raised her eye — her only answer there — At once she sought and sunk in his embrace : If he had driven her from that resting-place, His had been more or less than mortal heart, But — good or ill — it bade her not depart. Perchance, but for the bodings of his breast, His latest virtue then had join'd the rest. Yet even Medora might forgive the kiss That ask'd from iorm so fair no more than this, !The first, the last that Frailty stole from Faith — To lips where love had lavish'd all his breath, ■^ ■ *&> +& THE CORSAIR. 249 To lips — whose broken sighs such fragranco fling As he had fann'd them freshly with his wing 1 XVIII. They gain by twilight's hour their lonely isle. To them the very rocks appear to smile ; The haven hums with many a cheering sound, The beacons blaze their wonted stations round, The boats are darting o'er the curly bay, And sportive dolphins bend them through the spr&y ; Even the hoarse sea-bird's shrill, discordant shriek, Greets like the welcome of his tuneless beak ! Beneath each lamp that through its lattice gleams, Their fancy paints the friends that trim the beams. Oh ! what can sanctify the joys of home, Like Hope's gay glance from Ocean's troubled foam ? XIX. The lights are high on beacon and from bower, And 'midst them Conrad seeks Medora's tower : He looks in vain — 'tis strange — and all remark, Amid so many, hers alone is dark. 'Tis strange — of yore its welcome never fail'd, Nor now, perchance, extinguish'd, only veil'd. With the first boat descends he to the shore, And looks impatient on the lingering oar. O ! for a wing beyond the falcon's flight, To bear him like an arrow to that height ! With the first pause the resting rowers gave, He waits not — looks not — leaps into the wave, Strives through the surge, bestrides the beach, and Ugh 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 — 'tis a well-known face — But not the form he panted to embrace. Its lips are silent — twice his own essay'd, And fail'd to frame the question they delay'd ; He snatch' d the lamp — its light will answer all—- It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall. He would not wait for that reviving ray, — As soon could he have linger'd there for day ; But, glimmering through the dusky corridor© Another chequers o'er the shadow'd floor ; His steps the chamber gain — his eyes behold AU that nis heart believed not — yet foretold r "riv - *" 2t;o BYRON'S POEMS. xx. He turn'd not — spoke not — sunk not — fix'd his lock, And set the anxious frame that lately shook : He gazed — how long we gaze despite of pain, And know, but dare not own, we gaze in vain 1 In life itself she was so still and fair, That death with gentler aspect wither'd tnere ; And the cold flowers her colder hand contain' d,* In that last grasp as tenderly were strain'd As if she scarcely felt, but feign' d a sleep, And made it almost mockery yet to weep : The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow, And veil'd — thought shrinks from all that lurk'd bclflW — 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 tresc, Long — fair — but spread in utter lilelessness, Which, late the sport of every summer wind, Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind ; These— and the pale pure cheek, became the bier, But she is nothing — wherefore is he here ? XXI. He ask'd no question — all were answer'd now By the first glance on that still — marble brow. It was enough — she died — what reck'd it how ? The love of youth, the hope of better years, The source of softest wishes, tenderest tears, 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 c\)r ; The proud — the wayward — who have fix'd below Their joy, and find this earth enough for woe, Lose in that one their all — perchance a mite — But who in patience parts with all delight ? Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern Mask hearts where grief hath little left to learn f And many a withering thought lies hid, not lost, In smiles that least befit who wear them most. XXTT. By those, that deepest feel, is ill express'd The indistinctness of the suffering breast ; Where thousand thoughts begin to end in one, Which seeks from all the refuge found in none J * In the Levant It Is the custom to strew flowers on the bodlts of tat ieoA, aaC '— Uw V»!i(li vi young persons to place a nosegay. — S. 4* "Y THE CORSAIR. 