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 Number 208. 
 
 Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 
 
 Price 20 Cts. 
 
 AHrxl at M< AK Ofiti at IT— torli, m Aeoiui-clw Xcil Matur. 
 
 Poetry of Byron 
 
 CHOSEN AND AEEANGED BY 
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD. 
 
 \ 
 
 ENGLISH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 EDITED B^X' JOmsT MORLEY. 
 
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FEANKLII^'StfUARE LIBEAEY. 
 
 OEMTB. 
 
 1. IS HE POPENJOT ? A Novel. By Ahthonv Tbollope IS 
 
 2. THE HISTORY OF A CHIME. ByViOTOKHDGO 10 
 
 3. THE KUSSIANS of TO-DAY M 
 
 4. PAUL KNOX, PITMAN., A Novel. By J. B. Habwood 10 
 
 6. MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. A Novel 10 
 
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 62. THE ZULUS AND THE BRITISH FRONTIERS. By Capt. T. J. LuoAB 10 
 
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 79. THE PICKWICK PAPERS. By Chaeles Diokens 20 
 
 80. MADGE DUNRAVEN. A Tale 10 
 
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 . .- . _ jg 
 
 15 
 
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 MEMOIRS OF PRINCE METTBRNICH. s Part 1 2» 
 
 MEMOIRS OF PRINCE METTBRNICH. Part II 20 
 
 MEMOIRS OF PRINCE METTBRNICH. Part III 20- 
 
 MEMOIRS OF PRINCE METTBRNICH. Part IV. 20 
 
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 THOMAS'CARLYLE : THE MAN AND HIS BOOKS. By W. H. Wylib. 20 
 
 LORD BEACONSFIBLD. A Study. By Geoeg Beandes 16- 
 
 THE LIFE AND SURPRISING ADVENTURES OF ROBINSON 
 
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 MY LOVE. ANovel. By Mrs. E. Lynn Linton '.'.'. 20' 
 
 BESIDE THE RIVER. A Tale. By Kathabine S. MAoauoro. 20- 
 
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 UNBELIEF IN THE 18th CENTURY. By John Caibnb, D D 20- 
 
 REVISED VERSION OF THE NEW TESTAMENT 20- 
 
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 CORRESPONDENCE OF TALLEYRAND AND LOUIS XVIII... . 20 
 
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 ^S?.^^,?„^^'^PP^'^P1^°^- ABrighto/story ByWirL?AHBi;;cK: 
 
 With Characteristic Illustrations 20 
 
 TO-DAY IN AMERICA. By Joseph Hatton ".V. 20 
 
 AYAL A'S ANGEL. A Novel. By Anthony Teollope .'.'."!..'.' 2* 
 
 THE NEPTUNE VASE. ANovel. By Vieginia W, Johnson 20 
 
 SYDNEY. ANovel. By Geoegiana M. Cbaik 4ta 
 
 LETTERS OF MADAME DE RfiMUSAT 20- 
 
 'l^=^?h^°'^ ^^9'^--^\T™Verm<x Tale. By ¥.W.V.i>m«Bos. '.'.'.. 10, 
 
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 w™ 9!Alm^' ^PJ'^'?''^^°S,'^- ANovel. By Geoeqe MaodonIld. 20i 
 
 WITH COSTS. A Novel. Bv Mrs. Newman lSsi 
 
 THE PRIVATE SECRETARY. A Novel 20^ 
 
 THE CAMERONIANS. ANovel, By James Grant..:.::::::::::;::: 20 
 
 SCEPTRE AND RING. ANovel, By B. H. Buxton 20 I 
 
 POETRY OF BYEON. Chosen and Arranged by Matthew' Aehold.'." 20 1 
 
 Published by HAEPEE & BEOTHEES, New York. 
 
 Haspek & Brothees will send any of the above works by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of t?ie United Staiesyon receipt of the price^ 
 
Number 208. Published by HAEPER & BROTHERS, New York. Pbice 20 Cts. 
 
 October 7, 1881.— leaued Weekly. 
 
 Copyright, 1878, by Hahpeb & Bbothbbs, 
 
 SabBcriptioD Price per Year of 52 Numbers, $10. 
 
 POETRY OF BYRON. 
 
 CHOSEN AND ARRANGED BY 
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD. 
 
 Fbeface Page 2 
 
 I.-PEKSONAL, LTEIC, AND ELEGIAC. 
 
 Loch Na Garr . , . ! 5 
 
 "Well! Thou Art Happy" 5 
 
 Epistle to a Friend 5 
 
 To Thomas Moore .6 
 
 Childe Harold's Departure . . , . . . . 6 
 Stanzas Composed during a Thunder-storm . 6 
 
 "Maid of Athens" 7 
 
 To Inez 7 
 
 "One Struggle More". 7 
 
 Euthanasia 8 
 
 " And Thou Art Dead " 8 
 
 "When We Two Parted" 9 
 
 Stanzas for Music ... 9 
 
 Stanzas to Augusta 9 
 
 Solitude 9 
 
 Nature the Consoler 9 
 
 The Same 10 
 
 The Poet and the World . 10 
 
 Bereavement 10 
 
 Last Leaving England . . 10 
 
 England 10 
 
 Buins to Buins 10 
 
 The Dream 11 
 
 The Poet's Curse 12 
 
 Nature to the Last 12 
 
 "She Walks in Beauty " 12 
 
 •"Oh! Snatch'd Away " 13 
 
 Song of Saul 13 
 
 Vision of Belshazzar 13 
 
 Destruction of Sennacherib 13 
 
 Ode to Napoleon Bonaparte 13 
 
 Ode on Waterloo 14 
 
 Napoleon's Farewell IS 
 
 Lament of Tasso 15 
 
 Dante in Exile 15 
 
 The Isles of Greece 16 
 
 Lines to a Lady Weeping 16 
 
 Death of the Princess Charlotte 16 
 
 Immortality 17 
 
 "On this Day I Complete my Thirty -sixth 
 
 .Year" 17 
 
 Life 17 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 II.— DESCEIPTIVB AND NAEEATIVE. 
 
 Greece Page 18 
 
 The Same 18 
 
 The Same 19 
 
 The Same 19 
 
 Hellespont 19 
 
 Troy 20 
 
 The Drachenfels 20 
 
 Waterloo 20 
 
 Lake of Geneva. — Calm 21 
 
 Lake of Geneva. — Storm 21 
 
 Clarens 21 
 
 Italy 21 
 
 Venice 22 
 
 The Same 22 
 
 The Same ' . . 22 
 
 An August Evening in Italy 22 
 
 The Ave Maria ... 22 
 
 Ari][ua 23 
 
 Clitumnus 23 
 
 Terni 23 
 
 Bome 23 
 
 The Coliseum 24 
 
 Tomb of Cecilia Metella 24 
 
 Grotto of Egerja 24 
 
 Sennet on Chillon 25 
 
 Bonnivard and his Brothers 25 
 
 Bonnivard Alone 26 
 
 The East 27 
 
 Journey and Death of Hassan 27 
 
 Hassan's Mother 27 
 
 The Giaour's Love 28 
 
 Death of Selim 28 
 
 Corsau: Life 29 
 
 Parting of Conrad and Medora ... .29 
 
 Conrad's Beturn 29 
 
 Alp and Francesoa 30 
 
 The Assault 31 
 
 Parisina 32 
 
 The Last of Ezzelio .32 
 
 Mazeppa's Ride 32 
 
 The Streamlet from the Cliff 35 
 
 The Shipwreck 35 
 
 Haidde 35 
 
 Haid^e Again 35 
 
 Aurora Baby , . 36 
 
 m.— DEAMATIC. 
 
 3^ 
 
 Manfred and the Seven Spirits . . . Page 36 
 
 Manfred on the Cliffs 37 
 
 The Witch of the Alps 38 
 
 Astarte 40 
 
 Manfred's Farewell to the Sun 40 
 
 Manfred's End 41 
 
 Dying Speech of the Doge of Venice ... 42 
 
 Death of Salemenes 42 
 
 Death of Jacopo Foscari 43 
 
 Cain and Lucifer in the Abyss of Space . . 43 
 Cain and Adah 44 
 
 IV.— SATIEIC. 
 
 Fame 
 
 Written after Swimming from Sestos to 
 Abydos 
 
 On my Thirty-third Birthday 
 
 To Ml-. Murray 
 
 Epistle from Mr. Murray to Dr. Polidori . . 
 
 To Mr. Murray 
 
 Holland House 
 
 Epilogue to English Bards and Scotch Re- 
 viewers 
 
 The Landed Interest 
 
 Italy 
 
 England 
 
 Wanted — a Hero 
 
 London 
 
 Things Sweet 
 
 Lambro'^s Return 
 
 A Stormed City 
 
 Exhortation to Mr. Wilberforce 
 
 Exhortation to Mrs. Fry 
 
 Satan Claims, at Heaven's Gate, George the 
 Third 
 
 The Sex 
 
 Our Children 
 
 Soul 
 
 Mobility 
 
 Great Names 
 
 Poetical Commandments 
 
 Byron and his Contemporaries 
 
 Poetical Production 
 
 The Lighter Side 
 
 45 
 
 45 . 
 45 
 45 
 45 
 
 46, 
 
 4* 
 
 46 
 
 47 
 
 47 
 
 47 
 
 47 
 
 48 
 
 48 
 
 49 
 
 49 
 
 49 
 
 49 
 60 
 50 
 50 
 50 
 60 
 61 
 51 
 , 61 
 , 51 
 
POETKY OF BYKON. 
 
 Whbn at last I held in my hand the Tolnme of 
 poems which I had chosen from Wordsworth, and 
 began to turn over its pages, there arose in me al- 
 most immediately the desire to see beside it, as a 
 companion volume, a like collection of the best po- 
 etry of Byron. Alone among oar poets of the ear- 
 lier part of this century, Byron and Wordsworth 
 not only furnish material enough for a volume of 
 this kind, but, also, as it seems to me, they both of 
 them gain considerably by being thus exhibited. 
 There are poems of Coleridge and of Keats equal, if 
 not superior, to anything of Byron or Wordsworth ; 
 but a dozen pages or two will contain them, and 
 the remaining poetry is of a quality much inferior. 
 Scott never, I think, rises as a poet to the level of 
 Byron and Wordsworth at all. On the other hand, 
 he never falls below his own usual level very far ; 
 and by s volume of selections from him, therefore, 
 his effectiveness is not increased. As to Shelley 
 there will be more question ; and indeed Mr. Stop- 
 ford Brooke, whose accomplishments, eloquence, 
 and love of poetry we must all recognize and ad- 
 mire, has actually given us Shelley in such a vol- 
 ume. But for my own part I cannot think that 
 Shelley's poetry, except by snatches and frag- 
 ments, has the value of the good work of Words- 
 worth and Byron ; or that it is possible for even 
 Mr. Stopford Brooke to make up a volume of selec- 
 tions from him which, for real substance, power, 
 and worth, can at all take rank with a like volume 
 from Byron or Wordsworth. 
 
 Shelley knew quite well the difference between 
 the achievement of such a poet as Byron and bis 
 own. He praises Byron too unreservedly, but he 
 .sincerely felt, and he was right in feeling, that By- 
 ron was a greater poetical power than himself. As 
 a man, Shelley is at a number of points immeasu- 
 rably ByroQ's superior ; he is a beautiful and en- 
 chanting spirit, whose vision, when we call it up, 
 has far more loveliness, more charm for our soul, 
 than the vision of Byron. But all the personal 
 charm of Shelley cannot hinder us from at last dis- 
 covering in his poetry the incurable want, in gen- 
 eral, of a sound subject-matter, and the incurable 
 fault, in consequence, of unsubstantiality. Those 
 who extol bim as the poet of clouds, the poet of 
 sunsets, are only saying that he did not, in fact, 
 lay hold upon the poet's right subject-matter; and 
 in honest truth, with all his charm of soul and spir- 
 it, and with all his gift of musical diction and 
 movement, he never, or hardly ever, did. Except, 
 as I have said, for a few short thinf;s and single 
 stanzas, his original poetry is less satisfactory than 
 his translations, for in these the subject-matter 
 was found for him. Nay, I doubt whether his de- 
 lightful ' Essays and Letters, which deserve to be 
 far more read than they are now, will not resist 
 the wear and tear of time better, and finally come 
 to stand higher, than his poetr}'. 
 
 There remain to be considered Byron and Words- 
 worth. That Wordsworth affords good material 
 for a volume of selections, and that he gains by 
 having his poetry thus presented, is an old belief 
 ^Fmine which led me lately to make up a vol- 
 M^ of poems chosen out of Wordsworth, and to 
 Piing it before the public. By its kind reception 
 of the volume, the public seems to show itself a 
 partaker in my belief. Now, Byron, also, supplies 
 plenty of material for a like volume,'aud he too 
 gains, I think, by being so presented. Mr. Swin- 
 burne urges, indeed, that " Byron, who rarely 
 wrote anything either worthless or faultless, can 
 only be judged or appreciated in the mass ; the 
 greatest of his works was his whole work taken 
 together." It is quite true that Byron rarely 
 wrote anything either worthless or faultless ; it is 
 quite true, also, that in the appreciation of Byron's 
 power a sense of the amount and variety of his 
 work, defective thoiigh much of his work is, enters 
 justly into our estimate. But, although there may 
 be little in Byron's poetry which can be pronounced 
 either worthless or faultless, there are portions of 
 it which are far higher in worth and far more free 
 from fault than others. And although, again, the 
 abundance and variety of his production is un- 
 doubtedly a proof of his power, yet I question 
 wjiether by reading everything which he gives us 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 we are so likely to acquire an admiring sense even 
 of his variety and abundance, as by reading what 
 he gives us at his happier moments. Varied and 
 abundant he amply proves himself even by this 
 taken alone. Beceive him absolutely without 
 omission or compression, follow bis whole outpour- 
 ing stanza by stanza and line by line from the 
 very commencement to the very end, and he is 
 capable of being tiresome. 
 
 Byron has told us himself that the "Giaour" 
 "is but a string of passages." He has made full 
 confession of his own negligence. " No one, " says 
 he, " has done more through negligence to corrupt 
 the language." This accusation, brought by him- 
 self against his poems, is not just ; but when he 
 goes on to say of them, that " their faults, what- 
 ever they may be, are those of negligence and 
 not of labor," he says what is perfectly true. 
 " 'Lara,' " he declares, "I wrote while undressing 
 after coming home from balls and masquerades, 
 in the year of revelry, 1814. The ' Bride ' was 
 written in four, the ' Corsair ' in ten days." He 
 calls this " a humiliating confession, as it proves 
 my own want of judgment in publishing, and the 
 public's in reading, things which canhot have 
 stamina for permanence." Again he does his 
 poems injustice; the producer of such poems could 
 not but publish them, the public could not bat 
 read them. Nor could Byron have produced his 
 work in any other fashion ; his poetic work could 
 not have first grown and matured in his own mind, 
 and then come forth as an organic whole; Byron 
 had not enough of the artist in him for this, nor 
 enough of self-command. He wrote, as he truly 
 tells us, to relieve himself, and he Went on writing 
 because he found the relief become indispensable. 
 But it was inevitable that works so produced should 
 be, in general, " a string of passages," poured out, 
 as be describes them, with rapidity and excitement, 
 and with 'new passages constantlj^ suggesting 
 themselves, and added while his work was going 
 through the press. It is evident that we have 
 here neither deliberate scientific construction, nor 
 yet the instinctive artistic creation of poetic wholes ; 
 and that to take passages from work produced as 
 Byron's was is a very different thing from taking 
 passages out of the "CEdipus" or the "Tempest," 
 and deprives the poetry far less of its advantage. 
 
 Nay, it gives advantage to the poetry, instead 
 of depriving it of any. Byron, I said, has not a 
 great artist's profound and patient skill in combin- 
 ing an action or in developing a character — a skill 
 which we must watch and follow if we are to do 
 justice to it. But he ht)s a wonderful power of 
 vividly conceiving a single incident, a single situ- 
 ation ; of throwing himself upon it, grasping it as 
 if it were real and he saw and felt it, and of making 
 us see and feel it too. The " Giaour " is, as he 
 trul}' called it, "a string of passages," not a work 
 moving by a deep internal law of development to 
 a necessary end ; and our total impression from it 
 cannot but receive from this, its inherent defect, a 
 certain dimness and indistinctness. But the inci- 
 dents of the journey and death of Hassan, in that 
 poem, are conceived and presented with a vividness 
 not to be surpassed ; and our impression from them 
 is correspondingly clear and powerful. In " Lara," 
 again, there is no adequate development either of 
 the character of the chief personage or of the ac- 
 tion of the poem ; our total impression from the 
 work is a confused one. Yet such an incident as 
 the disposal of the slain Ezzelin's body passes be- 
 fore our eyes as if we actually saw it. And in the 
 same way as these bursts of incident, bursts of sen- 
 timent also, living and vigorous, often occur in the 
 midst of poems which must be admitted to be but 
 weakly -conceived and loosely -combined wholes. 
 Byron cannot but be a gainer by having attention 
 concentrated upon what is vivid, powerful, effective 
 in his work, and withdrawn from what is not so. 
 
 Byron, I say, cannot but be a gainer by this, just 
 as Wordsworth is a gainer by a like proceeding. 
 I esteem Wordsworth's poetry so highly, and the 
 world, in my opinion, has done it such scant jus- 
 tice, that I could not rest satisfied until I had ful- 
 filled, on Wordsworth's behalf, a long- cherished 
 desire — had disengaged, to the best of my power. 
 
 his good work from the inferior work joined with 
 it, and had placed before the public the body of his 
 good work by itself. To the poetry of Byron the 
 world has ardently paid homage ; full justice irom 
 his contemporaries, perhaps even more than jus- 
 tice, his torrent of poetry received. His poetry 
 was admired, adored, " with all its imperfections 
 on its head," in spite of negligence, in spite of.dif- 
 fuseness, in spite of repetitions, in spite of what- 
 ever faults it possessed. His name is still great 
 and brilliant. Nevertheless, the hour of irresisti- 
 ble vogue has passed away for him ; even for By- 
 ron it could not but pass away. The time has 
 come for him, as it comes for all poets, when he 
 must take his real and permanent place, no lon- 
 ger depending upon the vogue of his own day and 
 upon the enthusiasm of his contemporaries. What- 
 ever we may think of him, we shall not he subju- 
 gated by him as they were; for, as he cannot be 
 for us what he was for them, we cannot admire 
 him so hotly and indiscriminately as they. His 
 fanlts of negligence, of diffuseness, of repetition — 
 his faults of whatever kind — we shall abundantly 
 feel and nnsparingly criticise; the mere interV^ 
 of time between us and him makes disillusion of 
 this kind inevitable. But how, then, will B^^ron 
 stand, if we relieve him too, so far as we can, of 
 the encumbrance of bis inferior and weakest work, 
 and if we bring before us his best and strongest 
 work in one body together ? That is the question 
 which I, who can even remember the latter years 
 of Byron's vogue, and have myself felt the expiring 
 wave of that mighty influence, but who certain- 
 ly also regard him, and have long regarded him, 
 without illusion, cannot but ask myself, cannot but 
 seek to answer. The present volume is an attempt 
 to provide adequate data for answering it. 
 
 Byron has been overpraised, no doubt. " By- 
 ron is one of our French superstitions," says M. 
 Edmond Scherer; but where has Byron not been 
 a superstition? He pays now the penalty of 
 this exaggerated worship, "Alone among the 
 English poets his contemporaries, Byron," says 
 M. Taine, ^^atteint a la cime — gets to the top of 
 the poetic mountain." But the idol that M. Taine 
 had thus adored M. Scherer is almost far burning. 
 "In Byron," he declares, "there is a remarkable 
 inability ever to lift himself into the region of real 
 poetic art-r-art impersonal and disinterested — at 
 all. He has fecundity, eloquence, wit ; but even 
 these qualities themselves are confined within 
 somewhat narrow limits. He has treated hardly 
 any subject but one — himself; now, the man, in 
 Byron, is of a nature even less sincere than the 
 poet. This beautiful and blighted being is at bot- 
 tom a coxcomb. He posed all his life long." 
 
 Our poet could not well meet with more severe 
 and unsympathetic criticism. However, the praise 
 often given to Byron has been so exaggerated as to 
 provoke, perhaps, a reaction in which he is unduly 
 disparaged. "As various in composition as Shak> 
 speare himself, Lord Byron has embraced," says 
 Sir Walter Scott, " ever}- topic of human life, and 
 sounded every string on the divine harp, from its 
 slightest to its most powerful and heart-astounding 
 tones." It is not surprising that some one with a 
 cool head should retaliate, on such provocation as 
 this, by saying, " He has treated hardly any sub- 
 ject but one — himself." " In the very grand and 
 tremendous drama of ' Cain,' " says Scott, "Lord 
 Byron has certainly matched Milton on his own 
 ground." And Lord Byron has done all this, Scott 
 adds, " while managing his pen with the careless 
 and negligent ease of a man of quality." Alas ! 
 "managing his pen with the careless and negli- 
 gent ease of a man of quality," Byron wrote in hia 
 "Cain:" 
 
 " Souls that dare look the Omnipotent tyrant In 
 His everlasting face, aud tell him that 
 His evil is not good ;" 
 
 or he wrote : 
 
 "... And thou would'st go on aspiring 
 To the great double Mysteries ! the Jioo PriTiciples ."" 
 
 One has only to repeat to one's self a line ttom. 
 "Paradise Lost "in order to feel the difference. 
 
 ' The italics are in the original. 
 
POETRY OF BYEON. 
 
 3 
 
 Sainte-Beuye, speaking of that exquisite master 
 of language, tlie Italian poet Leopardi, remarks how 
 often we see the alliance, singular though it may 
 at first sight appear, of the poetical genius with the 
 genius for scholarship and philology. Dante and 
 Hilton are instances which will occur to every 
 one's mind. Byron is so negligent in his poetical 
 style — he is often, to say the truth, so slovenly, 
 slipshod, and infelicitous — he is so little haunted 
 hy the true artist's line passion for the correct use 
 and consummate management of words, that he 
 may be described as having for this artistic gift 
 the insensibility of the barbarian ; which is, per- 
 haps, only another and a less flattering way of 
 saying, with Scott, that he " manages his pen with 
 the careless and negligent ease of a man of quali- 
 ty." Just of a piece with the rhythm of 
 
 " Dare yon await the event of a few minutes' 
 Deliberation V 
 
 or of 
 
 "AH shall be void— 
 Deati'oy'd !" 
 is the diction of 
 
 " Which now is painful to these eyes, 
 Wtiich have uot seen the sun tu rise ;" 
 
 or of 
 
 . there let him lay '." 
 
 or of the famous passage beginning, 
 
 "He who hath beut him o'er the dead ;" 
 
 with those trailing relatives, that crying grammat- 
 ical solecism, that inextricable anacolouthon ! To 
 class the woik of the author of such things with 
 the work of the authors of such verse as 
 
 "In the dark backward and abysm of time " — 
 
 or as 
 
 " Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, 
 Or the tale of Troy divine " — 
 
 is ridiculous. Shakspeare and Milton, with their 
 secret of consummate felicity in diction and move- 
 ment, are of another and an altogether higher or- 
 der from Byron, nay, for that matter, from Words- 
 worth also ; from the author of such verse as 
 
 *'Sol bath dropL into his harbor" — 
 
 or (if Mr. Buskin pleases) as 
 
 "Parching summer hath no warrant " — 
 
 as from the author of 
 
 "All shall be void — 
 Destroy'd !" 
 
 With a poetical gift and a poetical performance of 
 the very highest order, the slovenliness and tune- 
 lessness of much of Byron's production, the pom- 
 pousness and ponderousness of much of Words- 
 worth's, are incompatible. Let us admit this to 
 the full. 
 
 Moreover, while we are hearkening to M. Sche- 
 rer, and going along with him in his fault-finding, 
 let us admit too that the man in Byron is, in many 
 respects, as unsatisfactory as the poet. And, put- 
 ting aside all direct moral criticism of him — with 
 which we need not concern ourselves here — we 
 shall find that he is unsatisfactory in the same way. 
 Some of Byron's most crying faults as a man — his 
 vulgarity, his affectation — are really akin to the 
 faults of commonness, of want of art, in his work- 
 manship as a poet. 'The ideal nature for the poet 
 and artist is that of the finely touched and finely 
 gifted man, the ti^vrn; of the Greeks ; now, By- 
 ron's nature was in substance not that of the eu- 
 (pvris at all, but rather, as I have said, of the bar- 
 barian. The want of fine perception which made 
 it possible for him to formulate either the compar- 
 ison between himself and Rousseau, or his reason 
 for getting Lord Delawarr excused from a " lick- 
 ing " at Harrow, is exactly what made possible for 
 ^im also his terrible dealings in An ye woolf I have 
 fedde thee; Sunburn me; O'lns^ and it is excellent 
 jwell. It is exactly, again, what made possible for 
 jbim his precious dictum that Pope is a Greek tem- 
 ple, and a string of other criticisms of the like 
 force ; it is exactly, in fine, what deteriorated the 
 quality of his poetic production. If we think of 
 al good representative of that finely touched and 
 exquisitely gifted nature which is the ideal nature 
 for the poet and artist — if we think of Raphael, for 
 Instance, who truly is iii(pvlic just as Byron is not 
 — we shall bring into clearer light the connection 
 
 in Byron between the faults of the man and the 
 faults of the poet. With Raphael's character By- 
 ron's sins of vulgarity and false criticism would 
 have been impossible, just as with Raphael's art 
 Byron's sins of common and bad workmanship. 
 
 Yes, all this is true ; but it is not the whole truth 
 about Byron, nevertheless — very far from it. The 
 severe criticism of M. Scherer by no means gives 
 us the whole truth about Byron, and we have not 
 yet got it in what has been added to that criticism 
 here. The negative part of the true criticism of 
 him we perhaps have ; the positive part, by far the 
 more important, we have not. Byron's admirers 
 appeal eai^erly to foreign testimonies in his favor. 
 Some of these testimonies do uot much move me ; 
 hut one testimony there is among them which will 
 always carry, with me at any rate, very great weight 
 — the testimony of Goethe. Goethe's sayings about 
 Byron were uttered, it must, however, be remem- 
 bered, at the height of Byron's vogue, when that 
 puissant and splendid personality was exercising its 
 full power of attraction. In Goethe's own household 
 there was an atmosphere of glowing Byron-wor- 
 ship ; his daughter-in-law was a passionate admirer 
 of Byron ; nay, she enjoyed and prized his poetry, 
 as did Tieck and so many others in Germany at that 
 time, much above the poetry of Goethe himself. 
 Instead of being irritated and rendered jealous by 
 this, a nature like Goethe's was inevitably led by 
 it to heighten, not lower, the note of his praise. 
 Tlie Time-Spirit, or Zeit-Geist, he would himself 
 have said, was working just then for Byron. This 
 working of the Zeit-Geist in his favor was an ad- 
 vantage added to Byron's other advantages, an ad- 
 vantage of which he had a right to get the bene- 
 fit. This is what Goethe would have thought and 
 said to himself; and so he would have been led 
 even to heighten somewhat his estimate of Byron, 
 and to accentuate the emphasis of praise. Goethe 
 speaking of Byron at that moment was not, and 
 could not be, quite the same cool critic as Goethe 
 speaking of Dante, or Moli&re, or Milton. This, I 
 say, we ought to remember in reading Goethe's 
 judgments on Byron and his poetry. Still, if we 
 are careful to bear this in mind, and if we quote 
 Goethe's praise correctly — which is not always 
 done by those who in this country quote it — and 
 if we add to it that great and due qualification 
 added to it by Goethe himself— -which, so far as I 
 have seen, has never yet been done by his quoters 
 in this country at all — then we shall have a judg- 
 ment on Byron which comes, I think, very near 
 to the truth, and which may well command our 
 adherence. 
 
 Jn_hjs judicious and interesting "Life of Byron," 
 Professor Nichol quotes Goethe as saying that By- 
 ron " is undoubtedly to be regarded as the greatest 
 genius of our century." What Goethe did really 
 say was "the greatest talent " not "the greatest 
 genius." The difference is important, because, 
 while talent gives the notion of power in a man's 
 performance, genius gives rather the notion of fe- 
 licity and perfection in it ; and this divine gift of 
 consummate felicity by no means, as we have seen, 
 belongs to Byron and to his poetry. Goethe said 
 that Byron "must unquestionably be regarded as 
 the greatest talent of the century.'"* He said of 
 him, moreover: "The English may think of By- 
 ron what they please, but it is certain that they 
 can point to no poet who is his like. He is differ- 
 ent from all the rest, and, in the main, greater." 
 Here, again. Professor Nichol translates : " They 
 can show no (living) poet who is to be compared 
 to him;" inserting the word living, I suppose, to 
 prevent its being thought that Goethe would have 
 ranked B^'ron, as a poet, above Shakspeare and 
 Milton. But Goethe did not use, or, I think, mean 
 to imply, any limitation such as is added by Pro- 
 fessor Nichol. Goethe said simply, and he meant 
 to say, ^'no poet." Only, the words which foUowf 
 ought not, I think, to be rendered, "who is to be 
 compared to him," that is to say, " who is his equal 
 as a poet." They mean rather, " who may proper- 
 ly be compared with him," ^^who is his parallel." 
 And when Goethe said that Byron was "in the 
 main greater " than all the rest of the English 
 poets, he was not so much thinking of the strict 
 
 * "Der ohne Fiage als das grSsste Talent des Jahr- 
 huiidei'ts aiiziiseheu ist" 
 t " Der ihm zn vergleichen ware." 
 
 rank, as poetry, of Byron's production ; he was 
 thinking of that wonderful personality of Byron 
 which so enters into his poetry, and which Goethe 
 called "a personality such, for its eminence, as has 
 never been yet, and such as is not likely to come 
 again." He was thinking of that " daring, dash, 
 and grandiosity '"* of Byron, which are, indeed, so 
 splendid, and which were (so Goethe maintained) 
 of a character to do good, because "everj'thing 
 great is formative," and what is thus formative 
 does us good. 
 
 The faults which went with this greatness, and 
 which impaired Byron's poetical work, Goethe saw 
 very well. He saw the constant state of war&re 
 and combat, the " negative and polemical work-* 
 ins;," which makes Byron's poetry a poetry ia 
 which we can so little find rest ; he saw the Bang 
 zum Unbegreiaten, the straining after the unlimited, 
 which made it impossible for Byron to produce 
 poetic wholes such as the "Tempest" or " Lear;" 
 he saw the zu viel Empiric, the promiscuous adop.< 
 tion of all the matter offered to the poet by life, 
 just as it was offered, without thought or patience 
 for the mysterious transmutation to be operated 
 on this matter by poetic form. But in a sentenfe 
 which I cannot, as I say, remember to have yet 
 seen quoted in any English criticism of Byron, 
 Goethe lays his finger on the cause of all these 
 defects in Byron, and on his real source of weak- 
 ness both as a man and as a poet. " The mo- 
 ment he reflects, he is a child," says Goethe — " so- 
 buld i-r rejlectirt isi er ein Kind." 
 
 Now, if we take the two parts of Goethe's criti- 
 cism of B^'ron, the favorable and the unfavorably 
 and put them together, we shall have, I think, the 
 truth. On the one hand a splendid and puissant 
 personality, a personality " in eminence such as 
 has never been yet, and is not likely to come 
 again ;" of which the like, therefore, is not to be 
 found among the poets of our nation, by which 
 Byron "is different from all the rest, and, in the 
 main, greater." Byron is, moreover, "the great- 
 est talent of our century." On the other hand, 
 this splendid personality and unmatched talent, 
 this unique Byron, " is quite too much in the dark 
 about himself ;"f nay, "the moment he begins to 
 reflect, he is a child." There we have, I think, 
 Byron complete ; and in estimating him and rank- 
 ing him we have to strike a balance between the 
 gain which accrues to his poetry, as compared 
 with the productions of other poets, from his su- 
 periority, and the loss which accrues to it from his 
 defects. 
 
 A balance of this kind has to be struck in the 
 case of all poets except the few supreme masters 
 in whom a profound criticism of life exhibits itself 
 in indissoluble connection with the laws of poetic 
 truth and beauty. I have seen it said that I al- 
 lege poet y to have for its characteristic this : that 
 it is a criticism of life ; and that I make it to be 
 thereby distinguished from prose, which is some- 
 thing else. So far from it, that when I first used 
 this expression, a criticism of life, now many years 
 ago, it was to literature in general that I applied 
 it, and not to poetiy in especial. "The end and 
 aim of all literature," I said, "is, if one considers 
 it attentively, nothing but that : a criticism of 
 U/e." And so it surely is; the main end and aim, 
 of all our utterance, whether in prose or in verse,. 
 is surely a criticism of life. We are not brought 
 much on our way, I admit, toward an adequate 
 definition of poetry as distinguished from prose oy 
 that truth ; still a truth it is, and poetry can never 
 prosper if it is forgotten. In poetry, howeven 
 the criticism of life has to be made conformably to 
 the laws of poetic truth and poetic beauty. Truth 
 and seriHusness of substance and matter, felicity 
 and perfection of diction and manner, as these are 
 exhibited in the best poets, are what constitute a 
 criticism of life made in conformity with the laws 
 of poetic truth and poetic beauty ; and it is by 
 knowing and feeling the work of those poets, that 
 we learn to recognize the fulfilment and non-ful- 
 filment of such conditions. 
 
 The moment, however, that we leave the small 
 band of the very best poets, the tine classics, and 
 deal with poets of the next rank, we shall find 
 
 • "Byron's Kiihuheit, Keckheit und Grandioeitat, 
 ist das nicht alles bildendf— Alles Qrosse bildet, so- 
 bald wir es gewahr wei-den." 
 
 t " Gar zu diiukel uber sich selbst." 
 
POETRY OF BYRON. 
 
 that perfect truth and seriousness of matter, in 
 close alliance with perfect truth and felicity of 
 manner, is the rule no longer. We have now to 
 take what we can get, to forego something here, 
 to admit compensation for it there; to strike a 
 balance, and to see how our poets stand in respect 
 to one another when that balance has been struck. 
 Let us observe how this is so. 
 
 We will take three poets, among the most con- 
 siderable of our century : Leopardi, Byron, Words- 
 worth, Oiacomo Leopardi was ten years younger 
 than Byron, and he died thirteen years after him ; 
 both of them, therefore, died young, BjTon at the 
 age of thirty- six, Leopardi at the age of thirty- 
 nine. Both of them were of noble birth, both of 
 them suffered from physical defect, both of them 
 were in revolt against the established facts and 
 beliefs of their age ; but here the likeness between 
 them ends. The stricken poet of Eecanati had no 
 country, for an Italy in his day did not exist ; he 
 had no audience, no celebrity. The volume of his 
 poems, published in the very year of Byron's 
 death, hardly sold, I suppose, its tens, while the 
 volumes of Byron's poetry were selling their tens 
 of thousands. And yet Leopardi has the very 
 qualities which we have found wanting to Byron ; 
 he has the sense for form and style, the passion for 
 just expression, the sure and firm touch of the 
 true artist. Nay, more, he has a grave fulness of 
 knowledge, an insight into the real bearings of the 
 questions which as » sceptical poet he raises, a 
 power of seizing the real point, a lucidity, with 
 which the author of " Cain " has nothing to com- 
 pare. I can hardly imagine Leopardi reading the 
 
 "... And thou would'st go on nsplriug 
 To the great double Mysteries 1 the two Principles !" 
 
 or following Byron in his theological controversy 
 with Dr. Kennedy, without having his features 
 overspread bj'' a calm and fine smile, and remark- 
 ing of his brilliant contemporary, as Goethe did, 
 that "the moment he begins to reflect he is a 
 child." But indeed whoever wishes to feel the 
 full superiority of Leopardi over Byron in philo- 
 sophic thought and in the expression of it, has 
 only to read one paragraph of one poem, the para- 
 graph of " La Ginestra " beginning 
 
 " Soveute in qiieste piagge," 
 
 and ending 
 
 "Non so se il riso o la pieta prevale." 
 
 In like manner, Leopardi is at many points the 
 poetic superior of Wordsworth too. He has a far 
 wider culture than Wordsworth, more mental lu- 
 cidity, more freedom from illusions as to the real 
 character of the established fact and of reigning 
 conventions ; above all, this Italian, with his pure 
 and sure touch, with bis fineness of perception, is 
 far more of the artist. Such a piece of pompous 
 dulness as 
 
 " for the coming of that glorious time," 
 
 and all the rest of it, or such lumbering verse as 
 Mr. Buskin's enemy, 
 
 " Parching summer hath no warrant," 
 
 ;jiyould have been as impossible to Leopardi as to 
 
 Dante. Where, then, is Wordsworth's superiority ? 
 
 for the worth of what he has given us in poetry I 
 "Tiold to be greater, on the whole, than the worth of 
 
 what Leopardi has given us. It is in Wordsworth's 
 
 sound and profound sense 
 
 "Of joy in widest commonalty spread;" 
 
 whereas Leopardi remains with his thoughts ever 
 fixed upon^the essenza maanabile^ upon the acerbo, 
 mdegno mistero delle cose. It is in the power with 
 which Wordsworth feels the resources of joy offer- 
 ed to us in nature, offered to us in the primary 
 human affections and duties, and in the power with 
 which in his moments of inspiration he renders 
 this joy and malces us, too, feel it ; a force greater 
 than himself seeming to lift him and to prompt 
 his tongue, so that he speaks in a style far above 
 any style of which he has the constant command, 
 and with a truth far beyond any philosophic truth 
 of which he has the conscious and assured posses- 
 sion. Neither Leopardi nor Wordsworth is of the 
 ^ame order with the great poets who made such 
 verse as 
 
 " TXriTov yd,p Molpai Sv/iov d'taav avSpitiiroiaiv." 
 
 " In la sua volontade e nostra pace ;" 
 or as 
 
 "... Men must endure 
 Their going hence, even as their coming hither; 
 ItipeuesB is all." 
 
 But, as compared witli Leopardi, Wordsworth, 
 though at many points less lucid, though far less a 
 master of style, far less of an artist, gains so much 
 by his criticism of life being, in certain matters of 
 profound importance, healthful and true, whereas 
 Leopardi's pessimism is not, that the value of 
 Wordsworth's poetry, on the whole, stands higher 
 for us than that of Leopardi's, as it stands higher 
 for us, I think, than that of any modern poetry ex- 
 cept Goethe's. 
 
 Byron's poetic value is also greater, on the 
 whole, than Leopardi's ; and his superiority turns, 
 in the same way, upon the surpassing worth of 
 something which he had and was, after all deduc- 
 tion has been made for his short-comings. We 
 talk of Byron's personality — " a personality in em- 
 inence such as has never been yet, and is not like- 
 ly to come again ;" and we say that by this per- 
 sonality Byron is "different from all the rest of 
 English poets, and in the main greater." But can 
 we not be a little more circumstantial, and name 
 that in which the wonderful power of this person- 
 ality consisted ? We can ; with the instinct of a 
 poet Mr. Swinburne has seized upon it and named 
 it for us. The power of Byron's personality lies 
 in " the splendid and imperishable excellence which 
 covers all his offences, and outweighs all his de- 
 fects — the excellence of sincerity and strength." 
 
 BjTon found our nation, after its long and vic- 
 torious struggle with revolutionary France, fixed 
 in a system of established facts and dominant ide^s 
 which revolted him. The mental bondage of the 
 most powerful part of our nation, of its strong mid- 
 dle class, to a narrow and false system of this kind, 
 is what we call British Philistinism. That bond- 
 age is unbroken to this hour, but in Byron's time 
 it was even far more deep and dark than it is now. 
 Byron was an aristocrat, and it is not difficult for 
 an aristocrat to look on the prejudices and habits 
 of the British Philistine with scepticism and dis- 
 dain. Plenty of young men of his own class By- 
 ron met at Almack's or at Ladj' Jersey's, who re- 
 garded the established facts and reigning beliefs of 
 the England of that day with as little reverence as 
 he did. But these men, disbelievers in British Phil- 
 istinism in private, entered English public life, the 
 most conventional in the world, and at once they 
 saluted with respect the habits and ideas of British 
 Philistinism as if they were a part of the order of 
 creation, and as if in public no sane man would 
 think of warring against them. With Byron it 
 was different. What he called the cant of the great 
 middle part of the English nation, what we call its 
 Philistinism, revolted him ; but the cant of his own 
 class, deferring to this Philistinism and profiting 
 by it, while they disbelieved in it, revolted him 
 even more. "Gome what may," are his own 
 words, "I will never flatter the million's canting 
 in any shape." His class in general, on the other 
 hand, shrugged their shoulders at this cant, laugh- 
 ed at it, pandered to it, and ruled by it. The false- 
 hood, cynicism, insolence, misgovernment, oppres- 
 sion, with their consequent unfailing crop of hu- 
 man misery, which were produced by this state of 
 things, roused Bj'ron to irreconcilable revolt and 
 battle. They made him indignant; they infu- 
 riated him ; they were so strong, so defiant, so 
 maleficent— and yot he felt that they were doomed. 
 " You have seen every trampler down in turn," he 
 comforts himself with saying, "from Bonaparte to 
 the simplest individuals." The old order, as after 
 1815 it stood victorious, with its ignorance and 
 misery below, its cant, selfishness, and cynicism 
 above, was at home and abroad equally hateful to 
 him. "I have simplified my politics," he writes, 
 " into an utter detestation of all existing govern- 
 ments." And again :" Give me a republic. The 
 king-times are fast finishing ; there will be blood 
 shed like water and tears like mist, but the peoples 
 will conquer in the end. I shall not live to see it, 
 but I foresee it." 
 
 Byron himself gave the preference, he tells us, 
 to politicians and doers, far above writers and sing- 
 
 ers. But the politics of his own day and of his 
 own class — even of the Liberals of his own class 
 ^were impossible for him. Nature had not form- 
 ed him for a Liberal peer, proper to move the Ad- 
 dress in the House of Lords, to pay compliments to 
 the energy and self-reliance of British middle-class 
 Liberalism, and to adapt his politics to suit it. 
 Unfitted for such politics, he threw himself upon 
 poetry as his organ ; and in poetry his topics were 
 not Queen Mab, and the Witch of Atlas, and the 
 Sensitive Plant : they were the upholders of the old 
 order — George the Third, and Lord Castlereagh, 
 and the Duke of Wellington, and Southey — and 
 they were the canters and tramplers of the great 
 world, and they were his enemies and himself. 
 
 Such was Byron's personality, by which " he is 
 different from all the rest of English poets, and, in 
 the main, greater." But he posed all his life, says 
 M. Scherer. Let us distinguish. There is the 
 Byron who posed, there is the Byron with his af- 
 fectations and silliness, the Byron whose weakness 
 Lady Blessington, with a woman's acuteness, so 
 admirably seized : ' ' His great defect is flippancy 
 and a total want of self-possession." But when 
 this theatrical and easily criticised personage be- 
 took himself to poetH-y, and when he had fairly 
 warmed to his work, then he became another man ; 
 then the theatrical personage passled away; then 
 a higher power took possession of him and filled 
 him ; then at last came forth into light that true 
 and puissant personality, with its direct strokes, 
 its ever- welling force, its satire, its energy, and its 
 agony. This is the real Byron ; whoever sJ:ops at 
 the theatrical preludings does not know him. And 
 this real Byron may well be superior to the strick- 
 en Leopardi, he maj' well be declared "different 
 from all the rest of English poets, and, in the main, 
 greater," in so far as it is true of him, as M. Taine 
 well says, that "all other souls, in comparison 
 with his, seem inert ;" in so far as it is true of him 
 that with superb, exhaustless. energy he maintain- 
 ed, as Professor Nichol well says, "the struggle 
 that keeps alive, if it does not save, the sonl ;" in 
 so far, finally, as 'he deserves (and he does deserve) 
 the noble praise of him which I have already quoted 
 from Mr. Swinburne — the praise for "the splendid 
 and imperishable excellence which covers all his 
 offences, and outweighs all his defects — the excel- 
 hnce of sincerity and strength. 
 
