DUKE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY FRIENDS OF DUKE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY Erdman B. Palmqre Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2012 with funding from Duke University Libraries http://archive.org/details/worksoflordbyron20byro GREENCASTLE THE WORKS LORD BYRON. PRINTED BY JULES DIDOT, SENIOR PSicuwo Knx! ' J.T Wedgwood sculp! IL®miD) BYIOH. THE WORKS OF LORD BYRON INCLUDING COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. PARIS PUBLISHED BY A. AND W. GALIGNANI, N° 1 8, RUE VIVIENNE. 1826. dSR B^kWL- irontrttte. HOURS OF IDLENESS. On leaving Newstead Abbey Epitaph on a Friend . A Fragment .... The Tear An Occasional Prologue On the Death of Mr Fox . Stanzas to a Lady . . To M • . . . 4 Oscar of Alva To the Duke of D. ... : ;• ; ' s Translations and Imitations. Adrian's Address to his Soul, when dying from Catullus . of the Epitaph Ode in The Episode of Nisus and Euryalus Translation from the Medea of Euripides Fugitive Pieces. Thoughts suggested by a College Examination To the Earl of" Crania, a Medley Lachin y Gair To Romance Elegy on Newstead Abbey To E. N. L., Esq To Lines written beneath an Elm in the Church- yard of Harrow on the Hill .... The Death of Calmar and Orla .... Chitique extrncted from the Edinburgh Rc- LARA Note . THE CURSE OF MINERVA Notes MAZEPPA MANFRED MARINO FALIERO Appendix SARDANAPALUS . . . . Notes TOE TWO FOSCARI . . . Appendix CAIN WERNER THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED HEAVEN AND EARTH . . . THE PROPHECY OF DANTE nuary 1808 ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS Postscript CHILDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE . . . Holes THE GIAOUR . 384 • 4*7 • 445 . 457 . 463 THE ISLAND 464 Appendix 476 THE ACE OF BRONZE 480 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT .... 487 MORGANTE MAGGIORE 4 9 5 WALTZ 5oi Notes -5o5 TnE LAMENT OF TASSO 5o6 HEBREW MELODIES She walks in beauty 5o8 The harp the monarch Minstrel swept . 509 If that high world ib. The wild gazelle ib. Oh ! weep for those ib. On Jordan's banks ib. Jephtha's daughter ib. Oh! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom . 5io My soul is dark ib. I saw thee weep ib. Thy days are done ....;. ib. Song of Saul before his last battle . . ib. W . v.inity, >aith the preac When coldness wraps this 'suffering clay Pug'- Sll ib. To a Lady weeping Page. 53z Sun of the sleepless Were my bosom as false as thou deem'st ib. S12 ib. Sonnet -i ib. it to be Herod's lament for Mariamne Inscription on the monument of a New- On the day of the destruction of Jerusalem Farewell 533 ib. ib. Bright be the place of thy soul When we two parted By the rivers of Babylon we sat down and The destruction of Sennacherib ib. 5l3 fri3 5x4 5iS 5i6 5i8 519 ' ' ' 534 From Job MISCELLANEOUS POEMS Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte Monody on the death of the Bight Hon. R. B. Sheridan ...... The Irish Avatar The Dream To — ■ Ode (from the French) . . . . . From the French On the Star of the Legion of Honour Napoleon's Farewell 535 536 ib. 53 7 Written on a blank leaf of The Pleasures Lines written in an Album .... Romance muy doloroso del sitio y toma de Albania A very mournful ballad on the siege and Darkness 538 Prometheus 53 9 Sonetto di Vittorelli 522 Windsor Poetics 54o Lines written at Athens . . . written beneath a picture written after swimming from Sestos to Abydos Ztjjj pov ci; kyxnCi Translation of a Greek war song Translation of a Romaic song On parting ToThyrza . . Stanzas To Thyrza . . Euthanasia Stanzas i cornelian heart which ^ t youthful friend To To' From the Portuguese Impromptu, in reply to a friend . Address, spoken at the opening of Drury- lane Theatre Translation of a Romaic Love Song A song On being asked what was the « origin of A sketch from private life Garmina Byronis in C. Elgin .... Lines to Mr Moore ' . ib. On this day I complete my thirty-sixth year LETTER TO *" "«" ON BOWLES' STRICTURES ON POPE ; A FRAGMENT ; PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES . . . . i POEMS, ATTRIBUTED TO LORD BYRON Childish Recollections Lines inscribed upon a cup formed from ; skull On the death of Sir Peter Parker, Bart. Lord Byron to his Lady Ode to the Island of St Helena . . To the Lily of France .... ib. ib. 712 The Triumph of the Whale . . . To Jessy 7 i3 ib. To my Daughter To Lady Caroline Lamb 714 715 To a Lady Stanzas . Lines found in the Traveller's Book at Cha- ib. Lines found in Lord Byron's Bible . . ib. s* «w_ ~_^ <^>— ^^/ 7 jfj*^'- ^^X5Z ,;? "Hm-i^-tr*- **£^*p4, s&f -—? ^^ . __ ^^ ^, *«•*-* — / «~<7 *-H .7*. attic VLiit uf ilottr asgrott. nrp, from earliest years bcl rgers hurriedly, and Of incl;ii:( lioly Utility died away Upon its strings of sweetness. It was reserved for the present age to produce one distinguished example of the Muse having descended upon a hard of a wounded spirit, and lent her lyre to tell afflictions of no ordinary description, afflictions originating probahly in that singular combination of feeling with imagination which has been called the poetical temperament, and which lias so often saddened the days of those on whom it has been conferred. If ever a man was ntitled to that character in all it; strength and all its weakness, with its unbounded range of enjoyment, and its exquisite sensibility of pleasure and of pain, that man was Lord Byron. Nor docs it require much time or a deep acquaint- ance with human nature to discover why these extraordinary powers should in so many cases have contributed more to the wretchedness than to the happiness of their possessor. The « imagination all compact ■> which the greatest poet who ever lived has assigned as the distinguishing badge of his brethren, is in every case a dangerous gift. It exaggerates, indeed, our expectations, and can often bid its possessor hope, where hope is lost to reason ; but the delu- sive pleasure arising from these visions of ima- gination resembles that of a child whose notice is attracted by a fragment of glass to which a sun-beam has given momentary splendour. He hastens to the spot with breathless impatience, and finds the object of his curiosity and expec- tation is equally vulgar and worthless. Such is the roan of quick and exalted powers of imagi- nation: his fancy over-estimates the object of his wishes; and pleasure, fame, distinction, are alter- nately pursued, attained, and despised when in his power. Like the enchanted fruit in the palace of a sorcerer, the objects of his admiration lose their attraction and value as soon as they are grasped by the adventurer's hand, and all that remains is regret for the time lost in the chase, and astonishment at the hallucination un- der the influence of which it was undertaken. The disproportion between hope and possession which is felt by all men, is thus doubled to those whom nature has endowed with the power of gilding a distant prospect by the rays of ima- gination. We think that many points of resemblance may be traced between Byron and Rousseau. Both are distinguished by the most ardent and vivid delineation of intense conception, and by an intense sensibility of passion rather than of affection. Both, too, by this double power, have held a dominion over the sympathy of their beyond the of those i ;;s w (rich inai ; are usually excited by the mere efforts of genius. The impression of this still accompanies the perusal of their writings; but there is another interest, of more lasting and far stronger power, which each of them possessed, —which lies in the continual embodying of the individual character, it might almost be said of the very person of the writer. When we speak or think of Rousseau or Byron, we are not con- scious of speaking or thinking of an author. We have a vague but impassioned remembrance of men of surpassing genius, eloquence, and power, — of prodigious capacity both of misery and happiness. We feel as if we had transiently met such beings in real life, or had known them in the dim and dark communion of a dream. Each of their works presents, in succession, a fresh idea of themselves; and, while the productions of other great men stand out from them, like some- thing they have created, theirs, on the contrary, are images, pictures, busts of their living selves, — clothed, no doubt, at different times, in dif- ferent drapery, and prominent from a different back-ground,— but uniformly impressed with the same form, and mien, and lineaments, and not to be mistaken for the representations of any other of the children of men. But this viewof the subject, though universally felt to be a true one, requires perhaps a little ex- planation. The personal character of which we have spoken, it should he understood, is not alto- gether that on which the seal of life has been set, —and to which, therefore, moral approval or condemnation is necessarily annexed, as to the language or conduct of actual existence. It is the character, so to speak, which is prior to conduct, and yet open to good and to ill, — the constitu- tion of the being in body and in soul. Each of these illustrious writers has, in this light, filled his works with expressions of his own character, — has unveiled to the world the secrets of his own LIFE OF LORD BYRON. being, the mysteries of the framing of man. They have gone down into those depths which every man may sound for himself, though not for another; and they have made disclosures to the world of what they beheld and knew there— dis- closures that have commanded and forced a pro- found and universal sympathy, by proving that all mankind, the troubled and the untroubled, the lofty and the low, the strongest and the frailest, are linked together by the bonds of a common but inscrutable nature. Thus, each of these wayward and richly-gifted spirits has made himself the object of profound interest to the world, and that too during pe- riods of society when ample food was everywhere spread abroad for the meditations and passions of men. Although of widely dissimilar fortunes and birth, a close resemblance in their passions and their genius may be traced too between Byron and Robert Burns. Their careers were short and glorious, and they both perished in the « rich summer of their life and song,» and in all the splendour of a reputation more likely to increase than diminish. One was a peasant, and the other was a peer; but nature is a great leveller, and makes amends for the iujuries of fortune by the richness of her benefactions : the genius of Burns raised him to a level with the nobles of the land; by -nature, if not by birth, he was the peer of Byron. They both rose by the force of their ge- nius, and both fell by the strength of their pas- sions ; one wrote from a love, and the other from a scorn of mankind; and they both sung of the emotions of their own hearts with a vehemence and an originality which few have equalled, and none surely have surpassed. The versatility of authors who have been able to draw and support characters as different from each other as from their own, has given to their productions the inexpressible charm of variety, and has often secured them from that neglect which in general attends what is technically called mannerism. But it was reserved for Lord Byron (previous to his Don Juan) to present the same character on the public stage again and again, varied only by the exertions of that powerful genius, which, searching the springs of passion and of feeling in their innermost recesses, knew how to combine their operations, so that the interest was eternally varying, and n^ver abated, although the most important person of the drama retained « But that noble tree will never more bear fruit or blossom ! It has been cut down in its strength, and the past is all that remains to us of By rou. That voice is silent for ever, which bursting so ofteu on our ear, was often heard with rapturous admiration, sometimes with re- gret, but always with the deepest interest." — Yet the impression of his works still remains vivid and strong. The charm which cannot pass away is there, — life breathing in dead words, — the stern grandeur — the intense power and energy — the fresh beauty, the undimmed lustre — the im- mortal bloom, and verdure, and fragrance of life, all those still are there. But it was not in these alone, it was in that continual impersonatiou of himself in his writings, by which he was for ever kept brightly before the«yes of men. It might, at first, seem that his undisguised revelation of feelings and passions, which the becoming pride of human nature, jealous of its own dignity, would in general desire to hold in unviolated silence, could have produced in the public mind only pity, sorrow, or repugnance. But in the case of men of real genius, like Byron, it is otherwise: they are not felt, while we read, as declarations published to the world, but almost as secrets whispered to chosen ears. Who is there that feels for a moment, that the voice which reaches the inmost recesses of his heart is speaking to the careless multitudes around him ? Or if we do so remember, the words seem to pass by others like air, and to find their way to the hearts for whom they were in- tended ; kindred and sympathetic spirits, who discern and own that secret language, of which the privacy is not violated, though spoken in hearing of the uninitiated, because it is not un- derstood. A great poet may address the whole world in the language of intensest passion, con- cerning objects of which rather than speak face to face with any one human being on earth, he would perish in his misery. For it is in solitude that he utters what is to be wafted by all the winds of heaven: there are, during his inspira- tion, present with him only the shadows of men. He is not daunted, or perplexed, or disturbed, or repelled by real living breathing- features. He can updraw just as much of the curtain as he chouses that hangs between his own solitude and the world of life. He there pours his soul out partly to himself alone; partly to the ideal abstractions and impersonated images that float around him at his own conjuration ; and partly to human beings like himself, moving in the dark distance of the every-day world. He confesses himself, not before men, but before the spirit of humanity; and he thus fearlessly lays open his heart, assured that nature never prompted unto genius that which will not triumphantly force its wide way into the human heart. We have admitted that Byron has depicted much of himself in all his heroes; but when we seem to see the poet shadowed out in all those states LIFE OF LOUD BYRON. VII of disordered being which his Childe Harolds, Giaours, Conrads, Laras, and Alps, exhibit, we are far from believing that his own mind has gone through those states of disorder, in its own ex- perience of life. We merely conceive of it as having felt within itself the capacity of such disorders, and therefore exhibiting itself before us in possibility. This is not general,— it is rare with great poets. Neither Homer, nor Shak- speare, nor Milton, ever so show themselves i the characters which they portray. Their poet cal personages have no references to themselves but are distinct, independent creatures of their minds, produced in the full freedom of intellec- tual power. In Byron there does not seem this freedom of power: — there is little appropriation of character to events. Character is first, and all in all. It is dictated, compelled by some force in his own mind necessitating him, — and the events obey. His poems, therefore, excepting Don Juan, are not full and complete nar- rations of some one definite story, containing within itself a picture of human life. They are merely bold, confused, and turbulent exemplifi- cations of certain sweeping energies and irre- sistible passions. They are fragments of a poet's dark dream of life. The very personages, vi- vidly as they are pictured, are yet felt to be fictitious, and derive their chief power over us from their supposed mysterious connexion with the poet himself, and, it may be added, with each other. The law of his mind was to em- body his peculiar feelings in the forms of other . In all his heroes we accordingly recognise, gh with infinite modifications, the same great acteristics: a high and audacious conception of the power of the mind,— an intense sensibi- ity of passion,— an almost boundless capacity of tumultuous emotion,— a boasting admiration of randeurof disordered power, and, aboveall, l-felt, blood-felt delight in beauty;— a beau- ty, which, in his wild creation, is often scared away from the agitated surface of life by storm- passions, but which, like a bird of calm, is for ever returning, on its soft, silvery wings, ere the black swell has finally subsided into sunshine and peace. These reflexions naturally precede the sketch we are about to attempt of Lord Byron's lite- rary and private life: indeed they are in a man- ner forced upon us by his poetry, by the senti- ments of weariness of existence and enmity with ivorld which it so frequently expresses, and by tin- singular analogy which such sentiments hold with the real incidents of his life. rd Byron was descended from an illustrious of ancestry. From the period of the con- quest his family were distinguished, not merely for their extensive manors in Lancashire and other parts of the kingdom, but for iheir prowess in arms. John de Byron attended Edward the first in several warlike expeditions. Two of the Byrons fell at the battle of Cressy. Another member of the family, Sir John de Byron, ren- dered good service in Bosworth field, to the Earl of Richmond; and contributed, by his valour, to transfer the crown from the head of Bichard the third to that of Henry the seventh. This Sir John was a man of honour, as well as a brave hour Sir Gervase Clifton; and, although Byron fought under Henry, and Clifton under Bichard, it did not diminish their friendship, but, on the contrary, put it to a severe test. Previous to the battle, the prize of which was a kingdom, they had mutually promised that whichever of them was vanquished, the other should endeavour to prevent the forfeiture of his frieud's estate. While Clifton was bravely fighting at the head of his troop, he was struck off his horse, which Byron perceiving, he quitted the ranks and ran to the relief of his friend, whom he shielded, but who died in his arms. Sir John de Byron kept his word; he interceded with the king: the est was preserved to the Clifton family, and is n in the possession of a descendant of the gall; Sir Gervase. In the wars between Charles the first and the parliament, the Byrons adhered to the royal cause. Sir Nicholas Byron, the eldest brother and repre- sentative of the family, was an eminent loyalist, who, having distinguished himself in the wars of the Low Countries, was appointed governor ot Chelsea in 1642. He had two sons, who both died without issue; aud his younger brother, Sir John, became their heir. This person was made a knight of the Bath at the coronation of James the first. He bad eleven sons, most of whom distinguished themselves for their loyalty and gallantry on the side of Charles the first. Seven of these brothers were engaged at the battle of ton-moor, of whom four fell in defence of the royal cause. SirJohu Byron, one of the survivors, appointed to manv important commands, and on the 26th of October, 1 643, was created Lord Byron, with a collateral remainder lo his brothers. On the decline of the king's affairs, : was appointed governor to the Duke of York, id, in this office, died without issue, in France, iG5?.;— upon which his brother Bichard, a lebrated cavalier, became the second Lord Byron. He was governor of Appleby Castle, and distinguished himself at Newark. He died in 1G97, aged seventy-four, and was succeeded by his eldest son William, who married Elizabeth, the daughter of John Viscount Chaworlli, ot via LIFE OF LORD BYRON. the kingdom of Ireland, by whom he had five sons, all of whom died young except William; whose eldest son, William, was bom in 1722, and came to the title in 1736. William, Lord Byron, passed the early part of his life in the navy. In 1763 he was made mas- ter of the stag hounds; and in 176S was sent to the Tower, and tried before the House of Peers for killing his relation and neighbour, Mr Cha- worth, in a duel.— The following details of this fatal event are peculiarly interesting from subse- sequent circumstances connected with the sub- ject of our sketch. The old Lord Byron belonged to a club of which Mr Chaworth was also a member. It met at the Star aud Garter tavern, Pall Mall, once a month, and was called the Nottinghamshire Club. On the 29th January, 1765, they met at four o'clock to dinner as usual, and every thing went agreeably on, until about seven o'clock, when a dispute arose betwixt Lord Byron and J]r Cha- worth concerning the quantity of game on their estates. The dispute rose to a high pitch, and Mr Chaworth, having paid his share of the bill, retired. Lord Byron followed him out of the room in which they had dined, and, stopping him on the landing of the stairs, called to the waiter to show them into an empty room. They were shown into one, and a single candle being placed on the table, — in a few minutes the bell was rung, and Mr Chaworth found mortally wounded. He said that Lord Byron and he entered the room together, Lord Byron leading the way; that bis lordship, in walking forward, said something relative to the former dispute, on which he pro- posed fastening the door; that on turning him- self round from this act, he perceived his lordship with his sword half drawn, or nearly so : ou which, knowing his man, he instantly drew his own, and hich he thought had ade a thrust at him ounded or killed him; rdship shorten his swo though t to have parried i that then, perceiving his d to return the thrust, he with hisleft hand; thathe felt the sword enter his body and go deep through his back ; that he struggled, and being the stronger man, disarmed his lordship, and expressed a con- cern, as under the apprehension of having mor- tally wounded him ; that Lord Byron replied by- saying something to the like effect, adding at the same time, that he hoped « he would now allow him to be as brave a man as any in the kingdom. » For this offence he was unanimously convicted of manslaughter, but, on being brought up for judgment, pleaded his privilege as a peer, and was, inconsequence, discharged. After this affair he was abandoned by his relations, and re- tired to Newstead Abbey; where, though he lived in a state of perfect exile from persons of his own rank, his unhappy temper found abundant exercise in continual war with his neighbours and tenants, and sufficient punishment in their hatred. One of his amusements was feeding crickets, which were his ouly companions. He had made them so tame as to crawl over him ; and used to whip them with a wisp of straw, if too familiar. In this forlorn condition he lin- gered out a long life, doing all in his power to ruin the paternal mansion for that other branch of the family to which he was aware it must pass at his death, all his own children having descended before the gray John, the next brother to William, aud born in the year after him, that is in 1723, was of a very different disposition, although his career in life was almost an unbroken scene of misfortunes. The hardships he endured while accompanying Commodore Anson in his expedition to the South Seas are well known, from his own highly popu- lar and affecting narrative. His only son, born in 175 1, who received an excellent education, and whose father procured for him a commission in the guards, was so dissipated that he was known by the name of «mad Jack Byron. » He was one of the handsomest men of his time; but his character was so notorious that his fa- ther was obliged to desert him, and his company was shunned by the better part of society. In his twenty-seventh year he seduced the Mar- chioness of Carmarthen; who had been but a few years married to a husbaud with whom she had lived in the most happy state, until she formed this unfortunate connexion. After one fruitless attempt at reclaiming his lady, the marquis obtained a divorce; and a marriage was brought about between her and her seducer; which, after the most brutal conduct ou his part, and (he greatest misery and keenest remorse 011 hers, was dissolved in two years by her sinking to the grave, the victim of a broken heart. About three years subsequent, Captain Byron sought to recruit his fortunes by matrimony, and having made a conquest of Miss Catherine Gordon, an Aberdeenshire heiress, (lineally de- scended from the Earl of Huntley and the Prin- cess Jane, daughter of James II. of Scotland) he united himself to her, ran through her property in a few years, and, leaving her and her only child, the subject of this memoir, in a destitute aud defenceless state, fled to France to avoid his creditors, and died at Valenciennes, in 179 1 . In Captain Medwin's « Conversations of Lord Byron,» the following expressions are said to have fallen from his lordship on the subject of his unworthy father: — « 1 lost my father when I was only six years of age. My mother, when she was in a rage LIFE OF LORD BYRON. IX with me (and I gave her cause enough), used to say, 'Ah! you little dog, you are a Byron all over; you are as had as your father!' It was very different from Mrs Maiaprop's saying, 'Ah! good dear Mr Malaprop! I never loved him till he was dead.' But, in fact, ray father was, in his youth, any thing hut a 'Caelehs in search of a wife.' He would have made a had hero for Hannah More. He ran out three fortunes, and married or ran away with three women; and once wanted a gui- nea, that he wrote for: I have the note. He seemed horn for his own ruin, and that of the other sex. He began hy seducing Lady Carmar- then, and spent for her four thousand pounds a- year;and, not content with one adventure of this kind, afterwards eloped with Miss Gordon. This destined i very fortu one either, and I don't wonder at her differing from Sheridan's widow in the play; they cer- tainly could not have claimed 'the flitch.' » George Byron Gordon (for so he was called on account of the neglect his father's family had shown to his mother) was born at Dover, on the 2?d of January, 1788. On the unnatural desertion of his father, the entire care of his infant years devolved upon his mother, who retired to Aber- deen, where she lived in almost perfect seclusion, on the ruins of her fortune. Her undivided affec- tion was naturally concentred in her son, who was her darling; and wheu he only went out for an ordinary walk, she would entreat him, with the tear glistening in her eye, to take care of himself, as « she had >ing earth but him to live for;- a conduct not at all pleasing to his adventurous spirit; the more especially, as some of his companions, who witnessed the affec- tionate scene, would laugh and ridicule him about it. This excessive maternal indulgence, and the absence of that salutary discipline and control, so necessary to childhood, doubtless contributed to the formation of the less pleasing features of Lord Byron's character. It must, however, be remembered, in Mrs Byron's extenuation, not only that the circumstances in which she had been left with her son were of a very peculiar nature, but also that a slight malformation of one of his feet, and great weakness of consti- tution, naturally solicited for him in the heart of a mother a more than ordinary portion of tenderness. For these latter reasons he was not sent very early to school, but was allowed to ex- pand his lungs, and brace his limbs, upon the mountains of the neighbourhood. This was evi- dently the most judicious method for imparting strength to his bodily frame; and the sequel show- ed that it was far from the worst for giving tone and vigour to his mind. The savage gran- deur of nature around him; the feeling that he was upon hills where « Foreign tyrant never trod, But Freedom, with her falchion hri(;ht, Swept the stranger from her sight;» his intercourse with a people whose chief amuse- ments consisted in the recital of heroic tales of other times, feats of strength, and a display of independence, blended with the wild superna- tural stories peculiar to remote and thinly-peo- pled districts;— all these were calculated to foster that poetical feeling innate in his character. When George was seven years of age, his mo- ther sent him to the grammar-school at Aber- deen, where he remained till his removal to Harrow, with the exception of some intervals of absence, which were deemed requisite for the establishment of his health. His progress beyond that of the general run of his class-fellows was never so remarkable as after those occasional in- tervals, when, in a few days, he would master exercises which, in the school routine, it had re- quired weeks to accomplish. But when he had overtaken the rest of the class he always re- laxed his exertions, and, contenting himself with being considered a tolerable scholar, never made any extraordinary effort to place himself at the head of the highest form. It was out of school that he aspired to be the leader of every thing; in all boyish games and amusements he would be first if possible. For this he was eminently calculated ; quick, enterprising, and daring, the energy of his mind enabled him to overcome the impediments which nature had thrown in his way. Even at that early period (from eight to ten years of age), all his sports were of a manly character; fishing, shooting, swimming, and managing a horse, or steering and trimming the sails of a boat, constituted his chief delights, and, to the superficial observer, seemed his sole occupations. He was exceedingly brave, and in the juvenile wars of the school, he generally gained the vic- tory; upon one occasion a boy pursued by an- other took refuge in Mrs Byron's house: the latter, who had been much abused by the for- mer, proceeded to take vengeance on him even on the landing-place of the drawing-room stairs, wheu George interposed in his defence, declaring that nobody should be ill-used while under his roof and protection. Upon this the aggressor dared him to fight, and, although the former was by much the stronger of the two, the spirit of young Byron was so determined, that after the combat had lasted for nearly two hours, it was suspended because both the boys were en- tirely exhausted. LIFE OF LORD BYRON. A school-fellow of Byron's had a very small Shetland pony which his father had bought him, and one day they went to the banks of the Don to bathe, but having only one pony, they were obliged to follow the good old practice, called in Scotland « ride and tie.» When they came to the bridge over that dark romantic stream, Byron bethought him of the prophecy which he has quoted in Don Juan: "■■"iff of Balgounie, Hack 's your tun'; Wi' ■ aefoal, He immediately stopped his companion, who was then riding, and asked him if he remembered the prophecy, saying, that as they were both only sons, and as the pony might be « a mare's ae foal,» he would rather ride over first; because he had only a mother to lament him, should the prophecy be fulfilled by the falling of the bridge, whereas the other had both a father and a mo- ther to grieve for him. It is the custom of the grammar-school at Aberdeen, that the boys of all the five classes of which it is composed should be assembled for prayers in the public school at eight o'clock in the morning; after prayers a censor calls over the names of all, and those who are absent are punished. The first time that Lord Byron had come to school after his accession to his title, the rector had caused his name to be inserted in the censor's book, Georgius Domiuus de Byron, instead of Georgius Byron Gordon as formerly. The boys, unaccustomed to this aristocratic sound, set up a loud and involuntary shout, which had such an effect on his sensitive mind that he burst into tears, and would have fled from the school had he not been restrained by the master. An answer which Lord Byron made to a fellow scholar, who questioned him as to the cause of the honorary addition of « Dominus de Byron* to his name, served at that time, when he was only ten years of age, to point out that he would be a man who would think, speak, and act for himself; who, whatever might be his sayings or his doings, his vices or his virtues, would not condescend to take them at second hand. This happened on the very day after he had been menaced with being flogged round the school for a fault which he had not committed; and when the question was put to him he replied, <■ it is not my doing; Fortune was to whip me yesterday for what another did, and she has this day made me a lord for what another has ceased to do. I need not thank her in either case, for I have asked nothing at her hands." On the 17th of May, 1798, William, the fifth Lord Byron, departed this life at Newstead. As the son of this eccentric nobleman had died when George was five years old, and as the descent both of the titles and estates was to heirs male, the latter, of course, succeeded his great uncle. Upon this change of fortune Lord Byron, now ten years of age, was removed from the immediate care of his mother, and placed as a ward under the guardianship of the Earl of Carlisle, whose father had married Isabella, the sister of the preceding Lord Byron. In one or two points .of character this great aunt resembled the bard: she also wrote beautiful poetry, and after adorning the gay and fashionable world for many years, she left it without any apparent cause and with perfect indifference, and in a great measure se- cluded herself from society. The young nobleman's guardian decided that he should receive the usual education given to England's titled sons, and that he should in the first instance be sent to the public school at Harrow. He was accordingly placed there under the tuition of the Bev. Dr Drury, to whom he has testified his gratitude in a note to the fourth canto of Childe Harold, in a manner which does equal honour to the tutor and the pupil. A change of scene and of circumstances so unfore- seen and so rapid, would have been hazardous to any boy, but it was doubly so to one of Byron's ardent mind and previous habits. Taken at once from the society of boys in humble life, and placed among youths of bis own newly-ac- quired rank, with means of gratification, which to him must have appeared considerable, it is by no means surprising that he should have been betrayed into every sort of extravagance ; none of them appear, however, to have been of a very culpable nature. « Though he was lame,» says one of his school- fellows, « be was a great lover of sports, and preferred hockey to Horace, relinquished even Helicon for ' duck-puddle,' and gave up the best poet that ever wrote hard Latin for a game of cricket on the common. He was not remarkable (nor was he ever) for his learning, but he was always a clever, plain-spoken, and undaunted boy. I have seen him fight by the hour like a Trojan, and stand up against the disadvantage of his lameness with all the spirit of an ancient combatant. ' Don't you remember your battle with Pitt?' (a brewer's son) said 1 to him in a letter (for I had witnessed it), but it seems that he had forgotten it. 'You are mistakeu, I think,' said he in reply; ' it must have been with Rice-Pudding Morgan, or Lord Jocelyn, or one of the Douglases, or George Raynsford, or Pryce (with whom I had two conflicts), or with Moses Moore (the clod), or with somebody else, and not with Pitt; for with all the above- named and other worthies of the fist had I an LIFE OF LORD BYRON. interchange of black eyes and bloody noses, at various and sundry periods; however, it may- have happened for all that.'» The annexed anecdotes are characteristic: The boys at Harrow had mutinied, and in their wisdom bad resolved to set fire to the scene of all their ills and troubles— the school-room: Byron, however, was against the motion, and by pointing out to the young rebels the names of their fathers on the walls, he prevented the in- tended conflagration. This early specimen of his power over the passions of bis school-fel- lows, his lordship piqued himself not a little upon. Byron long retained a friendship for several of his Harrow school-fellows; Lord Clare was one of his constant correspondents; Scroope Da- vies was also one of his chief companions before his lordship went to the continent; this gentle- man and Byron once lost all their money at . chicken hazard," in one of the hells of St. James's, and the nest morning Davies sent for Byron's pistols to shoot himself with ; Byron sent a note refusing to give them, on the ground that they would be* forfeited as a deodand. This comic excuse had the desired effect. Byron, whilst living at Newstead during the Harrow vacation, saw and became enamoured of Miss Chaworth : she is the Mary of his poetry, and his beautiful". Dream- relates to their loves. Miss Chaworth was older than his Lordship by a few years, was light and volatile, and though, no doubt, highly flattered by bis attachment, yet she treated our poet less as an ardent lover than as a younger brother. She was punctual to the assignations which took place at a gate dividing the grounds of the Byrons from the Chaworths, and accepted his letters from the confidants; but her answers, it is said, were written with more of the caution of coquetry than the romance of « love's young dream;- she gave him, however, her picture, but her hand was reserved for an- other. It was somewhat remarkable that Lord Byron and Miss Chaworth should both have been under the guardianship of Mr White. 'Ibis gentlcm-mi particularly wished that his wards should be married together; but Miss C, as young ladies generally do in such circumstances, differed from him, and was resolved to please herself in the choice of a husband. The celebrated Mr M., commonly known by the name of .lack M., was at this time quite the rage, and Miss C. was not subtle enough to conceal the penchant she had for this jack-a-<4iru(r; and though Mr \V. took her from one watering-place to another, still the lover, like an evil spirit, followed, and at last, being somehow more persuasive than the « child f song,» he carried off the lady, to the great grief of Lord Byron. The marriage, however, was not a happy one ; the parties soon separated, and Mrs M. afterwards proposed an interview with her former lover, which, by the advice of his sister, he declined. From Harrow Lord Byron was removed, and entered of Trinity College, Cambridge; there, however, he did not mend his manners, nor hold the sages of antiquity in higher esteem than when under the cummand of his Reverend tutor at Harrow. He was above studying the poetics, and held the rules of the Stagyrite in as little esteem as in after life he did the « invariable principles- of the Rev. Mr Bowles. Beading after the fashion of the studious men of Cam was to hirn a bore, and he held a senior wrangler in the greatest contempt. Persons of real genius are seldom candidates for college prizes, and Byron leftf « the silver cup» for those plodding characters who0perhaps, deserve them, as the guerdon of the unceasing labour necessary to overcome the all but invincible natural dulness of their intellects. Byron, instead of reading what pleased tutors, read what pleased himself, and wrote what could not fail to displease those political weathercocks. He did not admire their system of education, and they, as is the case with most scholars, could admire no other. He took to them, likes to hi laughed at; doctors frowned, and fellows fumed, and Byron at the age of nineteen left the uni- versity without a degree. Among other means which he adopted to show his contempt for academical honours, he kept a young bear in his room for some time, which he told all his friends he was training up for a fellowship; but however much the fellows of Trinity may claim acquaintance with the « ursa major,., they were by no means desirous of asso- ciating with his lordship's lilive. When about nineteen years of age, Lord Byron bade adieu to the university, and took up his re- sidence at Newstead Abbey. Here his pursuits were principally those of amusement. Among others be was extremely fond of the water. In his aquatic exercises he had seldom any other companion than a large Newfoundland dog, to try whose sagacity and fidelity he would some- times fall out of the boat, as if by accident, when the dog would seize him, and drag him ashore. On losing this dog, in the autumn of 1808, he caused a monument to be erected, with an in- scription commemorative of its attachment. (See page 53?. of this edition.) The following descriptions of Newstead's hal- lowed pile will be found interesting : This abbey was founded in the year 1170, by LIFE OF LORD BYRON. Henry II., as a priory of Black Canons, and cated to the Virgin Mary. It continued : family of the Byrons until the time of the late lord, who sold it first to Mr Claughton for the sum of i4o,ooo/., and on that gentl : to fulfil the agr »nd thu PJ ing 20,000/. of a forfeit, it was afterwards sold to another person, and most of the money vested in trustees for the jointure of the Hon. Mrs By- ron. The greater part of the edifice still remains. The present possessor, Major Wildman, is, with a genuine Gothic taste, repairing this beautiful specimen of architecture. The late Lord Byron repaired a considerable part of it; but, forgetting the roof, he had turned his attention to the in- side, and the consequence was that, in a few years, the rain paying a visit to the apartments, soon destroyed all those elegant devices which his lordship had contrived. His lordship's own study was a neat little apartment, decorated with some good classic busts, a sel$t collection of books, an antique cross, a sword in a gilt case, and, at the end of the room, two finely polished skulls on a pair of light fancy stands. In the garden, likewise, was a great number of these skulls, taken from the burial-ground of the abbey, and piled up together; but afterwards they were recommitted to the earth. A writer, who visited it soon after Lord Byron had sold it, says : « lu one corner of the servants' hall lay a stone coffin, in which were fencing gloves and foils, and on the walls of the ample but cheerless kitchen was painted in large letters ' Waste not,— want not.' During the minority of Lord Byron, the abbey was in the possession of Lord G , his hounds, d divers colonies of jackdaws, swallows, and irlings. The internal traces of this Goth were swept away; but without, all appeared as rude and unreclaimed as he could have left it. With e exception of the dog's tomb, a conspicuous d elegant object, I do not recollect the slightest trace of culture or improvement. The late lord, stern and desperate character, who is never mentioned by the neighbouring peasants without a significant shake of the head, might have re- turned and recognized every thing about him, except, perhaps, an additional crop of weeds. There still slept that old pond, into which he is have hurled his lady in one of his fits of fury, whence she was rescued by the gardener, a courageous blade, who was the lord's master, and chastised him for his barbarity. There still, at the end of the garden, in a grove of oak, two towering satyrs, he with bis goat and club, and Mrs Satyr with her chubby cloven-footed brat, placed on pedestals at the intersections of the narrow and gloomy pathways, struck for a mo- ment, with their grim visages, and silent shaggy forms, the fear into your bosom which is felt by the neighbouring peasantry at ' th 'oud laird's devils.' I have frequently asked the country people near Newstead, what sort of a man his lordship (our Lord Byron) was. The impression of his eccentric but energetic character was evident in the reply ' He's the devil of a fellow for comical fancies. He flogs the oud laird to nothing; but he '5 a hearty goodfellow for all that.'» Walpole, who had visited Newstead, gives, in his usual bitter, sarcastic manner, the following account of it: « As I returned I saw Newstead aud Althorpe; I like both. The former is the very abbey. The great east window of the church remains, and connects with the house; the hall entire, the re- fectory entire, the cloister untouched, with the ancient cistern of the convent, and their arms on it: it has a private chapel quite perfect. The park, which is still charming, has not been so much unprofaued. The present lord has lost large sums, aud paid part in old oaks, five thou- sand pounds worth of which have been cut near the house. En revanche, he has built two baby forts, to pay bis country in castles for damage done to the navy, and planted a handful of Scotch firs, that look like ploughboys dressed in old fa- mily liveries for a public day. In the hall is a very good collection of pictures, all animals. The refectory, now the great drawing-room, is full of Byrons : the vaulted roof remaining, but the windows have new dresses making for them by a Venetian tailor.* This is a careless but happy description of one of the noblest mansions in England, and it will now be read with a far deeper interest thai when it was written. Walpole saw the seat the Byrons, old, majestic, aud venerable; but hi saw nothing of that magic beauty which fame sheds over the habitations of genius, and which now mantles every turret of Newstead Abbey. He saw it when decay was doing its work on the cloister, the refectory, and the chapel, and all its honours seemed mouldering into oblivion. He could not know that a voice was soon to go forth from those antique cloisters, that should be heard through all future ages, and cry, 'Sleep no more to all the bouse.' Whatever may be its future fate, Newstead Abbey must henceforth be a me- morable abode. Time may shed its wild flowers on the walls, aud let the fox in upon the court- yard and the chambers; it may even pass into the hands of unlettered pride, or plebeian opu- lence; but it has been the mansion of a mighty poet. Its name is associated to glories that can- not perish, and will go down to posterity in one of the proudest pages of our annals. Lord Byron showed, even in his earliest years, LIFE OF LORD BYRON. that nature had aiUled to the advantages of high descent the richest gifts of genius and of fancy. His own tale is partly told in two lines of Lara: «Left bv liis sire, too Younfl- sucli loss to know . Lord or himself, (hut lifrit.i[;c of woe.» His first literary adventure and its fate are well reinemhered. The poemswhich he published in his minority had, indeed, th-^se faults of conception and diction which are inseparahle from juvenile attempts, and in particular might rather be con- sidered as imitative of what had caught the ear and fancy of the youthful author, than as exhi- biting originality of conception and expression. It was like the first essay of the singing-bird, catching at and imitating the notes of its parent, ere habit and time have given the fulness of tone, confidence, and self-possession which ren der assistance unnecessary. Yet though there were many, and those not the worst judges, discerned in his « Hours of Idleness" a depth of thought and felicity of expression which promised much at a more mature age, the errors did escape the critical lash of the « Scotch Reviewi who could not resist the opportunity of pouncing upon a titled poet, of showing off their own v and of seeking to entertain their readers will flippant article, without much respect to the feel- ings of the author, or even to the indicatioi merit which the work displayed. The re was read, and excited mirth ; the poems were neglected, the author was irritated, and look his revenge in keen iambics, which, at the same time, proved the injustice of the offending critic and the ripening talents of the bard. Having thus vented his indignation against the reviewers and their readers, and put all the laughter on his side, Lord Byron went abroad, and the controversy was for some years forgotten. It was at Newstead, just before his coming of age, he had planned his future travels, and his original intention included a much larger portion of the world than that which he afterwards vi- ted. He first thought of Persia, to which idea indeed he for a long time adhered. He after- rds meant to sail for India, and bad so far llemplated this project as to write for infor- tion from the Arabic professor at Cambridge, I to ask his mother to enquire of a friend who had lived in India, what things would be neces- iry for his voyage. He formed his plan of tra- velling upon very different grounds from those which he afterwards advanced. All men should travel atone time or another, he thought, and he had then no connexions to prevent him; when he returned he might enter into political life, for hich travelling would not incapacitate him, and ; wished to judge of men by experience. At length, in July, 1809, in company with John Cam Hobluuise, esq. (with whom his acquaint- ance commenced at Cambridge), Lord Byron embarked at Falmouth for Lisbon, and thence proceeded, by the southern provinces of Spain, to the Mediterranean. The objects that he met with as far as Gibraltar seem to have occupied his mind, to the temporary exclusion of his gloomy and misanthropic thoughts; for a letter which he wrote to his mother from thence con- tains no indication of them; but, on the con- trary, much playful description of the scenes through which he had passed. At Seville, Lord Byron lodged in the house of two single ladies, one of whom, however, was about to be married. Though he remained there only three days, she paid him the most particular attentions, and, at their parting, embraced him with great tender- ness, cutting off a lock of his hair, and presenting him with one of her own. With this specimen of Spanish female manners, he proceeded to Ca- diz, where various incidents occurred to confirm the opinion he had formed at Seville of the Andalusian belles, and which made him leave Cadiz with regret, and determine to return to it. Lord Byron wrote to his mother from Malta, announcing his safety, and again from Previsa, in November. Upon arriving at Yanina, Lord Byron found that Ali Pacha was with his troops in Illyrium, besieging Ibrahim Pacha in Berat; but the vizier having heard that an English nobleman was in his country, had given orders at Y'anina to supply him with every kind of accommodation, free of expense. From Yanina, Lord Byron went to Tepaleen. Here he was lodged in the palace, and the next day intro- duced to Ali Pacha, who declared that he knew him to be a man of rank from the smallness of his ears, his curling hair, and his white hands, and who sent him a variety of sweetmeats, fruits, and other luxuries. In going in a Turkish ship of war, provided for him by Ali Pacha, from Pre- visa, intending to sail for Patras, Lord Byron was very near lost in but a moderate gale of wind, from the ignorance of the Turkish officers and sailors, and was driven on the coast of Suli. An instance of disinterested hospitality in the chief of a Suliote village occurred to Lord Byron, in consequence of his disasters in the Turkish gal- liot. The honest Albanian, after assisting him in his distress, supplying his wants, and lodging him and his suite, refused to receive any remu- neration. When Lord Byron pressed him to take money, he said: « I wish you to love rne, not to pay me.. At Yanina, on his return, he was in- troduced to Hussein Bey and Mahmout Pacha, two young children of Ali Pacha. Subsequently, he visited Smyrna, whence hewent in theSalsette frigate to Constantinople. \l\ LIFE OF LORD BYRON. On the 3d of May, 1810, while this frigate wai lying at anchor in the Dardanelles, Lord Byron accompanied by Lieutenant Ekenhead, swam th< Hellespont from the European shore to the Asia- tic — about two miles wide. The tide of tin Dardanelles runs so strong, that it is impossible either to swim or to sail to any given point. Lord Byron went from thecastle to Abydos, and landed on the opposite shore, full three miles below his meditated place of approach. He had a boat in attendance all the way ; so that no danger could be apprehended even if his strength had failed. His lordship records, in one of his minor poems, that he got the ague by the voyage ; but it was well known, that when he landed, he was so much exhausted, that he gladly accepted the offer of a Turkish fisherman; and reposed in his hut for se- veral hours; he was then very ill, and as Lieute- nant Ekenhead was compelled to go on board his frigate, he was left alone. The Turk hadaio idea of the rank or consequence of his inmate, but paid him most marked attention. His wife was his nurse, and, at the end of five days, he left the shore, completely recovered. When he was about to embark, the Turk gave him a large loaf, a cheese, and askin filled with wine, and then pre- sented him with a few praes (about a penny each), prayed Allah to bless him, and wished him safe home. His lordship madelhim no return to this, more than saying he felt much obliged. But when he arrived at Abydos, lie sent over his man Stefano, to the Turk, with an assortment of fishing-nets, a fowling piece, a brace of pistols, and twelve yards of silk to make gowns for his wife. The poor Turk was astonished, and said , « What a noble return for aii act of humanity !» He .then formed the resolution of crossing the Hellespont, and, in propria persona, thanking his lordship. His wife approved of the plan ; and he had sailed about halfway across, when a sudden squall upset his boat, and the poor Turkish fisher- man found a watery grave. Lord Byron was much distressed when he heard of tlie catastrophe, and, .with all that kindness of heart which was natural to him, he sent to the widow fifty dol- lars, and told her he would ever be her friend. This anecdote, so highly honourable to his lord- ship's memory, is very little known. Lieutenant Hare, -who was on the spot at the time, furnished the particulars, and added, that in the year 181 7, Lord ,Byron, then proceeding to Constantinople, landed at the same spot, and made a handsome preseut to the widow and her son, who recollected the circumstance, but knew not Lord Byron, his dress and appearance having so altered him. It was not until after Lord Byron arrived at Constantinople that he decided not to go on to Persia, but to pass the following summer in the Morea. At Constantinople, Mr Hobhouse left him to return to England. On losing his com- panion, Lord Byron went again, and alone, over much of the old