251 No words suffice tha secret soul to show, For Truth denies all eloquence to Woe. On Conrad's stricken soul exhaustion press'd, And stupor almost lull'd it into rest ; 80 feeble now — his mother's softness crept To those wild eyes, which like an infant's wept : It was the very weakness of his brain, Which thus confess'd without relieving pain. None saw his trickling tears — perchance if seen, That useless flood of grief had never been : Nor long they flow'd — he dried them to depart, In helpless — hopeless — brokenness of heart : The sun goes forth — but Conrad's day is dim ; And the night cometh — ne'er to pass from him. There is no darkness like the cloud of mind, On Griefs vain eye — the blindest of the blind ! Which may not—dare not see — but turns aside To blackest shade — nor will endure a guide ! XXIII. His heart was form'd for softness — warp'd to wrong ; Betray'd too early, and beguiled too long ; Each feeling pure — as falls the dropping dew Within the grot ; like that had harden'd too ; Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials pass'd, But sunk, and chill'd, and petrified at last. Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the rock j 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 withered where it fell ; And of its cold protector, blacken round But shiver* d fragments on the barren ground ! XXT7. 'Tis morn — to venture on bis lonely liour Few dare ; though now .auseimo sought his tower. He was not there — nor seeu along the shore ; Ere night, alarm' d, their isle is traversed o'er : Another morn — anotner bids them seek, And shout his name till echo waxeth weak ; Mount — grotto — cavern — valley search'd in vala, They find on shore a sea-boat's broken chain ; Their hope revives — they follow o'er the main. 'Tis idle all — moons roll on moons away, And Conrad comes not — came not since that day : Nor trace, nor tidings of his doom declare Where lives his grief, or perish'd his despair ! Long mourn'd his band whom none could mourn beri&e ; And fair the monument they gave his bride : ■*+•» •$■ f 252 BYRON 'S POEMS. For him they raise not the recording stone — His death yet dubious, deeds too widely kno&Ti ; He left a Corsair's name to other times, Link'd with one virtue, and a thousand crimes. WINDSOR POETICS. Lines composed on the occasion of his Royal Highness the Prince Regent being seen standing between the coffins of Henry VIII. and Charles I., in the royal vault at Windsor. Famed for contemptuous breach of sacred ties, By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies ; Between them stands another sceptred thing — It moves, it reigns — in all but name, a king : Charles to his people, Henry to his wife, — In him the double tyrant starts to life : Justice and death have mix'd their dust in vain, Each royal vampire wakes to life again. Ah, what can tombs avail ! — since these disgorge The blood and dust of both — to mould a George. 4 4- POEMS ON NAPOLEON. ODE TO NAPOLEON. " Erpende Annibalem : — quot Libras in duce summo In venies T" — J unknax, Sat. x. " The Emperor Nepot was acknowledged by the Senate, by the Italians, and by t'.x? S*rovincials of Gaul ; his moral virtues and military talents were loudly celebrated ; and those who derived any private benefit from his Government announced in prophetic strains the restoration of public felicity • ••„••• By this shameful abdication, he protracted his life a few years, in a very ajabignous staV% b/vtwssn an emperor and an exile, till ." — Gibbon's Decline and Fall, voL vL p. SSO. 'TlS done — but yesterday a King ! And arm'd with Kings to strive — And now thou art a nameless thing ; So abject — yet alive ! Is this the man of thousand thrones, Who strew'd our earth with hostile bones, And can he thus survive ? Since he, miscall' d the Morning Star, Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far. Ill-minded man ! why scourge thy kind Who bow'd so low the knee ? By gazing on thyself grown blind, Thou taught'st the rest to see, With might unquestion'd — power to save t — Thine only gift hath been the grave, To those that worshipp'd thee ; Nor till thy fall could mortals guess Ambition's less than littleness I Thanks for that lesson — it will teach. To after warriors more, Than high Philosophy can preach, And vainly preach'd before. That spell upon the minds of men Breaks never to unite again, That led them to adore Those Pagod things of sabre sway, With fronts of brass, and feet of olay. fw 254 BYRON'S POEMS. The triumph, and the vanity, The rapture of the strife* — The earthquake voice of Victory, To thee the breath of life ; The sword, the sceptre, and that sw?v Which man seem'd made but to obey Wherewith renown was rife — All quell'd ! — Dark Spirit, ! what must be- The madness of thy memory ! The Desolator desolate ! The Victor overthrown ! The arbiter of other's fate A suppliant for his own ! Is it some yet imperial hope, That with such change can calmly cope ? Or dread of death alone ? To die a prince — or live a slave — Thy