 True, as a man, Byron could not manage him- 
 self, could not guide his ways aright, but was all 
 astray. True, he has no light, cannot lead us from 
 the past to the future ; " the moment he reflects 
 he is a child." The way out of the false state of 
 things which enraged him he did not see — the 
 slow and laborious way upward ; he had not the 
 patience, knowledge, self-discipline, virtue, requi- 
 site for seeing it. True, also, as a poet, he has no 
 fine and exact sense for word and structure and 
 rhythm ; he has not the artist's nature and gifts. 
 Yet a personality of Byron's force counts for so 
 much in life, and a rhetorician of Byron's force 
 counts for so much in literature! But it would 
 be most unjust to label Byron, as M. Scherer is dis- 
 posed to label him, as a rhetorician only. Along 
 with his astounding power and passion, he had a 
 strong and deep sense for what is beautiful in nat- 
 ure, and for what is beautiful in human action and 
 suffering. When he warms to his work, when he 
 is inspired, Nature herself seems to take the pen 
 from him as she took it from Wordsworth, and to 
 write for him as she wrote for Wordsworth, though 
 in a different fashion, with her own penetrating 
 simplicity. Goethe has well observed of Byron 
 that when he is at his happiest his representation 
 of things is as easy and real as if he were impro- 
 vising. It is so ; and his verse then exhibits quite 
 another and a higher quality from the rhetorical 
 quality — admirable as this also in its own kind of 
 merit is — of such verse as 
 
 " Minions of splendor shrinking f lom distress," 
 and of so much more verse of Byron's of tha 
 stamp. Nature, I say, takes the pen for him 
 and thep, assured master of a true poetic styl 
 though he is not, any more than Wordsworth 
 yet as from Wordsworth at his best there wij 
 come such verse as 
 
 so from Byron, too, at his best, there will c*_ 
 such verse as T~ 
 
 "Will no one tell me what she sings f" 
 
POETRY OF BYEON. 
 
 5 
 
 "He hearfl it, but he heeded not; his eyes 
 Were wilh his heuvt, nnd that wna far away." 
 
 Of verse of this high quality Byron has much ; of 
 verse of a quality lower than this — of a quality 
 rather rhetorical than truly poetic, yet still of ex- 
 traordinary power aild merit — he has still more. 
 To separate from the mass of poetry which Byron 
 poured forth all this higher portion, so superior to 
 the mass, and still so considerable in quantity, and 
 to present it in one body, by itself, is to do a ser- 
 vice, I believe, to Byron's reputation, and to the 
 poetic glory of our country. 
 
 Such a service I have in the present volume 
 attempted to perform. To Byron, after all the 
 tributes which have been paid to him, here is yet 
 one tribute more : 
 
 "Among thy mightier offerings here are mine!" 
 
 not a tribute of boundless homage, certainly, but 
 sincere ; a tribute which consists, not in covering 
 the poet with eloquent eulogy of our own, but in 
 letting him, at his best and greatest, speak for 
 himself. Surely the critic who does most for his 
 author is the critic who gains readers for his au- 
 thor himself, not for any lucubrations on his author 
 — gains more readers ,for him, and enables those 
 readers to read him with more admiration. 
 
 And in spite of his prodigious vogue, Byron has 
 never yet, perhaps, had the serious admiration 
 which he deserves. Society read him and talked 
 
 about him, as it reads, and talks about "Endym- 
 ion " to-day and with the same sort of result. It 
 looked in Byron's glass as it looks in Lord Bea- 
 oonefield's, and sees, or fancies that it sees, its own 
 face there ; and then it goes its way, and straight- 
 way forgets what manner of man it saw. Even 
 of his passionate admirers, how many never got be- 
 yond the theatrical Byron, from whom they caught 
 the fashion of deranging their hair, or of knotting 
 their neck-handkerchief, or of leaving their shirt- 
 collar unbuttoned ! how few profoundly felt his 
 vital influence, the influence of his splendid and 
 imperishable excellence of sincerity and strength ! 
 His own aristocratic class, whose cynical make- 
 believe drove him to fury ; the great middle-class, 
 on whose impregnable Philistinism he shattered 
 himself to pieces — how little have either of these 
 felt Byron's vital influence! As the inevitable 
 break-up of the old order comes ; as the English 
 middle-class slowly awakens from its intellectual 
 sleep of two centuries ; as our actual present world, 
 to which this sleep has condemned us, shows itself 
 moi'e clearly — our world of an aristocracy materi- 
 jilized and dull, a middle-class purblind and hid- 
 eous, a lower class crude and brutal — ^we shall turn 
 our eyes again, and to more purpose, upon this 
 passionate and dauntless soldier of a forlorn hope, 
 who, ignorant of the future and unconsoled by its 
 promises, nevertheless waged against the conser- 
 vation of the old impossible world so fiery battle — 
 
 waged it till he fell — waged it with such splen- 
 did and imperishable excellence of sincerity and 
 strengtl}. 
 
 "Wordsworth's value is of another kind. Words- 
 worth has an insight into permanent sources of joy 
 and consolation for mankind which Byron has not ; 
 his poetry gives us more which we may rest upon 
 than Byron's— more which we can rest upon now, 
 and which men may rest upon always. I place 
 Wordsworth's poetry, therefore, above Byron's, on 
 the whole, although in some points he was greatly 
 Byron's inferior, and although Byron's poetry will 
 always, probably, find more readers than Words- 
 worth's, and will give pleasure more easily. But 
 these two, Wordsworth and Byron, stand, it seems 
 to me, first and pre-eminent in actual performance, 
 a glorious pair, among the English poets of this 
 century. Keats had probably, indeed, a more con- 
 summate poetic gift than either of them ; but he 
 died having produced too little and being as yet 
 too immature to rival them. I, for my part, can 
 never even think of equalling with them any other 
 of their contemporaries — either Coleridge, poet and 
 philosopher, wrecked in a mist of opiuoL; or Shel- 
 ley, beautiful and inefiectual angel, beating in the 
 void his luminous wings in vain. Wordsworth and 
 Byron stand out by themselves. When the year 
 1900 is turned, and our nation comes to recount 
 her poetic glories in the century which has then 
 just ended, the first names with her will be these. 
 
 L-PERSONAL, LYRIC, AND ELEGIAC. 
 
 LOCH NA GARR. 
 
 Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses ! 
 
 In you let the minions of luxury rove ; 
 Eestore me the rocks, where the snow-flake reposes, 
 
 Though still they are sacred to freedom and love : 
 Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains. 
 
 Round their white summits though elements war ; 
 Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains, 
 
 I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr. 
 
 Ah I there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd ; 
 
 My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid ; 
 On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd, 
 
 As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade : 
 I sought not my home till the day's dying glory 
 
 Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star ; 
 For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story. 
 
 Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr. 
 
 " Shades of the dead ! have I not heard your voices 
 
 Kise 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. 
 
 " lU-starr'd, though brave, did no visions foreboding 
 
 Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause ?" 
 Ah ! were you destined to die at CuUoden, 
 
 Victory crown'd not your fall with applause : 
 Still were you happy in death's earthy slumber. 
 
 You rest with your clan in the oaves of Braeraar ; 
 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 flow'rs has bereft you. 
 
 Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain. 
 England! thy beauties are tame and domestic 
 
 To one who has roved on the mountains afar : 
 Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic ! 
 
 The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr ! 
 
 WELL! THOU ART HAPPY. 
 
 Well ! thou art happy, and I feel 
 That I should thus be happy too ; 
 
 For still my heart regards thy weal 
 Warmly, as it was wont to do. 
 
 Thy husband's blest — and 'twill impart 
 Some pangs to view his happier lot : 
 
 But let them pass — Oh ! how my heart 
 Would hate him, if he loved thee not ! 
 
 When late I saw thy favorite child, 
 
 I thought my jealous heart would break ; 
 
 But when the unconscious infant smiled, 
 I kiss'd it for its mother's sake. 
 
 I kiss'd it — and repress'd my sighs - 
 
 Its father in its face to see ; 
 But then it had its mother's eyes. 
 
 And they were all to love and me. 
 
 Mary, adieu ! I must away : 
 
 While thou art blest I'll not repine ; 
 
 But near thee I can never stay ; 
 
 My heart would sooii again be thine. 
 
 I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride 
 Had quench'd at length my boyish flame : 
 
 Nor knew, till seated by thy side, 
 
 My heart in all — save hope — the same. 
 
 Yet was I calm : I knew the time 
 
 My breast would thrill before thy look ; 
 
 But now to tremble were a crime ; 
 We met — and not a nerve was shook. 
 
 I saw thee gaze upon my face. 
 Yet met with no confusion there : 
 
 One only feeling could' st thou trace; 
 The sullen calmness of despair. 
 
 Away ! away ! my early dream 
 Remembrance never must awake ; 
 
 Oh ! where is Lethe's fabled stream ? 
 My foolish heart be still, or break. 
 
 EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. 
 
 IN ANSWER TO SOME LINES BXHOETING THE AUTHOR TO BE 
 CHEERFUL, AND TO "BANISH CARE." 
 
 " Oh ! banish care " — such ever be 
 The motto of thy revelry ! 
 Perchance of mvne^ when wassail nights 
 Renew those riotous delights. 
 Wherewith the Children of Despair 
 Lull the lone heart, and "banish care." 
 But not in morn's reflecting hour, 
 When present, past, and future lower. 
 
POETRY OF BYBON. 
 
 When all I loved is changed or gone, 
 Mock with such taunts the woes of one, 
 Whose every thought — but let them pass — 
 Thou know'st I am not*what I was. 
 But, above all, if thou would'st hold 
 Place in a heart that ne'er was cold, 
 By all the powers that men revere, 
 By all unto thy bosom dear, 
 Thy joys below, thy hopes above, 
 Speak — speak of anything but love. 
 
 'Twere long to tell, and vain to hear, 
 The tale of one who scorns a tear ; 
 And there is little in that tale 
 Which better bosoms would bewail. 
 But mine has suffer'd more than well 
 'Twould suit philosophy to tell. 
 I've seen my bride another's bride — 
 Have seen her seated by his side — 
 Have seen the infant, which she bore, 
 Wear the sweet smile the mother wore. 
 When she and I in youth have smiled, 
 As fond and faultless as her child — 
 Have seen her eyes in cold disdain. 
 Ask if I felt no secret pain ; 
 And / have acted well my part. 
 And made my cheek belie my heart, 
 Beturn'd the freezing glance she gave, 
 Yet felt the while that woman's slave ; 
 Have kiss'd, as if without design, 
 The babe which ought to have been mine. 
 And shew'd, alas ! in each caress. 
 Time' had not made me love the less. 
 
 But let this pass — PU whine no more, 
 Nor seek again an Eastern shore ; 
 The world befits a busy brain — 
 I'll hie me to its haunts again. 
 But if, in some succeeding year. 
 When Britain's "May is in the sere," 
 Thou hear'st of one, whose deepening crimes 
 Suit with the sablest of the times. 
 Of one, whom love nor pity sways. 
 Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise, 
 One, who in stern ambition's pride. 
 Perchance not blood shall turn aside, 
 One rank'd in some recording page 
 With the worst anarchs of the age. 
 Him wilt thou hrum — and knowing pause. 
 Nor with the effect forget the cause. 
 
 TO TI-IOMAS MOORE. 
 
 My boat is on the shore. 
 And my bark is on the sea ; 
 
 But, before I go, Tom Moore, 
 Here's a double health to thee ! 
 
 Here's a sigh to those who love me, 
 And a smile to those who bate ; 
 
 And, whatever sky's above me, 
 Here's a heart for every fate. 
 
 Though the ocean roar around me. 
 Yet it still shall bear me on ; 
 
 Though a desert should surround me. 
 It hath springs that may be won. 
 
 Were't the last drop in the well, 
 As I gaap'd upon the brink. 
 
 Ere my fainting spirit fell, 
 
 'Tis to thee that I would drink. 
 
 With that water, as this wine, 
 
 The libation I would pour 
 Should be — peace with thine and mine. 
 
 And a health to thee, Tom Moore. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S DEPARTURE. 
 
 (" Childe Harold," Canto i., Stanzas 4-11.) 
 
 Childe Hakold bask'd him in the noontide sun, 
 Disporting there like any other fly; 
 Nor deem'd before his little day was done 
 One blast might chill him into ftisery. 
 
 But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by. 
 Worse than adversity the Childe befell; 
 He felt the fulness of satiety ; 
 Then loathed he in his native land to dwell. 
 Which seemed to him more lone than Eremite's sad cell. 
 
 For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run. 
 Nor made atonement when he did amiss. 
 Had sigh'd to many though he loved but one. 
 And that loved one, alas ! could ne'er be his. 
 Ah, happy she I to 'scape from him whcise kiss 
 Had been pollution unto aught so chaste ; 
 Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss. 
 And spoil'd her goodly lands to gild his waste, 
 Nor calm domestic peace had ever deign'd to taste. 
 
 And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart. 
 And from his fellow-bacchanals would flee ; 
 'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start. 
 But Pride congeal'd the drop within his ee ; 
 Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie, 
 And from his native land resolved to go. 
 And visit scorching climes beyond the sea ; 
 With pleasure drngg'd, he almost long'd for woo. 
 And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades beloTT. 
 
 The Childe departed from his father's hall : 
 It was a vast and venerable pile ; 
 So old, it seemed only not to fall, 
 Yet strength was pillar'd in each massy aisle. 
 Monastic dome ! condemn'd to uses vile ! 
 Where Superstition once bad made her den 
 Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile ; 
 And monks might deem their time was come agen. 
 If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men. 
 
 Yet ofttimes in his maddest mirthful mood 
 Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow. 
 As if the memory of some deadly feud 
 Or disappointed passion lurk'd below : 
 But this none knew, nor haply cared to know ; 
 For his was not that open, artless soul 
 That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow. 
 Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole, 
 Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not controL 
 
 And none did love him — though to hall and bower 
 He gather'd revellers from far and near, 
 He knew them flatt'rers of the festal hour ; 
 The heartless parasites of present cheer. 
 Yea ! none did love him — not his lemans dear — 
 But pomp and power alone are woman's care. 
 And where these are light Eros finds a feere ; 
 Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare. 
 And Mammon wins his ways where Seraphs might despair; 
 
 Childe Harold had a mother — not forgot, 
 Though parting from that mother he did shun ; 
 A sister whom he loved, but saw her not 
 Before his weary pilgrimage begun : 
 If friends he had, he bade adieu to nnne. 
 Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel : 
 Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon 
 A few dear objects, will in sadness feel 
 Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal. 
 
 His house, his home, his heritage, his lands. 
 The laughing dames in whom he did delight, 
 Whose large blue ej-es, fair locks, and snowy hands. 
 Might shake the saintship of an anchorite. 
 And long had fed his youthful appetite ; 
 His goblets brimm'd with every costly wine. 
 And all that mote to luxury invite, 
 Without a sigh he left, to cross the brine. 
 And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's central lino. 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 COMPOSED DURING A THUNDER-BTOKM. 
 
 Chili, 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 crost, 
 Or gild the torrent's spray. 
 
POETKY OF BYRON. 
 
 Is yon a eot I saw, though low ? 
 
 When lightning broka the gloom — 
 How welcome were its shade 1 — ah, no ! 
 
 "Us hut a Tiirkish tomb. 
 
 Through sounds of foaming waterfalls 
 
 I hear a voice exclaim — 
 My wayworn countryman, who calls 
 
 On distant England's name. 
 
 A shot is fired — by foe or friend ? 
 
 Another — 'tis to tell 
 The mountain-peasants to descend, 
 
 And lead us where they dwell. 
 
 Oh 1 who in such a night will dare 
 
 To tempt the wilderness ? 
 And who 'mid thunder-peals can heai- 
 
 Our signal of distress ? 
 
 And who that heard our shouts would rise 
 
 To try the dubious road ? 
 Nor rather deem from nightly cries 
 
 That outlaws were abroad. 
 
 Clouds burst, skies flash — oh, dreadful hour ! 
 
 More fiercely pours the storm ! 
 Yet here one thought has still the power 
 
 To keep my bosom warm. 
 
 While wand'ring through each broken path. 
 
 O'er brake and cragg}' brow ; 
 While elements exhaust their wrath, 
 
 Sweet Florence, where art thou? 
 
 Not on the sea, not on the sea ! 
 
 Thy bark hath long been gone : 
 Oh, ma}' the storm that pours on me 
 
 Buw down my head alone ! 
 
 Full swiftly blew the swift Siroo, 
 
 When last I press'd tliy lip ; 
 And long ere now, with foaming shock, 
 
 Impall'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 half-form' d tear, a transient spark 
 
 Of melancholy grace. 
 
 Again thou 'It smile, and, blushing, shun 
 
 Some coxcomb's raillery; 
 Kor own for once thou thought'st of one 
 
 Who ever thinks on thee. 
 
 Though 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. 
 
 "MAID OF ATHENS." 
 
 Zwf] ftoVf trui iifania. 
 
 Maid of Athens, ere we part, 
 Give, oh, give me back my heart I 
 Or, since that has left my breast. 
 Keep it now, and take the rost t 
 Hear my vow before I go, 
 Ziini uov, aag ayairw. 
 
 By those tresses unconfined, 
 Woo'd by each iEgean wind ; 
 By those lids whose jetty fringe 
 Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tmge ; 
 By those wild eyes like the roe, 
 Ziiri fiov, aae dyairui. 
 
 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, 
 Zwij fiov, aag dyaTrd. 
 
 Maid of Athens ! I am gone ; 
 Think of me, sweet ! when alone. 
 Though I fly to Istambol, 
 Athens holds my heart and soul : 
 Can I cease to love thee ? No ! 
 Zuq fiOV, atie dyatrd. 
 
 TO INEZ. 
 
 Nay, smile not at my sullen brow ; 
 
 Alas I I cannot smile again : 
 Yet Heaven avert that ever thou 
 
 Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain. 
 
 And dost thou ask, what secret woe 
 I bear, corroding joy and youth ? 
 
 And wilt thou vainly seek to know 
 A pang ev'n thou must fail to soothe ? 
 
 It is not love, it is not hate. 
 
 Nor low Ambition's honors lost, 
 That bids me loathe my present state. 
 
 And fly from all I prized, the most : 
 
 It is that weariness which springs 
 
 From all I meet, or hear, or see : 
 To me no pleasure beauty brings ; 
 
 Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me. 
 
 It is that settled, ceaseless gloom 
 The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore ; 
 
 That will not look beyond the tomb. 
 But cannot hope for rest before. 
 
 What exile from himself can flee ? 
 
 To zones, though more and more remote, 
 Still, still pursues, where'er I be. 
 
 The blight of life — the demon thought. 
 
 Yet others wrapt in pleasure seem. 
 
 And taste of all that I forsake ; 
 Oh 1 maj' they still of transport dream. 
 
 And ne'er, at least like me, awake I 
 
 Through many a clime 'tis mine to go, 
 With many a retrospection cUrst ; 
 
 And all my solace is to know, 
 Whate'er betides, I've known the worst. 
 
 What is that worst ? Nay, do not ask — 
 
 In pity from the search forbear ; 
 Smile on — nor venture to unmask 
 
 Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there. 
 
 "ONE STRUGGLE MORE." 
 
 " 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 j 
 Man was not form'd to live alone : 
 
 I'll be that light, unmeaning thing 
 
 That smiles with all, and weeps with none. 
 
 It was not thus in days more dear. 
 It never would have been, but thou 
 
,8 
 
 POETEY or BYRON. 
 
 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 wear 
 But mocks the woe that lurks beneath, 
 
 Like roses o'er a sepulchre. 
 Though gay companions o'er the howl 
 
 Dispel awhile the sense of ill ; 
 Though pleasure fires the maddening soul, 
 
 The heart— the heart is lonely still ! 
 
 On many a lone and lovely night 
 
 It soothed to gaze upon the sky ; 
 For then I deem'd the heavenly light 
 
 Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye : 
 And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon, 
 
 When sailing o'er the ^gean wave, 
 " Now Thyrza gazes on that moon " — 
 
 Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave ! 
 
 When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed, 
 
 And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, 
 " 'Tis comfort still," I faintly Said, 
 
 " That Thyrza cannot know my pains :" 
 Like freedom to the time-worn slave, 
 
 A boon 'tis idle then to give, 
 Belenting Nature vainly gave 
 
 My life, when ThjTza ceased to live ! 
 
 My Thyrza's pledge in better days, 
 
 When love and life alike were new ! 
 How different now thou meet'st my gaze ! 
 
 How tinged by time with sorrow's hue ! 
 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'd ! 
 Time tempers love, but not removes, 
 
 More hallow'd when its hope is fled : 
 Oh ! what are thousand living loves 
 
 To that which cannot quit the dead ? 
 
 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 When Time, or soon or late, shall bring 
 The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead. 
 
 Oblivion ! may thy languid wing 
 Wave gently o'er my dying bed ! 
 
 No band of friends or heirs be there. 
 To weep, or wish, the coming blow : 
 
 No maiden, with dishevell'd- hair, 
 To feel, or feign, decorous woe. 
 
 But silent let me sink to earth, 
 With no officious mourners near : 
 
 I would not mar one hour of mirth. 
 Nor startle friendship with a fear. 
 
 Tet Love, if Love in such an hour 
 Could nobly check its useless sighs. 
 
 Might then exert its latest power 
 In her who lives and him who dies. 
 
 'Twere sweet, my Psyche ! to the last 
 Thy features still serene to see : 
 
 Forgetful of its struggles past. 
 
 E'en Fain itself should smile on thee. 
 
 But vain the wish — for Beauty still 
 
 Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath ; 
 And woman's tears, produced at will. 
 Deceive in life, unman in death. 
 
 Then lonelj' be my latest hour. 
 Without regret, 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 living woe ! — 
 
 Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen, 
 Count o'er thy days from anguish free. 
 
 And know, whatever thou hast been, 
 'Tis something better not to be. 
 
 "AND THOU ART DEAD." 
 
 'Heu, qnanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui memiiiisse !" 
 
 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 the crowd may tread 
 
 In carelessness or mirth, 
 There is an eye which could not brook 
 A moment on that grave to look. 
 
 I will not ask where thou liest low, 
 
 Nor gaze upon the spot ; 
 There flowers or weeds at will may grow, 
 
 So I behold them not : 
 It is enough for me to prove 
 That what I loved, and long must 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 see 
 Or wrong, or change, or fault in me. 
 
 The better days of life were ours ; 
 
 The worst can be but mine : 
 The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers. 
 
 Shall never more be thine. 
 The silence of that dreamless sleep 
 I envy now too much to weep ; 
 
 Nor need I to repine 
 That all those charms have pass'd away, 
 I might have watch'd through long decay. 
 
 The flower in ripen 'd bloom unmatch'd 
 
 Must fall the earliest prey ; 
 Though by no hand untimely snatch'd. 
 
 The leaves must drop away : 
 And yet it were a greater grief 
 To watch it withering, leaf by leaf, 
 
 Than see it plnck'd to-day ; 
 Since earthly eye but ill can bear 
 To trace the change to foul from fair. 
 
 I know not if I could have borne 
 
 To see thy beauties fade ; 
 The night that foUow'd such a morn 
 
 Had worn a deeper shade. 
 The day without a cloud hath pass'd, 
 And thou wert lovely to the last ; 
 
 Extinguish'd, not decay 'd ; 
 As stars that shoot along the sky 
 Shine brightest as they fall from high. 
 
 As once I wept, if I could weep. 
 
 My tears might well be shed, 
 To think I was not near to keep 
 
 One vigil o'er thy bed ; 
 To gaze, how fondly ! on thy face, 
 To fold thee in a faint embrace. 
 
 Uphold thy drooping head ; 
 And show that love, however vain, 
 Nor thou nor I can feel again. 
 
 Yet how much less it were to gain, 
 
 Though thou hast left me bee, 
 The loveliest things that still remain, 
 
 Than thus remember thee ! 
 The all of thine that cannot die 
 Through dark and dread Eternity 
 
 Beturns again to me. 
 And more thy buried love endears 
 Than aught, except its living years. 
 
POETRY OF BYRON. 
 
 "WHEN WE TWO PARTED." 
 
 ' When we two parted 
 
 In silence and tears, 
 Half broken-hearted 
 
 To sever for years, 
 Pale grew thy cheek and cold, 
 
 Colder thy kiss ; 
 Truly that hour foretold 
 
 Sorrow to this. 
 
 The dew of the morning 
 
 Sunk chill on my brow — 
 It felt Tike the warning 
 
 • Of what I feel now. 
 
 Thy vows are all broken, 
 
 And light is thy fame ; 
 
 I hear thy name spoken, 
 
 And share in its shame. 
 
 They name thee before me, 
 
 A knell to mine ear ; 
 A shudder comes o'er me — 
 
 "Why wert thou so dear ? 
 They know not I knew thee, 
 
 Who knew thee too well — 
 Long, long shall I rue thee. 
 
 Too deeply to tell. 
 
 In secret we met — 
 
 In silence I grieve. 
 That thy heart could forget, 
 
 Thy spirit deceive. 
 If I should meet thee 
 
 After long years. 
 How should I greet thee ?— 
 
 With silence and tears. 
 
 STANZAS FOE, MUSIC. 
 
 "O Lachrymarnm fons, tenero sacros 
 Dncentium ortus ex auimo : quater 
 Felix I in imo qui scatentem 
 Pectore te, pia Nympha, eeusit.'' 
 
 Gray's Foemata, 
 
 There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away. 
 When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay; 
 'Tis not on j'outh's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast. 
 But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past. 
 
 Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness 
 Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess : 
 The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain 
 The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again. 
 
 Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down ; 
 
 It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own ; 
 
 That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, 
 
 And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears. 
 
 Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast. 
 Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest ; 
 'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreath, 
 All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath. 
 
 Oh, could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been, 
 Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanish'd scene ; 
 As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all bracliish though they be. 
 So, midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me. 
 
 STANZAS TO AUGUSTA. 
 
 Though the day of my destiny's over. 
 
 And the star of my fate hath declined, . 
 Thy soft heart refused to discover 
 
 The faults which so many could find ; 
 Though thy sonl with my gi'ief was acquainted, 
 
 It shrunk not to share it, with me. 
 And the love which my spirit hath painted 
 
 It never hath found bat in thee. 
 
 Then when nature around me is smiling, 
 The last smile which answers to mine, 
 
 I do not believe it beguiling. 
 Because it reminds me «f thine ; 
 
 And when winds arc at war with the ocean. 
 As the breasts I believed in with me. 
 
 If their billows excite an emotion, 
 It is that they bear me from thee. 
 
 Though the rook of my last hope is shiver'd. 
 
 And its fragments are sunk in' the wave, 
 Though I feel that my soul is deliver'd 
 
 To pain — it shall not be its slave. 
 There is many a pang to pursue me : 
 
 They may crush, but they shall not contemn — 
 They maj' torture, but shall not subdue me — 
 
 'Tis of thee that I think — not of them. 
 
 Though human, thou didst not deceive me. 
 
 Though woman, thou didst not forsake. 
 Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me, 
 
 Though slander'd, thou never could' st shake — 
 Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me. 
 
 Though parted, it was not to fly, 
 Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me, 
 
 Nor, mute, that the world might belie. 
 
 Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it. 
 
 Nor the war of the many with one — 
 If my sonl was not fitted to prize it, 
 
 'Twas folly not sooner to shun : 
 And if dearly that error hath cost me. 
 
 And more than I once could foresee, 
 I have found that, whatever it lost me. 
 
 It could not deprive me of thee. 
 
 From the wreck of the past, which hath perish'd, 
 
 Thus much I at least may recall, 
 It hath taught me that what I most cherish'd 
 
 Deserved to be dearest of all : 
 In the desert a fountain is springing. 
 
 In the wide waste there still is a tree. 
 And a bird in the solitude singing, 
 
 Which speaks to my spirit of thee. 
 
 SOLITUDE. 
 
 ("Childe Harold," Canto ii., Stauzas 25, 26.) 
 
 To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell. 
 To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, 
 Where things that own not man's dominion dwell. 
 And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been ; 
 To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, 
 With the wild flock that never needs a fold : 
 Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean ; 
 This is not solitude : 'tis but to hold 
 Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unroll'd. 
 
 But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men. 
 To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, 
 And roam along, the world's tired denizen. 
 With none who bless us, none whom we can bless ; 
 Minions of splendor shrinking from distress ! 
 None that, with kindred consciousness endued. 
 If we were not, would seem to smile the less 
 Of all that flatter' d, follow' d, sought, and sued ; 
 This is to be alone ; this, this is solitude. 
 
 NATURE THE CONSOLER. 
 
 (" Childe Harold," Canto lii., Stauzas 13-15.) 
 
 Wheee rose the mountains, there to him were friends j 
 Where roU'd the ocean, thereon was his home ; 
 Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends, 
 He had the passion and the ^wer to roam ; 
 The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam, 
 Were unto him companionship ; they spake; 
 A mutual language, clearer than the tome 
 Of his land's tongue, which he would oft forsaker 
 For Nature's pages glass'd by sunbeams on the lake. 
 
 Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars. 
 Till he had peopled them with beings bright 
 As their own beams ; and earth, and earth-born jars. 
 And human frailties, were forgotten quite : 
 Could he have kept his spirit to that flight 
 He had been happy ; but this clay will sink 
 Its spark immortal, envj'ing it the light 
 To which it mounts, as if to break the link 
 That keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to its brink. 
 
10 
 
 POETRY OF BYRON. 
 
 But in Man's dwellings lie became a thing 
 Kestless and worn, and stern and wearisome, 
 Droop'd as a wild-born falcon with dipt wing, 
 To whom the boundless air alone were home : 
 Then came his fit again, which to o'ercome, 
 As eagerly the barr'd-up bird will beat 
 His breast and beak against his wiry dome 
 Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat 
 Of his impeded soul would through his bosom eat. 
 
 THE SAME. 
 
 ("Childe Harold," Canto iii.. Stanzas Tl-76.3 
 
 Is it not better, then, to be alone, 
 And love Earth only for its earthly sake ? 
 By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone, 
 Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake, 
 Which feeds it as a mother who doth make 
 A fair hut froward infant her own care. 
 Kissing its cries away as these awake — 
 Is it not better thus our lives to wear, 
 Than join the crushing crowd, doomed to inflict or bear ? 
 
 I live not in myself, but I become 
 Portion of that around me ; and to me 
 High mountains are a feeling, but the hum 
 Of human cities torture : I can see 
 Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be 
 A link reluctant in a iieshly chain, 
 Class'd among creatures, when the soul can flee, 
 And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain 
 Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain. 
 
 And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life ; 
 I look upon the peopled desert past. 
 As on a place of agony and strife, 
 Where, for some sin, to sorrow I was cast. 
 To act and suffer, but remount at last 
 With a fresh pinion ; which I feel to spring, 
 Though young, yet waxing vigorous, as the blast 
 Which it would cope with, on delighted wing, 
 Spuming the clay-cold bonds which round our being cling. 
 
 And when, at length, the mind shall be all free 
 From what it hates in this degraded form, 
 Keft of its carnal life, save what shall be 
 Existent happier in the fly and worm — 
 When elements to elements conform, 
 And dust is as it should be, shall I not 
 Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm ? 
 The bodiless thought ? the Spirit of each spot ? 
 Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot ? 
 
 Are not the mountains, waves, and skies a part 
 Of me and of my soul, as I of them ? 
 Is not the love of these deep in my heart 
 With a pure passion ? should I not contemn 
 All objects, if compared with these ? and stem 
 A tide of suffering, rather than forego 
 Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm 
 Of those whose eyes are only turn'd below. 
 Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow ? 
 
 THE POET AND THE WORLD. 
 
 (" Childe Harold," Canto iii., Stanzas 113, 114.) 
 
 I HAVE not loved the world, nor the world me ; 
 I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd 
 To its idolatries a patient knee — 
 Nor coin'd my cheek t(^smiles — nor cried aloud 
 In worship of an echo ; in the crowd 
 They could not deem me one of such ; I stood 
 Among them, but not of them ; in a shroud 
 Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still could, 
 Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued. 
 
 I have not loved the world, nor the world me — 
 But let us part fair foes ; I do believe, 
 Though I have found them not, that there may.be 
 Words which are things — hopes which will not deceive, 
 And virtues which are merciful, nor weave 
 Snares for the failing : I would also deem 
 O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve ; 
 That two, or one, are almost what they seem — 
 That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream. 
 
 BEREAVEMENT. 
 
 ("Childe Harold," Canto ii., Stanza 98.) 
 
 What is the worst of woes that wait on age ? 
 What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow ? 
 To view each loved one blotted from life's page, 
 And be alone on earth, as I am now. 
 Before the Chastener humbly let me bow, 
 O'er hearts divided and o'er hopes destroy'd : 
 Eoll on, vain days! full reckless may ye flow, 
 Since Time hath reft whate'er my soul enjoy'd. 
 And with the ills of Eld mine earlier years alloy'd. 
 
 LAST LEAVING ENGLAND. 
 
 (" Childe Harold," Canto iii.. Stanzas 1, 2.) 
 
 Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child ! 
 Ada ! sole daughter of mj' house and heart ? 
 When last I saw thy young Idue eyes they smiled, 
 And then we parted — not as now we part, 
 But with a hope. — 
 
 Awaking with a start. 
 The waters heave around me ; and on high 
 The winds lift up their voices : I depart. 
 Whither I know not ; but the hour's gone by. 
 When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye. 
 
 Once more upon the waters ! yet once more ! 
 And the waves bound beneath me as a steed 
 That knows his rider. Welcome to the roar ! 
 Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead ! 
 Though the strain'd mast should quiver as a reed. 
 And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale. 
 Still must 1 on ; for I am as a weed, 
 Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail 
 Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail. 
 
 ENGLAND. 
 
 ("Childe Harold," Canto iv., Stanzas 8-10.) 
 
 I've taught me other tongues — and in strange eyes 
 Have made me not a stranger ; to the mind 
 Which is itself, no changes hring surprise ; 
 Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find 
 A country witli — ay, or without mankind ; 
 Yet was I born where men are proud to be. 
 Not without cause ; and should I leave behind 
 The inviolate island of the sage and free. 
 And seek me out a home by a remoter sea, 
 
 Perhaps I loved it well ; and should I lay 
 My ashes in a soil which is not mine. 
 My spirit shall resume it — if we may 
 Unbodied choose a sanctuary. ' I twine 
 My hopes of being remember'd in my line 
 With my land's language : if too^ond and far 
 These aspirations in their scope incline — 
 If my fame should be, as my fortunes are. 
 Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar 
 
 My name from out the temple where the dead 
 Are honor'd by the nations — let it be — 
 And light the laurels on a loftier head ! 
 And be the Spartan's epitaph on me — 
 " Sparta hath many a worthier son than he." 
 Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need; 
 The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree 
 I planted — they have torn me — and I bleed : 
 I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed. 
 
 RUINS TO RUINS. 
 
 (" Childe Harold," Canto iv.. Stanzas 130, 131.) 
 
 Oh Time ! the heautifier of the dead, 
 Adorner of the ruin, comforter 
 
 And only healer when the heart hath bled 
 
 Timel the corrector where our judgments err, 
 The test of truth, love— sole philosopher. 
 For all beside are sophists, from thy thrift. 
 
 Which never loses though it doth defer 
 
 Time, the avenger! nnto thee I lift 
 My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift : 
 
POETKY OF BYRON. 
 
 11 
 
 Amid this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine 
 And temple more divinely desolate, 
 Among thy mightier offerings here are mine, 
 Buins of years — though few, yet full of fate^ 
 If thou hast ever seen me too elate, 
 Hear me not ; but if calmly I have borne 
 Good, and reserved my pride against the hate 
 Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn 
 This iron in my soul in vain — shall thetj not mourn ? 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 I SAW two beings in the hues of youth 
 
 Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill. 
 
 Green and of mild declivity, the last 
 
 As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such. 
 
 Save tha( there was no sea to lave its base, 
 
 But a most living landscape, and the wave 
 
 Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men 
 
 Soatter'd at intervals, and wreathing smoke 
 
 Arising from such rustic roofs ; the hill 
 
 Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem 
 
 Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd, 
 
 Not by the sport of nature, but of man : 
 
 These two, a maiden and a youth, were there 
 
 Gazing — the one on all that was beneath 
 
 Fair as herself — but the boy gazed on her ; 
 
 And both were young, and one was beautiful : 
 
 And both were young — yet not alike in youth. 
 
 As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge. 
 
 The maid was on the eve of womanhood ; 
 
 The boy had fewer summers, but his heart 
 
 Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye 
 
 There was but one beloved face on earth. 
 
 And that was shining on him ; he had look'd 
 
 Upon it till it could not pass away; 
 
 He had no breath, no being, but in hers ; 
 
 She was his voice ; he did not speak to her. 
 
 But trembled on her words ; she was his sight, 
 
 For his eye foUow'd hera, and saw with hers. 
 
 Which eolor'd all his objects — he had ceased 
 
 To live within himself; she was his life. 
 
 The ocean to the river of his thoughts. 
 
 Which terminated all : upon a tone, 
 
 A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow, 
 
 And his cheek change tempestuously — his heart 
 
 Unknowing of its cause of agony. 
 
 But she in these fond feelings had no share : 
 
 Her sighs were not for him ; to her he was 
 
 Even as a brother — bat no more ; 'twas much. 
 
 For brotherless she was, save in the name 
 
 Her infant friendship had bestow'd on him ; 
 
 Herself the solitary scioti left 
 
 Of a time-honor'd race. — It was a, name 
 
 Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not — and why ? 
 
 Time taught him a deep answer — when she loved 
 
 Another ; even iww she loved another. 
 
 And on the summit of that hill she stood 
 
 Looking afar if yet her lover's steed 
 
 Kept pace with her expectancy and flew. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 
 There was an ancient mansion, and before 
 
 Its walls there was a steed caparison'd : 
 
 Within an antique Oratory stood 
 
 The Boy of whom I spake ; — he was alone. 
 
 And pale, and pacing to and fro : anon 
 
 He sat him down, and seized a pen, and traced 
 
 Words which I could not guess of; then he lean'd 
 
 His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 'twere 
 
 With a convulsion — ^then arose again. 
 
 And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear 
 
 What he had written, but he shed no tears. 
 
 And he did calm himself, and fix his brow 
 
 Into a kind of quiet : as he paused. 
 
 The Lady of his love re-enter'd there ; 
 
 She was serene and smiling then, and yet 
 
 She knew she was by him beloved — she knew. 
 
 For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart 
 
 Was darken'd with her shadow, and she saw 
 
 That he was wretched, but she saw not all. 
 
 He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp 
 
 He took her hand ; a moment o'er his face 
 
 A tablet of unutterable thoughts 
 
 Was traced, and then it faded, as it came ; 
 
 He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slow steps 
 
 Retired, but not as bidding her adieu, 
 
 For they did part with mutual smiles ; he pass'd 
 
 From out the massy gate of that old Hall, 
 
 And, mounting on his steed, he went his way; 
 And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold more. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 The Boy was sprung to manhood : in the wilds 
 Of fiery climes he made himself a home, 
 And his Soul drank their sunbeams : he was girt 
 With strange and dusky aspects ; he was not 
 Himself like what he had been ; on the sea 
 And on the shore he was a wanderer ; 
 There was a mass of many images 
 Crowded like waves upon me, but he was 
 A part of all ; and in the last he lay 
 Beposing from the noontide sultrin&is, 
 Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade 
 Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names 
 Of those who rear'd thtim ; bj- his sleeping side 
 Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds 
 Were fasten'd near a fountain; and a man 
 Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while, 
 While many of his tribe slumber'd around: 
 And they were canopied by the blue sky. 
 So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, 
 That God alone was to be seen in Heaven. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. * 
 
 The Lady of his love was wed with One 
 
 Who did not love her better : in her home, 
 
 A thousand leagues from his — her native home, 
 
 She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy, 
 
 Daughters and sons of Beauty — but behold ! 
 
 Upon her face there was the tint of griel^ 
 
 The settled shadow of an inward strife. 
 
 And an unquiet drooping of the eye 
 
 As if its lid were charged with unshed tears. 
 
 What could her grief be? — she had all she loved, 
 
 And he who had so loved her was not there 
 
 To trouble with bwd hopes, or evil wish, 
 
 Or ill-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts. 
 
 What could her grief be? — she had loved him not, 
 
 Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved. 
 
 Nor could he he a part of that which prey'd 
 
 Upon her mind — a spectre of the past. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 
 The Wanderer was return'd. I saw him stand 
 
 Before an Altar — with a gentle bride ; 
 
 Her face was fair, but was not that which made 
 
 The Starlight of his Boyhood ; as he stood 
 
 Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came 
 
 The self-same aspect, and the quivering shock 
 
 That in the antique Oratory shook 
 
 His bosom in its solitude ; and then — 
 
 As in that hour — a moment o'er his face 
 
 The tablet of unutterable thoughts 
 
 Was traced — and then it faded as it came. 
 
 And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 
 
 The fitting vows, but heard not his own words, 
 
 And all things reel'd around him ; he could see 
 
 Not that which was, nor that which should have been ; 
 
 But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall. 
 
 And the remember'd chambers, and the place, 
 
 The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade. 
 
 All things pertaining to that place and hour, 
 
 And her who was his destiny, came back 
 
 And thrust themselves between him and the light: 
 
 What business had they there at such a time ? 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of ray dream. 
 The Lady of his love — Oh 1 she was changed 
 As by the sickness of the soul : her mind 
 Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes 
 They had not their own lustre, but the look 
 Which is not of the earth ; she was become 
 The queen of a fantastic realm ; her thought! 
 Were combinations of disjointed things ; 
 And forms impalpable and unperceived 
 Of others' sight familiar were to hers. 
 And this the world calls frenzy ; but the wise 
 Have a far deeper madness, and the glance 
 Of melancholy is a fearful gift : 
 What is it but the telescope of truth. 
 Which strips the distance of its fantasies, 
 And brings life near in utter nakedness. 
 Making the cold reality too real ? 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 The Wanderer was alone as heretofore ; 
 The beings which surrounded him were gone, 
 Or were at war with him ; he was a mark 
 For blight ai\d desolation, compass'd round 
 
i-UETKl' OF BYEON. 
 
 With Hatred and Contention ; Pain was mix'd 
 
 In all which was served np to him, until, 
 
 Like to the Pontic monarch of old days, 
 
 He fed on poisons, and they had no power, 
 
 But were a kind of nutriment ; he lived 
 
 Through that which had been death to many men. 
 
 And made him friends of mountains : with the stars 
 
 And the quick Spirit of the Universe 
 
 He held his dialogues ; and they did teach 
 
 To him the magic of their mysteries ; 
 
 To him the book of Night was open'd wide, 
 
 And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd 
 
 A marvel and a secret — Be it so. 
 
 My dream was past ; it had no further change. 
 
 It was of a strange order that the doom 
 
 Of these two creatures should be thus traced out 
 
 Almost like a reality — ^the one 
 
 To end in madness—both in miseiy. 
 
 THE POET'S CUKSE. 
 
 (" Childe Harold," Canto iv., Stanzas 134-13T.) 
 