track which he had already vi- sited, and studied the scenery and manners, of Greece especially, with the searching eye of a poet and a painter. His mind appeared occasion- ally to have some tendency towards a recovery from the .morbid state of moral apathy which he had previously evinced, and the gratification which he manifested on observing the superiority, in every respect, of England to other countries, proved that patriotism was far from being extinct in his bosom. The embarrassed state of his af- fairs, at length, induced him to return home, to endeavour to arrange them.; and he arrived in the Volage frigate on the 2d of July, 181 1, having been absent exactly two years. His health had not suffered by his travels, although it had been interrupted by two sharp fevers; .but he had put himself entirely on a vegetable diet, and Soon after his arrival, he was summoned to Newstead, in consequence of the serious illness of his mother.; but on reaching the abbey, found that she had breathed her last. He suffered much from this loss, and from the disappointment of not seeing her before her death.; and while his feelings on the subject were still very acute, he eceived the that a friend, whom h( highly esteemed, had been drowned -in the Cam. He had, not long before, heard of the death, at Coimbra, of a school-fellow, to whom he was inuoli attached. These three melancholy events, occurring within the space of a month, had, no doubt, a powerful effect on Lord Byron's feelings. Towards the termination of his .. English Bards and Scotch Reviewers," the noble author had de- clared, that it was his intention to break off, from that period, his newly-formed connexion with the Muses, and that, should he return in safety from the « Minarets » of Constantinople, the « Maidens* of Georgia, and the "Sublime Snows ■> of Mount Caucasus, nothing on *arth should tempt him to resume the pen. Such resolutions are seldom maintained. In February, 1812, the first two cantos of « Childe Harold's Pilgrimage .. (with the manuscript of which he had presented his friend Mr Dallas) made their appearance, pro- ducing an effect upon the public equal to that of any work which had been published within this or the last century. This poem is perhaps the most original in the English language, both in conception and execu- tion. It is no more like Beattie's Minstrel than Paradise Lost — though the former production as in the noble author's mind when first think- g of Childe Harold. A great poet, who gives LIFE OF LORD BYRON. xv himself up free anil uuconfined to the impulses of his genius, as Byron did in the hetter part of this singular creation, shows to us a spirit as if sent out from the hands of nature, to range over the earlh and the societies of men. Even .shak- speare himself submits to the shackles of history and society. But here Byron has traversed the whole earth, borne along by the whirlwind of his own spirit. Wherever a forest frowned, or a temple glittered— there he was privileged to bend his flight. He suddenly starts up from his solitary dream, by the secret fountain of the de- sert, and descends at once into the tumult of peopled, or the silence of deserted cities. What- ever actually lived— had perished heretofore— or that had within it a power to kindle passion, became the materiel of his all-embracing song. There are no unities of time or place to fetter him— and we fly with biin from hill-top to hill- top,and from tower to tower, over all the solitude of nature, and all the magnificence of art. When the past pageants of history seemed too dim and faded, he would turn to the splendid spectacles that have dignified our own days ; and the images of kings and conquerors of old gave place to those that were yet living in sovereignty exile. Indeed much of the power which By- possessed was derived from this source. He lived in a sort of sympathy with the public mind sometimes wholly distinct from it— sometiin acting in opposition to it — sometimes blendii with it, — but, at all times, in all his thoughts and actions, bearing a reference to the public mind. His spirit needed not to go back into the past, — though it often did so,— to bring the ob- jects of its love back to earth in more beautiful life. The existeuce he painted was— the present. The objects he presented were marked out to him by men's actual regards. It was his to speak of all those great political events which were objects of such passionate and universal sympathy. But chiefly he spoke our own feelings, exalted in thought, language, and passion. His travels were not, at first, the self-impelled act of a mind se- vering itself in lonely roaming from all parti- cipation in the society to which it belonged, but rather obeying the general notion of the mind of that society. The indications of a bold, powerful, and ori- ginal mind which glanced through every line of Childe Harold, electrified the mass of readers, and placed at once upon Lord Byron's head the garland for which other men of genius have toiled long, anil which they have gained late. He Was placed pre-eminent among the literary men of his country by general acclamation. Those who had so rigorously censured his juvenile essays, lancholy and perhaps « dreaded such another field," were terruptcd ev the first to pay warm homage to his matured ef- forts ; while others, who saw in the sentiments of fjhilde Uarold much to regret and to censure, did not withhold their tribute of applause to the depth of thought, the power and force of expres- sion, and the energy of sentiment which animated the »Pilgrimage.» Thus, as all admired the poem, all were prepared to greet the author with that fame which is the poet's best reward. It was amidst such feelings of admiration that Lord By- ron fully entered on that public stage where, tothe close of his life, lie made so distinguished a figure. Every thing in his manner, person, and con- versation tended to maintain the charm which his genius had flung around him; and those ad- mitted to his conversation, far from finding that the inspired poet sunk into ordinary mortality, felt themselves attached to him, not only by many noble qualities, but by the interest of a mys- terious, undefined, and almost painful curiosity. It is well known how wide the doors of societv are opened-in London to literary merit, even of a degree far inferior to Lord Byron's, and that it is only necessary to be honourably distinguished by the public voice to move as a denizen in the first circles. This passport was not necessary to Lord Byron, who possessed the hereditary claims of birth and rank. But the interest which his genius attached to his presence, and to his con- versation, was of a nature far beyond what these hereditary claims could of themselves have con- ferred, and his reception was enthusiastic beyond any thing imaginable. Lord Byron was not one of those literary men of whom it may be truly said, minuHpriesenliafamam. A countenauce,exquisitely modeled to the expression of feeling and passion, anil exhibiting the remarkable contrast of very dark hair and eye-brows, with light and expres- sive eyes, presented tothe physiognomist the most interesting subject for the exercise of his art. The predominating expression was that of deep and habitual thought, which gave way to the most rapid play of features when he engaged in interesting discussion; so that a brother poet compared them lo the sculpture of a beautiful alabaster vase, only seen to perfection when lighted up from within. The Hashes of mirth, gaiety, indignation, or satirical dislike which fre- quently animated Lord Byron's countenance, might, during an evening's conversation, be mis- taken by a stranger for its habitual expression, so easily anil so happily was it formed for them all; but those who had an opportunity of study- ing his features for a length of time, and upon various occasions, both of rest and knew that (heir proper language was that of shades of this gloom I : I LIFE OF LORD BYEON. merits; and the following verses are said to have dropped from his pen to excuse a transient ex- pression of melancholy which overclouded the general gaiety. « When from the heart where Sorrow sits, Her dusky shadow mounts too high, And o'er the changing aspeet flits, And clouds the brow, or fills the eye- Heed not the ([loom that soon shall sink, My thoughts their dungeon know too well; Baek to my breast the captives shrink, And bleed within their silent cell.» It was impossihle to notice a dejection belonging neither to the rank, the age, nor the success of this young nobleman, without feeling an inde- ble curiosity to ascertain whether it had a deeper cause than habit or constitutional terape- int. It was obviously of a degree incalculably : serious than that alluded to by Prince Arthur— - I remember when I was in France, Young gentlemen would be as sad as night, Only for wantonness But howsoever derived, this, joined to Lord By- ron's air of mingling in amusements and sports as if he contemned them, and felt that his sphere was far above the fashionable and frivolous crowd which surrounded him, gave a strong ef- fect of colouring to a character whose tints were otherwise decidedly romantic. Noble far descended, the pilgrim of distant and savage countries, eminent as a poet among the first whom Britain has produced, and having besides cast around him a mysterious charm arising from the sombre tone of his poetry^ and the occasional melancholy of his deportment, Lord Byron oc- cupied the eyes, and interested the feelings of all. The enthusiastic looked on him to admire, the serious with a wish to admonish, and the soft with a desire to console. Even literary envy, a some distance at the time, but, on learning who he was, His Royal Highness sent a gentleman to him to desire that he would be presented. Of course the presentation took place ; the Regent expressed his admiration of « Childe Harold's Pilgrimage," and entered into a conversation which so fascinated the poet, that had it not been for an accident which deferred a levee intended to have been held the next day, he would have gone to court. Soon after, however, an unfortunate influence counteracted the effect of royal praise, and Lord Byron permitted him- self to write and speak disrespectfully of the The whole of Byron's political career may be summed up in the following anecdotes: The Earl of Carlisle having declined to intro- duce Lord Byron to the House of Peers, he re- solved to introduce himself, and accordingly went there a little before the usual hour, when he knew few of the lords would be present. On entering he appeared rather abashed and looked very pale, but passing the woolsack, where the Chancellor (Lord Eldon) was engaged in some of the ordinary routine of the house, he went directly to the table, where the oaths were ad- ministered to him in the usual manner. The Lord Chancellor then approached, and offered his hand in the most open familiar manner, con- gratulating him on his taking possession of his seat. Lord Byron only placed the tips of his fingers in the Chancellor's hand ; the latter re- turned to his seat, and Byron, after lounging a few minutes on one of the opposition benches, ed. To his friend, Mr Dallas, who followed vhich, this age more free than any other, forgave th splendour dimmed the fame of bis competitors. The generosity of Lord Byron's disposition, his readiness to assist merit in distress, and to bring it forward where unknown, deserved and obtained general regard; while his poetical effusions, pour- id forth with iCiual force and fertility,showed : once a daring confidence in his own powers, anc) a determination to maintain, by continued effort the high place he had attained in British lite rature. At one of the fashionable parties where the noble bard was present, His Majesty, then Prince Regent, entered the room : Lord Byron was at he for into the spirit of the Chancellor, « that it might have been supposed he would join the court party, whereas he intended to have nothing at all to do with politics." He only addressed the house three times : the first of his speeches was on the Frame-work Bill ; the seconil in favour of the Catholic claims which gave good hopes of his becoming an ora- tor; and the other related to a petition of Major Cartwrigbt. Byron himself says, the Lords liiin ■■ his manner was not dignified enough for them, and would better suit the lower house;" others say, they gathered round him while speak ing, listening with the greatest attention — a sign at any rate that he was interesting. He always voted with the opposition, but evinced no like- lihood of becoming the blind partisan of either side. The following is a pleasing instance of the ge- nerosity, the delicacy, and the unwounding bene- volence of Byron's nature : ,IFE OF LORD BYHON. A young lady of considerable talents, but who had never been able to succeed in turning them to any profitable account, was reduced to great hardships through the misfortunes of her fa- mily. The only persons from whom she could have hoped for relief were abroad, and so urged on, more by the sufferings of those she held dear than by her own, she summoned up reso- lution to wait on Lord ISyron at his apartments in the Albany, and ask his subscription to a volume of poems; she had no previous know- ledge of him except from his works, but from the boldness and feeling expressed in them, she concluded that he must be a man of kind heart and amiable disposition. Experience did not disappoint her, and though she entered the apartment with faltering steps and a palpitating heart, she soon found courage to state her re- quest, which she did in the most simple and delicate manner: he heard it with the most marked attention and the keenest sympathy; and when she had ceased speaking, he, as if to avert her thoughts from a subject which could not be hut painful to her, began to converse in words so fascinating, and tones so gentle, that she hardly perceived he had been writing, until he put a folded slip of paper into her hand, saying it was his subscription, and that he most heartily wished her success: « hut,- added he, « we are both young, and the world is very censorious, and so if 1 were to take any active part in pro- curing subscribers to your poems, I fear it would do you harm rather than good.- The young lady, overpowered by the prudence and delicacy of his conduct, took her leave, and upon opening in the street the paper, which in her agitation she had not previously looked at, she found it was a draft upon his banker for fifty pounds! The enmity that Byron entertained lowards the Earl of Carlisle was owing to two causes: the earl hail spoken rather irreverently of the ■ Hours of Idleness," when Byron expected, as a relation, that he would have countenanced it. He had moreover refused to introduce his kins- man to the House of Lords, even, it is said, somewhat doubting bis right to a seat in that honourable house. The Earl of Carlisle was a great admirer of the classic drama, and once published a sixpenny pamphlet, in which be strenuously argued ill behalf of the propriety anil necessity of small theatres: on the same day that thil weighty publication ap- peared, he subscribed a thousand pounds for some public purpose. On this orrasion Byron composed the following epigram : And for a sixpence circles round The produce of his brains : 'T is thus tlic difference you may hit Between his fortune and his wit.» Byron retained his antipathy to this relative to the last. On reading some lines in the news- papers addressed to Lady Holland by the Earl of Carlisle, persuading her to reject the snuff-box bequeathed to her by Napoleon, beginning: «Lady, reject the flift,.. etc. lie immediately wrote the following parody: «Lady, aceept llie p.ifl a licro wore, In spite of all this elepac stuff: Let not seven stanzas written by a bore Prevent your ladyship from taking snuff... tragedy, Sir Lnmley Skeffingtcui had wr called, if we remember right, .. The My: Bride,., which was fairly damned on the first night : a masquerade took place soon after this fatal ca- tastrophe, to which went John Cam Hohbouse as a Spanish nun who had been ravished by the French army, and was under the protection of his lord- ship. Skeftiugton, compassionating the unfortunate young woman, asked, in a very sentimental man- ner, of Byron, .. who is she?» « The Mysterious Bride," replied his lordship. On Byron's return from his first tour, Mr Dallas called upon him, and, after the usual salutations had passed, enquired if he was prepared with any other work to support the fame which he had already acquired. Byron then delivered for his examination a poem, entitled « Hints from Horace," being a paraphrase of the art of poetry. Mr Dallas promised to superintend the publica- tion of this piece as he had done that of the satire, and accordingly it was carried to Caw- thorn the bookseller, and matters arranged; but Mr Dallas, not thinking the poem likely to increase III-. Inr.Ulii allowed it to press. It began tin l.ui;;li if Lawrence, hire illi each (latter'd face, Nature with a blush for show -mids tail; Or low If" fas once (he world has seen) Degrade Cod's creatures in his Graphic spleen — Not all that fonerl politeness villi, b defends Fools in their faults. could |;.i|; his n.riniiiiip, friends. Believe inc. Mos-lnis, like (hit picture seems The honk which, sillier than a lick man's dreams, Displayi ■■ crowd of fir,ur.s incomplete, Poetic night-main, without head or feet... Mr Dallas expressed his sorrow that bis lord- ship had written nothing else. Byron then told him that he had occasionally composed some verses in Spenser's measure, relative to the countries he xvm LIFE OF LORD BYRON. had visited. ■ They are not worth troubling you with,., said his lordship, « hut you shall havi them all with you : » he then took « Child( Harold's Pilgrimage., from a trunk, and de- livered it to him. Mr Dallas having read the poem, was in raptures with it; he instantly resolved to do his utmost in suppressing the -« Hints from Horace, » and to bring out Childe Ha- rold. He urged Byron to publish this Jast poem; but he was unwilling, and preferred to have the Hints» published. He would not be convinced of the great merit of the - Childe, » and as some person had seen it before Mr Dallas, and ex- pressed disapprobation, Byron was by no means of its kind reception by the world. In a t time afterwards, however, he agreed to its publication, and requested Mr Dallas not to deal with Cawthom, but offer it to Miller of Albe- marle Street : he wished a fashionable publish- er; but Miller declined it, chiefly on account of the strictures it contained on Lord Elgin, whose publisher he was. Longman had refused to publish « the Satire,» and Byron would not suffer any of his works to come from that house : the work was therefore carried to Mr Murray, who then kept a shop opposite St Dunstan's church in Fleet Street. Mr Murray had ex- pressed a desire to publish for Lord Byron, and egretted that Mr Dallas had not taken the •• Eng- lish Bards and Scotch Reviewers., to him; but this was after its success. ron fell into company with Hogg, the Et- trick Shepherd, at the Lakes. The Shepherd was standing at the inn door of Ambleside when, forth me a strapping young man from the house, ad off with his hat, and out with his hand. Hogg did not know him, and, appearing at a dead halt, the other relieved him by saying, « Mr Hogg, I hope you will excuse me; my name is Byron, and I cannot help thinking that we ought hold ourselves acquainted." The poets ac- cordingly shook hands immediately, and, while they continued at the Lakes, were hand and glove, drank furiously together, and laughed at their brother bards. Oil Byron's leaving the Lakes, he sent Hogg a letter quizzing the Lakists, h the Shepherd was so mischievous as to show to them. When residing at Mitylene in the year 1812, he portioned eight young girls very liberally, and even danced with them at the marriage feast; he gave a cow to one man, horses to an- other, and cotton and silk to several girls who lived by weaving these materials : he also bought a new boat for a fisherman who had lost his gale .id he oftei Greek testa- ents to the poor children. While at Metaxata, in 1823, at which several persons had been engaged digg- ing, fell in, and buried some of them alive : he was at dinner when he heard of the accident, and, starting up from the table, ran to the spot, accompanied by his physician, who took a supply of medicines with him. The labourers who were employed to extricate their companions, soon became alarmed for themselves, and refused ti go on, saying, they believed they had dug ou all the bodies which had been covered by lb ruins. Lord Byron endeavoured to induce then to continue their exertions, but finding menaces in vain, he seized a spade and began to dig most zealously ; at length the peasantry joined him, and they succeeded in saving two more persons from certain death. It is stated in the « Conversations,., that Byron was engaged in several duels, — that in one in- stance he was himself principal in an « affair of honour .. with Hobhouse,— and would have been so in another with Moore, if the Bard of Eriu's challenge had been properly forwarded to him. On the 2d of January, 18 15, Lord Byron mar- ried, at Seaham, in the county of Durham, Anne Isabella, only daughter of Sir Ralph Mill- bank (since Noel), Bart. To this lady he had made a proposal twelve months before, but was rejected; well would it have been for their mu- tual happiness had that rejection been repeated. After their marriage Lord and Lady Byron took a house in London; gave splendid dinuer-par- ties; kept separate carriages; and, in short, launched very . of fashionable gance. This could not last long; the portion which his lordship had received with Miss Millbank (ten thousand pounds) soon melted away; and, at length, an execution was actually levied on the furniture of his residence. It was then agreed that Lady Byron, who on the 10th of December, i8i5, had presented her lord with a daughter, should pay a visit to her father till the storm blown over, and some arrangements had been made with their creditors. From that visit she never returned, and a separation ensued, for which various reasons have been assigned; the real cause or causes, however, of that regretted event, are up to this moment involved iu mys- tery, though, as might be expected, a wonderful sensation was excited at the time, and every description of contradictory rumour was in active circulation. Byron was first introduced to Miss Millbank at Lady 's. In going up stairs he stumbled, nd remarked to Moore, who accompanied him, that it was a bad omen; ou entering the room, he perceived a lady more simply dressed than the rest sitting on a sofa. He asked Moore if she was a humble companion to any of the ladies. LIFE OF LORD BYUON. ', ii S The latter replied, ~ She is a great heiress; you'd better marry her, and repair the old place New- stead. - Til owing anecdotes on the subject of this unfortunate marriage are given from Lord Byron's Conversations, in his own words : t There was something piquant and what we term pretty, in Miss Millbank ; her features were small and feminine, though not regular; she had the fairest skin imaginable ; her figure was per- fect for her height, and there was a simplicity, a retired modesty about her, which was very cha- racteristic, and formed a happy contrast to the cold artificial formality and studied stiffness which is called fashion: she interested me ex- ceedingly. It is unnecessary to detail the pro- gress of our acquaintance: I became daily more attached to her, and it ended in my making her a proposal that was rejected; her refusal was couched in terms that could not offend me. I was besides persuaded that in declining my offer she was governed by the influence of her mother; and was the more confirmed in this opinion by her reviving our correspondence herself twelve months after. The tenor of her letter was, that although she could not love me, she desired my friendship. Friendship is a dangerous word for young ladies; it is love full-fledged, and waiting for a fine day to fly. ■ I was not so young when my father died, but that I perfectly remember him, and had very early a horror of matrimony from the sight of domestic broils; this feeling came over me very strongly at my wedding. Something whispered me that I was sealing my own death-warrant. I am a great believer in presentiments; Socrates' demon was not a fiction; Monk Lewis had his monitor; and Napoleon many warnings. At the last moment I would have retreated if I could have done so ; I called to mind a friend of mine, who had married a young, beautiful, and rich girl, and yet was miserable; he had strongly urged me against putting my neck in the same yoke : and to show you how firmly I was re- solved to attend to his advice, I betted Hay fifty guineas to one that I should always remain single. Six years afterwards I sent him the money. The day before I proposed to Lady Byron, I had no idea of doing so. « It had been predicted by Mrs Williams, that twenty-seven was to be a dangerous age for me ; the fortune-telling witch was right, it was des- tined to prove so. I shall never forget the 2d of January ! Lady Byron (Byrn, he pronounced it); was the only unconcerned person present, Lady Noel, her mother, cried; I trembled like a leaf, made the wrong responses, and after the called her Miss Millbank. - There is a singular history attached to tin ring; the very day the match was concluded, ; ring of my mother's that had been lost was duj up by the gardener at Newstead. I thought i rpose for the e.ldi, but mother's marriage had not been a fortunate one, and this ring was doomed to be the seal of an unhappier union still. « After the ordeal was over, we set off for a country seat of Sir llalph's, and I was surprised at the arrangements for the journey,. and some- what out of humour to find a lady's maid stuck between me and my bride. It was rather too early to assume the husband, so I was forced to submit, but it was not with a very good grace. « I have been accused of saying, on getting into the carriage, that I had married Lady Byron out of spite, and because she had refused me twice. Though I was for a moment vexed at her prudery, or whatever it may be called, if I had made so" uncavalier, not to say brutal, a speech, I am convinced Lady Byron would instantly have left the carriage to me and the maid (I mean the lady's); she had spirit enough to have done so, and would properly have resented the affront. ■ Our honey-moon was not all sunshine, it had its clouds; and Hobhouse has some letters which would serve to explain the rise and fall in the barometer; but it was never down at zero. u A curious thing happened to me shortly after the honey-moon, which was very awkward at the time, but has since amused me much. It so happened that three married women were ou a wedding visit to my wife (and in the same room at the same time), whom I had known to be all birds of the same nest. Fancy the scene of confusion that ensued. « The world says I married Miss Millbank for her fortune, because she was a great heiress. All I have ever received, or am likely to receive (and that has been twice paid back too), was io.oooJ. ; my own income at this period was small and somewhat bespoke. Newstead was a very unprofitable estate, and brought me in a hare i5oo/. a year; the Lancashire property was hampered with a law-suit, which has cost me i4,ooo/. and is not yet finished. « I heard afterwards that Mrs Charlment had been the means of poisoning Lady Noel's mind against me; that she had employed herself and others in watching me in London, and had re- ported having traced me into a house in Port- land-Place. There was one act unworthy of any one but such a confidante ; I allude to the breaking open my writing-desk: a book was found in it that did not do much credit to im- am! sonic letters from a mar- LIFE OF LORD BYRON. ried woman with whom I had been intimate before my marriage. The use that was made of the latter was most unjustifiable, whatever may be thought of the breach of confidence that led to their discovery. Lady Byron sent them to the husband of the lady, who had the good sense to take no notice of their contents. The gravest sation that has been made against me is that of having intrigued with Mrs Mardyn in my own house, introduced her to my own table, etc. ; there never was a more unfounded calumny. Being on the Committee of Drury-Lane Theatre, I have no doubt that several actresses called on me; but as to Mrs Mardyn, who was a beautiful woman, and might have been a dangerous visi- tress, I was scarcely acquainted (to speak) with her. I might even make a' more serious charge against than employing spies to watch sus- pected amours. I had been shut up in. a dark street in London writing ' The Siege of Corinth,' and had refused myself to every one till it was finished. I was surprised one day by a doctor and a lawyer almost forcing themselves at the same time into my room; I did not know till afterwards' the real object of their visit. 1 thought their questions singular, frivolous, and somewhat importuuate, if not impertinent; but what should I have thought if I had known that they were sent to provide proofs of my insanity? I have no doubt that my answers to these emis- saries' interrogations were not very rational or consistent, for my imagination was heated by other things; but Dr Baillie could not conscien- tiously make me out a certificate for Bedlam, and perhaps the favo report to his employers. The doctor said after- wards he had been told that I always looked down when Lady Byron bent her eyes on me, and exhibited other symptoms equally infallible, particularly those that marked the late kng's case so strongly. I do not, however, tax Lady Byron with this transaction : probably she was not privy to it ; she was the tool of others. Her mother always detested me, she had not even the decency to conceal it in her own house. Dining one day at Sir Ralph's (who was a good sort of man, and of whom you may form some idea, when I tell you that a leg of mutton was always served at his table, that he might cut the same joke upon it), I broke a tooth, and was iu great pain, which I could not avoid showing. ' It will do you good,' said Lady Noel ; ' I am glad of it!' I gave her a look! « Lady Byron had good ideas, but could never express them ; wrote poetry too, but it was only good by accident ; her letters were always enig- matical, often unintelligible. She was easily made the dupe of the designing, for she thought her knowledge of mankind infallible. She had got some foolish idea of Madame de Stael's into ir head, that a pen the first hour than i be better knowu years. had the habit of drawing people's characters after she had seen them once or twice. She wrote pages on pages about my character, but it was as unlike as possible. She was governed by what she called fixed rules and principles, squared mathe- matically. She would have made an excellent wrangler at Cambridge. It must be confessed, however, that she gave no proof of her boasted consistency; first she refused me, then she ac- cepted me, then she separated herself from me— so much for consistency. 1 need not tell you of the obloquy and opprobrium that were cast upon my name when our separation was made public ; I once made a list from the journals of the day of the different worthies, ancient and modern, to whom I was compared: I remember a few, Nero, Apicius, Epicurus, Caligula, Heliogabalus, Henry the Eighth, and lastly, the . All my former friends, even my cousin George Byron, who had been brought up with me, and whom I loved as a brother, took my wife's part : he fol- lowed the stream when it was strongest against me, and can never expect any thing from me ; he shall never touch a sixpence of mine. 1 was looked upon as the worst of husbands, the most abandoned and wicked of men ; and my wife as a suffering angel, an incarnation of all the vir- tues and perfections of the sex. 1 was abused in the public prints, made the common talk of pri- vate companies, hissed as I went to the House of Lords, insulted in the streets, afraid to go to the theatre, whence the unfortunate Mrs Mardyn had been driven with insult. The Examiner was the only paper that dared say a word in my defence, and Lady Jersey the only person in the fashionable world that did not look upon me as a monster." « In addition to all these mortifications, my affairs were irretrievably involved, and almost so as to make me what they wished. I was com- pelled to part with Newstead, which I never could have ventured to sell in my mother's life- time. As it is, 1 shall never forgive myself for having done so, though I am told that the estate would not now bring half as much as I got for it: this does not at all reconcile me to having parted with the old Abbey. I did not make up my mind to this step but from the last necessity; I had my wife's portion to repay, and was deter- mined to add 10,000/. more of my own to it, which I did : I always hated being in debt, and do not owe a guinea. The moment I had put my affairs in train, and in little more than eighteen months after my marriage, 1 left Eng- LIFE OF LORD BYRON. their means of generosity, hospitality, and pa- tronage. He had the will, alas! without the power. « With this temper, these feelings, this genius, exposed to a combination of such untoward and ti\iit ; ; < irruinst.nices, it would indeed have been inimitably praise-worthy if Lord Byron could have been always wise, prudent, calm, correct, pure, virtuous, and unassailable : — if he coald have shown all the force and splendour of his mighty poetical energies, without any mixture of their clouds, their baneful lightnings, or their storms:— if he could have preserved all his sensi- bility to every kind and noble passion, yet have remained placid, and unaffected by the attack of any blameable emotion; — that is, it would have land, an involuntary exile, intending it should be for ever.* We shall here avail ourselves of ^ome obser- vations by a powerful and elegant critic, 1 whose opinions on the personal character of Lord Byron, as well as on the merits of his poems, are, from their originality, candour, and keen discrimina- tion, of considerable weight. • The charge against Lord Byron,- says this writer, « is, not that he fell a victim to ex- cessive temptations, and a combination of cir- cumstances, which it required a rare and extra- ordinary degree of virtue, wisdom, prudence, and steadiness to surmount; but that he aban- doned a situation of uncommon advantages, and fell weakly, pusillaniraously, and selfishly, when victory would have been easy, and when defeat was ignominious. In reply to this charge, I do not deny that Lord Byron inherited some very desirable, and even enviable privileges in the lot of life which fell to his share. I should falsify my own sentiments if I treated lightly the gift of an ancient English peerage, and a name of honour and venerable antiquity; but without a fortune competent to that rank, it is not * a bed of roses,' nay, it is attended with many and ex- treme difficulties, and the difficulties are exactly such as a genius aud temper like Lord Byron's were least calculated to meet ; at any rate, least calculated to meet under the peculiar collateral circumstances in which he was placed. His i in- come was very narrow; his Newstead property left him a very small disposable surplus; his Lancashire property was, in its condition, etc. unproductive. A profession, such as the army, might have lessened, or almost annihilated the difficulties of his peculiar position; but probably his lameness rendered this impossible. He seems to have had a love of independence, which was noble, and probably even an intractability; but this temper added to his indisposition to bend and adapt himself to his lot. A dull, or supple, or intriguing man, without a single good quality of head or heart, might have managed it much better; he might have made himself subservient to government, and wormed himself into some lucrative place; or he might have lived meanly, conformed himself stupidly or cringingly to all humours, and been borne onward on the wings •icy llh personal expen « Lord Byron was of another quality and tem- perament. If the world would not conform to him, still less would he conform to the world. He had all the manly, baronial pride of his ances- tors, though he had not all their wealth, and ■ Sir Epcrfon Brvdprs, Bart, who ha* -written s fuselv and so ab!r on Lord Byron'* genius and 'hjn admirable if I llgel, a man ! « Unhappily, the outrages he received, the gross calumnies which were heaped upon him, even in the time of his highest favour with the public, turned the delights of his very days of triumph to poison, and gave him a sort of moody, fierce, and violent despair, which led to humours, acts, and words, that mutually aggravated the ill will and the offences between him and his assail- ants. There was a daring spirit in his temper and his talents, which was always inflamed rather than corrected by opposition." « In this most unpropitious state of things, every thing that went wrong was attributed to Lord Byron, and, when once attributed, was as- sumed and argued upon as an undeniable fact. Yet, to my mind, it is quite clear, — quite unat- tended by a particle of doubt, — that in many things in which he has been the most blamed, he was the absolute victim of misfortune; that un- propitious trains of events (for I do not wish to shift the blame on others) led to explosions and consequent derangements, which no cold prudent pretender to extreme propriety and correctness could have averted or met in a manner less blameable than that in which Lord Byron met it. « It is not easy to conceive a character less fitted to conciliate general society by his manners and habits than that of Lord Byron. It is pro- bable that he could make his address and con- versation pleasing to ladies when he chose to please; but, to the young dandies of fashion, noble and ignoble, he must have been very repulsive : as long as he continued to be the ton,— the lion, — they may have endured him without opening their mouths, because he had a frown and a lash which they were not willing to encounter; but when his back was turned, and they thought it safe, I do not doubt that they hurst out into full cry! I have heard complaints of his vanity, his peevishness, his desire to monopolize distinction, ■ •, 1 i LIFE OF LORD BYRON. his dislike of all hobbies but his own. It is not improbable that there may have been some foun- dation for these complaints : I am sorry for it if there was ; I regret such littlenesses. And then another part of the story is probably left untold: we hear nothing of the provocations given him; —sly hints, curve of the lip, side looks, treache- rous smiles, flings at poetry, shrugs at noble au- thors, slang jokes, idiotic bets, enigmatical ap- pointments, and boasts of being senseless brutes! We do not hear repeated the jest of the glory of the Jew, that buys the ruined peer's falling castle; the d — d good fellow, that keeps the finest stud and the best hounds in the country out of the snippings and odds and ends of hi: the famous good match that the duke's daughter is going to make with Dick Wigly, the son of the rich slave merchant at Liverpool! We do not hear the clever dry jests whispered round the table by Mr , eldest son of the new and rich Lord , by young Mr , only sou of Lord — , the ex-lords A., B.,and C, sous of the three Irish Uuion earls, great borough-holders, and the very grave and sarcastic Lord , who believes that he has the monopoly of all the talents and all the political and legislative knowledge of the king- dom, and that a poet and a bellman are only tit to be yoked together ! « Thus, then, was this illustrious and mighty poet driven into exile! Yes, driven! who would live in a country in which he had been so used, even though it was the land of his nativity, the land of a thousand noble ancestors, the land of freedom, the land where his head had been crowned with laurels, — but where his heart had been tortured, where all his most generous and most noble thoughts had been distorted and ren- dered ugly, and where his slightest errors and indiscretions had been magnified into hideous crimes.» Lord. Byron's own opinions on the connubial state are thus related by Captain Parry: — •• There are,» said his lordship, «so many un- defiuable, and nameless, and not-to-be named causes of dislike, aversion, and disgust, ill the ma- trimonial stale, that it is always impossible for the public, or the best friends of the parties, to judge between man and wile. Theirs is a relation about which nobody but themselves can form a correct idea, or have any right to speak. As long as neither party commits gross injustice towards the other; as long as neither the woman nor the man is guilty of any offence which is injurious to the community; as long as the husband provides for bis offspring, and secures the public against the dangers arising from their neglected educa- tion, or from the charge of supporting them ; by what right does it censure him for ceasing to dwell under the same roof with a woman, who is to him, because he knows her, while others do not, an object of loathing? Can any thing be more monstrous than for the public voice to compel individuals who dislike each other to con- tinue their cohabitation? This is at least the effect of its interfering with a relationship, of which it has no possible means of judging. It does not indeed drag a man to a woman's bed by physical force; but it does exert a moral force continually and effectively to accomplish the same purpose. Nobody can escape this force but those who are too high, or those who are too low, for public opinion to reach; or those hypocrites who are, before others, the loudest in their ap- probation of the empty and unmeaning forms of society, that they may securely indulge all their propensities in secret. I have suffered amazingly from this interference; for though I set it at de- fiance, I was neither too high nor too low to be reached by it, and I was not hypocrite enough to guard myself from its consecprences. « What do they say of my family affairs in Knglaud, Parry? My story, 1 suppose, like other minor events, interested the people for a day, and was then forgotten?" I replied, no; 1 thought, owing to the very great interest the pub- Lalked about. I mentioned that it was generally supposed a difference of religious sentiments be- tween him and Lady Byron had caused the pub- lic breach. •■ No, Parry, » was the reply; « Lady Byron has a liberal mind, particularly as to re- ligious opinions; and I wish, when 1 married her, that I had possessed the same command over my- self that I now do. Had I possessed a little more wisdom, and more forbearance, we might have been happy. 1 wished, when I was first married, to have remained in the country, particularly till my pecuniary embarrassments were over. I knew the society of London ; 1 knew the characters of many of those who are called ladies, with whom Lady Byron would necessarily have to associate, and I dreaded her contact with them. But 1 have too much of my mother about me to be dictated to: I like freedom from constraint; I hate arti- ficial regulations : my conduct has always been dictated by my own feelings, and Lady Byron was quile the creature of rules. She was not permitted either to rid^ or run, or walk, but as the physician prescribed. She was not suffered to go out when I wished to go ; and then the old house was a mere ghost-house; I dreamed of ghosts, and thought of them waking. It was an existence I could not support. » Here Lord Byron broke off abruptly, saying, » I hate to speak of my family affairs; though I have been compelled to talk nonsense cencerning them to some of my LIFE OF LORD RYRON. win butterfly visitors, glad on any terras to get rid of their importunities. 1 long to lie again on the mountains. 1 am fond of solitude, and should never talk nonsense if I always found plain men to talk to.~ In the spring of 1816, Lord Byron quitted! England, to return to it no more. He crossed over to France, through which he passed rapidly to Brussels, taking in his way a survey of the field of Waterloo. He then proceeded to Coblentz, and up the Rhine to Basle. He passed the summer on the banks of the Geneva lake. With what enthusiasm he enjoyed, and with what contem- plations he dwelt among its scenery, his own poetry soon exhibited to the world. His third canto of Childe Harold, his Manfred, and his Prisoner of Chillon were composed at the Cam Diodati, at Col F>y. : from Geneva. These productions evidently proved that the unfortunate events which had induced Lord Byron to become a voluntary exile from his native land, however they might have exacerbated his feel- ings, had in no measure chilled his poetical fire. The anecdotes that follow are given as his lordship related them to Captain Medwin: — « Switzerland is a country I have been satisfied with seeing once; Turkey I could live in for ever. I never forget my predilections. I was in a wretched suite of health, and worse spirits, when I was at Geneva; but quiet and the lake, physi- cians better than Polidori, soon set me up. I never led so moral a life as during my residence in that country; but 1 gained no credit by it. Where there is a mortification, there ought to be reward. On the contrary, there is no story so absurd that they did not invent at my cost. I was watched by glasses on the opposite side of the lake, and by glasses too that must have had very distorted optics. I was waylaid in my even- ing drives — I was accused of corrupting all the ijrisetles in the rue Basse. I believe that they looked upon me as a man-monster worse than the « I knew very few of the Genevese. Hentsh was very civil to me; and 1 have a great respect for Sismondi. I was forced to return the civilities of one of their professors by asking him, and an old gentleman, a friend of Gray's, to dine with me. I had gouc out to sail early in the morning, and the wind prevented me from returning in time for dinner. I understand that 1 offended them mortally. Polidori did the honours. « Among our countrymen I made no new ac- quaintances; .Shelley, Monk Lewis, and Hobhouse were almost the only English people I saw. No wonder; I showed a distaste for society at that time, and went little among the Genevese; be- sides, I could not speak French. What is become of my boatman and boat? I suppose she is rot- ten; she was never worth much. When I wen the tour of the lake in her with Shelley and Hob house, she was nearly wrecked near the very spot where Saint-Preux and Julia were in danger of being drowned. It would have been classical tc have been lost there, but not so agreeable. She! ley was on the lake much oftener than I, at all hours of the night aud day : he almost lived 01 it; his great rage is a boat. We are both build ing now at Genoa, I a yacht, and he an opei boat.. « Somebody possessed Madame de Stael with an opinion of my immorality. I used occai" ally to visit her at Coppet; and once she invited me to a family-dinner, and I found the room full of strangers, who had come to stare at ine as at some outlandish beast in a raree-show. One of the ladies fainted, and the rest looked as if his satanic majesty had been among them. Madan de Stael took the liberty to read me a lecture b fore this crowd, to which I only made her a low His lordship's travelling equipage was rathe a singular one, and afforded a strange catalogu for the Dogana : seven servants, five carriage? nine horses, a monkey, a bull-dog and mastiff, two cats, three pea-fow!s and some hens (I do know whether I have classed them in order of rank), formed part of his livestock; these, and ail his books, consisting of a very large library of modem works (for he bought all the best that came out), together with a vast quantity of furni- ture, might well be termed, with Ciesar, .. iinpe- From about the commencement of the year 1817 to that of 1820, Lord Byron's principal re- sidence was Venice. Here he continued to employ himself in poetical composition with an energy still increasing. He wrote the Lament of Tasso, the fourth canto of Childe Harold, the dramas of Marino Faliero, and the Two Foscari; Beppo, Muzeppa, and the earlier raiilns ol 1)011 .loan, etc. Considering these only with regard to intel- lectual activity aud force, there can be no diffe- rence of opinion ; though there may be as to their degree of poetical excellence, the class in the scale of literary merit to which they belong, and their moral, religious, and political tendencies. The Lament of Tasso, which in every line abounds the most perfect poetry, is liable to uo counter- ing objection on the part of the moralist. In the third canto of the -Pilgrimage,., the discontented and repining spirit of Harold hail already become much softened : Joy. LIFE OF LORD BYRON. He is a being of still gentler i aid in the fourth ,ilin his despair has even sometimes ; guess. and the lovely and ! of the poet's brain are less painfully alloyed, and less suddenly checked by the gloomy visions of a morbid imagination. He represented himself, from the beginning, as a ruin ; and when we first gazed upon him, we saw indeed in abundance the black traces of recent violence and convul- sion. The edifice was not rebuilt; but its hues were softened by the passing wings of Time, and the calm slow ivy had found leisure to wreath the soft green of its melancholy among the frag- ments of the decay. In so far the pilgrim became wiser, as he seemed to think more of others, and with a greater spirit of humanity. There was something fiendish in the air with which he surveyed the first scene of his wanderings; and no proof of the strength of genius was ever exhi- bited so strong and unquestionable as the sudden and entire possession of the minds of men by such a being as he then appeared to be. He looked upon a bull-fight and a field of battle with no variety of emotion. Brutes and men were, in his eyes, the same blind, stupid victims of the savage lust of power. He seemed to shut his eyes to every thing of that citizenship and patriotism which ennobles the spirit of the soldier, and to delight in scattering the dust and' ashes of his derision over all the most sacred resting-places of the soul of man. Even then, we must allow, the original spirit of the Englishman and the poet broke triumphantly, at times, through the chilling mist in which it had been spontaneously enveloped. In Greece, above all, the contemplation of Actium, Salamis, Marathon, Thermopylae, and Plataea subdued the prejudices of him who had gazed unmoved, or with disdain, upon fields of more recent glory. The nobility of manhood ap- peared to delight this moody visitant; and he ac- corded, without reluctance, to the shades of long departed heroes that reverent homage which,in the strange mixture of envy and scorn wherewith the contemplative so often regard active men, he had refused to the living, or to the newly dead. But there would be no end of descauting on the character of the Pilgrim, nor of the moral reflec- tions which it awakens ; we therefore take leave of Childe Harold in his own beautiful language: « Farewell ! a word that must be, and hath been — A sound which makes us linger ; — yet — farewell ! Ye ! who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene Which is his last, if ia your memories dwell A thought which once was his, if on ye swell He wore his sandal-shoon and scallop-shell ; t now say farewell for ever. ■> Manfred was the first of Lord Byron's dramatic poems, and, we think, the finest. The spirit of his genius seems there wrestling with the spirit of his nature, the struggle being for the palm of sublimity. Manfred has always appeared to us one of the most genuine creations of the noble bard's mind. The melancholy is more heartfelt: the poet does not here seem to scowl his brows, but they drop under the weight of his thoughts ; his intellect, .too, is strongly at work in it, and the stern haughtiness of the principal character is altogether of an intellectual cast : the con- ception of this character is Mil tonic. The poet has made him worthy to abide amongst those « palaces of nature, » those « icy halls," « where forms and falls the avalanche. » Manfred stands up against the stupendous scenery of the poem, and is as lofty, towering, and grand as the moun- tains : when we picture him in imagination he assumes a shape of height and independent dig- nity, shining in its own splendour amongst the snowy summits which he was accustomed to climb. The passion, too, in this composition, is fervid and impetuous, but at the same time deep and full, which is not always the case in Byron's productions; it is serious and sincere throughout. The music of the language is as solemn and as touching as that of the wind coming through the bending ranks of the inaccessible Alpine forests ; and the mists and vapours rolling down the gullies and ravines that yawn horribly on the eye, are not more wild and striking in their ap- pearance than are the supernatural creations of the poet's fancy, whose magical agency is of mighty import, but is nevertheless continually surmounted by the high intellectual power, in- vincible will, and intrepid philosophy of Man- fred. The first idea of the descriptive passages of this beautiful poem will be easily recognised in the following extract from Lord Byron's travelling memorandum-book. - Sept. 22, 1816. Left Thuu in a boat, which carried us the length of this lake in three hours. The late small, but the banks fine— rocks down to the water's edge— landed at Newhouse. Passed Interlachen — entered upon a rauge of scenes beyond all description or previous conception. Passed a rock bearing an inscription— two bro- thers—one murdered the other— just the place for it. After a variety of windings came to an enormous rock— arrived at the foot of the moun- tain (the Jungfraw)— glaciers— torrents— one of these 900 feet visible descent— lodge at the cu- rate's—set out to see the valley— heard an ava- lanche fall, like thunder!