choice is most ignobly brave ! He who of old would rend the oak,f Dream'd not of the rebound ; Chain'd by the trunk he vainly broke — Alone — how look'd he round ? Thou, in the sternness of thy strength, An equal deed hast done at length, And darker fate hast found : He fell, the forest prowler's prey ; But thou must eat thy heart away ! The Roman, X when his burning heart Was slaked with blood of Rome, Threw down the dagger — dared depart, In savage grandeur, home — He dared depart in utter scorn Of men that such a yoke had borne, Yet left him such a doom ! His only glory was that hour * Of self-upheld abandon'd power. The Spaniard, § when the lust of sway Had lost its quickening spell, Cast crowns for rosaries away, An empire for a cell ; A strict accountant of his beads, A subtle disputant on creeds, His dotage trifled well : Yet better had he neither known A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne. • "Cert&minls gamJLia"— the expression of Attll» In his harangue to fell army, j*W»«« I* tbe battle of r^ionsal, given In Cassiodorus. f ttLilo Crotouiensis, caught in the tree he had split. t Sylla. I Charges V. Byron forg«ts to tell u» how he conioled hlnuslf wiih good e» ia$. m 4* <> iJ* ODE TO NAPOLEON. 255 But thou — from thy reluctant hand The thunderbolt is wrung — Too late thou leav'st the high command To which thy weakness clung ; All Evil Spirit as thcu art. It is enough to grieve the heart To see thine own unstrung ; To think that God's fair world hath beeL The footstool of a thing so mean ! And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, Who thus can hoard his own ! And Monarchs bow'd the trembling limb, And thank' d him for a throne ! Fair Freedom ! may we hold thee dear, When thus thy mightiest foes their fear In humblest guise have shown. Oh ! ne'er may tyrant leave behind A brf-jhter name to lure mankind 1 Thine evil deeds are writ in gorOj Nor written thus in vain — Thy triumphs tell of fame no more, Or deepen every stain : If thou hadst died as honour dies, Some new Napoleon might arise, To shame the world again — But who would soar the solar height, To set in such a starless night ? Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust Is vile as vulgar clay ; Thy scales, Mortality ! are just To all that pass away : But yet methought the living great Some higher sparks should animate, To dazzle and dismay ; Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make mirth Of these the Conquerors of the earth. And she, proud Austria's mournful flower, Thy still imperial bride ; How bears her breast the torturing hour ? Still clings she to thy side ? Must she, too, bend, — must she, too, shore*, Thy late repentance, long despair, Thou throneless Homicide ? If still she loves thee, hoard that gem ; *Tis worth thy vanish' d diadem 1 Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, And gaze upon the sea ; That element may meet thy smile— ft ne'ei was ruled by thee 1 O <•> 256 BYR ON ' S POEMS. Or trace with thine all idle hand, In loitering mood upon the sand, That Earth is now as free ! That Corinth's pedagogue* hath now Transferr'd his by-word to thy brow. Thou Timour ! in his captive's cagef 1 ' — What thoughts will there be thine, While brooding in thy prison'd rage? But one — " The world was mine ! " Unless, like he of Babylon, All sense is with thy sceptre gone, Life will not long confine That spirit pour'd so widely forth — So long obey'd — so little worth ! Or, like the thief of fire from heaven, X Wilt thou withstand the shock ? And share with him, the unforgiven, His vulture and his rock ! Foredoom'd by God — by man accurst, And that last act; though not thy worti, The very Fiend's arch mock ; He, in his fall preserved his pride, And, if a mortal, had as proudly died I There was a day — there was an hour, While earth was Gaul's — Gaul's thino — When that immeasurable power, Unsated to resign, Had been an act of purer fame, Than gathers round Marengo's namo^ And gilded thy decline, Through the long twilight of all time, Despite some passing clouds of crime. But thou, forsooth, must be a king, And don the purple vest, A3 if that foolish robe could wring Remembrance from thy breast. Where is the faded garment ? where The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear, The star — the string — the crest ? Vain fro ward child of empire ! say, Are all thy playthings snatch'd away ? Where may the wearied eye repose, When gazing on the Great ; Where neither guilty glory glows, Nor despicable state ? • xMonyslui, tyrant of Sicily, who, after his fall, kept school at OtefJJlt IT&\jazet, confined in an iron cc#e by his conqueror lia, jar. Prometheus. •e *i <> ODE FROM THE FRENCH. 