 And if my voice break forth, 'tis not that now 
 I shrink from what is suffer'd : let him speak 
 
 ' Who hath beheld decline upon my brow. 
 Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weak; 
 Bat in this page a record will I seek. 
 Not in the air shall these my words disperse, 
 Though I he ashes ; a far hour shall wreak 
 The deep prophetic fulness of this verse. 
 
 And pile on human heads the mountain of mj' curse ! 
 
 That curse shall be Forgiveness. — Have I not — 
 Hear me, my mother Earth ! behold it. Heaven ! — 
 Have I not had to wrestle with my lot ? 
 Have I not suffer' d things to be forgiven ? 
 Have I not had my brain sear'd, my heart riven, 
 Hopes sapp'd, name blighted. Life's life lied away ? 
 And only not to desperation driven 
 Because not altogether of such clay 
 As rots into the souls of those whom I survey. 
 
 From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy 
 Have I not seen what human things could do ? 
 From the loud roar of foaming calumny 
 To the small whisper of the as paltry few. 
 And subtler venom of the reptile crew, 
 The Janus glance of whose significant eye, 
 Learning to lie with silence, would seem true. 
 And without utterance, save the shrug or sigh. 
 Deal round to happy fools its speechless obloquy.. 
 
 But I have lived, and have not lived in vain : 
 My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire. 
 And my frame perish even in conquering pain ; 
 But there is that within me which shall tire 
 Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire ; 
 Something unearthly, which they deem not of. 
 Like the rememher'd tone of a mute lyre. 
 Shall on their soften'd spirits sink, and move 
 In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love. 
 
 NATURE TO THE LAST. 
 
 ("Childe Haroia," Canto iv., Stanzas 176-184) 
 
 My Pilgrim's shrine is won. 
 And he and I must part — so let it be ! 
 His task and mine alike are nearly done ; 
 Yet once more let us look upon the sea. 
 The midland ocean breaks on him and me. 
 And from the Alban Mount we now behold 
 Our friend of youth, that ocean, which, when we 
 Beheld it last by Calpe's rock unfold 
 Those waves, we follow'd on till the dark Euxine roU'd 
 
 Upon the blue Symplegades ; long years — 
 Long, though not very many — since have done 
 Their work on both ; some sufiTering and some tears 
 Have left us nearly where we had begun: 
 Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run. 
 We have had our reward — and it is here ; 
 That we can yet feel gladden'd by the sun, 
 And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear 
 As if there were no man to trouble what is dear. 
 
 Oh that the Desert were my dwelling-place. 
 With one fair Spu-it for my minister, 
 That I might all forget the human race. 
 And, hating no one, love but only her ! 
 Ye Elements !— in whose ennobling stir 
 I feel myself exalted — can ye not 
 Accord me such a being? Do I err 
 In deeming such inhabit many a spot ? 
 Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot. 
 
 There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
 There is a rapture on the lonely shore. 
 There is society, where none intrudes, 
 By the deep Sea, and music in its roar. 
 I love not ihan the less, but Nature more. 
 From these our interviews, in which I steal 
 From all I may be, or have been before, 
 To mingle with the Universe, and feel 
 What I can ne'er express, yet can not all conceal. 
 
 Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll ! 
 Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
 Man marks the earth with ruin — ^his control 
 Stops with the shore ; upon the watery plain . 
 The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
 A shadow of man's ravage, save his own. 
 When, for a moment, like a drop of rain. 
 He sinlts into thy depths with bubbling groan. 
 Without a grave, unknell'd, nncoffin'd, and unknown. 
 
 His steps are not upon thy paths — ^thy fields 
 Are not a spoil for him — thou dost arise 
 And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he wields 
 For earth's destruction thou dost all despise. 
 Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies. 
 And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray 
 And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies 
 His petty hope in some near port or bay, 
 And dashest him again to earth — there let him lay. 
 
 The armaments which thunderstrike the walls 
 Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 
 And monarchs tremble in their capitals. 
 The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
 Their clay creator the vain title take 
 Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war ; 
 These are thy toj's, and, as the snowy flake. 
 They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
 Alil^e the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. 
 
 Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — 
 Ass3rria, Greece, Kome, Carthage, what are they? 
 Thy waters wasted them while they were free. 
 And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 
 The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay 
 Has dried up realms to deserts ; not so thou. 
 Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play. 
 Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow — 
 Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 
 
 Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
 Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time. 
 Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm. 
 Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
 Dark-heaving — boundless, endless, and sublime — 
 The image of Eternity — the throne 
 Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 
 The monsters of the deep are made j each zone 
 Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 
 
 And I have loved thee. Ocean ! and my joy 
 Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be^ 
 Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy 
 I wanton'd with thy breakers^-they to me 
 Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
 Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear, 
 For I was as it were a child of thee, 
 And trusted to thy billows far and near. 
 And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. 
 
 "SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY." 
 
 Sae walks in beauty, like the night 
 Of cloudless climes and starry sides ; 
 
 And all that's best of Aa.tk and bright 
 Meet in her aspect and her eyes : • 
 
 Thus mellow'd to that tender light 
 Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 
 
POETBY OF BYRON. 
 
 'One shade the more, one ray the less, 
 Had half-impair'd the nameless grace 
 
 Which waves in every raven tress, 
 Or softly lightens o'er her face ; 
 
 Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
 How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 
 
 And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, 
 
 So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 
 The smiles that win, the tints that glow. 
 
 But tell of days in goodness spent, 
 -A mind at peace with all below, 
 
 A heart whose love is innocent ! 
 
 "OH! SNATCH'D AWAY." 
 
 Oh ! snatoh'd away in beauty's bloom. 
 On thee shall press no ponderous tomb ; 
 But on thy turf shall roses rear 
 Their leaves, the earliest of the year ; 
 And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom : 
 
 And oft by yon blue gushing stream 
 Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head. 
 
 And feed deep thought with many a dream, 
 And, lingering, pause and lightly tread ; 
 Fond wretch ! as if her step disturb'd the dead. 
 
 Away ! we know that tears are vain, 
 That death nor heeds nor hears distress : 
 
 Will this unteach us to complain ? 
 Or make one mourner weep the less ? 
 
 And thou — who tell'st me to forget, 
 
 'Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. 
 
 SONG OF SAUL. 
 
 Wabriors and chiefs ! should the shaft or the sword 
 Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord, 
 Heed not the corse, though a king's, in your path: 
 IBury your steel in the bosoms of Gath ! 
 
 Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow, 
 .Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe, 
 T&tretch me that moment in blood at thy feet ! 
 Mine be the doom which they dared not to meet. 
 
 Farewell to others, but never we part. 
 Heir to my royalty, son of my heart ! 
 Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway, 
 (Or kingly the death, which awaits us to-day! 
 
 VISION OF BELSHAZZAR. 
 
 The King was on his throne. 
 
 The Satraps throng'd the hall ; 
 A thousand bright lamps shone 
 
 O'er that high festival. 
 A thousand cups of gold. 
 
 In Judah deem'd divine — 
 Jehovah's vessels hold 
 
 The godless Heathen's wine ! 
 
 In that same hour and hall. 
 
 The fingers of a hand 
 Came forth against the wall, 
 
 And wrote as if on sand : 
 The fingers of a man — 
 
 A solitary band 
 Along the letters ran, 
 
 And traced them like a wand. 
 
 The monarch saw, and shook. 
 
 And bade no more rejoice ; 
 All bloodless wax'd his look, 
 
 Aiid tremulous his voice. 
 " Let the men of lore appear. 
 
 The wisest of the earth. 
 And expound the words of fear 
 
 Which mar our royal mirth." 
 
 Ohaldea's seers are good, 
 But here they have no skill ; 
 
 And the unknown letters stood 
 Untold and awful still. 
 
 And Babel's men of age 
 Are wise and deep in lore ; 
 
 But now they were not sage. 
 They saw — but knew no more. 
 
 A captive in the land, 
 
 A stranger and a youth, 
 He beard the king's command. 
 
 He saw that'writing's truth. 
 The lamps around were bright, 
 
 The prophecy in view ; 
 He read it on that night — 
 
 The morrow proved it true. 
 
 " Belshazzar's grave is made, 
 
 His kingdom pass'd away. 
 He, in the balance weigh'd. 
 
 Is light and worthless clay. 
 The shroud his robe of state. 
 
 His canopy the stone ; 
 The Mede is at his gate ! 
 
 The Persian on his throne !" 
 
 DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 
 
 The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
 And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; 
 And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the se 
 When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 
 
 Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, 
 That host with their banners at sunset were seen ; 
 Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, 
 That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strowu. 
 
 For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast. 
 And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd ; 
 And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill. 
 And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still ! 
 
 I 
 And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide. 
 But through it there roU'd not the breath of his pride ; 
 And the foam of his gasping lay white on the tnif. 
 And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 
 
 And there lay the rider distorted and pale. 
 With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail ; 
 And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
 The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 
 
 And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail. 
 And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
 And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, 
 Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord 1 
 
 ODE TO NAPOLEON BONAPaRTE. 
 
 'Tis done — but yesterday a King ! 
 
 And arm'd with Kings to strive — 
 And now thou art a nameless thing : 
 
 So abject — yet dive ! 
 Is this the man of thousand tl^o^es. 
 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 
 
 Thine only gift bath been the grave 
 
 To those that worshipp'd thee; 
 Nor till thy fall could mortals guess 
 Ambition's less than littleness ! 
 
 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 Paged things of sabre sway, 
 With fronts of brass, and feet of clay. 
 
14 
 
 POETRY OF BYKON. 
 
 The trinmph, and tbe vanity, 
 
 The rapture of the strife — 
 The earthquake voice of Victory, 
 
 To thee the breath of life ; 
 The sword, the sceptre, and that sway 
 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 others' 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 1 
 
 He who of old would rend the oak, 
 
 Dream'd not of the rebound ; 
 Chain'd by the trunk he vainly broke — 
 
 Alone — how look'd he round ? 
 Thou in the sternness of thy strength 
 An equal deed hast done at length, 
 
 And darker fate hast found ; 
 He fell, the forest prowlers' prey ; 
 But thou muE>t eat thy heart away I 
 
 The Roman, 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 home, 
 Yet left him such a doom 1 
 
 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 : 
 Tet better had he neither known 
 A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne. 
 
 But thou — from tby reluctant hand 
 
 The thunder-bolt is wrung — 
 Too late thou leav'st the high command 
 
 To which tby weakness clung ; 
 All Evil Spirit as tbon art. 
 It is enough to grieve tiie heart 
 
 To see thine own unstrung; 
 To think that God's fair world hath been 
 The footstool of a thing so mean ; 
 
 And Earth hath spilt her blood for him. 
 
 Who thus can hoard his own ! 
 And Monarch.-* bow'd the trembling limb. 
 
 And thank'd him for a throne I 
 Fair Freedom ! we may hold thee dear. 
 When thus thj' mightiest foes their fear 
 
 In humblest ^uise have shown. 
 Oh ! ne'er may tyrant leave behind 
 A brighter name to lure mankind I 
 
 Thine evil deeds are writ in gore. 
 
 Nor written thus in vain — 
 Thy triumphs tell of fame no more, 
 
 Or deepen every stain : 
 If thou hadst died as honor 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 soiiles. Mortality 1 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 monmfnl flower, 
 Thy still imperial bride ; 
 
 How bears her breast the torturing hour? 
 
 Still clings she to thy side ? 
 Hust she too bend, must she too share 
 Thy late repentance, long despair, 
 
 Thou throneless Homicide ? 
 If still she loves thee, hoard that gem, 
 'Tie worth thy vanish'd diadem ! 
 
 Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, 
 
 And gaze upon the sea : 
 That element may meet thj" smile- 
 It ne'er was ruled by thee ! 
 Or trace with thine all idle band 
 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 case 
 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 oliey 'd — so little worth ! 
 
 Or, like the thief of fire from heaven, 
 
 Wilt thou withstand the shock ? 
 And share with him, the unforgiven. 
 
 His vulture and his rock ! 
 Foredoom'd by God — by man accurst. 
 And that last act, though not thy worst, 
 
 The very Fiend's arch mock ; 
 He in his fall preserved his pride, 
 And, if a mortal, had as proudly died ! 
 
 There was a day — there was an hour, 
 
 While earth was Gaul's — Gaul thine — 
 When that immeasurable power ■ 
 
 Unsated to resign 
 Had been an act of purer fame 
 Than gathers round Marengo's name. 
 
 And gilded thj' 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 — 
 As if that foolish robe could wring 
 
 Rememlirance from thy breast. 
 Where is that faded garment ? where 
 The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear. 
 
 The star — the string — the crest ? 
 Vain, froward child of empire! say. 
 Are all thy playthings snatch'd away ? 
 
 Where may the wearied eye repose 
 
 When gazing on the Great ; 
 Where neither guilty glory ^ows. 
 
 Nor despicable state? 
 Yes — one — tbe first — the last — the best — 
 The Cincinnatus of the West, 
 
 Whom envy dared not hate, 
 Bequeathed the name of Washington, 
 To make man blush there was but one ! 
 
 ODE ON WATERLOO. 
 
 We do not curse thee, Waterloo 1 
 Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew; 
 There 'twas shed, but is not sunk — 
 Rising from each gory trunk, 
 Like the water-spout from ocean. 
 With a strong and growing motion — 
 It soars and mingles in the air. 
 With that of lost Labedoyfere — 
 With that of him whose honor'd grave 
 Contains the " bravest of tbe brave." 
 A crimson cloud it spreads and glows. 
 But shall return to whence it rose; 
 When 'tis full 'twill burst asunder— 
 Never yet was heard such thunder 
 As then shall shake the world with wonder- 
 Never yet was seen such lightning 
 As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ningj 
 
POETKY OF BYRON. 
 
 15 
 
 Like the Wormwood Star foretold 
 By the sainted Seer of old, 
 Show'ring down a flery flood, 
 Turning rivers into blood. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 And thou, too, of the snow-white plume ! 
 Whose realm refused thee ev'n a tomb ; 
 Better hadst thou still been leading 
 France o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding, 
 Than sold thyself to death and shame 
 For a meanly royal name ; 
 Such as he of Naples wears. 
 Who thy blood-bought title bears. 
 Little didst thou deem, when dashing 
 
 On thy war-horse through the ranks 
 
 Like a stream which burst its banks, 
 While helmets cleft, and sables clashing. 
 Shone and shiver'd fast around thee — 
 Of the fate at last which found thee : 
 Was that haughty plume laid low 
 By a slave's dishonest blow ? 
 Once — as the Moon sways o'er the tide, 
 It roU'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 ascendency— 
 And, as it onward rolling rose. 
 So moved bis heart upon oar foes. 
 There, where death's brief pang was quickest. 
 And the battle's wreck lay thickest, 
 Strew'd beneath the advancing banner 
 
 Of the eagle's burning crest — 
 .(There with thunder-clouds to fan her. 
 
 Who could then her wing arrest — 
 
 Victory beaming from her breast?) 
 While the broken line enlarging 
 
 Fell, or fled along the plain ; 
 There be sure was Murat charging ! 
 
 There he ne'er shall charge again ! 
 
 O'er glories gone the invaders march. 
 Weeps Triumph o'er each levell'd arch^ 
 But let Freedom rejoice. 
 With her heart in her voice ; 
 But, her hand on the sword, 
 Doubly shall she be adored ; 
 France hath twice too well been taught 
 The " moral lesson " dearly bought — 
 Her safety sits not on a throne, 
 With Capet or Napoleon ! 
 But in equal rights and laws. 
 Hearts and hands in one great cause— 
 Preedom, such as God hath given 
 Unto all beneath his heaven, 
 With their breath, and from their birth. 
 Though GuUt would sweep it ^om the earth— 
 With a fierce and lavish hand 
 Scattering nations' wealth like sand ; 
 Pouring nations' blood like water, 
 In imperial seas of slaughter ! 
 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 : 
 Hven in this low world of care 
 Freedom ne'er shall want an heir; 
 Millions breathe but to inherit 
 Eer forever bounding spirit — 
 When once more her hosts assemble. 
 Tyrants shall believe and tremble — 
 Smile they at this idle threat F 
 Crimson tears will follow yet. 
 2 
 
 NAPOLEON'S- FAREWELL. 
 
 Fakewell to the Land, where the gloom of my. Glory 
 
 Arose and o'ershadow'd the earth with her name — 
 
 She abandons me now — but the page of her story, 
 
 The brightest or blackest, is filled with my fame. 
 
 I have warr'd with a world which vanquish'd me only 
 
 When the meteor of conquest allured me too far ; 
 
 I have coped with the nations which dread me thus lonely, 
 
 The last single Captive to millions in war. 
 
 Farewell to thee, France ! when thy diadem crown'd me, 
 
 I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth — 
 
 But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee, 
 
 Decay'd in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth. 
 
 Oh ! for the veteran hearts that were wasted 
 
 In strife with the storm, when their battles were won — 
 
 Then the Eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted, 
 
 Had still soar'd with eyes fix'd on victory's sun ! 
 
 Farewell to thee, France ! — but when Liberty rallies 
 
 Once more in thy regions, remember me then. 
 
 The violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys ; 
 
 Though wither'd, thy tear will unfold it again. 
 
 Yet, yet, I may baffle the hosts that surround us, ^ 
 
 And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice — 
 
 There are links which must break in the chain that has bound us, 
 
 Then turn thee and call on the Chief of thy choice ! 
 
 LAMENT OF TASSO. 
 
 LoNO years ! It tries the thrilling frame to bear 
 And eagle-spirit of a Child of Song — 
 Long years of outrage, calumny, and wrong ; 
 Imputed madness, prison'd solitude. 
 And the mind's canker in its savage mood. 
 When the impatient thirst of light and air 
 Parches the heart ; and the abhorr'd grate. 
 Marring the sunbeams with its hideous shade, 
 Works through the throbbing eyeball to the brain 
 With a hot sense of heaviness and pain ; 
 And bare, at once. Captivity display'd 
 Stands scofiSng through the never-open'd gate, 
 Which nothing through its bars admits, save day. 
 And tasteless food, which I have eat alone 
 Till its unsocial bitterness is gone ; 
 And I can banquet like a beast of prey, 
 Sullen and lonely, couching in the cave 
 Which is my lair, and — it may be — my grave. 
 All this hath somewhat worn me, and may wear, 
 But must be borne. I stoop not to despair ; 
 For I have battled with mine agony. 
 And made me wings wherewith to overfly 
 The narrow circus of my dungeon wall. 
 And freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall ; 
 And revell'd among men and things divine. 
 And pour'd my spirit over Palestine, 
 In honor of the sacred war for Him, 
 The God ijho was on earth and is in heaven, 
 For he hath strengthened me in heart and limb. 
 That through this sufferance I might be forgiven, 
 I have employ'd my penance to record 
 How Salem's shrine was won, and how adored. 
 
 But this is o'er — my pleasant task is done : 
 
 My long-sustaining friend of many years ! 
 
 If I do blot thy final page with tears. 
 
 Know, that my sorrows have wrung from me none. 
 
 But thou, my young creation ! my soul's child ! 
 
 Which ever playing round me came and smiled 
 
 And woo'd me from myself with that sweet sight. 
 
 Thou too art gone — and so is my delight : 
 
 And therefore do I weep and inly bleed 
 
 With this last bruise upon a broken reed. 
 
 DANTE IN EXILE. 
 
 (" Prophecy of Dante," Canto i.) 
 
 AiiAS ! with what a weight upon my brow 
 
 The sense of earth and earthly things come back. 
 Corrosive passions, feelings dull and low. 
 
 The heart's quick throb upon^the mental rack, 
 Long day, and dreary night ; the retrospect 
 Of half a century bloody and black. 
 
 And the frail few years I may yet expect 
 Hoary and hopeless, but less hard to bear. 
 
16 
 
 POETRY OF BYRON. 
 
 For I have been too long and deeply wreck'd 
 On the lone rock of desolate Despair 
 
 To lift my eyes more to the passing sail 
 
 "Which shuns that reef so horrible and bare ; 
 Nor raise my voice — for who ^ould heed my wail ? 
 
 I am not of this people, nor this age, 
 
 And yet my harpings will unfold a tale 
 Which shall preserve these times when not a page 
 
 Of their perturbed annals could attract 
 
 An eye to gaze upon their civil rage. 
 Did not my verse embalm full many an act 
 
 Worthless as. they who wrought it: 'tis the doom 
 
 Of spirits of my order to be rack'd 
 In life, to wear their hearts out, and consume 
 
 Their days in endless strife, and die alone ; 
 
 Then future thousands crowd around their tomb. 
 And pilgrims come from climes where they have known 
 
 The name of him— who now is but a name. 
 
 And wasting homage o'er the sullen stone. 
 Spread his — by him unheard, unheeded — fame ; 
 
 And mine at least hath cost me dear : to die 
 
 Is nothing ; but to wither thus — to tame 
 My mind down from its own infinity — 
 
 To live in narrow ways with little men, 
 
 A common sight to every common eye, 
 A wanderer, while even wolves can find a den, 
 
 Ripp'd from all kindred, from all home, all things 
 
 That make communion sweet, and soften pain — 
 To feel me in the solitude of kings 
 
 Without the power that makes them bear a crown — 
 
 To envy every dove his nest and wings 
 Which waft him where the Apennine looks down 
 
 On Arno, till he perches, it may be. 
 
 Within my all inexorable town. 
 Where yet my boys are, and that fatal she, 
 
 Their mother, the cold partner who hath brought 
 
 Destruction for a dowry — this to see 
 And feel, and know without repair, hath taught 
 
 A bitter lesson ; but it leaves me free : 
 
 I have not vilely found, nor basely sought. 
 They made an Exile — not a slave of me. 
 
 THE ISLES OF GREECE. 
 
 SONG OF A GREEK. 
 
 The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece F 
 Where burning Sappho loved and sang. 
 
 Where grew the arts of war and peace ; 
 Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprang ] 
 
 Eternal summer gilds them yet. 
 
 But all, except their sun, is set. 
 
 The Scian and the Teian muse. 
 The hero's harp, the lover's lute. 
 
 Have found the fame your shores refuse ; 
 Their place of birth alone is mute 
 
 To sounds which echo farther west 
 
 Than your sires' " Islands of the Blest." 
 
 The mountains look on Marathon — 
 And Marathon looks on the sea ; 
 
 And musing there an hour alone, 
 
 I dream'd that Greece might still be free ; 
 
 For standing on the Persians' grave, 
 
 I could not deem myself a slave. 
 
 A king sat on the rocky brow 
 
 Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis j 
 
 And ships, by thousands, lay below. 
 And men in nations — all were his ! 
 
 He counted them at break of day — 
 
 And when the sun set where were they ? 
 
 And where are they ? and where art thou. 
 My country ? On thy voiceless shore 
 
 The heroic lay is tuneless now — 
 The heroic bosom beats no more I 
 
 And must thy lyre, so long divine. 
 
 Degenerate into hands like mine ? 
 
 'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, 
 Though link'd among a fetter'd race. 
 
 To feel at least a patriot's shame. 
 Even as I sing, suffuse my face ; 
 
 For what is left the poet here ? 
 
 For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 
 
 Must we but weep o'er days more blest ? 
 Must we but blush? — Our fathers bled. 
 
 Earth ! render back from out thy breast 
 
 A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 
 Of the three hundred grant but three, 
 To make a new Thennopylffi ! 
 
 What, silent still ? and silent all ? 
 
 Ah ! no ; the voices of the dead 
 Sound like a distant torrent's fall. 
 
 And answer, " Let one living head, 
 But one arise — we come, we come !" 
 'Tis but the living who are dumb. 
 
 In vain — in vain : strike other chords ; 
 
 Fill high the cup with Samian wine I 
 Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, 
 
 And shed the blood of Scio's vine 1 
 Hark ! rising to the ignoble call — 
 How answers each bold Bacchanal I 
 
 You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet. 
 Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone ? 
 
 Of two such lessons, why forget 
 The nobler and the manlier one ? 
 
 You have the letters Cadmus gave — 
 
 Think ye he meant them for a slave ? 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine'. 
 
 We will not think of themes like these I 
 It made Anacreon's song divine : 
 
 He served — but served Polycrates — 
 A tyrant ; but oui* masters then 
 Were still, at least, our countrymen. 
 
 The tyrant of the Chersonese 
 
 Was freedom's best and bravest friend f 
 That tyrant was Miltiades ! 
 
 Oh ! that the present hour would lend 
 Another despot of the kind ! 
 Such chains as his were sure to bind. 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
 
 On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore. 
 Exists the remnant of a line 
 
 Such as the Doric mothers bore ; 
 And there, perhaps, some seed is sown. 
 The Heracleidan blood might own. 
 
 Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 
 They have a king who buys and sells ; 
 
 In native swords, and native ranks. 
 The only hope of courage dwells ; 
 
 But Turkish force, and Latin fraud. 
 
 Would break your shield, however broad,- 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
 
 Our virgins dance beneath the shade — 
 I see their glorious black eyes shine ; 
 
 But gazing on each glowing maid, 
 My own the burning tear-drop laves, 
 To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 
 
 Place me on Suninm's marbled steep. 
 Where nothing, save the waves and I, 
 
 May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 
 There, swan-like, let me sing and die. 
 
 A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 
 
 Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! 
 
 LINES TO A LADY WEEPING.' 
 
 Weep, daughter of a royal line, 
 A Sire's di^race, a realm's decay ; 
 
 Ah ! happy if each tear of thine , 
 Could wash a father's fault away. 
 
 Weep — for thy tears are Virtue's tears — 
 Auspicious to these suffering isles ; 
 
 And be each drop in future years 
 Bepaid thee by thy people's smiles ! 
 
 DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. 
 
 ("Chllde Harold," Canto iv., Stanzas 16T-172.) 
 
 Hark ! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, 
 A long low distant murmur of dread sound, 
 
 > The Princess Charlotte. 
 
POETRY OF BYRON. 
 
 17 
 
 Such as arises when a nation bleeds 
 With some deep and immedicable wound ; 
 Through storm and darkness yawns the rending ground, 
 The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief 
 Seems royal still, though with her head discrown'd, 
 And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief 
 She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief. 
 
 Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou ? 
 Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead P 
 Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low 
 Some less majestic, less beloved head ? 
 In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled, 
 The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy, 
 Death hush'd that pang forever : with thee fled 
 The present happiness and promised joy 
 "Which fill'd the imperial isles so full it seem'd to cloy. 
 
 Feasants bring forth in safety. — Can it be, 
 Oh thou that wert so happy, so adored ! 
 Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee. 
 And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard 
 Her many griefs for One ; for she had pour'd 
 Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy- head 
 Beheld her Iris. — ^Thou, too, lonely lord, 
 And desolate consort — vainly wert thou wed ! 
 The husband of a year ! the father of the dead ! 
 
 Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made ; 
 Thy bridal's fruit is ashes ; in the dust 
 The fair-hair' d Daughter of the Isles is laid, 
 The love of millions ! How did we intrust 
 Futurity to her ! and, though it must 
 Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd 
 Our children should obey her child, and bless'd 
 Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seem'd 
 Like stars to shepherds' eyes : — 'twas but a meteor beam'd. 
 
 Woe unto us, not her ; for she sleeps well : 
 The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue 
 Of hollow counsel, the false oracle. 
 Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung 
 Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstung 
 Nations have arm'd in madness, the strange fate 
 Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath flung 
 Against their blind omnipotence a weight 
 Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late — 
 
 These might have been her destiny ; but no. 
 Our hearts deny it ; and so young, so fair. 
 Good without efi'ort, great without a foe, 
 But now a bride and mother — and now there ! 
 How many ties did that stem moment tear ! 
 From thy Sire's to his humblest subject's breast 
 Is link'd the electric chain of that despair. 
 Whose shock "v/as as an earthquake's, and opprest 
 The land which loved thee so that none could love thee best 
 
 IMMORTALITY. 
 
 (" Childe Harold," Canto ii.. Stanzas T, 8.) 
 
 Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son ! 
 " All that we know is, nothing can be known." 
 Why should we shrink from what we cannot shun ? 
 Each hath his pang, but feeble sufferers groan 
 With brain-born dreams of evil all their own. 
 Pursue what Chance or Fate proclaimeth best ; 
 Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron: 
 There no forced banquet claims the sated guest. 
 But Silence spreads the couch of ever welcome rest. 
 
 Yet if, as holiest men have deem'd^ there be 
 A land of souls beyond that sable shore, 
 To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee 
 And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore ; 
 
 How sweet it were in concert to adore 
 With those who made our mortal labors light! 
 To hear each voice we fear'd to hear no more ! 
 Behold each mighty shade reveal'd to sight, 
 The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the right!. 
 
 " ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY- 
 SIXTH YEAR." 
 
 'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, 
 
 Since others it hath ceased to move ; 
 Yet, though I cannot be beloved, 
 Still let me love ! 
 
 My days are in the yellow leaf; 
 
 The flowers and fruits of love are gone; 
 The worm, the canker, and the grief 
 Are mine alone ! 
 
 The fire that on my bosom preys 
 
 Is lone as some volcanic isle ; 
 No torch is kindled at its blaze — 
 A funeral pile ! 
 
 The hope, the fear, the jealous care, 
 
 The exalted portion of the pain 
 
 And power of love, I cannot share, 
 
 But wear the chain. 
 
 But 'tis not thm — and 'tis not here — 
 
 Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now, 
 Where glory decks the hero's bier. 
 Or binds his brow. 
 
 The sword, the banner, and the field. 
 Glory and Greece, around me see I 
 The Spartan, borne upon his shield. 
 Was not more free. 
 
 Awake ! (not Greece — she is awake !) 
 
 Awake, my spirit ! Think through whom, 
 Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake. 
 And then strike home ! 
 
 Tread those reviving passions down, 
 Unworthy manhood ! — unto thee 
 Indifferent should the smile or frown 
 Of beauty be. 
 
 If thou regret'st thy youth, why live f 
 
 The land of honorable death 
 
 Is here : — up to the field, and give 
 
 Away thy breath ! 
 
 Seek out — ^less often sought than found — 
 
 A soldier's grave, for thee the best ; 
 Then look around, and choose thy ground. 
 And take thy rest. 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 ("Don Juan," Canto xv.. Stanza 99.) 
 
 Between two worlds life hovers like a star, 
 
 'Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge. 
 
 How little do We know thait which we are ! 
 
 How less what we may be ! The eternal surge 
 
 Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar 
 Our bubbles ; as the old burst, new emerge, 
 
 Lash'd from the foam of ages ; while the graves 
 
 Of empires heave but like some passing waves. 
 
POETRY OP BYRON. 
 
 II.-DESCRIPTIVE AND NARRATIVE. 
 
 GREECE. 
 
 ("The Corsair," Canto iii.) 
 
 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 throws, 
 Gilds the green wave that trembles as it glows ; 
 On old .fflgina'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, unoonquer'd Salamis ! 
 Their azure arches through the long expanse. 
 More deeply purpled, meet his mellowing glance ; 
 And tendereat tints, along their summits driven, 
 Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven ; 
 Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, 
 Behind his Delphian rock he sinks to sleep. 
 
 On such an eve his palest beam he cast 
 When, Athens 1 here thy wisest look'd his last. 
 How watch'd thy better sons his farewell raj'. 
 That closed their murder'd sage's latest day ! 
 Not yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill. 
 The precious hour of parting lingers still ; 
 But sad his light to agonizing eyes, 
 And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes ; 
 Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour, 
 The land where Phoebus never frown'd before ; 
 But ere he sunk below Citheron's head. 
 The cup of woe was quaff'd — the spirit fled ; 
 The soul of him that scorn'd to fear or fly, 
 Who lived and died as none can live or die. 
 
 But, lo ! from high Hymettus to the plain 
 The queen of night asserts her silent reign ; 
 No murky vapor, herald of the storm. 
 Hides her fair face or 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 soatter'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 .^gean, 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. 
 
 THE SAME. 
 
 (From " The Giaour.") 
 
 Fair clime ! where every season smiles 
 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 odors there ! 
 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 ; 
 
 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 trace, 
 
 As if for Gods, a dwelling place. 
 
 And every charm and grace hath mix'd 
 
 Within the paradise she fix'd, 
 
 There man, enamor'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 inark'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, now. 
 And but for that chill, changeless brow, 
 . Where cold Obstruction's apathy 
 
 Appalls 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 ; 
 
 So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd. 
 
 The first, last look by death reveal'd ! 
 
 Such is the aspect of this shore ; 
 
 'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more ! 
 
 So coldly sweet, so deadly fair. 
 
 We start, for soul is wanting there. 
 
 Hers is the loveliness in death. 
 
 That parts not quite with parting breath ; 
 
 But beauty with that fearful bloom, 
 
 That hue which haunts it to the tomb. 
 
 Expression's last receding ray, 
 
 A gilded halo hovering round decay. 
 
 The farewell beam of Feeling past away ! 
 Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth. 
 Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish'd earth. 
 
 Clime of the unforgotten brave ! 
 Whose land from plain to mountain-cave 
 Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave ! 
 Shrine of the mighty ! can it be, 
 That this is all remains of thee ? 
 Approach, thou craven crouching slave : 
 Say, is not this Thermopylse ? 
 
POETRY OF BYBON. 
 
 la 
 
 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 Rattle 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 I 
 While kings, in dusky darkness hid. 
 Have left a nameless pyi'amid. 
 Thy heroes, though the general doom 
 Hath swept the column from their tomb, 
 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 splendor to disgrace ; 
 Enough — no foreign foe could quell 
 Thy soul, till from itself it fell ; 
 Yes ! Self-abasement payed the way 
 To villain bonds and despot sway. 
 
 THE SAME. 
 
 {" Childe Harold," Canto ii., Stanzas T3-77.) 
 
 Fair Greece ! sad relic of departed worth ! 
 Immortal, though no more ; though fallen, great ! 
 Who now shall lead thy scatter'd children forth. 
 And long accustom'd bondage uncreate ? 
 Not such thy sons who whilom did await. 
 The hopeless warriors of a willing doom. 
 In bleak Thermopylae's sepulchral strait— 
 Oh ! who that gallant spirit shall resume. 
 Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee from the tomb ? 
 
 Spirit of freedom ! when on Phyle's brow 
 Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train, 
 Couldst thou forebode the dismal hour which now 
 Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain? 
 Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain. 
 But every carle can lord it o'er thy land j 
 Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain. 
 Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand. 
 From birth till death enslaved ; in word, in deed, unmann'd. 
 
 In all save form alone, how changed ! and who 
 That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye. 
 Who but would deem their bosoms burn'd anew 
 With thy unquenched beam, lost Liberty! 
 And many dream withal the hour is nigh 
 That gives them back their fathers' heritage : 
 For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh. 
 Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage, 
 Or tear their name defiled from Slavery's mournful pag?. 
 
 Hereditary bondsmen ! know ye not 
 Who would be free themselves must strike the blow ?' 
 By their right arms the conquest must be wrought ? 
 Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye ? No ! 
 True, they may lay your proud despoilers low, > '"I'i 
 But not for you will Freedom's altars flame. 
 Shades of the Helots ! triumph o'er your foe ! lisdT 
 Greece ! change thy lords, thy state is still theJjSftigjf 
 Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thine years of ^diflS.** 
 
 „, , « .„ , . , «. vljijiq £)nA 
 
 The city won for Allah from the Giaour gj,,„ gj^j j^j^ 
 
 ■ The Giaour from Othman's race again ™ajQ.'Hjii{,JodT 
 And the Serai's impenetrable tower j|j g.[9,|,f ^g^a- 
 Eeceive the fiery Frank, her former gyg^^ i,,^^^^^ jT 
 Or Wahab's rebel brood, who dared divest 
 The prophet's tomb of all its pious spoil. . , ,_, 
 May wind their path of blood alone We TTIs'^:. , J 
 
 _,^ •' , _ -^ 1 1 ■ -iTirm ata'jj arttctr line 
 
 But ne er will freedom seek this 
 But slave succeed to slave through' 
 
 ** 'A/ "C 017 (! 'Jl^ SfliVi 
 
 (f 
 
 THE SAME. 
 
 ("Childe Harold," Canto ii., Stanzas 84-88.) 
 
 When riseth Lacedsemon's hardihood. 
 When Thebes Epaminondas rears again. 
 When Athens' children are with hearts endued, 
 When Grecian mothers shall give birth to men. 
 Then may'st thou be restored ; but not till then I 
 A thousand years scarce serve to form a state j 
 An hour may lay it in the dust : and when 
 Can man its shatter'd splendor renovate. 
 Recall its virtues back, and vanquish Time and Fate ? 
 
 And yet how lovely in thine age of woe. 
 Land of lost gods and godlike men ! art thocuji. 
 Thy vales of evergreen, thy hills of snow, .A 
 , Proclaim thee Nature's varied favorite n»w><lT 
 Thy fanes, thy temples to thy surface btufr ^ 
 Commingling slowly with heroic earth^o dJiV/' 
 Broke by the share of every rustic plerigb S'rfT 
 So perish monuments of mortal birth. 
 So perish all in turn, save well-recordafi^qrthf 
 
 Save where some solitary columfi=ri9frfft#™"8 
 Above its prostrate brethren ot-^'eim^i A 
 Save «here Tritonia's airy sh!«af dSSAiB""'" 
 Colonna's cliff, and gleams alAilS'HifflW^e^ 
 Save o'er some warrior's hal&ffl^^tKift'WW^ 
 Where the gray stones anrf^fittJfeat^S^ffiB&A 
 Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave. 
 While strangers only not regardless pass, 
 Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and sigh " Alas!" 
 
 AUG anT 
 
 Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild ; 
 Sweet are thy grov^BjiaHdstrgiilatl); are thy fields, 
 Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled 
 
 — '-"^■'■sm. ftps "' 
 
 And still his hoi 
 There the blithe 
 The freebom ^J) 
 Apollo still tlJy II 
 Still in his 
 Art, Glory, Fi ., 
 
 ™., , nsdi anofi 
 Where'er — — 
 
 ields ; 
 builds, 
 
 fair. 
 
 
 No eaT^.o?feng„}? r9||,in vul^r mcjjt^^ 
 wontler spreads aroi 
 
 But one vast realm of won 
 
 And all t 
 
 Tiirai 
 
 : spreads around^ 
 
 ues gone: 
 
 ,Vii09b buoiq n't do^£ slJon X)«A. 
 
 ; «i9woJ-9gJiJnivlo_aiji3c.8iil3 is'o sfooJ 
 
 — onidH 'lo ealnisd osorii Jrifiw -Qiihli ono iuH 
 
 ! onim ni qajilo oJ LjijbiI olirfaa vriT 
 
 HELLESPONT. 
 
 .era Qi n9vig eeilil erij bnse I 
 
 ilaiioXtaiIileIBBde(,df ^^^ViClaiigiKiiJjr 
 
 ,9d b'T'jrilivf iium -^adJ ItdJ v/oai I 
 
 The wjhidsaiB highnmiaoHpfs ts^y6^(^ 
 
 A^'iniilthattmiglhtti6£filisbi}9vtEiitino'{ 
 
 'VYd^malitKte^mhD ieiit,>fi);'gatlt(B8a]rK>S 
 
 T)M^niiis, theribethikifolirtbesbiB^djnA 
 
 ,d3iii'J^4oiKaiyidm(leieS)Ssdtafe'xidriitgliit£W 
 
 iSiQUJI 3iJ)ie;ilaAbii«llidgns£b&ei^oa;I bnA 
 
 Hei! linrilet«)larcit>ifr!^laziii^'li^,bnA 
 
 Though rising gale, and breaking foam. 
 
 And sh3i)iliBn^iaea(JDtii3?nfekiiii'iih3nf KCme ; 
 
 AqAmlo«(^^alafldand tidtSibeiow^o edT 
 
 Withssi^laBd'sduiute^ifarUaidi tb^A 
 
 He: fouldbigiti^w^'A^tiroiddiatelibsiijioS 
 
 bnucOrtd^piiddawigti fsxebddbigt^^ifd sdT 
 
 H}»'e^lbiltIj|il«btUa1;'I!^tsaBl(lvepidT 
 
 The fcntyi^tatJitqhmiai-^owe filuoo soA 
 
 His ear butuaeAgDwith iIefto^«in%{i oT 
 
 . "liWBtwsaEspBSi&iB BD^dose&s'jdtillAbD 
 
 ! !ahii([{^edteeM^tmttloKaiB»eil»9we UU8 
 
 May nerve young hearts to prove as true. 
 
 The winds are high, and Helle's tide 
 KoUs d^ag^qij^Tfjf the main; 
 And Night's descending shadows hide 
 (.08-;i;ilbs{i«5idi#itBrte»odE6e;^fr«*ltf!*a}n, 
 The desert pf old^Priam's pride ; 
 
 legnile 
 
 ; nam evBiJljiis"ii9movririri"i9^o"affod'&*aq' 
 
20 
 
 POETRY OF BYEON. 
 
 TROY. 
 
 ("Don Jnan," Canto Iv., Stanzas 76-78.) 
 
 Thekb, on the green and village-cotted hill, is 
 (Flank'd by the Hellespont, and by the sea) 
 
 Entomb'd the bravest of the brave, Achilles ; 
 They say so— (Bryant says the contrary) : 
 
 And farther downward, tall and towering still, is 
 
 The tumulus — of whom ? Heaven knows ; 't may be 
 
 Patroclus, Ajax, or Protesilaus ; 
 
 All heroes, who, if living still, would slay us. 
 
 High barrows, without marble, or a name, 
 A vast, untill'd, and mountain-skirted plain, 
 
 And Ida in the distance, still the same, 
 And old Scamander (if 'tis he) remain ; 
 
 The situation seems still form'd for fame^ 
 A hundred thousand men might fight again 
 
 With ease ; but where I sought for Ilion's walls. 
 
 The quiet sheep feeds, and the tortoise crawls ; 
 
 Troops of untended horses ; here and there 
 
 Some little hamlets, with new names uncouth ; 
 
 Some shepherds (unlike Paris) led to stare 
 A moment at the European youth 
 
 Whom to the spot their school-boy feelings bear ; 
 A Turk, with beads in hand, and pipe in mouth. 
 
 Extremely taken with his own religion. 
 
 Are what I found there — but the devil a Phrygian. 
 
 THE DRACHENFEL8. 
 
 ("Childe Harold," Canto iii.) 
 
 The castled crag of Drachenfels 
 Frowns o'er the wide and winding Khine, 
 Whose breast of waters broadly swells 
 Between the banks which bear the vine. 
 And bills all rich with blossom'd trees. 
 And fields which promise corn and wine, 
 And scatter'd cities crowning these. 
 Whose far white walls along them shine, 
 Have strew'd a scene which I should see 
 With double joy wert thou with me. 
 
 And peasant girls, with deep-blue eyes, 
 And hands which offer early flowers. 
 Walk smiling o'er this paradise ; 
 Above, the frequent feudal towers 
 Through green leaves lift their walls of gray ; 
 And many a rock which steeply lowers, 
 And noble arch in proud decay, 
 Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers : 
 But one thing want these banks of Bhine — 
 Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine I 
 
 I send the lilies given to me. 
 Though long before thy hand they touch 
 I know that they must wither'd be, 
 But yet reject them not as such ; 
 For I have cherish'd them as dear, 
 Because they yet may meet thine eye, 
 And guide thy soul to mine ev'n here, 
 When thou behold'st them drooping nigh. 
 And know'st them gather'd by the Khine, 
 And offer'd from my heart to thine ! 
 
 The river nobly foams and flows. 
 
 The charm of this enchanted ground. 
 