— glaciers enormous- storm comes on — thunder and lightning, and hail! all in perfection and beautiful. The tor- LIFE OF LORD BYRON. x.w rent is in shape, curving over the rock, like the tail of the white horse streaming in the wind- just as might be conceived would be that (if the ' Pale Horse,' on which Death is mouuted in the apocalypse. It is neither mist nor water, but a something between both ; its immense height gives it a wave, a curve, a spreading here, a con- dension there — wonderful — indescribable. « Sept. a3. Ascent of the Wingren, the dent . d'argent shining like truth on one side, on the ! other the clouds rose from the opposite valley, ' curling up perpendicular precipices, like the foam of the ocean of hell during a spring tide! It was white and sulphury, and immeasurably deep in appear The side we ascended was of f so precipitous a nature, but on arriving at the summit we looked down on the other side upon a boiling sea of cloud, dashing against the crag on which we stood. Arrived at the Greeu- derwold ; mouuted and rode to the higher gla- cier—twilight, but distinct— very fine— glacier like a frozen hurricane— starlight beautiful — the whole of the day was tine, and id point of wea- ther, as the day in which Paradise was made. Passed whole woods of withered pines— all wi- thered — trunks stripped and lifeless — done by a single winter.- Of Lord Byron's tragedies we shall merely re- mark, with reference to the particular nature of their tragic character, that the effect of them all is rather grand, terrible, and terrific, than mol- lifying, subduing, or pathetic. As dramatic poems they possess much beauty and originalily. The style and nature of the poem of Don Juan forms a singularly felicitous mixture of burlesque and pathos, of humorous observation and the higher elements of poetical composition. Never was the English language festooned into more luxurious stanzas than in Don Juan : like the dolphin sporting in its native waves, at every turn, however grotesque, displaying a new hue and a new beauty, so the noble author there shows an absolute control over his means, and at every cadence, rhyme, or construction, how- ever whimsical, delights us with novel and ma- gical associations. We wish, we heartily wish, that the fine poetry which is so richly scattered through the sixteen cantos of this most original and most astonishing production, had not been mixed up with very much that is equally frivo- lous as foolish; and sincerely do we regret that the alloying dross of sensuality should run so freely through the otherwise rich vein of the au- thor's verse. Whilst at Venice, Byron displayed a most noble instance of generosity. The house of a shoemaker, near his lordship's residence in St Samuel, was burnt to the ground, with every article it con- tained, and the proprietor reduced with a large family to the greatest indigence and want. When Lord Byron ascertained the afflicting circum- stances of that calamity, he not only ordered a new and superior habitation to be immediately built for the sufferer, the whole expense of which was borne by his lordship, but also presented the unfortunate tradesman with a sum equal in value to the whole of his lost stock in trade and Lord Byron avoided as much as possible any intercourse with his countrymen at Venice; this seems to have been in a great measure necessary, in order to prevent the intrusion of impertinent curiosity. In an appendix to one of his poems, written with refereuce to a book of travels, the author of which disclaimed any wish to be in- troduced to the noble lord, he loftity and sar- castically chastises the incivility of such a gra- tuitous declaration, expresses his - utter abhor- rence of any contact with the travelling English;, and thus concludes : « Except Lords Lansdowne, Jersey, and Lauderdale, Messrs. Scott, Hammond, Sir Humphrey Davey, the late Mr Lewis, W. Bankes, M. Hoppner, Thomas Moore, Lord Kin- naird, his brother, Mr Joy, and Mr Hobhouse, I do not recollect to have exchanged a word with another Englishman since I left their country, and almost all these I had known before. The others, and God knows there were some hun- fused to have any communication with; and shall be proud and happy when that wish becomes mntual.n After a residence of three years at Venice, Lord Byron removed to Ravenna, towards the close of the year 18 19. Here he wrote the Pro- phecy of Dante, which exhibited a new specimen of the astouisbiug variety of strength and ex- pansion of faculties he possessed and exercised. About the same time he wrote Sardanapalus, a tragedy, Cain, a mystery, and Heaven and Earth, a mystery. Though there are some obvious rea- sons which render Sardanapalus unfit for the English stage, it is, on the whole, the most splendid specimen which our language affords of that species of tragedy which was the exclusive object of Lord Byron's admiration. Cain is one of the productions which has subjected its noble author to the severest denunciations, on account of the crime of impiety alleged against it; it seems to have a tendency to call In question the benevolence of Providence. In answer to the loud and general outcry which this production occasioned, Lord Byron observed, in a letter to his publisher, « If ' Cain' be blasphemous, ' Pa- radise Lost' is blasphemous, and the words of the Oxford gentleman, ' Evil, be thou my good,' LIFE OF LORD BYRON. are from that very poem from the mouth of Satan; and is there any thing more in that of Lucifer in the mystery? ' Cain' is nothing more than a drama, not a piece of argument: if Lu- cifer and Cain speak as the first rebel and first murderer may be supposed to speak, nearly all the rest of the personages talk also according to their characters; and the stronger passions have ever been permitted to the drama. I have avoided introducing the Deity as in Scripture, though Milton does, and not very wisely either; but have adopted his angel as sent to Cain in- stead, on purpose to avoid shocking any feelings on the subject, by falling short of what all un- inspired men must fall short in, viz. giving an adequate notion of the effect of the presence of Jehovah. The old mysteries introduced him liberally enough, and all this I avoided in the new one.» An event occurred at Ravenna during his lordship's stay there, which made a deep impres- sion on him, and to which he alludes in the fifth Canto of Don Juan. The military commandant of the place, who, though suspected of being se- cretly a Carbonaro, was too powerful a man to be arrested, was assassinated opposite to Lord Byron's palace. His lordship had bis foot in the stirrup at the usual hour of exercise, when his horse started at the report of a gun : on looking up, Lord Byron perceived a man throw down a carbine and run away at full speed, and another man stretched upon the pavement a few yards from himself; it was the unhappy commandant. A crowd was soon collected, but no one ventured to offer the least assistance. Lord Byron directed bis servant to lift up the bleeding body, and carry it into his palace ; though it was repre- sented to him that by doing so he would confirm the suspicion, which was already entertained, of his belonging to the same party. Such an appre- hension could have no effect on Byron's mind when an act of humanity was to be performed ; he assisted in bearing the victim of assassination into the house, and putting him on a bed. He was already dead from several wounds : « he ap- peared to have breathed his last without a strug- gle," said his lordship, when afterwards recount- ing the affair. « I never saw a countenance so calm. His adjutant followed the corpse into the house; I remember his lamentation over him: — ' Povero diavolo! uon aveva fatta male, anche ad un cane.' » The following were the noble writer's poetical reflections (in Don Juan) on view- ing the dead body : « I cased (as To try if I could wrench augh Which should confi lake, or make a faith; cut it was all a mystery: — here we are, And there we go: — but where? Five hits of lead, Or three, or two, or one, send very far. And is this blood, then, forin'd but to be shed? Can every element our elements mar? And air, earth, water, fire, — live, and we dead? We whose minds comprehend all things? — No more: But let us to the story as before. » That a being of such glorious capabilities should abstractedly, and without an attempt to throw the responsibility on a fictitious personage, have avowed such startling doubts, was a daring which, whatever might then have been his private opinion, he ought not to have hazarded. « It is difficult," observes Captain Medwin, « to judge, from the contradictory nature of bis wri- tings, what the religious opinions of Lord Byron really were. From the conversations I held with him, on the whole, 1 am inclined to think that if he were occasionally sceptical, and thought it, as he says in Don Juan, — «A pleasant voyage, perhaps, to float Like Pyrrho, in a sea of speculation,)) yet his wavering never amounted to a disbelief in the divine Founder of Christianity. .. Calling on him one day, » continues the Cap- tain, « we found him, as was sometimes the case, silent, dull, and sombre. At length he said: ' Here is a little book somebody has sent me about Christianity, that has made me very un- comfortable ; the reasoning seems to me very strong, the proofs are very staggeriug. I dont think you can answer it, Shelley, at least I am sure I can't, and what is more, I dont wish it.' « Speaking of Gibbon, Lord Byron said : ' L B thought the question set at rest in the History of the Decline and Fall, but I am not so easily convinced. It is not a matter of volition to unbelieve. Who likes to own that he has been a fool all his life, — to unlearn all that he has been taught in his youth, or can think that some of the best men that ever lived have been fools? I don't know why I am considered an unbeliever. I disowned the . other day that I was of Shelley's school in metaphysics, though I admired his poetry; not but what he has changed his mode of thinkiug very much since he wrote the notes to « Queen Mab," which I was accused of having a hand in. I know, how- ever, that I am considered an infidel. My wife and sister, when they joined parties, sent me prayer-books. There was a Mr Mulock, who went about the continent preaching orthodoxy in politics and religion, a writer of bad sonnets, and a lecturer in worse prose,— he tried to con- vert me to some new sect of Christianity. He was a great anti-materialist, and abused Locke.' « On another occasion he said : ' I have just LIFE OF LORD BYRON. XXVH received a letter from a Mr ShepparJ, inclosing a prayer made for my welfare by liis wife a few days before her death. The letter states that he man, who had seen me at Ramsgate, many years ago, rambling among the cliffs; that she had been impressed with a sense of my irreligion from the tenor of my works, and had often prayed fervently for my conversion, particularly The prayer is beautifully written have been a div who has lost hei turn of the com tell him that M ke de any concern for creature. I pity the mau I shall write to him by re- to condole with him, and need not have entertained V spiritual affairs, for that if a christian than I am, whatever ray writings may have led her and others to suspect.'" We have given the above extracts from a sense of justice to the memory of Lord Byron; they are redeeming and consolatory evidences that his heart was far from being sheathed in unassailable scepticism, and, as such, ought not to be omitted in a preface to his works. In the autumn of 1821, the noble bard re- moved to Pisa, in Tuscany. He took up his re- sidence there in the Lanfranchi palace, and en- gaged in an intrigue with the beautiful Guiccioli, wife of the count of that name, which connex- ion, with more than his usual constancy, he maintained for nearly three years, during which period the countess was separated from her hus- band, on an application from the latter to the Pope. The following is a sketch of this « fair en- chantress,- as taken at the time the liaison was formed between her and Byron. « The countess is twentv-three years of age, though she appears most of the Italian women, her complexion is delicately fair. Her eyes, large, dark, and lan- guishing, are shaded by the longest eye-lashcs in the world, and her hair, which is ungalhered on her bead, plays over her falling shoulders in a profusion of natural ringlets of the darkest auburn. Her figure is, perhaps, too much em- bonpoint for her height; but her bust is perfect Her features want little of possessing a Grecian regularity of outline; and she has the most beau- tiful mouth and teeth imaginable. It is impos- sible to see without admiring— to hear the Guic- cioli speak without being fascinated. Her ama- bility and gentleness show themselves in every intonation of her voice, which, and the music of her perfect Italian, give a peculiar charm to every thing she utters. Grace and elegance seem component parts of her nature. Notwithstanding that she adores Lord Byron, it is evident that the exile and poverty of her aged father sol times affect her spirits, and throw a shade of melancholy on her countenance, which adds t the deep interest this lovely woman creates. He conversation is lively without being learned; sh has read all the best authors of her own and the French language. She often conceals what sin knows, from the fear of being thought to know too much, possibly from being aware that Lord Byron was not fond of blues. He is certainly- very much attached to her, without being ac- tually in love. His description of the Georgioni in the Wanfrini palace at Venice is meant for the countess. The beautiful sonnet prefixed to the ' Prophecy of Dante' was addressed to her.- The annexed lines, written by Byron when he was about to quit Venice to join the countess at Ravenna, will show the state of his feelings at that time. « River ' that rollest by the ancient walls Where dwells the lady of my love, when she Walks by the brink, and there jieiebaiiee recals A faint and fleeting memory of ine: "What if thv deep and ample stream should be A mirror of my heart, where she may read The thousand ll ;;!>[> 1 now betrav to thee, Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed? « What do I sav — a mirror of my heart? Arc not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong? Such as my feelings were and are, thou art; And such as thou art, were my passions long. «Time mav Ikivc snmeu li.it tamed tliem. not for ever; Thou overflow's! thy hanks, and not for aye : Thv hosom overboils, congenial river! Thv floods subside, and mine have sunk away — «But left long wrecks behind them, and again Borne on onr old unchanged career, we move; Thou lendest wildly onward to the main, And 1 to loving one I should not love. «The current I behold will sweep beneath ..She will look on thec; I have look'd on thee Full of (hat thought, and from tlial moment i Thv waters could I dream id. name, or see. Without the inseparable sigh for her* «Hcr bright eves Mine cannot witn< That happy wa% vill be Imarjcd in thv str ret the wave I gaze on i c repass nic in its flow. «The wave that hears niv tears returns no Will *hr return hy whom that wave sha Both tread thy bunks, both wander on thy I near ifaj source, she by the dark-blue LIFE OF LORD BYRON. Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood Is all meridian, as if never fannd By (he bleak wind that chilis the polar flood. «My bl I had In spite Aslav od is all meridi of tortures ne'e e;— I shall not'he, to be forgot, «'T is vain to struggle — let me perish young — Live as I lived, and love as I have loved : It is impossible to conceive a more unvaried life than Lord Byron led at this period in the society of a few select friends. Billiards, conver- sation, or reading, filled up the intervals till it was time to take the evening drive, ride, and pistol-practice. He dined at half an hour after sun-set, then drove to Count Gamba's, the Countess Guic- cioli's father, passed several hours in her society, returned to his palace, and either read or wrote till two or three in the morning; occasionally drinking spirits diluted with water as a medicine, from a dread of a nephritic complaint, to which he was, or fancied himself, subject. While Lord Byron resided at Pisa, a serious affray occurred, in which he was personally con- cerned. Taking his usual ride, with some friends, one of them was violently jostled by a serjeant- major of hussars, who dashed, at full speed, through the midst of the party. They pursued and overtook him near the Piaggia gate; but their remonstrances were answered only by abuse and menace, and an attempt, on the part of the guard at the gate, to arrest them. This occasioned a severe scuffle, in which several of Lord Byron's party were wounded, as was also the hussar. The consequence was, that all Lord Byron's servants (who were warmly attached to him, and had shown great ardour in his defence), were banished from Pisa; and with them the Counts Gamba, father and son. Lord Byron was himself advised to leave it ; and as the countess accompanied her father, he soon after joined them at Leghorn, and passed six weeks at Monte Nero. His return to Pisa was occasioned by a new persecution of the Counts Gamba. An order was issued for tinued his «Bon Juan., to the end of the sixteenth canto. We venture to introduce here the follow- ing critical summary of this wonderful production genu The poem of Don Juan has all sorts of faults, many of which cannot be defended, and some of which are disgi\sting ; but it has, also, almost every sort of poetical merit : there are in it some of the finest passages Lord Byron ever wrote; there is amazing knowledge of human nature in it ; there is exquisite h and bound, and vigour of vast fertility of deep, thought ; and, at the same fusion of a prompt and n mory. The invention is 1 descriptions are brilliant ight, but fresh fr ; there is freedom, e imagery, sen- able; there is a , and original oe, there is the pro- t richly-stored me- ly and poetical; the id glowing, yet not nature, and faithful them the Tuscan in four da and after their embarkation for Genoa, the countess and Lord Byron openly lived together, at the Lanfranchi palace. It was at Pisa that Byron wrote •■ Werner,., a tragedy ; the « Deformed Transformed, » and con- to her colours; and the prevalent character of the whole (bating too many dark spots), not dis- piriting, though gloomy; not misanthropic, though bitter; and not repulsive to the visions of poeti- cal enthusiasm, though indignant and resentful. Lord Byron's acquaintance with Leigh Hunt, the late editor of the Examiner, originated in his grateful feeling for the manner in which Mr Hunt stood forward in his justification, at a time when the current of public opinion ran strongly against him. This feeling induced him to invite Mr Hunt to the Lanfranchi palace, where a suite of apart- ments were fitted up for him. On his arrival in the spring of 1822, a periodical publication was projected, under the title of «The Liberal,., of which Hunt was to be the editor, and to which Lord Byron, and Percy Shelley (who had been re- siding for some time on terms of great intimacy with his lordship) were to contribute. Three numbers of the « Liberal » were published in London, when, in consequence of the unhappy fate of Mr Shelley (who perished in the Mediterranean by the upsetting of a boat), and of other discou- raging circumstances, it was discontinued. Byron attended the funeral of his poet-friend, the following description of which, by a person who was present, is not without interest: — « 18th August, 1822. — On the occasion of Shelley's melancholy fate, I revisited Pisa, and on the day of my arrival learnt that Lord Byron was gone to the sea-shore, to assist in performing the last offices to his friend. We came to a spot marked by an old and withered trunk of a fir- tree, and near it, on the beach, stood a solitary hut covered with reeds. The situation was well calculated for a poet's grave. A few weeks before I had ridden with himandLord Byron to this very spot, which I afterwards visited more than once. In front was a magnificent extent of the blue and LIFE OF LORD BYP.ON. XXIX ndless Mediterranean, with the isles of Elba d Guyana, — Lord Byron's yacht at anchor in the offing: on the other side an almost bound- ss extent of sandy wilderness, uncultivated and ainhahited, here and there interspersed in tufts ith underwood curved by the sea-breeze, and unted by the barren and dry nature of the soil i which it grew. At equal distances along the coast stood high square towers, for the double purpose of guarding the coast from smuggling, and enforcing the quarantine laws. This view was bounded by an immense extent of the Italian Alps, which are here particularly picturesque from their volcanic and manifold appearances, and which being composed of white marble, give their summits the appearance of snow. As a foreground to this picture appeared as extraor- dinary a group. Lord Byron and Trelawney were seen standing over the burning pile, with some of the soldiers of the guard; and Leigh Hunt, whose feelings and nerves could not carry him through the scene of horror, lying back in the carriage, — the four post-horses ready to drop with the intensity of the noon-day sun. T" e stillness of all around was yet more felt by the shrill scream of a solitary curlew, which, per- haps attracted by the body, wheeled in such nar- row circles round the pile, that it might have been struck with the hand, and was so fearless that it could not be driven away. Looking at the corpse, Lord Byron said :—.. Why, that old black silk handkerchief retains its form better than that human body!" Scarcely was the ce- remony concluded, when Lord Byron, agitated by the spectacle he had witnessed, tried to dis- sipate in some degree the impression of it by his favourite recreation. He took off his clothes, therefore, and swam to the vacht, which was riding a few miles distant. The heat of the sun and checked perspiration threw him into a fever which he felt coming on before he left the water, and which became more violent before he reached Pisa. On his return he immediately took a warm bath, and the next morning was perfectly reco- The enmity between Byron and Southey, the poet-laureate, is as well known as that between Pope and Colley Cibber. Their politics were diametrically opposite, and the noble bard re- garded the bard of royalty as a renegado from his early principles. It was not, however, so much on account of political principles that the enmity between Byron and Southey was kept up. The peer, in his saire, had handled the epics of the laureate « t > roughly,! and this the latter deeply resented. Whilst travelling on the continent, Southey observed Shelley's name in the Album, at Mont Aovert, with ment in the same language written under it ; also the names of some of Byron's other friends. The laureat, it is said, copied the names and the comment, and, on his return to England, reported the whole circumstances, and hesitated not to conclude Byron of the same principles as his friends. In a poem he subsequently wrote called the ..Vision of Judgment," he stigmatized Lord Byron as the father of the .. Satanic School of Poetry.. His lordship, in a note appended to the .Two Foscari,.. retorted in a very severe manner, and even permitted himself to ridicule Southey's wife, the sister of Coleridge's wife, they having been at one time .. two milliners of Bath. » The laureate wrote an auswer to this note in the Courier newspaper, which, when Byron saw it, en- raged him so much that he consulted with his friends whether or not he ought to go to England to answer it personally. In cooler moments, of Judgment," which was a parody on Southey's, and appeared in one of the numbers of the .. Li- beral," for which Hunt, the publisher, was pro- secuted by the « Constitutional Association,, and found guilty. As some of our readers may be curious to know the rate at which Lord Byron was paid for his productions, we annex the following statement, by Mr Murray, the bookseller, of the sums given by him for the copy-rights of most of his lord- ship's works: Childe Harold I. II 6oo(. Ill i,5 7 5 IV. 5 2 5 Bride of Abydos Corsair Lara Siege of Corinth Parisina Lament of Tasso Manfred Beppo Don Juan I. II . . . III. IV. V Doge of Venice Sardanapalus, Cain, and Foscari Mazeppa Prisoner of Chillon .... Sundries 525 3.5 3i5 5s5 i,525 t,5a5 i,o5o Total ,r>5/. the case with many men in affluent cir- Byron was at times more than ge- nerous; and again, at other times, what might be called mean. He once borrowed 5oo/. in XX.Y LIFE OF LORD BYRON. order to give it to the widow of one who had been his friend; he frequently dined on five Pauls, aud once gave his bills to a lady to be examined, because he thought he wa6 cheated. He gave 1000/. for a yacht, which he sold again for 3oo/., aud refused to give the sailors their jackets. It ought, however, to be observed that generosity was natural to him, and that his ava- rice, if it can be so termed, was a mere whim or caprice of the moment— a role he could not loug sustain. He once borrowed 100/. to give to the brother-in-law of Southey, Coleridge, the poet, when the latter was ill distress. In his quarrel with the laureate lie was provoked to allude to this circumstance, which certainly he ought not to have done. Byron was a great admirer of the Waverley novels, and never travelled without them. ..They are,» said he to Captain Medwin one day, « a library in themselves,— a perfect literary trea- sure. I could read them once a year with new pleasure... During that morning he had been reading one of Sir Walter's novels, and delivered, according to Medwin, the following criticism. .. How difficult it is to say any thing new ! Who was that voluptuary of autiquity, who offered a reward for a new pleasure ? Perhaps all nature and art could not supply a new idea." The anxious and paternal tenderness Lord By- ron felt for his daughter, is expressed with un- equalled beauty and pathos in the first stanza of the third canto of Childe Harold. .. What do you think of Ada?" said he to Medwin, looking earnestly at his daughter's miniature, that hung by the side of his writing-table. ..They tell me she is like me — but she has her mother's eyes. It is very odd that my mother was an only child ; — lam an only child; my wife is an only child; and Ada is an only child. It is a singular coin- cidence; that is the least that can be said of it. I can't help thinking it was destined to be so ; and perhaps it is best. I was once anxious for a son; hut, after our separation, was glad to have had a daughter; for it would have distressed me too much to have taken him away from Lady Byron, and I could not have trusted her with a son's education. I have no idea of boys being brought up by mothers. I suffered too much from that myself: and then, wandering about the world as I do, I could not take proper care of a child; otherwise I should not have left Allegra, poor little thing ! at Eavenna. She has been a great resource to me, though 1 am not so fond of her as of Ada : and yet I mean to make their for- tunes equal— there will be enough for them both. I have desired in my will that Allegra shall not marry an Englishman. The Irish aud Scotch make better husbands than we do. You will think it was an odd fancy ; but I was not iu tin best of humours with my countrymen at that moment— youknow the reason. lam told that Ada is a little termagant; I hope not. I shall write to my sister to know if this is the case : perhaps I am wrong in letting Lady Byron have entirely her own way in her education. I hear that my name is not mentioned in her presence; that a green curtain is always kept over my portrait, as over something forbidden; aud that she is not to know that she has a father till she comes of age. Of course she will be taught to hate me ; she will be brought up to it. Lady Byron is con- scious of all this, and is afraid that I shall some day carry off her daughter by stealth or force. I might claim her of the Chancellor, without hav- ing recourse to either one or the other ; but I had rather be unhappy myself than make her mother so; probably I shall never see her again." Here he opened his writing-desk, and showed me some hair, which he told me was his child's. Several years ago. Lord Byron presented his friend, Mr Thomas Moore, with his « Memoirs,., written by himself, with an understanding that they were not to be published until after his death. Mr Moore, with the consent and at the desire of Lord Byron, sold the manuscript Mr Murray, the bookseller, for the sum of two thousand guineas. The following statement by- Mr Moore, will however show its fate. « Without entering into the respective claims of Mr Murray and myself to the property in these memoirs (3 question which now that they are destroyed 1 be but of little moment to any one), it is suffici to say that, believing the manuscript still to be mine, I placed it at the disposal of Lord Byron'; sister, Mrs Leigh, with the sole reservation of: protest against its total destruction; at least without previous perusal and consultation anions the parties. The majority of the persons present disagreed with this opinion, and it was the only point upon which there did exist any difference between us. The manuscript was accordingly torn and burnt before our eyes, and I immediately paid to Mr Murray, in the presence of the gentle- men assembled, two thousand guineas, with terest, etc., being the amount of what I owed him upon the security of my bond, and for whii now stand indebted to my publishers, Messrs Longman and Co. .. Since then, the family of Lord Byron hav in a manner highly honourable to themselve proposed an arrangement, by which the sum thus p ' r Mr Murray might be reimbursed me; but f. .eelings aud considerations, which it is necessary here to explain, I have respectfully, but peremptorily, declined their offer." Oue evening, after a dinner party at the Lan- LIFK OF LORD BYRON. \\\i franchi palace, his lordship wrote the following drinking-song : "Fill lln- i;olilcl ni;.iin, for I never before Felt tin- i;l.iw tli. a iiou el iddcns my heart to its, core: Let us drink — who would nut? since, throu[di life's varied In the floldel alone no deception is found. «I have tried, in its turn, all that life can supply; I have hask'd in the beams of a dark rolling eye; I have loved — who has not? but what ton;;ue w Ml de. i.n e That pleasure existed uhilc passinu was there? .< In the davs of our youth, wlien the heart's in its spring. And dreams that affection can never take wine, I had trends— who has not? but what tonpaie will avow That friends, rosy wine, arc so faithful as thou? anee, Thou prow'st old — who < appears, Whose virtues, like thine. tin-l;i .mi, thou never not? but on earth For the more that eujov (hue. the more they enjoy. "When the season of youth and its jollities past, For refuse we fly to the goblet at last, Then we find— who docs not' in the (low of the soul That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. «Whcn the box of Pandora was opened on earth, And Memory's triumph i mnl over Mirth, Hope was left— was she not' hut the jjoblet we kiss, And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss. .. I.r.nr; I :|irape be fo. Before we close the details of what may be termed Lord Myron's poetical life — before we en- ter on tbe painfully interesting particulars con- nected with tbe last and noblest part be per- formed in liis brilliant but brief career— we beg leave to introduce tbe following summary of bis Tbere seems to have been something of a ma- gical antidote in Lord Byron's genius to the strange propensities to evil arising both from bis natural passions and temper, and the accidental unpropitious circumstances of his life. In no man were good and evil mingled in such strange intimacv, and in such strange proportions. His passions were extraordinarily violent and fierce; and his temper, uneasy, bitter and capricious. His pride was deep and gloomy, and his ambition ardent and uncontrollable. All these were exactly such as the fortuitous position of bis in- fanry, boyhood, and first manhood, tended to aggravate In .li; nnra;;eiiienls, crosses, and mor- tifications. He was directly and iiumediatclv sprung from a stock of old nobility, of an historic name, of venerable antiquity. All Ins alliances, idem c including his father, bai Hut this gay father died of the future, and left him to waste his child- hood in poverty and dereliction, in the remote town of Aberdeen, among the few maternal re- lations who yet would not utterly abandon bis mother's shipwrecked fortunes. At tbe age of six years be became presumptive heir to the fa- mily peerage, and at the age of ten the peerage devolved on him. He theu wassent to tbe public school of Harrow; but. neither his person, his acquired habits, his scholarship, uor his temper, fitted him for this strange arena. A peer, not immediately issuing from the fashionable circles, and not as rich as foolish boys suppose a peer ought to be, must have a wonderful tact of so- ciety, and a managing, bending, intriguing tem- per, to play bis part with eclat, or with comfort, or even without degradation. All tbe treatment which Lord Byron now received confirmed the bitterness of a disposition and feelings naturally sour, and already augmented by chilling solitude, or an uncongenial sphere of society. To a mind endowed with intense sensibility and unextinguishable ambition, these circum- stances operated in cherishing melancholy, and even misanthropy. They bred an intractability to the light humours, tbe heartless cheerfulness, and all the artillery of unthinking emptiness by which the energies of the bosom are damped and broken. Tbere were implanted within him the seeds of* profound reflection and emotion, which grew in him to such strength, I hat the tameness, the petty passious, and frivolous desires of mankind in their ordinary intercourses of pleasure and dissipation, could never long retain him in their they courted, dandled, flattered, and admired him. He was unskilled in their pitiful ac- complishments, and disdained the trilling aims of their vanity, and the tests of excellence by which they were actuated, and by which they judged. He never, therefore, enjoyed their blan- dishments, and, ere long, broke like a giant from their bonds. There can be no doubt, that disappointments, working on a sombre temper, and theconserpieut melancholy and sensitiveness aiding, and aided by, the spells of tbe muse, were Lord Byron's preservatives; at least, that they produced re- deeming splendours, and moments of pure and untainted intellect, and exalting ebullitions of id or tender „. ,1,1.. which, by fits at least, if not always, adorned bis compositions, and will for ever electrify and elevate his readers. Had Lord Byron succeeded in the ordinary way to bis peerage, accompanied by the usual LIFE OF LORD BYRON. circumstances of prosperity aud ease, — had no- thing occurred capable of stimulating to strong personal exertions, the mighty seeds within him had probahly been worse" thanneutral— they had worked to unqualified mischief! In many cases this is not the effect of prosperity; but Lord Byron's qualities were of a very peculiar cast, as well as intense and unrivalled in degree. When, in the spring of 1816, Lord Byron quitted England, to return to it no more, he had a dark, perilous, and appalling prospect before him. The chances against the due future use of his miraculous and fearful gifts of genius, poi- soned and frenzied as they were by blighted hopes and all the evil incidents which had befallen him, were too numerous to be calculated without overwhelming dismay ! Few persons, of a sen- sibility a little above the common, would have escaped the pit of black and unmitigated despon- dence! but Lord Byron's elasticity of mind reco- vered itself, and soon rose to far higher concep- tions and performances than before. He passed the summer upon the banks of the lake of Geneva ! With what enthusiasm he enjoyed, and with what contemplations he dwelt among its scenery, his own poetry soon exhibited to the world ! He has been censured for his peculiarities, his un- social life, and his disregard of the habits, the decorums, and the civilities of the world, and of the rank to which he belonged. He might have pleaded, that the world rejected him, and he the world; but the charge is idle in itself, admitting it to have originated with his own will. A man has a right to live in solitude if he chooses it ; and, above all, he who gives such fruits of his solitude ! In the autumn of 1822, Lord Byron quitted Pisa, and went to Genoa, where he remained throughout the winter. A letter written by his lordship, while at Genoa, is singularly honourabli to him, and is the more entitled to notice, as i tends to diminish the credibility of an assertion made since his death, that he could bear no riv in fame, but iustantly became animated with bitter jealousy and hatred of any person who attracted the public attention from himself. If there be a living being towards whom, accordin; to that statement, Lord Byron would have expe rienced such a sentiment, it must be the pre sumed author of - Waverley. » And yet, in a letter to Monsieur Beyle, dated May 29, 1823, the fol- lowing are the just and liberal expressions used by Lord Byron, in adverting to a pamphlet which had been recently published by Monsieur Beyle. « There is one part of your observations in the pamphlet which I shall venture to remark upon : — it regards Walter Scott. You say that 'his haracter is little worthy of enthusiasm,' at the same time that you mention his productions in the manner they deserve. I have known Walter Scott long aud well, and in occasional situations which call forth the real character, and 1 can eyou that his oharacter is worthy of admi- 11 j — that, of all men, he is the most open, the most honourable, the most amiable. With is politics I have nothing to do : they differ from mine, which renders it difficult for me to speak of them. But he is perfectly sincere in them, and sincerity may be humble, but she can le servile. I pray you, therefore, to correct ften that passage. You may, perhaps, attri- bute this officiousness of mine to a false affecta- tion of candour, as I happen to be a writer also. Attribute it to what motive you please, but be- lieve the truth. I say that Walter Scott is as nearly a thorough good man as man can he, be- cause I know it by experience to be the case.') The motives which ultimately induced Lord Byron to leave Italy, and join the Greeks, strug- gling for emancipation, are sufficiently obvious. It was in Greece that his high poetical faculties had been first fully developed. Greece, a land of the most venerable and illustrious history, of peculiarly grand and beautiful scenery, inhabited by various races of the most wild and picturesque manners, was to him the land of excitement, — never-cloying, never-wearying, never-changing excitement. It was necessarily the chosen and favourite spot of a man of powerful and original intellect, of quick and sensible feelings, of a rest- less and untameable spirit, of various information, and who, above all, was satiated with common enjoyments, and disgusted with what appeared to him to be the formality, hypocrisy and sameness of daily life. Dwelling upon that country, as it is clear from all Lord Byron's writings he did, with the fondest solicitude, and being, as he was well known to be, an ardent, though, perhaps, not a very systematic lover of freedom, he could be no unconcerned spectator of its recent revo- lution: and as soon as it seemed to him that his presence might be useful, he prepared to visit once more the shores of Greece. It is not im- probable, also, that he had become ambitious of a name as distinguished for deeds as it was al- ready by his writings. A glorious and novel ca- reer apparently presented itself, and he deter- mined to try the event. Lord Byron embarked at Leghorn, and ar- rived in Cephalonia in the early part of August, 1823, attended by a suite of six or seven friends, in an English vessel (the Hercules, Captain Scott), which he had chartered for the express purpose of taking him to Greece. His lordship had never seen any of the volcanic mountains, and for this LIFE OF LORD BYRON. I I |M. Sl vessel deviated from its regular j der to pass the island of Slroin- boli, and lay off that place a whole night, iu the hopes of witnessing the usual phenomena, | but, for the first time within the memory of man, the volcano emitted no fire. The disap- pointed poet was obliged to proceed, in no good humour with the fabled forge of Vulcan. Greece, though with a fair prospect of ultimate triumph, was at that time in an unsettled state. The third campaign hail commenced, with several instances of disiiii;;uis!ied success — her arms were every where victorious, but her councils were distracted. Western Greece was in a critical situation, and although the heroic Marco Botzaris had not fallen in vain, yet the glorious enterprise in which he perished only checked, and did not prevent, the advance of the Turks towards Ana- tolica and Missolonghi. This gallant chief, worthy of the best days of Greece, hailed with transport, Lord Byron's arrival in that country and his last act before proceeding to the attack, in which he fell, was to write a warm invitation for his lordship to come to Missolonghi. In his letter, which he addressed to a friend at Misso- longhi, Botzaris alludes to almost the first pro- ceeding of Lord Byron in Greece, which was the arming and provisioning of forty Suliotes, whom he sent to join in the defence of Missolonghi. After the battle, Lord Byron transmitted bandages and medicines, of which he lrad brought a large store from Italv, and pecuniary succour to those who had been wounded. He had already made a very generous offer to the government. He says, in a letter, « I offered to advance a thou- sand dollars a month, for the succour of Misso- longhi, and the Suliotes under Botzaris (since killed) ; but the government have answered me through of this island, thatlhey wish to confer with me previously, which is, iu fact, saying they wish me to spend my money in some other direction. I will take care that it is for the public cause, otherwise 1 will not advance a para. The opposition say they want to cajole me, and the party in power say the others wish to seduce me; so, between the two, I have a difficult part to play : however I will have nothing to do with the factions, unless to reconcile them, if pos- sible.* Lord Byron established himself for some time at the small village of Metaxata, in Cephalnnia, and dispatched two friends, Mr Trelawney and Mr Hamilton Browne, with a letter to the Greek government, in order to collect intelligence as to the real state of things. His lordship's gene- rosity was aimo,t daily exercised iu his new neighbourhood. He provided for many Italian families in distress, and even indulged the people of the country in paying for the religious cere- monies which they deemed essential to their sue- In the mean while, Lord Byron's friends pro- ceeded to Tripolitza, and found Colocotroni (the enemy of Mavrocordato, who had been com- pelled to flee from the presidency), in great power: his palace was filled with armed men, like the castle of some ancient feudal chief, and a good idea of his character may be formed from the language he held. He declared that he had told Mavrocordato that, unless he de- sisted from his intrigues, he would put him on an ass and whip him out of the Morea, and that he had only been withheld from doing so by the representation of his friends, who had said that it would injure the cause. They next proceeded to Salamis, where the congress was sitting, and Mr Trelawney agreed to accompany Odysseus, a brave mountain chief, into Negropont. At this time the Greeks were preparing for many active enterprises. Marco Botzaris' brother, with his Suliotes and Mavro- cordato, were to take charge of Missolonghi, which, at that time (October, i8a3), was in a very critical state, being blockaded both by laud and sea. « There havebcen,.. says Mr Trelawney, « thirty battles fought and won by the late Marco Botzaris, and his gallant tribe of Suliotes, who are shut up in Missolonghi. If it fall, Athens will he in danger, and thousands of throats cut. A few thousand dollars would provide ships to would coin my heart to save this key of Greece !n A report like this was sufficient, to show the point where succour was most needed, and Lord Byron's determination to relieve Missolonghi was still more decidedly confirmed by a letter which he received from Mavrocordato. Mavrocordato was at this time endeavouring to collect a fleet for the relief of Missolonghi, and Lord Byron generously offered to advance four hundred thousand piastres (about 12,000/.) to pay for fitting it out. In a letter in which he announced this his noble intention, he alluded to the dissensions in Greece, and stated, that if these continued, all hope of a loan in England, or of assistance, or even good wishes from abroad, would be at an end. ■ 1 must frankly confess," he says in his letter, « that unless union anil order are confirmed, all hopes of a loan will be in vain, and all the as- sistance which the Greeks could expect from abroad, an assistance which might be neither trifling nor worthless, will be suspended or de- stroyed, and, what is worse, the great powers of Europe, of whom no one was an enemy to Greece, but seemed inclined to favour her in XXXIV LIFE OF LORD BYRON. consenting to the establishment of an independent power, will be persuaded that the Greeks are able to govern themselves, and will, perhaps, themselves undertake to arrange your disordi in such a way as to blast the brightest hopes you indulge, and are indulged by your friends. « And allow me to add, once for all, I desire the well-being of Greece, and nothing else; I will do all I can to secure it; but I cannot consent— I never will consent to the English public, or English individuals being deceived as to the real state of Greek affairs. The rest, gentlemen, de- pends on you; you have fought gloriously; act honourably towards your fellow-citizens and to- wards the world, and then it will no more be said, as has been repeated for two thousand years with the Roman historian, that Philopcemen was the last of the Grecians. Let not calumny itself (and it is difficult to guard against it in so dif- ficult a struggle) compare the Turkish Pacha with the patriot Greek in peace, after you have exter- minated him in war.» The dissensions among the Greek chiefs evi- dently gave great pain to Lord Byron, whose sensibility was keenly affected by the slightest circumstance which he considered likely to retard the deliverance of Greece. « For my part,* he observes in another of his letters, « I will stick by the cause while a plank remains which can be honourably clung to; if I quit it, it wjll be by the Greeks' conduct, and not the Holy Allies, or the holier Mussulmans.* In a letter to his banker at Cephalouia, he says : « I hope things here will go well, some time or other; I will stick by the cause as long as a cause exists.* His playful humour sometimes broke out amidst the deep anxiety he felt for the success of the Greeks. He ridiculed with great pleasantry some of the supplies which had been sent out from England by the Greek committee. In one of his letters, also, after alluding to his having ad- vanced 4,ooo(., and expecting to be called on for 4,ooo;., more, he says : « How can I refuse if they (the Greeks) will fight, and especially if I should happen to be in their company? I therefore request and require that yon should apprise my trusty and trust-worthy trustee and banker, and crown, and sheet-anchor, Douglas Kinnaird the honourable, that he prepare all monies of mine, including the purchase-money of Rochdale manor, and mine income for the year A. D. 1824, to an- swer and anticipate any orders or drafts of mine, for the good cause, in good and lawful money of Great Britain, etc. etc. etc. May you live a thousand years ! which is nine hundred and ninety-nine longer than the Spanish Cortes con- stitution.* All being ready, two Ionian vessels were or- ] dered, and, embarking his horses and effects, Lord Byron sailed from Argostoli on the 29th of De- cember. At Zante, his lordship took a considerable quantityof specie on hoard, and proceeded towards Missolonghi. Two accidents occurred in this short passage. Count Gamba, who had accompanied his lordship from Leghorn, had heen charged with the vessel in which the horses and part of the money were embarked. When off Chiarenza, a point which lies between Zante and the place of their destination, they were surprised at day- light on finding themselves under the bows of a Turkish frigate. Owing, however, to the activity displayed on board Lord Byron's vessel, and her superior sailing, she escaped, while the second was fired at, brought to, and carried into Patras. Count Gamba and his companions being taken before Yusuff Pacha, fully expected to share the fate of some unfortunate men whom that sangui- nary chief had sacrificed the preceding year at Previsa, and their fears would most probably have been realized, had it not been for the pre- sence of mind displayed by the count, who, as- suming an air of hauteur and indifference, ac- cused the captain of the frigate of a scandalous breach of neutrality, in firing at and detaining a vessel under English colours, and concluded by in- forming Yusuff, that he might expect the vengeance of the British government in thus interrupting a nobleman who was merely on his travels, and bound to Calamos. The Turkish chief, on recognizing in the master of the vessel a per- son who had saved his life in the Black Sea fif- teen years before, not only consented to the ves- sel's release, but treated the whole of the passen- gers with the utmost attention, and even urged them to take a day's shooting in the neighbour- Owing to contrary winds, Lord Byron's vessel was obliged to take shelter at the Scropes, a clus- ter of rocks within a few miles of Missolonghi. While detained here, he was in considerable dan- ger of being captured by the Turks. Lord Byron Was received at Missolonghi with enthusiastic demonstrations of joy. No mark of honour or welcome which the Greeks could de- vise was omitted. The ships anchored off the fortress fired a salute as he passed. Prince Mav- rocordato, and all the authorities, with the troops and the population, met him on his land- ing, and accompanied him to the house which had been prepared for him, amidst the shouts of the multitude and the discharge of cannon. One of the first objects to which he turned his attention was to mitigate the ferocity with which the war had been carried on. The very day of his lordship's arrival was signalised by his res- cuing a Turk, who had fallen into the hands of LIFE OF LORD BYRON. some Greek sailors. The individual tlius saved having heeu elolhed by Ins orders, was kept ii the house until an opportunity occurred of send ing him to Patras. Nor had his lordship beei long at Missolonghi, before an opportunity prc- sented itself for showing his sense of Yusuff Pach moderation in releasing Count Gamba. Hearing that 'there were four Turkish prisoners in the town, he requested that they might be pi his hands. This being immediately granted, he sent them to Patras, with a letter addressed to th Turkish chief, expressing his hope that the pri soners thenceforward taken on both sides would be treated with humanity. This act was follow ed by another equally praise-worthy, which proved how anxious Lord Byron felt to give a new turn to the system of warfare hitherto pursued. A Greek cruizer having captured a Turkish boat, in which there was a number of passengers, chiefly women and children, they were also placed in the hands of Lord Byron, at his particular re- quest; upon which a vessel was immediately hired, and the whole of them, to the number of twenty-four, were sent to Previsa, provided with ery requisite for the .I,,,' the pas- sage. The Turkish governor of Previsa thanked liis lordship, and assured biro, that he would take care equal attention should be iu future shown to the Greeks who might become pri- soners. Another grand object with Lord Byron, and lie which be never ceased to forward with the most anxious solicitude, was to reconcile the ativc chiefs, to make them friendly and conhding towards one another, and iibinissive to the orders of the government. He had neither time nor opportunity to carry this point to any great extent: much good was, how- iet, done. Lord Bvron landed at Missolonghi animated with irdo After payn lltary udeed, had only come out under tl: pectation of receiving its arrears from which he promised to make to the provis vernment, he set about forming a briga hundred of these, the bin most resolute ol the soldiers of Greece, \v tl,.: Meet, field, and unmanageable in a town, were, at this moment, peculiarly disposed to be obstinate, riotous, and mercenary. They bad been chiefly instrumental in preserving Missolonghi when be- sieged the previous autumn by the Turks; had been driven from their abodes; and the whole of their families were, at tlfls time, in the town, de- stitute of either home or sufficient supplies. Of turbulent and reckless character, they kept the place iu awe; and Mavrorui'dato having, unlike the other captains, no soldiers of his own, was glad to find a body of valiant mercenaries, espe- cially if paid for out of the funds of another; and, consequently, was not disposed to treat them with harshness. Within a fortnight after Lord Byron's arrival, a burgher refusing to quarter some Suliotes, who rudely demanded entrance into his house, was killed, and a riot ensued, in which some lives were lost. Lord Byron's impa- tient spirit could ill brook the delay- of a favou- rite scheme, but he saw, with the utmost cha- grin, that the state of his troops was such as to render any 7 attempt to lead them out at that time impracticable. The project of proceeding against Lepanto be- ing thus suspended, at a moment when Lord Byron's enthusiasm was at its height, and when he had fully calculated on striking a blow which could not fail to be of the utmost service to the Greek cause, the unlooked-for disappointment preyed on his spirits, and produced a degree of irritability which, if it was not the sole cause contributed greatly to a severe fit of epilepsy with which he was attacked on the 1 5 tli of Feb- ruary. His lordship was sitting in the apart nt of Colo Stant talki: into In pay the ist of expedition against Lepanto was proposed, ven to Lord Byron. This ex- pedition, however, had to experience delay and disappointment. The Suliotes, conceiving that thev had found a patron whose wealth was inex- de. and whose generosity was boundless, determined to make the most of the occasion, and proceeded to the most extravagant demands on th. for and oth. fences. The-e mountaineers, untaraeahle in the manner with Mr Parry, the engineer, when it as observed, from occasional and rapid changes ime strong emotion. On a sudden he complained f a weakness in one of his legs, and rose, but iiiling himself unable to walk, he cried out for distance. He then fell into a state of nervous and convulsive agitation, and was placed on a bed. For some miuutes his countenance was much distorted. He however quickly recovered his senses, his speech returned, and he soon ap- peared perfectly well, although enfeebled and exhausted by the violence of the struggle. Daring the fit, be behaved with his usual extraordinary firmness, and his efforts in contending with, and attempting to master, the disease, are described as gigantic. Ill the course of the month, the at- tack was repealed four times ;the violence of the disorder, at length, yielded to the remedies which his physicians advised, such as bleeding, cold bathing, perfect relaxation of mind, etc., and he gradually recovered. An accideut, however, hap- XXXV 1 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. pened a few days after his first illness, which was ill calculated to aid the efforts of his medical ad- s. A Suliote accompanied by another man, and the late Marco Botzaris' little boy, walked into the Seraglio, a place which, before Lord Byron's arrival, had been used as a sort of for- and barrack for t»e Suliotes, and out of which they were ejected with great difficulty for the reception of the committee-stores, and for the iccupation of the engineers, who required it for i laboratory. The sentinel on guard ordered the Suliote to retire, which being a species of motion hicli Suliotes are not accustomed, the man carelessly advanced; upon which the Serjeant of the guard (a German) demanded his business, and receiving no satisfactory answer, pushed him back. These wild warriors, who will dream for years of a blow if revenge is out of their power, iot slow to resent even a push. The Suliote struck again, the Serjeant and he closed and struggled, when the Suliote drew a pistol from his belt; the Serjeant wrenched it out of his baud, and blew the powder out of the pan. At this moment Captain Sass, a Swede, seeing the fray, came up, aud ordered the man to be taken the guard-room. The Suliote was then dis- posed to depart, and would have done so if the serjeant would have permitted him. Unfortu- nately, Captain Sass did not confine himself to merely giving thd order for his arrest; for when the Suliote struggled to get away, Captain Sass his sword and struck him with the flat part of it; whereupon the enraged Greek flew upon with a pistol in one hand and the sabre iu the other, and at the same moment nearly cut off the Captain's right arm, and shot him through the head. Captain Sass, who was remarkable fur his mild and courageous character, expired in a few minutes. The Suliote also was a man of dis- tinguished bravery. This was a serious affair, nd great apprehensions were entertained that it would not end here. The Suliotes refused to sur- render the man to justice, alleging that he had been struck, which, in Suliote law, justifies all the consequences which may follow. i a letter written a few days after Lord By- sfirst attack, to a friend inZante, he speaks of himself as rapidly recovering. « I am a good deal better,., he observes, .. though of course weakly. The leeches took too much blood from my tem- ples the day after, and there was some difficulty n stopping it; but 1 have been up daily, and out q boats or on horseback. To-day I have taken . warm bath, and live as temperately as well can «, without any liquid but water, and without my animal food.