257 Yes — one — the first — the last — the besO — The Cincinnatus of the West, Whom envy dared not hate, Bequeath the name of Washington, To make man blush there was but one ) ODE FROM THE FRENCH. 1. We do not curse thee, Waterloo ! Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew \ There 'twas shed, but is not sunk — Rising from each gory trunk, Like the waterspout from ocean, With a strong and growing motion — It soars, and mingles in the air, With that of lost Labedoyere — With that of him whose honour* d grav*« Contains the " bravest of the brave." A crimson cloud it spreads and glows, But shall return to whence it rose ; When 'tis full, 'twill burst asunder — Never yet was heard such thunder, As then shall shake the world with wondw.* — Never yet was seen such lightning As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning I Like the Wormwood Star foretold By the sainted Seer of old, Show'ring down a fiery flood, Turning rivers into blood.* II. The chief has fallen ! but not by you, Vanquishers of Waterloo ! When the soldier-citizen Sway'd not o'er his fellow-men — Save in deeds that led them on Where glory smiled on Freedom's son— Who, of all the despots banded, With that youthful chief competed ? Who could boast o'er France defeated, Till lone Tyranny commanded ? Till, goaded by ambition's sting, The Hero sunk into the King ? Then he fell : — so perish all, Who would men by man enthrall ! * Bee Rev. cbap. viii. v. 7, Ac. " The first angel sounded, and there followed fcr.iJ Add Ace mingled with blood," &c. v. 8. "And the second angel sounded, and as it were • £Ee*t mountain burning with fire was cast into tbe sea ; and tbe third part of the sea became blood," Ac. v. 10. " And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp ; and it fell upon the third part of the rivers, and upon the fountains of waters." v. 11. " And the name of the star is called Wormwood ; and ti>e third part of the waters became wormwood ; and many men diud of kis water*, becMW« they were made bitter." S , 1 T- "W" ■$ 258 BYRON'S POEMS. in. And thou, too, of the snow-wbite plumo \ Whose realm refused thee ev'n a tomb ; Better hadst thou sU*' been leading France o'er hosts of hirelings bleediiig, Than sold thyself to death and shame For a meanly royal name ; Such as he of Naples wears, Who thy blood-bought title bears ; Little didst thou deem when dashing On thy war-horse through the ranks Like a stream which bursts its banks, While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing;, Shone and shiver'd fast around thee — Of the fate at last which found thee I Was that haughty plume laid low By a slave's dishonest blow ? Once — as the moon sways o'er the tide, It roll'd in air, the warrior's guide ; Through the smoke-created night Of the black and sulphurous fight, The soldier raised his seeking eye, To catch that crest's ascendancy — And as it onward rolling rose, So moved his heart upon our foes. There, where death's brief pang was quiok&St; And the battle's wreck lay thickest, Strew'd beneath the advancing banner Of the eagle's burning crest — (There with thunder-clouds to fan her, Wko could then her wing arrest — Victory beaming from her breast ?) While the broken line enlarging Fell, or fled along the plain ; There be sure was Murat charging ! There he ne'er shall charge again I IV. O'er glories gone the invaders march, Weep Triumph o'er each levell'd arch — But let Freedom rejoico, With her heart in her voice ; But her hand on her sword, Doubly shall she be adored ; France hath twice too well been taught The " moral lesson " dearly bought — Her safety sits not on a throne W T ith Capet or Napoleon ! But in equal rights and laws, Hearts and hands in one great cause- Freedom, such as God hath giveu Unto all beneath Ris heaven* *^~ — f TO NAPOLEON. 259 With their breath, and from their birth, Though Guilt would sweep it from the earth ; With a fierce and lavish hand, Scattering nations' wealth like sand ; Pouring nations' blood like water, In imperial seas of slaughter I V. But the heart and the mind, And the voice of mankind, Shall arise in communion — And who shall resist that proud union ? The time is past when swords subdued' — > Man may die — the soul 's renew'd : Even in this low world of care Freedom ne'er shall want an heir ; Millions breathe but to inherit Her for ever bounding spirit — When once more her hosts assemble, Tyrants shall believe and tremble- Smile they at this idle threat ? Crimson tears will follow yet- TO NAPOLEON. FROM THE FRENCH. Must thou go, my glorious chief,* Sever'd from thy faithful few? Who can tell thy warriors' grief, Maddening o'er that long adieu ? Woman's love, and friendship's zeal, Dear as both have been to me — What are they to all I feel, With a soldier's faith for thee ! Idol of the soldier's soul ! First in fight, but mightiest now : lany could a world control ; Thee alone no doom can bow. By thy side for years I dared Death ; and envied those who fell, When their dying shout was heard, Blessing him they served so well.