 And all its thousand turns disclose 
 
 Some fresher beauty varying round : 
 
 The haughtiest breast its wish might bound 
 
 Through life to dwell delighted here ; 
 
 Nor could on earth a spot be found 
 
 To nature and to me so dear. 
 
 Could thy dear eyes in following mine 
 
 Still sweeten more these banks of Bhine ! 
 
 WATERLOO. 
 
 ("Childe Harold," Canto iii.. Stanzas 21-30.) 
 
 There was a sound of revelry by night. 
 
 And Belgium's capital had gather'd then 
 
 Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright 
 
 The lamps shone o'er &ir women and brave men ; 
 
 A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
 Music arose with its voluptuous swell. 
 Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again. 
 And all went merry as a marriage-bell ; 
 But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell ! 
 
 Did ye not hear it?— No ; 'twas but the wind. 
 Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; 
 On with the dance 1 let joy be unconfined ; 
 No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet 
 To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet — 
 But hark ! — that heavy sound breaks in once more, 
 As if the clouds its echo would repeat j 
 And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! 
 Arm! arml it.is — it is — the cannon's opening roar ! 
 
 Within a window'd niche of that high hall 
 Sat Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did hear 
 That sound the first amidst the festival, 
 And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; 
 And when they smiled because he deem'd it near. 
 His heart more truly knew that peal too well 
 Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier, 
 And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell : 
 He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. 
 
 Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
 And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress. 
 And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
 Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness ; 
 And there were sudden partings, such as press 
 The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
 Which ne'er might be repeated ; who could guess 
 If ever more should meet those mutual eyes. 
 Since upon night so sweet such awful mom could rise ! 
 
 And there was mounting in hot haste : the steed. 
 The mustering squadron, and the clattering car 
 Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 
 And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ; 
 And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ; 
 And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
 Boused up the soldier ere the morning star ; 
 While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb. 
 Or whispering, with white lips, ' ' The foe ! They come ! they come ! " 
 
 And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose! 
 The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills 
 Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes : 
 How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, 
 Savage and shrill ! But with the breath which fills 
 Their mountain-pipe so fill the mountaineers 
 With the fierce native daring which instils 
 The stirring memory of a thousand years. 
 And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears ! 
 
 And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, 
 Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass, 
 Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves. 
 Over the nnreturning brave — alas 1 
 Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
 Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 
 In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
 Of living valor, rolling on the foe 
 And burning witli high hope, shall moulder cold and low. 
 
 Last noon beheld them full of lusty life. 
 Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay. 
 The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife. 
 The morn the marshalling in arms — the day 
 Battle's magnificently stern array ! 
 The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which, when rent. 
 The earth is cover'd thick with other clay. 
 Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, 
 Bider and horse — friend, foe — in one red burial blent ! 
 
 Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than mine; 
 Yet one I would select from that proud throng. 
 Partly because they blend me with his line. 
 And partly that I did his sire some wrong, 
 And partly that bright names will hallow song ; 
 And his was of the bravest, and when shower'd 
 The death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files along, 
 Even where the thickest of war's tempest lower'd. 
 They reaoh'd no nobler breast than thine, young, gallant Howard ! 
 
 There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee, 
 And mine were nothing, had I such to give ; 
 But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree 
 Which living waves where thou didst cease to live 
 
POETRY or BYBON. 
 
 21 
 
 And saw around me the wide field revive 
 With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring 
 Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, ' 
 With all her reckless birds upon the wing, 
 3. tnm'd from all she brought to those she could not bring. 
 
 LAKE OF GENEVA. — CALM. 
 
 ("Chllde Harold," Canto iii.. Stanzas 8B-8T.) 
 
 Clear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake, 
 With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing 
 Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake 
 Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. 
 This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
 To waft me from distraction ; once I loved 
 Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring 
 Sounds sweet as if a Sister's voice reproved. 
 That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved. 
 
 It is the hush of night, and all between 
 Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, 
 Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen. 
 Save darken'd Jura, whose capp'd heights appear 
 Precipitously steep ; and drawing near. 
 There breathes a living fragrance from the shore 
 Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; on the ear 
 Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, 
 «0r chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more ; 
 
 He is an evening reveller, who makes 
 His life an infancy, and sings his fill ; 
 At intervals, some bird from out the brakes 
 Starts into voice a moment, then is still. 
 There seems a floating whisper on the hill. 
 But that is fancy, for the starlight dews 
 All silently their tears of love instil. 
 Weeping themselves away, till they infuse 
 .T>eep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues. 
 
 . LAKE OF GENEVA. — STORM. 
 
 ("Childe Harold," Canto iii., Stanzas 92-96.) 
 
 Thy sky is changed ! — and such a change ! Oh night. 
 And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong. 
 Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light 
 .Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along, 
 From peak to peak, the rattling crags among 
 Leaps the live thunder ! Not from one lone cloud. 
 But every mountain now hath found a tongue, 
 And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, 
 Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud ! 
 
 And this is in the night : — Most glorious night ! 
 Thou wert not sent for slumber ! let me be 
 A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, 
 A portion of the tempest and of thee ! 
 How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea. 
 And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! 
 And now again 'tis black — and now, the glee 
 Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth. 
 As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. 
 
 Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between 
 Heights which appear as lovers who have pai'ted 
 In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, 
 That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted ! 
 Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted, 
 Love was the very root of the fond rage 
 Which blighted their life's bloom, and then departed : 
 Itself expired,, but leaving them an age 
 Of years all winters — war within themselves to wage. 
 
 Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way. 
 The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand: 
 For here, not one, but many make their play. 
 And fling their thunder-bolts from hand to hand. 
 Flashing and cast around : of all the band, 
 The brightest through these parted hills hath fork'd 
 His lightnings — as if he did understand. 
 That in such gaps as desolation work'd. 
 There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurk'd. 
 
 Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings I ye ! 
 With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul 
 To make these felt and feeling, well may be 
 Things that have made me watchful ; the far roll 
 
 Of your departing voices, is the knoll 
 Of what in me is sleepless — if I rest. 
 But where of ye, oh tempests ! is the goal ? 
 Are ye like those within the human breast ? 
 Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest? 
 
 CLARENS. 
 
 (" Chllde Harold," Canto iii.. Stanzas 99-104.) 
 
 Clarens ! sweet Clarens, birthplace of deep Love ! 
 Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought ; 
 Thy trees take root in Love ; the snows above 
 The very Glaciers have his colors caught. 
 And sunset into rose-hues sees them wrought 
 By rays which sleep there lovingly : the rocks. 
 The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who sought 
 In them a refuge from the worldly shocks 
 Which stir and sting the soul with hope that wooes, then mocks. 
 
 Clarens ! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod — 
 Undying Love's, who here ascends a throne 
 To which the steps are mountains ; where the god ^ 
 Is a pervading life and light — so shown 
 Not on those summits solely, nor alone 
 In the still cave and forest ; o'er the flower 
 His, eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown. 
 His soft and summer breath, whose tender power 
 Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hour. 
 
 All things are here of Mm ; from the black pines, 
 Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar 
 Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines 
 Which slope his green path downward to the shore, 
 Where the bow'd waters meet him, and adore, 
 Kissing his feet with murmurs ; and the wood, 
 The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar. 
 But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it stood. 
 Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude. 
 
 A populous solitude of bees and birds. 
 And fairy-form'd and many-color'd things. 
 Who worship him with notes more sweet than words, 
 And innocently open their glad wings. 
 Fearless and full of life : the gush of springs, 
 And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend 
 Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings 
 The swiftest thongbt of beauty, here extend. 
 Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty end. 
 
 He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore. 
 And make his heart a spirit ; he who knows 
 That tender mystery, will love the more, 
 For this is Love's recess, where vain men's woes, 
 And the world's waste, have driven him far from those. 
 For 'Us his nature to advance or die ; 
 He stands not still, but or decays, or grows 
 Into a boundless blessing, which may vie 
 With the immortal lights, in its eternity. 
 
 'Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot. 
 Peopling it with affections ; but he found 
 It was the scene which passion must allot 
 To the mind's purified beings ; 'twas the ground 
 Where early Love his Psyche's zone unbound. 
 And hallow'd it with loveliness : 'tis lone, 
 And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound. 
 And sense, and sight of sweetness ; here the Rhone 
 Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have rear'd a throne. 
 
 ITALY. 
 
 (" Childe Harold," Canto iv., Stanzas 42-4T.) 
 
 Italia ! oh Italia ! thou who hast 
 The fatal gift of beauty, which became 
 A funeral dower of present woes and past. 
 On thy sweet brow is sorrow plough'd by shame. 
 And annals gtaved in characters of flame. 
 Oh, God ! that thou wert in thy nakedness 
 Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim 
 Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who press 
 To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy distress; 
 
 Then might'st thou'more appall j or, less desired, 
 Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored 
 For thy destructive charms ; then, still untired, 
 Would not be seen the armed torrents nour'd 
 
22 
 
 POETRY OP BYRON. 
 
 Down the deep Alps ; nor would the hostile horde 
 Of maJiy-nation'd spoilers from the Po 
 Quaff blood and water ; nor the stranger's sword 
 Be thy sad weapon of defence, and so, 
 Victor or vanquish'd, thou the slave oi friend or foe. 
 
 Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him,' 
 The Roman friend of Bome's least-mortal mind, 
 The friend of TuUy : as my bark did skim 
 The bright blue waters with a fanning wind. 
 Came Megara before me, and behind 
 jEgina lay,. Piraeus on the right. 
 And Corinth on the left; I lay reclined 
 Along the prow, and saw all these unite 
 In ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight ; 
 
 For Time hath not rebuilt them, but uprear'd 
 Barbaric dwellings on their shatter'd site. 
 Which only make more mourn'd and more endear'd 
 The few last rays of their far-scatter'd light, 
 And the crush'd relics of their vanish'd might. 
 The Boman saw these tombs in his own age. 
 These sepulchres of cities, which excite 
 Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page 
 The moral lesson bears, drawn from such pilgrimage. 
 
 That page is now before me, and on mine 
 Bis country's ruin added to the mass 
 Of perish'd states he mourn'd in their decline. 
 And I in desolation : all that was 
 Of then destruction is; and now, alas! 
 Bome — Borne imperial, bows her to the storm. 
 In the same dust and blackness, and we pass 
 The skeleton of her Titanic form. 
 Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are warm. 
 
 Tet, Italy ! through every other land 
 Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side to sidej 
 Mother of Arts ! as once of arms ; thy hand 
 Was then our guardian, and is still our guide ; 
 Parent of our Beligion ! whom the wide 
 Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven ! 
 Europe, repentant of her parricide. 
 Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven, 
 Boll the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven. 
 
 VENICE, 
 
 (" Childe Harold," Canto iv., Stanzas 1-4.) 
 
 I STOOD in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs ; 
 A palace and a prison on each hand : 
 I saw from out the wave her structures rise 
 As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand : 
 A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 
 Around me, and a dying Glory smiles 
 O'er the far times, when many a subject land 
 Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles. 
 Where Venice sat in state, throned on her hundred isles! 
 
 She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, 
 Bising with her tiara of proud towers 
 At airy distance, with majestic motion, 
 A ruler of the waters and their powers : 
 And such she was — her daughters had their dowers 
 From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East 
 Four'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers. 
 In purple was she robed, and of her feast 
 Mouarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity increased. 
 
 In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more. 
 And silent rows the songless gondolier ; 
 Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, 
 And music meets not always now the ear : 
 Those days are gone — but Beauty still is here. 
 States &11, arts fade — but Nature doth not die. 
 Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, 
 The pleasant place of all festivity. 
 The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy ! 
 
 But unto us she hath a spell beyond 
 Her name in story, and her long array 
 Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond 
 Above the dogeless city's vanish'd sway ; 
 Ours is a trophy which will not decay 
 With the Bialto ; Shylock and the Moor, 
 And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away — 
 The keystones of the arch ! though all were o'er, 
 For us repeopled were the solitary shore. 
 
 ' Servius Sulpiciua. See Middleton's "Cicero." vol. ii., p. 371. 
 
 THE SAME. 
 
 0' Childe Harold," Canto iv., Stanzas 11-13.) 
 
 The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord ; 
 And, annual marriage, now no more renew'd. 
 The Bucentaur lies rottmg unrestored. 
 Neglected garment of her widowhood ! 
 St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood, 
 Stand, but in mockery of his wither' d power, 
 Over the proud Place where an Emperor sued, 
 And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour 
 When Venice was a queen with an unequall'd dower. 
 
 The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns — 
 An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt; 
 Kingdom^ are shrunk to provinces, and chains 
 Clank over sceptred cities ; nations melt 
 From power's high pinnacle, when they have felt 
 The sunshine for a while, and downward go 
 Like lauwine loosen'd from the mountain's belt ; 
 Oh for one hour of blind old Dandplo ! 
 Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe. 
 
 Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass, 
 Their gilded collars glittering in the sun ; 
 But is not Doria's menace come to pass ? 
 Are they not IHdled? — ^Venice, lost and won, 
 Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done. 
 Sinks, like a sea^weed, into whence she rose ! 
 Better be whelm'd beneath the waves, and shun, 
 Even in destruction's depth, her foreign foes. 
 From whom submission wrings an infamous repose. 
 
 THE SAME. 
 
 ("CWHe Harold," Canto iv.. Stanza 18.) 
 
 I LOVED her from my boyhood — she to me 
 Was as a fairy city of the, heart, 
 Bising like water-columns from the sea. 
 Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart ; 
 And Otway, Badcliffe, Schiller, Shakspeare's art, 
 Had stamp'd her image in me, and even so. 
 Although I found her thus, we did not part. 
 Perchance even dearer in her day of woe. 
 Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show. 
 
 AN AUGUST EVENING IN ITALY. 
 
 ("Childe Harold," Canto iv., Stanzas 27-29.) 
 
 The moon is up, and yet it is not night — 
 Sunset divides the sky with her — a sea • 
 Of glory streams along the Alpine height 
 Of blue Friuli's mountains ; Heaven is free 
 From clouds, but of all colors seems to be 
 •Melted to one vast Iris of the West, 
 Where the Day joins the past Etei-nity ; 
 While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest 
 Floats through the azure air — an island of the blest! 
 
 A single star is at her side, and reigns 
 With her o'er half the lovely heaven ; but still 
 Ton sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains 
 Eoll'd o'er the peak of the far Ehsetian hill, 
 As Day and Night contending were, until 
 Nature reclaim'd her order :— gently flows 
 The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil 
 The odorous purple of a new-bom rose. 
 Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within it glows, 
 
 FUl'd with the face of heaven, which, from afar 
 Comes down upon the waters ; all its hues, ' 
 From the rich sunset to the rising star, 
 Their magical variety diffuse : 
 And now they change ; a paler shadow strews 
 Its mantle o'er the mountains ; parting day 
 Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues 
 With a new color as it gasps away. 
 The last still loveliest, till— 'tis gone— and all is gray. 
 
 THE AVE MARIA. 
 
 (" Don Juan," Canto iii,, Stanzas 102-109.) 
 
 Ave Maria ! blessed be the hour ! 
 
 The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft 
 
POETRY OF BYEON. 
 
 23 
 
 Have felt that moment in its fullest power 
 Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft, 
 
 While swung the deep bell in the distant tower, 
 Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, 
 
 And not a breath crept through the rosy air, 
 
 And yet the forest leaves seem'd stirr'd with pray'r. 
 
 Ave Maria I 'tis the hour of prayer ! 
 
 Ave Maria ! 'tis the hour of love ! 
 Ave Maria ! may our spirits dare 
 
 Look up to thine and to thy Son's above I 
 Ave Maria ! oh, that face so fair ! 
 
 Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty dove — 
 What though 'tis but a pictured image ? — strike — 
 That painting is no idol— 'tis too like. 
 
 Sweet hour of twilight ! in the solitude 
 Of the pine forest, and the silent shore 
 
 Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood. 
 Rooted where once the Adrian wave flowed o'er. 
 
 To where the last Caesarean fortress stood, 
 Evergreen forest ! which Boccaccio's lore 
 
 And Drj'den's lay made haunted ground to me, 
 
 How have I loved the twilight hour and thee 1 
 
 The shrill cicalas, people of the pine, 
 
 Making their summer lives one ceaseless song. 
 
 Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine, 
 And vesper bell's that rose the boughs along ; 
 
 The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line. 
 
 His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair thiong 
 
 Which learn'd from this example not to fly 
 
 From a true lover — shadow'd my mind's eye. 
 
 Oh, Hesperus ! thou bringest all good things — 
 Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer. 
 
 To the young bird the parent's brooding wings. 
 The welcome stall to the o'erlabor'd steer ; 
 
 Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings, 
 Whate'er our household gods protect of dear, 
 
 Are gather'd round us by thy look of rest : 
 
 Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast. 
 
 Soft hour ! which wakes the wish and melts the heart 
 Of those who sail the seas, on the first day 
 
 When they from their sweet friends are torn apart ; 
 Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way, 
 
 As the far bell of vesper makes him start, 
 Seeming to weep the dying day's decay ; 
 
 Is this a fancy which our reason scorns ? 
 
 Ah! surely nothing dies but something mourns ! 
 
 When Nero perish 'd by the justest doom 
 Which ever the destroyer yet destroy'd. 
 
 Amidst the roar of liberated Borne, 
 
 Of nations freed, and the world overjoy'd, 
 
 Some hand unseen strew'd flowers upon his tomb: 
 Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void 
 
 Of feeling for some kindness done, when power 
 
 Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour. 
 
 ARQUA. 
 
 ("Childe Harold," Canto iv.. Stanzas 30-32.) 
 
 There is a tomb in Arqua — ^rear'd in air, 
 Pillar'd in their sarcophagus, repose 
 The bones of Laura's lover; here repair 
 Many familiar with his well-sung woes. 
 The pilgrims of his genius. He arose 
 To raise a language, and his land reclaim 
 From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes ; 
 Watering the tree which bears his lady's name 
 With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. 
 
 They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died ; 
 The mountain-village where his latter days 
 Went down the vale of years ; and 'tis their pride- 
 An honest pride — and let it be their praise. 
 To offer to the passing stranger's gaze 
 His mansion and his sepulchre ; both plain 
 And venerably simple, such as raise 
 A feeling more accordant with his strain 
 Than if a pyramid form'd his monumental fane. 
 
 And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt 
 Is one of that complexion which seems made 
 For those who their mortality have felt. 
 And sought a refuge from their hopes decay'd 
 3 
 
 In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade, 
 Which shows a distant prospect far away 
 Of busy cities, now in vain display'd, 
 For they can lure no further ; and the ray 
 Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday. 
 
 CLITUMNUS. 
 
 (" Childe Harold," Canto Iv., Stanzas 06, 6T.) 
 
 But thou, Clitumnus ! in thy sweetest wave 
 Of the most living crystal that was e'er 
 The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave 
 Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear 
 Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer 
 Grazes ; the purest god of gentle waters I 
 And most serene of aspect, and most clear ; 
 Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughters — 
 A mirror and a bath for Beauty's youngest daughters ! 
 
 And on thy happy shore a Temple still. 
 Of small and delicate proportion, keeps, 
 Upon a mild declivity of hill, 
 
 Its memory of thee ; beneath it sweeps • 
 
 Thy current's calmness ; oft from out it leaps 
 The finny darter with the glittering scales. 
 Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps ; 
 While, chance, some scatter'd water-lily sails 
 Down where the shallower wave still tells its bubbling tales. 
 
 TERNI. 
 
 ("Childe Harold," Canto iv.. Stanzas 69-T2.) 
 
 The roar of waters ! from the headlong height 
 Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice ; 
 The fall of waters ! rapid as the light 
 The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss ; 
 The hell of waters I where they howl and hiss, 
 And boil in endless torture ; whUe the sweat 
 Of their great agony, wrung out from this 
 Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet 
 That gu'd the gulf around, in pitiless horror set, 
 
 And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again 
 Returns in an unceasing shower, which round, 
 With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain, 
 Is an eternal April to the ground, 
 Making it all one emerald — how profound 
 The gulf ! and how the giant element 
 From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound, 
 Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent 
 With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent 
 
 To the broad column which rolls on, and shows 
 More like the fountain of an infant sea 
 Tom from the womb of mountains by the throes 
 Of a new world, than only thus to be 
 Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly, 
 With many windings, through the vale — ^Look back I 
 Lo ! where it comes like an eternity. 
 As if to sweep down all things in its track. 
 Charming the eye with dread, a matchless cataract. 
 
 Horribly beautiful ! but on the verge, 
 From side to side, beneath the glittering morn , 
 An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge. 
 Like Hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn 
 Its steady dj'es, while all around is torn 
 By the distracted waters, bears serene 
 Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn : 
 Resembling, 'mid the torture of the scene. 
 Love watching Madness with unalterable mien. 
 
 ROME. 
 
 ("Childe Harold," Canto iv.. Stanzas 78,79.) 
 
 Oh Some I my country ! city of the soul ! 
 The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, 
 Lone mother of dead empires ! and control 
 In their shut breasts their petty misery. 
 What are our woes and sufferance ? Come and i 
 The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way 
 O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, Te ! 
 Whose agonies are evils of a day — 
 A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. 
 
24 
 
 POETBY OF BYEON. 
 
 The Niobe of nations ! there she stands, 
 Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe ; 
 An empty urn within her wither'd hands, 
 Whose holy dust was scatter' d long ago ; 
 The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now ; 
 The very sepulchres lie tcnantless 
 Of their heroic dwellers : dost thou flow. 
 Old Tiber ! through a marble wilderness ? 
 Kise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress. 
 
 THE COLISEUM. 
 
 ("Childe Harold," Canto Iv., Stanzas 139-146.) 
 
 And here the buzz of eager nations ran, 
 In murmur'd pity, or loud-roar'd applause. 
 As man was slaughter'd by his fellow-man. 
 And wherefore slaughter'd ? wherefore, but because 
 Such were the bloody Circus' genial laws, 
 And the imperial pleasure. Wherefore not ? 
 What matters where we fall to fill the maws 
 Of worms — on battle-plains or listed spot ? 
 Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot. 
 
 I see before me the Gladiator lie : 
 He leans upon his hand — his manly brow 
 Consents to death, but conquers agony, 
 And his droop'd head sinks gradually low — 
 And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow 
 From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one. 
 Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and now 
 The arena swims around him — he is gone, 
 Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch who won. 
 
 He heard it, but he heeded not — his eyes 
 Were with his heart, and that was far away : 
 He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize, 
 But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, 
 There were his young barbarians all at play. 
 There was their Dacian mother — he, their sire, 
 Bntcher'd to make a Roman holiday — 
 All this rush'd with his blood. — Shall he expire, 
 And unavenged ? — Arise ! ye Goths, and glut your ire ! 
 
 But here, where Murder breathed her bloody steam ; 
 And here, where buzzing nations cholved the ways. 
 And roar'd or murmur'd like a mountain stream 
 Dashing or winding as its torrent strays ; 
 Here, where the Roman millions' blame or praise 
 Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd, 
 My voice sounds much — and fall the stars' faint rays 
 On the arena void — seats crush'd — walls bow'd — 
 And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely loud. 
 
 A ruin — yet what ruin ! from its mass 
 Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been rear'd ; 
 Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass, 
 And marvel where the spoil could have appear'd. 
 Hath it indeed been plunder'd, or but clear'd ? 
 Alas ! developed, opens tiie decay. 
 When the colossal fabric's form is near'd : 
 It will not bear the brightness of the day. 
 Which streams too much on all years, man, have reft away. 
 
 But when the rising moon begins to climb 
 Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there ; 
 When the stars twinkle through the loops of time. 
 And the low night-breeze waves along the air 
 The garland forest, which the gray walls wear. 
 Like laurels on the bald first Caesar's head ; 
 When the light shines serene but doth not glare. 
 Then in this magic circle raise the dead : 
 Heroes have trod this spot — 'tis on their dust ye tread. 
 
 "While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand; 
 When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall ; 
 And when Rome falls— the World." From our own land 
 Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty wall 
 In Saxon times, which we are wont to call 
 Ancient ; and these three mortal things are still 
 On their foundations, and unalter'd all ; 
 Rome and her Ruin past Redemption's skill, 
 The World, the same wide den— of thieyes, or what you will. 
 
 . TOMB OF CECILIA METELLA. 
 
 (" Childe Harold," Canto iv., Stanzas 99-103.) 
 
 Thbre is a stern round tower of other days, 
 Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone, 
 
 Such as an army's baffled strength delays, 
 Standing with half its battlements alone. 
 And with two thousand years of ivy grown. 
 The garland of eternity, where wave 
 The green leaves over all by time o'erthrown; 
 What was this tower of strength ? within its cave 
 What treasure lay so lock'd, so hid?— A woman's grave. 
 
 But who was sWe, the lady of the dead, 
 Tomb'd in a palace ? Was she chaste and fair ? 
 Worthy a king's — or more — a Roman's bed? 
 What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear ? 
 What daughter of her beauties was the heir? 
 How lived— how loved— how died she ? Was she not 
 So honor'd — and conspicuously there, 
 Where meaner relics must not dare to rot. 
 Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot? 
 
 Was she as those who love their lords, or they 
 Who love the lords of others ? such have been 
 Even in the olden time, Rome's annals say. 
 Was she a matron of Cornelia's mien. 
 Or the light air of Egypt's graceful queen. 
 Profuse of joy — or 'gainst it did she war. 
 Inveterate in virtue ? Did she lean 
 To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar 
 Love from amongst her griefs ? — for such the affections are. 
 
 Perchance she died in youth : it may be, bow'd 
 With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb 
 That weigh'd upon her gentle dust, a cloud 
 Might gather o'er her beautj', and a gloom 
 In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom 
 Heaven gives its favorites — early death ; yet shed 
 A sunset charm around her, and illume 
 With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead, 
 Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-like red. 
 
 Perchance she died in age — surviving all. 
 Charms, kindred, children — with the silver gray 
 On her long tresses, which might yet recall, 
 It may be, still a something of the day 
 When they were braided, and her proud array 
 And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed 
 By Rome — but whither would Conjecture stray ? 
 Thus much alone we know — ^Metella died. 
 The wealthiest Roman's wife : Behold his love or pride ! 
 
 GROTTO OF EGERIA. 
 
 (" Childe Harold," Canto iv., Stanzas 115-124.) 
 
 Egeria ! sweet creation of some heart 
 Which found no mortal resting-place so fair 
 As thine ideal breast ; whate'er thou art 
 Or wert — a young Aurora of the air, 
 The nympholepsy of some fond despair ; 
 Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth. 
 Who found a more than common votary there 
 Too much adoring ; whatsoe'er thy birth, 
 Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softl}' bodied forth. 
 
 The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled 
 With thine Elysian water-drops ; the face 
 Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years unwrinkled. 
 Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place, 
 Whose green, wild margin now no more erase 
 Art's works, nor must the delicate waters sleep, 
 Prison'd in marble ; bubbling from the base 
 Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap 
 The rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, and ivy, creep 
 
 Fantastically tangled ; the green hills 
 Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass 
 The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills 
 Of summer-birds sing welcome as ye pass ; 
 Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class. 
 Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes 
 Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass ; 
 The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes, 
 Kiss'd by the breath of heaven, seems color'd by its skies. 
 
 Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, 
 Egeria ! thy all-beavenly bosom beating 
 For the fiir footsteps of thy mortal lover ; 
 The purple Midnight veiled that mystic meeting 
 With her most starry canopy, and seating 
 Thyself by thine adorer, what befell ? 
 This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting 
 Of an enamor'd Goddess, and the cell 
 Haunted by holy Love — the earliest oracle ! 
 
POETBY OF BYEON. 
 
 26 
 
 And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying, 
 Blend a celestial with a hunian heart ; 
 And Love, which dies as it was born, in sighing,' 
 Share with immortal transports ? could thine art 
 Make them indeed immortal, and impart 
 The purity of heaven to earthly joys, 
 Expel the venom and not blunt the dart — 
 The dull satiety which all destroys— 
 And root from out the soul the deadly weed which cloys ? 
 
 Alas I our young affections run to waste, 
 Or water but the desert ; whence arise 
 But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste, 
 Bank at the core, though tempting to the eyes, 
 Flowers whose wild odors breathe but agonies, 
 And trees whose gums are poison ; such the plants 
 Which spring beneath her steps as Passion flies 
 O'er the world's wilderness, and vainly pants 
 For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants. 
 
 Oh Love ! no habitant of earth thou art — 
 An unseen seraph, we believe in thee, 
 A faith whose maityrs are the broken heart. 
 But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see 
 The naked eye, thy form, as it should be ; 
 The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven. 
 Even with its own desiring phantasy. 
 And to a thought such shape and image given. 
 As haunts the unquench'd soul — parch'd — wearied — wrung — and riven. 
 
 Of its own beauty is the mind diseased. 
 And fevers into false creation ; — where. 
 Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized ? 
 In him alone. Can Nature show so fair? 
 Where are the charms and virtues which we dare 
 Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men, 
 The unreach'd Paradise of our despair. 
 Which o'er-informs the pencil and the pen. 
 And overpowers tlie page where it would bloom again ? 
 
 Who loves, raves — 'tis youth's frenzy — but the cure 
 Is bitterer still : as charm by charm unwinds 
 Which robed our idols, and we see too suse 
 Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind's 
 Ideal shape of such ; yet still it binds 
 The fatal spell, and still it draws us on, 
 Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sown winds ; 
 The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun. 
 Seems ever near the prize — wealthiest when most undone. 
 
 We wither from our j'outh, we gasp away — 
 Sick — sick ; unfound the boon — unslaked the thirst. 
 Though to the last, in verge of our decay. 
 Some piiantom lures, such as we sought at first — 
 But all too late — so are we doubly curst. I 
 
 Love, fame, ambition, avarice — 'tis the same, 
 Each idle — and all ill — and none the worst — 
 For all are meteors with a different name, 
 And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame. 
 
 SONNET ON CHILLON. 
 
 Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind ! 
 
 Brightest in dungeons. Liberty ! thou art, 
 
 For there thy habitation is the heart — 
 The heart which love of thee alone can bind ; 
 And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd — 
 
 To fetters, and the damp vault's da3'less gloom, 
 
 Their country conquers with their martyrdom, 
 And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 
 Chillon ! thy piison is a holy place. 
 
 And thy sad floor an altar — for 'twas trod. 
 Until his very steps have left a trace 
 
 Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod. 
 By Bonnivard ! — May none those marks efface ! 
 
 For they appeal from tyranny to God. 
 
 BONNIVAED AND HIS BROTHERS. 
 
 ("Prisoner of Chillon," Stanzas 6-S.) 
 
 Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls : 
 A thousand feet in depth below 
 Its massy waters meet and flow : 
 Thus much the fathom-line was sent 
 From Chillon's snow-white battlement. 
 
 Which round about the wave inthralls : 
 
 A double dungeon wall and wave 
 
 Have made— and like a living grave. 
 
 Below the surface of the lake 
 
 The dark vault lies wherein we lay, 
 
 We heard it ripple night and day ; 
 Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd; 
 
 And I have felt the winter's spray 
 
 Wash through the bars when winds were high 
 
 And wanton in the happy sky ; 
 
 And then the very rock batli rock'd, 
 And I have felt it shake, unshock'd, 
 
 Because I could have smiled to see 
 
 The death that would have set me free. 
 
 I said my nearer brother pined, 
 I said bis mighty heart declined, 
 He loathed and put away his food ; 
 It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, 
 For we were used to hunter's fare, 
 And for the like had little care : 
 The milk drawn from the mountain goat 
 Was changed for water from the moat, 
 Our bread was such as captive's tears 
 Have moisten'd many a thousand years. 
 Since man first pent his fellow-men 
 Like brutes within an iron den ; 
 But what were these to us or him ? 
 These wasted not his heart or limb ; 
 My brother's soul was of that mould 
 Which in a palace had grown cold. 
 Had his free breathing been denied 
 The range of the steep mountain's side ; 
 But why delay the truth ? — he died. 
 I saw, and could not hold his head. 
 Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead — 
 Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, 
 To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
 He died — and they unlock'd his chain. 
 And scoop'd for him a shallow grave 
 Even from the cold earth of our cave. 
 I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay 
 His corse in dust whereon the daj' 
 Might shine — it was a foolish thought, 
 But then within my brain it wrought. 
 That even in death his free-born breast 
 In such a dungeon could not rest, 
 I might have spared my idle prayer — 
 They coldlj' laugh'd — and laid him there : 
 The flat and turfless earth above 
 The being we so much did love ; 
 His empty chain above it leant. 
 Such murder's fitting monument ! 
 
 But he, the favorite and the flower, 
 
 Most cherish'd since his natal hour, 
 
 His mother's image in fair face. 
 
 The infant love of all his race. 
 
 His martyr'd father's dearest thought, 
 
 My latest care, for whom I sought 
 
 To hoard my life, that his might be 
 
 Less wretched now, and one day free ; 
 
 He, too, who yet had held untired 
 
 A spirit natural or inspired — 
 
 He, too, was struck, and day by day 
 
 Was wither'd on the stalk away. 
 
 Oh, God ! it is a fearful thing 
 
 To see the human soul take wing 
 
 In any shape, in any mood : 
 
 I've seen it rushing forth in blood, 
 
 I've seen it on the breaking ocean 
 
 Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, 
 
 I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 
 
 Of Sin delirious with its dread ; 
 
 But these wer? horrors — this was woe 
 
 Unmix'd with such — but sure and slow : 
 
 He faded, and so calm and meek. 
 
 So softly worn, so sweetly weak, 
 
 So tearless, yet so tender — kind. 
 
 And grieved for those he left behind ! 
 
 With all the while a cheek whose bloom 
 
 Was as a mockery of the tomb. 
 
 Whose tints as gently sunk away 
 
 As a departing rainbow's ray — 
 
 An eye of most transparent light. 
 
 That almost made the dungeon bright, 
 
 And not a word of murmur — not 
 
 A groan o'er his untimely lot — 
 
 A little talk of better days, 
 
 A little hope my own to raise. 
 
 For I was sunk in silence — lost 
 
 In this last loss, of all the most ; 
 
26 
 
 POETRY OF BYEON. 
 
 And then the sighs he would suppress 
 
 Of fainting nature's feebleness, 
 
 More slowly drawn, grew less and less : 
 
 I listen'd, but I could not hear — 
 
 I call'd, for I was wild with fear; 
 
 I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread 
 
 Would not be thus admonished ; 
 
 I call'd, and thought I heard a sound — 
 
 I burst my chain with one strong bound, 
 
 And rush'd to him : I found him not, 
 
 / only stirr'd in this black spot, 
 
 / only lived — / only drew 
 
 The accursed breath of dungeon-dew ; 
 
 The last — the sole— the dearest link 
 
 Between me and the eternal brink. 
 
 Which bound me to my failing race, 
 
 Was broken in this fatal place. 
 
 BONNIVARD ALONE. 
 
 (" Prisoner of Chillon," Stanzas 9-14.) 
 
 What next befell me theh and there 
 I know not well — I never Imew — 
 
 First came the loss of light, and air, 
 And then of darkness too : 
 
 I had no thought, no feeling — none — 
 
 Among the stones I stood a stone. 
 
 And was, scarce conscious what 1 wist, 
 
 As shrubless crags within the mist ; 
 
 For all was blank, and bleak, and gray, 
 
 It was not night — it was not daj'. 
 
 It was not even the dungeon-light, 
 
 So hateful to my heavy sight, 
 
 Sut vacancy absorbing space, 
 
 And fixedness — without a place ; 
 
 There were no stars — no earth — no time — ■ 
 
 No check — no change — no good — ^no crime — 
 
 But silence, and a stirless breath 
 
 Which neither was of life nor death ; 
 
 A sea of stagnant idleness, 
 
 Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless 1 
 
 A light broke in upon my brain — 
 
 It was the carol of a bird ; 
 It ceased, and then it came again. 
 
 The sweetest song ear ever heard. 
 And mine was thankfal till my eyes 
 Ean over with the glad surprise. 
 And they that moment could not see 
 I was the mate of misery ; 
 Bat then by dull degrees came back 
 Mj- senses to their wonted track ; 
 I saw the dungeon walls and floor 
 Close slowly round me as before, 
 I saw the glimmer of the sun 
 Creeping as it before had done, 
 But through the crevice where it came 
 That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame, 
 
 And tamer than upon the tree ; , 
 
 A lovely bird, with azure wings, 
 And song that said a thousand things, 
 
 And seem'd to say them all for me ! 
 I never saw its like before, 
 I ne'er shall see its likeness more : 
 
 It seem'd like rac to want a mate, 
 But was not half so desolate, 
 And it was come to love me when 
 None lived to love me so again. 
 And cheering from my dungeon's brink, 
 Had brought me back to feel and think. 
 I know not if it late were free. 
 
 Or liroke its cage to perch on mine, 
 But knowing well captivity. 
 
 Sweet bird ! I could not wish for thine ! 
 Or if it were, in wing&d guise, 
 A visitant from Paradise ; 
 For — Heaven forgive that thought ! the while 
 Which made me both to weep and smile — 
 I sometimes deem'd that it might be 
 My brother's soul come down to me ; 
 But then at last away it flew, 
 And then 'twas mortal — well I knew ; 
 For he would never thus have flown, 
 And left me twice so doubly lone — 
 Lone — as the corse within its shroud. 
 Lone — as a solitary cloud, 
 
 A single cloud on a sunny day, 
 While all the rest of heaven is clear. 
 
 A frown upon the atmosphere. 
 That hath no business to appear 
 
 WhAi skies are blue, and earth is gay. 
 
 A kind of change came in my fate. 
 My keepers grew compassionate ; 
 I know not what had made them so, 
 They were inured to sights of woe, 
 But so it was ; my broken chain 
 With links unfasten'd did remain. 
 And it was liberty to stride 
 Along my cell from side to side, 
 And up and down, and then athwart, 
 And tread it over every part ; 
 And round the pillars one by one. 
 Returning where my walk begun, 
 Avoiding only, as I trod. 
 My brothers' graves without a sod ; 
 For if I thought with heedless tread 
 My step profaned their lowly bed. 
 My breath came gaspingly and thick, 
 And my crush'd heart fell blind and sick. 
 
 I made a footing in the wall. 
 
 It was not therefrom to escape. 
 For I had buried one and all 
 
 Who loved me in a human shape ; 
 And the whole earth would henceforth be 
 A wider prison unto me : 
 No child — no sire — no kin had I, 
 No partner in my misery ; 
 I thought of this, and I was glad, 
 For thought of them had made me mad ; 
 But I was curious to ascend 
 To my barr'd windows, and to bend 
 Once more, upon the mountains high. 
 The quiet of a loving eye. 
 
 I saw them — and they were the same. 
 They were not changed like me in frame ; 
 I saw their thousand years of snow 
 On high — their wide long lake below. 
 And the blue Rhone in fullest flow ; 
 I heard the torrents leap and gush 
 O'er channell'd rock and broken bush ; 
 I saw the white-wall'd distant town. 
 And whiter sails go skimming down ; 
 And then there was a little isle. 
 Which in my very face did smile. 
 
 The only one in view ; 
 A small green isle, it seem'd no more, 
 Scarce broader than my dungeon floor. 
 But in it there were three tall trees. 
 And o'er it blew the mountain breeze. 
 And by it there were waters flowing. 
 And on it there were young flowers growing. 
 
 Of gentle breath and hue. 
 The fish swam by the castle wall. 
 And they seem'd joyous each and all ; 
 The eagle rode the rising blast, 
 Methought he never flew so fast 
 As then to me he seem'd to fly, 
 And then new tears came in my eye. 
 And I felt troubled — and would fain 
 I had not left my recent chain ; 
 And when I did descend again. 
 The darkness of my dim abode 
 Fell on me as a heavy load ; 
 It was as is a new-dug grave. 
 Closing o'er one we sought to save — 
 And yet my glance, too much oppress'd. 
 Had almost need of such a rest. 
 
 It might be months, or years, or days, 
 
 I kept no count, I took no note, 
 I had no hope my eyes to raise. 
 
 And clear them of their dreary mote ; . 
 At last men came to set me free, 
 
 I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where. 
 It was at length the same to me 
 Fetter'd or fetterless to be, 
 
 I learn'd to love despair. 
 And thus when they appear'd at last, 
 And all my bonds aside were cast. 
 These heavy walls to me had grown 
 A hermitage — and all my own 1 
 And half I felt as they were come 
 To tear me from a second home : 
 With spiders I had friendship made. 
 And watch'd them in their sullen trade. 
 Had seen the mice by moonlight play. 
 And ^hy should I fe'el less than they ? 
 
POETRY OF BYKON. 
 
 27 
 
 We were all Inmates of one place, 
 And I, the monarch of each race, 
 Had power to kill — yet, strange to toll ! 
 In quiet we had learn'd to dwell. 
 My very chains and I grew friends. 
 So much a long communion tends 
 To make us what we are — even I 
 E«^alu'd my freedom with a sigh. 
 
 THE EAST. 
 
 ("Bride of Abydos," Canto i,, Stanza 1.) 
 
 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 Giil in her bloom ; 
 
 Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, 
 
 And the voice of the nightingale never is mute ; 
 
 Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, 
 
 In color though yaried, 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 — 
 
 Can he smile on such deeds as liis children have done ? 
 
 Oh ! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell 
 
 Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell. 
 
 JOURNEY AND DEATH OF HASSAN. 
 
 (From "The Giaour.") 
 
 Stekn Hassan hath a journey ta'en, 
 With twenty vassals in his train. 
 Each arm'd, as best becomes a man. 
 With arquebuss and ataghan j 
 The chief before, as declt'd for war, 
 Bears in his belt the scimitar 
 Stain'd with the best of Arnaut blood. 
 When in the pass the rebels stood, 
 And few retum'd to tell the tale 
 Of what befell in Fame's vale. 
 The pistols which his girdle bore 
 Were those that once a pasha wore, 
 Which still, though gemmed and boss'd with gold, 
 Even robbers tremble to behold. 
 'Tis said he goes to woo a bride 
 More true than her who left his side ; 
 The faithless slave that broke her bower, 
 And, worse than faithless, for a Giaour ! 
 
 The sun's last rays are on the hill, 
 And sparkle in the fountain rill, 
 Whose welcome waters, cool and clear, 
 Draw blessings from the mountaineer : 
 Here may the loitering merchant Greek 
 Find that repose 'twere vain to seek 
 In cities lodged too near his lord, 
 And trembling for his secret hoard- 
 Here may he rest where none can see. 
 In crowds a slave, in deserts free ; 
 And with forbidden wine may stain 
 The bowl a Moslem must not drain. 
 
 The foremost Tartar's in the gap. 
 Conspicuous by his yellow cap ; 
 The rest in lengthening line the wliile 
 Wind slowly through the long defile : 
 Above, the mountain rears a peak, 
 Where vultures whet the thirsty beak. 
 And theirs may be a feast to-night, 
 Shall tempt them down ere morrow's light; 
 Beneath, a river's wintry stream 
 Has shrunk before the summer beam, 
 And left a channel bleak and bare. 
 Save shrubs that spring to perish there : 
 Each side the midway path there lay 
 Small broken crags of grainite graj', 
 By time, or mountain lightning, riven 
 From summits clad in mists of heaven ; 
 For where is he that hath beheld 
 The peak of Liakura unveil'd .' 
 
 They reach the grove of pine at last ; 
 " BismlUah ! now the peril's past ; 
 For yonder view the opening plain, 
 And there we'll prick our steeds amain :" 
 The Cbiaus spake, and as he said, 
 A bullet whistled o'er his head ; 
 The foremost Tartar bites the ground ! 
 
 Scarce had they time to check the rein^ 
 Swift from their steeds the riders bound ; 
 
 But three shall never mount again : 
 Unseen the foes that gave the wound. 
 