- After adverting to some other subjects, the letter thus concludes: « Matters a here a little embroiled with the Suliotes, foreig etc.; but I still hope better things, and will stand by the cause as long as my health and cir- cumstances will permit me to be supposed useful. .. Notwithstanding Lord Byron's improvement in health, his friends felt, from the first, that he ought to try a change of air. Missolonghi is a flat, marshy, and pestilential place, and, except for purposes of utility, never would have been selected for his residence. A gentleman of Zante wrote to him early in March, to induce him to return to that island for a time. To his letter the following answer was received: — « I am extremely obliged by your offer of your couutry-house, as for all other kindness, in case my health should require my removal ; but I cannot quit Greece while there is a chance of iny being of (even supposed) utility. There is a stake worth millions such as I am, and while I can stand at all, 1 must stand by the cause. While I say this, I am aware of the difficulties, and dis- sensions, and defects of the Greeks themselves : but allowance must be made for them by all rea- sonable people... It may be well imagined, after so severe a fit of illness, and that in a great measure brought on by the conduct of the troops he had taken into his pay, and treated with the utmost generosity, that Lord Byron was in no humour to pursue his scheme against Lepanto, even supposing that his state of health had been such as to bear the fa- tigue of a campaign in Greece. The Suliotes, however, showed some signs of repentance, and offered to place themselves at his lordship's dis- posal. But still they had an objection to the na- ture of the service : « they would not fight against stone walls !.. It is not surprising that the ex- pedition to Lepanto was no longer thought of. In conformity with our plan, we here add a se- lection of anecdotes, etc. connected with Lord Byron's residence at Missolonghi. They are principally taken from Capt. Parry's '. Last Days of Lord Byron ; » a work which seems to us, from its plain and unvarnished style, to bear the stamp aud impress of truth. In speaking of the Greek Committee one day, his lordship said — « I conceive that I have been already grossly ill-treated by the committee. In Italy, Mr Blaquiere, their agent, informed me that every requisite supply would be forwarded with all dispatch. I was disposed to come to Greece, but I hastened my departure iu conse- quence of earnest solicitations. No time was to be lost, I was told, and Mr Blaquiere, instead of waitin;; on me at his return from Greece, left paltry note, which gave me no information wha ever. If I ever meet with him, I shall not fail I mention my surprise at his conduct; but it h; been all of a piece. I wish the acting coinmitt. LIFE OF LOUD BYRON. xxxvn had had some of the trouhle which has fallen on me since my arrival here; they would have heen more prompt in their proceedings, and would have known better what the country stood in need of. They would not have delayed the sup- plies a day, nor have sent out German officers, poor fellows, to starve at Missolonghi. hut formy assistance. I am a plain man, and cannot com- prehend the use of printing-presses to a people who do not read. Here the committee have sent supplies of maps, I suppose, that I may teach the young mountaineers geography. Here are bugle- horns, without bugle-men. and it is a chance if we can find any body in Greece to blow them. Cooks are seut to a people who want guns: they ask for a sword, and the committee give them the lever of a printing-press. Heavens ! one would think the committee meant to inculcate patience and submission, and to condemn resist- ance. Some materials for constructing fortifica- tions they have sent, but they have chosen their people so ill, that the work is deserted, and not one para have they sent to procure other la- bourers. Their secretary, Mr Bowriug, was dis- posed, I believe, to claim the privilege of an ac- quaintance with me. He wrote me a long letter about the classic land of freedom, the birth-place of the arts, the cradle of genius, the habitation of the gods, the heaven of poets, and a great many such fine things. 1 was obliged to auswer him, and I scrawled some nonsense in reply to his nonsense ; but I fancy I shall get no more such epistles. When I came to the conclusion of the poetry part of my letter, I wrote, ' so much for blarney, now for business.' I have not since heard in the same strain from Mr Bowriug." « My future iutentions,- continued he, • as to Greece, may be explained in a few words : I will remain here till she is secure against the Turks, or till she has fallen uuder their power. All my income shall be spent in her service; but, unless driven by some great necessity, I will not touch a farthing of the sum intended for my sister's children. Whatever I can accomplish with my income, and my personal exertions, shall be cheerfully done. When Greece is secure against external enemies, I will leave the Greeks to settle their government as they like. One service more, and an eminent service it will be, I think I may |ierform for them. You, Parry, shall have a schooner built for me, or I will buy a vessel; the Greeks shall invest me with the character of their ambassador or agent; I will go to the United Slates, ami procure that free and enlight- ened government to set the example of recognis- ing the federation of Greece as an independent Mate. This done, England must follow the ex- ample, and then the fate of Greece will be per- manently fixed, and she will enter into all her rights, as a member of the great commonwealth of Christian Europe.- « This,» observes Captain Parry, in his plain and manly manner, « was Lord Byron's hope, and this was to be his last project in favour of Greece. Into it no motive of personal ambition entered, more than that just and proper one, the basis of all virtue, and the distinguished charac- teristic of an honourable mind — the hope of gain- ing the approbation of good men. As an author, be had already attained the pinnacle of popula- rity and of fame; but this did not satisfy his no- ble ambition. He hastened to Greece, with a de- votion to liberty, and a zeal in favour of the oppressed, as pure as ever shone in the bosom of a knight in the purest days of chivalry, to gain the reputation of an unsullied warrior, and of a disinterested statesman. He was her unpaid, but the blessings of all Greece, and the high honours his own countrymen bestow on his memory, bearing him in their hearts, prove that he was not her unrewarded champion." Lord Byron's address was the most affable and courteous perhaps ever seen ; his manners, when in a good humour, and desirous of being well with his guest, were winning, fascinating in the extreme, and though bland, still spirited, and with an air of frankness and generosity — quali- ties in which he was certainly not deficient. He was open to a fault— a characteristic probably the result of his fearlessness and independence of the world ; but so open was he, that his friends were obliged to be upon their guard with him. He was the worst person in the world to confide a secret to; and if any charge against any body was mentioned to him, it was probably the first communication he made to the person in ques- tion. He hated scandal and tittle-tattle— loved the manly straightforward course: he would harbour no doubts, and never live with another with suspicions in his bosom— out came the ac- cusation, and he called upon the individual to clear, or be ashamed of, himself. He detest- ed a lie — nothing enraged him so much : he was by temperament and education excessive- ly irritable, and a lie completely unchained him — his indignation knew no hounds. He had considerable tact in detecting untruth; he would smell it out almost instinctively ; he avoided the timid driveller, and generally chose his com- panions among the lovers and practisers of since- rity and candour. A man tells p falsehood, and conceals the truth, because he is afraid thai the declaration of the thing as it is will hurt him. Lord llyron was above all fear of this sort : he flinched from telling no one what he ibought m his face; from his infancy he had been afraid of WW III LIFE OF LORD BYRON. no one. Falsehood is not the vice of the power- ful: the Greek slave lies, the Turkish tyrant is remarkable for his adherence to truth. The anecdote that follows, told by Parry, is highly characteristic :— « When the Turkish fleet was lying off Cape Papa, blockading Missolonghi, I was one day or- dered by Lord Byron to accompany him to the mouth of the harbour to inspect the fortifica- tions, in order to make a report on the state they were in. He and 1 were in his own punt, a little boat which he had, rowed by a boy; and in a large boat, accompanying us, were Prince Mavrocordato and his attendants. As I was viewing, on one hand, the Turkish fleet atten- tively, and reflecting on its powers, and our means of defence; and looking, on the other, at Prince Mavrocordato and his attendants, perfect- ly unconcerned, smoking their pipes and gossip- ing as if Greece were liberated and at peace, aud Missolonghi in a state of complete security, I could not help giving vent to a feeling of con- tempt and indignation. 'What is the matter,' said his lordship, appearing to be very serious, < what makes you so angry, Parry ?' 'I am not angry,' I replied, ' my lord, but somewhat indignant. The Turks, if they were not the most stupid wretches breathing, might take the fort of Vasa- ladi, by means of two pinnaces, any night they pleased; they have only to approach it with muf- fled oars ; they will not be heard, I will answer for their not being seen; and they may storm it in a few minutes. With eight gun-boats, pro- perly armed with 24-pouuders, they might batter both Missolonghi and Anatolica to the ground. And there sits the old gentlewoman, Prince Mavrocordato and his troop, to whom I applied an epithet I will not here repeat, as if they were all perfectly safe. They know their powers of de- fence are inadequate, and they have no means of improving them. If I were in their place, I should be in a fever at the thought of my own incapacity and ignorance, and I should burn with impatience to attempt the destruction of those stupid Turkish rascals. The Greeks aixl Turks are opponents worthy, by their imbecility, of each other.' I had scarcely explained myself fully, when his lordship ordered our boat to be placed alongside the other, and actually related our whole conversation to the prince. In doing i took on himself the task of paci fying both the prince and me, and though at first very angry, and the prince, I believe, very much annoyed, he succeeded. Mavrocor- dato afterwards showed no dissatisfaction with me, and I prized Lord Byron's regard too much, to remain long displeased with a proceeding which was only an unpleasant manner of reprov- ing us both.n « On one occasion (which webefore slightly al- luded to) he had saved twenty-four Turkish wo- men and children from sla all companying horrors. I was summoned to attend him and receive his orders, that every thing should be done which might contribute to their comfort. He was seated on a cushion at the up- per end of the room, the women and children were standing before him, with their eyes fixed steadily on him, and on his right hand was his interpreter, who was extracting from the women i of then One of them, parently about thirty years of age, possessing great vivacity, and whose manners and dress, though she was then dirty and disfigured, indi- cated that she was superior in rank and condition to her companions, was spokeswoman for the whole. I admired the good order the others pre- served, never interfering with the explanation or interrupting the single speaker. I also admired the rapid manner in which the interpreter ex- plained every thing they said, so as to make it almost appear that there was but one speaker. — After a short time, it was evident that what Lord Byron was hearing affected his feelings— his countenance changed, his colour went and came, and I thought he was ready to weep. But he had on all occasions a ready and peculiar knack in turning conversation from any disagreeable or unpleasant subject ; aud he had recourse to this expedient. He rose up suddenly, and turning round on his heel, as was his wont, he said some- thing quickly to his interpreter, who immediate- ly repeated it 10 the women. All eyes were in- tly fixed ( and of the party, young and beautiful woman, spoke very warmly. Lord Byron seemed satisfied, and said they might retire. The women all slipped off their shoes in an instant, and going up to his lordship, each in succession, accompanied by their children, kissed his hand fervently, invoked, in the Turkish man- ner, a blessing both on his head and heart, and then quitted the room. This was too much for Lord Byron, and he turned his face away to cou- « One of Lord Byron's household had several times involved himself and his master in per- plexity and trouble, by his unrestrained attach- In Greece thii very annoying, and induced Lord Byron to think of means of curing it A young Suliote of the guard was accordingly dressed up like a woman, and instructed to place himself in the way of the amorous swain. The bait took, and after some communication, had rather by signs than by' LIFE OF LORD BYRON. words,; for [the pair did not understand each other's language, the sham lady was carefully conducted by the gallant to one of Lord Byron's apartments. Here the couple were surprised by an enraged Suliote, a husband provided for the occasion, accompanied by half a dozen of his comrades, whose presence and threats terrified the poor lacquey almost out of his senses. The noise ef course brought Lord Byron to the spot, to laugh at the tricked serving-man, and rescue him from the effects of his terror." « A few days after the earthquake, which took place on the 21st of February, as we were all sit- ting at table in the evening, we were suddenly alarmed by a noise and a shaking of the house, somewhat similar to that which we had experi- enced when the earthquake occurred. Of course all started from their places, and there was the same kind of confusion as on the former evening, at which Byi-on, who was present, laughed im- moderately; we were re-assured by this, and soon learnt that the whole was a method he had adopted to sport with our fears.» « The regiment, or rather the brigade, we formed, can be described only as Byron himself describes it. There was a Greek tailor, who had been in the British service in the Ionian Islands, where he had married an Italian woman. This lady, knowing something of the military service, petitioned Lord Byron to appoint her husband master-tailor of the brigade. The suggestion vv useful, anil this part of her petition was iinirn diately granted. At the same time, however, si solicited that she might be permitted to raise corps of women, to be placed under her orders, to accompany the regiment. She stipulated for free quarters and rations for them, but rejected all claim for pay. They wore to be free of all incumbrances, and were to wash, sew, cook, and otherwise provide for the men. The proposition pleased Lord Byron, and, stating the matter to me, he said he hoped I should have no objection. 1 had been accustomed to see women accompany the Fnglish armv, and I knew that, thongh some- times an incumbrance, they were on the whole more beneficial than otherwise. In Greece there were many circumstances which would mike their services extremely valuable, and I gave my consent to the measure. The tailor's wife did accordingly recruit a considerable number of un- incumbered women, of almost all nations, but principally Greeks, Italians, Maltese, anil Ne- gresses. • I was afraid," said Lord Byron, ' when I mentioned this matter to you, you would be crusty, and oppose it,— it is the very thing. Let mc see, my corps outdoes Falstaff's : there are English, Germans, French, Maltese, Itagusians, Italians, Neapolitans, Transylvanians, Russians, Suliotes, Moreotes, and Western Greeks in front, and, to bring up the rear, the tailor's wife and her troop. Glorious Apollo ! no general had ever before such an army.* » « Lord Byron had a black groom with him in Greece, an American by birth, to whom he was very partial. He always insisted on this man's calling him Massa, whenever he spoke to him. On one occasion, the groom met with two women of his own complexion, who had been slaves to the Turks and liberated, but had been left al- most to starve when the Greeks had risen on their tyrants. Being of the same colour was a bond of sympathy between them and the groom, and he applied to me to give both these women quarters in the Seraglio. I granted the appli- cation, and mentioued it to Lord Byron, who laughed at the gallantry of his groom, and or- dered that he should be brought before him at ck the aay, answer for his \ sumption in making such an application. At ten o'clock, accordingly, he attended his master with great trembliug and fear, but stuttered so when he attempted to speak, that he could not make himself understood; Lord Byron endeavouring, almost in vain,, to preserve his gravity, reproved him severely for his presumption. Blacky stut- teiH a thousand excuses, and was ready to do any thing to appease his massa's anger. His great yellow eyes wide open, he trembling from head to foot, his wandering and stuttering excuses, his visible dread— all tended to provoke laughter ; and Lord Byron, fearing his own dignity wonld be hove overboard, told him to hold his tongue, and listen to his sentence. 1 was commanded to enter it in his memorandum-book, and then he pronounced in a solemn tone of voice, while Blacky stood aghast, expecting some severe pu- nishment, the following doom: ' My determina- tion is, that the children born of these black wo- men, of which you may be the father, shall be my property, and I will maintain them. What say you?' ' Go— Go— God bless you, massa, may you live great while,' stuttered out the groom, and sallied forth to tell the good news to the two distressed women." The luxury of Lord Byron's living at this time may be seen from the following order, which he gave his superintendant of the household, for the daily expenses of his own table, no more thau one piastre. Par Bread, a pound and a half. . . i: Wine Fish *ii Olives LIFE OF LORD BYRON. This was his dinner; his breakfast consisted of a single dish of tea, without milk or sugar. The circumstances that attended the death of this illustrious and noble-minded man, are de- scribed in the following plain aud simple man- ner by his faithful valet and constant follower, Mr Fletcher: — « My master, » says Mr Fletcher, « continued his usual custom of riding daily when the wea- ther would permit, until the 9th of April. But on that ill-fated day he got very wet, and on his return home his lordship changed the whole of his dress; but he had been too long in his wet clothes, and the cold, of which he bad complain- ed more or less ever since we left Cephalonia, made this attack be more severely felt. Though rather feverish during the night, his lordship slept pretty well, hut complained in the morning of a pain in his bones, and a head-ache : this did not, however, prevent him from taking a ride in the afternoon, which, I grieve to say, was his last. On his return, my master said that the saddle was not perfectly dry, from being so wet the day before, and observed that be thought it had made him worse. His lordship was again visited by the same slow fever, and I was sorry to perceive, on the next morning, that his illness appeared to be increasing. He was verytBw, complained of not having had any sleep dur- ing the night. His lordship's appetite was also quite gone. I prepared a little arrow-root, of which he took three or four spoonfuls, saying it jpas very good, but he could take no more. It was not till the third day, the 12th, that I began to be alarmed for my master. In all his former colds he always slept well, and was never affect- ed by this slow fever. I therefore went to Dr Bruno and MrMillingen, the two medical attend- ants, and enquired minutely into every circum- stance connected with my master's present ill- ness: both replied that there was no danger, and I might make myself perfectly easy on the sub- ject, for all would be well in a few days. This was ou the i3th. On the following day, I found my master in such a state, that I could not feel happy without supplicating that he would send to Zante for Dr Thomas. After expressing my fears lest his lordship should get worse, be de- sired me to consult the doctors, which I did, aud was told there was no occasion for calling in any person, as they hoped all would be well in a few days. Here I should remark, that his lordship repeatedly said, in the course of the day, he was sure the doctors did not understand his disease; to which I answered, ' Then, my lord, have olbei advice by all means.' ' They tell me,' said his lordship, ' that it is only a common cold, which, you know, 1 have had a thousaud times.' 'I am 1 my lord,' said I, ' that you never had one of so serious a nature.' ' I think I never had,' was his lordship's answer. I repeated my suppli- cations that Dr Thomas should be sent for, on the i5tb, and was again assured that my master would be better in two or three days. After these confident assurances, I did not renew my entreaties uutil it was too late. With respect to the medicines that were given to my master, I could not persuade myself that those of a strong purgative nature were the best adapted for his complaint, concluding that, as he had nothing on his stomach, the only effect would he to create pain; indeed, this must have been the case with a person in perfect health. The whole nourish- ment taken by ray master, for the last eight days, consisted of a small quantity of broth, at two or three different times, and two spoonfuls of arrow- root on the 18th, the day before his death. The first time I heard of there beiug any intention of bleeding his lordship was on the j 5th, when it was proposed by Dr Bruno, hut objected to at first by my master, who asked Mr Millingen if there was any great reason for taking blood? The latter replied that it might be of service, hut added it might he deferred till the-uext day; aud, accordingly, my master was bled in the right arm on the evening of the 16th, and a pouud of blood was taken. I observed, at the time, that it had a most inflamed appearance. Dr Bruno now began to say, that he hail frequently urged my master to be bled, but that he always refused. A long dispute now arose about the time that bad been lost, and the necessity of sending for medical aid to Zante; upon which I was in- formed, for the fust time, that it would be of no use, as my master would be better or no more before the arrival of Dr Thomas. His lordship continued to get worse, hut Dr Bruno said, he thought letting blood again would save his life; and lost no time in telling my master how ne- cessary it was to comply with the doctor's wishes. To this he replied by saying, he feared they knew nothing about his disorder ; and then, stretchiug out his arm, said, 'Here, take my arm and do whatever you like.' His lordship continued to get weaker, and on the 17th he was bled twice in the morning, and at two o'clock in the afternoon; the bleeding at both time$ was followed by fainting fits, and he would have fallen down more than once had I not caught him in my arms. In order to prevent such an accident, I took care not to permit his lordship to stir without supporting him. On this day my master said to me twice, ' I cannot sleep, and you well know I have not been able to sleep for more than a week; I know,' added his lordship. ' that a man can only be a certain time without LIFE OF LORD BYRON. xli eep, and then he must go mad without any one being able to save him ; and I would ten times ooner shoot myself than he mad, for I am not fraid of dying — I am more fit to die than people think!' « I do not, however, believe that his lordship ad any apprehension of his fate till the day ftcr the 1 8th, when he said, ' I fear you and Tita will he ill by sitting continually night and day.' I answered, ' We shall never leave your lordship till you are better.' As my master had fit of delirium on the 16th, I took care ve the pistol and stiletto, which had hi- therto been kept at his bedside in the night. On the 1 8th his lordship addressed me fre- quently, and seemed to be very much dissalid'n-d tb his medical treatment. I then said, '■ Do allow me to send for Dr Thomas?' to which he answered, 'Do so, but be quick; I am sorry 1 did not let you do so before, as I am sure they have mistaken my disease. Write yourself, for I know they would not like to see other doctors here.' I did not lose a moment in obeying my master's orders; and on informing Dr Bruno and Mr Millingen of it, they said it was very right, as they now began to he afraid theinsel On returning to my master's room, his fi words were ' have you sent?' — ' I have, i lord,' .was my answer; upon which he said, ' y have done right, for I should like to know what is the matter with me.' Although his lordship did not appear to think his dissolution was sc near, I could perceive he was getting weakei every hour, and he even began to have occasiona fits of delirium. He afterwards said, ' I now begin to think I am seriously ill, and iu case i should be taken off suddenly, I wish to give you several directions, which I hope you will bi ticular iu seeing executed.' 1 answered I would iu case such an event came to pass, but expressed a hope that he would live many y< them much better himself than 1 could. To this my master replied, ' No, it is now nearly over;' and then added, ' I must tell without losing a moment!' i then said, go, my lord, and fetch pen, ink and paper?'— ' Oh, my God! no; you will lose too much time, and I have it not to spare, for iny time is now short,' said his lordship, and immediately after, ' Now pay attention ! ' His lordship com- menced by saying, ' You will be provided fur.' I begged him, however, to proceed with things of more consequence. He then continued, 'oh, my poor dear child ! my dear Ada ! my God ! could 1 but have seen her ! Give her mv bless- ing—and my dear sister Augusta and her chil- dren ; anil you will go to l.ady ISvron, and say — tell her every thing, — you are friends with ynu dship seemed to be greatly affected Iere uly master's voice failed him, so lhat I could only catch a word at in- tervals ; but he kept muttering something very seriously for some time, and would often raise voice, aud said, ' Fletcher, now if you do execute every order which I have given you, II torment you hereafter if possible.' Here I told his lordship, in a state of the greatest perplexity, that I had not understood a word of which he replied, ' Oh, my God ! then all is lost, for it is now too late ! Can it be possible you have not understood me?' — ' No, my lord,' said 1, ' but I pray you to try and inform me once more.' 'How can 1?' re- joined my master, ' it is now too late, and all is over!' I said, ' Not our will, but God' done!' — and he answered, ' Yes, not mine be done!— but I will try.' K-is lordship did indeed make several efforts to speak, but could only speak two or three words at a time,— such as ' My wife ! iny child ! my sister ! — you I all — you must say all — you know my wishes' — the rest was quite unintelligible. A consultation was now held (about noon) when it was deter- mined to administer some Peruvian bark and wine. My master had now been nine days without any sustenance w&atever, except what 1 have already mentioued. With the exception of a few words, which can only interest those to whom they were addressed, and which if re- quired 1 shall communicate to themselves, it was impossible to understand any thing his lordship said after taking the bark. He expressed a wish to sleep. I at one time asked whether I should call Mr Parry, to which he replied, ' Yes, you may call him.' Mr Parry desired him to com- pose himself. He shed tears, and apparently sunk into a slumber. Mr Parry went away ex- pecting to find him refreshed on his return, — but it was the commencement of the lethargy preceding his death. The last words 1 heard my m;ister utter were at six o'clock tin the evening of the 1 8th, when he said, * 1 must sleep now;' upon which he laid down never to rise again! — for he did not move hand or foot during the following twenty-four hours. His lordship ap- peared, however, to be in a state of suffocation at intervals, and had a frequent rattling in the throat; on these occasions I called Tita to assist me in raising his head, aud 1 thought he seemed to get quite stiff. The rattling and cboaking in the throat took place every half-hour, aud we continued to raise his head whenever the lit came on, till six o'clock in the evening of the 19th, when I saw mv master open his eyes and shut the of pain, hint. uy symp- 01, ! . lii LIFE OF LORD BYRON. y God !' I exclaimed, ' I fear his lordship is gone !' the doctors then felt his pulse, and said, ' You are right— he is gone V - It would be vain to attempt a description of the universal sorrow that ensued at Missolonghi. Not only Mavrocordato and his immediate circle, but the whole city and all its inhabitants were, as it seemed, stunned by this blow,— it bad been so sudden, so unexpected. His illness, indeed, had been known, and for the last three days none of his friends could walk in the streets without anxious inquiries from every one of « How is my lord... On the day of this melancholy event, Prince Mavrocordato issued a proclamation expressive of the deep and unfeigned grief felt by all classes, and ordering every public demonstration of re- spect and sorrow to be paid to the memory of the illustrious deceased, by firing minute guns, clos- ing all the public offices and shops, suspending the usual Easter festivities, and by a general mourning and funeral prayers in all the churches. It was resolved that the body should be em- balmed, and after the suitable funeral honours had been performed, should be embarked for Zante, — thence to be conveyed to England. Ac- cordingly the medical men opened the body and embalmed it, and having enclosed the heart, aud brain, and intestines in separate vessels, they placed it in a chest lined with tin, as there were no means of procuring a leaden coffin capable of holding the spirits necessary for its preservation on the voyage. IJr Bruno drew up an account of the examination of the body, by which it ap- peared his lordship's death had been caused by an inflammatory fever. Dr Meyer, a Swiss phy- sician, who was present, and had accidentally seen Madame de Stael after her death, stated that the formation of the brain in both these illus- trious persons was extremely similar, but that Lord Byron had a much greater quantity. On the 1 2d of April, 1824, in the midst of his own brigade, of the troops of the government, and of the whole population, on the shoulders of the officers of his corps, relieved occasionally by other Greeks, the most precious portion of his honoured remains were carried to the church, where lie the bodies of Marco Botzaris and of ge- neral Normann. There they were laid down : the coffin was a rude, ill-constructed chest of wood ; black mantle served for a pall, and over it were placed a helmet and a sword, and a crown of rel. But 110 funeral pomp could have left the )ression, nor spoken the feelings, of this simple y. The wretchedness aud desolation of the place itself; the wild and half-civilized war- present; their deep-felt, unaffected grief; the fond recollections; the disappointed hopes; the anxieties and sad presentiments which might be read on every countenance— all contributed to form a scene more moving, more trulv affecting than perhaps was ever before witnessed round the grave of a great man. When the funeral service was over, the bier was left in the middle of the church, where it remained until the evening of the next day, and Mas guarded by a detachment of his own bri- gade. The church was incessautly crowded by those who came to honour and to regret the 'be- nefactor of Greece. In the evening of the 23d, the bier was privately carried back by his offi- cers to his own house. The coffin was not closed till the 29th of the month. Immediately after his death, his countenance had ati air of calmness, mingled with a severity, that seemed gradually to soften, and the whole expression was truly sublime. On May 2d, the remains of Lord Byron were embarked, under a salute from the guns of the fortress. « How different,., exclaims Count Gainba, « from that which had welcomed the arrival of Byron only four months ago!.. After a passage of three days, the vessel reached Zaute, and the precious deposit was placed in the quarantine house. Here some additional precautions were taken to ensure its safe arrival in England, by providing another case for the body. On May the 10th, Colonel Stanhope arrived at Zante, from the Morea, and as he was on his way hack to England, he took charge of Lord Byron's re- mains, and embarked with them on board the Florida. On the 2 5 th of May she sailed for Zante, on the 29th of June entered the Downs, and from thence proceeded to Stangate creek, to perform quarantine, where she arrived on Thurs- day, July 1st. John Cam Hohhouse, esq., and John Hanson, esq., Lord Byron's executors, after having proved his will, claimed the body from the Florida, and under their directions it was removed to the house of Sir Edward Knatchbull, No. 20, Great George street, Westminster. It was announced from time to time that the body of Lord Byron was to be exhibited in state, and the progress of the embellishments of the poet's bier was recorded in the pages of a hun- dred publications. They were at length com- pleted, and to separate the curiosity of the poor from the admiration of the rich, the latter were indulged with tickets of admissiou, and a day was set apart for them to go and wonder over the decked room and the emblazoned bier. Peers peeresses, priests, poets, and politicians, came lded chariots and in hired hacks to gaze upon the splendour of the funeral preparations, and see in how rich and how vain a shroud the LIFE OF LORD BYRON. xliii body of the immortal bard had been bid. Those idle trappings in which rank seeks to mark its altitude above th< ilgar the state of the ather tha peer ratner man iu the state of the poet; genu required no such attractions, and all this magn licence served only to distract our regard fronitl man whose inspired tongue was ever. Who cared for Lord Ry the privy councillor, with his cor ■; long descent from princes hemes on both? and who did not care for George Gordon Byron the poet, who has charmed us, and will charm our descendants with his deep and iilenced for the peer and The ho rendered impassioned verse? to genius, not surely to rank— for lord can be stamped on any clay, but inspiration can only be impressed on the finest metal. A few select friends and admirers followed Lord Byron to the grave — his coronet was borne before him, and there were many indications of his rank; hut, save the assembled multitude, no indications of his genius. In conformity with a singular practice of the great, a long train of their empty carriages followed the mourning coaches — mocking the dead with idle state, and impeding with barren pageantry the honester sym- pathy of the crowd. Where were the owners of those machines of sloth and luxury — where were the men of rank among whose dark pedi- grees Lord Byron threw the light of his genius, and lent the brows of nobility a halo to which they were strangers? Where were the great whigs? where were the illustrious tories? could a mere difference in matters of human belief keep those fastidious persons away? But, above all, where were the friends with whom wedlock had united him? On his desolate corpse no wife looked, no child shed a tear. We have no wish to set ourselves up as judges in domestic infelicities, and we are willing to believe they were separated in such a way as rendered con- ciliation hopeless; but who could stand and look on his pale manly face, and his dark locks which early sorrows were making thin and grey, out feeling that, gifted as he was, with a soul above the mark of other men, his domestic fortunes called for our pity as surely as hi: nius called for our admiraiion ? As the cavalcade proceeded through the st of London, a fine-looking honest tar was observed ed throughout ill. y a stranger whe ther he formed part of the fuiier,ll cortege, he re plied he came there to piy his respects to the deceased, with whom he had served in the Levant, when he made the tour of the Grecian islands. This poor fellow was kindly offered a place by some of the servants who were behind the car- 1 fine-lookinj; hoi Ik near the hearse unco* ling, and on being asked riage; but he said he was strong, and had rather walk near the hearse. It was not till Friday, July 1 6th, that the in- terment took place. Lord Byron was buried in the family vault, at the village of Hucknel, eight i beyond Nottingham, and within two miles of the -venerable Abbey of Newstead. He was companied to the grave by crowds of persons ger to show this last testimony of respect to his memory. In one of his earlier poems he had ex- pressed a wish, that his dust might mingle with mother's, and in compliance with this wish, coffin was placed in the vault next to hers, pas twenty minutes past four o'clock on Friday, July 16th, 1824, when the ceremony was con- cluded, when the tomb closed for ever on Byron, nd when his friends were relieved from every care concerning him, save that of doing justice to his memory, and of cherishing his fame. The following inscription was placed on the coffin: — « George Gordon Noel Byron, Lord Eyron, of Rochdale. Born in London,' Jan. 11, 1788, died at MissolongbJ, in Western Greece, April 19th, 1834." An urn accompanied the coffin, and on it was inscribed : « Within this urn are deposited the heart, brain, etc , of the deceased Lord Byron. « An elegant Grecian tablet of white marble, has been placed in the chancel of the Hucknall church. We subjoin a copy of the inscription The words are in Iioman capitals, and divided into lines as under: f,i;iii;r,i: r.iminiN noel. dyp.ox. . pilsbiiugi. lorn of april, 1824, PLACED THIS TADLKT TO UIS MEMOIR. Mr Dallas says Dover, which is undoubtedly correct. COMPLETE WORKS OF #?ouris of JuTtmass. Mr-' tic u.i >J.tiX v.VJZZ, irr--, ti vslxei. Homer. Iliad, ; He whistled as he went for want of though! TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE FREDERICK, EARL OF CARLISLE, Orsc ftorms arr SitBcribrfc, BY llIS OBLIGED WARD, AND AFFECTIONATE KINSMAN, THE AUTHOR. ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY. Through tliv haitlcm-uts, Newsiead. the holluw uiti.ls whistle; Thou, the hall of my fathers, art ([one to decay; In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle Have choked up the rose which late bloom'd in the Of the mail-cover 71 barons, who proudly, to battle Led their vassal-, from Europe, to Palestine's plain, . ■scutcheon and shield. which with every blast rattle, e the only sad vestiges now that remain. Near Askalon s Towers John nf Morislan ' slumbers, Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by rlralh. Paul and Hubert too sleep, in the valley of Cressy; For the safely of Edward and England they fell; My fathers! the tears of your country redress ye; How you fought! how you died! still her annals a tell. For the rights of a monarch, their country defnidiiii;, Till death their attachment to royalty seal'd. Shades of heroes, farewell ! your descendant departing Abroad or at home, your remembrance imparling New courage, he II think upon glory and you. Though a tear dim bis eye at this sad separation, Tis nature, not fear, thai excites his regret; Far distant he goes, with the same emulation. The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish, He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown; Like you will he live, or like you will he perish; Whcndecay'd,m i\ he mingle his dust with your owi i3o3. EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. zVv.tmzg vh goiocffcy ewes C.rtlr. in Drrbj.b.r*. «t> It of Manioo Moor, »h.) rrl,ir,l ,„ Cb.rlr* I. lit *urr On, Friend! for ever loved, for ever dear! What fruitless tears have bathed (by honour'd hie What sighs re-cclio'd to thy parting breath. While (hou wast struggling in the pangs nf .b-aib Gould tears retard the tyrant in his course; Gould sighs avert his dart's relentless force; Gould youth and virtue claim a short delay, Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey ; Thou still had'st lived, to bless my aching sight. Thy comrades honour, and thy friend's delight. BYRON'S WORKS. If, yet, thy gentle spirit hover nigh ; spot, where now thy mouldering ashes lie, Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart, v grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art. To marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, But living statues there, are seen to weep; lion's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb, Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom. What though thy sire lament his failing line, A father's sorrows cannot equal mine! Though none, like thee, .his dying hour will cheer, Yet, other offspring soothe his anguish here: Rut who with me shall hold thy former place ? Thine image, what new friendship can efface 1 will assuage an infant brother's woe; To all, save one, is consolation known, While solitary Friendship sighs alone. i8o3. A FRAGMENT. WhEN, to their airy hall, my Fathers' voice I call my spirit, joyful in their choice ; When, poised upon the gale, my form shall ride, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side ; may my shade behold no scuptured urns, To mark the spot where earth to earth returns : No lengthen'd scroll, no praise encumher'd stone; My epitaph shall be my name alone : If Viat with honour fail to crown my clay, Oh! may no other fame my deeds repay; , only that, shall single out the spot, By that remember'd, or with that forgot. iSo3. When Friendship or Love Our sympathies move ; When Truth in a glance should appear The lips may beguile, With a dimple or smile, But the test of affection 's a Tear. Too oft is a smile But the hypocrite's wile, To mask detestation or fearj Give me the soft sigh, Whilst the soul-telling eye Is dimm'd, for a time, with a Tear. Mild Charity's glow, To us mortals below, Shows the soul from barbarity clear; Compassion will melt, Where this virtue is felt, And its dew is diffused in a Tear. The man doom'd (o sail, With the blast of the gale, As he bends o'er the wave, Which may soon be his grave, The green sparkles bright with a Tear. The soldier braves death, For a fanciful wreath, In Glory's romantic career; But he raises the foe, When in battle laid lo*w, And bathes every wound with a Tear. If, with high-bounding pride, He return to his bride, Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear; . All his toils are repaid, When, embracing the maid, From her eyelid he kisses the Tear. Sweet scene of my youth, Seat of Friendship and Truth, Where love chased each fast-lleetingyear ; Loth to leave thee, I mourn'd, For a last look I turn'd, But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear. Though my vows I can pour, My Mary, to Love once so dear In the shade of her bower, I remember the hour, She rewarded those vows with .Tear By another possest, May she live ever blest, Her name still my heart must rever With a sigh I resign, And forgive her deceit with a Tear. Ye friends of my heart, Ere from you I depart, This hope to my breast is most neat If again we shall meet, May this rural retreat, ive meet, as we part, with a Tear. When my soul wings her fHght, To the regions of night, id my corse shall recline on its bier ; As yc pass by the tomb. Where my ash May no marble bestow The splendour of woe, Which the children of vani No fiction of fame AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE. Delivered previous to the performance of « The Wheel of Fortune, » at a private theatre. Since the refinement of this polish'd age Has swept immoral raillery from the stage ; Since taste has now expunged licentious wit, Which stamn'd disgrace on all an author writ; HOURS OF IDLENESS. dare to call the Mush from Reality's let the modest Muse some pity elain meet indulgence though she find no . not for her alone we wish respect. Others appear more conscious of defect ; To-night, no Veteran Roscii you behold, In all the arts of scenic action old; No Cooke, no Kemih.e, ran salute you he symp To-night, you throng to witnefiS the debut, Of embryo Actors, to (lie drama new. Here, then, our almost unfledged wings we try ; Clip not our pinions, ere the birds can fly; Failing in this our first attempt to soar, Drooping, nlas ! we fall to rise no more. Not one poor trembler, only, fear betrays, Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your praise, But all our Dramatis Persona? wait, Fn fond suspense, ibis crisis of their fate. No venal \iews our progress can retard, ' generous plaudits are our sole reward; For these, each Hero all his power displays, liinid Heroine shrinks before your gaze: Surely, the lust will some protection find, \ to the softer sex, can prove unkind; Whilst Youth and Reauty form the female shield. The sternest Censor to the fair must yield. Yet should our feeble efforts nought avail, >uld, after all, our best endeavours fail ; l, let some mercy in your bosoms live, 1, if yon can*t applaud, at least forgive. ON THE DEATH OF MR FOX. The following illiberal Impromptu appeared in a Morning Paper. Nation's foes lament, on Fox's death, bless the hour when Pitt rcsign'd his breath; These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth unclue, ;ivc the palm where Justice points it due. To which Vie Jutlior of these Pieces sent Vie following Reply. in! factious viper! whose envenom'd tooth t'ould mangle still the dead, perverting truth; Hint, though our "nation's foes» lament the fate. With generous feeling, of the good and great; Shall dastard fcnngues essay to blast the name Of him, whose meed exists in endless fame ? n Pitt expired, in plenitude of power, Though ill success obscured his dying hour, Pity her dewy wings before him spread, For noble spirits « war not with the dead.* His friends, in tears, a list sad requiem gave ; As .-ill his errors slumlord in the grave; ink, an Atlas, bending 'neaih the weight ires overwhelming our conflicting state; n, lo ! a Hercules, in Fox, appear d ■ Who, for a time, (he mind fabric rear'd; oo, is f-ill'n. who Britain's loss supplied; With him. our fist revising hopes have died : one great people only raise bis urn, All Europe's far extended regions mourn. "These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth undue, To give the palm where Justice points it dtie ; »> Yet let not canker d calumny assail, Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil. Fox! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep, Whose dear remains in honour'd marble sleep, For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan, While friends and foes alike his talents own. Fox shall, in Britain's future annals, shine, Nor e'en to Pitt the patriot's palm resign, Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask, For Pitt, and Pitt alone, has ilared to ask. STANZAS TO A LADY. IFitlt Vie Poems of Camoens. This votive pledge of fond esteem, Perhaps, dear girl ! for me thou'lt prize; It sings of Love's enchanting dream, A theme we never can despise. Who blames it but the envious fool, The old and disappointed maid? Or pupil of the prudish school, In single sorrow doom'd to fade. To thee in vain I shall not plead, In pity for the Poet's woes. He was, in sooth, a genuine bard; His was no faint fictitious flame ; Like bis, may love be thy reward, But not thy hapless fate the same. TO M ' • ' Oh ! did those eyes, instead of fire, W T ilh bright, but mild affection shine; Though they might kindle less desire, Love, more than mortal would be thine. For thou art form'd so heavenly fair, Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam, We must admire, but still despair: That fatal glance forbids esteem. When nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth, So much perfection in thee shone, She fear'd that, too divine for earth, The skies might claim thee for their own Therefore, to guard her dearest work, Lest angels might dispute the prize, She bade a secret lightning lurk Within those once celestial eyes. These might the boldest sylph appal. When gleaming with meridian blaze; Thy beauty must enrapture all, But who can dare thine ardent gaze! T is said, thai Berenice's hair In stars adorn the vault of heaven ; But, they would ne'er permit thee there. 1hr.ii would'* so far outshi planets roll. For, did those eyes i Thy sister lights would scarce appear: E'en suns, which systems now controul. Would twinkle dimly through their sph. BYRON'S WORKS. TO WOMAN. Woman ! experience might have told me, That all must love thee who behold thee, Surely, experience might have taught, Thy firmest promises are nought; But, placed in all thy charms before me, All I forget, but to adore thee. Oh! Memory! thou choicest blessing; When join'd with hope, when still possessing; But how much cursed by every lover, When hope is fled, and passion 's over. Woman, that fair and fond deceiver, How prompt are striplings to believe her! How throbs the pulse, when first we view The eye that rolls in glossy blue, Or sparkles black, or mildly throws A beam from under hazel brows! How quick we credit every oath, And hear her plight the willing troth! Fondly we hope 't will last for aye, When, lo I she changes in a day. This record will for ever stand, « Woman! thy vows are traced in sand,» l TO U. S. G. When I dream that you love me, you'll surely forgive, Extend not your anger to sleep ; For in visions alone, your affection can live ; I rise, and it leaves me to weep. Then, Morpheus! envelope my faculties fast, Shed o'er me your languor benign ; Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last ; What rapture celestial is mine! They tell us, that slumber, the sister of death, Mortality's emblem is given; To fate how I long to resign my frail breath, If this be a foretaste of heaven J Ah ! frown not, sweet Lady, unbend your soft brow, Nor deem me too happy ia this ,- If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now, Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss. Though in visions, sweet Lady, perhaps, you may smile Oh! think not my penance deficient; When dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile, To awake will be t ■ more her heroes urge the chase, Or roll the crimson tide of war. But who was last of Alva's clan? Why grows the moss on Alva's stone? Her towers resound no steps of man, They echo to the gale alone. And, when that gale is fierce and high, A sound is heard in yonder hall, It rises hoarsely through the sky, And vibrates o'er the mouldering wall. Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs, It shakes the shield of Oscar brave ; But there no more his banners rise, No more his plumes of sable wave. Fair shone the sun cm Oscar's birth, When Angus hail'd his eldest born ; The vassals round their chieftain's hearth, Crowd to applaud the happy morn. They feast upon the mountain deer. The Pibroch raised its piercing note, To gladden more their Highland cheer. The strains in martial numbers float. And they who heard the war notes wild, Hoped that, one day, the Pibrock's strain Should play before the Hero's child, While he should lead the Tartan train. Another year is quickly past, And Angus hails another son, His natal day is like the last, Nor soon the jocund feast was done. Taught by their sire to bend the bow, On Alva's dusky hills of wind, The boys in childhood chased the roe, And left their hounds in speed behind. But, e'er their years of youth are o'er. They mingle in the ranks of war; They lightly wield the bright claymore, And send the wbistling arrow far. Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair, Wildly it stream'd along the gale ; But Allan's locks were bright and fair, And pensive seem'd his cheek, and pale. But Oscar own'd a hero's soul, His dark eye shone through beams of truth; Allan had early learn'd controul, And smooth his words had been from youth. Both, both were brave; the Saxon spear Was shiver'd oft beneath their steel; And Oscar's bosom scorn'd to fear, But Oscar's bosom knew to feel. While Allan's soul belied his form, Unworthy with such charms to dwell; Keen as the lightning of the storm, On foes his deadly vengeance fell. From high Southannon's distant tower Arrived a young and noble dame ; With Kenneth's lands to form her dower, Glenalvon's blue-eyed daughter came: And Oscar claim'd the beauteous bride, And Angus on his Oscar smiled; It soothed the father's feudal pride, Thus to obtain Gleaalvon's child. Hark! to the Pibroch's pleasing note, Hark! to the swelling nuptial song; In joyous strains the voices float, And still the choral peal prolong. See how the heroes' blood-red plumes, Assembled wave in Alva's hall; Each youth his varied plaid assumes, Attending on their chieftain's call. It is not war their aid demands, The Pibroch plays the song of peace; To Oscar's nuptials throng the bands, Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease. But where is Oscar ? sure 't is late: Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame? While thronging guests and ladies wait, Nor Oscar nor his brother came. HOURS OF IDLENESS. 7 At length young Allan join'd the bride, She thought that Oscar low was laid, t « Why comes not Oscar?» Angus said ; And Allans face was wondrous fair, « Is he not here?., the youth replied, If Oscar lived, some other maid « With mc he roved not o'er the glade. Had claim (1 bis faithless bosom's care. « Perchance, forgetful of the day, And Angus said, if one year more T is his to chase the bounding roc; In fruitless hope was pass'd away, Or Oceans waves prolong his stay, His fondest scruple, should be o'er, Yet Oscar's bark is seldom slow.n And he would name their nuptial day. wOh! no!.> the anguish'd sire rejoin'd, Slow roll'd the moons, but blest at last, « Nor chase nor wave my boy delay ; Would he to Hqra seem nnkind ? Would aught to her impede his way? Arrived the dearly destined morn; The year of anxious trembling past, What smiles the lover's checks adorn ! « Oh ! search, ye chiefs! oh, search around ' Allan, with these through Alva fly. Hark to the Pibroch's pleasing note! Hark to the swelling nuptial song ! Till Oscar, till my son is found, Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply.» In joyous strains the voices float, And still the choral peal prolong. All is confusion— through the vale The name of Oscar hoarsely rings, Again the clan, in festive crowd, It rises on the murmuring gale. Throng through the gate of Alva's hall ; Till night expands her dusky wings. The sounds of mirth re-echo loud, And all their former joy recal. It breaks the stillness of the night, But echoes through her shades in vain; But who is he, whose darken'd brow It sounds through morning's misty light, Glooms in the midst of general mirth! But Oscar comes not o'er the plain. Before his eye's far fiercer glow The blue flames curdle o'er the hearth. Three days, three sleepless nights, the chief For Oscar searched each mountain cave; Dark is the robe which wraps his form, Then hope is lost in boundless grief, And tall his plume of gory red; His locks in grey torn ringlets wave. His voice is like the rising storm, « Oscar ! my Son !— Thou God of heaven ! But light and trackless is his tread. Restore the prop of sinking age ; 'T is noon of night, the pledge goes round. Or, if that hope no more is given, The bridegroom's health is deeply quafl; Yield his assassin to my rage. With shouts the vaulted roofs resound, « Yes, on some desert rocky shore, And all combine to hail the draught. My Oscar's whitcn'd bones must lie; Sudden the stranger chief arose, Then, grant, thou God ! I ask no more. And all the clamorous crowd are hush'd ; With him his frantic sire may die. And Angus' cheek with wonder glows, « Yet, he may live — away despair; And Mora's tender bosom bJush'd. Be calm, my soul ! he yet may live ; « Old man !» he cried, « this pledge is done. T arraign my fate, my voice forbear ; Thou saw'st 'twas duly drunk by me, God niv im])ion- prayer forgive. It hail'd the nuptials of thy son; « What, if he live for me no more, Now will I claim a pledge from thec. I sink forgotten in the dust, « While all around is mirth and joy, To bless thy Allan's happy lot; Say, had'st thou ne'er another boy? The hope of Alva's age is o'er; Alas! can pangs like these be just ?» Thus did the hapless parent mourn, Say, why should Oscar be forgol?» Till Time, who soothes severest woe. Had bade serenity return, «Alas!» the hapless sire replied, And made the tear-drop cease to flow. The big tear starting as he spoke; For still some latent hope survived, This aged heart was almost broke. That Oscar might once more appear; His hope now dronp'il. and now revived, «■ Thrice has the earth revolved her course, Till Time had old a tedious year. Since Oscar's form has blest my sight; And Allan is my last resource, Days roll'd along, the orb of light Siuco martial Oscar's death or flight. » Again had run his destined race; No Oscar blev'd his fathers sight, « T is well, • replied (he stranger stern, And sorrow left a fainter trace. And fiercely flash d his rolling eye; « Thy Oscars fate I fain would learn; For youthful Allan Mill remain'd. Perhaps the hero did not die. And, now, his father's only joy: And Mora's heart was quickly gain'd. .< Perchance if those whom most he loved. For beauty crown d the fair-hair'd hoy. Would call, thy Oscar might return; BYRON'S WORKS. Perchance the chief has only roved, For him thy Beltane > yet may bum. « Fill high the bowl, the table round, We will not claim the pledge by stealth - With wine let every cup be crown'd, Pledge me departed Oscar's health. » « With all my soul,« old Angus said, And fiU'd his goblet to the brim ; « Here 's to my boy ■ alive or dead, I ne'er shall find a son like him.» « Bravely, old man, this health has sped, But why does Allan trembling stand? Come, drink remembrance of the dead, And raise thy cup with firmer hand. » The crimson glow of Allan's face Was turn'd at once to ghastly hue ; The drops of death each other chase, Adown in agonizing dew. Thrice did he raise the goblet high, And thrice his lips refused to taste ; For thrice he caught the stranger's eye, On his with deadly fury placed. « And is it thus a brother hails A brother's fond remembrance here ? If thus affection's strength prevail?, What might we not expect from fear?» Housed by the sneer, he raised the bowl ; «Would Oscar now could share our mirth Internal fear appall'd his soul, He said, and dash'd the cup to earth. «T is he! I hear my murderer's voice," Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming Form ; « A murderer's voice !» the roof replies, And deeply swells the bursting storm. The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink, The stranger 's gone, amidst the crew A Form was seen, in tartan green, And tall the shade terrific grew. His waist was bound with a broad belt round, His plume of sable stream'd on high ; But his breast was bare, with the red wounds there. And fix'd was the glare of his glassy eye. And thrice he smiled, with his eye so wild, On Angus, bending low the knee ; And thrice he frown'd on a Chief on the ground, Whom shivering crowds with horror see. The bolts loud roll, from pole to pole, The thunders through the welkin ring; And the gleaming Form, through the mist of the s Was borne on high by the whirlwind's wing. Cold was the feast, the revel ceased; Who lies upon the stony floor? Oblivion prest old Angus' breast, At length his life-pulse throbs once more. « Away, away, let the leech essay, To pour the light on Allan's eyes;» His sand is done,— his race is run, Oh ! never more shall Allan rise ! But Oscar's breast is cold as clay, His locks are lifted by the gale, And Allan's barbed arrow lay, - With him in dark Gle: And whence the dreadful stranger came, Or who, no mortal wight can tell ; But no one doubts the Form of Flame, For Alva's sons knew Oscar well. Ambition nerved young Allan's hand, Exulting demons wing'd his dart, While Envy waved her burning brand, . And pour'd her venom round his heart. Swift is the shaft from Allan's bow : Whose streaming life-blood stains his side 1 Dark Oscar's sable crest is low, The dart has drunk his vital tide. And Mora's eye could Allan move, She bade his wounded pride rebel : Alas! that eyes, which beam'd with love, Should urge the soul to deeds of Hell. Lo! V It glimmers through the twilight gloom; Oh! that is Allan's nuptial bed. Far, distant far, the noble grave, Which held his clan's great ashes, stood ; And o'er his corse no banners wave, For they were stain'd with kindred blood. What minstrel grey, what hoary bard, Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise?' The song is glory's chief reward, But who can strike a murderer's praise ? Unstrung, untouch'd, the harp must stand, No minstrel dare the theme awake; Guilt would benumb his palsied hand, His harp in shuddering chords would break. No lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse, Shall sound his glories high in air, A dying father's bitter curse, A brother's death-groan echoes there. TO THE DUKE OF D. n ,i,;M... i: .. D— it — t! whose early steps with mine have stray'd, Exploring every path oflda's glade, Whom, still, affection taught me to defend, And made me less a tyrant than a friend; Though the harsh custom of our youthful band Bade i/tee obey, and gave »ie to command l 1 At every public school, the junior boys arc completely sub? vicnt to the upper forms, till tbey attain a seat in ihe higher ch* From this state of p.-obaii.-n. v.-ry prope.ly, no rank is «"™P^ HOURS OF IDLENESS. •, on whose head a few short years will shower The gift of riches, ami the pride of power; i now a name illustrious is thine own, Renown'd in rank, not far heneath the throne. Yet, D— r — t, let not this seduce Ihy soul, To shun fair science, or evade control; Though passive tutors, 1 fearful to dispraised titled child, whose future breath may raise, View dueal errors'with indulgent eyes, And wink at faults they tremble to chastise. When youthful parasites, who bend the knee To wealth, their golden idol, — not to thee ! , even in simple boyhood's opening dawn, Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn : When these declare, « that pomp alone should wail i one by birth predestined to be great; That books were only meant for drudging fools; That gallant spirits scorn the common rules;" ve them not, — they point the path to shame, seek to blast the honours of thy name: i to the few, in Ida's early throng, 'Se souls disdain not to condemn the wrong; Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth, ! dare to raise the sterner voice of truth, Ask thine own heart ! t will bid thee, boy, forbear For welt I know that virtue lingers there. I have mark'd thee many a passing day, But now new scenes invite me far away; I have mark d, within (hat generous mind, ul, if well matured, to bless mankind: Ah! though myself by nature haughty, wild, "Vhom Indiscretion hail'd her favourite child, TlK U.J he i precept now can tame, ugh, with other Sons of power, To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour, ; peerage page in feeble pride, With long-drawn names, that grace no page beside ; Then share with titled crowds the common lot, ,t gazed at, in the grave forgot ; ught divides thee from the vulgar dead, Except the dull cold stone that hides thy head, uldering scutcheon, or the herald's roll. That well-emblazon d, but neglected scroll, ! Lords, unhonour'd, in the tomb may find One spot to leave a worthless name behind ; — There sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults That veil their dust, their follies and their faults; , race, wilh old armorial lists o ersprcad, In records destined never to be read. thee, with prophetic eyes, Exalted more among the good and wise; A glorious and a long career pursue. As first in hank, the first in Talent too; Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun, : Fortune's minion, but her noblest sou. loo, grotrclly, *bat ii Turn to the aunals of a former day, — Bright are the deeds thine earlier Sires display; One, though a Courtier, lived a man of worth, And call'd, proud boast! the British Drama forth. 1 Another view ! not less renown'd for Wit, Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit; Bold in the Held, and favour'd by the Nine, In every splendid part ordain'd to shine; Far, far distinguish'd from the glittering throng, The pride of Princes, and the boast of Song. 1 Such were thy Fathers, thus preserve their name, Not heir to titles only, but to Fame. The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close, To me, this little scene of joys and woes; Each knell of Time now warns me to resign Shades, where Hope, Peace, and Friendship, all \ Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue, And gild their pinions, as the moments Hew; Peace, that reflection never frown'd away. By dreams of ill, to cloud some future day ; Friendship, whose truth let childhood only tell — Alas! they love not long, who love so well. To these adieu ! nor let me liugcr o'er Scenes hail'd, as exiles hail their native shore, Receding slowly through the dark blue deep, Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep. -l! far t ask ( Of sad r lembrance in so young a heart; The coming morrow from thy youthful mind Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind. And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year. Since chance has thrown us in the self-same spin Since the same senate, nay, the same debate, May one day claim our suffrage for the state. We hence may meet, and pass each other by With faint regard, or cold and distant eye. For me, in future, neither friend nor foe, A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe; With thee no more again I hope to trace The recollection of our early race; No more, as once, in social hours, rejoice, Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice. Mill, if the wishes of a heart untaught To veil those feelings, which, perchance, it ought If these,— but let me cease the lengthen d strain, Oh ! if these wishes are not breathed in vain, The Guardian Seraph, who directs thy fate. Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great. •T, «. .like diuingu^h -od the gloom, on. of ' ■ ntry in tUt tea-tight w.i io BYRON'S WORKS. TRANSLATIONS AND IMITATIONS. TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. a LUCTUS DE MORTE PASSERIS.i. Ye Cupids, droop each little head, Nor leTyour wings with joy be spread; My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead, Whom dearer than her eyes she loved ; For he was gentle, and so true, ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL, WHEN DYING. Animula! vagula, blaodula, Obedient to her call he flew, Hospes, comesque, corporis, No fear, no wild alarm he knew, Qua? nunc abibis in loca2 But lightly o'er her bosom moved: Pallidula, rigida, nudula. And softly fluttering here and there, Nee, ut soles, dabis jocos. He never sought to cleave the air; _ But chirrup'd oft, and free from care, Tuned to her ear his grateful strain. TRANSLATION. Now having pass'd the gloomy bourn, Ah! gentle, fleeting, wavering Sprite, From whence he never can return, Friend and associate of this clay ! His death, and Lesbia's grief, I mourn, To what unknown region borne. Who sighs, alas! but sighs in vain. Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight ? Oh! curst be thou, devouring grave! No more, with wonted humour gay, "Whose jaws eternal victims crave, But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn. From whom no earthly power can save, x For thou hast ta'en the bird away: From thee, my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow. Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow, " Thou art the cause of all her woe, TRANSLATION FftOM CATULLUS. « AD LESBlAM.o Receptacle of life's decay. Equal to Jove that youth must be, Greater than Jove he seems to me, IMITATED FROM CATULLUS. Who, free from Jealousy's alarms, Securely views thy matchless charms ; . That cheek, which ever dimpling glows, TO ELLEN. That mouth from whence such music flows, To him, alike, are always known, Oh! might I kiss those eyes of fire r Reserved for him, and him alone. A million scarce would quench desire; Ah! Lesbia! though 'tis death to me, Still would I steep my lips in blis6, I cannot choose but look on thee ; And dwell an age on every kiss; Cut, at the sight, my senses fly ; Nor then my soul should sated be, I needs must gaze, but gazing die; Still would I kiss and cling to thee : Whilst trembling with a thousand fears, Nought should my kiss from thine dissever, Parch'd to the throat, my tongue adheres, Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever; My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short, E'en though the number did exceed My limbs deny their slight support; The yellow harvest's countless seed; Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread, To part would be a vain endeavour, With deadly languor droops my head, Could I desist?— ah! never— never. My ears with tingling echoes ring, And life itself is on the wing ; My eyes refuse the cheering light, TRANSLATION FROM ANACREON. Their orbs are veil'd in starless night: Such pangs my nature sinks beneath, TO HIS LYRE. And feels a temporary death. I wish to tune my quivering lyre, TRANSLATION To deeds of fame, and notes of fire ; OF THE EPITAPH ON VIRGIL AND TIBULLGS. To echo from its rising swell, How heroes fought, and nations fell; BY DOMITIUS MARSUS. When Atreus' sons advanced to war, He who, sublime, in Epic numbers roll'd, Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar; And he who struck the softer lyre of love, But, still, to martial strains unknown, By Death's unequal hand ' alike control'd, My lyre recurs to love alone. Fit comrades in Elysian regions move. Fired with the hope of future fame, I seek some nobler hero's name; ■ The hand of Dealb is said to be unjust, or unequal, n. Vir G iI The dying chords are strung anew. «. c„„ide»bl r olde, t b an Tibul.u,, « bU dece.se. To war, to war my harp is due; HOT KS OF IDLENESS. Willi glowing strings, llie epic strain To Jove's great sou I raise again ; Alcides and his glorious deeds, Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds; All, all in vain, my wayward lyre Wakes silver notes of soft desire. Adieu! ye chiefs reuown'd in arras! Adieu ! the claug of war's alarms. To other deeds my soul is strung. And sweeter uotes shall now be sung; My harp shall all its powers reveal. To tell the tale my heart must feel; Love, love alone, my lyre shall claim, In songs of bliss, and sighs of (lame. Here Bootes, only, scem'd to roll His. Arctic charge around the Pole; While mortals, lost in gentle sleep, Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep; At this loue hour, the Paphian boy, Descending from the realms of joy, Quick to my gate directs bis course, And knocks with all his little force: My visions fled, alarra'd I rose; « What stranger breaks my blest reposc?» « Alas!» replies the wily child, In faulteriug accents, sweetly mild, « A hapless infant here I roam, Oh! shield me from the wintry blast, The mighty storm is pouring fast; No prowling robber lingers here. A wandering baby who can fear?» I heard his seeming artless tale, I beard his sighs upon the gale; My breast was never pity's foe, But felt for all the baby's woe; I drew the bar, and by the light, Yonng Love, the infant, met my sight; His bow across his shoulders Hung, And thence his fatal quiver bung, ( Ah ! little did I think the dart Would rankle soon within my heart;) With care 1 tend my weary guest, His little fingers chill my breast; His glossy curls, bis azure wing. Which droop with nightly showers, I wring: His slmering limbs the embers warm, And now, reviving from the storm, Scarce had he felt bis wonted glow. Than swift be seized his '-lender bow: « I fain would know, my gentle host,» He cried. «if this its strength has lost; I fear, relax d with midnight dews, The strings their former aid refuses With poison lipt, his arrow (lies, Deep in my torturrd heart it lies : Then loud the joyous urchin laugh d, « My bow can still impel ihe shaft; Tis (irmly fixd, thy sighs reveal it; Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it !» FRAGMENTS OF SCHOOL EXEHCLSLS, FROM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS OF ^SCHYLUS. Ibevt Jove ! to whose Almighty throne Both gods arid mortals homage pay, Ic'er may my soul thy power disown, Thy dread behests ne'er disobey, ►ft shall the sacred victim fall In sea-girt Ocean's mossy hall; My voice shall raise no impious strain 'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main. How different now thy joyless fate, Since first Hesione thy bride, When placed aloft in godlike state. The blushing beauty by thy side. Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled, And mirthful strains the hours beguiled ; The Nymphs and Tritons danced around, Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentless frown'i Harrow, Dec. i, i8o4- THE EPISODE OF NISUS AND EURYALUS. A PARAPHRASE FROM THE ^NElD, LIB. Q. Nisus, the guardian of the portal, stood, Eager to gild his arms with hostile blood; Well skiU'd in fight, the quivering lance to wield, Or pour his arrows through th' embattled field; From Ida torn, lie left bis sylvan cave, And sought a foreign home, a distant grave; To watch the movements of the Daunian host, With him, Euryalus sustains the post: No lovelier mien adorn'd the ranks of Troy, And beardless bloom yet graced the gallant boy; Though few the seasons of his youthful life, As yet a novice iu the martial strife, T was his, with beauty, valour's gift to share, oul h. i his J , lai, These burn with one pure (lame of generous love, In peace, iu war. united still ilicy move; Friendship and glory form their joint reward. And now combined, they hold the nightly guard- «What god,» cxclaim'd the first, "instils this fir Or, in itself a god, what great desire? My labouring soul, with anxious thought opprest, Abhors this station of inglorious rest; The love of fame with this can ill accord, — Be t mine to seek for glory with my sword. Sec'st thou yon camp, with torches twinkling dim, Where drunken slumbers wrap each lazy limb? Where confidence aitdtase the watch disdain, And drowsy Silcuce holds her sable reign? Then bear my thought ! — In deep and sullen grief, Our troops and leaders mourn their absent chief; Now could the gifts and promised prize be thine (The deed, the danger, and (lie fame be mine); Were ibis decreed— beneath yon rising mound, Melhinks, an easy path perchance were found, Which past, I speed my way lo Pallas' walls, And bad .Eneas from Evander's halls.» Wilh equal ardour tired, and warlike joy. His glowing friend address d the Dardan boy: » These deeds, my Nisus. shall thou dare alone? Must all the fame, the peril he thine own? BYRON'S WORKS. Am I by thee despised, and left afar, e unfit to share the toils of war? Not thus his son the great Ophcltes taught, Not thus my sire in Argive combats fought; Not thus, when Ilion fell by heavenly hate, I track'd jEneas through the walks of fate ; i know'st my deeds, my breast devoid of fear. And hostile life-drops dim my gory spear; Here is a soul with hope immortal burns, And life, ignoble life, for Glory spurns; , fame is cheaply earn'd by fleeting breath, rice of honour is the sleep of death.* Then Nisus— «Calm thy bosom's fond alarms, Thy heart beats fiercely to the din of arms; More dear thy worth and valour than my own, iwear by him who fills Olympus' throne! • may I triumph, as I speak the truth, And clasp again the comrade of my youth. But should I fall, and he who dares advance Through hostile legions must abide by chance; If some Rutulian arm, with adverse blow, Should lay the friend who ever loved thee low; : thou, such beauties I would fain preserve, Thy budding years a lengthen'd term deserve; When humbled in the dust, let some one be, Whose gentle eyes will shed one tear for me ; Whose manly arm may snatch me back by force, italth redeem from foes my captive corse; Or, if my destiny these last deny, the spoiler's power my ashes lie, Thy pious care may raise a simple tomb, To mark thy love, and signalize my doom. Why should thy doaling^ wretched mother weep Her only boy, reclined in endless sleep? Who, for thy sake, the tempest's fury dared, Who, for thy sake, war's deadly peril shared; Who braved what woman never braved before. And left her native for the Latian shore. » ain you damp the ardour of my souI,» Replied Euryalus, « it scorns control; Hence, let us haste. » — Their brother guards arose. Roused by their call, nor court again repose; The pair, buoy'd up on Hope's exulting wing, • stations leave, and speed to seek the king. Now, o'er the earth a solemn stillness ran, I lull'd alike the cares of brute and man; Save where the Dardan leaders nightly hold Alternate converse, and their plans unfold; On one great point the council are agreed, An instant message to their prince decreed; Each lean'd upon the lance he well could wield, And poised, with easy arm, his ancient shield; n Nisus and his friend theifMeave request To offer something to their high behest. With anxious tremors, yet unawed by fear, i faithful pair before the throne appear; lulus greets them; at his kind command, The elder first address'd the hoary band. « With patience," thus Hyrtacides began, < Attend, nor judge from youth, our humble plat Where yonder beacons, half-expiring, beam, Our slumbering foes of future conquest dream, Nor heed that we a secret path have traced, Between the ocean and the portal placed : Beneath the covert of the blackening smoke, )se shade securely our design will cloak. If you, ye Chiefs, and Fortune will allow, We'll bend our' course to yonder mountain's brow; Where Pallas' walls, at distance, meet the sight, Seen o'er the glade, when not obscured by night ; Then shall ./Eneas in his pride return, While hostile matrons raise their offspring's urn, And Latian spoils, and purpled heaps of dead, Shall mark the'havoc of our hero's tread ; Such is our purpose, not unknown the way, Where yonder torrent's devious waters stray : Oft have we seen, when hunting by the stream, The distant spires above the valleys gleam.» Mature in years, for sober wisdom famed, Moved by the speech, Alethcs here exclaim'd : « Ye parent Gods! who rule the fate of Troy, Still dwells the Dardan spirit in the boy; When minds like these in striplings thus ye raise, Yours is the god-like act, be yours the praise ; In gallant youth my fainting hopes revive, And Ilion's wonted glories still survive. » Then, in his warm embrace, the boys he press'd, And, quivering, straiu'd them to his aged breast; With tears the burning cheek of each bedew'd, And, sobbing, thus his first discourse renew'd : — « What gift, my countrymen, what martial prize Can we bestow, which you may not despise ? Our deities the first, best boon have given, Internal virtues are the gift of Heaven. What poor rewards can bless your deeds on earih, Doubtless, await such young exalted worth ; .Eneas and Ascanius shall combine To yield applause far, far surpassing minc.» lulus then : « By all the powers above ! By those Penates 1 who my country love ; By hoary Vesta's sacred fane, I swear, My hopes are all in you, ye generous pair ! Restore my father to my grateful sight, And all ray sorrows yield to one delight. Nisus ! two silver goblets are thine own, Saved from Arisbas stately domes o'erthrown ; My sire secured them on that fatal day, Nor left such bowls an Argive robber's prey. Two massy tripods also shall be thine, Two talents polish'd from the glittering mine; An ancient cup which Tyrian Dido gave, While yet our vessels press'd the Punic wave : But, when the hostile chiefs at length bow down, When great ^Eneas wears Hcsperia's crown, The casque, the buckler, and the fiery steed, Which Turnus guides with more than mortal speed, Are thine ; no envious lot shall then be cast, I pledge my word, irrevocably pass'd; Nay more, twelve slaves and twice six captive dames, To soothe thy softer hours with amorous flames, And all the realms which new the Latians sway, The labours of to-night shall well repay. But thou, my generous youth, whose tender years Are near my own, whose worth my heart reveres, Henceforth affection, sweetly thus begun, Shall join our bosoms and our souls in one j Without thy aid no glory shall be mine, Without thy dear advice, no great design ; Alike, through life esteem'd, thou god-like boy, In war my bulwark, and in peace my joy.n HOURS OF IDLENESS. him Euryalus : « No day shall shame i-ni;l j;Imm,s. which from this I claim. uil* may favour or the skies may frown, alour, spile of fale, obtains renown. ■re from hence our eager steps depart, One hoon I beg, the nearest to my heart: My mother sprung from Priam's royal line, Like thine ennobled, hardly less divine ; Nor Troy nor King Accslcs' realms restrain Her feeble age from dangers of the main ; Alone she came, all selfish fears above, A bright example of maternal love. " Unknown, the secret enterprize I brave, Lest grief should bend my parent to the grave : From this alone no fond adieus I seek, No fainting mother's lips have press'd my cheek ; By gloomy Night, and thy right hand, I vow Her parting tears would shake my purpose now : Do thou, my prince, her failing age sustain, In (hce her much-loved child may live again; Her dying hours with pious conduct bless, Assist her wants, relieve her fond distress : So dear a hope must all my soul inflame, c in glory, or to fall in fame.» Struck with a filial care, so deeply felt, i tears, at once the Trojan warriors melt; Faster tbau all, lulus' eyes o'erflow ; inch love was bis, and such had been his woe. All thou hast ask'd, receive, » the prince replied, Nor this alone, but many a gift beside; 'o cheer thy mothers years shall be my aim, Crcusas' style but wanting to the dame; Fortune an adverse wayward course may run, Jess'd thy mother in so dear a son. Now, by my life, my Sire's most sacred oath, To thee 1 pledge iny full, my firmest troth, All the rewards which once to thee were vow'd, If thou shouldst fall, on her shall be bestow'd.» Thus spoke the weeping priuce, then forth to view A gleaming falchion from the sheath he drew; Lycaons utmost skill had graced the steel, For friends to envy and for foes to feel. A tawny hide, the Moorish lion's spoil, Slain midst the forest, in the hunter's toil, Mnestheus, to guard the elder youth bestows, And old Alethes' casque defends his brows; d, thence they go, while all the assembled train, To aid their cause, implore the gods in vain; ■ than a boy, in wisdom and in grace, lulus holds amidst the chiefs his place,- lis prayers he sends, but what can prayers avail, -ost in the murmurs of the sighing gale? The trench is past, and, favour'd by the night, Through sleeping foe they wheel their wary flight. When sliall the sleep of many a foe be o'er? Alas ! some slumber who shall wake no more ! Chariots, and bridles mix'd with arms, are seen, And flowing flasks, and scatter'd troops between ; Bacchus and Mars to rule the camp combine, A mingled chaos this of war and wine. «Now,.> cries the first, « for deeds of blood prepare, With me the conquest and the labour share; Here lies our path ; lest any hand arise, Watch thou, while many a dreaming chieftain dies; I '11 carve our passage through the heedless foe, And clear thy road, with many a deadly blow.» His whispering accents then the youth represt, And pierced proud Rhamnes through his panting breas Slretch'd at his ease, th' incautious king reposed, Debauch, and not fatigue, his eyes had closed; To Turnus dear, a prophet and a prince, His omens more than augur's skill evince; But he, who thus foretold the fate of all, Could not avert his own untimely fall. Next Remus' armour-bearer, hapless, fell, And three unhappy slaves the carnage swell : The charioteer along his courser's sides Expires, the steel his severed neck divides; And, last, his lord is number'd with the dead, Hounding convulsive, flies the gasping head; From the swollen veins the blackening torrents pour. Stain'd is the couch and earth with clotting gore. Young Lamyrus and Lamus next expire, And gay Serranus, fill'd with youthful fire ; Half the long night in childish games was past, Lull'd by the potent grape, he slept at last ; Ah ! happier far, had he the morn survey'd, And, 'till Aurora's dawn, his skill display'd. In slaughter'd folds, the keepers lost in sleep, His hungry fangs a lion thus may steep; Mid the sad flock, at dead of night, he prowls, With murder glutted, and in carnage rolls; Insatiate still, through teeming herds he roams In seas of gore, the lordly tyrant foams. Nor less the other's deadly vengeance came, But falls on feeble crowds without a name ; His wound uncon^ ions Fadus s< arce can feel, Yet wakeful Rhxsus sees the threatening steel; His coward breast behind ajar he hides, And, vainly, % the weak defence confides; Full in his heart, the falchion search'd his veins, The reeking weapon bears alternate stains ; Thro' wine and blood, commingling as they flow. The feeble spirit seeks the shades below. Now, where Mcssapus dwelt they bend their way. Whose fires emit a faint and trembling ray; There, unconfincd behold each grazing steed, Unwatch'd, unheeded, on the herbage feed; Brave Nisus here arrests his comrade's arm, Too flush'd with rarnngo, and with conquest warm: » Hence let us haste, the daugerous path is past. Full foes enough, to-night, have brealhed their last; Soon will the day ilm->e eastern rlouds adorn, Now let us speed, nor tempt the rising morn.» ■What silver arms, with various arts omboss'd, W r ltat bowls and mantles, in confusion toss'd. They leave regardless! yet, one glittering prize Attracls the younger herns wandering eyes; The gilded harness Hhamnes' coursers fell, The gems which stud the monarch's golden belt; This from the pallid corse was quickly torn, Once by a line of former chieftains worn. Th' exulting boy the studded girdle wears, Messapus' helm his head, in triumph, bears; Then from the tents their cautious steps they bend, To seek the vale, where safer paths extend. Just ; jour, a band of Latian horse np pursue their destined coun BYRON'S WORKS. While the slow foot tlieir tardy march delay, The knighls, impatient, spur along the way : Three hundred mail-clad men, by Yolsceus led > To Turnus, with their master's promise sped: Now, they approach the trench, and view the walls, When, on the left, a light reflection falls; The plunder'd helmet, through the waning night, Sheds forth a silver radiance, glancing bright; A'olscens, with question loud, the pair alarms— « Stand, stragglers! stand! why early thus in arms'? From whence? to whom?» lie meets with no reply, Trusting the covert of the night, they fly] The thicket's depth, with hurried pace, they tread, While round the wood the hostile squadron spread. With brakes entangled, scarce a path between, Dreary and dark appears the sylvan scene i ' \ Euryalus his heavy spoils impede, The boughs and winding turns his steps mislead.; But Nisus scours along the forest's maze, To where Latinus' steeds, in safety graze, Then backward o'er the plain his eyes extend, On every side they seek his absent friend. « O God! my boy,» he cries, «of me bereft, In what impending perils art thou left!» Listening he runs — above the waving trees, Tumultuous voices swell the passing breeze; The war-cry rises, thundering hoofs around Wake the dark echoes of the trembling ground; Again he turns — of footsteps hears the noise, The sound elates — the sight his hope destroys; The hapless boy a ruffian train surround, While lengthening shades his weary way confound; Him, with loud shouts, the furious knights pursue^ Sn 'U};;;ling in vain, a captive to the crew. What can his friend 'gainst thronging numbers dare? Ah! must he rush, his comrade's fate to share! What force, what aid, what stratagem essay, Back to redeem the Latiau spoiler's prey! - His life a votive ransom nobly give, Or die with him for whom he wish'd to live! g with strength his lifted lance on high, On Luna's orb he cast his phrenzied eye: Goddess serene, transcending every star! Oueen of the sky! whose beams are seen afar, By night, Heaven owns thy sway, by day, the grove, When, ;h chaste Dian, here thou deign'st to rove; If e'er myself or sire have sought to grace Thine altars with the produce of the chace; Speed, speed, my dart to pierce yon vaunting crowd, To free my friend, and scatter far the proud.» Thus having said, the hissing dart he Hung; Through parted shades, the hurtling weapon sung; The thirsty point iu Sulmo's entrails lay, Tran.-lU'd his heart, and stretch'd him on the clay: He sobs, he dies, — the troop, in wild amaze, Unconscious whence the death, with horror gaze; While pale they stare, through Tagus' temples riven, A second shaft with equal force is driven; Fierce Volsccns rolls around his lowering eyes, Veil'd by the night, secure the Trojan lies. Burning with wrath, he view'd his soldiers fall; «Thou youth accurst! thy life shall pay for all.» Quick from the sheath his flaming glave he drew, And, raging, on the boy defenceless flew. Nisus no more the blackening shade conceals. Forth, forth he starts, and all his love reveals; Aghast, confused, his fears to madness rise, shrieking as he flies: « vile, me, your vengeance hurl on Here sheathe the steel, my blood is all your own ; Ye starry Spheres! thou conscious Heaven attest! He could not— durst not— lo ! the guile confest! All, all was mine — his early fate suspend, He only loved too well his hapless friend ; Spare, spare, ye chiefs! from him your rage remov* His fault was friendship, all his crime was love.» He pray'd in vain, the dark assassin's sword Pierced the fair side, the snowy bosom gored; Lowly to earth inclines his plume-clad crest, And sanguine torrents mantle o'er his breast: As some young rose, whose blossom scents the air, Languid in death, expires beneath the share; Or crimson poppv, sinking with the shower, Declining gently, falls a fading flower; Thus, sweetly drooping, bends his lovely head. And lingering Beauty hovers round the dead. But fiery Nisus stems the battle's tide, Revenge his leader, and Despair his guide; Volscens he seeks, amidst the gathering host, Volscens must soon appease his comrade's ghost; Steel, flashing, pours on steel, foe crowds on foe, Rage nerves his arm, Fate gleams in every blow; In vain, beneath unnumber'd wounds he bleeds, Nor wounds, nor death, distracted Nisus heeds; Iu viewless circles wheel'd his falchion flies, Nor quits the Hero's grasp till Volscens dies; Deep in his throat its end the weapon found. The tyrant's soul fled groaning through the wound. Thus Nisus all his fond affection proved, Dying, revenged the fate of him he loved; Then on his bosom, sought his wonted place, And death was heavenly in his friend's embrace ! Celestial pair? if aught my verse can claim, Wafted on Time's broad pinion, yours is fame! Ages on ages shall your fate admire; No future day shall see your names expire; While stands the Capitol, immortal dome! And vanquish'd millions hail their Empress, Rome! TRANSLATION FROM THE MEDEA OF EURIPIDES. When fierce conflicting passions urge The breast, where love is wout to glow, What mind can stem the stormy surge, Which rolls the tide of human woe? The hope of praise, the dread of shame, Can rouse the tortured breast no more; The wild desire, the guilty flame, Absorbs each wish it felt before. But, if affection gently thrills The soul, by purer dreams possest, The pleasing balm of mortal ills. In love can soothe the aching breast; If thus, thou comest in gentle guise, Fair Venus! from thy native heaven. What heart, unfeeling, would despise The sweetest boon the gods have given? HOURS OF IDLKNKSS. But, never from thy golden bow May l beneath the shaft expire, Whose creeping venom, sure and slow, Awakes an alt-consuming fire; Ye racking doubts! ye jealous fears! With others wage eternal war; Repentance! source of future tears, From mc be ever distant far. May no distracting thoughts destroy Tiie holy calm of sacred love! May all the hours be wing'd with joy, Which hover faithful hearts above! Fair Venus! on thy myrtle shrine. May I with some fond lover sigh ! Whose heart may mingle pure with mini With me to live, with me to die. My native soil ! beloved before, Now dearer, as my peaceful home, Ne'er may I quit thy rocky shore, A hapless, bauish'd wretch to roam ; This very day. this very hour, May I resign tins fleeting breath, Nor quit my silent, humble bower — A doom, to me, far worse than death. heard the ( Through distant climes condcmii'd to fly, A pensive, weary wanderer here: Ah! hapless dame! 1 no sire bewails. No friend thy wretched fate deplores, No kindred voice with rapture hails Thy steps, within a stranger's doors. Perish the fiend! whose iron heart, To fair affection's truth unknown, Bids her he fondly loved depart, L'npitied, helpless, and alone; Who ne'er unlocks, with silver kcy, J The milder treasures of his soul; May such a friend be far from me, And Ocean's storms between us roll ! FUGITIVE PIECES. THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A COLLEGE EXAMINATION.* Ricn in the midst, surrounded by his peers, its his ample front sublime uprears- Placed on his chair of stale, he seems a god. While Sophs and Freshmen tremble at his nod; edra, who accompanied Ja»on to Corimti. wat deterled l.v him * daughter of Crmn, l.nr; <•( that diy. The Chnru* from ■bit it Ukrn, here addte.a Mr.Ji-i ; though a connderji.lt lil.crty \,r ,i R .nal i. • Kflttfsr-cav XVOi$XVTt K^loOL fpSVUV '. » As all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom, His voice, in thunder, shakes the sounding dome, Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fools, Unskill'd to plod in mathematic rules. Happy the youth! in Euclid's axioms tried, Though little versed in any art beside; Who, scarcely skill d an English line to pen, \Ybal! though he knows not bow his fathers bled, When civil discord piled the fields with dead; When Edward bade his conquering bands advance, Or Henry trampled on the crest of France ; Though, marv'ling at the name of Magna Charta, Yet, well he recollects the laws of Sparta; Can tell what edicts sage Evcurgus made, While Mackstoue's on the shelf neglected laid; Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deathless fame, If Avon's bard remembering scarce the name. Such is the youth, whose scientific pate. Class-honours, medals, fellowships, await; Or even, perhaps, the declamation prize, If to such glorious height he lifts his eyes. But, lo! no common orator can hope The envied silver cup within his scope: Not that our Heads much eloquence require, Tii' Athenian's glowing style, or TulJy's fire. A manner clear or warm is useless, since We do not try, by speaking, to convince: He other orators of pleasing proud, We speak to please ourselves, not move the crowd; Our gravity prefers the muttering tone, proper mixture of the squeak and groan; o borrow'd grace of action must be seen, The slightest motion would displease the Dean; Whilst every staring Graduate would prate Against what he could never imitate. Th. but rattle ?r every word, Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest ! Who speaks the fastest 's sure lo speak the best : Who utters most within the shortest space, May safely hope to win the wordy race. The sons of science these, who, thus repaid, Linger in ease in Crania's sluggish shade; Where, on Cam's sedgy banks, supine they lie, Unknown, unhonour'd live, — unwept for, die- Dull as the pictures which adorn their halls, They think all learning fix VI within their walls; i rude, in foolish forms precise, i arts affecting to despise; Yet prizing Huntley's, IIrunck's,' or Porson's 3 noti More than the verse on which the critic wrote; ; their honours, heavy as their ale, Sad as their wit, and tedious as their talc. To friendship dead, though not untaught to feel, i Self and Church demand a bigot zeal. Wiih eager haste they court the lord of power, Whether lis Pitt or P— tty rules the hour: 1 C bti office : indeedtuchanallemi.il tv.it written, Lord II. i6 BYRON'S WORKS. To him, with suppliant smiles, they bend the head, While distant mitres to their eyes are spread; But should a storm o'erwhelm him with disgrace, They 'd fly to seek the next who fill'd his place. Such are the men who learning's treasures guard, Such is their practice, such is their reward; This much, at least, we may presume to say — The premium can't exceed the price they pay. TO THE EARL OF VALERIUS FLACCUS. Friend of my youth ! when young we roved, Like striplings mutually beloved, With Friendship's purest glow; The bliss which wiug'd those rosy hours, Was such as pleasure seldom showers On mortals here below. The recollection seems, alone Dearer than all the joys I 've known, When distant far from you; Though pain, 'tis still a pleasing pain, To trace those days and hours again, And sigh again, adieu! My pensive memory lingers o'er Those scenes to be enjoy'd no more, Those scenes regretted ever; The measure of our youth is full, Life's evening dream is dark and dull, And we may meet — ah ! never ! As when one parent spring supplies Two streams, which from one fountain rise, Together join'd in vain; How soon, diverging from their source, Each murmuring seeks another course, Till mingled in the main. Our vital streams of weal or woe. Though near, alas! distinctly How, Nor mingle as before ; Now swift or slow, now black or clear, Till death's unfathom'd gulph appear, And both shall quit the shore. Our souls, my Friend! which once supplied One wish, nor breathed a thought beside, Now flow in different channels; Disdaining humbler rural sports, T is yours to mix in polish'd courts, And shine in Fashion's annals. 'T is mine to waste on love my lime, Or vent my reveries in rhyme, AVithout the aid of Beason; For Sense and Reason (Critics know it) Have quitted every amorous Poet, Nor left a thought to seize on. Poor Little! sweet, melodious bard! Of late esteem'd it monstrous hard, That he, who sang before all; He, who the love of love expanded, By dire reviewers should be branded, As void of wit and moral.' And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine, Harmonious favourite of the Nine! Repine not at thy let; Thy soothing lays may still be read, When Persecution's arm is dead, And Critics are forgot. Still, I must yield those worthies merit, Who chasten, with unsparing spirit, Bad rhymes, and those who write I And though myself may be the next By critic sarcasm to be vext, I really will not fight them; 2 Perhaps they would do quite as well, To break the rudely sounding shell Of such a young beginner; He who offends at pert nineteen, Ere thirty, may become, I ween, A very harden 'd sinner. Now I must return to you, And sure apologies are due; Accept then my concession; In truth, dear , in fancy's I soar along from left to right, My muse admires digression. I tliiuk I said 't would be your fate To add one star to royal state; May regal smiles attend you; And should a noble Monarch reign, You will not seek his smiles in vain If worth can recommend you. ii G bt, Where specious rivals i From snares may Saints preserve yc And grant your love or friendship ne'er From any claim a kindred care, But those who best deserve you. Not for a moment may you stray From Truth's secure unerring way, May no delights decoy; O'er roses may your footsteps move, Your smiles be ever smiles of love, Your tears be tears of joy. Oh! if you wish that happiness Your coming days and years may bless, And virtues crown your brow : Be, still, as you were wont to be, Spotless as you ve been known to me, Be, still, as you are now. HOURS OK IDLENESS. nd, though some trilling share of praise, o cheer my last declining days, To me were doubly dear; riiilst blessing your beloved name, d wave at once a Poet's fame, To prove a Prophet here. GRANTA, A MEDLEY. ■ould Le S, :myt , ha 'd lift. To pla Then would, unroofd, old Granta's Pedantic inmates full display; Fellows who dn The price ol stalls, 1 pay- Lo! candidates and voters lie. All luHd in sleep, a goodly number! A race reuown'd for piety, Whose conscience won't disturb their slumber Lord II , indeed, may not demur, Fellows are sage, reflecting men! They know preferment can occur But very seldom, — now and then. They know the Chancellor has got Some pretty livings in disposal; E;n b hopes that one may be his lot. And, therefore, smiles on his proposal. Now, from the soporific scene The studious sons of Alma Mater. There, in apartments small and damp, The candidate for college prizes Sits poring by the midnight lamp. Goes late to bed, yet early rises. He, surely, well deserves to gain them, With all the honours of his college, Who, striving hardly to obtain them. Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge; Who sacrifirrs hours of rest, To scan, precisely, metres Atlir, Or agitates his anxious breast In solving problems mathematic; Who reads false quantities in Selr, 2 Or puzjzlcs o'er the deep triangle, Deprived of many a wholesome meal,' In barbarous Latin 3 doom d to wrangle Renouncing every pleasing page Preferring to the letter'd sage The square of the hypothenuse. 1 Still, harmless are these occupations, That hurt none hut the hapless student, Compared with other recreations, Which bring together the imprudent. Whose daring revels shock the sight, When vice and infamy combine, When drunkenness and dice unite, And every sense is steep'd in wine. Not so the methodistic crew, Who plans of reformation lay; And for the sins of othc Forgetting i pray. Their exultation in their trial. Detracts most largely from the merit OF all their boasted self-denial. 'T is morn,— from these I turn my sight: What scene is this which meets the eye? Across the green in numbers fly. Loud rings, in air, the chapel bell ; 'Tis hush'd: What sounds are these I hear? The organ's soft celestial swell Rolls deeply on the listening ear. To ibis is joiu'd the sacred son;;. The royal minstrel's hallow'd If David, when his toils were ended. Had' heard these blockheads sing before hit To us his psihns had ne'er descended, In furious mood he would have tore 'cm. The luckless Israelites, when takeu. By some inhuman tyrant's order. Were ask'd to sing, by joy forsaken, On Babylonian river's border. Oh ! had they sung in notes like these, Inspired by stratagem or fear, They might have set their hearts at ease— The devil a soul had stay'd to hear. But. if I scribble longer now, The deuce a soul will stay to read; My pen is blunt, my ink is low, 'Tis almost time to slop indeed. Therefore, farewell, old Guanta's spires, No more, likeCIcofas, I fly; No more ihy theme my Muse inspires, The reader '» lircd, and so am I. 1 Tlir d;*rn»<-.Y of PyltiJUjon*, that llir *fju, BYRON'S WORKS. LACHIN Y GAIR. s proudly pre-eminent in the Northern Hi G li!aDu«, near In- lid. One of our modern tourists mentions it us the lli^hes ,„;,, ...-Mjiir.s. 111 <:»e..t Britain; be this as it m«y. it 1 . Cloiuiu.m Alps.- Its appeal Away, ye gay landscapes,. ye. gardens of roses! In you let the minions of luxury rove.; Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes, Though still they are sacred to freedom and love Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains, Round their white summits though elements wa Though cataracts foam, 'stead of smooth-flowii t Garr. I sigh for the valley of dark Loch j Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd, My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid; 1 1 in chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder d. As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade; I sought not my hohte till the day's dying glory iave place to the fays of the bright polar star; For Fancy was checr'd by traditional story Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr. < Shades of the dead ! have I not heard your voices Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?« Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland vale: Round Loch na Garr, while the stormy mist gathers, Winter presides in his cold icy car; Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers — They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr: starr'd, 2 though brave, did no visions foreboding Tell you that Fate had forsaken your cause?" were you destined to die at Culloden, 3 Victory crown'd not ycur fait with applause; Still were you happy, in death's early slumber, You rest with your clan, in the caves of Braemar/ f e Pibroch 5 resounds to the piper's loud number Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr. ars have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you; Years must elapse ere I tread you again; ture of verdure and flowers has bereft you, Yet, still, are you dearer than Albion's plain: England! thy beaulios are tame and domestic Tik ■ has r the Oh! for the crags that are wild and majestic, The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr! ; Charles, better known Ly TO ROMANCE. Parent of golden dreams, 1 Auspicious (Jueenof childish joys! Who lead'st along, in airy dance, Thy votive train of girls arid boys; At length, in spells no longer bound, I break the fetters of my youth ; No more I tread thy mystic round, Rut leave thy realms for those of Truth. And, yet, 't is hard to quit the dreams Which haunt the unsuspicious soul, Where every nymph a goddess seems, Whose eyes through rays immortal roll; While Fancy holds her boundless reign, And all assume a varied hue, When Virgins seem no longer vain, And even Woman's smiles are true. And must we own thee but a name. And from thy hall of clouds descend; Nor find a Sylph in every dame, A Pylades 1 in every friend? Rut leave, at once, thy realms of air. To mingling bauds of fairy elves : Confess that woman 's false as fair, And Friends have feelings for — themselv. With shame, I own, I 've felt thy sway, No more thy precepts I obey, No more on fancied pinions soar: Fond fool ! to low a sparkling eye. And think that eye to Truth was dear, To trust a passing wanton's sigh. And melt beneath a wanton's tear. Romance! disgusted with deceit. Far from thy motley court I fly, Where Affectation holds her seat, Aud sickly Sensibility; Whose silly tears can never flow For any pangs excepting thine; To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine: Now join with sable Sympathy, W r ith cypress crown'd, array'd in weed: Who heaves with thee her simple sigh. Whose breast for every bosom bleeds; And call thy sylvan female quire, Toi for. Who once could glow with equal fire, Rut bends not now before thy throne. Ye genial nymphs, whose ready tears, On all occasions, swiftly flow; Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears, With fancied flames and phrenzy glow; Sav, will you mourn my absent name, Apostate from your gentle train? An infant Bard, at least, may claim From you a sympathetic strain. i is hardly necessary to add, that Pylades was the eom HOURS OF IDLENESS. Adi. The hour of fate is hovering nigh ; Ivcn now the gulf appears io view. Where uulamcntcd you must lie: tbliv ion's blackening lake is seen Convulsed by gales you cannot weatln Vhcrc you, and eke your gentle queen, Alas ! must perish altogether. ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY. Newstead! fast falling, once resplendent dome! Religion's shrine! repentant Henry's 2 pride! Of Warriors, Monks, and Dames the cloister' d t Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide Hail to thy pile! more houourd in thy fall. Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall, owling defiance on the blasts of fate. No mail-Had Serfs, 3 obedi n grim array, the crims nt to their Lord, m cross 4 demand; festive board, light inspiring Fancy's magic eye ace their progress, through the lapse of tin A votive pilgrim, in J mica's clim< ut not from ihee, dark pile! depa 1 ; regions lay; thet His feudal realm in < 1 thee, the wounded c ]'■■ tn mi- from the garisli blaze of day. es, in thy gloomy eells nm\ shades profound. The Monk abjured a world he ne'er could view; Or hlood-stain'd Guilt repenting solace found, Or Innocence from stern Oppression Hew. A Monarch bade thee from that wild arise, Where Sherwood's outlaws once were wont to prov And Superstition's crimes, of various dyes, Sought shelter in the Priest's protecting cowl. Where now the grass exhales a murky dew, The humid pall of life-cxtinguish'd clay, a sainted fame the sacred Fathers grew, Nor raised their pious voices, but to pray. Where now the bats their wavering wings extend. Soon as the gloaming 5 spreads her waning shade. The choir did oft their mingling vespers blend. Years roll on years — to a|;es, ages yield — Abbots to abbots in a line succeed; _ Religion's charter their protecting shield, Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed) One holy Henry rear'd the Gothic walls. And bade the pious inmates rest in peace ; Yain is each threat, or supplicating prayer. He drives them exiles from their blest abode. To roam a dreary world , in deep despair, No friend, no home, no refuge bat their God. Hark! how the hall r resounding to the strain. Shakes with the martial music's novel din! The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign. High crested banners, wave thy walls within. Of changing sentinels the distant hum, The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish'd arms, The braying trumpet, and the hoarser drum, Unite in concert with increased alarms. An abbey once, a regal fortress 1 now. Encircled by insulting rebel powers; War's dread machines o'crhang thy threatening brow, And dart destruction in sulphureous showers. Ah! vain defence! the hostile traitor's siege, Though oft repulsed, by guile o'crcomes the brave ; His thronging foes oppress the faithful Liege, Rebellion's reeking standards o'er him wave. i then acids, And days of glory yet for him remain. Self-gather 'd laurels on a self-sought grave; But Charles' protecting genius hither Hew, The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to save. Trembling she snatch'd him 3 from the unequal virile In other fields the torrent to repel. For nobler combats here reserved bis life, To lead the band where god-like Falkland 4 fell. From thee, poor pile! to lawless plunder given, While dying groans- their painful requiem sound. Far different incense now ascends to heaven — Such victims wallow on the gory ground. There, many a pale and ruthless robber's corse. Noisome and ghast, delihs thy sacred sod ; O'er mingling man, and horse commix d with horse. Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers trod. Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds o'erspread. Ransack (1, resign perforce their mortal mould; From ruffian fangs escape not e'en the dead, Raked from repose, in search of buried gold. 20 BYRON'S WORKS. Hush'd is the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre, The minstrel's palsied hand reclines in death; No more he strikes the quivering chords with fire. Or sings the glories of the martial wreath, .t length, the sated murderers, gorged with prey, Retire— the clamour of the fight is o'er; ilence again resumes her awful sway, And sable Horror guards the massy door. Here Desolation holds her dreary" court; What satellites declare her dismal reign [ Shrieking their dirge, ill-omen'd birds resort To Hit their vigils in the hoary fane, •oon a new morn's restoring beams dispel The clouds of anarchy from Britain's skies; The fierce usurper seeks his native hell, And Nature triumphs as the tyrant dies. With storms she welcomes his expiring groans, Whirlwinds responsive greet his labouring breath; Earth shudders as her cave receives his bones, Loathing l the offering of so dark a death. The legal Ruler' now resumes the helm, He guides thro' gentle seas the prow of state: Hope cheers with wonted smiles the peaceful realm, And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied Hate. The gloomy tenants, Newstead, of thy cells, Howling resign their violated nest; Again the master on his tenure dwells, Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraptured zest. Vassals within thy hospitable pale, Loudly carousing, bless their Lord's return; lulture again adorns the gladdening vale, And matroos, once lamenting, cease to mourn. A thousand songs on tuneful echo float, iwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees; And, hark! the horns proclaim a mellow note, The hunter's cry hangs lengthening on the breeze. Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys shake: hat fears, what anxious hopes attend the chase ! The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake, Exulting shouts announce the finish'd race. Ah ! happy days! too happy to endure! Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew: No splendid vices glitter'd to allure— teir joys were many, as their cares were few. From these descending, sons to sires succeed, me steals along, and Death uprears his dart; Another chief impels the foaming steed, lother crowd pursue the panting hart. Ncwsiead! what saddening change of scene is thine! Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay; he last and youngest of a noble line Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway. Deserted now, be scans thy gray-worn towers — Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep— Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers — These, these he views, and views them but to weep. ;t are his tears no emblem of regret, Cherish'd affection only bids them flow; Pride, Hope, and Love forbid him to forget, But warm his bosom with impassion'd glow, et, he prefers thee to the gilded domes, Or gew-gaw grottos of the vainly great; et lingers 'mid thy damp and mossy tombs, Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the will of fate. [aply thy sun emerging yet may shine, Hours splendid as the past may sti; And bless thy future as thy forn TO E. N. Li. ESQ. Deah L— r — , in this sequester'd scene, While all around in slumber lie, The joyous days which ours have been Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye : Thus, if amidst the gathering storm, While clouds the darken'd noon deform, Yon heaven assumes a varied glow, I hail the sky's celestial bow, Which spreads the sign of future peace, And bids the war of tempests cease. Ah ! though the present brings but pain, I think those days may come again; Or if, in melancholy mood, Some lurking envious fear intrude, To check my bosom's fondest thought, And interrupt the golden dream; 1 crush the fiend with malice fraught. And still indulge my wonted theme; Although we ne'er again can trace, In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore, Nor through the groves of Ida chase Our raptured visions as before; Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion, And Manhood claims his stern dominion, Age will not every hope destroy, But yield some hours of sober joy. -th.uTii Will shed around some dews of spring; But, if his scythe must sweep the flowers Which bloom among the fairy bowers, Where smiling Youth delights to dwell, And hearts with early rapture swell; If frowning Age, with cold controul, Confines the current of the soul, Congeals the tear of Pity's eye, Or checks the sympathetic sigh, Or hears unmoved Misfortune's groan, And bids me feel for self alone ; Oh! may my bosom never learn, To soothe its wonted heedless flow, Still, still, despise the censor stern, But ne'er forget another's woe. Yes, as you knew me in the days O'er which Remembrance yet delays, HOURS OF IDLENESS. 21 Still may I rove untutor'd, wild. TO And even in age at heart a child. On! had my fate been join'd with thine, As once this pledge appear'd a token, Though now on airy visions borne. These follies hid not then been mine. To you my soul is still the same, For then my peace had not been broken. Oft has it been my fate to mourn. And all my fnrnn r joys are lame. To thee these early faults I owe, But, hence! ye hours of sable hue, To thee, the wise and old reproving; They know my sins, but do not know Your frowns arc gone, my sorrows o'er; By every bliss my childhood knew, T was thine to break the bonds of loving. I'll think upon your shade no more. For once my soul, like thine, was pure, Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past, And all its rising fires could smother; And caves their sullen roar enclose, But now thy vows no more endure, y We heed no more the wintry blast, Bcstow'd by thee upon another. When Jul I'd by zephyr to repose. Perhaps his peace I could destroy, FuJl often has my infant Muse, And spoil the blisses that await him; Attuned to love Jier languid lyre; Yet, let my rival smile in joy, But now, without a theme to choose. For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. The strains in stolen sighs expire; Ah! since thy angel form is gone, My youthful nymphs, alas! are flown; My heart no more can rest with any; E is a wife, and C a mother, But what it sought in thee alone, And Carolina sighs alone, Attempts, alas ! to find in many. And Mary's given to another; Can now no more mv love recal • Then fare thee well, deceitful maid, 'T were vain and fruitless to regret thee; In truth, dearL , 'twas lime to flee, Nor hope nor memory yield their aid, For Cora's eye will shine on all. But pride may teach me to forget thee. And though the Sun, with genial rays, Yet all this giddy waste of years, His beams alike to all displays, This tiresome round of palling pleasures, And every lady's eye's a sun. These varied loves, tliese matron's fears, These last should be confined to one. These thoughtless strains to passion's measures. The soul's meridian don't become her If thou wcrt mine, had all been hush'd; Whose sun displays a general sttmmer. Thus faint is every former (lame. And Passion's self is now a name : As when the ebbing (lames are low, This check, now pale from early riot, With Passion's hectic ne'er had flush 'd, But bloom'd iu calm domestic quiet. The aid which once improved their light. Yes, once the rural scene was sweet, And bade them burn with fiercer glow. For nature scem'd to smile before thee; Now quenches all their sparks in night; And once my breast abhorr'd deceit, Thus has it been with passions fires, For then it beat but to adore thee. As many a boy and girl remembers, But now I seek for other joys ; While all the force of love expires, To think would drive my soul to madness; Extinguish'd with the dyiug embers. In thoughtless throngs and empty noise, I conquer half my bosom's sadness. But now dear L , 'l is midnight's noon, And clouds obscure the watery moon. Whose beauties 1 shall not rehearse. Yet, even in tliese a thought will steal, In spile of every vain endeavour; Described in every stripling's verse; For why should I the path go o'er, And fiends might pit v what I feel, To know that thou art lost for ever. Which every bard has trod before? Yet, ere yon silver lamp of night STANZAS. Has thrice performed her stated round, I would I were a careless child, Has thrice retraced her path of light. And chased away tin- gloom profound, I trust that wc, my gentle friend. Shall see her rolling orbit wend Above the dear loved peaceful scat Which once contain'd our youths retreat; And then, with those our cliddhood knew, We'll mingle with the festive crew; Still dwelling in my Highland caTC, Or roaming through the dusky wild, Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave. The cumbrous pomp of Saxon' pride Accords not with the free-born soul, Which loves the mountain's craggy side, And seeks the rocks where billows roll. While many a talc of former day Fortune! lake back these cultured lands. Shall wing the laughing hours away; Take bark this name of splendid sound ! And all the flow of soul shall pour I hate the touch of servile hands — The sacred intellectual shower, I hate the sla\cs that cringe around: Nor cease, till Lima's waning Iiorn Scarce glimmers through the mist of Morn. ' SMMMgh, or Shod, ■ Glflic word *ifjnifwn C MtliCf Lowland or English. BYRON'S WORKS. Place me along the rocks I love, Which sound to oceans wildest roar ; I ask but this — again to rove Through scenes my youth hath known before. Few are my years, and yet I feel The world was ne'er designed for me ; Ah! why do dark'ning shades conceal The hour when man must cease to be? Once I beheld a splendid dream, A visionary scene of bliss; Truth! wherefore did thy hated beam Awake me to a world like this? I loved — but those I loved are gone; Had friends— my early.friends are fled; How cheerless feels the heart alone, When all its former hopes are dead! Though gay companions o'er the bowl, Dispel awhile the sense of ill, Though Pleasure stirs (he maddening soul, The heart— the heart is lonely still How dull to hear the voice of those Whom Rank or Chance, whom Wealth or Power, Have made, though neither Friends^ior Foes, Associates of the festive hour. Give me again a faithful few, In years and feelings still the same, And 1 will fly the midnight crew, Where boist'rous Joy is but a name. And Woman! lovely Woman, thou. My hope, my comforter, my all! How cold must be my bosom now, When e'en thy smiles begin to pall! Without a sigh would I resign This busy scene of splendid woe, To make that calm contentment mine Which Virtue knows, or seems to know. Fain would I fly the haunts of men— I seek to shun, not hate mankind; My breast requires the sullen glen, Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind. Oh !. that to me the wings were given Which bear the turtle to her nest! Then would I cleave the vault of Heaven, To flee away and be at rest. 1 LIKES WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN THE CHURCHYARD OF HARROW ON THE HILL. SEPT. 2, 1807. Spot of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh, Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky ; :re now alone I muse, who oft have trod, With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod; 'ith those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore, Like me, the happy scenes they knew before : Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill, Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still. Thou drooping Elm! bcuL'ath whose boughs I lay, And frequent mused the iwili-hi Injur- rwv; Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline, But ah! without the thoughts which then were mine: How do thy branches, moaning to the blast, Invite the bosom to rccal the past; And seem to whisper, as they gendv swell, « Take, while thou can'st, a lingering last farewell !i When Fate shall chill at length this fever'd breast. And calm its cares and passions into rest, Oft have I thought 't would soothe my dying hour. If aught may soothe when life resigns her power. To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell, Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell': With this fond dream me thinks "t were sweet to dh re it linger'd, here my heart might ight I sleep, where all my hopes ai ch.6! 1 y repose : For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade, Prest by the turf where once my childhood play'd, Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I loved, Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps moved; Blest by the tongues that charm'd my youthful ear, Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here, Deplored by those in early days allied. And uuremcmber'd by the world beside. TF1E DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA. AN IMITATION OF MACPHERSON'S OSSIANV Dear are the days of youth! Age dwells on their membrance through t he recals the sunny h with trembling hand, steel before my fathc but their fame rises > the wings of the wine the sighs of tire stori mist of time. In the twilight rs of morn. He lifts his spear Not thus feebly did I raise the !» Past is the race of heroes! the harp; their souls ride on they hear the sound through and rejoice in their liall of uds! Such is Calmar. The gray stone marks bis narrow house. He looks down from eddying tempests, he rolls his form in the whirlwind; and hovers on the blast of the mountain. In Morven dwelt the chief; a beam of war to Fingnl. His steps in the field were marked in blood; Lochlin's sons had fled befor* his angry spear: but mild was the eye of Calmar; soft was the flow of bis yellow locks— they stream'd like the meteor of the night. No maid was the sigh of his soul; his thoughts were given to friendship, to dark-haired Orla, destroyer of heroes ! Equal were their swords in battle; but fierce was the pride of Orla, gentle alone to Calmar. Together they dwelt in the cave of Oithona. From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o'er the blue 1 Erin's sons fell beneath his might. Fingal roused bis chiefs to combat. Their ships cover the ocean ! Their hosts throng on the green hills. They come to the aid Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies; but the blazing oaks gleam through the valley. The sons of Lochlin slept: their dreams were of blood. They lift the spear in thought, and Fingal flies. Not so the host of Morven. To watch was the post of Or) mar stood by his side. Their spears were in thei Fingal called bis chiefs. They stood around. Ticking was in the midst. Gray were his locks, but strong wa the arm of the king. Age withered not his power: HOURS Or IDLENESS. ..Sons of Morven... said the hero, .< to-morrow we nifft tlic foe; but where is Cuihullin, the shield of Erin? He rests in the halls of Turn ;.. he knows not of our coming. Who will speed through Lochliivto the hero, and call the chief to arms? The path is by the swords of foes, but mauy are my heroes. They are thunderbolts of war. Speak, ye chiefs! who will arise ?»> on of Trenmor! mine be the decd,» said dark- haired Orla, «and mine alone. What is death to me? I love the sleep of the mighty, but little is the danger. The sons of Lochlin dream. I will seek car-borne hullin. If I fall, raise the song of bards, and lay by the stream of Lubar..— « And shall thou fall alouc?.> said fair-haired Calmar. « Wilt thou leave thy friend afar? Chief of Oithoua! not feeble is my arm in light. Could I see thee die, and not lift the spear? >"o, ( Ida ! ours has been the chase of the roebuck, and the feast of shells; ours be the path of danger: ours has the cave of Oithona; ours be the narrow dwelling on the banks of Lubar.»— « Cahnar !»> said the chief of Oithona, «why should thy yellow locks be darkened the dust of Erin ? Let me fall alone. My father dwells in his hall of air: he will rejoice in his boy : but the blue-eyed Mora spreads the feast for ber son in Morven. She listens to (he steps of the hunter on the eath, and thinks it is the tread of Calmar. Let him ol say, 'Calmar is fallen by the steel of Lochlin; he ied with gloomy Orla, the chief of the dark brow.' H.y should tears dim the azure eye of Mora? Why ■OH.. of Ca II smile In, ml' Live, Calmar! li\e to raise my stone revenge mc in the blood of Loch Jin! bards above my grave. Sweet will-be the song of d> to Orla, from the voice of Calmar. My ghost sh; he notes of praise. » — «Orla!» said the Mora, « could I raise the song of death to my Could I give his fame to the winds? No; my heart Id speak in sighs; faint and broken are the sounds of sorrow. Orla! our souls shall hear the song together. One cloud shall lie ours on high ; the hards will mingle names of Orla and Calmar. » hey quit the circle of the chiefs. Their steps are to the host of Lochlin. The dying blaze of oak dim twinkles through the night. The northern star points the pith to Tura. Swaran, the king, rests on his iely hill. Here (he troops are mixed: they frown in ep. Their shields beneath their heads. Their swords gleam, at distance, in heaps. The fires are faint; their ers fail in smoke. All is hushed; but the gale sigh;, on the rocks above. Lightly wheel the heroes through the slumbering band. Half the journey is past, when Mathon, resting mi his shield, meets the eye of Orla. It rolls iu flame, and glistens through the shade : his speai is raised on high. -Why dost thou bend thy brow. Chief of Oithona ?» said fair-haired lour. «We are in the midst of foes. Is this a time delay 1 " — 'It is a time for vengeance. >• said Orla. the gloomy brow, a Mathon of Lorhlin sleeps ; serst hi his spear 1 It* point is dim with the gore of my father. The blood of Mathon shall reek on mine; but , I slay him sleeping, son of Mora? No! he shall his wound; my fame shall not soar on the blood umber, Rise. Mathon! rise! the son of Counal calls; thy life is his: rise to combat. » Mathon starts from sleep, but did he rise alone? No : the gathering chiefs id on the plain. ..Fly. Calmar lly |n said dirk- r:' Orla: « Mathon is mine ; I shall die in jOV: but Loehliii crowds an mm I : ll\ ■ tlir.nigli ( In- sli.iile of ni;;li i . Orla turns; the helm of Mathon is cleft; his shielc falls from his arm: he shudders in his blood. He roll; His wrath rises; his weapon glitters on the head o Orla; but a spear pierced his eye. His brain gushe: through the wound, and foams ou the spear of Calmar As roll the waves of Ocean on two mighty barks of tin north, so pour the men of Lochlin ou the chiefs. As breaking the surge in foam, proudly steer the barks of the north, so rise the chiefs of Morven on the scattered wests of Lochlin. The din of arras came to the ear of Fingal. He strikes his shield : his sons throng around; the people pour along the heath. Ryno hounds in joy. Os.i.l stalks Osr.i Th. eagle wing of Fillan Moats on the wind. Dreadful the clang of death ! many arc the widows of Lochlii Morven prevails in its strength. Morn glimmers ou the bills: no living foe is seen but the sleepers are many: grim they lie on Erin. The breeze of ocean lifts their locks: yet they do not awake The hawks scream above their prey. Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a chief bright as the [; ohl of the stranger, they mingle with iln dark hair of bis friend. Tis Calmar — he lies on tin bosom of Orla. Theirs is one stream of blood. Fierce is the look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes not; bu his eye is still a flame: it glares in death uuclosed. His hand is grasped iu Calmar's; but Calmar lives li\es. though low. <• Rise... said the king, "rise, son of Mora unds of heroes. Cain m;iv vet hound on the hills of Morven. » « Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morvc villi Orla;>. said the hero, «what were the chase t mc, alone? Who would share the spoils of battle wit Calmar? Orla is at rest! Rough was thy soul, Orla! yet soft to me as the dew of morn. It glared on o in lightning; to me a silver beam of night. Ilea sword to blue-eyed Mora: let it hang in my e; hall. It is not pure from blood: but it could not Orla. Lay me with my friend: raise the song wl They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four gray stones mark the dwelling of Orla and Calmar. When Swaran was bound, our sails rose on the blue waves. The winds gave our barks to Morven. The Bar/Is raised the song. «What form rises on the roar of clouds? whose dark ghost gleams on the red streams of tempests? his voice rolls on the thunder. Tis Orla; the brown chief of Oithona. He was unmatched in war. Peace to thy soul, Orla! thy fame will not perish. Nor thine, Cal- mar! Lovely wast thou, son of blue-eyed Mora; but not harmless was thy sword. It hangs in thy cave. The ghosLs of Lochlin shriek around its steel. Hear thy praise, CaJmar! it dwells on the voice of the mighty. Thy name shakes on the echoes of Morven. Then raise thy fair iocks, son of Mora. Spread them on the arch of the rainbow, and smile through the tears of the in ibrtaWvetl 1...1. -h 24 BYRON'S WORKS. CRITIQUE EXTRACTED FROM THE EDINBURGH REVIEW, NO. 22, FOR JANUARY Svo. pp. •ss; a Series of' Poems, origin j George Gordon, Lord Byron, e —Newark, 1^07. Tbe poesy of this young Lord belongs to the class w liuli in itUer gods nor men are said to permit, indeed, 1 not recollect to have seen a quantity of verse ,0 few deviations iu either direction from that exact standard. His effusions are spread over a dead Hat, and can no more get above or below the level, than if they were so much stagnant water. As an extenuation of this offence, the noble author is peculiarly forward pleading minority. We have it in the title-page, d on the very back of the volume; it fodows his me like a favourite part of his style. Much stress is laid upon it in the preface, and the poems are connected iith this general statement of his case, by particular ates, substantiating the age at which each was written. Now,' the law upon the point of minority we hold to be perfectly clear. It is a plea available only to the de- fendant; no plaintiff can offer it as a supplementary id of action. Thus, if any suit could be brought against Lord Byron, for the purpose of compelling him 1 put into court a certain quantity of poetry, and if judgment were given against him, it is highly probable an exception would be taken were he to deliver for poetry the contents of this volume. To this he might plead minority; but, as he now makes voluntary tender of the article, he hath no right to sue, on that ground, for the price in good current praise, should ! goods be unmarketable. This is our view of the I on the point, and, we dare to say, so will it be ruled. Perhaps however, in reality, all that he tells us about i youth is rather with a -view to increase our wonder, than to soften our censures. Be possibly means to say, aposed by a young man of eighteen, and this by one of only sixteen !»— But, alas ! we all remember the poetry of Cowley at ten, and Pope at twelve; and so far from hearing, "with any degree of surprise, that very poor s -were written by a youth from his leaving school s leaving college, inclusive, we really believe this With this view, we must beg leave seriously to assure him, that the mere rhyming of the final syllable, even when accompanied by the presence of a certain number of feet; nay, although (which does not always happen) those feet should scan regularly, and have been all counted accurately, upon the fingers, — it is not the whole art of poetry. We would entreat him to believe, that a certain portion of liveliness, somewhat of fancy, is necessary to constitute a poem, and that a poem in the present day, to be read, must contai thought, either iu a little degree different from the ideas of former writers, or differently expressed, put it to his candour, whether there is any thing so serving the name of poetry in verses like the follow: written in 1S06; and whether, if a youth of eight could say any thing so uninteresting tc youth of nineteen should publish it : j , ,1,,. : . ' 1 England; and that the tenth man writes better verse than Lord Byron. other plea of privilege, our author rather brings forward in order to wave it. He certainly, however, does allude frequently to his family and ancestors- poetry, sometimes in notes; and while giving up his claim on the score of rank, he takes core > remember us of Dr Johnson's saying, that when a obleman appears as an author, his merit should he andsomcly acknowledged. In truth, it is this consi- eration only, that induces us to give Lord Byron's poems a place in our review, beside our desire to coun- 1, that he do forthwith abandon poetry, and turn •nts, which are considerable, and his opportuni- . Tl,»i r.,mc. ai.J dial memo. ^ When dcc.v'd, m.J teniae bi. do.l \vi.l. vour 0« (j fhffle ;Hh nij.iiii- done before I Now we positively do assi better than these stanzas in noble minor's volume. Lord Byron should also h. what the greatest poets ha\ comparisons (as he must have had occasion to see at his writing-master's) are odious.— Gray's Ode on Eton College should really have kept out the ten hobbling stanzas «On a distant view of the village and school of Harrow." In like manner, the exquisite lines of Mr Rogers .. On a Tenr,» might have warned the noble author off those premises, and spared us a whole dozen such stanz the following : CRITIQUE ON HOURS OF IDLENESS. And so of instances in which f.uiiier poets li.nl failed. Thus, we do not iliink Lord llyron was made for trans- latin;;, dtiriug his urni-a^c, Adrian's Address to his Soul, when Pope succeeded so indifferently in the attempt. If our readers, however, are of another opinion, they may look at it. However, be this as it may, we fear his translations and imitations are great favourites with Lord Byron. We have them of all kinds, from Anacreon to Ossian ; and, viewing them as school exercises, they may pass. Only, why print them after they have had their day and served their turn? And why call the thing in p. 7.,,' a translation, where two words fQzlot Aeystv) of the original are expanded into four lines, and the other tiling in p. 8i, 3 where ^ssovj/.rtots kgO'q px(.i t is ren- dered by means of six hobbling verses? As to bis Os~ siauic poesy we are not very good judges, being, in truth, so moderately skilled in that species of compo- sition, that we should, in all probability, be criticising some bit of the genuine Maepherson itself, were we to express our opinion of Lord Byron's rhapsodies. If, then, the following beginning of a «Song of Bards,» is by his Lordship, we venture to object to it, as far as we can comprehend it. « What form rises on the roar of clouds, whose dark ghost gleams on the red stream of tempests? His voice rolls on the thunder; 'tis Orla, the brown chief of Oitbona. He was, » etc. After detaining this «bro\vn chief" some time, the bards conclude by - adv ! his fair locks to "spread them on the arch of the rainbow ;n and « to smile through the tears of the storm.* Of this kind of thing there are no less than nine pages; and we can so far venture an opinion in their favour, that they look very like Maepherson; and we are positive they are pretty nearly as stupid and tiresome. It is a sort of privilege of poets to be egotists; but they should u use it as not abusing it;» and particu- larly one who piques himself (though indeed at the ripe age of nineteen) of being «an infaut bard.»— ( « The artless Helicon I boast is youth ;»)— should either not know, or should seem not to know, so much about his own ancestry. Besides a poem above cited, on the family seat of the Ilyrons, we have another of eleven pages, on the self-same subject, introduced with an apology, " he certainly had no intention of inserting it,» hut really « the particular request of some friends... five stanzas on himself, « the d youngest of a noble line.» There is a (;o< so about his maternal ancestors, in a poem c y Gair, a mountain where he spent part of 1; and might have learnt that pibroch is not e, any more than duet means a fiddle. :ie author has dedicated so large a part of bis vo- immortalize bis employments at school and , we cannot possibly dismiss it without presenl- 1 reader with a specimen of these ingenious effu- In an ode with a Greek motto, called Granla, e the following magnificent stanzas: We are sorry to hear so bad an account of the lege psalmody as is contained in the following Attic But whatever judgment may be passed on the poei of this noble minor, it seems we must take them as ' find them, and be content; for they are the last » shall ever have from him. He is, at best, he says, b an intruder into the groves of Parnassus ; be never lived in a garret, like thorough-bred poets; and « though b once roved a careless mountaineer in the Highlands .. Scotland,»> he has not of late enjoyed this advantag. Moreover, be expects no profit from his publication and, whether it succeeds or not, « it is highly improba ble, from bis situation and pursuits hereafter, >* that he should again condescend to become an author. There- fore, let us take what we get, and be thankful. Wlia right have we poor devils to be nice? Wc arc well off to have got so much from a man of this Lord's station, who does not live in a garret, but « has the sway» of N'ewstead Abbey. Again, we say, let us be thankful; and, with honest Sancho, bid God bless the giver, nor look the gift horse in the mouth. BYRON'S WORKS. A SATIRE. I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew ! Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers. Such shameless Bards wc have; and yet, 't is true, 'There are as mad, abandon'd Critics too. Pope. PREFACE. ny friends, learned and unlearned^ have urged me o publish this Satire with my name. If I were to be « turned from the career of my humour by quibbles |uick, and paper bullets of the brain, » I should have romplied with their counsel. 'But I am-not to be ter- ified by abuse, or bullied by reviewers, with or with- iut arms. I can safely say that I have attacked none wsonally who did not commence on the offensive. in author's works are public property: he who pur- chases may judge, and publish his opinion if he pleases; and the authors I have endeavoured to commemorate may do bv me as I have done by them : I dare say they will succeed better in condemning my scribblings, than in mending their own. But my object is not to prove that I can write well, but, if possible, to make others write better. As the Poem has met with far more success than I expected, I have endeavoured in this edition to make some additions and alterations, to render it more wor- thy of public perusal. _ \ In the first edition of this Satire, published anony- nously, fourteen lines on the subject of Bowles's Pope vere written and inserted at the request of an inge- iious friend of mine, who has now in the press a vo- lume of poetry. In the present edition they are erased, iomeof my own substituted in their stead; my only reason for this being that which I conceive would operate with any-other person in the same manner— a determination not to publish with my name any pro- duction which was not entirely and exclusively my own composition. With regard to the real talents of many of the poet- ical persons whose performances are mentioned or alluded to in the following pages, it is presumed by the or that there can be little difference of opinion in the public at large; though, like other sectaries, each has his separate tabernacle of proselytes, by whom his abilities are overrated, his faults overlooked, and his metrical canons received without scruple and without consideration. But the unquestionable possession of nsiderable genius by several of the writers here cen- sured, renders their mental prostitution more to be jretted. Imbecility may be pitied, or, at worst, laughed at and forgotten; perverted powers demand the most decided reprehension. No one can wish more than the author, that some known and able writei undertaken their exposure; but Mr Giffoiid has de- voted himself to Massinger, and, in the absence of the regular .physician, a country practitioner may, in c of absolute necessity, be allowed to prescribe his 1 trum, to prevent the extension of so deplorable epidemic, provided there be no quackery in his tr merit of the malady. A caustic is here offered, as to be feared nothing short of actual cautery can r> ver the numerous patients afflicted with the present prevalent and distressing rabies for rhyming. — As to the Edinburgh Reviewers, it would indeed require a Hercules to crush the Hydra ; but if the author succeeds in merely « bruising one of the heads of the serpent,» though his own hand should suffer in the encounter, lie will be amply satisfied. ENGLISH BARDS, Still must I hear? — shall hoarse Fitzgerald 1 bawl His creaking couplets in a tavern hall, And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch Reviews Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my Muse? Prepare for rhyme— I '11 publish, right or wrong: Fools are my theme, let Satire be my song. Oh! Nature's noblest gift — my gray goose-quill! Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen, That mighty instrument of little men! The pen ! foredoom'd to aid the mental throes Of brains that labour, big with verse or prose, Though nymphs forsake, and critics may deride The lover's solace, and the author's pride : What wits, what poets dost thou daily raise ! How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise ! Condemn'dat length to be forgotten quite, With all the pages which 'twas thine to write. But thou, at least, mine own especial pen! Once laid aside, but now assumed again, 1 IMITATION. Veiatus totics rauci Tbeseide CodiiN — Juvenal. Sat. I. Mr Fiiighiu, facetiously termed by ConBEtr the -Small Br. Poet,, ioflicls bis annual tribute of verse on the * Liters) y 1" und : ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. Our task complete, like II. unci V shall be free; spurn'd Ijv others, yet In-loved by me: eastern vision, no distemper'd dream >ircs— our path, though full of thorns, is plain ; >olb be the verse, and easy be the strain. Hicn Vice triumphant holds her sovereign sway, I men, through life her willing slaves, obey; When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime, Unfolds her motley store to suit the lime; n knaves and fools combinedo'eral! prevail, When Justice halts, and R i ^; J 1 1 begins to fail, E'en then the boldest start from public sneers, Afraid of shame, unknown to other tears, More darkly sin, by Satire kept in awe. And shrink from ridicule, though not from law. Such is the force of Wit! but not belong To me the arrows of satiric song; The royal vices of our aye demand A keener weapon, and a mightier hand. tbere are follies e'en for me to chase, And yield at least amusement in the race: Enugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame — cry is up, and Scribblers arc my yamc; Speed, P yasus ! — ye strains of yreat and small, Ode, Epic, Elcyy, have at you all ! I too can scrawl, and once upon a time I poiir'd along the town a Hood of rhyme — \ school-boy freak, unworthy praise or blame: I printed — older children do the same. Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's Dame in print; A book s a book, altlio' there s nothiny in t. Not thai a title's sounding charm can save :rawl or scribbler from an equal grave: This Lamue must own, since his patrician name Fdil'd to preserve the spurious farce from shame.' No matter, George continues still to write, 3 Though now the name is veil'd from public sight. Moved by the great example, I pursue The self-same road, but make my own reviow: icek great Jeffrey's— yet, like him, will be Self-constituted judge of poesy. Save censure — critics all are ready made. Take hackney'd jokes from Miller, got by rote, "ith just enough of \< riming to misquote; mind well skill'd to find or forge a fault; A turn for punning, call it Attic salt; To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet, His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet : Fear not to lie, 'i will seem a lucky hit; ik not from blasphemy, t will pass for wit; Care not for feeling — pas, your proper jest. And stand a critic, hated yet caress'd. id shall we own such judgment 1 no — as soon Seek roses in December, ice in June; Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff; i C<» II»*e» Bniwiti pr..mit<-»r<-pr.,.- in )„t pen in die laii . I. Or any other thing that 's false, before You trust in critics who themselves are sore; Or yield one sinyle thought to be misled By Jeffrey's heart, or Lambe's Boeotian head.' To these young tyrants. * by themselves misplaced, Combined usurpers on the throne of Taste; To these, when authors bend in humble awe, And hail their voice as truth, their word as law; Oiile these ; ild he > While such arc critics, why should I forbear? But yet, so near all modern worthies run, 'T is doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun; Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike, Our bards and censors are so much alike. 3 Then should you ask me, why I venture o'er The path which Pope and Gifford trod before: If not yet sicken'd, you can still proceed: Go on; my rhyme will tell you as you read. Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days Ignoble themes obtniu'd mistaken praise, When Sense and Wit with Poesy allied, No fabled Graces, flourish'd side by side, From the same fount their inspiration drew. And, rear'd by Taste, bloom'd fairer as they grew. Then, in this happy isle, a Popes pure strain Sought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought in vain; A polish'd nation's praise aspired to claim, And raised the people's, as the poet's fame, hike him great Dhyden pour'd the tide of song, In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly strong. ThenCoNGREVE's scenes could cheer, or Otway's m' For"nnture then an English audience felt. Cut why these names, or greater still, retrace, When all to feebler brink resign tiicir place? Yet to such times our lingering looks are cast, When taste and reason with those times are past. ng page, Survey the precious works that please the age; This truth at least let Satire's self allow, No dearth of bards can be complain'd of now : The loaded press beneath her labour groans, And printers' devils shake their weary booes; While Soutoey's epics cratn. tlx creaking shelves, And Little's lyrics shine in hot-press' d twelves. Thus saith the Preacher,* « nought beneath the s Is new;» yet still from change to change we run: What varied wonders tempt us as they pass! The cow-pox,, tractors, galvanism, and gas, In turns appear, to make tl*e vulgar stare. Till the swoln bubble bursts— and all is air! Nor less new schools of poetry arise, Where dull pr< tenders grapple for the prize: O'er Taste awhile these pseudo-bards prevail ; Each country book-club bows the knee to Baal, 28 BYRON'S WORKS. blast. And, hurling lawful genius from the throne, Erects a shrine and idol of its own; : leaden calf — but whom it matters- not, From soaring Southey down to groveling Stott Behold! in various throngs the scribbling crev or notice eager, pass in long review: Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace, And rhyme and blank maintain an equal race; Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode ; And tales of terror jostle on the road; nmeasurahle measures move along; For simpering Folly loves a varied song, To strange mysterious Dullness still the friend, lires the strain she cannot comprehend. ; Lays of Minstrels - — may they be the last!- On half-strung harps whine mourr While mountain spirits prate to river sprites, That dames may listen to (heir sound at nights; And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner's 3 brood, Decoy young border-nobles through the wood, And skip at every step, Lord knows how high. And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows why While high-born ladies in their magic cell, Forbidding knights to read who cannot spell, Dispatch a courier to a wizard's grave, And fight with honest men to shield a knave. Next view in state, proud prancing on his roa The golden-crested haughty Marmion, Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight, Not quite a felon, yet but half a knight, roiT, Letter known in the • Morning Post- by the G edy. unfortunate lo C ue between M. Tben we The gibbet or the field prepared to grace — A mighty mixture of the great and base. And tbink'st thou, Scott ! by vain conceit perch* On public taste to foist thy stale romance, ugh Murray i To li.-ilf ■ when the sons of song descend to trade, ■ bays are sear, their former laurels fade. ach forego the poet's sacred name, rack their brains for lucre, not for fame: Low may tbey sink to merited contempt, scorn remunerate the mean attempt! Such be their meed, such still the just reward Of prostituted muse and hireling bard! his we spurn Apollo's venal son, And bid a long « good night to Marmion. » l These are the themes that claim our plaudits now; These are the bards to whom the muse must bow: iile Milton, Dryden, Pope, alike forgot. Resign their hallow'd bays to Walter Scott. e time has been when yet the muse was young, u Homer swept the lyre, and Maro sung, While awe-struck nations hailed the magic name: The work of each immortal bard appears single wonder of a thousand years. 2 Empires have moulder'd from the face of earth, ngues have expired with those who gave them birth, Without the glory such a strain can give, s eveD in ruin bids the language live. at so with us, though minor bards, content, i one great work a life of labour spent: Heboid the ballad-monger, Sodtbey, rise! To him let Camoens, Milton, Tasso, yield, se annual strains, like armies, lake the field. First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance, scourge of England, and the boast of France ! Though burnt by wicked Bedford for a witch, Behold her statue placed in glory's niche; Her fetters burst, and just released from prison, gin Phoenix from her ashes risen. see tremendous Thalaba come on, 3 Arabia's monstrous, wild, and wondrous son; Domdaniel's dread destroyer, who o'erthrew More mad magicians than the world e'er knew. Immortal hero! all thy foes o'ercome, For ever reign—the rival of Tom Thumb ! Since startled metre fled before thy face, Well wert thou doornd the last of all thy race! Well might triumphant Genii bear thee hence, Illustrious conqueror of common sense? "{•M and Charger actly what Willfao ■ poems. Query; Which of Mr Sodi Thalaba was one of those poems . which (in the words of Pobsoh) ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. list ami greatest. .Ma. In.- spreads li is sails. Cacique in Mexico, and Prince in Wales; us strange tales, as other travellers do, More old than Mandeville's, and not so true. Oh! Soi-tbey, Solthey!' cease thy varied song! A Bard may chaunt too often and too long: As thou art strong in verse, in mercy spare! A fourth, alas! were more than we could bear. ih- ' Thou still wilt vcrseward plod thy weary way; If still in Berkley ballads, most uncivil. Thou will devote old women to the devil, 2 The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue; i God help ihee,»> Southey, and thy readers too. 3 Next comes the dull disciple of thy school. That mild apostate from poetic rule, The simple Wordsworth, framer of a lay As soft as evening in his favourite May; > shake off toil and trc And quit his books, for fear of growing double ;> , both by precept and example, shows That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose, Convincing all, by demonstration plain, Poelic souls delight in prose insane; mas stories, tortured into rhyme, Contain the essence of the true sublime : Thus when he tells the (ale of Betty Fpy, The idiot mother of « an idiot Boy";» moon-struck silly lad who lost bis way, id, like his bard, confounded night with day, 5 i close on each pathetic part he dwells, And each adventure so sublimely tells, That all who view the u idiot in his glory,» Conceive the Bard the hero of the story. Shall gentle Coleridge pass unnoticed here. To turgid ode, and tumid stanza dear? Though themes of innocence amuse him best, I obscurity s a welcome guest. If Inspiration should her aid refuse To him who takes a Pixy for a Muse,* Why it epic degraded i and hi nt> of Ua.icr. Coi.Lt, [..ureal I>.r, Oo, ■■ Mr SootWi p KM tO "..1 Sir It.c lit, ,,f hi. ran.. ofBrrkW. a n.ll.J l,y Mr S,.,,,.,. .fa . s ,d G.n.lr.om.o i. ..mod ...jb.Ba.L.bub, oo . .b: c b- Tb. I..I III"-. • God hrlp ,1,,,,. i. ao o,idoot pl. c i.ri.ro from c.d M, A~. ..11. O...— Porlry <,f til. Anll-ja, ..bin, fll( .. j Lyrical Ballad*, par, Wb T .11 . " ""' ""' " * ' ■'.n'"V" b , ,., . Voo„ c A, to ■ Young Lady,. Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass The bard who soars to elegize an ass. How well the subject suits bis noble mind! « A fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind!" Oh! wonder-working Lewis! Monk, or Bard, Who fain wouhlst make Parnassus a church-yard! I,o ! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow, Thy Muse a sprite Apollo's sexton thou! Whether on ancient tombs thou tak'st thy stand, By gibb'ring spectres liail'd, thy kindred band; Or traccst chaste descriptions on thy page, To please the females of our modest age, All hail, M. P.! 1 from whose infernal brain Thin-sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train ; And kings of lire, of water, and of clouds, With « small grey men,»— f< wild yagers,» and what not, To crowd with honour thee and Walter Scott: Again, all hail! If tales like thine may please, St Luke alone can vanquish the disease; Even Satan's self with thee might dread to dwell, And in thy skull discern a deeper hell. Who in soft guise, surrounded by a choir Of virgins melting, not to Vesta's fire, AY i lb sparkling eyes, ami check by passion flush'd. Strikes his wild lyre, whilst listening dames are hush'd? Tis Little ! young Catullus of his day, As sweet, but as immoral in bis lay! Grieved to condemn, the Muse must still be just, Nor spare melodious advocates of lust. Pure is the flame which o'er her altar burns; From grosser incense with disgust she turns: Yet, kind to youth, this expiation o'er, She bids iliee .« men, I thv line and sin no more." For thee, translator of the tinsel song, To whom such glittering ornaments belong, Hibernian Si n v\<;For.ri ! with thine eyes of blue, 3 And boasted locks of red, or auburn hue, And o'er harmonious fustian half expires, Nor vend thy sonnets on a false pretence. Think'st thou to gain thy verse a higher place By dressing Camoens in asuil of lace? Mend, Strangford ! mend thy morals and thy taste ; Be warm, but pure; be amorous, but be chaste: Cease to deceive; thy pilfer'd harp restore, Nor teach the Lusiau Bard to ropy Moore. In ] arble-i llivi.F.v. in vain attempting something new Whether he spin bis comedies in rhyme, Or scrawl, as Wood and Barclay walk, ga lli^ style in youth or age is still the same, For evct feeble and for ever lame. Triumphant first see ..Temper's Triumphs. At least, I m sure, they triumpb'd over mil WU .o p* n « Sti, or lo ll.« I iMrOli'l ClNOWI. I> it ■ Ilic origin*. l'.,i Ujjmkk it. BYRON'S WORKS. Of, lb' ilth l" gnat Jeffrey! Heaven preserve his life, To lloui-ish on the fertile shores of Fife, And guard it sacred in his future wars. Since authors sometimes seek the field of Mars! Can none remember (hat eventful day, That ever glorious, almost fatal fray, When I.l ■tees leadless pislol met his eye, And Bow street myrmidons stood laughing by ? ' Oh day . sastrous ! on her firm-set rock, Dane din castle felt ,1 secret shock; Dark rol d the sympathetic waves of Forth. n'd the startled whirlwinds of the nortl Tweed n filed half his wave to form a tear, The othe half pursued its calm career; 2 Arthur's steep summit nodded to its base. The surl Tolboolh scarcely kept her place; The Tolb ooth felt— for marble sometimes can, On such occasions, feel as much as man— The Toll ooth felt defrauded of his charms IfjEFFRE y died, except within her arms: 3 Nay, last not least, on that portentous morn The sistc enth storey, where himself was born, His patri linnial jjarret fell to ground, And |<;il<> lldina shudder"*! at the sound: Strcw'd were the streets around with milk-white re Flow'd all the Canongate with inky streams; This of his candour seem'd the sable dew, alour shew'd the bloodless hue, .nd all with justice dcem'd the two combined 'he mingled einhlcnis of liis mighty mind, ul Caledonia's Goddess bovcr'd o'er 3p field, and saved him. from the wrath of Moor: "rom either pislol snatrh d the vengeful lead, uid straight restored it to her favourite's head: 'hat head, with greater than magnetic power, /infill it, as Danae the golden shower, tud, though the thickening dross will scarce re fin Tha ,1,,;,, ami for gore aga ,» she cried, « n Resign the pistol, and resume the p« and poesy preside, Boast of thy country, and Britannia For, long as Albion's heedless sons submit Or Scottish taste decides on English wit, So long shall last thine unmolested reign, Nor any dare lo take thy name in vaiu. Behold a chosen band shall aid thy plan, Ajid own thee chieftain of the critic clap. First in the ranks illustrious shall be seen .