+ - " *ttr vept, but particularly Savary, and a Polish officer who had been exal ted frotn the ranis by Buonaparte. lie clung to his master's knees ; wrote a letter to Lord Keith, entreating permission to accompany him, even in the moat menial capacity ; which could not be admitted." t " At Waterloo, one man was seen, whose left arm was shattered by a cannon-ball, te wreneh it otf with the other, and throwing it up in the air, exclaimed to his comrades, 'Vive l'Bmpereur, jusqu'a la mort !' There were many other instances of the like : l&ls. towe"»w, you may depend on as true."— Private Letter from Brutiels. 8 2 •9- * 26o B YRON 'S POEMS. Would that I were cold with those. Since this hour I live to see ; When the doubts of coward foes Scarce dare trust a man with the©; Dreading eaoh should set thee free ; Oh ! although in dungeons pent, All their chains were light to me, Gazing on thy soul unbent. Would the sycophants of him Now so deaf to duty's prayer, Were his borrow' d glories dim, In his native darkness share ? Were that world this hour his own, All thou calmly dost resign, Could he purchase with that throne Hearts like those which still are thine \ My chief, my king, my friend, adieu ! Never did I droop before ; Never to my sovereign sue, As his foes I now implore : All I ask is to divide Every peril he must brave : Sharing by the hero's side His fall, his exile, and his grave. NAPOLEON'S FAREWELL, PROM THE FRENCH. Farewell to the land, where the gloom of my glovy Arose and o'ershadow'd the earth with her name — She abandons me now — but the page of her story, The brightest or blackest, is fill'd with my fame. I have warr'd with a world which vanquish'd me only When the meteor of conquest allured me too far ; I have coped with the nations which dread me thus lonely. The last single Captive to millions in war. Farewell to thee, France ! when thy diadem crown' d ra?, I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth, — But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee, Decay'd in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth. Oh ! for the veteran hearts that were wasted In strife with the storm, when their battles were won — Then the Eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted,* Had still soar'd with eyes fix'd on victory's sun ! Farewell to thee, France ! — but when Liberty rallies Once morw in thy regions, remember me then — The violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys; Though withe r'd, thy tears will unfold it again-- 4* -Kr> "THE LEGION 01 HONOUR." 261 Vet, yet I may baffle the hosts that surround us, And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice — 1*uere are links which must break in the chain that has bound ua, Then turn thee and call on the Chief of thy choice 1 01' THE STAR OF "THE LEGION OF HONOUR," FROM THE FRENCH. Star of the brave !— whose beam hath shed Such glory o'er the quick and dead — Thou radiant and adored deceit ! Which millions rush'd in arms to greet, — Wild meteor of immortal birth ! Why rise in Heaven to set on Earth ! Souls of slain heroes form'd thy rays ; Eternity flash'd through thy blaze ; The music of thy martial sphere Was fame on hii>h and honour here ; And thy light broke on human eyes, Like a volcano of the skies. Like lava roll'd thy stream of blood, And swept down empires with its flood 5 Earth rock'd beneath thee to her base, As thou didst lighten through all space } And the shorn Sun grew dim in air, And set while thou wert dwelling there. Before thee rose, and with thee grew, A rainbow of the loveliest hue, Of three bright colours, each divine,* And fit for that celestial sign ; For Freedom's hand had blended them, Like tints in an immortal gem. One tint was of the sunbeam's dyes ; One, the blue depth of Seraph's eyes : One, the pure Spirit's veil of white Had robed in radiance of its light *. The three so mingled did beseem The texture of a heavenly dream. Star of the brave ! thy ray is pale, And darkness must again prevail ! But, oh thou Rainbow of the free ! Our tears and blood must flow for th£& When thy bright promise fades away, Our life ig but a load of clay. • Tha tricolour. 