 The dying ask revenge in vain. 
 With steel unsheath'd, and carbine bent, 
 Some o'er their courser's harness leant, 
 
 Half shelter' d by the steed ; 
 Some fly behind the nearest rock, 
 And there await the coming shock, 
 
 Nor tamely stand to bleed 
 Beneath the shaft of foes unseen. 
 Who dare not quit their craggy screen. 
 Stern Hassan only from his horse 
 Disdains to light, and keeps his course, 
 Till fiery flashes in the van 
 Proclaim too sure the robber-clan , 
 Have well secured the only way 
 Could now avail the promised prey ; 
 Then curl'd his very beard with ire. 
 And glared his eye with fiercer jire : 
 " Though far and near the bullets hiss, 
 I've 'scaped a bloodier hour than. this." 
 And now the foe their covert quit, 
 And call his vassals to submit ; 
 But Hassan's frown and furious word 
 Are dreaded more than hostile sword, 
 Nor of his little band a man 
 Eesign'd carbine or ataghan. 
 Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun I^ 
 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 brandy 
 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 jef>black barb : 
 Though now array'd in Arnaut garb, 
 Apostate from his own vile faith. 
 It shall not save him from the death : 
 'Tis he ! well met in any hour. 
 Lost Leila's love, accursed Giaour!" 
 
 With sabre shiver'd to the hilt. 
 
 Yet dripping with the blood he spilt ; 
 
 Yet strain'd within the sever'd hand 
 
 Which quivers round that faithless brand ; 
 
 His turban far behind him roU'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 nnnumber'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 bis quenchless hate ; 
 
 And o'er him bends that foe with brow 
 
 As dark as his that bled below. 
 
 HASSAN'S MOTHER, 
 
 (From "The Giaour.") 
 
 -«f HE browsing camels' bells are tinkling : 
 His Mother look'd from her lattice high. 
 
 She saw the dews of eve besprinlding 
 The pasture green beneath her eye, 
 
 She saw the planets faintly twinkling : 
 'Tis twilight— sure his train is nigh." 
 
 > Quarter, pardon, 
 
 ' The flowered shawl generally worn by persons of rank. 
 
28 
 
 POETRY OF BYRON. 
 
 She could not rest in the garden-bower, 
 
 Bat gazed through the grate of his steepest tower : 
 
 "Why conies he not? his steeds are fleet, 
 
 Nor shrink they from the summer heat ; 
 
 Why sends not the Bridegroom his promised gift : 
 
 Is his heart more cold, or his barb less swift? 
 
 Oh, false reproach ! yon Tartar now 
 
 Has gain'd our nearest mountain's brow. 
 
 And warily the steep descends, 
 
 And now within the valley bends ; 
 
 And he bears the gift at his saddle bow — 
 
 How could I deem his courser slow ? 
 
 Bight well my largess shall repay 
 
 His welcome speed, and weary way," 
 
 The Tartar lighted at the gate. 
 But scarce upheld bis 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 hisi vest — 
 Angel of Death ! 'tis Hassan's cloven crest ! 
 His calpac' rent — his caftan red — 
 "Lady, a fearful bride thy Son hath wed : 
 Me, not from mercy, did they spare, 
 But this empurpled pledge to bear. 
 Peace to the brave I whose blood is spilt ; 
 Woe to the Giaour! for his the guilt." 
 
 THE GIAOUR'S LOVE. 
 
 (From "The Giaonr:") 
 
 The cold in clime are cold in blood. 
 
 Their love can scarce deserve the name ; 
 But mine was like the lava flood 
 
 That boils in iStna's breast of flame. 
 I cannot prate in puling strain 
 Of ladye-love, and beauty's chain : 
 If changing cheek, and scorching vein. 
 Lips taught to writhe, but not complain. 
 If bursting heart, and madd'ning brain, 
 And daring deed, and vengeful steel. 
 And all that I have felt, and feel. 
 Betoken love — ^that love was mine, 
 And shown by many a bitter sign. 
 'Tis true, I could not whine nor sigh, 
 I knew but to obtain or die. 
 I die — but first I have possess'd. 
 And come what may, I have been blest. 
 Shall I the doom I sought upbraid ? 
 No — reft of all, yet undismay'd 
 But for the thought of Leila slain, 
 Give me the pleasure with the pain. 
 So T.'ould I live and love again. 
 I grieve, but not, my holy guide ! 
 For him who dies, but her who died ; 
 She sleeps beneath the wandering wave — 
 Ah ! had she but an earthly grave. 
 This breaking heart and throbbing head 
 Should seek and share her narrow bed. 
 She was a form of life and light, 
 Tliat, seen, became a part of sight ; 
 And rose, where'er I turn'd mine eye, 
 The Morning-star of Memory ! 
 
 DEATH OF SELIM. 
 
 ("Bride of Abydos," Canto ii., Stanzas 22-26.) 
 
 ZuLEiKA, mute and motionless. 
 
 Stood like that statue of distress, 
 
 When, her last hope forever 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!" 
 
 Far, wide, through every thicket spread, 
 
 The fearful lights are gleaming red ; 
 
 ^>.; 
 
 > The solid cap or centre of the bead-dress ; the shawl Is wouud round it and 
 forms the turban. 
 
 Nor these alone — for each right hand 
 Is ready with a sheathless brand. 
 They part, pursue, return, and wheel 
 With searchingiflambeau, shining steel ; 
 And last of all, his sabre waving. 
 Stem Giaffir in his fury raving : 
 And now almost they touch the cave — 
 Oh ! must that grot be Selim's grave ? 
 
 Dauntless he stood — "'Tis come — soon past — 
 One kiss, Zuleika — 'tis my last: 
 
 But yet my band not far from shore 
 May hear this signal, see the flash ; 
 Yet now too few — the attempt were rash : 
 
 No matter — ^yet one effort more." 
 Forth to the cavern mouth he stept; 
 
 His pistol's echo rang on high, 
 Zuleika started not, nor wept. 
 
 Despair benumb'd her breast and eye I 
 " They hear me not, or if they ply 
 Their oars, 'tis but to see me die ; 
 That sound hath drawn my foes more nigh. 
 Then forth my father's scimitar. 
 Thou ne'er hast seen less equal war I 
 Farewell, Zuleika! — Sweet! retire: 
 
 Yet stay within — here linger safe. 
 
 At thee his rage will only chafe. 
 Stir not — lest even to thee perchance 
 Some erring blade or ball should glance. 
 Fear'st thou for him ? may I expire 
 If in this strife 1 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!" 
 
 One bound he made, and gain'd the sand: 
 
 Already at his feet hath sunk 
 The foremost of the prying band, 
 
 A gasping head, a quivering trunk ; 
 Another falls — but round him close 
 A swarming circle of his foes ; 
 From right to left his path he cleft. 
 
 And almost met the meeting wave : 
 
 His boat appears — not five oars' length — 
 His comrades strain with desperate strength — 
 
 Oh ! are they yet in time to save ? 
 
 His feet the foremost breakers lave ; 
 His band are plunging in the bay. 
 Their sabres glitter through the spray ; 
 Wet — wild — unwearied to the strand 
 They struggle— now they touch the land! 
 They come — 'tis but to add to slaughter — 
 His heart's best blood is on the water. 
 
 Escaped from shot, unharm'd by steel, 
 Or scarcely grazed its force to feel. 
 Had Selim won, betray'd, beset, 
 To where the strand and billows met ; 
 There as his last step left the land. 
 And the last death-blow dealt bis hand — 
 Ah ! wherefore did he turn to look 
 
 For her his eye but sought in vain ? 
 That pause, that fatal gaze he took, 
 
 Hath doom'd his death, or fix'd his chain. 
 Sad proof, in peril and in pain, 
 How late 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 baU— 
 " 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 ! 
 
 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 
 
POETBY or BYEON. 
 
 2£. 
 
 May there be mark'd ; nor far remote 
 
 A broken torch, an earless boat ; 
 And, tangled on the weeds that heap 
 The beach where shelving to the deep, 
 
 There lies a white capote I 
 '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 burden round Sigffium'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 ; 
 That hand, wliose motion is not life. 
 Yet feebly seems to menace strife, 
 Flung by the tossing tide on high, 
 
 Then levell'd with the wave — 
 What recks it, though that corse 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. 
 Had seen those scatter'd limbs composed. 
 
 And mourn'd above his turban-stone. 
 That heart hath burst— that eye was closed — 
 
 Yea — closed before his own ! 
 
 CORSAIR LIFE. 
 
 (" CorBair," Canto i., Stanza 1.) 
 
 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 flaj 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 ; 
 Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease ! 
 Whom slumber soothes not— pleasure cannot pie 
 Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried. 
 And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide. 
 The exulting sense — the pulse's maddening play. 
 That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way ? 
 That for itself can woo the approaching fight. 
 And turn what some deem danger to delight ; 
 That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal. 
 And where the feebler faint — can only feel — 
 Feel — to the rising bosom's inmost core. 
 Its hope awaken and its spirit soar ? 
 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 ? 
 Let him who crawls enamor'd of deca)' 
 Cling to his couch, and sicken years away ; 
 Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head ; 
 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 : 
 Oars are the tears, though few, sincerely shed, 
 When Ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead. 
 For us, even banquets fond regret supply 
 In the red cup that crowns our memory ; 
 And the brief epitaph in danger's day. 
 When those who win at length divide the prey. 
 And cry, remembrance saddening o'er each brow. 
 How had the brave who fell exulted now! 
 
 PARTING OF CONRAD AND MEDORA. 
 
 ("Corsair," Canto i.. Stanzas U, 16.) 
 
 She rose — she sprung — she clung to his embrace. 
 Till his heart heaved beneath her hidden face. 
 He dared not raise to his that deep-blue eye. 
 Which downcast droop'd in tearless agony. 
 Her long fair hair lay floating o'er his arms, 
 In all the wildness of dishevell'd charms : 
 
 Scarce beat that bosom where bis image dwelt 
 So fViW— that feeling seem'd almost unfeltl 
 Hark — peals the thunder of the sitjnal-gun ! 
 It told 'twas sunset — and he cursed that sun. 
 Again — again — that form he madly press'd, 
 Which mutely clasp'd, imploringly caress'dl 
 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 ? 
 
 "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 I" 
 
 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 frenzied seem'd to swim 
 
 Through those long, dark, and glistening lashes dew'd 
 
 With drops of sadness oft to be renew'd. 
 
 " He's gone !" — against her heart that hand is driven. 
 
 Convulsed and quick — then gently raised to heaven; 
 
 She look'd and saw the heaving of the main ; 
 
 The white sail set — she dared not look again ; 
 
 But turn'd with sickening soul within the gate — 
 
 " It is no dream — and I am desolate I" 
 
 CONRAD'S RETURN. 
 
 (" Corsair," Canto iii.. Stanzas 19-21.) 
 
 Thk 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 for the shore, 
 
 And looks impatient on the lingering oar. 
 
 Oh ! for a wing beyond the falcon's flight. 
 
 To bear him like an arrow to that height! 
 
 With the first pause the resting rowers gave, 
 
 He waits not — looks not — leaps into the wave. 
 
 Strives through the surge, bestrides the beach, and high. 
 
 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 — hut-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'cTthe lamp — its light will answer all — 
 It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall. 
 He would not wait for that reviving ray — 
 As soon could he have linger'd there for day ; 
 But, glimmering through the dusky corridor, 
 Another checkers o'er the shadow'd floor ; 
 His steps the chamber gain — his eyes behold 
 All that his heart believed not — yet foretold ! 
 
 He turn'd not — spoke not — sunk not— fix'd his look^ 
 
 And set the anxious frame that lately shook : 
 
 He gazed — how long we gaze despite of pain. 
 
 And know, but dare not own, we gaze in vain ! 
 
 In life itself she was so still and fair. 
 
 That death with gentler aspect wither'd there ; 
 
 And the cold flowers her colder hand contain'd, 
 
 In that last grasp as tenderly were strain'd 
 
 As if she scarcely felt, but feign'd a sleep. 
 
 And made it almost mockery yet to weep : 
 
 The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow. 
 
 And veil'd — thought shrinks from all that lurk'd below— 
 
 Oil ! 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 — 
 
30 
 
 POETRY OF BYKON. 
 
 Yet, yet they seem as they forbore to smile, 
 And wish'd repose — but only for a while ; 
 But the white shroud, and each extended tress, 
 Long — fair — but spread in utter lifelessness, 
 Which, late the sport of every summer wind. 
 Escaped the bafSed wreath that strove to bind ; 
 These — and the pale pure cheek, became the bier- 
 But she is nothing — wherefore is he here ? 
 
 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 reok'd it how ? 
 
 ALP AND FRANCESCA. 
 
 (" Siege of Corinth," Stanzas 16-21.) 
 
 Still, by the shore Alp mutely mused, 
 
 And woo'd the freshness Night diffused. 
 
 There shrinks no ebb in that tideless sea. 
 
 Which changeless rolls eternally ; 
 
 So that wildest of waves, in their angriest mood. 
 
 Scarce break on the bounds of the land for a rood ; 
 
 And the powerless moon beholds them flow, 
 
 Heedless if she come or go : 
 
 Calm or high, in main or bay. 
 
 On their course she hath no sway. 
 
 The rock unworn its base doth bare. 
 
 And looks o'er the surf, but it comes not there ; 
 
 And the fringe of the foam may be seen below, 
 
 On the line that it left long ages ago : 
 
 A smooth short space of yellow sand 
 
 Between it and the greener land. 
 
 He wander'd on, along the beach, 
 
 Till within the range of a carbine's reach 
 
 Of the leaguer'd wall ; but they saw him not, 
 
 Or how could he 'scape from the hostile shot ? 
 
 Sid traitors lurk in the Christians' hold ? 
 
 Were their hands grown stiff, or their hearts wax'd cold ? 
 
 I know not, in sooth ; but from yonder wall 
 
 There flash'd no fire, and there hiss'd no ball, , 
 
 Though he stood beneath the bastion's frown, 
 
 That flank'd the seaward gate of the town ; 
 
 Though he heard the sound, and could almost tell 
 
 The sullen words of the sentinel. 
 
 As his measured step on the stone below 
 
 Clank'd as he paced it to and fro ; 
 
 And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall 
 
 Hold o'er the dead their carnival. 
 
 Gorging and growling o'er carcass and limb ; 
 
 They were too busy to bark at him ! 
 
 Prom a Tartar's skull they had stripp'd the flesh. 
 
 As ye peal the fig when its fruit is fresh ; 
 
 And their white tusks crunch'd o'er the whiter skull. 
 
 As it slipp'd through their jaws, when their edge grew dull, 
 
 As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead, 
 
 When they scarce could rise from the spot where they fed ; 
 
 So well had they broken a lingering fast 
 
 With those who had fallen for that night's repast. 
 
 And Alp knew, by the turbans that roU'd on the sand. 
 
 The foremost of these were the best of his band : 
 
 Crimson and green were the shawls of their wear. 
 
 And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair. 
 
 All the rest were shaven and bare. 
 
 The scalps were in the wild dog's maw, • 
 
 The hair was tangled round his jaw. 
 
 Bat close by the shore, on the edge of the gulf. 
 
 There sat a vulture flapping a wolf, 
 
 Who had stolen from the hills, but kept away, 
 
 Scared by the dogs, from the human prey ; 
 
 But he seized on his share of a steed that lay, 
 
 Pick'd by the birds, on the sands of the bay. 
 
 Alp turn'd him from the sickening sight. 
 
 Never had shaken his nerves in fight ; 
 
 But he better could brook to behold the dying, 
 
 Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying, 
 
 Scorch'd with the death-thirst, and writhing in vain. 
 
 Than the perishing dead who are past all pain. ( 
 
 There is something of pride in the perilous hour, 
 
 Whate'er be the shape in which death may lower ; 
 
 For Fame is there to say who bleeds, 
 
 And Honor's eye on daring deeds ! 
 
 But when all is past, it is humbling to tread 
 
 O'er the weltering field of the tombless dead, 
 
 And see worms of the earth, and fowls of the air, 
 
 Beasts of the forest, all gathering there ; 
 
 All regarding inan as their prey, 
 
 All rejoicing in his decay. 
 
 There is a temple in ruin stands, 
 
 Fashion'd by long forgotten hands ; 
 
 Two or three columns, and many a stone. 
 
 Marble and granite, with grass o'ergrown! 
 
 Out upon Time ! it will leave no more 
 
 Of the things to come than the things before ! 
 
 Out upon Time ! who forever will leave 
 
 But enough of the past for the future to grieve 
 
 O'er that which hath been, and o'er that which must be: 
 
 What we have seen, our sons shall see ; 
 
 Remnants of things that have pass'd away, 
 
 Fragments of stone, rear'd by creatures of clay ! 
 
 He sat him down at a pillar's base. 
 
 And pass'd his hand athwart his face ; 
 
 Like one in dreary musing mood, 
 
 Declining was bis attitude ; 
 
 His head was drooping on his breast, 
 
 Fever'd, throbbing, and oppressed ; 
 
 And o'er his brow, so downward bent, 
 
 Oft his beating fingers went. 
 
 Hurriedly, as you may see 
 
 Your own run over the ivory key, 
 
 Ere the measured tone is taken 
 
 By the chords you would awaken. 
 
 There he sat all heavily. 
 
 As he heard the night-wind sigh. 
 
 Was it the wind, through some hollow stone. 
 
 Sent that soft and tender moan ? 
 
 He lifted his head, and he look'd on the sea, 
 
 But it was unrippled as glass may be ; 
 
 He look'd on the long grass — it waved not a blade ; 
 
 How was that gentle sound convey'd ? 
 
 He look'd to the banners — each flag lay still. 
 
 So did the leaves on Cithseron's hill, 
 
 And he felt not a breath come over his cheek ; 
 
 What did that sudden sound bespeak ? 
 
 He turn'd to the left — is he sure of sight? 
 
 There sat a lady, youthful and bright ! 
 
 He started up with more of fear 
 
 Than if an arm&d foe were near. 
 
 " God of my fathers ! what is here ? 
 
 Who art thou, and wherefore sent 
 
 So near a hostile armament ?" 
 
 His trembling hands refused to sign 
 
 The cross he deem'd no more divine : 
 
 He had resumed it in that hour, 
 
 But conscience wrung away the power. 
 
 He gazed, he saw : he knew the face 
 
 Of beauty, and the form of grace ; 
 
 It was Francesca by his side. 
 
 The maid who might have been his bride ! 
 
 The rose was yet upon her cheek. 
 
 But mellow'd with a tenderer streak : 
 
 Where was the play of her soft lips fled ? 
 
 Gone was the smile that enliven'd their red. 
 
 The ocean's calm within their view, 
 
 Beside her eye had less of blue ; 
 
 But like that cold wave it stood still. 
 
 And its glance, though clear, was chill. 
 
 Around her form a thin robe twining. 
 
 Naught conceal'd her bosom shining ; 
 
 Through the parting of her hair, 
 
 Floating darkly downward there, 
 
 Her rounded arm show'd white and bare : 
 
 And ere yet she made reply. 
 
 Once she raised her hand on high ; 
 
 It was so wan, and transparent of hue. 
 
 You might have seen the moon shme through. 
 
 " I come from my rest to him I love best, 
 
 That I may be happy, and he may be bless'd. 
 
 I have pass'd the guards, the gate, the wall ; 
 
 Sought thee in safety through foes and all. 
 
 'Tis said the lion will turn and flee 
 
 From a maid in the pride of her puritv ; 
 
 And the Power on high, that can shield the good 
 
 Thus from the tjTant of the wood. 
 
 Hath extended its mercy to guard me as well 
 
 From the hands of the leaguering infidel. 
 
 I come — and if I come in vain. 
 
 Never, oh never, we meet again ! 
 
 Thou hast done a fearful deed 
 
 In falling away from thy father's creed : 
 
 But dash that turban to earth, and sign 
 
 The sign of the cross, and forever be mine ; 
 
 Wring the black drop from thy heart. 
 
 And to-morrow unites us no more to part." 
 
 " And where should our bridal couch be spread ? 
 In the midst of the dying and the dead? 
 
POETRY OF BYRON. 
 
 31 
 
 For to-morrow we give to the slaughter and flame 
 
 The sons and the shrines of the Christian name. 
 
 None, save thou and thine, I've sworn, 
 
 Shall be left upon the morn : 
 
 But thee will I bear to a lovely spot, 
 
 Where our hands shall be join'd, and our sorrow forgot. 
 
 There thou yet shalt be my bride. 
 
 When once again I've quell'd the pride 
 
 Of Venice ; and her hated race 
 
 Have felt the arm they would debase 
 
 Scourge with a whip of scorpions those 
 
 Whom vice and envy made ray foes." 
 
 Upon his hand she laid her own- 
 Light was the touCh, but it thrill'd to the bone, 
 And shot a chillness to his heart, 
 Which fix'd him beyond the power to start. 
 Though slight, was that grasp so mortal cold, 
 He could not loose him from its hold ; 
 But never did clasp of one so dear 
 Strike on the pulse with such feeling of fear. 
 As those thin ifngers, long and white. 
 Froze through his blood hy their touch that night. 
 The feverish glow of his brow was gone, 
 And his heart sanlc so still that it felt like stone. 
 As he look'd on the face, and beheld its hue, 
 So deeply changed from what he knew : 
 Fair but faint — without the ray 
 Of mind, that made each feature play 
 Like sparkling waves on a sunny day ; 
 And her motionless lips lay still as death, 
 And her words came forth without her breath. 
 And there rose not a heave o'er her bosom's swell, 
 And there seem'd not a pulse in her veins to dwell. 
 Though her eye shone out, yet the lids were fix'd. 
 And the glance that it gave was wild and unmix'd 
 With aught of change, as the eyes may seem 
 Of the restless who walk in a troubled dream ; 
 Like the figures on arras, that gloomily glare, 
 Stirr'd by the breath *f the wintry air, 
 So seen by the dying lamp's fitful light. 
 Lifeless, but life-like, and awful -to sight ; 
 As they seem, through the dimness, about to come dowii 
 From the shadowy wall where their images frown ; 
 Fearfully flitting to and fro, 
 As the gusts on the tapestry come and go. 
 "If not for love of me be given 
 Thus much, then, for the love of heaven — 
 Again I say — that turban tear 
 From oflf thy faithless brow, and swear 
 Thine injured country's sons to spare. 
 Or thou art lost ; and never shalt see — 
 Not eartli — that's past — but heaven or me. ■ 
 If this thou dost accord, albeit 
 A heavy doom 'tis thine to meet. 
 That doom shall half absolve thy sin, 
 And mercy's gate may receive thee within : 
 But pause one moment more, and take 
 The curse of Him thou didst forsake ; 
 And look once more to heaven, and see 
 Its love forever shut from thee. 
 There is a light cloud by the moon — 
 'Tis passing, and will pass full soon — 
 If, by the time its vapory sail 
 Hath ceased her shaded orb to veil. 
 Thy heart within thee is not changed. 
 Then God and man are both avenged ; 
 Dark will thy doom be, darker still 
 Thine immortality of ill." 
 Alp look'd tolieaven, and saw on high 
 The sign she spake of in the sky ; 
 But his heart was swollen, and turn'd aside 
 By deep interminable pride. 
 This first false passion of his breast 
 Koll'd like a torrent o'er the rest. 
 He sue for mercy ! He disMay'd 
 By wild words of a timid maid! 
 He, wrong'd by Venice, vow to save 
 Her sons, devoted to the grave ! 
 No— though that cloud were thunder's worst, 
 And charged to crush him— let it burst ! 
 
 He look'd upon it earnestly,. 
 
 Without an accent of reply ; 
 
 He watch'd it passing ; it is flown ; 
 
 Full on his eye the clear moon shone, 
 
 And thus he spake i-rr" Whate'er my fate, 
 
 I am no changeling-^'tia too late : 
 
 The reed in storms may bow and quiver, 
 
 Then rise again ; the tree must shiver. 
 
 What Venice made me, I must be. 
 
 Her foe in all, save love to thee : 
 
 But thou art safe : oh, fly with me I" 
 
 He turned, but she is gone ! 
 
 Nothing is there but the column stone. 
 
 Hath she sunk in the earth, or melted in air ? 
 
 He saw not— he knew not— but nothing is there. 
 
 THE ASSAULT. 
 
 (" Siege of Corinth," Stanzas 22-27.) 
 
 Lightly and brightly breaks away 
 
 The Morning from her mantle gray, 
 
 And the Noon will look on a sultry day. 
 
 Hark to the trump, and the drum. 
 
 And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn, 
 
 And the flap of the banners, that flit as they're borne. 
 
 And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hum, 
 
 And the clash, and the shout, " They come ! they come 1" 
 
 The horsetails are pluck'd from the ground, and the sword 
 
 From its sheath ; and they form, and but wait for the word. 
 
 Tartar, and Spahi, and Turcoman, 
 
 Strike your tents, and throng to the van ; • 
 
 Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain, 
 
 That the fugitive may flee in vain. 
 
 When he breaks from the town ; and none escape. 
 
 Aged or young, in the Christian shape ; 
 
 While your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass, 
 
 Bloodstain the breach through which they pass. 
 
 The steeds are all bridled, and snort to the rein ; 
 
 Curved is each neck, and flowing each mane ; 
 
 White is the foam of their champ on the bit : 
 
 The spears are uplifted ; the matches are lit ; 
 
 The cannon are pointed, and ready to roar. 
 
 And crush the wall they have crumbled before : 
 
 Forms in his phalanx each Janizar ; 
 
 Alp at their head; his right arm is bare. 
 
 So is the blade of his scimitar ; 
 
 The khan and the pachas are all at their post ; 
 
 The vizier himself at the head of the host. 
 
 When the culverin's signal is fired, then on ; 
 
 Leave not in Corinth a living one — 
 
 A priest at her altars, a chief in her halls, 
 
 A hearth in her mansions, a stone on her walls. 
 
 God and the prophet — Alia Hu ! 
 
 Up to the skies with that wild halloo ! 
 
 " There the breach lies for passage, the ladder to scale ; 
 
 And your liands on your sabres, and how should ye fail ? 
 
 He who first downs with the red cross may crave 
 
 His heart's dearest wish ; let him ask it, and have !" 
 
 Thus utter'd Coumourgi, the dauntless vizier ; 
 
 The reply was the brandish of sabre and spear. 
 
 And the shout of fierce thousands in joyous ire : — 
 
 Silence — hark to the signal — fire ! 
 
 ***** 
 The rampart is won, and the spoil begun. 
 And all but the after carnage done. 
 
 But here and there, where 'vantage ground • 
 
 Against the foe may still be found, 
 Desperate groups of twelve or ten 
 Make a pause, and turn again — 
 With banded backs against the wall 
 Fiercely stand, or fighting fall. 
 
 There stood an old man — his hairs were white, 
 
 Bnt his veteran arm was full of might : 
 
 So gallantly bore he the brunt of the fray. 
 
 The dead before him, on that day, 
 
 In a semicircle lay ; 
 
 Still he combated unwounded. 
 
 Though retreating, unsurrounded. 
 
 Many a scar of former fight 
 
 Lurl£'d beneath his corslet bright ; 
 
 But of every wound his body bore. 
 
 Each and all had been ta'en before : 
 
 Though aged, he was so iron of limb, 
 
 Few of our youth could cope with him. 
 
 Still tho old man stood erect. 
 
 And Alp's career a moment check'd. 
 
 " Yield thee, Minotti 5 quarter take. 
 
 For thine own, thy daughter's sake." 
 
 " Never, renegade, never ! 
 
 Though the life of thy gift would last forever." 
 
 " Francesca \-r7-0h, ray promised bride ! 
 
 Must she too perish, by thy pride ?" 
 
 " She is safe."—" Where ? where f "— " In heaven ; 
 
 From whence thy traitor soul is driven — 
 
S2 
 
 POETRY OF BTEON. 
 
 Far from thee, and undefiled.' ' 
 Grimly then Minotti smiled, 
 As he say^Alp staggering bow- 
 Before bis words, as with a blow. 
 
 "Oh God! when died she?"— "Yesternight- 
 Nor weep I for her spirit's flight ; 
 None of my pure race shall be 
 Slaves to Mahomet and thee — 
 Come on!" — that challenge is in vain — 
 Alp's already with the slain ! 
 While Minotti's words were wreaking 
 More revenge in bitter speaking 
 Than his falchion's point had found 
 Had the time allow'd to wound, 
 From within the neighboring porch 
 Of a long defended church. 
 Where the last and desperate few 
 Would the failing fight renew, 
 The sharp shot dash'd Alp ito the ground. 
 Ere an eye could view the wound 
 That crash'd through the brain of the infidel, 
 Bound he spun, and down he fell. 
 
 PARISINA. 
 
 (" Parisina," Stanzas 1, 2.) 
 
 It is the hour when from the boughs 
 The nightingale's high note is heard ; 
 
 It is the hour when lovers' vows 
 
 Seem sweet in every whisper'd word ; 
 
 And gentle winds, and waters near. 
 
 Make music to the lonely ear. 
 
 Each flower the dews have lightly wet. 
 
 And in the sky the stars are met, 
 
 And on the wave is deeper blue. 
 
 And on the leaf a browner hue, 
 
 And in the heaven that clear obscure. 
 
 So softly dark, and darkly pure. 
 
 Which follows the decline of day. 
 
 As twilight melts beneath the moon away. 
 
 But it is not to list to the water-fall 
 
 That Parisina leaves her ha.ll, 
 And it is not to gaze on the heavenly light 
 That the lady walks in the shadow of night ; 
 And if she sits in Este's bower, 
 'Tis not for the sake of its full-blown flower — 
 She listens — but not for the nightingale — 
 Though her ear expects as soft a tale. 
 There glides a step through the foliage thick, 
 And her cheek grows pale — and her heart beats quick. 
 There whispers a voice through the rustling leaves, 
 And her blush returns, and her bosom heaves : 
 A moment more — and they shall meet — 
 'Tis past — her lover's at her feet. 
 
 THE LAST OF EZZELIN. 
 
 (" Lara," Canto li., Stanza 24.) 
 
 Upon that night (a peasant's is the tale) 
 
 A Serf that cross'd the intervening vale, 
 
 When Cynthia's light almost gave way to mom, 
 
 And nearly veil'd in mist her waning horn — 
 
 A Serf, that rose betimes to thread the wood, 
 
 And hew the bough that bought his children's food, 
 
 Pass'd by the river that divides the plain 
 
 Of Otho's lands and Lara's broad domain : 
 
 He heard a tramp — a horse and horseman broke 
 
 From out the wood — before him was a cloak 
 
 Wrapt round some burden at his saddle-bow. 
 
 Bent was his head, and hidden was his "brow. 
 
 Boused by the sudden sight at such a time. 
 
 And some foreboding that it might be crime, 
 
 Himself unheeded watch'd the stranger's course. 
 
 Who reach'd the river, bounded from his horse, 
 
 And lifting thence the burden which he bore. 
 
 Heaved up the bank, and dash'd it from the shore, 
 
 Then paused, and look'd, and turn'd, and stiem'd to watch. 
 
 And still another hurried glance would snatch, 
 
 And follow with his step the Stream that flow'd, 
 
 As if even yet too much its surface show'd. 
 
 At once he staled — stoop'd ; around him strown 
 
 The winter floods had scatter'd heaps of stone ; 
 
 Of these the heaviest thence he gather'd there, 
 
 And slung them with a (bore than common care. 
 
 Meantime the Serf had crept to where unseen 
 Himself might safely mark what this might mean ; 
 He caught a glimpse, as of a floating breast, 
 And something glitter'd starlike on the vest; 
 But ere he well could mark the buoyant trunk, 
 A massy fragment smote it, and it sunk : 
 It rose again, but indistinct to view, 
 And left the waters of a purple hue. 
 Then deeply disappear'd : the horseman gazed 
 Till ebb'd the latest eddy it had raised ; 
 Then turning, vaulted on his pawing steed. 
 And instant spurr'd him into panting speed. 
 His face was mask'd — the features of the dead. 
 If dead it were, escaped the observer's dread ; 
 But if in sooth a star its bosom bore. 
 Such is the badge that knighthood ever wore, 
 And such 'tis known Sir Ezzelin had worn 
 Upon the night that led to such a morn. 
 
 MAZEPPA'S EtDE. 
 
 ("Mazeppa," Stanzas 9-17.) 
 
 "Bbing forth the horse!" — the horse was brought; 
 
 In truth he was a noble steed, 
 
 A Tartar of the Ukraine breed, 
 Who look'd as though the speed of thought 
 Were in his limbs ; but he was wild, 
 
 Wild as the wild deer, and untaught, 
 With spur and bridle undefiled — 
 
 'Twas but a day he had been caught ; 
 And snorting, with erected mane, 
 And struggling fiercely, but in vain. 
 In the full foam of wrath and dread 
 To me the desert-born was led : 
 They bound me on, that menial throng, 
 Upon his back with many a thong ; 
 Then loosed him with a sudden lash — 
 Away ! away ! — and on we dash 1 — 
 Torrents less rapid and less rash. 
 
 Away I away ! — My breath was gone — 
 I saw not where he hurried on : 
 'Twas scarcely yet the break of day. 
 And on he foam'd — away ! — away ! — 
 The last of human sounds which rose. 
 As I was darted from my foes, 
 Was the wild shout of savage laughter. 
 Which on the wind caiue roaring after 
 A moment from that rabble rout : 
 With sudden wrath I wrench'd my head. 
 
 And snapp'd the cord, which to the mane 
 
 Had bound my neck in lieu of rein. 
 And, writhing half my form about, 
 Howl'd back my curse ; but 'midst the tread, 
 The thunder of my courser's speed. 
 Perchance they did not hear nor heed : 
 It vexes me — for I would fain 
 Have paid their insult back again. 
 I paid it well in after days : 
 There is not of that castle gate. 
 Its drawbridge and poitcuUis' weight. 
 Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left ; 
 Nor of its fields a blade of grass. 
 
 Save what grows on a ridge of wall, 
 
 Where stood the hearth-stone of the hall ; 
 And many a time ye there might pass, 
 Nor dream that e'er that fortress was : 
 I saw its turrets in a blaze. 
 Their crackling battlements all cleft, 
 
 And the hot lead pour down like rain 
 From ofif the scorch'd and blackening roof, 
 Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof. 
 
 They little thought that day of pain. 
 When launch'd as on the lightning's flash, 
 They bade me to destruction dash, 
 
 That one day I should come again. 
 With twice five thousand horse, to thank 
 
 The Count for his uncourteous ride. 
 They play'd me then a bitter prank. 
 
 When, with the wild horse for my guide, 
 They bound me to his foaming flank : 
 At length I play'd them one as fi-ank — 
 For time at last sets all things even — 
 
 And if we do but watch the hour. 
 
 There never yet was human power , 
 
 Which could evade, if unforgiveu; 
 The patient search and vigil long 
 Of him who treasures up a wrong. 
 
POETEY OF BYEON. 
 
 33 
 
 Away, away, my steed and I, 
 
 Upon the pinions of the wind. 
 
 All human dwellings left behind ; 
 We sped like meteors through the sky. 
 When with its crackling sound the night 
 Is checker'd with the northern light : 
 Town — village — none were on our track, 
 
 But a wild plain of far extent. 
 And bounded by a forest black ; 
 
 And, save the scarce seen battlement 
 On distant heights of some stronghold. 
 Against the Tartars built of old. 
 No trace of man. The year before 
 A Ttirkish army had maroh'd o'er; 
 And where the Spahi's hoof hath trod, 
 The verdure flies the bloody sod. 
 The sky was dull, and dim, and gray. 
 
 And a low breeze crept moaning by — 
 
 I could have answer'd with a sigh — 
 But fast we fled, away, away — 
 And I could neither sigh nor pray ; 
 And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain 
 Upon the courser's bristling mane ; 
 But, snorting still with rage and fear. 
 He flew upon his far career ; 
 At times 1 almost thought, indeed. 
 He must have slacken' d in his speed ; 
 But no — my bound and slender frame 
 
 Was nothing to his angrj' might. 
 And merely like a spur became : 
 Each motion which I made to free 
 My swoln limbs from their agony 
 
 Increased his fury and affright : 
 I tried my voice — 'twas faint and low, 
 But yet he swerved as from a blow ; 
 And, starting to each accent, sprang 
 As from a sudden trumpet's clang : 
 Meantime my cords were wet with gore. 
 Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er; 
 And in my tongue the thirst became 
 A something fierier far than flame. 
 
 We near'd the wild wood — 'twas so wide, 
 
 I saw no bounds on either side ; 
 
 'Twas studded with old sturdy trees, 
 
 That bent not to the roughest breeze 
 
 Which howls down from Siberia's waste. 
 
 And strips the forest in its haste — 
 
 But these were few, and far between 
 
 Set thick with shrubs more young and green, 
 
 Luxuriant with their annual leaves. 
 
 Ere strown by those autumnal eves 
 
 That nipt the forest's foliage dead. 
 
 Discolor' d with a lifeless red, 
 
 Which stands thereon like stiffen'd gore 
 
 Upon the slain when battle's o'er, 
 
 And some long winter's night hath shed 
 
 Its frost o'er every tombless head, 
 
 'So cold and stark the raven's beak 
 
 May peck unpierced each frozen cheek : 
 
 'Twas a wild waste of underwood. 
 
 And here and there a chestnut stood. 
 
 The strong oak, and the hardy pine ; 
 
 But far apart — and well it were, 
 Or else a different lot were mine — 
 
 The boughs gave way, and did not tear 
 My limbs ; and I found strength to bear 
 My wounds, already scarr'd with cold — 
 My bonds forbade to loose my hold. 
 We rustled through the leaves like wind. 
 Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind ; 
 By night I heard them on the track. 
 Their troop came hard upon our back. 
 With their long gallop, which can tire ' 
 The hound's deep hate, and hunter's fire : 
 ' Where'er we flew they follow'd on. 
 Nor left us with the morning sun ; 
 Behind I saw them, scarce a rood, 
 At daybreak winding through the wood. 
 And through the night had heard their feet 
 Their stealing, rustling step repeat. 
 Oh !" how I wish'd.for spear or sword, 
 At least to die amidst the horde. 
 And perish — if it must be so — 
 At bay, destroying many a foe. 
 When first my courser's race begun, 
 I wish'd the goal already won ; 
 But now I doubted strength and speed. 
 Tain doubt ! his swift and savage breed 
 Had nerved him like the mountain-roe ; 
 Nor faster falls the blinding snow 
 
 Which whelms the peasant near the door 
 Whose threshold he shall cross no more, 
 Bewilder'd with the dazzling blast. 
 Than through the forest-paths he past — 
 Untired, untamed, and worse tlian wild ; 
 All furious as a favor'd child 
 Balk'd of its wish ; or fiercer still — 
 A woman piqued — who has her will. 
 
 The wood was past ; 'twas more than noon. 
 But chill the air, although in June ; 
 Or it might be my veins ran cold — 
 Prolong'd endurance tames the bold ; 
 And I was then not what I seem. 
 But headlong as a wintry stream, 
 And wore my feelings out before 
 I well could count their causes o'er : 
 And what with fury, fear, and wrath, 
 Ttie tortures which beset my path. 
 Gold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress. 
 Thus bound in nature's nakedness ; 
 Sprung from a race whose rising blood 
 When stirr'd beyond its calmer mood. 
 And trodden hard upon, is like 
 The rattlesnake's in act to strike. 
 What marvel if this worn-out trunk 
 Beneath its woes a moment sunk? 
 The earth gave way, the skies roU'd round, 
 I seem'd to sink upon the ground ; 
 But err'd, for I was fastly bound. 
 My heart tum'd sick, my brain grew sore. 
 And throbb'd awhile, tlien beat no more ; 
 The skies spun like a mighty wheel ; 
 I saw the trees like drunkards reel, . 
 And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes. 
 Which saw no farther : he who dies 
 Can die no more than then I died. 
 O'ertortured by that ghastly ride, 
 I felt the blackness come and go. 
 And strove to wake ; but could not make 
 My senses climb up from below : 
 I felt as on a plank at sea. 
 When all the waves that dash o'er thee. 
 At the same time upheave and whelm. 
 And hurl thee toward a desert realm. 
 My undulating life was as 
 The fancied lights that flitting pass 
 Our shut eyes in deep midnight, when 
 Fever begins upon the brain ; 
 But soon it pass'd, with little pain, 
 But a confusion worse than such : 
 I own that I should deem it much. 
 Dying, to feel the same again ; 
 And yet I do suppose we must , 
 Feel far more ere we turn to dust : 
 No matter ; I have bared my brow 
 Full in Death's face — before — and now. 
 
 My blood reflow'd, though thick and chill ; 
 , My heart began once more to thrill ; 
 Methought the dash of waves was nigh ; 
 There was a gleam too of the sky. 
 Studded with stars ; — it is no dream ; 
 The wild horse swims the wilder stream I 
 The bright broad river's gushing tide 
 Sweeps, winding onward, far and wide, 
 And we are half-way, struggling o'er 
 To yon unknown and silent shore. 
 The waters broke my hollow trance, 
 And with a temporary strength 
 
 My stiffen'd limbs were rebaptized. 
 Mj' courser's broad breast proudly braves 
 And dashes off the ascending waves. 
 And onward we advance ! 
 We reach the slippery shore at length, 
 
 A haven I but little prized. 
 For all behind was dark and drear. 
 And all before was night and fear. 
 How many hours of night or day 
 In those suspended pangs I lay, 
 I could not tell ; I scarcely Imew 
 If this were human breath I drew. 
 
 With glossy skin, and dripping mane. 
 
 And reeling limbs, and reeking flank. 
 The wild steed's sinewy nerves still strain 
 
 Up the repelling bank. 
 We gain the top : a boundless plain 
 Spreads through the shadow of the night. 
 
 And onward, onward, onward seems. 
 
 Like precipices in our dreams. 
 To stretch beyond the sight ; 
 
34 
 
 FOETEY OF BYRON. 
 
 And here and there a speck of white. 
 
 Or scatter'd spot of dusky green, 
 In masses broke into the light, 
 As rose the moon upon my right. 
 
 Sut naught distinctly seen 
 In the dim waste would indicate 
 The omen of a cottage gate ; 
 'So twinkling taper from afar 
 Stood like a hospitable star ; 
 Nor even an ignis-fatuus rose 
 To make him merry with my woes : 
 
 That very cheat had cheer'd me then ! 
 Although detected, welcome still, 
 Beminding me, through every ill. 
 
 Of the abodes of men. 
 
 Onward we went — but slack and slow ; 
 
 His savage force at length o'erspent, 
 The drooping courser, faint and low, 
 
 All feebly foaming went. 
 A sickly infant had had power 
 To guide him forward in that hour; 
 
 But useless all to me. 
 His new-born tameness naught avail'd. 
 My limbs were bound ; my force had fail'd, 
 
 Perchance, had they been free. 
 With feeble effort still I tried 
 To rend the bonds so starkly tied — 
 
 But still it was in vain ; 
 My limbs were onlj' wrung the more. 
 And soon the idle strife gave o'er, 
 
 Which but prolonged their pain. 
 The dizzy race seem'd almost run ; 
 Some streaks announced the coming sun — 
 
 How slow, alas ! he came ! 
 Methought that mist of dawning gray 
 Would never dapple into day ; 
 How heavily it roU'd away — , 
 
 Before the eastern flame 
 Rose crimson, and deposed the stars, 
 And call'd the radiance from their cars. 
 And fiU'd the earth, from his deep throne. 
 With lonely lustre, all his own. 
 