-I.ITh.. •eul.-d ... >l.r tW 32 BYRON'S WORKS. Smug Sydney 1 toe And classic 1 1 axi.a Scott may percha And paltry Pillan bitter page shall seek, nncli renown'd for Gre lis name and influence nil n .nlnce his friend: ; Incklr^, While gay Tin As he himself v i be thy name, unbounded be thy sway ! Thy Holland's banquets shall each toil repay ; 3 grateful Britain yields the praise she owes >lla«d's hirelings, and to Learning's foes. Yet mark one caution, ere thy next Review Spread its light wings of saffron and of blue, Beware lest blundering Brougham 1 destroy the sale, l beef to bannocks, cauliflowers to kail.n ; having said, the kilted goddess kist soft, and vanish'd in a Scottish mist. 6 Illustrious Holland ! hard would be his lot, jn'd, and himself forgot! Holland, with Henry Petty at his back, jpper-iu and huntsman of the pack. Blest be the banquets spread at Holland House, Where Scotchmen feed, and critics may carouse! Long, long beneath that hospitable roof, Shall Grub-street dine, while duns are kept aloof. See honest Hallam lay aside his fork, his pen, review his lordship's work, And, grateful to the founder of the feast, Declare his landlord can translate, at least ! 7 Dunedin ! view thy children with delight, They write for food, and feed because they write : And lest, when heated with th' unusual grape, glowing thoughts should to the press escape, -Biouch*)!. in >o XXV < lWdm-r. j.,,1 Li 9 l)amc is pronounced Broom, from Trent to To). » I I could Dot .ay Cal.-.i,.,.,, . ( ;,nuu. it b,,,,, well known there i, ours. (Sp rilso » B ood d spos refused oextr CHIC lu.ll i- ill. and (n ";■■'• ■|T,„. S, e only c Ol, .0 ■»Y luMVenl, ofLopo .Veg inserlet 1 tl. Ami >™ I.,,., i.«l b, ai. dU ••!"*«'■' And tinge with red the female reader's cheek, My lady skims the cream of each critique; Breathes o'er the page her purity of soul. Reforms each error and refines the whole. 1 Now to the Drama turn: Oh motley sight! What precious scenes the wondering eyes invite ! Puns, and a. prince within a barrel pent, 2 And Dibdin's nonsense, yield complete content. Though now, thank Heaven! the Rosciomania's o'er, And full-grown actors are endured once more; Yet what avail their vain attempts to please, While British critics suffer scenes like these ? While Reynolds vents his «dammes, poohs,» ai And common place, and common sense confounds? While Kenny's World, just suffer'd to proceed, Proclaims the audience very kind indeed? And Beaumont's pilfer'd Caratach affords A tragedy complete in all but words ? 4 Who but must mourn while these are all the rage, The degradation of our vaunted stage? Heavens! is all sense of shame and talent gone? Have we no living bard of merit? — none? Awake, George Golman, Cumberland, awake! Ring the alarum-bell, let folly quake ! Oh Sheridan ! if aught can move thy pen, . Let Comedy resume her throne again, Abjure the mummery of German schools, Leave new Fizarros to traiulaiin;; kin Is; Give, as thy last memorial to the age, One classic drama, and reform the stage. Gods! o'er those boards shall Folly rear her head Where Garrick trod, and Kemble lives to tread? On those shall Farce display buffoonery's mask, And Hooke conceal his heroes in a cask? Shall sapient managers new scenes produce From Cherry, Skfffengton, and Mother Goose? While Shakspf.are, Otway, Masstnger, forgot, Ou stalls must moulder, or in closets rot? Lo! with what pomp the daily prints proclaim The rival candidates for Attic fame! In grim array though Lewis' spectres rise, Still Skeffington and Goose diude the prize. ' N,n I'or ■ikiriless coals and skeletons of plays Renown'd alike ; whose genius ne'er confines Her Might to garnish Greenwood's gay designs; 5 Nor sleeps with « Sleeping Beauties,» but anon In five facetious acts comes thundering on, 6 While poor John Bull, bewilder'd with the scene, Stares, wondering what' the devil it can mean ; « Certain it is. her ladyship is suspe.ted of having display. r of Drury-Lanc Theatre, stripped a G is quan. Uuro d 1( ;n ENGLISH RARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 331 Rather than sleep, why John applauds it too. Such are we now. ah! wherefore should we tun To what our fathers were, uuless to mourn? Degenerate Unions I are ye dead to shame, Or, kind to d illness, do ye fear to blame? Well may the uohles of our present race Watch each distortion ofa Naldi's face; Well may they smile on Italy's buffoons, And worship Catalani's pantaloons, 1 Since their own drama yields no fairer trace Of wit than puns, of humour than grimace. Then let Ausonu, skill'd in every art, To soften manners, but corrupt the heart, Pour her exotic follies o'er the town, To sanction vice and hunt decorum down: Let wedded strumpets languish o'er Dcshayes, And bless the promise which his form displays; While (.ay ton bounds before the enraptured look Of hoary marquisscs and stripling dukes: Let high-horn Iclehers eye the lively Preslc Twirl her light limbs that spurn the needless veil I. el Augioliui bare her breast of snow, Wave the white arm and point the pliant toe: Collini trill her love-inspiring song, Strain her fair neck and charm the listening thro Raise not your scythe, suppressors of our vice! r.efnniiing saints, ton delicately nice! By whose decrees, our sinful souls to save, No Sunday tankards foam, no barbers shave, And beer undrawn and beards unmown display Your holy reverence for the sabbath-day. ail at once llic patron nd the pile and follv. Crcv Hi: and Arfiylc! 1 ynn prouc cc. Fas lion's hallow d fa (wide her lis for the motley train. die 11. w 1 •iron ins 3 o the day, .iter of pie ando play! Talk not to us, ye starving sous of trade ! Of piteous ruin, which ourselves have ma In Plenty's sunshine Fortune's minions ha Nor think of Poverty, except «en masque When for the night some lately titled ass Appears the beggar which his grandsire \ The curtain dropp'd, the gay burletia o'et The audience take their turn upon the fl< Now round the room the circling dow'ge Now in loose waltz the thin-clad daughtt The first in lenglheu'd line majestic swiu The last display the free, unfettcr'd limb ' llibel With art tlie charms which Nat These after husbands wing theii Nor leave much mystery for the e could not s ager Might, uptial night. Oh! blest retreats of infamy and ease! Where, all forgotten but the power to please, Bach maid may give a loose to genial thought, Each swain may teach new systems, or be taught: There the blithe youngster, just return'd from Spaii Cuts the light pack, or calls the rattling main; The jovial caster's set, and seven's the nick, Or — done! — a thousand on the coming trick! If mad with loss, existence 'gins to tire, There the hired eunuch, the Hesperian choir, The melting lute, the soft lascivious lyre, The song from Italy, the step from France, liduighl orgy, and the mazy dance, mile of beauty, and the Hush of wine, For fops, fouls, gamesters, knaves, and lords combine: to his humour, — Comus all allows; Champaign, dice, music, or your neighbour's spouse. Here's Powell':* pistol ready for your life, And, kinder still, a Paget for your wife. Fit consummation of an earthly race Begun in folly, ended in disgrace. While none hut menials o'er the bed.of death, Wash thy red wounds, or watch thy wavering breath: Traduced by liars, and forgot by all, The mangled victim of a drunken brawl, To live like Clodios,' and like Falkland 3 fall. Truth! rouse some genuine bard, and guide his hand To drive this pestilence from out the land, "ven T — least thinking of ;i thoughtless throng, ust skill'd to know the right and ehuse the wrong, reed at that age when Reason's shield is lost, To light my course through Passion's countless host, Whom every path of pleasure's flowery way Has lured in turn, ;itid all have led astray — feel Such scenes, such men, destroy the public weal; Altho' some kind, censorious friend will say, "What art thou better, meddling fool, than thcy?» And every brother r.ikc will smile lo see That miracle, a moralist, in me. No matter— when some bard, In virtue strong, GirrORij perchance, shall raise the chastening song Then sleep my pell for ever! and my voice lie only heard to hail him and rejoice; Uejoicc, and yield my feeble praise; though I May feel the lash that virtue must apply. F.lnil. "Jrr.lu,. • Mir l.io Lord F.i.t... mil. li., .1 1,1. o.n l.l,lr,*ia .11 the I 34 BYRON'S WORKS. As for the smaller fry, who swarm in shoals, From silly Hafiz l up to simple Bowles, Why should we call them from their dark abode, Tn broad St Giles's or in Tottenham Road ? Or (since some men of fashion nobly dare To scrawl in verse) from Bond-street, or the SqOari If things of ton their harmless lays indite, Most wisely doom'd to shun the public sight, What harm ? in spite of every critic elf, Sir T. may read his stanzas to himself; Miles Andrews still his strength in couplets try. And live in prologues, though his dramas die. Lords too are bards: such things at times befal, And 'tis some praise in peers to write at all.* Yet, did or taste or reason sway the times, Ah ! who would take their titles with their rhymes? Roscommon! Sheffield! with your spirits fled, No future laurels deck a noble head; No Muse will cheer, with renovating smile, The paralytic puling of Carlisle: The puny school-boy and his early lay Men pardon, if his lollies pass away; But who forgives the senior's ceaseless verse, Whose hairs grow hoary as his rhymes grow worse What heterogeneous honours deck the Peer! Lord, rhymester, petit-maitre, pamphleteer! 2 So dull in youth, so drivelling in his age, His scenes alone had damn'd our sinking stage: But managers for once cried « hold, enough !» Nor drugg'd their audience with the tragic stuff. Yet at their judgment let his lordship laugh, And case his volumes in congenial calf: Yes ! doff that covering where morocco shines, And hang a calf-skin 3 on those recreant lines. With you, ye Druids! rich in native lead, Who daily scribble for your daily bread, With you I war not: Giffords heavy hand Has crush'd, without remorse, your numerous ban< On « all the Talcnts» vent your venal spleen, Want your defence, let Pity be your screen. Let Monodies on Fox regale your crew, And Melville's Mantle4 prove a Blanket too! One common Lethe waits each hapless bard. And peace be with you ! 't is your best reward. Such damning fame as Dunciads only give, Could bid your lines beyond a morning live ; But now at once your fleeting labours close, With names of greater note in blest repose. Far be 't from me unkindly to upbraid The lovely Rosa's prose in masquerade, dban C a calf-skin <'b r wirh thclirrli.it ferret Yet truth sometimes will lend her noblest fires, And decorate the verse herself inspires: This fact in virtues name let Crabbe attest- Though nature's sternest painter, yet the best. And here lei Shee' and genius find a place; Whose pen and pencil yield an equal grace; To guide whose hand the sister arts combine; And trace the poet's or the painter's line; Whose magic touch can bid the canvas glow. Or pour the easy rhyme's harmonious flow, While honours doubly merited attend The poet's rival, but the painter's friend. Blest is the man who dares approach the bower Where dwelt the Muses at their natal hour; Whose steps have press'd, whose eye. has rnark'd ;if; The clime that nursed the sous of song and war, The scenes which glory still must hover o'er, Her place of birth, her own Aeh.iian shore : But doubly blest is he whose heart expands With hallow'd feelings for those classic lands; Who rends the veil of ages long gone by, And views their remnants with a poet's eye ! Wright! 2 'twas thy happy lot at once to view Those shores of glory, and to sing them too ; And sure no common muse inspired thy pen To hail the land of gods and godlike men. And you, associate Bards! 3 who snatch'd to light Those gems too long withheld from modern sight; Whose mingling taste combined to cull the wreath Where Attic flowers Aonian odours breathe, And all their renovated fragrance flung, To grace the beauties of your native tongue. Now let those minds that nobly could transfuse The glorious- spirit of the Grecian muse, Though soft the echo, scorn a borrow'd tone, Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own. Let these, or such as these, with just applause, Restore the Muse's violated laws: But not in flimsy Darwin's pompous chime, That mighty master of unmeaning rhyme; Whose gilded cymbals more adorn'd than clear. The eye delighted, but fatigued the car, In show the simple lyre could ouce surpass. But now worn down, appear in native brass; While all his train of hovering sylphs around, Evaporate in similies and sound : Him let them shun, with him let tinsel die: False glare attracts, but more offends the eye.* Yet let them not to vulgar Wordsworth stoop, The meanest object of the lowly group, sc verso, of all but childish prattle void, Seems blessed harmony to LlMBSflDrJ Llqyd: 1 Let them — hut hold, my muse, nor dare to teach A strain far, far beyond thy humble reach: 36 BYRON'S WORKS. The native genius with their feeling given Will point the path, and peal their notes to heaven. And thou, too, Scott!' resign to minstrels rude The wilder slogan of a Border feud: Let others spin their meagre lines for hire — Enough for genius if itself inspire! Let Southey sing, although his teeming muse, Prolific every string, be too profuse ; Let simple Wordsworth chime his childish verse, And brother Coleridge lull the babe at nurse; Let spectre-mongering Lewis aim at most To rouse the galleries, or to raise a ghost; Let Moore be lewd; let Strangford steal from Moo And swear that Camoens sang such notes of yore : Let Haley hobble on, Montgomery rave, And godly Grahame chaunt a stupid stave; Let sonnetteering Bowles his strains refine, And whine and whimper to the fourteenth line ; Let Stott, Carlisle, 2 Matilda, and the rest Of Grub-street, and of Grosvenor-Place the best, Scrawl on, till death release us from the strain, Or common sense assert her rights again ; But thou, with powers that mock the aid of praise, Should'st leave to humbler bards ignoble lays: Thy country's voice, the voice of all the Nine, Demand a hallow'd harp — that harp is thine. Say! will not Caledonia's annals yield The glorious record of some nobler field, Than the vile foray of a plundering clan, Whose proudest deeds disgrace the name of man? Or Marmion's acts of darkness, fitter food For outlaw'd Sherwood's tales of Robin Hood? Scotland! still proudly claim thy native bard. And be thy praise his first, his host reward I Yet not with thee alone his name should live, Bi I I . the ' •rid ( Be known, perchance, when Albion is no mo And tell the tale of what she was before; To future times her faded fame recal, And save her glory, though his country fall. ' By tbe bye, I hope that in Mr Scon's next poem his Yet what avails the sanguine poet's hope To conquer ages, and with time to cope? New eras spread their wings, new nations rise, And other victors 1 fill the applauding skies: A few brief generations fleet along, Whose sons forget the poet and his song: E'en now what once-loved minstrels scarce may claim When Fame's loud trump hath blown its noblest blast, Though long the sound, the echo sleeps at last, And glory, like the phoenix midst her fires, Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires. Shall hoary Granta call her sable sons, Expert in science, more expert at puns? Shall these approach the muse? ah, no! she Hies, And even spurns the great Seatnnian prize, Though printers condescend the press to soil V iih rhyme by Hoare, and epic blank by HoYLE: Not him whose page, if still upheld by whist, Requires no sacred theme to bid us list. 2 Ye who in Granta's honours would surpass, Must mount her Pegasus, a full-grown ass — A foal well worthy of her ancient dam, Whose llrlirnn is duller than her Cam. There Clarke, still striving pileously «to please," Forgetting doggrel leads not to degrees, A would-be satirist, a hired buffoon, A monthly scribbler of some low lampoon, Condemn' d to drudge, the meanest of the mean, And furbish falsehoods for a magazine, Devotes to scandal his congenial mind — Himself a living libel on mankind. 3 Oh, dark asylum of a Vandal race!* At ouce the boast of learning, and disgrace ; ; and i That Smyth e and Hodgson 5 scarce redeem thy fame! But where fair Isis rolls her purer wave, The partial muse delighted loves to lave; On her green banks a greener wreath is wove. To crown the bards that hnuni. Iht classic grove, Where Richards wakes, a genuine poet's fires. And modern Britons justly praise their sires. G For me, who thus uuask'd have dared to tell My country what her sons should know too well, Zeal for her honour bade me here engage The host of idiots that infest her age. liscemingpiAjiwfes tbe > l>la G ucs of Egypt. ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. No just applause her honour d name shall lose, Oh, would thy bards but emulate thy fame, Auil rise more worthy, Albion, of thy name! What Athens was in science, Rome in power, What Tyre appear.! in her meridian hour, T is thine at once, fair Albion, to have been. Earth's chief diclatress. Ocean's mighty queen: lint Home decay'd. nu\ Athens strew'd the plain, And Tyre's proud piers lie sh atter'd in the main : Like these (by strength may sink in ruin hurl'd, Anil llritain fall, the bulwark of the world. Rut let me cease, and dread Cassandra's fate, With warning ever scoff d at, till too late; To themes less lofty still my lay confine, And urge thy bards to gain a name like thine. Then, hapless Rritain ! be thy rulers blest, The senate's oracles, the people's jest ! Still hear thy motley orators dispense The (lowers of rhetoric, though not of sense. While Canning's colleagues hate him for his wit. And old dame Portland' fills the place of Pitt. Yet once again adieu? ere this the sail That wafts me hence is shivering in the gale: And Afric's coast and CalpeV adverse height. And Slarnboul's 3 minarels must greet my sight: Thence shall I stray through beauty s i native clime, Where K.iff 3 is chid in rocks, and crown'd with snows sublime. Rut should I back return, no letter'd rage Shall drag my common-place hook on the stage: Let vain Valentia 6 rival luckless Cabh, And equal him whose work he sought to mar; Let Aberdeen and Elgin 7 still pursue The shade of fame through regions of virtu; Waste useless thousands on their Phidian freaks, Misshapen monuments and maiin'd antiques; And make their grand saloons a general mart Fori Of Dardan tours let dilettanti tell, I leave topography to classic Cell; 8 And quite content, no more shall interpose To stun mankind with poesy or prose. Thus far'Ive held my undisturb'd career, Prepared for rancour, steel d 'gainst selfish fear This thing of rhyme I ne'er disdain d to own- Though not obtrusive, yet not quite unknown: tarfrf-i-tftao I -,..,».„ f decoration t, graph"* I. i«p»£r*pliii.J, 4 ml typographical) drpntrd, Sir Jova C.ii'i unlucky itin. ili.it Dviom' Mlirt prevented bra rttiawof ihr aStHBgn in lr*ljnd.._01i 6m, my Lord ! lui your ' Mr Gaii/i Topography of Troy and Iili.r, , My voice was heard again, though not so loud; My page, though nameless, never disavow d, And now at once I tear the veil away: Cheer on the pack ! the quarry stands at bay, En sea red by all the din of Melbourne-Iiousc, Ry Lambe's resentment, or by Holland's spouse, Ry Jeffreys harmless pistol, Hallam's rage, Edina's brawny sons aiu\ 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 craw I'd beneath myeyes: But now, so callous grown, so changed since youth, I've learned to think and sternly speak ihe truth; Learn'd to deride ihe 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. Thus much I've dared to do ; how far my lay Hath wrong'd these righteous times, let others say; This let the world, which knows not how to spare, Yet rarely blames unjustly, now deoJare. POSTSCRIPT. i been informed, ! the present edi the press, that my trusty and well belove*. .,. ■ Edinburgh Reviewers, are preparing a most ■nt critique on my poor, gentle, ««*""■''' lorn they have already so bedeviled wi ■aldry: ■ungodly iih, «a ly of Jeffrey as Sir Andrew Ague I had known he was so cunning o .. fence, I bad seen him damned err: I had fought him. What a pity it is that I shall be beyond the Rosphorn before the next number has passed the Tweed. Ru yet I hope to light my pipe with it in Persia. My northern friends have accused me, with justice, of personality toward-, their great literary Anthropophagi^ JhFrHkY : but what else was |o be done wil 1 1 111 111 ami hi dirty pack, who feed .< by lying and slandering..- am slake their thirst by " evil-speaking ?.» I have adducci facts already well known, and of Jeffrey's mind 1 hav. stated my free opinion, nor has he thence sustainei any injury: what scavenger was ever soiled by being pelted with mud? It may be said that I quit England because I have censored there ..persons of honour and wit about town; » but I am coming back again their vengeance will keep hot till my return. Those who know me can testify that my motives for leavi England are very different from fears, literary or p sonal ; those who do no I, may one day be convinced. 38 BYRON'S WORKS. Since the publication of this thing, my name has not been concealed; I have been mostly in London, ready to answer for my transgressions, and in daily expecta- tion of sundry cartels; but, alas! «The age of chi- valry is over;» or, in the vulgar tongue, there is no spirit now-a-days. There is a youth yclept Ilewson Clarke, (subaudi, Esq.) a sizer of Emanuel College, and I believe a denizen of (ierwick upon Tweed, whom I have introduced in these pages to much better company than he has heen accustomed to meet: he is, notwithstanding, a wry sad dog, and, for no reason that I can discover, except a personal quarrel with a hear, kept by me at Cambridge to sil ?»]• a fellowship, and whom, the jealousy of his Trinity cotemporaries prevented from success, has been abusing me, and, what is worse, the defenceless innocent above mentioned, in the Satirist, for one year and some months. I am utterly unconscious of having given him any provocation ; indeed I am guiltless of having heard his name, till it was coupled with the Satirist. He has therefore no reason to complain, and I dare say that, like Sir Fretful Plagiary, he is rather pleased than other- wise. I have now mentioned all who have done me the honour to notice me and mine, that is, my bear and my hook, except the editor of the Satirist, who, it seems, is a gentleman, God wot! I wish he could impart a little of his gentility to his subordinate scribblers. I hear that Mi-Jerningiiam is about to take up the cudgels for his Maecenas, Lord Carlisle: I hope not; he was one of the few who, 'in the very short with him, treated me with kindness when a boy, and whatever he may say or do, «pour on, I will endure.» I have nothing further to add, save a general note of thanksgiving to readers, purchasers, and publisher; and, in the words of Scott, I wish The following Lines were written by Mr a Co^/o/English Bards and Scotch R I find Lord Byron scorns my mi Our fates are ill agreed ! His verse is safe— I can't abuse Those lines I never read. Whal Lordship accidentally met witii the Copy, and subjoined the following pungent Reply: — it's writ on me, cried Fitz, I never read; — by thee, dear Fitz, none will indeed. The case stands simply thus, then, honest Fitz:— Thou and thine enemies are fairly quits, Or rather would be, if, for time to come, They luckily were deaf, or thou wert dumb— But, to their pens, while scribblers add their tongues, 1 The waiter only can escape their lungs. A ROMAUNT. fuim-ir, ,st uneepbeede PREFACE. The following poem was written, for the most part, amidst the scenes which it attempts to descrihe. It was begun in Albania; and the parts relative to Spain and Portugal were composed from the author's obser- vations in those countries. Thus much it may be ne- cessary to state for the correctness of the descriptions. The scenes attempted to be sketched are in Spain, Portugal, Epirus, Acaruania, and Greece. There for the present the poem stops: its reception will determine whether the author may venture to conduct his readers to the capital of the East, through loniaaud Phrygia: these two cantos are merely experimental. A fictitious character is introduced for the sake of giving some connexion to the piece; which, however, makes no pretension to regularity. It has been sug- gested to me by friends, on whose opinions I set a high value, that in this fictitious character, .. Childe Harold, » I may incur the suspicion of having intended some real personage : this I beg leave, once for all, to disclaim — : COSMOPOLITE. Harold is the child of imagination, for the purpose I have stated. In some very trivial particulars, and those merely local, there might be grounds for such a notion ; hut in the main points, I should hope, none whatever. It is almost superfluous to mention that the appella- tion « Childe,» as ..Childe Waters," .< Childe Childers,» etc. is used as more consonant with the old structure of versification which I have adopted. The ..Good Night,., in the beginning of the first canto, was suggested by .. Lord Maxwell's Good Night,., in the Border Minstrelsy, edited by Mr Scott. With the different poems which have been published on Spanish subjects, there may he found some slight coincidence in the first part, which treats of the penin- sula, hut it can only be casual; as, with the exception of a few concluding stanzas, the whole of this poem was written in the Levant. The stanza of Spenser, according to one of our most successful poets, admits of every variety. Dr Iieatlic makes the following observation: ..Not long ago I began a poem in the style and stanza of Sp. which I propose to j full scope nulin lii CII1LDE HA HOLD'S PILG1UMAGE. 3g c either droll or p 1 1 1 1 • ■ 1 1 r s descriptive or sentl- il, lender or satirical, as the humour strikes me ; or, if! mistake not, the measure which I have adopted s equally of all these kinds of composition. »• — Strengthened in my opinion by such authority, and by the example of some in the highest order of Italian poets, I shall make uo apology for attempts nt similar ions in tin- following composition ; satisfied that, y are unsuccessful, their failure must be in the lion, rather than in the design sanctioned by the practice of Ariosto, Thomson, aud Bcattie. ADDITION TO THE PREFACE. [ have now waited till almost all our periodical jour- nals have distributed their usual portion of criticism. To the justice of the generally of their criticisms I nothing to object; it would ill become me to quarrel with their very slight degree of censure, when, perhaps, if they had been less kind they had been more candid. Returning, therefore, to all and each my best thanks for their liberality, on one point alone shall I venture an observation. Amongst the many objections justly urged to the very indifferent character of the .vagrant Childc» 'whom, notwithstanding many hints to the contrary, I still maintain to be a fictitious per- sonage , it has been stated that, besides the anachron- he is very itnknightly, as the times of the knights times of love, honour, aud so forth. Now it so happens that the good old times, when « l'amour du ieux temps, l'amour antique.- flourished, were the most profligate of alt possible centuries. Those who any doubts on this subject may consult St Palaye, passim, and more particularly vol. ii. page 69. The of chivalry were no better kept than any other whatsoever, and the songs of the Troubadours not more decent, and certainly were much less refined, than those of Ovid.— The «Cours d amour, parle- 5 d'amour ou dc courtoisic et de gentilesse,» had 1 more of love than of courtesy orgentleness. — Sec Roland on the same subject with St Palaye.— Whatever -objection may be urged to that most unamiablc personage Child.- Harold, he was so far perfectly knight- ly in his attributes— « No waiter, but a knight tem- ghr-« a — By the bye, I fear that Sir Tristram and Sir Lancelot were no better than they should be, although very poetical personages and true knights « sans peur,» though not .« sans reproche.x — If the story of the insti- tution of the « Garter* he not a fable, the knights of ill order haw for several centuries borne the badge of Countess of Salisbury, of indifferent memory. So inch for chivalry. Burke need not have regretted that its days are over, though Maria Antoinette was • as chaste as most of those in whose honours lances were shivered, and knights unhorsed. Before the days of Bayard, and down to those of Sir JoM-ph Banks 'the most chaste and celebrated of an- l and modern times , few exceptions will he found to this statement, and I fear a little investigation will teach us not to regret these monstrous mummeries of iiid-llf .,[;. ,, low leave « Childe Harold* to live his day, such as ,; it had been more agreeable, and certainly more , to have drawn an amiable character. It had been easy to varnish over his faults, to make him do more and express less, but he never was intended as an ex- ample, further than to show that early perversion of mind and morals leads to satiety of past pleasures disappointment in new ones, and that even the beau of nature, and the stimulus of (ravel (except ambit the most powerful of all excitements), arc lost on a J so constituted, or rather misdirected. Had I proceeded with the poem, this character would have deepened a he drew* to the close; for the outline which I on< for itl. Though Ilea TO IANTHE; ylong bath [here been matchless dec Not in those visions to the heart displaying Forms which it sighs but to have only dream'd. Hath aught like thee, in truth or fancy seem'd : Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek To paint those charms which varied as they bean To such as see thee not my words were weak; To those who gaze on thee what language could they Ah! may'st thou ever be what now thou art, Nor unbesccm the promise of thy spring, As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart, Love's image upon earth without his wing, And guileless beyond Hope's imaginingl Aud surely she who now so foudly rears Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening, beholds the rainbow of her future years, before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears. Young Peri of the West! — 't is well for me Mv years alre.idv dnul.lv number thine; My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee, And safely view thy ripening beauties shine; Happy, I ne'er shall sec them in decline, Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed, Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign To those whose ndmiration shall succeed, But rrlix'd with pangs to Love's even loveliest hours dc Oh! let that eye, which, wild as the gazelle's, Now brightly bold or beautifully shy, Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells. Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny That smile for which my breast might vainK sigh. Could I 10 thee be ever more than friend; This much, dear maid, accord; nor question why To oue so young my strain I would commend, But bid me with my wreath one matchless UIv blend. Such is thy name with this my verse entwined; And lo.ig as kinder eyes a look shall cast On Harold's page, lanlhc's here enshrined Shall thus be lirst beheld, forgotten kfet : My days once number'd, should this homage past Attract thy fairy finger* near the lyre ( )f him who hail'd thee, loveliest as thou wast, Such is the most my memory may desire; Though more than Hope can claim, could friendship BYRON'S WORKS. CfllLDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. i. Oh, thou! in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth, Muse! form'd or fabled at the minstrel's will ! Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth, Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill: Yet there I've wander'd by thy vaunted rill; Yes! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long-deserted shrine, 1 Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still; Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine, o grace so plain a tale — this lowly lay of mine. II. "Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth, ■Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight; But spent his days in riot most uncouth, And vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear of night. Ah, me! in sooth he was a shameless wight, Sore given to revel and ungodly glee; Few earthly things found favour in his sight Save concubines and carnal companie, nd flaunting wassailers of high and low degree. III. Childe Harold was he bight: — but whence hi: Aud lineage long, it suits me not to say; Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame, And had been glorious in another day: But one sad loscl soils a name for aye, However mighty in the olden time ; Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme, Can blazon evil deeds, c IV. Childe Harold bask'd him in the noon-tide si Disporting there like any other fly; Nor deem'd before his little day was done, i ).: (( - |,.l ;-i mi-Stt -lull him into misery. But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by, Worse than adversity the Childe befei; He felt the fulness of satiety: Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, Which seem'd to him more lone than eremite's 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! to 'scape from him whose kiss Had been pollution unto aught so chaste; Who "soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss, And spoil'd her goodly lands to gild his waste, ior calm domestic peace had ever deign'd to taste. VI. 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 drugg'd he almost long'd for woe, .nd e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below. The Childe departed from bis father's ball: It was a vast and venerable pile : So old, it seemed ouly not to fall, Yet strength was pillar'd in each massy aisle. Monastic dome! condemn'd to uses vile! Where superstition once had made her den Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile; And monks might deem their time was come ageu, f ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.- VHI. Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood Strange pangs would flash alongChilde Harold's brow, As if the memory of some deadly feud Or disappointed passion lnrk'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 How, Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole, Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not control. IX. And none did love him — though to hall and bower He gather'd revellers from far and near, He knew them flatterers of the festal hour ; The heartless parasites of present cheer. Yea, none did love him — not bis lemans dear— But -pomp and power alone are woman's care, And where these arc light Eros finds a fecre; Miidr-ns, like moths, are ever caught by glare, And Mammon wins his way 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 none. Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel; Ye who have known what 't is to dote upon A few dear objects, will in sadness feel Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal. XI. His house, his home, his heritage, his lands, The laughing dames in whom he did delight. Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hai Might shake the saintship of an anchorite, And long had fed bis 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 centralli GHILDE HAROLD \S PILGRIMAGE. 4 i XII. 5. The sails were fiU'd, and feu ihe light winds blew, ' My father bless' d me fervently, As glad lo waft 1 it in from Ins native homo; Yet did not much complain; And fast the white rocks faded from his view, lint sorely will my mother sifjh And soon were lost in circumambient foam : Till I come back again.'— And then, it may be, of his wish to roam « Enough, enough', my little lad! JW-penicd he, but in his bosom slept Such tears become thine eye ; The silent thought, nor from his lips did come* If I thy guileless bosom bad. One word of wail, whilst others sale and wept. Mine own would not be dry. And to the reckless pales unmanly moaning kep^ XIII. 6. but when the sun was sinking in the sea. ..Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman, lie seized his harp, which he at times could string. Why dost thou look so pale ? And strike, albeit with untaught melody. Or dost thou dread a Trench foeinan I When dcem'd he no strange ear was listening: Or shiver at the gale?..— And doh In- lingers o'er it he did (ling, 1 Deem'st thou I tremble for my life ? And tuned bis farewell in the dim twilight. Sir Chflde, I'm hot stf weak; While Mew the vessel on her snowy wing, But thinking on an absent wife And Meeting shores receded from his sight, Will blanch a faithful cheek. Thus to the elements he pour d his list « Guud Night." "Adieu, adieu! my native shore 7- ' My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, Fades o'er the waters blue ; Along the bordering lake, The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, And when they on their father call, And shrieks the wild sea-mew. What answer shall she make?' — Yon sun that sets upon the sea .. Enough, enough, my yeoman good, We follow in his flight; Thy grief let none gainsay ; Farewell awhile to him and thee, But I, who am of lighter mood, My native Land — Good Night! Will laugh to flee away. « A few short hours and he will rise 8. ,, For who would trust the seeming sighs To give the morrow birth; Of wife or paramour? And 1 shall hail the main and skies, Fresh feeres will dry the bright blue eyes But not my mother earth. We late saw streaming o'er. Deserted is my own good hall, For pleasures past I do not grieve. lis hearth is desolate; Nor perils gathering near; Wild weeds are gathering on the wail ; Mv greatest grief is that I leave My dog howls at the gate. >"o thing that claims a tear. 3. c XLVIH. Monastic Zitza ! ?0 from thy shady brow, Thou small, but favour <1 spot of holy ground ! Where'er wc gaze, around, above, below, What rainbow tints, what magic charms are found Rock, river, forest, mountain, all abound, And bluest skies that harmonize the whole: Beneath, the distant torrent's rushing sound Tells where the volumed cataract doth roll Between those banging rocks, that shock yet please th XLIX. Amidst the grove that croari* yon tufted hill. Which, were it not for many a mountain nigh Rising in lofty ranks, and loftier still. Might well itself he deem a" of dignity, The convent's white walls glisten fair on high: Here dwells the caloyer, ll nor rude is he, Nor niggard of his cheer ; the passer by Is welcome still; nor heedless will be tlee From hence, if he delight kind nature's sheen to see. 1 let I Fresh is the green beneath those aged trees; Here winds of gentlest wing will fan his breast, From heaven itself he may inhale the breeze: The plain is far beneath — oh ! let him seize Pure pleasure while he can ■ the scorching ray Here pierceth not. impregnate with disease : Then let his length the loitering pilgrim lav. And gaze, untircd, the morn, the noon, the eve away. LI. Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight, Nature's volcanic amphitheatre, " Chimacra's Alps extend from left to right: Beneath, a living valley seems to stir; Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the mountain fi Nodding above: behold black Acheron! 13 Once consecrated to the sepulchre. Pluto! if ibis be hell I look upon. Close shamed Elysium's gates, my shade shall seek f< EH Nc cilys towers pollute the lovely view; Quasi is Yanioa, though not remote. Wild bv the screen of hills! here men are few. Scanty the hamlet, rare the lonely rot; But, peering down etch precipice, the goat Browseth: and. pensive o'er bis waiter d flock. The little shepherd in his while capote *4 Dnib I' .in his boyish form along the rock, Or in his cave await* the tempest's short-lived shock. UII. Oh! where, Dodona! is thine aged grove. Prophetic fount, and oracle divine? What valley echoed the response of Jove ? What trace reniaincth of the Thunderer's shrine 7 All, all forgotten— and shall man repine That his frail bonds to Heeling life are broke? Cease, fool ! the fate of gods may well be thine : Wouldst thou survive the marble or the oak? When nations, tongues, and worlds must sink bene the stroke ! LIY. Epirus' bounds recede, and mountains fail ; Tired of up-gazing still, the wearied eye Reposes gladly on as smooth a vale As ever spring yclad in grassy dye: Even on a plain no humble beauties lie, Where some bold river breaks the long expanse, And woods along the banks are waving high, Whose shadows in the glassy waters dance, Or with the moon-beams sleep in midnights solemn LV. The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit, a5 And Laos wide and fierce came roaring by; * The shades of wonted night were gathering yet, When, down the steep banks winding warily, Guide Harold saw, like meteors in the sky, The glittering minarets of Tepalen, Whose walls o'erlook the stream ; and drawing nigh, He heard the busy hum of warrior-men Swelling the breeze that sigh'd along the lengtb/ning glen. LVI. He pass'd the sacred haram's silent tower, And underneath the wide o'crarchmg gate Survey 'd the dwelling of this chief of power, Where all around proclaimed his high estate. Amidst no common pomp the despot sate. While busy preparations shook the court, Slaves, eunuchs, soldiers, guests, and santons wait; Within, a palace, and without, a fort: Here men of every clime appear to make resort. LVII. Richly caparison'd, a ready row Of armed horse, and many a warlike slore Circled the wide-exlending court below: Above, strange groups ad«irn'rl the corridor; And oft-times through the Ann's echoing door Some high-c.tppd Tartar spurrd bis steed away: The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, and the Moor, Here mingled in their many-hued array, ■While ihe deep war-drums sound announced 'the close mil. The wild Albanian kirtled to his knee, With shawl-girt head and ornamented gun, And gold-embroider'd garments, fair to sec; The crimson-scarfed men of Macedon ; The Delhi with bis cap of terror on, And crooked glaive; the lively, supple Greek; And swarthv Nubias mutilated son; The bearded Turk [hat rarely deigns to speak, nd, loo poteut to be meek, BYRON'S WORKS. groups, Are mix'd conspicuous : some recline i Scanning the motley scene that varies There some grave Moslem to devotion stoops, And some that smoke, and some that play, are found ; Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground ; Half whispering there il.e Greek is heard to prate; Hark! from the mosque the nightly solemn sound, The Muezzin's call doth shake the minaret, i There is no god but God !— to prayer— lo ! God is great! » LX. Just at this season Ramazani's fast Through the long day its penance did maintain: But when the lingering twilight hour was past, Revel and feast assumed the rule again: Now all was hustle, and the menial train Prepared and spread the plenteous board within; The vacant gallery now seem'd made in vain, But from the chambers came the mingling din, Is page and slave anon were passing out and in. LXI. Here woman's voice is never heard : apart, And scarce permitted, guarded, veil'd, to move She yields to one her person and her heart, Tamed to her cage, nor feels a wish to rove ; For, not unhappy in her master's love, And joyful in a mother's gentlest cares, ier feelings far above! tly rears the babe she bears, Herself i Whoi ' quits the breast i Jn marble-paved pavilion, where a spring Of living water from the centre rose, Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling. And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose, Ali reclined, a man of war and woes; Yet in his lineaments ye cannot trace, While gentleness her milder radiance throws Along that aged venerable face, The deeds thatlurkbeneath,andstain him with disgrace. LXIT. It is not that yon hoary lengthening beard 111 suits the passions which belong to youth; Love conquers age — so Hafiz hath averr'd, So sings the Teian, and he sings in sooth — But crimes that scorn the tender voice of Ruth, Beseeming all men ill, but most the man In years, have mark'd him with a tiger's tooth; Blood follows blood, and, through their mortal span, In bloodier acts conclude those who with blood began, LXIV. 'Mid many things most new to ear and eye The pilgrim rested here his weary feet, And gazed around on Moslem luxury, Till quickly wearied with that spacious seat Of wealth and wantonness, the choice retreat Of sated grandeur from the city's noise: And were it humbler it in sooth were sweet; But peace abhorreth artificial joys, Aud pleasure, leagued with pom|l, l!« zest of destroys. LXV. Fierce are Albania's children, yel they lack Not virtues, were those virtues more mature. Where is the foe that ever saw their hack? Who can so well the toil of war endure I Their native fastnesses not more secure Than they in doubtful time of troublous ueed : Their wrath how deadly ! but their friendship sure, When gratitude or valour bids them bleed, Unshaken rushing on where'er their chief may lead. LXVI. Childe Harold saw them in their chieftain's tower Thronging to war in splendour and success; And after view'd them, when, within their power, Himself awhile the victim of distress ; That saddening hour when bad men hotlier press: But these did shelter him beneath their roof, When less barbarians would have cheer'd biro less, And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof— '1 In aught that tries the heart how few withstand the proof! LXVII. It chanced that adverse winds once drove his bark Full on the coast of Suli's shaggy shore, When all around was desolate and dark; To land was perilous, to sojourn more; Yet for awhile the mariners forbore, Dubious to trust where treachery might lurk: At length they ventured forth, though doubting sore That those who loathe alike the Frank and Turk Might once again renew their ancient butcher-work. Lxvm. Vain fear! the Suliotes stretch'd the welcome hand. Led them o'er rocks and p ist the dangerous swamp, Kinder than polish'd slaves though not so bland. And piled the hearth, and wrung their garments damp, And fill'd the bowl, and trimm'd the cheerfullamp. And spread their fare ; though homely, all they had: Such conduct bears phila Doth lesson happier r LXLX. It came to pass, that when he did address Himself to quit at length this mountain-land, Combined marauders half-way bar/d egress, Aud wasted far and near with glaive and brand; Aud therefore did he take a trusty band To traverse Acarnania's forest wide, In war well season'd, and with labours tann'd, Till he did greet white Achelous' tide, And from his further bank jEtolia's wolds espied. LXX. Where lone Utraikey forms its circling cove, And weary waves retire to gleam at rest, How brown the foliage of the green hills grove, Noddiug at midnight o'er the calm bay's breast, As winds come lightly whispering from the west, Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's serene.— Here Harold was received a welcome guest, Nor did he pass unmoved the gentle scene, For many ajoy could he from nights soft presence gle CHFLDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. I.XXI. On (he smooth shore the night-fires brightly blazed, The feast was done, the red wine circling East, 38 And he th.it unawares had tUcrc y gazed With gaping wonderment had stared aghast; For. The native revels of the troop hegan ; E.icli Palikar -'.> his sabre from him cast, And bounding hand in hand, man link'd to man, ;lling their uncoutli ilir^.I.Mi;; J.i Mm: -d the kirtledclao. LXXII. Childe Harold at a little distance stood And view'd, but not displeased, the revel He Nor hated harmless mirth, however rude : In sooth, it was no vulgar sight to see Thrir barbarous, yet their not indecent, glc- And, as the (lames along their faces gleam'i Their gestures nimble, dark eyes flashing fr The long wild locks that to their girdles stn While thus in concert they this lay half s; mbovrgi ! Tambonrgi ! ' tliv 'larum afar i hope to the valiant, and promise of war; All the sons of ihe mountain* arise at the note, lariot, Illyriao, and dark Suliote! Oh! who is more brave than a dark Suliote, s snowy camese and his shaggy capote? To the wolf and the vulture he leaves his wild flock. And descends to the plain like the stream from the rock. Shall tlie sons of Chimari, who never fore- fault of a friend, bid an enemy live? Let those guns so unerring such vengeance I What mark is so fair as the breast of ,t foe? Macedonia sends forth her invincible race ; For a time they abandon the cave and the chase: But those scarfs of blood-red shall be redder, before sabre is sheathed and the battle is o'er. i the pirates of Parga that dwell by the waves ten h the pale Franks what it is to be slaves. Shall leave on the beach the long galley and oar, track to his covert the captive on shore. i not the pleasures thai richa BOpplj My sabre shall win what the feeble must I win the young bride villi her long-f And many a maid from her mother shall Remember the moment when Previsa fell, 3 * The shrieks of the conqucr'd, the conquerors' yell; The roofs that we fired, and the plunder we shared, The wealthy we slaughtered, the lovely we spared. I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear; He neither must know who would serve the vizier: Since the days of our prophet the crescent ne'er saw A chief ever glorious lik-- AH Pashaw. When his Delhi. 4 come dashing in blood o'er the banks, How few shall escape from the Muscovite ranks! I love ibe fair fare of \hr Selictar ! 5 unsheathe then our chiefs : Tamhourgi ! thy 'larum gives promise LXXHI. Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! 33 Immortal, though no more; though fallen, great! Who now shall lead thy scatter'd children forth, And long accustom d bondage uncreale? Not such thy sons who whilome did await, The hopeless warriors of a willing doom, In bleak Thermopylae's sepulchral strait— Oh ! who that gallant spirit shall resume, Leap from Eurota's banks, and call thee from the tomb LXXIV- Spirii of freedom! when on Phyle's brow 3 * 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; Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain, Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand. From bulb till death enslav'f I; in word, in deed unmann'd LXXV. Tn all, save form alone, how changed! and who That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye, "' ' ■ bosoms burn'd anew ed beam, lost liberty! hy unquv - -«-,■ \T dream withal the hour is nigh That gives them back their father's herita For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh, Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage, Or tear their name delilrd from slavery's mournful page. 5G BYRON'S WORKS. LXXVI. 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, But not for you will freedom's altars flame. Shades of the Helots! triumph o'er your foe! Greece ! change thy lords, thy state is still the same Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thine years of shame. LXXVII. The city won for Allah from the Giaour, The Giaour from Othman's race again may wrest; And the Serai's impenetrable tower Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest; 35 Or Wahab's rebel brood who dared divest The 36 prophet's tomb of all its pious spoil, May wind their path of blood along the West; But ne'er will freedom seek this fated soil, But slave succeed to slave through years of endless toil LXXVIIL Yet mark their mirth — ere lenten days begin, That penance which their holy rites prepare To shrive from man his weight of mortal sin, By daily abstinence and nightly prayer; But ere his sackcloth garb repentance wear, Some days of joyauncc are decreed to all, To take of pleasaunce each his secret share, In i otlev i ;>f merry Carnival. LXXJX. And whose more rife with merriment than thine. Oh Stamboul ! once the empress of their reign? Though turbans now pollute Sophia's shrine, And Greece her very altars eyes in vain : (Alas! her woes will still pervade my strain!) Gay were her minstrels once, for free her throng, All felt the common joy they now must feign. Nor oft I've seen such sight nor heard such song, vs woo'd the eye, and thrill'd the Bosphorus along. LXXX. Loud was the lightsome tumult of the shore,. Oft music changed, but never ceased her tone, And timely echoed back the measured oar, And rippling waters made a pleasant moan : The queen of tides on high consenting shone, And when a transient breeze swept o'er the wave, 'T was, as if darting from her heavenly throne, A brighter glance her form reflected gave. Till sparkling billows seem'd to light the banks they lave. LXXXI. Glanced many a light caique along the foam, Danced on the shore the daughters of the land, Ne thought had man or maid of rest or home, ' While many a languid eye and thrilling hand Exchanged the look few bosoms may withstand, Or gently prest, return'd the pressure still: Oh love ! young love ! bound in thy rosy band, Let sage or cynic prattle as he will, These hours, and only these, redeem life's years of ill ! LXXXU. But, midst the throng in merry i Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret pain. Even through the closest searment half betray'd ? To such the gentle murmurs of the main Seem to re-echo all they mourn in vain; To such the gladness of the gamesome crowd Is source of wayward thought and stern disdain : How do they loathe the laughter idly loud, And long to change the robe of revel for the shroud? LXXXIIL This must he feel, the true-born son of Greece, If Greece one true-born patriot still can boast: Not such as prate of war, but skulk in peace, The bondsman's peace, who sighs for all he lost, Yet with smooth smile his tyrant can accost. And wield the slavish sickle, not the sword: Ah ! Greece ! they love thee least who owe thee mosi Their birth, their blood, and that sublime record Of hero sires, who shame thy now degenerate horde! LXXXIV. When riseth Lacedemon'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. A thousand years scarce serve to form a state; An hour may lay it in the dust; and when Can man its shatter'd splendour renovate. Recall its virtues back, and vanquish time and fate? LXXXV. And yet how lovely in thine age of woe, Land of lost gods and godlike men, art thou! Thy vales of ever-green, thy hills of snow 3 7 Proclaim thee nature's varied favourite now: Thy fanes, thy temples to thy surface bow. Commingling slowly with heroic earth, Broke by the share of every rustic plough: ; well-recorded worth ; LXXXVI. Save where some solitary column mourns Above its prostrate brethren of the cave; 38 Save where Tritonia's airy shrine adorns Colonna's cliff, and gleams along the wave; Save o'er some warrior's half-forgotten grave, Where the grey stones and unmolested grass Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave, While strangers only not regardless pass, Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and sigh « Alas !i LXXXVII. Yet arc thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild ; Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields, Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled, And still his honied wealth Hymettus yields; 'There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds, The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain-air; Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds, Still in his beam Mcndcli's marbles glare; Art, glyy, freedom fail, but nature still is fair. CII1LDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 57 lxxxviii. Where'er we tread t is haunted, holy ground; So earth of thine is lost in nilgai- mould, Bui oue vast realm of wonder spreads around. And all the muse's talcs seem truly told. Till the sense aches Willi gazing to hchold The &cem b OUE earliest dreams have dwelt upon : Each hill and dale, each deepening; glen and wold Delies the power which crush d thy temples gone: Age shakes Athena's tower, hut spares gray Maralhoi: I.XXXLX. The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same; t*nchaiij;ed in all except its foreign lord — Preserves alike its hounds and boundless fame The h.ml.