4* ♦4- ■4 262 BfAON'S POEMS. And Freedom hallows with her tread The silent cities of the dead ; For beautiful in death are they Who proudly fall in her array ; And soon, oh Goddess ! may we be For evermore with them or thee ! STANZAS FOR MUSIC. C SPEAK not, I trace not, T breathe not thy name ; There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame : But the tear which now burns on my cheek may impart The deep thought* that dwell in that silence of heart. Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace, Were those hours — can their joy or their bitterness ceaae' We repent — we abjure — we shall break from our chain — We will part — we will fly to — unite it again ! Oh ! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt ! Forgive me, adored one ! — forsake, if thou wilt ; But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased, And man shall not break it— whatever thou mayst. And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee, This soul in its bitterest blackness shall be ; And our days seem as swift, and our movements more sweet, With thee by my side, than with worlds at my feet. One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love, Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove ; And the heatless may wonder at all I resign — Thy lip shall reply, not to them, but to mine. ^ FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN. A. SONG. Ftix the goblet again ! for I never before Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its core ; Let us drink ! — who would not ? — since through life's variod round, In the goblet alone no deception is found. I have tried in its turn all that life can supply : I have bask'd in the beam of a dark rolling eye ; I have loved ! — who has not ? — but what heart can declare That pleasure existed while passion was there ? -O 4- A DDK ESS. 263 In the days of my youth, when the heart 'a 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 J The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange, Friendship shifts with the sunbeam — thou never canst chaiigc- . Thou grow'st old — who does not ? — but on earth what appears, Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its year* Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, Should a rival bow down tc our idol below, We are jealous ! — who's not ? — tlrju hast no such aUoy ; for the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy. Then the season of youth and its vanities past, For refuge we fly to the goblet at last ; There we find — do we not ? — in the flow of the soul, That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth, And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth, Hope was left, — was she not \ — but the goblet we kia6, And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss. Long life to the grape ! for when summer is flown. The age of our nectar shall gladden our own : We must die — who shall not? — May our sins be forgiven, And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven. ADDRESS INTENDED TO HATE BEEN SPOKEN AT THE CALEDONIA! MEETING, 1814. Who hath not glow'd ahovA the mere where fame Hath fix'd high Caledon s unconquer'd name ; The mountain land which sporn'd the Roman chain, And baffled back the fiery-crusted Dane ; Whose bright claymore and narciinood of hand, No foe could tame — no tyrant could command ! That race is gone— but still their children breathe, And glory crowns them with redoubled wreath : O'er Gael and Saxon mingling banners shine, And, England ! add their stubborn strength to thine. The blood which fiow'd with Wallace flows as free, But now 'tis only shed for fame and thee ! Oh ! pass not by the northern veteran's claim, But give support — the world hath given him fame \ The humbler ranks, the lowly brave, who bled While cheerly following where the mighty led' — ■ Who sleep beneath tne undistinguish'd sod, Where happier comrades in their triumph trou*, 4- 4> 264 B J RON'S POEMS. To us bequeath — 'tis all their fate allows — The sireless offspring and the lonely spouw ; She on high Albyn's dusky hills may raise The tearful eye in melancholy gaze ; Or view, while shadowy auguries disclose, The Highland seer's anticipated woes, The bleeding phantom of each martial fonr, Dim in the cloud, or darkling in the storm ; While sad she chants the solitary song, The soft lament for him who tarries long — Fur him, whose distant relics vainly crave The cronach's wild requiem to the brave ! 'Tis Heaven — not man — must charm away the uofy Which bursts when Nature's feelings newly Acre/ ; Yet tenderness and time may rob the tear Of half its bitterness, for one so dear ; A nation's gratitude perchance may spread A thornless pillow for the widow's head ; May lighten well her heart's maternal c&rt, And wean from penury the soldier's heir.