 Up rose the sun ; the mists were curl'd 
 Back from the solitary world 
 Which lay around — behind — before ; 
 What booted it to traverse o'er 
 Plain, forest, river ? Man nor brute. 
 Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot, , 
 Lay in the wild luxuriant soil ; 
 No sign of travel — none of toil ; 
 The very air was mute ; 
 And not an insect's shrill small horn. 
 Nor matin bird's new voice was borne 
 From herb nor thicket. Many a werst, 
 Panting as if his heart would burst. 
 The weary brute still stagger'd on ; 
 And still we were — or seem'd — alone : 
 At length, while reeling on our way, 
 Methought I heard a courser neigh, 
 From out yon tuft of blackening firs. 
 Is it the wind those branches stirs ? 
 No, no ! from out the forest prance 
 
 A trampling troop ; I see them come I 
 In one vast squadron they advance ! 
 
 I strove to cry — my lips were dumb. 
 The steeds rush on in plunging pride ; 
 But where are they the reins to guide ? 
 A thousand horse — and none to ride ! 
 With flowing tail, and flying mane. 
 Wide nostrils — never stretch'd by pain. 
 Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein. 
 And feet that iron never shod. 
 And flanks unscarr'd by spur or rod, 
 A thousand horse, the wild, the free, 
 Like waves that follow o'er the sea, 
 
 Came thickly thundering on. 
 As if our faint approach to meet ; 
 The sight re-nerved my courser's feet, 
 A moment staggering, feebly fleet, 
 A moment, with a faint low neigh. 
 
 He answer'd, and then fell ; 
 With gasps and glazing eyes he lay, 
 
 And reeking liihbs imjnovable, 
 His first and last career is done. 
 On came the troop — they saw him stoop. 
 
 They saw me strangely bound along 
 
 His back with many a bloody thong : 
 
 They stop— they start— they snuff the air, 
 Gallop a moment here and there, 
 Approach, retire, wheel round and round. 
 Then plunging back with sudden bound. 
 Headed by one black mighty steed. 
 Who seem'd the patriarch of liis breed. 
 
 Without a single speck or hair 
 Of white upon his shaggy hide ; 
 They snort— they foam— neigh— swerve aside, 
 And backward to the forest fly, 
 By instinct, from a human eye. — 
 
 They left me there to my despair, 
 Link'd to the dead and stiSening wretch. 
 Whose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch. 
 Believed from that unwonted weight. 
 From whence I could not extricate 
 Nor him nor me — and there we lay 
 
 The dying on the dead ! 
 Anji there from morn till twilight bound, 
 I felt the heavy hours toil round. 
 With just enough of life to see 
 My last of surjs go down on me. 
 
 I know no more — my latest dream 
 
 Is something of a lovely star 
 
 Which fix'd my dull eyes from afar. 
 And went and came with wandering beam. 
 And of the cold, dull, swimming, dense 
 Sensation of recurring sense. 
 And then subsiding back to death. 
 And then again a little breath, 
 A little thrill, a short suspense. 
 
 An icy sickness curdling o'er 
 My heart, and sparks that cross'd my brain— 
 A gasp, a throb, a start of pain, 
 
 A sigh, and nothing more. 
 
 I woke — Where was I ? — Do I see 
 A human face look down on me ? 
 And doth a roof above me close ? 
 Do these limbs on a couch repose? 
 Is this a chamber where I lie ? 
 And is it mortal yon bright eye. 
 That watches me with gentle glance ? 
 
 I closed my own again once more, 
 As doubtful that the former trance 
 
 Could not as yet be o'er. 
 A slender girl, long-hair'd, and tall. 
 Sat watching by the cottage wall ; 
 The sparkle of her.eye I caught. 
 Even with my first return of thought ; 
 For ever and anon she threw 
 
 A prying, pitying glance on me 
 
 With her black eyes so wild and free : 
 I gazed, and gazed, until I knew 
 
 No vision it could be — 
 But that I lived, and was released 
 From adding to the vulture's feast : 
 And when the Cossack maid beheld 
 My heavy eyes at length unseal'd. 
 She smiled — and I essay'd to speak. 
 
 But failed — and she approach'd, and made 
 
 With lip and finger signs that said, 
 I must not strive as yet to break 
 The silence, till my strength should be 
 Enough to leave my accents free ; 
 And then her hand on mine she laid, 
 And smooth'd the pillow for my head, 
 And stole along on tiptoe tread. 
 
 And gently oped the door, and spake 
 In whispers — ne'er was voice so sweet ! 
 Even music foUow'd her light feet ; 
 
 But those she call'd were not awake, 
 And she went forth ; but, ere she pass'd, 
 Another look on me she cast, 
 
 Another sign she made, to say, 
 That I had naught to fear, that all 
 Were near, at mj' command or call, 
 
 And she would not delay 
 Her due return: — while she was gone, 
 Methought I felt too much alone. 
 
 She came with mother and with sire — 
 What need of more ? — I will not tire 
 With long recital of the rest. 
 Since I became the Cossack's guest. 
 They found me senseless op the plain— 
 
 They bore me to the nearest hut — 
 They brought me into life again — 
 Me — one day o'er their realm to reign I 
 
POETRY OF BYBON. 
 
 35 
 
 THE STEEAMLET FROM THE CLIFF. 
 
 ("The Island," Onnto ili., Stanza 8.) 
 
 A LITTLE stream came tumbling from the height, 
 
 And straggling into ocean as it might. 
 
 Its bounding crystal frolick'd in the ray, 
 
 And gush'd from cliff to crag with saltleas spray; 
 
 Close on the wild, wide ocean, yet as pure 
 
 And fresh as innocence, and more secure. 
 
 Its silver torrent glitter'd o'er the deep. 
 
 As the shy chamois' eye o'erlooks the steep. 
 
 While far below the vast and sullen swell 
 
 Of ocean's alpine azure rose and fell. 
 
 THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 ("Don Jnan," Canto ii., Stanzas 49-S3.) 
 
 'TwAS twilight, and the sunless day went down 
 Over the waste of waters ; like a veil, 
 
 Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown 
 Of one whose hate is maslc'd but to assail.. 
 
 Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown. 
 And grimly darkled o'er the faces pale. 
 
 And the dim desolate deep : twelve days had Fear 
 
 Been their familiar, and now Death was here. 
 
 Some trial had been making at a raft, 
 
 With little hope in such a rolling sea, 
 A sort of thing at which one would have laugh'd 
 
 If any laughter at such times could be. 
 Unless with people who too much have quafiTd, 
 
 And have a kind of wild and horrid glee. 
 Half epileptical, and half hysterical — 
 Their preservation would have been a miracle. 
 
 At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hen-coops, spars. 
 And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose, 
 
 That still could keep afloat the struggling tars. 
 For yet they strove, although of no great use : 
 
 There was no light in heaven but a few stars. 
 The boats put off o'ercrowded with their crews ; 
 
 She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port. 
 
 And, going down head-foremost — sunk, in short. 
 
 Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell- 
 Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave — 
 
 Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yell. 
 As eager to anticipate their gi'ave ; 
 
 And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell. 
 
 And down she suck'd with her the whirling wave. 
 
 Like one who grapples with his enemy. 
 
 And strives to strangle him before he die. 
 
 And first one universal shriek there rush'd,' 
 Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash 
 
 Of echoing thunder ; and then all was hush'd, 
 Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash 
 
 Of billows ; but at intervals there gush'd. 
 Accompanied with a convulsive splash, 
 
 A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry ■ 
 
 Of some strong swimmer in his agony. 
 
 HAIDEE. 
 
 ("Don Juan," Canto it. Stanzas 111-118.) 
 
 How long in his damp trance young Juan lay 
 He knew not, for tlie earth was gone for him. 
 
 And Time had nothing more of night nor day 
 For his congealing blood, and senses dim ; 
 
 And how this heavy faintness pass'd away 
 He knew not, till each painful pulse and limb. 
 
 And tingling vein seem'd throbbing back to life, 
 
 For Death, though vanqulsh'd, still retired with strife. 
 
 His eyes he open'd, shut, again unclosed. 
 
 For all was doubt and dizziness ; he thought 
 
 He still was in the boat, and had but dozed, 
 And felt again with his despair o'erwrought, 
 
 And wish'd it death in which be had reposed. 
 
 And then once more his feelings back were brought. 
 
 And slowly by his swimming eyes was seen 
 
 A lovely female face of seventeen. 
 
 'Twas bending close o'er his, and the small mouth 
 Seem'd almost prying into his for breath ; 
 
 And, chafing him, the soft warm hand of youth 
 Eecall'd his answering spirits back from death ; 
 
 And bathing his chill temples, tried to soothe 
 
 Each pulse to animation, till beneath 
 Its gentle touch and trembling care, a sigh 
 To these kind efforts made a low reply. 
 
 Then was the cordial pour'd, and mantle flung 
 Around his scarce-clad limbs ; and the fair arm 
 
 Eaised higher the faint head which o'er it hung ; 
 And her transparent cheek, all pure and warm, 
 
 Pillow'd his death-like forehead; then she wrung 
 His dewy curls, long drench'd by every storm ; 
 
 And watch'd with eagerness each throb that drew 
 
 A sigh from his heaved bosom — and hers, too. 
 
 And lifting him with care into the cave. 
 The gentle gid, and her attendant — one 
 
 Young, yet her elder, and of brow less grave, 
 And more robust of figure — then begun 
 
 To kindle fire, and as the new flames gave 
 
 Light to the rocks that roof'd them, which the sun 
 
 Had never seen, the maid, or whatsoe'er 
 
 She was, appear'd distinct, and tall, and fair. 
 
 Her brow was overhung with coins of gold. 
 That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair, 
 
 Her clustering hair, whose longer locks were roU'd 
 In braids behind ; and though her stature were 
 
 Even of the highest for a female mould. 
 They nearly reach'd her heel ; and in her air 
 
 There was a something which bespoke command. 
 
 As one who was a lady in the land. 
 
 Her hair, I said, was auburn ; but her eyes 
 
 Were black as death, their lashes the same hue. 
 
 Of downcast length, in whose silk shadows lies 
 Deepest attraction; for when to the view 
 
 Forth from its raven fringe the full glance flies. 
 Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew ; 
 
 'Tis as the snake late coil'd, who pours his length. 
 
 And hurls at once his venom and his strength. 
 
 Her brow was white and low, her cheek's pure dye 
 Like twilight rosy still with the set sun ; 
 
 Short upper lip — sweet lips ! that make us sigh 
 Ever to have seen such ; for she was one 
 
 Fit for the model of a statuary 
 
 (A race of mere impostors, when all's done — 
 
 I've seen much finer women, ripe and. real, 
 
 Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal). 
 
 HAIDEE AGAIN. 
 
 (" Don Juan," Canto lii., Stanzas 70-75.) 
 
 Of all the dresses I select Haidee's : 
 
 She wore two jelicks — one was of pale yellow ; 
 
 Of azure, pink, and white was her chemise — 
 
 'Neath which her breast heaved like a little billow ; 
 
 With buttons form'd of pearls as large as peas. 
 All gold and crimson shone her jelick's fellow, 
 
 And the striped white gauze baracan that bound her, 
 
 Like fleecy clouds about the moon flow'd .round her. 
 
 One large gold bracelet clasp'd each lovely arm, 
 Lockless — so pliable from the pure gold 
 
 That the hand stretch'd and shut it without harm. 
 The limb which it adorn'd its only mould ; 
 
 So beautiful — its very shape would charm. 
 And clinging as if loath to lose its hold. 
 
 The purest oie enclosed the whitest skin 
 
 That e'er by precious metal was held in. 
 
 Around, as princess of her father's land, 
 
 A like gold bar above her instep roU'd 
 Announced her rank ; twelve rings were on her hand ; 
 
 Her hair was starr'd with gems ; her veil's fine fold 
 Below her breast was fasten' d with a band 
 
 Of lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce be told ; 
 Her orange silk full Turkish trousers furl'd 
 About the prettiest ankle in the world. 
 
 Her hair's long auburn waves down to her heel 
 Flow'd like an Alpine torrent which the sun 
 
 Dyes with his morning light— and would conceal 
 Her person if allow'd at large to run. 
 
 And still they seem resentfully to feel 
 
 The silken fillet's curb, and sought to shun 
 
 Their bonds whene'er some Zephyr caught began 
 
 To offer his young pinion as her fan. 
 
36 
 
 POETRY OF BYRON. 
 
 Bound her she made an atmosphere of life, 
 The very air seem'd lighter from her eyes, 
 
 They were so soft and beautiful, and rife 
 With all we can imagine of the skies, 
 
 And pure as Psyche ere she grew a wife — 
 Too pure even for the purest human ties ; 
 
 Her overpowering presence made you feel 
 
 It would not be idolatry to kneel. 
 
 Her eyelashes, though dark as night, were tinged 
 (It is the country's custom), but in vain ; 
 
 For those large black eyes were so blackly fringed. 
 The glossy rebels mook'd the jetty stain, 
 
 And in their native beauty stood avenged ; 
 Her nails were touch 'd with henna: but again 
 
 The power of art was turned to nothing, for 
 
 They could not look more rosy than before. 
 
 AURORA RABY. 
 
 ("Don Jnan," Canto xv., Stauzas 43-47.) 
 
 Ahd then there was — but why should I go on. 
 Unless the ladies should go off? — ^there was 
 
 Indeed a certain fair and fairy one. 
 
 Of the best class, and better than her class — 
 
 Aurora Eaby, a young star who shone 
 
 O'er life, too sweet an image for such glass, 
 
 A lovely being, scarcely form'd or moulded, 
 
 A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded ; 
 
 Bich, noble, but an orphan : left an only 
 
 Child to the care of guardians good and kind ; 
 
 But still her aspect had an air so lonely! 
 
 Blood is not water ; and where shall we find 
 Feelings of youth like those which overthrown lie 
 
 By death, when we are left, alas ! behind. 
 To feel, in i^endless palaces, a home 
 Is wanting, and our best ties in the tomb ? 
 
 Early in years, and yet more infantine 
 In figure, she had something of sublime 
 
 In eyes which sadly shone, as seraphs' shine. 
 All youth — but with an aspect beyond time ; 
 
 Badiant and grave — as pitying man's decline ; 
 Mournful — but mournful of another's crime, 
 
 She look'd as if she sat by Eden's door, 
 
 And grieved for those who could return no more. 
 
 She was a Catholic, too, sincere, austere, 
 As far as her own gentle heart allow'd. 
 
 And deem'd that fallen worship far more dear 
 
 Perhaps because 'twas fall'n : her sires were proud 
 
 Of deeds and days when they had fiU'd the ear 
 Of nations, and had never bent or bow'd 
 
 To novel power ; and as she was the last. 
 
 She held their old faith and old feelings fast. 
 
 She gazed upon a world she scarcely knew, 
 As seeking not to know it ; silent, lone, 
 
 As grows a flower, thus quietly she grew. 
 And kept her heart serene within its zone. 
 
 There was awe in the homage which she drew ; 
 Her spirit seem'd as seated on a throne 
 
 Apart from the surrounding world, and strong 
 
 In its own strength — most strange in one so young i 
 
 IIL-DRAMATIC. 
 
 MANFRED AND THE SEVEN SPIRITS. 
 
 ("Manfred," Act 1., Scene 1.) 
 
 Manfred alone. — Scene, a Gothic Gallery. — Time, Midnight. 
 Man. The lamp must be replenish'd, but even then 
 It will not burn so long as I must watch : 
 My slumbers — if I slumber — are not sleep. 
 But a continuance of enduring thought, 
 Which then I can resist not : in my heart 
 There is a vigil, and these eyes but close 
 To look within ; and yet I live, and bear 
 The aspect and the form of breathing men. 
 But grief should be the instructor of the wise ; 
 Sorrow is knowledge : they who know the most ' 
 Must mourn the deepest o'er the fatal truth, 
 The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life. 
 Philosophy and science, and the springs 
 Of wonder, and the wisdom of the world, 
 I have essay'd, and in my mind there is 
 A power to make these subject to itself — 
 But they avail not : I have done men good, 
 And I have met with good even among men — 
 But this avail'd not : I have had my foes, 
 And none have baffled, many fallen before me — 
 But this avail'd not: Good, or evil, life, 
 Powers, passions, all I see in other beings. 
 Have been to me as rain unto the sands. 
 Since that all-nameless hour. I have no dread. 
 And feel the curse to have no natural fear. 
 Nor fluttering throb, that beats with hopes or wishes, 
 Or lurking love of something on the earth. — 
 Now to my task. — 
 
 Mysteribus Agency ! 
 Ye spirits of the unbounded Universe ! 
 Whom I have sought in darkness and in light — 
 Ye, who do compass earth about, and dwell 
 In subtler essence — ye, to whom the tops 
 Of mountains inaccessible are haunts. 
 And earth's and ocean's caves familiar things — 
 I call upon ye by the written charm 
 Which gives me power upon you — Else ! appear ! 
 
 [4 pause. 
 They come not yet. — Now by the voice of him 
 Who is the first among you — by this sign, 
 Which makes you tremble — by the claims of him 
 Who is undying, — Else! appear! — Appear! 
 
 [^A pause. 
 If it be so. — Spirits of earth and air. 
 Ye shall not thus elude me ; by a power, 
 
 Deeper than all yet urged, a tyrant-spell, 
 Which had its birthplace in a star condemn'd. 
 The burning wreck of a demolish'd world, 
 A wandering hell in the eternal space ; 
 By the strong curse which is upon my soul. 
 The thought which is within me and around me, 
 I do compel ye to my will. — Appear ! 
 
 l_A star is seen at the darker end of the gallery: Aw 
 stationary ; and a voice is heard singing. 
 
 First Spirit. 
 
 Mortal I to thy bidding bow'd. 
 From my mansion in the cloud. 
 Which the breath of twilight builds. 
 And the summer sunset gilds 
 With the azure and vermilion. 
 Which is mix'd for my pavilion ; 
 Though thy quest may be forbidden. 
 On a star-beam I have ridden ; 
 To thine adjuration bow'd. 
 Mortal — be thy wish avow'd ! 
 
 Voice of the Second Spirit. 
 
 Mont Blanc is the Monarch of mountains ; 
 
 They crown'd him long ago 
 On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, 
 
 With a diadem of snow. 
 Around his waist are forests braced, 
 
 The Avalanche in his hand ; 
 But ere it'fall, that thundering ball 
 
 Must pause for my command. 
 The Glacier's cold and restless mass 
 
 Moves onward day by day ; 
 But I am he who bids it pass. 
 
 Or with its ice delay. 
 I am the spirit of the place. 
 
 Could make the mountain bow 
 And quiver to his cavern'd base — 
 
 And what with me wouldst T/iou ? 
 
 Voice of the Third Spirit. 
 In the blue depth of the waters. 
 
 Where the wave hath no strife, 
 Where the wind is a stranger, 
 
 And the sea-snake hath life, 
 Where the Mermaid is decking 
 
 Her green hair with shells ; 
 Like the storm on the surface 
 
 Came the sound of thy spells; 
 
l^OETRY OF BYBON. 
 
 37 
 
 O'er my calm Hall of Coral 
 
 The deep echo roU'd — 
 To the Spirit of Ocean 
 
 Thy wishes unfold I 
 
 FouKTH Spikit. 
 
 Where the slumbering earthquake 
 
 Lies pillow'd .on fire, 
 And the lakes of bitumen 
 
 Rise boilingly higher ; 
 Where the roots of the Andes 
 
 Strike deep in the earth, 
 As their summits to heaven 
 
 Shoot soaringly forth j 
 I have quitted my birthplace. 
 
 Thy bidding to bide— 
 Thy spell hath subdued me, 
 
 Thy will be my guide I 
 
 Fifth Spirit. 
 I am the Rider of the wind, 
 The Stirrer of the storm ; 
 The hurricane I left behind 
 
 Is yet with lightning warm ; 
 To speed to thee, o'er shore and sea. 
 
 I swept upon the blast : 
 The fleet I met sail'd well, and yet 
 'Twill sink ere night be past. 
 
 Sixth Spirit. 
 My dwelling is the shadow of the night. 
 Why doth thy magic torture me with light ? 
 
 Sbvbhth Spirit. 
 The star which rules thy destiny 
 Was ruled, ere earth began, by me : 
 It was a world as fresh and fair 
 As e' er revolved round sun in air ; 
 Its course was free and regular, 
 Space bosom'd not a lovelier star. 
 The hour aiTived — and it became 
 A wandering mass of shapeless flame, 
 A pathless comet, and a curse, 
 The menace of the universe ; 
 Still rolling on with innate force, 
 Without a sphere, without a course, 
 A bright deformity on high, 
 The monster of the upper sky ! 
 And thou 1 beneath its influence born — 
 Thou worm ! whom I obey and scorn — 
 Forced by a power (which is not thine. 
 And lent thee but to make thee mine) 
 . For this brief moment to descend, 
 Where these weak spirits round thee bend 
 And parley with a thing like thee — 
 What wouldst thou, Child of Clay ! with me ? 
 
 TAe Seven Spirits. 
 
 Earth, ocean, air, night, mountains, winds, thy star, 
 Are at thy beck and bidding, Child of Clay ! 
 
 Before thee at thy quest their spirits are — 
 
 What wouldst thou with us, son of mortals — say ? 
 
 Man. Forgetfulness — 
 
 First Spirit. Of what — of whom — and why ? 
 
 Man. Of that which is within me ; read it there — 
 Ye know it, and I cannot utter it. 
 
 Spirit. We can but give thee that which we possess : 
 Ask of us subjects, sovereignty, the power 
 O'er earth, the whole, or portion, or a sign 
 Which shall control the elements, whereof 
 We are the dominators, each and all, 
 These shall be thine. 
 
 Man. Oblivion, self-oblivion — 
 
 Can ye not wring from out the hidden realms 
 Ye offer so profusely what I ask? 
 
 Spirit. It is not in our essence, in our skill ; 
 But — thou mayest djp. 
 
 Man. Will death bestow it on me ? 
 
 Spirit. We are immortal, and do not forget ; 
 We are eternal ; and to us the past 
 Is, as the future, present. Art thou answer'd ? 
 
 Man. Ye mock me — but the power which brought ye here 
 Hath made you mine. Slaves, scoff not at my will ! 
 The mind, the spirit, the Promethean spark. 
 The lightning of my being, is as bright, 
 Pervading, and far darting as your own. 
 And shall not yield to yours, though coop'd in clay I 
 Answer, or I will teach you what I am. 
 
 Spirit, We answer as we answer'd ; our reply 
 Is even in thine own words. 
 
 Man. Why say ye so ? 
 
 Spirit, If, as thou say'st, thine essence be as ours, 
 We have replied in telling thee, the thing 
 Mortals call death hath naught to do with us. 
 
 Man. I then have call'd ye from your realms in vain ; 
 Ye cannot, or ye will not, aid me. 
 
 Spirit. Say ; 
 
 What we possess we offer j it is thine : 
 Bethink ere thou dismiss us, ask again — 
 Kingdom, and sway, and strength, and length of days — 
 
 Man, Accursed I what have I to do with days ? 
 They are too long already. — Hence — begone 1 
 
 Spirit. Yet pause : being here, our will would do thee service ; 
 Bethink thee, is there then no other gift 
 Which we can make not worthless in thine eyes ? 
 
 Man. No, none ; yet stay — one moment, ere we part^ 
 I would behold ye face to face. I hear 
 Your voices, sweet and melancholy sounds, 
 As music on the waters ; and I see 
 The steady aspect of a clear large star ; 
 But nothing more. Approach me as ye are, 
 Or one, or all, in your accustom'd forms. 
 
 Spirit. We have no forms, beyond the elements 
 Of which we are the mind and principle : 
 But choose a form — in that we will appear. 
 
 Man. I have no choice ; there is no form on earth 
 Hideous or beautiful to me. Let him. 
 Who is most powerful of ye, take such aspect 
 As unto him may seem most fitting — Come ! 
 Seventh Spirit. (^Appearing in the shape of a beautiful female figure.'} 
 
 Behold ! 
 
 Man. Oh God ! if it be thus, and thou 
 Art not a madness and a mocker}', 
 I yet might be most happy. I clasp thee. 
 And we again will be— \The figure vanishes. 
 
 My heart is cmsh'd ! 
 
 [Manpeed yaB« sensden. 
 
 (4 Voice is heard in the Incantation which follows.^ 
 When the moon is on the wave, 
 
 And the glowworm in the grass, 
 And the meteor on the grave. 
 And the wisp on the iporass ; 
 When the falling stars are shooting. 
 And the answer'd owls are hooting. 
 And the silent leaves are still 
 In the shadow of the hillj 
 Shall my soul be upon thine. 
 With a power and with a sign. 
 
 Though thy slumber may be deep. 
 Yet thy spirit shall not sleep ; 
 There are shades which will not vanish, 
 There are thoughts thou canst not banish ; 
 By a power to thee unknown, 
 Thou canst never be alone ; 
 Thou art wrapt as with a shroud, 
 Thou art gather' d in a cloud ; 
 And forever shalt thou dwell 
 ' In the spirit of this spell. 
 
 Though thou seest me not pass by. 
 Thou shalt feel me with thine eye 
 As a thing that, though unseen, 
 Must be near thee, and hath been ; 
 And when in that secret dread 
 Thou hast tum'd around thy head, 
 Thou shalt marvel I am not 
 As thy shadow on the spot, ' 
 And the power which thou dost feel 
 Shall be what thou must conceal. 
 
 And a magic voice and verse 
 Hath baptized thee with a curse ; 
 And a spirit of the air 
 Hath begirt thee with a snare ; 
 In the wind there is a voice 
 Shall forbid thee to rejoice ; 
 And to thee shall Night deny 
 All the quiet of her sky ; 
 And the Day shall have a sun. 
 Which shall make thee wish it done. 
 
 MANFRED ON THE CLIFFS. 
 
 ("Manfred," Act i., Scene 2.) 
 
 The Mountain of the Jungfrau. — Time, Morning. — Manfred alone upon- 
 the Cliff's. 
 Man. The spirits I have raised abandon me — 
 The spells which I have studied baffle me — 
 The remedy I reck'd of tortured me. 
 
38 
 
 r-OETKY OF BYBON. 
 
 I lean no more on superhaman aid ; 
 It hath no power upon the past, and for 
 The future, till the past he gulf'd in darkness. 
 It is not of mj' search. — My mother Earth ! 
 And thou fresh breaking Day, and you, ye Mountains, 
 Why are ye beautiful ? I cannot love ye. 
 And thou, the bright eye of the universe. 
 That openest over all, and unto all 
 Art a delight — thou shin'st not on my heart. 
 And you, ye crags, upon whose extreme edge 
 I stand, and on the torrent's brink beneath 
 Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs 
 In dizziness of distance ; when a leap, ' 
 
 A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring 
 My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed 
 Tp rest forever — wherefore do I pause ? 
 I feel the impulse— yet I do not plunge; 
 I see the peril— yet do not recede ; 
 And my brain reels — and yet my foot is firm : 
 There is a power upon me which withholds, 
 And makes it my fatality to live ; 
 If it be life to wear within Inyself 
 This barrenness of spirit, and to be 
 Mj' own soul's sepulchre, for I have ceased 
 To justify my deeds unto myself— 
 ' The last infirmity of evil. Ay, 
 Thou winged and cloud-cleaving minister, [^An eagle passes. 
 Whose happy flight is highest into heaven, 
 Well may'st thou swoop so near me — I should be 
 Thy prey, and gorge thine eaglets ; thou art gone 
 Where the eye cannot follow thee ; but thine 
 Yet pierces downward, onward, or above. 
 With a pervading vision.— Beautiful! 
 How beautiful is all this visible world ! 
 How glorious in its action and itself! 
 But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we. 
 Half dust, half deity, alike unfit 
 To sink or soar, with our mix'd essence make 
 A conflict of its elements, and breathe 
 The breath of degradation and of pride, 
 Contending with low wants and lofty will, 
 Till our mortality predominates, 
 And men are — what they name not to themselves, 
 And trust not to each other. Hark I the note, 
 
 [The Shepherd's pipe m Hie distance is heard. 
 The natural music of the mountain reed — 
 For here the patriarchal days are not 
 A pastoral fable — pipes in the liberal air, 
 Mix'd with the sweet bells of the sauntering herd; 
 My soul would drink those echoes. — Oh, that I were 
 The viewless spirit of a lovely sound. 
 A living voice, a breathing harmony, 
 A bodiless enjoyment — born and dying 
 With the blest tone which made me ! 
 
 Enter from below a Chamois Hunter. 
 
 Chamois Hunter. . Even so 
 
 This way the chamois leap'd : her nimble feet 
 Have baffled me ; my gains to-day will scarce * 
 
 Eepaj' my breakneck travail. — What is here ? 
 Who seems not of my trade, and yet hath reach'd 
 A height which none even of our mountaineers. 
 Save our best hunters, may attain : his garb 
 Is goodly, his mien manly, and his air 
 Proud as a free-born peasant's, at this distance — 
 I will approach liim nearer. 
 
 Man. (not perceiving the other"). To be thus-^ 
 Gray-hair'd with anguish, like these blasted pines. 
 Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branchless, 
 A blighted trunk upon a cursed root. 
 Which but supplies a feeling to decay — 
 And to be thus, eternally but thus. 
 Having been otlierwise ! Now furrow'd o'er 
 With wrinkles, plough'd by moments, not by years 
 And hours — all tortured into ages — hours 
 Which I outlive !— Ye toppling crags of ice ! 
 Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws down 
 In mountainous o'erwhelming, come and crush me I 
 I hear ye momently above, beneath, 
 Crash with a frequent conflict ; but ye pass. 
 And only fall on things that still would live ; 
 On the young flourishing forest, or the hut 
 And hamlet of the harmless villager. 
 
 C. Hun. The mists begin to rise from up the valley ; 
 I'll warn him to descend, or he may chance 
 To lose at once his way and life together. 
 
 Man. The mists boil up around the glaciers ; clouds 
 Bise curling fast beneath me, white and sulphury. 
 Like foam from the roused ocean of deep Hell, 
 Whose every wave breaks on a living shore, 
 Heap'd with the damn'd like pebbles. — I am giddy. 
 
 C. Hun. I must approach him cautiously ; if near, 
 A sudden step will startle him, and he 
 Seems tottering already. 
 
 Man. Mountains have fallen. 
 
 Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the shock • 
 
 Rocking their Alpine brethren ; filling up 
 The ripe green valleys with destruction's splinters ; 
 Damming the rivers with a sudden dash, 
 Which crush'd the waters into mist, and made 
 Their fountains find another channel — thus, 
 Thus, in its old age, did Mount Kosenberg — 
 Why stood I not beneath it ? 
 
 C. Hun. Friend ! have a care. 
 
 Your next step may be fatal ! — for the love 
 Of Him who made you, stand not on that brink ! 
 
 Man. (not h^armg him). Such would have been for me a fitting torn! 
 My bones had then been quiet in their depth ; 
 They had not then been strewn upon the rocks 
 For the wind's pastime — as thus — thus they shall be — 
 In this one plunge. — Farewell, ye opening heavens ! 
 Look not upon me thus reproachfuUj' — 
 Ye were not meant for me — Earth ! take these atoms ! 
 
 \A.s Manfbbd is in act to spring from the cliff the Chamoi 
 Hunter seizes and retains him with a sudden grasp. 
 
 C. Hun. Hold, madman ! — though aweary of thy life. 
 Stain not our pure vales with thy guilty blood. 
 Away with me 1 will not quit my hold. 
 
 Man. I am most sick at heart — nay, grasp me not — 
 I am all feebleness — the mountains whirl 
 Spinning around me 1 grow blind ^What art thou? 
 
 C. Hun. I'll answer that anon. — Away With me 
 
 The clouds grow thicker there — now lean on me — 
 
 Place your foot here — ^here, take this staS", and cling 
 
 A moment to that shrub — now give me your hand. 
 
 And hold fast by my girdle — softly— well — 
 
 The Chalet will be gain'd within an hour — 
 
 Come on, we'll quickly find a surer footing. 
 
 And something like a pathway, which the torrent 
 
 Hath wash'd since winter. — Come, 'tis bravely done— 
 
 You should have been a hunter. — Follow me. [Theg descend the roch 
 
 THE WITCH OF THE ALPS. 
 
 ("Maufred," Act ii., Scene 2.) 
 
 A lower Yalleg in the Alps. — A Cataract. 
 
 Eater MANrKED. 
 
 It is not noon — the sunbow's rays still arch 
 
 The torrent with the many hues of heaven. 
 
 And roll the sheeted silver's waving column 
 
 O'er the crag's headlong perpendicular, 
 
 And fling its lines of foaming light along, 
 
 And to and fro, like the pale courser's tail. 
 
 The Giant steed, to be bestrode by Death, 
 
 As told in our Apocalypse. No eyes 
 
 But mine now drink this sight of loveliness ; > 
 
 I should be sole in this sweet solitude. 
 
 And with the Spirit of the place divide 
 
 The homage of these waters. — I will call her. 
 
 [Manfred takes some of the water into the palm of ii 
 hrnidj and Jlvngs it into the air^ muttering the adjura 
 tion. After a pause, the Witch of the Alps riie 
 beneath the arch of the suribow of the torrent. 
 
 Beautiful Spirit ! with thy hair of light. 
 
 And dazzling eyes of glory, in whose form 
 
 The charms of earth's least mortal daughters grow 
 
 To an unearthly stature, in an essence 
 
 Of purer elements ; while the hues of youth — 
 
 Cai-nation'd like a sleeping infant's cheek, 
 
 Eock'd by the beating of her mother's heart. 
 
 Or the rose tints, which summer's twilight leaves 
 
 Upon the lofty glacier's virgin snow. 
 
 The blush of earth embracing with her heaven 
 
 Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make tame 
 
 The beauties of the sunbow which bends o'er thee. 
 
 Beautiful Spirit ! in thy calm clear brow. 
 
 Wherein is glass'd serenity of soul. 
 
 Which of itself shows Immortality, 
 
 I read that thou wilt pardon to a Son 
 
 Of Earth, whom the abstruser powers permit 
 
 At times to commune with them — if that he 
 
 Avail liim of his spells— to call thee thus, 
 
 And gaze on thee a moment. 
 
 Witch. Son of Earth! 
 
 I know thee, and the powers which give thee power; 
 
 I know thee for a man of many thoughts. 
 
 And deeds of good and ill, extreme in both. 
 
 Fatal and fated in thy sufferings. 
 
 I have expected this— what would'st thou with me? 
 
POETKY OF BYBON. 
 
 3d 
 
 Ifaa. To look upon thy beauty — nothing further. 
 The face of the earth hath madden'd ra«, and I 
 Take refuge in her mysteries, and pierce 
 To the abodes of those "who govern her — 
 But they can nothing aid me. I have sought 
 From tliem what they could not bestow, and now 
 I search no further. 
 
 Witch. What could be the quest 
 Which is not in the power of the most powerful. 
 The rulers of the invisible ? 
 
 Man. A boon ; 
 
 iBut why should I repeat it? 'twere in vain. 
 
 Witch. I know not that ; let thy lips utter it. 
 
 Man. Well, though it torture me, 'tis but the same ; 
 My pang shall find a voice. From my youth upward 
 My spirit walk'd not with the souls of men. 
 Nor look'd upon the earth with human eyes ; 
 The thirst of their ambition was not mine, 
 The aim of their existence was not mine ; 
 My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powers. 
 Made me a stranger ; though I wore the form, 
 I had no sympathy with breathing flesh, 
 Nor midst the creatures of clay that girded me 
 
 Was there but one who but of her anon. 
 
 1 said with men, and with tile thoughts of men, 
 
 1 held but slight communion ; but instead. 
 
 My joy was in the Wilderness, to breathe 
 
 The difficult air of the iced mountain's top, 
 
 Where the birds dare not build, nor insect's wing 
 
 Flit o'er the herbless granite ; or to plunge 
 
 Into the torrent, and to roll along 
 
 On the swift whirl of the new breaking wave 
 
 Of river-stream, or ocean, in their flow. 
 
 In these. my earlj' strength exulted; or 
 
 To follow through the night the moving moon, 
 
 The stars and their development ; or catch 
 
 The dazzling lightnings till my eyes grew dim ; 
 
 Or to look, list'ning. on the scatter'd leaves. 
 
 While Autumn winds were at their evening song. 
 
 These were my pastimes, and to be alone ; 
 
 For if the beings, of whom I was one — 
 
 Hating to be so — cross'd me in my path, 
 
 1 felt myself degraded bade to them, 
 
 And was all clay again. And then I dived. 
 
 In my lone wanderings, to the caves of death. 
 
 Searching its cause in its efi'ect ; and drew 
 
 From wither'd bones, and skulls, and heap'd up dust, 
 
 Conclusions most forijidden. Then I pass'd 
 
 The nights of years in sciences untaught, 
 
 Save in the old time ; and with time and toil. 
 
 And terrible ordeal, and such penance 
 
 As in itself hath power upon the air. 
 
 And spirits that do compass air and earthy 
 
 Space, and the peopled infinite, I made 
 
 Mine eyes familiar with Eternity, 
 
 Such as, before me, did the Magi, and 
 
 He who from out their tbuutain-dwellings raised 
 
 Eros and Anteros, at Gadara, 
 
 As I do thee ; — and with my knowledge grew 
 
 The thirst of knowledge, and the power and joy 
 
 Of this most bright intelligence, until — 
 
 WUch. Proceed. 
 
 Man. Oh ! I but thus prolong'd my words. 
 
 Boasting these idle attributes, because 
 As I approach the core of my heart's grief — 
 But to my tusk. I have not named to thee 
 Father or mother, mistress, friend, or being,. 
 With whom I wore the chain of human ties ; 
 If 1 had such, they seem'd not such to me — 
 Yet there was one — 
 
 Witch. Spare not thyself— proceed. 
 
 Man. She was like me in lineaments — her eyes,. 
 Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone 
 Even of her voice, they said were like to mine ; 
 But soften'd all, and temper'd into beauty ; 
 She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings, 
 The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind 
 To comprehend the universe ; nor these 
 Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine, 
 Pity, and smiles, and tears — which I had not ; 
 And tenderness — but that I had for her ; 
 Ilnmility — and that I never had. 
 Her faults were mine — her virtues were her own — 
 I loved her, and destroy'd her ! 
 
 Witch. With thy hand? 
 
 Man. Not with my hand, but heart — which broke her beart- 
 It' gazed on mine, and wither'4. I have shed 
 Blood, but not hers— and yet her blood was shed — 
 I saw — and could not stanch it. 
 
 Witch. And for this — 
 
 A being of the race thou dost despise, 
 
 The order which thine own would rise above, 
 
 Mingling with us and ours, thou dost forego 
 
 The gifts of our great knowledge, and shrink'st back 
 
 To recreant mortality Away ! 
 
 Man. Daughter of Air 1 I tell thee, since that hour — 
 Bnt words are breath — look on me in my sleep, 
 Or watch my watchings — Come and sit by me I 
 My solitude is solitude no more. 
 But peopled with the Furies ; — I have gnash'd 
 My teeth in darknass till returning morn, 
 Then cursed myself till sunset ; — 1 have pray'd. 
 For madness as a blessing— 'tis denied me, 
 I have affronted death — but in the war 
 Of elements the waters shrunk from me. 
 And fatal things pass'd harmless — the cold hand 
 Of an all-pitiless demon held me back. 
 Back by a single hair, which would not break. 
 In fantasy, imagination, all 
 The affluence of my soul — which one day was 
 A Croesus in creation — I plunged deep, 
 But, like an ebbing wave, it dashed' me back 
 Into the gulf of my unfaihom'd thought. 
 I plunged amidst mankind— Forgetfulness 
 I sought in all, save where 'tis to be found, 
 And that I liave to learn ; — my sciences, 
 My long-pursued and superhuman art. 
 Is mortal here — I dwell in my despair — 
 And live — and live forever- 
 
 Witch. It may be 
 
 That I can aid thee. 
 
 Man. To do this, thy power 
 
 Must wake the dead, or lay me low with them. 
 Do so — in any shape — in anj' hour — 
 With any torture — so it be the last. 
 
 Witch. That is not in my province ; but if thou 
 Wilt swear obedience to my will, and do 
 My bidding, it may help thee to thy wishes. 
 
 Man. I will not swear— Obey ! and whom ? the spirits 
 Whose presence I command, and be the slave 
 Of those who served me — Never ! 
 
 Witch. Is this all? 
 
 Hast thou no gentler answer ? — ^Yet bethink thee, 
 , And pause ere thou rejectest. 
 
 Man. I have said it. 
 
 Witch. Enough ! — I may retire then — say ! 
 
 Man. Eetire [ 
 
 [_The Witch disappears. 
 
 Man. (alone). We are the fools of time and terror : Days 
 Steal on us and steal from us ; yet we live, 
 Loathing our life, and dreading still to die. 
 In all the days of this detested yoke — 
 This vital weight upon the struggling heart. 
 Which sinks with sorrow, or beats quick with pain. 
 Or joy that ends in agony or faintness — 
 In all the days of past and future, for 
 In life there is no present, we can number 
 How few — how less than few — wherein the soul 
 Forbears to pant fur death, and yet draws back 
 As from a stream in winter, though the chill 
 Be but a moment's. I have one resource 
 Still in my science — I can call the dead, 
 And ask them what it is we dread to be : 
 The sternest answer can but be the Grave, 
 And that is nothing ; — if they answer not — 
 The buried Prophet answered to the Hag 
 Of Endor ; and the Spartan Monarch drew 
 From the. Byzantine maid's unsleeping spirit 
 An answer and his destiny— he slew 
 That which he loved, unknowing what he slew. 
 And died unpardon'd — thouL^h he call'd in aid 
 The Phyxian Jove, and in Fhigalia roused 
 The Arcadian Evocators to compel 
 The indignant shadow to depose her wrath. 
 Or fix her term of vengeance— she replied 
 In words of dubious import, but fulfill'd. 
 If I had never lived, that which I love 
 Had still been living; had 1 never loved, 
 That which I love would still be beautiful- 
 Happy and giving happiness. What is she ? 
 What is she now 2 — a sufferer for mj' sins — 
 A thing I dare not think upon — or nothing. 
 Within few hours I shall not call in vain — 
 Yet in this hour I dread the thing I dare : 
 Until this hour I never shrunk to gaze 
 On spirit, good or evil — now I tremble. 
 And feel a strange cold thaw upon my heart. 
 Bnt I can act §ven what I most abhor, 
 And champion human fears. — The night approaches, 
 
 [Exit. 
 
40 
 
 POETRY OF BYEON. 
 
 ASTARTE. 
 
 ("Manfred," Act iL, Scene 4.) 
 
 The Hall of Arimanes — Arimcmes on his Throne, a Gloie of Fire, surrounded 
 hy the Spirits. 
 
 Enter the Destinies and Nemesis ; then Manfked. 
 
 A Spirit. What is here ? 
 
 A mortal ! — Thou most rash and fatal wretch ! 
 Bow down and worship ! 
 
 Second Spirit. I do know the man — 
 
 A Hagian of great power, and fearful skill ! 
 
 Third Spirit. Bow down and worship, slave ! — What, know'st thou not 
 Thine and our Sovereign ? — Tremble, and obey ! 
 
 A II the Spirits. Prostrate thyself, and thy condemned clay, 
 Child of the Earth I or dread the worst. 
 
 Man. I know it ; 
 
 And 3'et ye see I kneel not. 
 
 Fourth Spirit. 'Twill be taught thee. 
 
 Man. 'Tis taught already ; — many a night on the earth, 
 On the bare ground, have I bow'd down my face. 
 And strew'd my head with ashes ; I have known 
 The fulness of humiliation, for 
 I sunk before my vain despair, and knelt 
 To my own desolation. 
 
 Fifth Spirit. Dost thou dare 
 
 Befuse to Arimanes on his throne 
 What the whole earth accords, beholding not 
 The terror of his Glory ? — Crouch ! I say. 
 
 Man. Bid him bow down to that which is above him, 
 The overruling Infinite — the Maker 
 Who made him not for worship — let him kneel, 
 And we will kneel together. 
 
 The Spirits. Crush the worm ! 
 
 Tear him in pieces ! — 
 
 First Destiny. Hence ! Avaunt ! — he's mine. 
 
 Prince of the Powers invisible ! This man 
 Is of no common order, as his port 
 And presence here denote ; his sufferings 
 Have been of an immortal nature, like 
 Our own ; his knowledge, and his powers and wiU, 
 As far as is compatible with clay, 
 Which clogs the ethereal essence, have been such 
 As clay hath seldom borne ; his aspirations 
 Have been beyond the dwellers of the earth, 
 And they have only taught him what we know — 
 That knowledge is not happiness, and science 
 But an exchange! of ignorance for that 
 Which is another kind of ignorance. 
 This is not all — the passions, attributes 
 Of earth and heaven, from which no power, nor being, 
 Kor breath from the worm upwards is exempt, 
 Have pierced his heart ; and in theb consequence 
 Made him a thing, which I, who pity not, 
 Yet pardon those who pity. He is mine, 
 And thine, it may be — be it so, or not, 
 No other Spirit in this region hath 
 A soul like his — or power upon his soul. 
 
 Nemesis. What doth he here then ? 
 
 First Des. Let him answer that. 
 
 Man. Ye know what I have Icnown ; and without power 
 I could not be amongst ye : but there are 
 Powers deeper still beyond — I come in quest 
 Of such, to answer unto what 1 seek. 
 
 Nem. What would'st thou ? 
 
 Man. Thou canst not reply to me. 
 
 Call up the dead — my question is for them. 
 
 Nem. Great Arimanes, doth thy will avouch 
 The wishes of this mortal? 
 
 Arimanes. Yea. 
 
 Nem. Whom would'st thou 
 
 Uncharnel ? 
 
 Man. One without a tomb — call up 
 
 Astarte. 
 
 Nemesis. 
 
 Shadow! or Spirit! 
 
 Whatever thou art, 
 ■WJhich still doth inherit 
 
 The whole or a part 
 Of the form of thy birth. 
 
 Of the mould of thy clay, 
 Which return'd to the earth, 
 
 Reappear to the day I 
 Bear what thou borest. 
 
 The heart and the form, 
 And the aspect thou worest 
 
 Kedeem from the worm. 
 Appear ! — Appear! — Appear! 
 Who sent thee there requires thee here ! 
 
 [The Phantom o/ Astakte rises and stands in the midst. 
 
 Man. Can this be death? there's bloom upon her cheek; 
 But now I see it is no living hue. 
 But a strange hectic — like the unnatural red 
 Which Autumn plants upon the perish'd leaf. 
 It is the same ! Oh, God ! that I should dread 
 To look upon the same — Astarte ! — ^No, 
 I cannot speak to her— but bid her speak — 
 Forgive me or condemn me. 
 
 Nemesis. 
 By the power which hath broken 
 The grave which inthrall'd thee, 
 Speak to him who hath spoken. 
 Or those who have call'd thee ! 
 
 Man. She is sUent, 
 
 And in that silence I am more than answer'd. 
 
 Nem. My power extends no farther. Prince of air! 
 It rests with thee alone — command her voice. 
 
 Ari. Spirit — obey this sceptre! 
 
 Nem. Silent still! 
 
 She is not of our order, but belongs 
 To the other powers. Mortal ! thy quest is vain, 
 And we are baiBed also. 
 
 Man. Hear me, hear me — 
 
 Astarte ! my beloved ! speak to me : 
 I have so much endured — so much endure — 
 Look on me ! the grave hath not changed thee more 
 Than I am changed for thee. Thou lovedst me 
 Too much, as I loved thee : we were not made 
 To torture thus each other, though it were 
 The deadliest sin to love as we have loved. 
 Say that thou loath'st me not — that I do bear 
 This punishment for both — that thou wilt be 
 One of the blessed — and that I shall die ; 
 For hitherto all hateful things conspire 
 To bind me in existence — in a life 
 Which makes me shrink from immortality — 
 A future like the past. I cannot rest. 
 I know not what I ash, nor what I seek: 
 I feel but what thou art— and what I am ; 
 And I would hear yet once before I perish 
 The voice which was my music — Speak to me ! 
 For I have call'd on thee in the still night. 
 Startled the slumbering birds from the bush'd boughs, 
 And woke the mountain wolves, and made the caves 
 Acquainted with thy vainly echoed name, 
 Which answer'd me — many things answer'd me — 
 Spirits and men — but thou wert silent all. 
 Yet speak to me ! I have outwatch'd the stars. 
 And gazed o'er heaven in vain in search of thee. 
 Speak to me ! I have wander'd o'er the earth, 
 And never found thy likeness — Speak to me ! 
 Look on the fiends around — they feel for me : 
 I fear them not, and feel for thee alone — 
 Speak to me ! though it be in wrath ; — ^but say — 
 I reck not what— but let me hear thee once — 
 This once — once more ! 
 
 Phantom of Astarte. Manfred! 
 
 Man. Say on, say on — 
 
 I live but in the sound — it is thy voice ! 
 
 Phan. Manfred ! To-morrow ends thy earthly ills. 
 Farewell ! 
 
 Man. Yet one word more — am I forgiven ? 
 
 Phain. Farewell! 
 
 Man. Say, shall we meet again ? 
 
 Phan. Farewell! 
 I Man. One word for mercy ! Say, thou lovest me. 
 
 PAoM. Manfred! \TheSpiriiof XsTAXixduc^paBt. \ 
 
 Nem. She's gone, and will not be reoall'd; 
 
 Her words will be fulfiU'd. Betnrn to the earth. 
 
 A Spirit. He is convulsed— This is to be a mortal 
 And seek the things beyond mortality. 
 
 Another Spirit. Yet, see, he mastereth himself, and makes 
 His torture tributary to hi$ will. 
 Had he been one of us, he would have made 
 An awful spu'it. 
 
 Nem. Hast thou further question 
 
 Of our great sovereign, or his worshippers ? 
 
 Man. None. 
 
 Nem. Then for a time farewell. 
 
 Man. We meet then I Where ? On the earth ? 
 
 Even as thou wilt : and for the grace a9corded 
 
 I now depart a debtor. Fare ye well ! [Exit MABFEn 
 
 MANFRED'S FAREWELL TO THE SUN. 
 
 ("Manfred," Act ill., Scene a.) 
 
 Gloeious Orb! the idol 
 
 Of early nature, and the vigorous race 
 
POETRY OF BYRON. 
 
 41 
 
 Of undiseased mankind, the giant sons 
 
 Of tlie embrace of angels, with a sex 
 
 More beautiful than they, which did draw down 
 
 The erring spirits who can ne'er return — 
 
 Most glorious orb ! that wert a worship, ere 
 
 The mystery of thy making was reveal'd ! 
 
 Thou earliest minister of the Almighty, 
 
 Which gladden'd, on their mountain tops, the hearts 
 
 Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they pour'd 
 
 Themselves in orisons 1 Thou material God, 
 
 And representative of the Unknown — 
 
 Who chose thee for His shadow ! Thou chief star, 
 
 Centre of many stars I which mak'st our earth 
 
 Endurable, and temperest the hues 
 
 And hearts of all who walk within thy rays ! 
 
 Sire of the seasons ! Monarch of the climes. 
 
 And those who dwell in them ! for near or far. 
 
 Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee 
 
 Even as our outward aspects ; — thou dost rise, 
 
 And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well ! 
 
 I ne'er shall see thee more. As my first glance 
 
 Of love and wonder was for thee, then take 
 
 My latest look : thou wilt not beam on one 
 
 To whom the gifts of life and warmth have been 
 
 Of a more fatal nature. Ho is gone : 
 
 I follow. 
 
 MANFEED'S END. 
 
 (" Manfi-ed," Act iii., Scene 4.) 
 Interior of a Tower. Manfred alone. 
 The stars are forth, the moon above the tops 
 Of the snow-shining mountains. — Beautiful 1 
 I linger yet with Nature, for the night 
 Hath been to me a more familiar face 
 Than that of man ; and in her starrj' shade 
 Of dim and solitary loveliness 
 I learn' d the language of another world. 
 I do remember me, that in my youth, 
 When I was wandering — upon such a night 
 I stood within the Coliseum's wall, 
 Midst the chief relics of almighty Eome ; 
 The trees which grew along the broken arches 
 Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars 
 Shone through the rents of ruin ; from afar 
 The watch-dog bay'd beyond the Tiber ; and 
 More near from out the Caesars' palace came 
 The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly, 
 Of distant sentinels the fitful song 
 Begun and died upon the gentle wind. 
 Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach 
 Appear'd to skirt the horizon, yet they stood 
 Within a bowshot. — Where the Csesiirs dwelt, 
 And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst 
 A grove which springs through levell'd battlements. 
 And twines its roots with the imperial hearths, 
 Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth — 
 But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands, 
 A noble wreck in ruinous perfection ! 
 While Csesar's chambers, and the Angustan halls. 
 Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. 
 — And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon 
 All this, and cast a wide ^nd tender light. 
 Which soften'd down the hoar austerity 
 Of rugged desolation,, and fiU'd up. 
 As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries ; 
 Leaving that beautiful which still was so. 
 And making that which was not, till the place 
 Became religion, and the heart ran o'er 
 With silent worship of the great of old ! — 
 The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule 
 Our spirits from their urns. — 
 
 'Twas such a night ! 
 "Tis strange that 1 recall it at this time ; 
 But I have found our thoughts take wildest flight 
 Even at the moment when they should array 
 Themselves in pensive order. 
 
 JSifer the Abbot. 
 
 Abbot. My good lord I 
 
 I crave a second grace for this approach ; 
 But yet let not my humble zeal offend 
 By its abruptness — all it hath of ill 
 Becoils on me ; its good in tfie effect 
 May light upon your heai — could I say heart — 
 Could I touch thca, with words or prayers, I should 
 Becall a noble spirit which hath wander'd. 
 But is not yet all lost. 
 
 Maa~ Thouknow'st me not; 
 
 My days are number' d, and my deeds recorded : 
 Retire, or 'twill be dangerous — Away ! 
 
 Abbot, Thou doat not mean to menace me? 
 
 Man. Not I ; 
 
 I simply tell thee peril is at hand. 
 And would preserve thee. 
 
 Abbot. What dost thou mean ? 
 
 Man. Look there ! 
 
 What dost thou see ? 
 
 Abbot. Nothing. 
 
 Man.. Look there, I say, 
 
 And steadfastly— now tell me what thou seest ? 
 
 Abbot. That which should shake me — but I fear it not — 
 I see a dusk and awful figure rise. 
 Like an infernal god, from out the earth; 
 His face wrapt in a mantle, and his form 
 Eobod ps with angry clouds ; he stands between 
 Thyself and me — but I do fear him not. 
 
 Man. Thou hast no cause — he shall not harm thee — but 
 His sight may shock thine old limbs into palsy. 
 I say to thee — Retire ! 
 
 Abbot. And I reply— 
 
 Hever — till I have battled with this fiend : — 
 What doth he here ? 
 
 Man. Why — ay — what doth he here ? 
 
 I did not send for him — he is unbidden. 
 
 A bbot. Alas ! lost mortal ! what with guests like these 
 Hast thou to do? I tremble for thy sake : 
 Why doth he gaze on thee, and thou on him ? 
 Ah! he unveils his aspect: on his brow 
 The thunder-scars are graven ; from his eye 
 Glares forth the immortality of hell — 
 Avaunt ! — 
 
 Man. Pronounce — what is thy mission ? 
 
 Spirit. Come ! 
 
 Abbot. What art thou, unknown being ? answer! — speak f 
 
 Spirit. The genius of this mortal. — Come! 'tis time. 
 
 Man. I am prepared for all things, but deny 
 The power which summons me. Who sent thee here ? 
 
 Spirit. Thou'lt know anon — Come ! come ! 
 
 Man. I have commanded 
 
 Things of an essence greater far than thine, 
 And striven with thy masters. Get thee hence ! 
 
 Spirit. Mortal ! thine hour is come — Away ! I say. 
 
 Man. I knew, and know my hour is come, but not 
 To render up my soul to such as thee : 
 Awa}' ! I'll die as I have lived — alone. 
 
 Spirit. Then I must summon up my brethren. — Rise ! 
 
 \_0t1ier Spirits rise up^. 
 
 Abbot. Avaunt ! ye evil ones— Avaunt ! I saj- — 
 Ye have no power where piety hath power. 
 And I do charge ye in the name — 
 
 Spirit. Old man ! 
 
 We know ourselves, our mission, and thine order ; 
 Waste not thy holy words on idle uses. 
 It were in vain : this man is forfeited. 
 Once more I summon him — Away ! away ! 
 
 Man. I do defy ye — though I feel my soul 
 Is ebbing from me, yet I do defy ye ; 
 Nor will I hence, while I have earthly breath 
 To breathe my scorn upon ye — earthly strength 
 To wrestle, though with spirits ; what ye take 
 Shall be ta'en limb by limb. 
 
 Spirit. Reluctant mortal ! 
 
 Is this the Magian who would so pervade 
 The world invisible, and make himself 
 Almost our equal ? — Can it be that thou 
 Art thus in love with life ? the very life 
 Which made thee wretched ! 
 
 Man. Thou false fiend, thou liest I 
 
 My life is in its last hour — that I know. 
 Nor would redeem a moment of that hour ; 
 I do not combat against death, but thee 
 And thy suiTOunding angels ; my past power 
 Was purchased by no compact with thy crew. 
 But bj' superior science — penance — daring — 
 And length of watching— strength of mind — and skill 
 In knowledge of our fathers— when the earth 
 Saw men and spirits walking side by side, 
 And gave ye no supremacy : I stand 
 Upon my strength — I do defy — deny — 
 Spurn back, and scorn ye ! — 
 
 Spirit. But thy many crimes 
 
 Have made thee — 
 
 Man. What are they to such as thee ?' 
 
 Must crimes he punish'd but by other crimes, 
 And greater criminals ? — Back to thy hell ! 
 Thou hast no power upon me, that I feel ; 
 Thou never shalt possess me, that I know : 
 What I have done is done ; I bear within 
 A torture which could nothing gain from thine t 
 
POETRY OF BYRON. 
 
 The minii which is immortal makes itself 
 
 Requital for its good or evil thoughts — 
 
 Is its own origin of ill and end — 
 
 And its own place and time — its innate sense, 
 
 When stripp'd of this mortality, derives 
 
 No color from the fleeting things without ; 
 
 But is absorb'd in sufiperance or in joy, 
 
 Born from the knowledge of its own desert. 
 
 Thou didst not tempt me, and thou couldst not tempt me ; 
 
 I have not been thy dupe, nor am thy prey — 
 
 But was my own destroyer, and will be 
 
 My own hereafter. — Back, ye baffled fiends ! 
 
 The hand of death is on me — but not }'0urs ! 
 
 [Tke Demons disappear. 
 
 Ahiot. Alas! how pale thou. art — thy lips are white— 
 And thy breast heaves — and in thy gasping throat 
 The accents rattle. — Give thy prayers to Heaven- 
 Pray — albeit but in thought — but die not thus. 
 
 Man. 'Tis over — my dull eyes can fix thee not; 
 But all things swim around me, and the earth 
 Heaves as it were beneath me. Fare thee well — 
 Give me thy hand. 
 
 Abbot. Cold — cold-^ven to the heart — 
 
 But yet one prayer — Alas ! how f,ires it with thee ? 
 
 Man. Old man ! 'tis not so difficult to die. 
 
 [Manfbbd expires. 
 
 DYING SPEECH OF THE DOGE OF VENICE. 
 
 ("Marino Faliei'o," Act v.. Scene 3.) 
 
 I 8FGAK to Time and to Eternity, 
 
 Of which I grow a portion, not to man. 
 
 Te elements I in which to be resolved 
 
 I hasten, let my voice be as a spirit 
 
 Upon you ! Ye blue waves ! which bore my banner. 
 
 Ye winds ! which ilutter'd o'er as if you loved it. 
 
 And lill'd my swelling sails as, they were wafted 
 
 To many a triumph ! Thou, my native earth, 
 
 Which I have bled for, and thou foreign earth. 
 
 Which drank this willing blood from many a wound! 
 
 Ye stones, in which my gore will not sink, but 
 
 Beek up to Heaven ! Ye skies, which will receive it ! 
 
 Thou sun ! which shinest on these things, and Thou ! 
 
 Who kindlest and who quenchest suns! — Attest ! 
 
 I am not innocent — but are these guiltless ? 
 
 I perish, but not unavenged ; far ages 
 
 Float up from the abj'ss of time to be. 
 
 And show these eyes, before they close, the doom 
 
 Of this proud city, and I leave my curse 
 
 On her and hers forever ! Yes, the hours 
 
 Are silently engendering of the day. 
 
 When she, who built 'gainst Attila a bulwark. 
 
 Shall yield, and bloodlessly and basely yield 
 
 Unto a bastard Attila, without 
 
 Shedding so much blood in her last defence 
 
 As these old veins, oft drain'd in shielding her. 
 
 Shall pour in sacrifice. She shall be bought 
 
 And sold, and be an appanage to those 
 
 Who shall despise her ! — She shall stoop to be 
 
 A province for an empire, petty town 
 
 In lieu of capital, with slaves for senates, 
 
 Beggars for nobles, panders for a people I 
 
 Then when the Hebrew's in thy palaces. 
 
 The Hun in thy high places, and the Greek 
 
 Walks o'er thy mart, and smiles on it for his ! 
 
 When thy patricians beg their bitter bread 
 
 In narrow streets, and in their shameful need 
 
 Make their nobility a plea for ftity 1 
 
 Then, when the few who still retain a wreck 
 
 Of their great fathers' heritage shall fawn 
 
 Bound a barbarian Vice of Kings' Vicegerent, 
 
 Even in the palace where they sway'd as sovereigns, 
 
 Even in the palace where they slew their sovereign. 
 
 Proud of some name they have disgraced, or sprung 
 
 From an adulteress boastful of her guilt 
 
 With some large gondolier or foreign soldier. 
 
 Shall bear about their bastardy in triumph 
 
 To the third spurious generation ; — when 
 
 Thy sons are in the lowest scale of being. 
 
 Slaves turn'd o'er to the vanquish'd by the viotoWi 
 
 Despised by cowards for greater cowardice, 
 
 And scorn'd even by the vicious for such vices 
 
 As in the monstrous grasp of their conception 
 
 Defy all codes to image or to name them ; 
 
 When all the ills of «onquer'd states shall cling thee. 
 
 Vice without splendor, sin without relief 
 
 Even from the gloss of love to smooth it o'or. 
 
 But in its stead, coarse Insts of habitude. 
 
 Prurient yet passionless, cold studied lewdness. 
 
 Depraving nature's frailty to an art ; — 
 
 When these and more are heavy on thee, when 
 
 Smiles without mirth, and pastimes without pleasure. 
 
 Youth without honor, age without respect, 
 
 Meanness and weakness, and a sense of woe 
 
 'Gainst which thou wilt not strive, and dar'st not munmir. 
 
 Have made thee last and worst of peopled deserts — 
 
 Then, in the last gasp of thine agony. 
 
 Amidst thy many murders, think of mine! 
 
 Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes ! 
 
 Gehenna of the waters ! thou sea Sodom ! 
 
 Thus 1 devote thee to the infernal gods ! 
 
 Thee and thy serpent seed ! 
 
 DEATH OF SALEMENES. , 
 
 ("Sardanapalus," Act v., Scene i.) 
 
 To Myrrha and Balea, enter Soldiers, bearing in Salemenes 
 mth a brolcen javelm in his side! they seal him upon one of the 
 which furnish the apartment. 
 
 Then all is over. 
 
 Myr. Oh, Jove ! 
 
 Bal. ■ 
 
 Sal. That is false. 
 
 Hew down the slave who says so, if a soldier. 
 
 Mgr. Spare him — he's none : a mere court butterfly. 
 That flutters in the pageant of a monarch. 
 
 Sal. Let him live on, then. 
 
 Mt/r. So wilt thou, I trust. 
 
 Sal. 1 fain would live this hour out, and the event, 
 But doubt it. Wherefore did ye bear me here? 
 
 Sol. By the king's order. When the javelin struck yon, 
 You fell and fainted : 'twas his strict command 
 To bear you to this hall. 
 
 Sal. 'Twas not ill done : 
 
 For seeming slain in that cold dizzy trance. 
 The sight might shake our soldiers — but — 'tie vain, 
 I feel it ebbing ! 
 
 Myr. Let me see the wound ; 
 
 I am not quite skilless : in my native land 
 'Tis part of our instruction. War being constant, 
 We are nerved to look on such things. 
 
 Sol. Best extract 
 
 The javelin. 
 
 Myr, Hold ! no, no, it cannot be. 
 
 Sal. I am sped, then ! 
 
 Myr. With the blood that &st must follow 
 
 The extracted weapon, I do fear thy life. 
 
 Sal. And I not death. Where was the king when yon 
 Convey'd me from the spot where I was stricken ? 
 
 Sol. Upon the same ground, and encouraging 
 With voice and gesture the dispirited troops 
 Who hadiseen you fall, and falter'd back. 
 
 Sal. Whom heard ye 
 
 Named next to the command ? 
 
 Sol. I did not hear. 
 
 Sal. Fly, then, and tell him, 'twas my last request 
 That Zames take my pest until the junction, 
 ■So hoped for, yet delay'd, of Ofratanes, 
 Satrap of Susa. Leave me here ; our troops 
 Are not so numerous as to spare your absence. 
 
 Sol. But prince — 
 
 Sal. Hence, I say ! Here's a conrtier and 
 
 A woman, the best chamber company. 
 As you would not permit me to expire 
 Upon the field, I'll have no idle soldiers 
 About my sick couch. Hence ! and do my bidding! 
 
 lExeimt ^ Soldasrs, 
 
 Myr. Gallant and glorious spirit ! must the earth 
 So soon resign thee ? 
 
 Sal. Gentle Myrrha, 'tis 
 
 The end I would have chosen had I saved 
 The monarch or the monarchy by this ; 
 As 'tis, I have not outlived them. 
 
 J^fgr. You wax paler. 
 
 Sal. Your hand ; this broken weapon but prolongs 
 My pangs, without sustaining life enough 
 To make me useful ; I would draw it forth. 
 And my lifis with it, could I but hear how 
 The fight goes. 
 
 Enter Sardanapalus and Soldiers. 
 Sar. My best broljier ! 
 
 ^«'- And the battlo 
 
 Is lost? 
 
 Sar. (de^tndin^ly). You see nie here. 
 
 '^"'- I'd rather see you Htutf 
 
 [^He draws out tlie weapon from (he wmmi, tat&&>^ 
 
POETRY OF BYRON. 
 
 43 
 
 DEATH OF JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 • ("Two Foscari," Act iv., Scene i.) 
 
 Ucer and Guardt. 
 
 [He dies. 
 
 To Jacopo Foscaki, Marina, and the Doqe, enter an ( 
 
 Offi. SiQNOR ! the boat is at the shore— the wind 
 Is rising — we are ready to attend you. 
 
 Jac. Fos. And I to be attended. Once more, father, 
 Your hand. 
 
 Doge. Talte it. Alas ! how thine own trembles ! 
 
 Jac. Fos. No — you mistake ; 'tis yours that shalces, my father. 
 Farewell ! 
 
 Doge. Farewell ! Is there aught else ? 
 
 Jac. Fos. No— nothing. 
 
 [To the Officer. 
 Lend me your arm, good signer. 
 
 Offi. You turn pale — 
 
 Let me support you — paler— ho ! some aid there ! 
 Some water ! 
 
 Mar, Ah, he is dying ! 
 
 Jac. Fos. Now, I'm ready — 
 
 My eyes swim strangely — where's the door ? 
 
 Mar. Away ! 
 
 Let me support him — my best love ! Oh, God ! 
 How faintly beats this heart — this pulse ! 
 
 Jac. Fos. The light ! 
 
 Is it the light ? — I am faint, [Officer presents him with water, 
 
 Offi. He will be better. 
 
 Perhaps, in the air. 
 
 Jac. Fos. I doubt not Father— wife— 
 
 Your hands. 
 
 Mar. There's death in that damp, clammy grasp. 
 Oh, God! — My Foscari, bow fare you? 
 
 Jac. Fos. Well ! 
 
 Cfffi. He's gone ! 
 
 Doge. He's free. 
 
 Mar, No — no, he is not dead ; 
 
 There must be life yet in that heart— he could not 
 Thus leave me. 
 
 Doge, Daughter ! 
 
 Mar. Hold thy peace, old man r 
 
 I am no daughter now — thou hast no son. 
 Oh, Foscari ! 
 
 Offi. We must remove the body. 
 
 Mar, Touch it not, dungeon miscreants ! your base office 
 Ends with his life, and goes not beyond murder. 
 Even by your murderous laws. Leave his remains 
 To those who know to honor them. 
 
 Offi. I must 
 
 Inform the Signory, and learn their pleasure. 
 
 Doge. Inform the Signorj', from me, the Doge, 
 They have no further power upon those ashes : 
 While he lived, he was theirs, as fits a subject — 
 Now he is mine — my broken-hearted boy ! 
 
 Mar. And I must live ! 
 
 Doge. Your children live, Marina. 
 
 Mur. My children ! true — they live, and I must live 
 To bring them up to serve the state, and die 
 As died their father. Oh ! what best of blessings 
 Were barrenness in Venice ! Would my mother 
 Had been so ! 
 
 Doge, My unhappy children ! 
 
 Mar, What ! 
 
 Tou feel it then at last— joa .' — ^Where is now 
 The stoic of the state ? 
 
 Doge (ihrovAng himself down by the body). Here ! 
 
 Mar. 
 I thought you had no tears — you hoarded them 
 Until they are useless ; but weep on ! he never 
 Shall weep more — never, never more. 
 
 {^Exk Officer. 
 
 Ay, weep on I 
 
 CAIN AND LUCIFER IN THE ABYSS OF SPACE. 
 
 ("Cain," Act ii.. Scene 1.) 
 
 Cain. Oh, god, or demon, or whate'er thou art. 
 Is yon our earth ? 
 
 Lucifer. Dost thou not recognize 
 
 The dust which form'd your father ? 
 
 Cain. Can it be ? 
 
 Yon small blue circle, swinging in far ether. 
 With an inferior circlet near it still. 
 Which looks like that which lit our earthly night? 
 Is this our Paradise? Where are its walls. 
 And they who guard them ? 
 
 Lucifer, Point me out the site 
 
 Of Paradise. 
 
 Cain, How should I ? As we move 
 
 Like sunbeams onward, it grows small and smaller, 
 
 And, as it waxes little, and then less, 
 Gathers a halo round it, like the light 
 Which shone the roundest of the stars, when I 
 Beheld them from the skirts of Paradise : 
 Methinks they both, as we recede from them, 
 Appear to join the innumerable stars 
 Which are around us ; and, as we move on. 
 Increase their myriads. 
 
 Lucifer. And if there should be 
 
 Worlds greater than thine own, inhabited 
 By greater things, and they themselves far more 
 In number than the dust of i hy dull earth. 
 Though multiplied to animated atoms, 
 All living, and all doom'd to death, and wretched. 
 What wouldst thou think? 
 
 Cain. I should be proud of thought 
 
 Which knew such things. 
 
 Lucifer. But if that high thought were 
 
 Link'd to a servile mass of matter, and, 
 Knowing such things, aspiring to such things. 
 And science still beyond them, were chain'd down 
 To the most gross and petty paltry wants, 
 All foul and fulsome, and the very best 
 Of thine enjoyments a sweet degradation, 
 A most enervating and filthy cheat 
 To lure thee on to the renewal of 
 Fresh souls and bodies, all foredoom'd to be 
 As frail, and few so happy — 
 
 Cain, Spirit! I 
 
 Know naught of death, save as a dreadful thing 
 Of which I have heard my parents speak, as of 
 A hideous heritage [ owe to them 
 No less than life ; a heritage not happy, 
 If I may judge, till now. But, spirit! if 
 It be as thou hast said (and I within 
 Feel the prophetic torture of its truth), 
 Here let me die : for to give birth to those 
 Who can but suffer many years, and die, 
 Methinks is merely propagating death. 
 And multiplying murder. 
 
 Lucifer. Thou canst not 
 
 All die — there is what must survive. 
 
 Cwn, The other 
 
 Spake not of this unto my father, when 
 He shut him forth from Paradise, with death 
 Written upon his forehead. But at least 
 Let what is mortal of me perish, that 
 I may he in the rest as angels are. 
 
 Lucifer, I am angelic : wouldst thou be as I am ? 
 
 Cain. I know not what thou art : I see thy power. 
 And see thou show'st me things beyond my power. 
 Beyond all power of my born faculties. 
 Although inferior still to my desires 
 And my conceptions, 
 
 Lucnfer. What are they which dwell 
 
 So humbly in their pride, as to sojourn 
 With worms in clay ? 
 
 Cain. And what art thou who dwellest 
 
 So haughtily in spirit, and canst range 
 Nature and immortality — and yet 
 Seem'st sorrowful ? 
 
 Luafer, I seem that which I am ; 
 
 And therefore do I ask of thee, if thou 
 Wouldst be immortal ? 
 
 Cain, Thou hast said, I must be 
 
 Immortal in despite of me, I knew not 
 This until lately — but since it must be, 
 Let me, or happy or unhappy, learn 
 To anticipate my immortality. 
 
 Lucifer. Thou didst before I came upon thee. 
 
 Cain. How ? 
 
 Lucifer. By suffering, 
 
 Ccdn. And must torture be immortal ? 
 
 Lucifer. We and thy sons will try. But now behold ! 
 Is it not glorious ? 
 
 Cairn. Oh, thou beautiful 
 
 And unimaginable ether ! and 
 Ye multiplying masses of increased 
 And still increasing lights ! what are ye ? what 
 Is this blue wilderness of interminable 
 Air, where ye roll along, as I have seen 
 The leaves along the limpid streams of Eden ? 
 Is your course measured for ye ? Or do ye 
 Sweep on in your unbounded revelry 
 Through an aerial universe of endless 
 Expansion — at which my soul aches to think — 
 Intoxicated with eternity ? 
 Oh God ! Oh Gods I or whatsoe'er ye are ! 
 How beautiful ye are ! how beautiful 
 Your works, or accidents, or whatsoe'er 
 They may be t Let me die, as atoms die, 
 
44 
 
 POETRY OF BYRON. 
 
 (If that they die) or know ye in your might 
 And knowledge ! My thoughts are not in this hour 
 Unworthy what I see, though my dust is ; 
 Spirit ! let me expire, or see them nearer. 
 
 Lucifer. Art thou not nearer ? look back to thine earth ! 
 
 Cam. Where is it? I see nothing save a mass 
 Of most innumerable lights. 
 
 Lwdftr. Look there ! 
 
 Cam. I cannot see it. 
 
 Lucifer. Yet it sparkles still. 
 
 Cain. That!— yonder! 
 
 Lucifer. Yea. 
 
 Caiai. And wilt thou tell me so .' 
 
 Why, I have seen the fire-flies and fire-worms 
 Sprinkle the dusky groves and the green banks 
 In the dim twilight, brighter than j'on world 
 Which bears them. 
 
 1/ucifer. Thou hast seen both worms and worlds, 
 
 Each bright and sparkling — what dost think of them ? 
 
 Cam. That they are beautiful in their own sphere. 
 And that the night, which makes both beautiful, 
 The little shining fire-fly in its flight. 
 And the immortal star in its great course. 
 Must botli be guided. 
 
 Ludfer. But by whom or what ? 
 
 Cain. Show me. 
 
 Ludfir. Dar'st thou behold ? 
 
 Cain. How know I what 
 
 I dare heboid ? As yet, thou hast shown naught 
 I dare not gaze on further. 
 
 Lucifer. On, then, with me. 
 
 CAIN AND ADAH. 
 
 (" Cnin," Act iii.. Scene 1.) 
 
 Adah. Hush! tread softly, Cain. 
 
 Cam. I will ; hut wherefore ? 
 
 Adah. Our little Enoch sleeps upon yon bed 
 Of leaves, beneath the cypress. 
 
 Cain. Cypress ! 'tis 
 
 A gloomy tree, which looks as if it mourn'd 
 O'er what it shadows; wherefore didst thou choose it 
 For our child's canopy ? 
 
 Adah. Because its branches 
 
 Shut out the sun like night, and therefore seem'd 
 Fitting to shadow slumber. 
 
 Cain. Ay, the last — 
 
 And longest; hut no matter — lead me to him. 
 
 [rAey go up to the child. 
 How lovely he appears ! his little cheeks. 
 In their pure incarnation, vying with 
 The rose-leaves strewn beneath them. 
 
 Adah. And his lips, too. 
 
 How beautifully parted ! No ; you shall not 
 Kiss him, at least not nov,' : he will awake soon — 
 His hour of mid-day rest is nearly over ; 
 But it were pity to disturb him till 
 'Tis closed. 
 
 Cain. You have said well ; I will contain 
 
 My heart till then. He smiles, and sleeps ! — Sleep on 
 And smile, thou little, young inheritor 
 Of a world scarce less young : sleep on, and smile ! 
 Thine are the hours and days when both are cheering 
 And innocent ! thou hast not pluck'd the fruit — 
 Thou know'st not thou art naked ! Must the time 
 Come thou shalt be amerced for sins unknown. 
 Which were not thine nor mine? But now sleep on ! 
 His cheeks are reddening into deeper smiles. 
 And shining lids are trembling o'er his long 
 Lashes, dark as the cypress which waves o'er them ; 
 Half open, from beneath them the clear blue 
 Laughs out, although in slumber. He must dream — 
 Of what? Of Paradise !— Ay ! dream of it, 
 My disinherited boy ! 'Tis but a dream ; 
 For never more thyself, thy sons, nor fathers. 
 Shall walk in that forbidden place of joy ! 
 
 Adah. Dear Cain ! Nay, do not whisper o'er our son 
 Such melancholy yearnings o'er the past : 
 Why wilt thou always mourn for Paradise ? 
 Can we not make another ? 
 
 Cain. Where? 
 
 Adah. Here, or 
 
 Where'er thou wilt : where'er thou art, I feel not 
 The want of this so much regretted Eden. 
 Have I not thee, our boy, our sire, and brother, 
 And Zillah — our sweet sister, and our Eve, 
 To whom we owe so much besides our birth ? 
 
 Cain. Yes — death, too, is among the debts we owe her. 
 
 Adah. Cain! that proud spirit, who withdrew thee hence. 
 Hath sadden'd thine still deeper. I had hoped 
 The promifsed wonders which thou hast beheld. 
 Visions, thou say'st, of past and present worlds, 
 Would have composed thy mind into the calm 
 Of a contented knowledge ; but I see 
 Thy guide hath done thee evil ; still I thank him. 
 And can forgive him all, that he so soon 
 Hath given thee hack to us. 
 
 Cairn. So soon ? 
 
 Adah. 'Tis scarcely 
 
 Two hours since ye departed : two long hours 
 To me, but only hours upon the sun. 
 
 Cam. And yet I have approach'd that sun, and seen 
 Worlds which he once shone on, and never more 
 Shall light ; and worlds ho never lit : methought 
 Years had roU'd o'er my absence. 
 
 Adah. Hardly hours. 
 
 Cain. The mind then hath capacity of time. 
 And measures it by that which it beholds,. 
 Pleasing or painful ; little or almighty. 
 I had beheld the immemorial works 
 Of endless beings : skirr'd extinguish'd worlds ; 
 And, gazing on eternity, methought 
 I had borrow'd more hy a few drops of ages 
 From its immensity : but now I feel 
 My littleness again. Well said the spirit. 
 That I was nothing ! 
 
 Adah. Wherefore said he so ? 
 
 Jehovah said not that. 
 
 Caim. No : he contents him 
 
 With making us the nothing which we are ; 
 And after flattering dust with glimpses of 
 Eden and Immortality, resolves 
 It back to dust again — for what ? 
 
 Adah. Thou know'st — 
 
 Even for our parents' error. 
 
 Cain. What is that 
 
 To us ? they sinn'd, then let them die ! 
 
 Adah. Thou hast not spoken well, nor is that thought 
 Thy own, but of the spirit who was with thee. 
 Would / could die for them, so they might live ! 
 
 Cain. Why, so say I — provided that one victim 
 Might satiate the insatiable of life. 
 And that our little rosy sleeper there 
 Might never taste of death nor human sorrow. 
 Nor hand it down to those who spring from him. 
 
 Adah. How know we that some such atonement one day 
 Ma3' not redeem our race ? 
 
 Cain. Bj' sacrificing 
 
 The harmless for the guilty ? what atonement 
 Were there ? why, we are innocent : what have we 
 Done, that we must be victims for a deed 
 Before our birth, or need have victims to 
 Atone for this mysterious, nameless sin — 
 If it be such a sin to seek for knowledge ? 
 
 Adah. Alas ! thou sinnest now, my Cain : thy words 
 Sound impious in mine ears. 
 
 Cain. Then leave me I 
 
 Adah. Never, 
 
 Though thy God left thee. 
 
 Cain. Say, what have we here ? 
 
 Adah. Two altars, which our brother Abel made 
 During thine absence, whereupon to ofier 
 A sacrifice to God on thy return. 
 
 Cain. And how knew he that / would be so ready 
 With the burnt offerings, which he daily brings 
 With a meek brow, whose base humility 
 Shows more of fear than worship, as a bribe 
 To the Creator ? 
 
 Adah. Surely, 'tis well done. 
 
 Cain. One altar may suffice ; / have no mfiFering. 
 
 Adah. The fruits of the earth, the early, beautiful 
 Blossom and bud, and bloom of flowers, and fruits ; 
 These are a goodly oflFering to the Lord, 
 Given with a gentle and a contrite spirit. 
 
 Caim. I have toil'd, and till'd, and sweaten in the sun. 
 According to the curse : — must I do more ? 
 For what should I be gentle ? for a war 
 With all the elements ere they will yield 
 The bread we eat ? For what must I be grateful ? 
 For being dust, and grovelling in the dust, 
 Till I return to dust ? If I am nothing — 
 For nothing shall I be an hypocrite. 
 And seem well-pleased with pain ? For what should I 
 Be contrite ? for my father's sin, already 
 Expiate with what we all have undergone. 
 And to be more than expiated by 
 The ages prophesied, upon our seed. 
 Little deems our young blooming sleeper, there, 
 The germs of an eternal misery 
 
POETRY OF BYRON. 
 
 45" 
 
 To myriads is within Wm ! better 'twere 
 
 I snatch'd him in his sleep, and dash'd him 'gainst. 
 
 The rocks, than let him live to— 
 
 Adah. Oh, my God! 
 
 Touch not the child— my child 1 % child ! Oh, Cain ! 
 
 Cam. Fear not ! for all the stars, and all the power 
 Which sways them, I would not accost yon infant 
 AVith ruder greeting than a father's kiss. 
 
 Adah. Then, why so awful in thy speech ? 
 
 Cain. I said, 
 
 "Twere better that ho ceased to live, than give 
 Life to so much of sorrow as he must 
 Endure, and, harder still, bequeath ; but since 
 That saying jars you, let us only say — 
 'Twere better that he never had been born. 
 
 Adah. Oh, do not say so ! AVTiere were then the joys. 
 The mother's joys of watching, nourishing. 
 And loving him ? Soft ! he awakes. Sweet Enoch ! 
 
 [<SAe goes to the child. 
 Oh, Cain ! look on him ; see how full of life, 
 Of strength, of bloom, of beauty, and of joy, 
 How like to me — how like to thee, when gentle. 
 
 For then we are all alike ; is't not so, Cain? 
 Mother, and sire, and son, our features are 
 Reflected in each other ; as they are 
 In the clear waters, when the^ are gentle, and 
 When thou art gentle. Love us, then, my Cain I 
 And love thyself for our sakes, for we love thee. 
 Look! how he laughs and stretches out his arms. 
 And opens wide his blue eyes upon thine, 
 To hail his father ; while his little form 
 Flutters as wing'd with joy. Talk not of pain ! 
 The childless cherubs well might envy thee 
 The pleasures of a parent ! Bless him, Cain ! 
 As yet he hath no words to thank thee, but 
 His heart will, and thine own too. 
 
 Cain. Bless thee, boy 1 
 
 If that a mortal blessing may avail thee. 
 To save thee from the serpent's curse ! 
 
 Adah. It shall. 
 
 Surely a father's blessing may avert 
 A reptile's subtlety. 
 
 Cain. Of that I doubt ; 
 
 But bless him ne'er the less. 
 
 IV.-SATIRIC. 
 
 FAME. 
 
 Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story ; 
 The days of our youth are the days of our glory ; 
 And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty 
 Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. 
 
 What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled ? 
 'Tis but as a dead-flower with May-dew besprinkled. 
 Then away with all such from the head that is hoary ! 
 What care I for the wreaths that can on% give glory ? 
 
 Oh, Fame ! — if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 
 'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases. 
 Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover 
 She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. 
 
 T/iere chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee ; 
 Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee ; 
 When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, 
 I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. 
 
 WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOS TO 
 ABYDOS. 
 
 If, in the month of dark December, 
 
 Leander, who was nightly wont 
 (What maid will not the tale remember ?) 
 
 To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont ! 
 
 If, when the wintry tempest roar'd, 
 
 He sped to Hero, nothing loath, 
 And thus of old thy current pour'd, 
 
 Fair Venus ! how I pity both ! 
 
 For me, degenerate modern wretch, 
 
 Though in the genial month of May, 
 My dripping limbs I faintly stretch. 
 
 And think I've done a feat to-day. 
 
 But since he cross'd the rapid tide, 
 
 According to the doubtful story. 
 To woo — and — Lord knows what beside, 
 
 And swam for Love, as I for glory ; 
 
 'Twere hard to say who fared the best : 
 
 Sad mortals ! thus the Gods still plague you ! 
 
 He lost his labor, I my jest : 
 
 For he was drown'd, and I've the ague. 
 
 ON MY THIRTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY. 
 
 January 22, 1821. 
 
 Thkohgh life's dull road, so dim and dirty, 
 I have dragg'd to three-and-thirty. 
 What have these years left to me ? 
 Nothing — except thirty-three. 
 
 to MR. MURRAY. 
 
 Fob Orford and for Waldegrave 
 
 You give much more than me you gave ; 
 
 Which is not fairly to behave, 
 
 My Murray. 
 
 Because if a live dog, 'tis said. 
 Be worth a lion fairly sped, 
 A live lord must be worth two dead. 
 My Murray. 
 
 And if, as the opinion goes. 
 Verse hath a better sale than prose — ■ 
 Oertes, I should have more than those. 
 My Murray. 
 
 But now this sheet is nearly cramm'd, 
 So, itt/ou will, I sha'n't be shamm'd ; 
 And if you won\ you may be damn'd, 
 My Murray. 
 
 EPISTLE FROM MR. MURRAY TO DR. POLIDORI. 
 
 Deak Doctor, I have read your play, 
 Which is a good one in its way : 
 Purges the cj'es and moves the bowels. 
 And drenches handkerchiefs like towels 
 With tears, that, in a flux of grief. 
 Afford hysterical relief 
 To shatter'd nerves and qnicken'd pulses, 
 Which your catastrophe convulses. 
 
 I like your moral and machinery ; 
 Your plot, too, has such scope for scenery ; 
 Your dialogue is apt and smart ; 
 The play's concoction full of art; 
 Your hero raves, your heroine cries. 
 All stab, and everybody dies. 
 In short, your tragedy would be 
 The very thing to hear and see : 
 And for a piece of publication. 
 If I decline on this occasion. 
 It is not that I am not sensible 
 To merits in themselves ostensible. 
 But — and I grieve to speak It — plays 
 Are drugs — mere drugs, sir — nowadays. 
 I had a heavy loss by " Manuel " — 
 Too lucky if it prove not annual — 
 And Sotheby, with his " Orestes " 
 (Which, by-the-bye, the author's best is), 
 Has lain so very long on hand 
 That I despair of all demand. 
 I've advertised, but see my books. 
 Or only watch my shopman's looks — 
 Still Ivan, Ina, and such lumber, 
 My back-shop glut, my shelves encumber. 
 
 There's Byron, too, who once did better, 
 Has sent me, folded in a letter, 
 
46 
 
 POETRY OF BYEON. 
 
 A sort of— it's no more a drama 
 
 Than " Darnley," "Ivan," or "Kehama •" 
 
 So alter'd since last year his pen is, 
 
 I think he's lost his wits at Venice. 
 
 In short, sir, what with one and t'other, 
 
 I dare nut venture on another. 
 
 I write in haste ; excuse each blunder ; 
 
 The coaches through the street so thunder I " 
 
 My room's so full — we've Gifford here 
 
 Beading MS., with Hooliham Fnre, 
 
 Pi onouncing on the nouns and particles 
 
 Of some of our forthcoming articles. 
 
 The Quarterly— Ah, sir, if you 
 Had but the genius to review i 
 A smart critique upon St. Helena, 
 Or if you only would but tell in a 
 
 Short compass what But, to resume : 
 
 As I was saying, sir, tlie room — 
 
 The room's so full of wits and bards, 
 
 Crabhes, Caimpbells, Crokers, Freres, and Wards, 
 
 And others, neither bards nor wits — 
 
 My humble tenement admits 
 
 All persons in the dress of gent.. 
 
 From Mr. Hammond to Dog Dent. 
 
 A party dines with me to-day, 
 All clever men, who make their way; 
 Crabbe, Malcolm, Hamilton, and Chantrey, 
 Are all partakers of my pantry. 
 They're at this moment in discussion 
 On poor De Stael's late dissolution. 
 Her book, they say, was in advance — 
 Pray heaven, she tell the truth of France I 
 Thus run our time and tongues away. 
 But, to return, sir, to your play : 
 Sorry, sir, but I can not deal. 
 Unless 'twere acted by O'Neill. 
 My hands so full, my head so busy, 
 I'm almost dead, and always dizzy ;'' 
 And so, with endless truth and hurry, 
 Dear Doctor, I am yours, 
 
 John Mubbat. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of the times, 
 Patron and publisher of rhymes. 
 For thee the bard up Pindus climbs. 
 My Murray. 
 
 To thee, with hope and terror dumb, 
 The unfledged MS. authors come; 
 Thou printest all— and sellest some — 
 My Murray. 
 
 Upon thy table's baize so green 
 The last new Quarterly is seen,^— 
 But where is thy new Magazine, 
 My Murray? 
 
 Along thy sprucest bookshelves shine 
 The works thou deemest most divine — 
 The "Art of Cookery," and mine. 
 My Murray. 
 
 Tours, Travels, Essays too, I wist, 
 And Sermons to thy mill brins grist; 
 And then thou hast the "Navy List," 
 My Murray. 
 
 And Heaven forbid I should conclude 
 "Without " the Board of Longitude," 
 Although this narrow paper would. 
 My Murray I 
 
 HOLLAND HOUSE. 
 
 (Fr<mi "English Baids and Scotch Reviewers.") 
 
 Ili-usteioos Holland ! hard would be his lot, 
 His hirelin j;s mention'd, and himself forgot 1 
 Holland, with Henry Petty at his back. 
 The whipper-in and huntsman of the pack. 
 Blest be the banquet spread at Holland House, 
 Where Scotchmen feed, and critics may carousel 
 Long, long beneath that hospitable roof 
 Shall Grub-street dine, while duns are kept aloof. 
 
 See honest Hallam lay aside his fork, 
 Besume his pen, review his Lordship's work. 
 And, grateful for the dainties on his plate. 
 Declare his landlord can at least translate ! 
 Dunedin 1 view thy children with delight, 
 They write for food— and feed because they write :; 
 And lest, when heati^d 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, 
 Eeforms each error, and refines the whole. 
 
 EPILOGUE TO 
 
 ENGLISH BAEDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 THns far I've held my undisturb'd career. 
 Prepared for rancor, steel'd 'gainst selfish fear : 
 This thing of rhyme I ne'er disdain'd to own — 
 Though not obtrusive, yet not quite unknown : 
 My voice was heard again, though not so loud. 
 My page, though nameless, never disavow'd ; 
 And now at once I tear the veil away : — 
 Cheer on the pack I 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, Hallam's rage, 
 Edina's brawny sons and brimstone page. 
 Our men in buckram shall have blows enough, 
 And feel they too are "penetrable stuff;" 
 And though I hope not hence unscathed to go. 
 Who conquers me shall find a stubborn foe. 
 The time hath been, when no harsh sound would fall 
 From lips that now may seem imbued with gall; 
 Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise 
 The meanest thing that crawl'd beneath my eyest 
 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 once 
 To Scotch marauder, and to Southern dunce. 
 
 THE LANDED INTEREST. 
 
 (" Age of Bronie," Stanza 14.) 
 
 Alas, the country I how shall tongue or pen 
 
 Bewail her now ancountry gentlemen ? 
 
 The last to bid the cry oi warfare cease. 
 
 The first to make a malady of peace. 
 
 For what were all these country patriots born ? 
 
 To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn? 
 
 But corn, like every mortal thing, must fait; 
 
 Kings, conquerors — and markets most of all. 
 
 And must ye fall with ever\* ear of grain ? 
 
 Why would you trouble Bonaparte's rei^ ? 
 
 He was your great Triptolemus ; his vices 
 
 Destroy'd but realms, and still maintain'd your prices ; 
 
 He amplified to every lord's content 
 
 The grand agrarian alchymy, high rent. 
 
 Why did the tyrant stumble on the Tartars, 
 
 And lower wheat to such desponding quarters? 
 
 Why did you chain him on yon isle so lone? 
 
 The man was worth much more upon his throne. 
 
 True, blood and treasure boundlessly were spilt, 
 
 But what of that ? the Gaul may bear the guilt ; 
 
 But bread was hit;h, the farmer paid his way, 
 
 And acres told upon the appointed day. 
 
 But where is now the goodly audit ale ? 
 
 The purse-proud tenant, never known to fail ? 
 
 The farm which never yet was left on hand ? 
 
 The marsh reclaim'd to most improving laud? 
 
 The impatient hope of the expiring lease? 
 
 The doubling rental? — What an evil's peace! 
 
 In vain the prize excites the ploughman's skill, 
 
 In vain the Commons pass their patriot bill; 
 
 The landed interest— (yoxx may understand 
 
 The phrase much better leaving out the land) — 
 
 The land self-interest groans from shore to shore, 
 
 For fear that plenty should attain the poor. 
 
 Up, up again, ye rents ! exalt your notes. 
 
 Or else the ministry will lose their votes. 
 
POETRY OF BYRON. 
 
 47 
 
 And patriotism, bo delicately nice, 
 
 Her loaves will lower to the market price ; 
 
 For, ah ! " the loaves and fishes," once so high. 
 
 Are gone — their oven closed, their ocean dry, 
 
 And naught remains of all the millions spent. 
 
 Excepting to grow moderate nnd content. 
 
 They who are not so had their turn — and tnm 
 
 About still flows from Fortune's equal urn ; 
 
 Now let their virtue be its own reward, 
 
 And share the blessinfss which themselves prepared. 
 
 See these inglorious Cincinnati swarm, 
 
 Farmers of war, dictators of the farm j 
 
 Their ploughshare was the sword in hireling hands, 
 
 Their fields manured by gore of other lands ; 
 
 Safe in their barns, these Sabine tillers sent 
 
 Their brethren out to battle — why ? for rent ! 
 
 Year after year they voted cent, per cent., 
 
 Blood, sweat, and tear-wrung millions — why ? for rent ! 
 
 They roar'd, they dined, they drank, they swore they meant 
 
 To die for England — why then live? — for rent! 
 
 The peace has made one general malcontent 
 
 Of these high-market patriots ; war was rent! 
 
 Their love of country, millions all misspent. 
 
 How reconcile ? by reconciling rent ! 
 
 And will they not repay the treasures lent? 
 
 No : down with everything, and up with rent ! 
 
 Their good, ill, health, wealth, joy, or discontent, 
 
 Being, end, aim, religion — rent, rent, rent! 
 
 ITALY. 
 
 ("Beppo," Stanzas 41-48.) 
 
 With all its sinful doings, I must say, 
 
 That Italy's a pleasant place to me. 
 Who love to see the sun shine every day. 
 
 And vines (not nail'd to walls) from tree to tree 
 Festoon'd, much like the back scene of a play, 
 
 Or melodrame, which people flock to see. 
 When the first act is ended by a dance 
 In vineyards copied from the south of France. 
 
 I like on Autumn evenings to ride out. 
 
 Without being forced to bid my groom be sure 
 
 My cloak is round his middle strapp'd about, 
 Because the skies are not the most secure ; 
 
 I know too that, if stopp'd upon mj' route, 
 Where the green alleys windingly allure. 
 
 Heeling with grapes red wagons choke the way — 
 
 In England 'twould be dung, dust, or a dray. 
 
 I also like to dine on becaficas. 
 
 To see the sun set, sure he'll rise to-morrow. 
 Not through a misty morning, twinkling weak as 
 
 A drunken man's dead eye in maudlin sorrow, 
 But with all Heaven t'himself ; that day will break as 
 
 Beauteous as cloudless, not be forced to borrow 
 That sort of farthing candle-light which glimmers 
 Where reeking London's smoky caldron simmers. 
 
 I love the language, that soft bastard Latin, 
 Which melts like kisses from a female mouth. 
 
 And sounds as if it should be writ on satin. 
 
 With syllables which breathe of the sweet South, 
 
 And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in. 
 That not a single accent seems uncouth. 
 
 Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural. 
 
 Which we're obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all. 
 
 I like the women too (forgive my folly). 
 
 From the rich peasant cheek of ruddy bronze. 
 
 And large black eyes that flash on you a volley 
 Of rays that say a thousand thins;;s at once. 
 
 To the high dama's brow, more melancholy, 
 But' clear, and with a wild and liquid glance. 
 
 Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes, 
 
 Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies. 
 
 .ENGLAND. 
 
 ("Beppo," Stanzas 47-49.) 
 
 " England ! with all thy faults I love thee still," 
 I said at Calais, and have not forgot it ; 
 
 I like to speak and lucubrate my fill ; 
 
 I like the Government (but that is not it) ; 
 
 I like the freedom of the press and quill ; 
 
 I like the Habeas Corpus (when we've got it); 
 
 I like a parliamentary debate, 
 
 farticularly when 'tis not too late ; 
 4 
 
 I like the taxes, when they're not too many; 
 
 I like a sea-coal fire, when not too dear; 
 I like a beef-steak, too, as well as any ; 
 
 Have no objection to a pot of beer ; 
 I like the weather, when it is not rainy. 
 
 That is, I like two months of every year. 
 And so God save the Regent, Church, and King I 
 Which means that I like all and everything. 
 
 Our standing army, and disbanded seamen, 
 Poor's rate, Reform, my own, the nation's debt, 
 
 Our little riots just to show we are free men. 
 Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette, 
 
 Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women, 
 All these I can forgive, and those forget, 
 
 And greatly venerate our recent glories, 
 
 And wish they were not owing to the Tories. 
 
 WANTED— A HERO. 
 
 ("Don Juan," Canto i.. Stanzas 1-5.) 
 
 I WANT a hero : an uncommon want, 
 
 When every year and month sends forth a new one. 
 Till, after cloying the gasettes with cant, 
 
 The age discovers he is not the true one ; 
 Of such as these I should not care to vaunt ; 
 
 I'll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan — 
 We all have seen him, in the pantomime. 
 Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time. 
 
 Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke, 
 
 Prince Ferdinand, Gran by, Burgoyne, KeppeI,Howe, 
 
 Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk. 
 
 And fiU'd their sign-posts then, like Wellesley now; 
 
 Each in their turn like Banqno's monarchs stalk, 
 Followers of fame, " nine farrow " of that sow : 
 
 France, too, had Bonaparte and Dumourier 
 
 Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier. 
 
 Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau, 
 Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette, 
 
 Were French and famous people, as we know ; 
 And there were others, scarce forgotten yet, 
 
 Jonbert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Desaix, Morean, 
 With many of the military set. 
 
 Exceedingly remarkable at times, . 
 
 But not at all adapted to my rhymes. 
 
 Nelson was once Britannia's god of war. 
 
 And still should be so, hut the tide is tum'd ; 
 
 There's no more to be said of Trafalgar, 
 'Tia with our hero quietly innrn'd; 
 
 Because the army's grown more popular. 
 At which the naval people are concern'd ; 
 
 Besides, the Prince is all for the land-service, 
 
 Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis. 
 
 Brave men were living before Agamemnon 
 And since, exceeding valorous and sage, 
 
 A good deal like him too, though quite the same none ; 
 But then they shone not on the poet's page. 
 
 And so have been forgotten: — I condemn none. 
 But can't find any in the present age 
 
 Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one) ; 
 
 So, as I said, I'll take my friend Don Juan. 
 
 LONDON. 
 
 ('*Don Juan," Canto x.. Stanzas 81, 82.) 
 
 The sun went down, the smoke rose up as from 
 A half-unquench'd volcano, o'er a space 
 
 Which well beseem'd the "devil's drawing-room," 
 As some have qualified that wondrous place : 
 
 But Juan felt, though not approaching futme, 
 As one who, though ho were not of the race, 
 
 Revered the soil, of those true sons the mother. 
 
 Who butcher'd half the earth, and bullied t'other. 
 
 A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, 
 
 Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye 
 Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping 
 
 In sight, then lost amidst the forestry 
 Of ma>ts ; a wilderness of steeples peeping 
 
 On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy ; 
 A huge, dun cupola, like a foolscap crown 
 On a fool's head — and there is London Town! 
 
4S 
 
 POETRY OF BYRON. 
 
 THINGS SWEET. 
 
 ("Bon Jaan," Canto i., Stanzas 128-12T.) 
 
 'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark 
 
 Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home ; 
 
 'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark 
 Our coming, and look brighter when we come ; 
 
 'Tis sweet to be awaken'd by the lark, 
 
 Or lull'd by falling, waters ; sweet the hum 
 
 Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, 
 
 The lisp of children, and their earliest words. 
 
 Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes 
 
 In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth 
 Purple and gushing ; sweet are our escapes 
 
 From civic revelry to rural mirth ; 
 Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps. 
 
 Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth, 
 Sweet is revenge — especially to women — 
 Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen. 
 
 Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet 
 
 The unexpected death of some old lady 
 Or gentleman of seventj' years complete. 
 
 Who've made "us youth" wait too— too long already 
 Por an estate, or cash, or country-seat, 
 
 Still breaking, but with stamina so steady, 
 That all the Israelites are fit to mob its 
 Next owner for their double-damn'd post-obits. 
 
 'Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels. 
 By blood or ink ; 'tis sweet to' put an end 
 
 To strife ; 'tis sometimes sweet to have our quarrels. 
 Particularly with a tiresome friend ; 
 
 Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels ; 
 Dear is th6 helpless creature we defend 
 
 Against the world ; and dear the school-boy spot 
 
 We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot. 
 
 But sweeter still than this, than these, than all. 
 Is first and passionate love — it stands alone. 
 Like Adam's recollection of his fall ; 
 
 The tree of knowledge has been plnek'd — all's known— 
 And life yields nothing further to recall 
 
 Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown. 
 No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven 
 Fire which Prometheus filch'd for us from heaven. 
 
 LAMBEO'S EETUEN. 
 
 (" Don Jnau," Canto iii., Stanzas 11, 29-41.) 
 
 He saw his white walls shining in the sun, 
 
 His garden trees all shadowy and green ; 
 He heard his rivulet's light bubbling run. 
 
 The distant dog-bark ; and perceived between 
 The umbrage of the woo"d so cool and dun 
 
 The moving figures, and the sparkling sheen 
 Of arms (in the East all arm) — and' various dyes 
 Of oolor'd garbs, as bright as butterflies. 
 
 And still more nearly to the place advancing, 
 
 Descending rather quickly the declivity, 
 Through the waved branches, o'er the greensward glancing, 
 
 'Midst other indications of festivity. 
 Seeing a troop of his domestics dancing 
 
 Like dervises, who turn as on a pivot, he 
 Perceived it was the Pyrrhic dance so martial. 
 To which the Levantines are very partial. 
 
 And further on a group of Grecian girls, 
 
 The first and tallest her white kerchief waving. 
 
 Were strung together like a row of pearls, 
 Link'd hand-in-hand, and dancing ; each too having 
 
 Down her white neck long floating auburn curls — 
 (The least of which would set ten poets raving) ; 
 
 Their leader sang — and bounded to her song. 
 
 With choral step and voice, the virgin throng. 
 
 And hfere, assembled cross-legg'd round their trays. 
 
 Small social parties just begun to dine ; 
 Pilaus and meats of all sorts met the gaze. 
 
 And flasks of Samian and of Chian wine. 
 And sherbet cooling in the porous vase ; 
 
 Above them their dessert grew on its vine, 
 The orange and pomegranate nodding o'er, 
 Dropp'd in their laps, scarce pluck'd, their mellow store. 
 
 A band of children, round a snow-white ram. 
 There wreathe his venerable horns with flowers ; 
 
 While peaceful, as if still an unwean'd lamb, 
 The patriarch of the flock all gently cowers 
 
 His sober head, majestically tame. 
 
 Or eats from out the palm, or playful lowers 
 
 His brow, as if in act to butt, and then 
 
 Yielding to their small hands, draws back again. 
 
 Their classic profiles, and glittering dresses. 
 
 Their large black eyes, and soft, seraphic cheeks. 
 
 Crimson as cleft pomegranates, their long tresses, 
 The gesture which enchants, the eye that speaks, 
 
 The innocence which happy childhood blesses. 
 Made quite a picture of these little Greeks ; 
 
 So that the philosophical beholder 
 
 Sigh'd, for their sakes — that they should e'er grow older. 
 
 Afar, a dwarf bufi'oon stood telling tales 
 
 To a sedate, gray circle of old smokers 
 Of secret treasures found in hidden vales. 
 
 Of wonderful replies from Arab jokers. 
 Of charms to make good gold and cure bad ails. 
 
 Of rocks bewitch'd that open to the knockers, 
 Of magic ladies who, by one sole act, 
 Transform'd their lords to beasts (but that's a fact). 
 
 Here was no lack of innocent diversion 
 
 For the imagination or the senses. 
 Song, dance, wine, music, stories from the Persian, 
 
 All pretty pastimes in which no ofifenoe is ; 
 But Lambro saw all these things with aversion, 
 
 Perceiving in his absence such expenses, 
 Dreading that climax of all human ills. 
 The inflammation of his weekly bills. 
 
 Ah ! what is man ? what perils still environ 
 The happiest mortals even after dinner — 
 
 A day of gold from out an age of iron 
 Is all that life allows the luckiest sinner ; 
 
 Pleasure (whene'er she sings, at least) 's a siren. 
 That lures, to flay alive, the young beginner ; 
 
 Lambro's reception at his people's banquet 
 
 Was such as fire accords to a wet blanket. 
 
 He — being a man who seldom used a word 
 Too much, and wishing gladly to surprise 
 
 (In general he surprised men with the sword) 
 His daughter— had not sent before to advise- 
 
 Of his arrival, so that no one stirr'd ; 
 And long he paused to reassure hie eyes ; 
 
 In fact, much more astonish'd than delighted,. 
 
 To find so much good company invited. 
 
 He did not know (alas ! how men will lie) 
 
 That a report (especially the Greeks) 
 Avouch'd his death (such people never die). 
 
 And put his house in mourning several weeks — 
 But now their eyes and also lips were dry ; 
 
 The bloom, too, had return'd to Haid^e's cheeks. 
 Her tears, too, being return'd into their fount, 
 She now kept house upon her own account. 
 
 Hence all this rice, meat, dancing, wine, and fiddling; 
 
 Which turn"d the isle into a place of pleasure ; 
 The servants all were getting drunk or idling, 
 
 A life which made them happy beyond measure. 
 Her father's hospitality seem'd mfddling. 
 
 Compared with what Haidfe did with his treasure f 
 'Twas wonderful how things went on improving. 
 While she had not one hour to spare from loving. 
 
 Perhaps you think in stumbling on this feast 
 
 He flew into a passion, and in fact 
 There was no mighty reason to be pleased ; 
 
 Perhaps yon prophesy some sudden act. 
 The whip, the rack, or dungeon at the least, 
 
 To teach his people to be more exact. 
 And that, proceeding at a very high rate. 
 He show'd the roj'al penchants of a pirate. 
 
 You're wrong. — He was the mildest-manner'd man^ 
 
 That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat; 
 With such true breeding of a gentleman. 
 
 You never could divine his real thought; 
 No courtier could, and scarcely woman can 
 
 Gird more deceit within a petticoat ; 
 Pity he loved adventurous life's variety, 
 He was so great a loss to good society. 
 
POETRV or BYKON. 
 
 49 
 
 A STORMED CITY. 
 
 ("Don Juan," Canto viii., Stanzas 123-12T.) 
 
 -All that the mind would shrink from of excesses ; 
 
 All that the body perpetrates of bad j 
 All that we read, hear, dream, of man's distresses ; 
 
 All that the devil would do if run stark mad ; 
 AH that defies the worst which pen expresses ; 
 
 All by which hell is peopled, or as sad 
 As hell — mere mortals who their .power abuse — 
 Was here (as heretofore and since) let loose. 
 
 If here and there some transient trait of pity 
 
 Was shown, and some more noble heart broke through 
 
 Its bloody bond, and saved, perhaps, some pretty 
 Child, or an aged, helpless man or two — 
 
 What's this in one annihilated city, 
 
 Where thousand loves, and ties, and duties grow ? 
 
 'Cockneys of London ! Muscadins of Paris ! 
 
 ■Just ponder what a pious pastime war is. 
 
 Think how the joys of reading a Gazette 
 Are purchased by all agonies and crimes ; 
 
 ■Or if these do not move you, don't forget 
 Such doom may be your own in after-times. 
 
 Meantime the Taxes, Castlereagh, and Debt, 
 Are hints as good as sermons, or as rhj'mes. 
 
 Bead your own hearts and Ireland's present story. 
 
 Then feed her famine fat with Wellesley's glory. 
 
 But still there is unto a patriot nation. 
 
 Which loves so well its country and its king, 
 
 A subject of sublimest exultation — 
 
 Bear it, ye Muses, on your brightest wing ! 
 
 IHowe'er the mighty locust. Desolation, 
 
 Strip your green fields, and to your harvest cling, 
 
 <3)aunt famine never shall approach the throne — 
 
 "Though Ireland starve, great George weighs twenty stone. 
 
 £ut let me put an end unto my theme : 
 
 There was an end of Ismail — hapless town ! 
 
 JTar flash'd her burning towers o'er Danube's stream. 
 
 And redly ran his blushing waters down. 
 The horrid war-whoop and the shriller scream 
 Rose still ; but fainter were the thunders grown : 
 
 Of forty thousand who had mann'd the wall, 
 
 :Some hundreds breathed — the rest were silent all ! 
 
 EXHOETATION TO MR. WILBERFORCE. 
 
 ("Dou Juau," Canto xlv.. Stanzas 82-S4.) 
 
 -O WiLBEBFOKCE ! thou man of black renown. 
 Whose merit none enough can sing or say, 
 
 "Thou hast struck one immense Colossus down. 
 Thou moral Washington of Africa ! 
 
 But there's another little thing, I own. 
 
 Which you should perpetrate some summer's day. 
 
 And set the other half of earth to rights ; 
 
 You have freed the blacks — now pray shut up the whites. 
 
 Shut up the bald-coot bully Alexander ! 
 
 Ship off the Holy Three to Senegal; 
 Teach them that " sauce for goose is sauce for gander," 
 
 And ask them how the!/ like to be in thrall ? 
 -Shut up each high, heroic salamander. 
 
 Who eats fire gratis (since the pay's but small) ; 
 Shut up — no, not the King, but the Pavilion, 
 Or else 'twill cost us all another million. 
 
 Shut up the world at large, let Bedlam out ; 
 
 And you will be perhaps surprised to find 
 All tkings pursue exactly the same route. 
 
 As now with those of soi-disant sound mind. 
 This I could prove beyond a single doubt, 
 
 Were there a jot of sense among mankind ; 
 But till that^08n( d'appui is found, alas ! 
 Like Archimedes, I leave earth as 'twas. 
 
 EXHORTATION TO MRS. FRY. 
 
 ("Don Juan," Cauto x.. Stanzas S6-S7.) 
 
 Oh, Mrs. Fry ! Why go to Newgate ? Why 
 
 Preach to poor rogues ? And wherefore not begin 
 
 With Carlton, or with other houses ? Try 
 Your hand at harden'd and imperial sin. 
 
 To mend the people 's an absurdity. 
 
 A jargon, a mere philanthropic din, 
 Unless you make their betters better : — Fy ! 
 I thought you had more religion, Mrs. Fry. 
 
 Teach them the decencies of good threescore ; 
 
 Cure them of tours, hussar and Highland dresses ; 
 Tell them that youth once gone returns no more. 
 
 That hired huzzas redeem no land's distresses ; 
 Tell them Sir William Curtis is a bore. 
 
 Too dull even for the dullest of excesses, 
 The witless Falstaff of a hoary Hal, 
 A fool whose bells have ceased to ring at all. 
 
 Tell them, though it may be perhaps too late 
 On life's worn confine, jaded, bloated, sated. 
 
 To set up vain pretences of being great, 
 *Tis not so to be good ; and be it stated. 
 
 The worthiest kings have ever loved least state ; 
 And tell them — But you won't, and I have prated 
 
 Just now enough ; but by-and-hy I'll prattle 
 
 Like Roland's horn in Eoncesvalles' battle. 
 
 SATAN CLAIMS, AT HEAVEN'S GATE, GEOR^ 
 THE THIRD. 
 
 (" Vision of Judgment," Stanzas 42-49.) 
 
 " Look to the earth, I said, and say again : 
 When this old, blind, mad, helpless, weak, poor worm 
 
 Began in youth's first bloom and flush to reign 
 The world and l^e both wore a different form. 
 
 And much of earth and all the watery plain 
 
 Of ocean call'd him king : through many a storm 
 
 His isles had floated on the abyss of time ; 
 
 For the rough virtues chose them for their clime. 
 
 " He came to his sceptre young ; he leaves it old : 
 Look to the state in which he found his realm, 
 
 And left it ; and his annals too behold. 
 How to a minion first he gave the helm ; 
 
 How grew upon his heart a thirst for gold. 
 The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm 
 
 The meanest hearts ; and for the rest, but glance 
 
 Thine ej-e along America and France. 
 
 " 'Tis true, he was a tool from first to last 
 
 (I have the workmen safe) ; but as a tool 
 So let him be consumed. From out the past 
 
 Of ages, since mankind have known the rule 
 Of monarchs — from the bloody rolls amass'd 
 
 Of sin and slaughter — from the Caesar's school, 
 Take the worst pupil ; and produce a reign 
 More drench'd with gore, more cumber'd with the slain. 
 
 " He ever warr'd with freedom and the free : 
 Nations as men, home subjects, foreign foes, 
 
 So that they utter'd the word ' Liberty !' 
 
 Found George the Third their first opponent. M'hose 
 
 History' was ever stain'd as his will be 
 With national and individual woes ? 
 
 I grant his household abstinence ; I grant 
 
 His neutral virtues, which most monarchs want. 
 
 " I know he was a constant consort ; own 
 
 He was a decent sire, and middling lord. 
 All this is much, and most upon a throne ; 
 
 As temperance, if at Apioius* board, 
 Is more than at an anchorite's supper sihown. 
 
 I grant him all the kindest can accord ; 
 And this was well for him, but not for those 
 Millions who found him what oppression chose. 
 
 " The New World shook him off: the Old yet groans 
 
 Beneath what he and his prepared, if not 
 Completed : he leaves heirs on many thrones 
 
 To all his vices, without what begot 
 Compassion for him — his tame virtues ; drones 
 
 Who sleep, or despots who have now forgot 
 A lesson which shall be retaught them, wake 
 Upon the thrones of earth ; but let them quake ! 
 
 *' Five millions of the primitive, who hold 
 
 The faith which makes ye great on earth, implored 
 
 A part of that vast all they held of old — 
 Freedom to worship — not alone your Lord, 
 
 Michael ! but you ; and you, Saint Peter ! Cold 
 Must be your souls, if j-ou have not abhorr'd 
 
 The foe to Catholic participation 
 
 In all the license of a Christian nation. 
 
so 
 
 POETRY OF BYRON. 
 
 "True ]• he allow'd them to pray God ; but, as 
 A consequence of prayer, refused the law 
 
 Which would have placed them upon the same base 
 With those who did not hold the saints in awe," — 
 
 But here Saint Peter started from his place, 
 And cried, " You may the prisoner withdraw : 
 
 Ere Heaven shall ope her portals to this Gnelph, 
 
 While I am guard, may I be damri'd myself I" 
 
 THE SEX. 
 
 ("Childe Harold," Canto ii., Stanza 34.) 
 
 Not much he kens, I ween, of woman's breast 
 Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs ; 
 What careth she for hearts when once possess'd ? 
 Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes, 
 But not too humbly, or she will despise 
 Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes : 
 Disguise ev'n tenderness, if thou art wise ; 
 Brisk Confidence still best with woman copes ; 
 Pit^ue her and soothe in turn, soon Passion crowns thy hopes. 
 
 OUR CHILDREN. 
 
 (" Don Juan," Canto iii., Stanzas S9, 60.) 
 
 It is a hard although a common case 
 
 To find our children running restive; — they. 
 
 In whom our brightest days we would retrace, 
 Our little selves re-form'd in finer clay, 
 
 Just as old age is creeping on apace, 
 
 And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day, 
 
 They kindly leave us, though not quite alone, 
 
 But in good company — the gout or stone. 
 
 Yet a fine family is a fine thing 
 
 (Provided they don't come in after dinner) ; 
 "Tis beautiful to see a matron bring 
 
 Her children up (if nursing them don't thin her) ; 
 Like cherubs round an altar-piece they cling 
 
 To the fireside (a sight to touch a sinner). 
 A lady with her daughters or her nieces 
 Shine like a guinea and seven-shilling pieces. 
 
 SOUL. 
 
 ("Don Juan," Canto xiv., Stanzas 70-T2.) 
 
 Hi: was a cold, good, honorable man, 
 
 Proud of his birth, and proud of everything ; 
 
 A goodly spirit for a state divan, 
 A figure fit to walk before a king ; 
 
 Tall, stately, form'd to lead the courtly van 
 On birthdays, glorious with a star and string; 
 
 The very model of a chamberlain — 
 
 And such I mean to make him when I reign. 
 
 But there was something wanting on the whole — 
 I don't know what, and therefore cannot tell — 
 
 Which pretty women — the sweet souls! — call soul. 
 Certes it was not body ; he was well 
 
 Proportion'd, as a poplar or a pole, 
 
 A handsome man, that human miracle ; 
 
 And in each circumstance of love or war 
 
 Had Btill preserved his perpendicular. 
 
 Still there was sbmething wanting, as I've said — 
 That undefinalJe "Je ne sgais quoi," 
 
 Which, for what I know, may of j'ore have led 
 To Homer's " Iliad," since it drew to Troy 
 
 The Greek Eve, Helen, from the Spartan's bed ; 
 Though on the whole, no doubt, the Dardan boy 
 
 Was much inferior to King Menelails : — 
 
 But thus it is some women will betray us. 
 
 MOBILITY. 
 
 ("Don Jnan," Canto xvi., Stanzas 96-98.) 
 -Juan, when he cast a glance 
 
 On Adeline while playing her grand rile, 
 Which she went through as though it were a dance 
 
 (Betra^nng only now and then her soul 
 By a look scarce perceptibly askance 
 
 Of weariness or sooi n), began to feel 
 
 Some doubt how much of Adeline was realf 
 
 So well she acted all and every part 
 
 By turns — with that vivacious versatility, 
 
 Which many people take for want of heart. 
 They err— 'tis merely what is call'd mobility, 
 
 A thing of temperament — and not of art. 
 
 Though seeming so from its supposed facility ; 
 
 And false — though true; for surely they're sincerest 
 
 Who are strongly acted on by what is nearest. 
 
 This makes your actors, artists, and romancers 
 Heroes sometimes, though seldom — sages never ; 
 
 But speakers, bards, diplomatists, and dancers, 
 Little that's great, but much of what is clever;. 
 
 Host orators, but very few financiers, 
 
 Though all Exchequer chancellors endeavor, 
 
 Of late years to dispense with Cocker's rigors. 
 
 And grow quite figurative with their figures. 
 
 GREAT NAMES. 
 
 ("Don Jnan," Canto iii., Stanzas 90-9S and 98-100.^ 
 
 And glory long has made the sages smile ; 
 
 'Tis something, nothing, words, illusion, wind — 
 Depending more upon the historian's style 
 
 'Than on the name a person leaves behind : 
 Troj' owes to Homer what whist owes to Hoyle ; 
 
 The present century was growing blind 
 To the great Marlborough's skill in giving knocks,. 
 Until his late Life by Archdeacon Coxe. 
 
 Milton's the prince of poets — so we say ; 
 
 A little heavy, but no less divine : 
 An independent being in his day — 
 
 Learn'd, pious, temperate in love and wine; 
 But his life falling into Johnson's way. 
 
 We're told this great high-priest of all the Nine 
 Was whipt at college — a harsh sire — odd spouse. 
 For the first Mrs. Milton left his house. 
 
 All these are, ceries, entertaining facts. 
 
 Like Shakspeare's stealing deer. Lord Bacon's bribes; 
 Like Titus' youth, and Caesar's earliest acts ; 
 
 Like Burns (whom Doctor Currie well describes); 
 Like Cromwell's pranks; — but although truth exacts 
 
 These amiable descriptions from the scribes, 
 As most essential to their hero's story. 
 They do not much contribute to his glory. 
 
 All are not moralists, like Southey, when 
 He prated to the world of " Pantisocrasy ;" 
 
 Or Wordsworth unexcised, unhired, who then 
 Season'd his peddler poems with democracy f 
 
 Or Coleridge, long before his flighty pen 
 Let to the Morning Post its aristocracy ; 
 
 When he and Southey, following the same path,. 
 
 Espoused two partners (milliners of Bath). 
 
 Such names at present cut a convict fi.?ure, 
 The very Botany Bay in moral geography ; 
 
 Their loyal treason, renegade rigor. 
 
 Are good manure for their more bare biography, 
 
 Wordsworth's last quarto, by-the-way, is bigger 
 Than any since the birthday of typography ; 
 
 A drowsy, frowsy poem, call'd the " Excursion," 
 
 Writ in a manner which is my aversion. 
 
 He there builds up a formidable dike 
 
 Between his own and others' intellect ; 
 But Wordsworth's poem, and his followers, like 
 
 Joanna Southcote's Shiloh, and her sect. 
 Are things which in this century don't strike 
 
 The public mind — so few are the elect; 
 And the new births of both their stale virginities 
 Have proved but dropsies — taken for divinities. 
 
 We learn from Horace, " Homer sometimes sleeps;" 
 We feel without him, Wordsworth sometimes wakes — 
 
 To show with what complacencj- he creeps. 
 With his dear ^'Wagoners," around his lakes. 
 
 He wishes for "a boat" to sail the deeps — 
 Of ocean? — No, of air; and then he makea 
 
 Another outcry for "a little boat," 
 
 And drivels seas to set it well afloat. 
 
 If he must fain sweep o'er the etherial plain, 
 And Pegasus runs restive in his " Wagon," 
 
 Could he not beg the loan of Cliarles's Wain ? 
 Or pray Medea for a single dragon ? 
 
POETRY OF BYEON. 
 
 51 
 
 Or if too classic for his vulgar brain, 
 
 He fear'd liis neck to venture such a nag on, 
 And he must needs mount nearer to tho moon. 
 Could not the blockhead ask for a balloon ? 
 
 "Peddlers," and "Boats," and "Wagons I" Oh! ye shades 
 
 Of Pope and Drj'den, are we come to this ? 
 That trash of such sort not alone evades 
 
 Contempt, but from the bathos' vast abyss 
 Floats acumlike uppermost, and these Jack Cades 
 
 Of sense and song above your graves may hiss ! — 
 The " little boatman," and his " Peter Bell," 
 Can sneer at him who drew " Achitophel !" 
 
 POETICAL COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 ; ("Don Juan," Canto i., Stanzas 804-206.) 
 
 If ever I should condescend to prose, 
 
 I'll write poetical commandments, which 
 Shall supersede beyond all doubt all those 
 
 That went liefore ; in these I shall enrich 
 My text with many things that no one knows. 
 
 And carry precept to the highest pitch : 
 I'll call the work " Longinus o'er a Bottle ; 
 Or, Every Poet bis own Aristotle." 
 
 Thou Shalt believe in Milton, Drj'den, Pope ; 
 
 Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey ; 
 Because the first is crazed beyond all hope. 
 
 The second drunk, the third so quaint and mouthy : 
 With Crabbe it may be difficult to cope, 
 
 And Campbell's Hippocrene is somewhat drouthy : 
 Thou shalt not steal from Samuel Rogers, nor 
 Commit — flirtation with the muse of Moore. 
 
 Thou shalt not covet Mr. Sotheby's Muse, 
 
 His Pegasus, nor any thing that's his ; 
 Thou shalt not bear false witness like " the Bluee " — 
 
 (There's one, at least, is very fond of this) ; 
 Tbou shalt not write, in short, but what I choose : 
 
 This is true criticism, and you may kiss — 
 Exactly as you please, or not — the rod ; 
 But if you don't, I'll lay it on, by G — d ! 
 
 BYRON AND HIS CONTEMPORAEIES. 
 
 ("Dou Juan," Canto si.. Stanzas 53-60.) 
 
 Juan knew several languages — as well 
 
 He mi^ht — and brought them np with skill, in time 
 To save his fame with each accomplish'd belle. 
 
 Who still regretted that he did not rhyme. 
 There wanted but this requisite to swell 
 
 His qualities' (with them) into sublime : 
 Lady Fitz-Frisky and Miss Msevia Mannish, 
 Both long'd extremely to be sung in Spanish. 
 
 However, he did pretty well, and was 
 
 Admitted as an aspirant to all 
 The coteries, and, as in Banquo's glass. 
 
 At great assemblies or in parties small. 
 He saw ten thousand living authors pass, 
 
 That being about their average numeral ; 
 Also the eighty "greatest living poets," 
 As every paltry magazine can show ifs. 
 
 In twice five years the " greatest living poet," 
 
 Like to the champion in the flsty ring. 
 Is call'd on to support his claim, or show it. 
 
 Although 'tis an imaginary thing. 
 Even I — albeit I'm sure I did not know it. 
 
 Nor sought of foolscap subjects to be king — 
 Was reckon'd a considerable time 
 The grand Napoleon of the realms of rhyme. 
 
 But Juan was my Moscow, and Faliero 
 
 My Leipsic, and my Mont Saint Jean seems Cain : 
 
 " La Belle Alliance " of dunces down at zero. 
 Now that the Lion's fall'n, may rise again : 
 
 But I will fall at least as fell my hero ; 
 Nor reign at all. or as a monarch reign ; 
 
 Or to some lonely isle of jailers go, 
 
 With turncoat Southey for my turnkey Lowe. 
 
 Sir Walter reign'd before me ; Moore and Campbell 
 Before and after ; but now grown more holy, 
 
 The Muses upon Sion's hill must ramble 
 With poets almost clergymen, or wholly; 
 
 And Pegasus bath a psalmodic amble 
 
 Beneath the very Reverend Rowley Powley, 
 
 Who shoes the glorious animal witb stilts, 
 
 A modern Ancient Pistol — by the hilts ! 
 
 Then there's my gentle Euphnes ; who, they say. 
 
 Sets up for being a sort of moral me ; 
 He'll find it rather difficult some day 
 
 To turn out both, or either, it may be. 
 Some persons think that Coleridge hath the sway ; 
 
 And Wordsworth has supporters, two or three ; 
 And that deep-mouth'd Boeotian " Savage Landor" 
 Has taken for a swan rogue Southey's gander. 
 
 John Keats, who was kill'd oflT by one critique. 
 Just as he really promised something great, 
 
 If not intelligible, without Greek 
 
 Contrived to talk about the gods of late 
 
 Much as they might have been supposed to speak. 
 Poor fellow ! His was an untoward fate ; 
 
 'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle, 
 
 Should let itself be snuff'd out by an article. 
 
 The list grows long of live and dead pretenders 
 To that which none will gain— or none will know 
 
 The conqueror at least ; who, ere time renders 
 His last award, will have the long grass grow 
 
 Above bis burnt-out brain, and sapless cinders. 
 If I might augur, I should rate but low 
 
 Their chances ; they're too numerous, like the thirty 
 
 Mock tyrants, when Rome's annals wax'd but dirty. 
 
 POETICAL PRODUCTION. 
 
 (" Don Juan," Canto xiv.. Stanzas 10, 11.) 
 
 I HAVE brought this world about my ears, and eke 
 
 The other ; that's to say, the clergy — who 
 Upon my head have bid their thunders break 
 
 In pious libels b}' no means a few. 
 And yet I can't help scribbling once a week. 
 
 Tiring old readei s, nor discovering new. 
 In youth I wrote because my mind was full, 
 And now because I feel it growing dull. 
 
 But " why then publish ?" — There are no rewards 
 Of fame or profit when the world grows weary. 
 
 I ask in turn — Why do you play at cards ? 
 Why drink ? Why read ? — To make some hour lees dreary. 
 
 It occupies me to turn back regards 
 
 On what I've seen or ponder'd, sad or cheery ; 
 
 And what I write I cast upon the stream. 
 
 To swim or sink — I have had at least my dream. 
 
 THE LIGHTER SIDE. 
 
 ("Don Juan," Canto iv., Stanzas 3, 4.) 
 
 As boy, I thought myself a clever fellow, 
 
 And wisb'd that others held the same opinion ; 
 
 They took it up when my days grew more mellow^ 
 And other minds acknowledged my dominion : 
 
 Now my sere fancy " falls into the yellow 
 Leaf," and Imagination droops her pinion. 
 
 And the sad truth which hovers o'er my desk 
 
 Turns what was once romantic to burlesque.- 
 
 And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 
 'Tis that I may not weep ; and if I weep^ 
 
 'Tis tbat our nature cannot always bring 
 Itself to apathy, for we must steep 
 
 Our hearts first in the depths of Lethe's spring-^ 
 Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep } 
 
 Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx ; 
 
 A mortal mother would on Lethe fix. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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Cornell University Library 
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 The poetry of Byron, 
 
 3 1924 013 449 206 ..»..«