-iiehl. where Persia's victim horde of He When Marai Which utiei The camp, tile :glory shaftless broken bo II -1M11 ; hv.-.lom - -.mile and Asi i> Ii.ii' The rilled urn, the violated mouud, The dust thy courser s hoof, rude stranger! spurns a XCI. Yet to t Shall pi Long sh Hail die ! he vyn of thy e, hut er, will plendour past LoDg sh Fill witl ui •'"'""■•" lis and c youtl ofmanj rz: ho isi of tiie ai;n.i ! lesson of the voting! Which sages \ em-rale and hards adore, s Pallas and the muse unveil their awful lore. XC1I. The parted bosom clings to wonted home, If aught that *s kindred cheer the welcome hearth ; He that is lonely hither let him roam, And gaze complacent nn congenial earth. Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth; Cut he whom sadness soothelh may abide, And scarce regret the region of his birth. When wandering slow by Delphi s sacred side, 'r gazing oer the plaius wnere Creek and Persian died. xcra. Let such approach this consecrated land. And pass in peace aJong the magic waste: Hut spare it« relics— let no busy hand Deface the scenes, already how defaced ! Not f"r Mich purpose were Uwm altars placed : Revere the rem nan is nations once revered : So may our country's name he- undisgraced, So may st ihou prosper where thy youth was reard, By every honest joy of love and life endear'd! Il.M XCIV. who thus in too protracted song icd thine idlesse with inglorious lays, >on shall thy voice be lost amid the throng f louder minstrels in these later days: a such resign the strife for lading bays — kec 1 reproach nor parti nder heart that might ar pie ise when none are J xcv. Mil oil loved and lovely ( Y° ilis affection hoimil «lia none heside have dc one albeit unworthy the ? t ou hast ceased to he irae here ihy wanderer 1 CVC r been, or were 10 co n'd to find fresh caus xcvi. Oh ! ever loviug, lovely, and beloved ! How selfish sorrow ponders on the past, And clings 10 thoughts now better far removed! But time shall tear thy shadow from me last. All thoucould'sthaveof inine,stei'n Death ! thou hast; The parent, friend, and now the more than friend : lath snatch d the little joy that life had yet to lend. xcvi i. Then must I plunge again into the crowd. And follow all that peace disdains to seek? Where revel calls, and laughter, vainly loud, False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek, To leave the Magging spirit douhly weak ; Still o'er the features, which perforce they cheer, To feign the plesaure or conceal the pique ; Smiles form the channel of a future lear, r raise the writhing lip with ill-dissembled sneer. What is the What stamp To view eac And be alon XCVIIT. woes that wait on age? nkle deeper on the brow? ne blotted from life's page O'er hearts divided and o'er hopes dcslroy'd: Moll on. vain days ! full reckless may ye (low. Since time hath reft whale'er my soul enjoy d, And with the ills of Eld mine earlier years alloy'd. iYRON'S WORKS CANTO III. Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child! Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart? When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smiled, And then we parted, — not as now we part. But with a hope. — 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, (Then Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad > a steed it lead! ' the gale Once more upon the waters! yet on And the waves hound beneath me £ That knows his rider. "Welcome, t Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'e Though the strain'd mast should cju And the rent canvas fluttering stre\ Still must I on; for I am as a weed, Riling from the rock, ou ocean's foam, to sail Vhere'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail. III. In my youth's summer I did sing of one, The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind ; Again I seize the theme then but begun, And bear it with inc. as the rushing wind Bears the cloud onwards: in that taje I find The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears, Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind, O'er which all heavily the journeying years Plod the last sands of life, — where not a flower appears. Since my young days of passion — joy, or pain. Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string, And both may jar: it may be, that in vain I would essay as I have sung to sing. Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling; So that it wean me from the weary dream Of selfish grief or gladness— so it fling FoFgetfulness around me—it shall seem fo me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme. He, who grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him; nor below Can love, or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife, Cut to his heart again with the keen knife Of silent, sharp endurance: he can tell Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife With airy images, and shapes which dwell till unimpair'd, though old, in the soul's haunted cell. nog live A being more intense, that we endow With form our fancy, gaining as we give The life we image, even as I do now. What am I? Nothing; but not so art thou, Soul of my thought! with whom I traverse earth, Invisible but gazing, as I glow* Mix'd with thy spirit, hlended with thy birth, Vnd feeling still with thee in my crush'd feeliugs' dearth. VII. Yet must I think less wildly :— I have thought Too long and darkly, till my brain became, In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought, A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame : And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame, My springs of life were poison'd. T is too late ! Yet am I changed; though still enough the same In strength to bear what time can not abate, Vnd teed on bitter fruits without accusing fate. VIII. nuch of this: — but 1 vnd the spell closes with its silent seal. ,ong absent Harold re-appears at last; le of the breast which fain no more would feel, Vrung wi th the wounds, which kill not but ne'er h r et time,, who changes all, had alter' d him n soul and aspect as in age: years steal ire from the mind as vigour from the limb; 1 life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brir IX. iiad been ( kly, and he found The dregs were wormwood; but he fill'd again, And from a purer fount, on holier ground, And deem'd its spring perpetual ; but in vain! Still rouud him clung invisibly a chain Which gall'd for ever, fettering though unseen, And heavy though it clank'd not; worn with pain, Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen, Km- j iu ; ; with everystcphe took, through many a scene. X. Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix'd Again in fancied safety with his kind, And deem'd his spirit now so firmly fix'd And sheathed with an invulnerable mind, That, if no joy, no sorrow lurk'd behind; And he, as one, might midst the many stand Unheeded, searching through the crowd to find lit speculation! such as in strange land He found iu wonder-works of God and nature's hand. XI. But who can view the ripen'd rose, nor seek To wear it? who can curiously behold The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's check, Nor feel the heart can never all grow old? Who can contemplate fame through clouds unfold The star which rises o'er her steep, nor climb? Harold, once more within the vortex roll'd On with the giddy circle, chasing time, Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's fond prime. CIIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. XII. Hut soon he knew himself the most unfit Of men to herd with man; with whom he held Little in common; untaught to submit His thoughts to others, though his soul was quel He M,M , To spirits ag.iinsi whom his own rebcll'd ; Proud though in desolation ; which could find A life within itself, to breathe without mankind. te sky, and glowing clime, extends, passion and the power to roam ; breaker's foam, i him companionship; they spake language, clearer than the tome Is tongue, which he would oft forsake panes, glass'd by sunbeams on the lake. The desert, fore XIV. rit to ill his clay To which it mounts, as if to That keeps us from you heave As engrrlv e ] i - - ]..irrd-iip lunl will beat His breast and beak against his wiry dome Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat Of bis impeded soul would through his bosom eat. XVI. Sclf-ejilod Harold wanders forth again, With nought of hope left, but with less of gloom ; The very knowledge that lie lived in vain, That all was over on this side the tomb, Had made despair a smiliii|;ncss assume, Which, though I were wild,— as on the plunder When mariners would madly meet their doom With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck, — Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to check. XVII. Stop !— for thy tread is on an empire's dust ! An earthquakes spoil is sepulchred below' Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust? Nor column tropin, d for triumphal show? None : but the morals truth tells simpler so, As the ground was before, thus let it be; — Uow that red rain hath made the harvest grow! And is this all the world has gain d by thee. Thou first and hul of fields! king-making rictoryl XVIII. And Harold stands upon this place of skulls. The grave of Frauce, the deadly Waterloo ! How in an hour the power which gave annuls Its gifts, transferring fame as Meeting too! In <. pride of place..' here last the eagle flew, Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain, Pierced by the shafl of handed nations through eignty? Lorn again be The patch'd-up idol of enlighten' d days? Shall we, who struck the lion down, shall we Pay the wolf homage? proi'h ring lowly gaze 4fc And servile knees to thrones? No ; prove before ye prais XX. If not, o'er one fallen dr. par boast no more! In vain fair cheeks were furrow'd with hot tears For Europe's tlowers long rooted up before The trampler of her vineyards; in .vain years Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears, Have all been borne, and broken by the accord Of roused-up millions: all that most endears Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes the sword Such as Uarmodius 2 drew on Athens' tyrant lord. XXI. 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 fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts heal happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes lookd love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage-bell ; 3 Out hush! hark! a deep sound strikeslikc a risingknel XXII. Did ye not hear it! — No; 'twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street ; On with the dance! let joy be unconlined; No sleep till morn when youth and pleasure meet, To chase the glowing hours with Hying feet — But, hark!— that heavy sound breaks in once moi. As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm ! arm ! it is — it is — the cannon's opening roar ! XXIII. Within a window'd niche of that high hall Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he di.l hear That sound the first amidst the festival. And caught its lone Willi death's prophetic ear; And when they smiled because be deem (I it near. His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretch d bis father on a bloody bier, And roused the vfU|;eanrc hbtod ah could quell He rush d into the field, and, foremost lighting, fell. 6o 'RON'S WORKS. XXIV. nd there was hurrying to and fro, •ing tears, and tremblings of distress, s all pale, which but an hour ago the praise of their own loveliness ; were sudden partings, such as press :>m out young hearts, and choking sighs ?r might be repeated ; who could guess XXV. And tli ere was mounting in lint haste : the steed, The mustering ^juadron. and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; J^iilc throng' d the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips — « The foe ! They come ! they come!» XXVI. And wild and high the « Cameron's gathering" rose! The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes: — How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills. Savage and shrill ! But with the breath which fills Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years, And Evan's, 4 Donald's 5 fame rings in each clansman's ears! XXVII. And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 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 valour, rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and Last eve in b cle prou dly {jay, The midnij;h broilgli .he si;;. al-sb'und of st ife, The morn th marsha ling in a mis,- the day Battle's magn .licen.lv- tern array! The thunder-clouds cl ose o'er t, which wher The earth is over'd tl ck with other clay, Which her o vn clay s .all cove •, heap'd and pent Rider and horse —friend foe, — in one red huris Ible XXIX. Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than Yet one I would select from that proud thn Partly because they blend me with bis line, And partly that I did his sire some wrong. And partly that bright names will hallow sc The death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files ah Even where the thickest of war's lempest lc They reach'd no nobler breast than thine, younj Howard ! XXX. There have been tears and breaking hearts And mine were nothing, had I such to give Rut when I stood beneath the fresh green tr Which living waves where thou didst cease And saw around me the wide field revive With fruits and fertile promise, and the sp Come forth her work of gladness to conlrr With all her reckless birds upon the wing. I turn'd from all she brought to those she could not bring.7 XXXI. I turn'd to thee, to thousands, of whom each And one as all a ghastly gap did make In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake; The archangels trump, not glory's, must awake Those whom they thirst for; though the sound of fame May for a moment soothe, The fever of vain longing, t slake -d but I They r XXXII. but smile at length; a nd,smiIing,mourr The tree will wither long before it fall; The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn; The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hail In massy hoariness; the ruin'd wall Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone; The bars survive the captive they enthral, The day drags through though storms keep out thesu And'tbus the heart -will break, yet brokenly live on : XXXIII. Even as a broken mirror, which the glass In every fragment multiplies; and makes A thousand images of one that was, The same, and still the more, the more it breaks; And thus the heart will do which not forsakes, Living in shatter.! [;nisr\ and still, and cold, And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches, Yet withers on till all without is old, Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold. XXXIV. There is a very life in our despair, Vitality of poison,— a quick root Which feeds these deadly branches; for it were As nothing did we die; but life will suit Itself to sorrow's most detested fruit, Like to the apples on the s Dead Sea's shore. All ashes to the taste: did man compute Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er Such hours 'gainst years of life, — say, would he nan three-score ? XXXV. The Psalmist number'd out the years of man : They are enough ; and if thy tale be true, Thou, who didst grudge him even that Heeling spai More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo! Millions of tongues record thee, and anew Their children's Hps shall echo them, and say— «Here, where the sword united nations drew, Our countrymen were warring on that day!" And this is much, and all which will not pass away. CIIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. XXXVI. There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men, Whose spirit antithetically mixt One moment of die mightiest, and again On little objects with like lirmncss fixt. Extreme in all things! hftdsl thou been betwixt, Thy throne had still been thine, or never been; For daring made thy rise as fill ■ ihoti seek'st Even now to re-assume the imperial mien, nd shake again the world, the tliuudcrer of the scene! XXXVII. Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou ! She trembles at thee .till, and thy wild name That thou art nothing, save the jest of fame, Who woo'd thee once, thy vassal, and became The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert A god unto thyself; nor less the same To the astounded kingdoms all inert, Vho deem'd thee for a time whate'er thou didst assert. XXXVIII. Oh, more or less than man — in high or low. Battling with nations. Hying from the field; Now making monarchs' necks thy footstool, now More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield; An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild, However deeply in men's Look through thine own, or learn that tempted fate ■ the loftiest star XXXIX. Yet well thy soul hath brook'd the turning tide With that untaught innate philosophy. Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride. Is gall and wormwood to an enemy. When the whole host of hatred -luod hard by, To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smile With a sedate and all-enduring eye; — When fortune Med her spoil d and favourite child, le stood unbovv d beneath the ills upon him piled. Sage XL. i in thy fortunes; for in th< Ambition Btnefd thee on too far to show That jn^t habitual -corn which could contcmu Men and their thoughts; t was wise to feel, not so To wear it ever on thy lip and brow, And gpurn the instruments thou wert to use Till they were lurnd unto thine overthrow: T is but a worthless world to win or lose; So hath it proved to thee, and all snob lot who choose. XLI. If. like a tower upon a headlong rock. Than badSfl been made to stand or fall alone. Such scorn of man had help d to brave the shock ; lint Mien- thought* w. re the MCpi which paved thy Tlicir admiration thy best weapon shone; The part of Philips son was thine, not then [Unless aside thy purple had been thrown) Like stern Diogenes to mock at men ; XLH. : to quick bosoms is a Beyond the filling medium of desire ; And. but once kindled, quenchless evermore, Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire Of aught but rest; a fever at the core, Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. XLIII. This makes the madmen who have made meu n By their contagion ; conquerors and kings, Founders of sects and systems, to whom add Sophists, hards, statesmen, all unquiet things, Which stir loo strongly the soul's secret springs, And are themselves the fools to those they fool; Envied, yet how unenviable ! what stings Are theirs! One breast laid opeu were a school Which would unieach mankind the lust to shine or XLIV Their breath is agitation, and their life A storm whereon they ride, so sink at last, And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife, That should their days, surviving perils past, Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast its own dickering, or a sword laid by eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously. Tie who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and ( He who surpasses or subdues mankind, .Must look down on the hate of those below. Though high above the sun of glory glow, And for jeneath the earth and ocean spread. Round h m are icy re cks. nd loudly blow Contending tempests on h s naked head, And ibus r sward the toils \vl ich to those sumroi XLV Away wi h these! true wisdoms world will be Within its own creat in thine, M.llerna nature! for who eems like thee, Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine? There Harold gazes on a work divine, A blending of all beauties; streams and dells. Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, corn-field, mountain, vine. And chiclless castles breathing stern farewells From gray but leafy walls, where ruin greenly dwells. XL VII. And there they stand, is stands a lofty mind, Worn, but un-innpiug to the baser crowd, All lenantless. save to the wanoying wind. Or holding dark i oniuuiniou with the cloud. There was a day when liny were young and proud, banners r.n bigh. and battles pass'd below. But they who fought are in a bloody shroud, And those which waved are shredless dust ere now. And the bleak battle,, „nis shall bear no future blow. 62 BYRON'S WORKS. XLVIII. Beneath these battlements, within those walls, Power dwelt amidst her passions; in proud state Each robber chief upheld his armed halls, Doing his evil will, nor less elate Than mightier heroes of a longer date. What want these outlaws in conquerors should have But history's purchased page to call them great ? Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were fui XLIX. In their baronial feuds and single fields, What deeds of prowess unrecorded died ! And love, which lent a blazon to their shields, With emblems well devised by amorous pride, Through all the mail of iron hearts would glide ; But still their (lame was fierceness, and drew on Keen contest and destruction near allied, And many a tower fc Saw the discolour' d Bin fair mischief woi ath its ruin run. But thou, exulting and abounding river ! Making thy waves a blessing as they flow Through banks whose beauty would endure for ever, Could man but leave thy bright creation so, Nor its fair promise from the surface mow With the sharp scythe of conflict,— then to see Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know Earth paved like heaven; and to seem such to me £ven now what wants thy stream ? — that it should Lethe be. LI. A thousand battles have assail'd thy banks, But these and half their fame have pass'd away, And slaughter heap'd on high his weltering ranks Their very graves are gone, and what are they? Thy tide wash'd down the blood of yesterday, And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream Glass'd with its dancing light the sunny ray; But o'er the blacken'd memory's blighting dream 'by waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as they seem. LTI. Thus Harold inly said, and pass'd along, Yet not insensibly to all which -here • Awoke the jocund birds to early song In glens which might have made even exile dear: Though on his brow were graven lines austere, And tranquil sternness which had ta'en the place . Of feelings fierier far but less severe, Joy was not always absent from his face, ut o'er it in such scenes would steal v Lin. Nor was all love shut from him, though his days Of passion had consumed themselves to dust. It is in vain that wc would coldly gaze On such as smile upon us; the heart must Leap kindly back to kindness, though disgust I'd it frc ,rldl For there was soft remembrai In one fond breast, to which I nd in its tenderer hour on tha II.,;. ■iVh. And he had learn'd to love, — I know not whv. For this in such as him seems strange of mood, — The helpless looks of blooming infancy, Even in its earliest nurture; what subdued. To change like this, a mind so far imbued With scorn of man, it little boots to know; But thus it was; and though in solitude Small power the nipp'd affections have to grow, In him this glow'd when all beside had ceased to glow LV. And there was one soft breast, as hath been said, Which unlo his was bound by stronger ties Than the church links withal; and, though unwed, That love was pure, and, far above disguise, Hads tofi Still undivided, and cemented more By peril, dreaded most in female eyes; But this was firm, and from a foreign shore Well to that heart might his these absent greetings*. The castled crag of Drachenfels *' Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, Whose breast of waters broadly swells Between the banks which bear the vine, And hills all rich with blossom'd trees, And fields which promise corn and wine. And scatter d cities crowning these, Whose far white walls along them shine. Have strew'd a scene, which I should see "With double joy 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 lours, And noble arch in proud decay, Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers ; But one thing want these banks of Rhine,— Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine ! 3. I send the lilies given to me; Though long before thy hand they touch, I know that they must wither'd be, But yet reject them not as such; For I have cherish' d them as dear, Because they yet may meet thine eye, And guide thy soul to mine even here, When thou behold'st them drooping nigh, And know'st them gathcr'd by the Rhine, And offer'd from my heart to thine! 4- The river nobly foams and flows, The charm of this enchanted ground, And all its thousand turns disclose Some fresher beauty varying round; The haughtiest breast its wish might bound Through life to dwell delighted here; Nor could on earth a spot be found To nature and to me so dear. Could thy dear eyes in following mine Still sweeten more these hanks of Rhine ! CI1ILDE HAROLDS PILGHIMAGI By Coblentz, ou a rise of gentle ground. Theft is a small .iii.I simple pyramid, Crowning lite summit of [lie verdant mound; Beneath ils base are lurries' ashes hid, Our enemy's, — but let not that forbid Honour to Marceau! o'er whose early tomb Tears, big tears, gush'd from the rough soldi. Lamenting and yet envying such a doom, ailing for Frauee, whose rights he battled to r I.Y1I. And litlv may the stranger lingering here Pray for his gallant spirit's bright repose; For lie was Freedom's champion, one of those, The fen in number, who had not o'crstept The charter to chastise which she bestows On such as wield her weapons; he had kept The whiteness of his soid, and thus meu o'er him wept.' LVIII. Here F.hrcnbrcilstcin,' 3 with her shatter'd wall, Dlack with the miner's blast, upon her height Yet shows of what she was, when shell and ball liebouudiug idly on her strength did light; A lower of victory! from whence the (light Of baflled foes was walch'd along the plain: But peace destroy'd what war could never blight. And laid those proud roofs bare to summer's rain In which the iron shower for years had pour d in vai Adieu to thee, fair Illiinc ! How long delighted The stranger fain would linger on his way ! Thine is a scene alike wher* so«ls united Or lonely contemplation thus might stray; And could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey On self-condemning bosoms, it were here, Where nature, nor tco sombre nor too gay, Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere, Is to the mellow earth as autumn to the year. There can be no farewell to scene like thine; The miud is eolour'd bv thy every hue; And if reluctantly the eyes resign Their eherish'd gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine 1 'T is with the thankful glance of parting praise ; More mighty spots may ns< — more glaring shine, But none unite in oue attaching maze he brilliant, fair, and soft,— the glories of old days. The rolling stream, the precipice's gloom, Tie- fort Is growth, and Gothic walls between. The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been In mockery of man's art ; and these withal A race of laces happy as the scene, Whose fertile bounties here extend to all. Still springing o'er thy banks, though empires i llnin fall. How e rth may pierc below. LXHI. But ere these n There is a spot Moral! the pro latchl shou ■ss heigl d not be e patriot . ghastly troph Here Burgundy !»<<|inaili LXXII. . myself, but I become Portior of that ar und me; and to me High mountains a e a feelin g, but the hum Ofhun ran cities tt rture:Ic an see Kothin g to loathe n nature save to be A link a fleshly chain, Class'd lures, when the soul can tlee, And w th the sky, the peak the heaving pla in f ocean or the star 5, mingle and not in vain LXXIII. And thus I am absorb'd, aad 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, hut 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, puruing the clay-cold bonds which round our bei chng. LXXIV. And when, at length, the mind shall be all free From what it hates in this degraded form, Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be Existent happier in tlie lly and worm, — "When elements to elements conform, And dusl 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. LXXV. the i , and skies, i Of i (oft part 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? LXXVI. But this is not my theme; and I return To that which is immediate, and require Those who lind contemplation in the urn, To look on One, whose dust was once all fire, A native of the land where I respire The clear air fnr a while — a passing guest, Where he became a being, — whose desire Was to be glorious; 't was a foolish quest. The which to gain and keep, he sacrificed all rest. LXXVII. Here the sellMniinrin;; sophist, wild Rousseau, The apostle of affliction, he who threw Enchantment over passion, and from woe Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew The breath which made him wretched; yet he knew How to make madness beautiful, and cast O'er erring .Iceds and thoughts a heavenly hue Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they past The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly uul f..is(. LXXVIII. His love was passion's essence — as a tree On tire by lightning; with ethereal flame Kindled he was and blasted; for to be Thus, and enamour'd, were in him the same. But his was not the' love of living dame. Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams, But of ideal beauty, which became In him existence, and o'erflowing teems Along his burning page, distemper'd though it seems. LXXIX. This breathed itself to life in Julie, tliis Invested her with all that 's wild and sweet; This hallow'd, too, the memorable kiss Which every morn his fevcr'd lip would greet, From hers, who but with friendship his would meet ; But to that gentle touch, through brain and breast Flash'd the thrilld spirit's love-devouring heat; In that absording sigh perchance more blest. Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest.'S CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. His life was one lo^ng war with self-sought foes, Or friends by him setf-banish'd; for his mind Had grown suspicion's sanctuary, and chose For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind. Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind. But be was phrenzied, — wherefore, who may know ? Since cause might be which skill could never find; Rut he was phrenzied by disease or woe, o that worst pilch of all, which wears a reasoning show. Lxxxr. For then he was inspired, and from him came, As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore, Those oracles which set the world in llamc, Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more: Did be not this for France? which lay before Row'd to tin' inborn iviinnv of years? Rroken and trembling, to the yoke she bore. Till by the voice of him and his compeers, Roused up to too much wrath which follows o'ergrown LXXXII. They made themselves a fearful monument! The wreck of old opiuious — things which grew Breathed from the birth of time: the veil they rent, And what behind it lay, all earth shall view. Rut good with til they also overthrew. Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild I'pon the same foundation, and renew Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour re-fil)'d, As heretofore, because ambition was self-will'd. LXXXIH. But this will not endure, nor be endured! Mankind have fell their strength, and made it felt. They might have used it better, but, allured Ry their new vigour, sternly have they dealt On oue another; pity ceased to melt With her once natural charities. But they, Who in oppression's darkness caved had dwelt, They were not eagles, nourish'd with the day ; khal marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey ? LXXXIV. What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear That which disfigures it; and they who war With their own hopes, and have been vanquish'd, bear Silence, but not submission: in his lair Fix'd passion holds his breath, until the hour Which shall alone for years; none need despair: It came, it comelh, and will come,— the power To punish or forgive — in one we shall be slower. I.XXXV car, placid I,eman ! thy contrasted lake. Itfa the «iU world I dwelt in, is I thing This quiet sail is as a noiseless v. To waft me from distraction; 01 Torn ocean s roar, but thy soft i c been so moved. LXXXVI. 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 capt heights appear Precipitously steep; and, drawing near, There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, Of Mowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more; LXXXVII. He is an evening reveller, who makes His life an infancy, and sings his fill; At intervals, some bird from out the brakes There seems a floating whisper on the hill. Rut that is fancy, for the starlight dews All silently their tears of love instil, Weeping themselves away, till they infuse Deep iuto nature's breast the spirit of her hues. LXXXVIII. Ye stars ! which are the poetry of heaven ! If in your bright leaves we would read the fate Of men and empires, — 'tis to be forgiven, That in our aspirations to be great Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, And claim a kindred with.yo'u ; for ye are In us such love ami reverence from afar, That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves LXXXIX. All heaven and earth are still— though not in sleep, Rut breathless, as we grow when feeling most; And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep: — All heaven and earth are still: from the high host Of stars, to the hdl'd lake and mountain-coast, All is concenlerd in a life intense, Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, Rut hath a part of being, and a sense Of that which is of all Creator and defence. XG. Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we arc (east alone; A truth, which through our being then doth melt, And purifies from self: it is a tone, The soul and source of music, which makes known Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm, Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone, Rinding all things with beauty; — 'twould disarm The spectre Death, had be substantial power to harm. XGI. Not vainly did the early Persian make His altar the high pla.es and the peak Of earlh-oerj;a/in([ mountains,*" and thus take A fit and mi wall d temple, there to seek The spirit, in whose honour shrines arc weak, I'prcar'd of human hands. Come, and compare Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek, With natures realms of worship, earth and air. Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy prayer! BYRON'S WORKS. XCII. The sky is changed ! — and such a change ! Oh night, 2 > And storm, and darkness, ye are wond'rous 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! XCIII. And this is in the night:— most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber'! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — A portion of the" tempest and of thee! How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, And the. big rain comes dancing to the earth! And now again "t is black, — and now, the glee Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. XCIV. Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between Heights which appear as lovers who have parted In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, That they can meet no mpre, though broken-hearted ; Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted, Love was the very root wn thunder and theflame Of heaven, again assail'd, if Heaven the while On man and man's research couJd deign do more than cvr. The one was fire and fickleness, a child, Most mutable in wishes, but in mind A wit as various, — gay, grave, sage, or wild, — Historian, bard, philosopher combined; He multiplied himself among mankind, The Proteus of their talents: but his own Breathed most in ridicule, — which, as the wind, Blew where it listed, laving .ill things prone, — i'ow to o'erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne. CVII. The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought, And hiving wisdom with each studious year. In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought, And shaped his weapon with an edge severe. Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer; The lord of irony, — that master-spell, Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from fear, And doom'd him to the zealot's ready hell, Fhich answers to all doubts so eloquently well. CVHI. Yet, peace be with their ashes,- If merited, the penalty is paid; It is not ours to judge, — far less condemn ; The hour must come when such things shall be m< Known unto all, — or hope and dread allay'd By slumber, on one pillow, — in t the dust, Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decay d j And when it shall revive, as is our trust. Twill be to be forgiven, or suffer v. hat is just. CIX. But let me quit man's works, again to read His Maker's spread around mr, and suspend This page, which from my reveries I feed, Cntil it seems prolonging without end. The clouds above mc lo the while Alps lend. And I must pierce them, and survey whate'er May be permitted, as my steps I bend To their most great and growing region, where The earth to her embrace compels the powers of air -for by 1 CX. Italia ! too, Italia ! looking on thee, Full (lashes on the soul the light of ages, Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee, To the last halo of the chiefs and sages, Who glorify thy consecrated pages; Thou wert the throne and grave of empires; still, The fount at which the panting mind assuages Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill, Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hill. CXI. Thus far I have proceeded in a theme Renew'd with no kind auspices: — to feel We are not what we have been, and to deem We are not what we should be, — and to steel The heart against itself; and to conceal, With a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught, — Passion or feeling, purpose, grief or zeal, — Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought; Is a stern task of soul : — No matter, — it is taught.. cxn. And for these words, thus woven into song, It may be that they are a harmless wile, — The colouring of the scenes which fleet along, Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile My breast, or that of others, for a while. Fame is the thirst of youth, — but I am not So young as to regard men's frown or smile. As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot ; I stood and stand alone, — remember'd or forgot. CXHI. 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, — Xor coin'd my cheek to smiles, — nor cried aloud In worship of an echo ; in the crowd They could not deem me one of such ; I stood Among them, but not of them; in a shroud Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still Had I not filed a 4 my mind, which thus itself subdued. CXIV. I have not loved the world, nor the world me, — But let us part fair foes; I do believe, Though I have found them not, that there may be Words which are tilings, — hopes which will not And virtues which are merciful, nor weave Snares for the failing: 1 would also deem O'er others griefs that some sincerely, grieve; 15 That two, or one, are almost what they seem,— That goodness is no name, and happiuess no dream. cxv. My daughter! with thy name this song begun— My daughter ! with thy name thus much shall end — I see thee not,— I hear thee not,— but none Can be so wrapt in thee; thou art the friend To whom the shadows of far years extend ; Albeit my brow thou never should'st behold, My voice shall with thy future visions blend. And reach inlo thv heart, — when mine is cold, — A token and a tone, even from thy fathers mould. BYRON'S W6RKS. cxvi. To aid thy mind's develop em en t,— to watch Thy dawn of little joys,— to sit and see Almost thy very growth, — to view thee catch Knowledge of objects, — wonders yet to thee! To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee. And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss, — This, it should seem, was not reserved for me ; Yet this was in my nature: — as it is, I know not what is there, yet something like to this CXVII. Yet, though dull hate as duty should be taught, I know that thou wilt love me; though my name Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught "With desolation, — and a broken claim : Though the grave closed between us, — 'twere the sa I know that thou wilt love me; though to drain My hlood from out thy being, were an aim, And; -all ' Still thou would'st love me, still that more than life ret; CXVIII. The child of love, — though born in bitterness, And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire These were the elements, — and thiue no less, As yet such are around thee, — hut thy fire Shall be more temper'd, and thy hope far higher. Sweet be thy cradled slumbers! O'er the sea, And from the mountains where I now respire, Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee, As, with a sigh, I deem thou might'st have been to 1 CANTO IV. JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ. A.M. F.R.S. My dear Hobhouse, •:r an interval of eight years between the composi- of the first and last cantos of Ghilde Harold, the conclusion of the poem is about to be submitted to the public. In parting with so old a friend it is not extra- lary that I should recur to one still older and better, — to one who has beheld the birth and death of other, and to whom I am far more indebted for social advantages of an enlightened friendship, — though not ungrateful — I can, or could be, to Childe Harold, for any public favour reflected through poem on the poet, — to one, whom I have known long, and accompanied far, whom I have found wake- aver my sickness and kind in my sorrow, glad in my prosperity and firm in my adversity, true in coun- md trusty in peril — to a friend often tried and r found wanting; — to yourself, so doing, I recur from fiction to truth, and in de- dicating to you in its complete, or at least concluded state, a poetical work which is the longest, the most thoughtful and comprehensive of my compositions, I wish to do honour to myself by the record of many years' intimacy with a man of learning, of talent, of steadiness, and of honour. It is not for minds like ours to give or to receive flattery; yet the praises of sin- cerity have ever been permitted to the voice of friend- ship, and it is not for you, nor even for others, but t relieve a heart which has not elsewhere, or lately, bee so much accustomed to the encounter of good-will i to withstand the shock firmly, that I thus attempt t commemorate your good qualities, or rather the at vantages which I have derived from their exertioi Even the recurrence of the date of this letter, the ai niversary of the most unfortunate day of my past existence, but which cannot poison my future, while I retain the resource of your friendship, and of my own faculties, will henceforth have a more agreeable recol- lection for both, inasmuch as it will remind us of this my attempt to thank you for an indefatigable regard, such as few men have experienced, and no one could experience without thinking better of his species and of himself. It has been our fortune to traverse together, at va- rious periods, the countries of chivalry, history, and fable — Spain, Greece, Asia Minor, and Italy: and wha Athens and Constantinople were to us a few years ago, Venice and Rome have been more recently. The j also, or the pilgrim, or both, have accompaniec from first to last; and perhaps it may be a pardonable vanity which induces me to reflect with complacency on a composition which in some degree connects r with the spot where it was produced, and the obje> it would fain describe; and however unworthy it in be deemed of those magical and memorable abodes, however short it may fall of our distant conceptions and immediate impressions, yet as a mark of respect for what is venerable, and a feeling for what is glo rious, it has been to me a source of pleasure in th production, and I part with it with a kind of regret, which I hardly suspected that events could have me for imaginary objects. With regard to the conduct of the last canto, there will be found less of the pilgrim than in any of thi preceding, and that little slightly, if at all, separated from the author speaking in his own person. The facti that I had become weary of drawing a line which every one seemed determined not to perceive: like theChinese in Goldsmith's « Citizen of the World, » whom nobody would believe to be a Chinese, it was in vain that I ; serted, and imagined, that I had drawn a distinction 1 tween the author and the pilgrim ; and the very anxiety to preserve this difference, and disappointment at finding it unavailing, so far crushed my efforts in the corapo: tion, that I determined to abandon it altogether — >a have done so. The opinions which have been, or may be, formed on that subject, are now a matter of i ference; the work is to depend on itself, and not on the writer ; and the author, who has no resources in his own mind beyond the reputation, transient or perma- nent, which is to arise from his literary efforts, deserves the fate of authors. In the course of the following canto it was my inten- tion, either in the text or in the notes, to have touched upon the present state of Italian literature, and perhaps CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 69 of manners. Put the text, within llie limits I proposed, I sood found hardly sufficient for the labyrinth of external objects and tlie consequent reflections; and for Uie whole of the notes, excepting a few of the shortest, I am indebted to yourself, and these were uecessarily limited to the elucidation of the text. It is also a delicate, and no very grateful task, to dissert upon the literature and manners of a nation so dissimilar; and requires ao attention aud impartiality which would induce us,— though perhaps 110 inatten- tive observers, nor ignorant of the language or customs of the people amongst whom wc have recently abode,— to distrust, or at least defer our judgment, and more rary, as well as political party, appears to run, or to have run. so high, that for a stranger to steer impar- tially between them is next to impossible. It may be enough then, at least for my purpose, to quote from their own beautiful language — .< Mi pare cite in un paese lutlo poetico, die vanta la lingua la piu nobile ed insieme la piu dolce, tune tutte le vie diverse si possono tenure, e cbe sinche la patria di Alfieri e di Monti non ha ptrduto l'antico valore, in tutte essa dovrebbc esscrc la prima.,. Italy has great names still— Canova, Monti, Cgo Foscolo, Pindemonti, Visconti, Morelli, Cicoguara, Albrizzi. Mezzofanli. Mai, Mustoxidi, Aglietti.and Vaeca, will secure to the present generation an honourable place in most of the departments of art, science, and belles lettres; and in some the very highest;— Europe- Smith. .< Verily tliey will have their reward," and at no very distant period. Wishing you, my dear llobhouse, a safe and agreeable return to that country whose real welfare can be dearet to none than to yourself. I dedicate to you this poem in ils completed state ; and repeat once more how truly 1 Your obliged And affectionate friend, BYRON. renice, January 2, 1818. rlil — has lull one Canov It has been aid by Alfieri, th; Without -ni. -ei ihiuj; trine, the truth grounds, namely, that the Italians are in no respect more ferocious than their neighbours, that man must be wilfully blind, or ignorantly heedless, who is not struck with the extraordinary capacity of this people, or, if such a word be admissable, their cnpalnlituu the facility of their acquisitions, the rapidity of their conceptions, the fire of their genius, their sense of beauty, and. amidst all the disadvantages of repeated revolutions, the desolation of battles, aud the despair of ages, their still unquenched « longing after immor- tality."— the immortality of independence. And when we ourselves, in riding round the walls of Rome, heard the simple lament of the labourers' chorus, .1 Roma ! Roma! Roma! Boma non e piu come era prima » it was difficult not to contrast this melancholy dirge with the bacchanal roar of the songs of exultation still yelled from the London taverns, over the carnage of Mont St Jean, and the betrayal of Genoa, of Italy, of France, and of the world, by men whose conduct you yourself have exposed in a work worthy of the better days of our history. For me, What Italy has gaioed by the late transfer of nations, it were useless for Englishmen to inquire, till it be- comes ascertained that England has acquired something more than a permanent army and a suspended Habeas Corpus ; it is enough for them I" look at home. For what they have done abroad, and 1 specially in the I stood in Venice, on the Itridge of Sighs; ' A palace and a prison on each hand : Ire, As from the stroke of tl nelianter'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 Eook'd to the winged lion's marble piles, Where Venice sale iu state, throned ou her hundred isles! II. She looks a sea Cybelc, fresh from ocean,' Rising with her tiara of proud towers At airy distance, with majestic motion, A ruler of the waters aud their powers: And such she was;— her daughters had their dowers From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless east Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers In purple was she robed, and of her feast Monarrhs partook, and deem'd their dignity increased. III. : 'ungl's< niil.lm;; I In Venice Tasso's And silent rows t Her palaces are crumbling to the sin Those days are gone — but beauty still is here. States fall, arts fade— but nature doth not die, Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, The pleasant place of ail festmty, The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy! IV. Hut 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 JVialto; Shylock and the Moor, And Pierre, can not be swept or worn away — The keystones of the arch ! (hough all were o'er. For us rcpeopled were the solitary shore. The beings of the mind are not of clay; Essentially immortal, they create And multiply in us a brighter ray And more beloved existence: that which fate Prohibits to dull life, in this our state Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied 1 irsl exiles, then replaces what wc hate; Watering the hc.irt whose early flowers have died, And with a fresher growtb replenishing the void. BYRON'S WORKS. Such is the refuge of our youth and age, The first from hope, the last from vacancy; And this worn feeling peoples many a page, And, may be, that which grows beneath mine eye: Yet there are things whose strong reality Outshines our fairy-land; in shape and hues More beautiful than our fantastic sky, And the strange constellations which the muse 'er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse. VII. I saw or dream'd of such, — but let them go — They came like truth, and disappear'd like dreams And whatsoe'er they were — are now but so : I could replace them if I would, still teems My mind with many a form which aptly seems Such as I sought for, and at moments found ; Let these too go— for waking reason deems Such over-weening phantasies unsound, And other voices speak, and other sights surround. r ve taught me other tongues— and in strange eyes Have made me not a stranger; to the mind Which is itself, no changes bring surprise; Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find A country with — 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, IX. Perhaps I loved it well : and should I lay ..!)■- i Unbodied choose a sanctuary. 1 twine My hopes of being remembertl in my line "With mv land's language; if too fond and far These aspirations in their scope incline, — If ray fame should be, as my fortunes are, Of hasty growth and blight, and dull oblivion b My name from out the temple where the dead Are honour 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.» 4 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 sucl. XI. The spouseless Adri And annual marriage now no more renew'd, The Cucentaur lies rotting unrestored, Neglected garment of her widowhood! St Mark yet sees his lion where he stood 5 Stand, but in mockery of his wilher'd power, Over the proud place where an emperor sued, And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour Vhen Venice was a queen with an unequall'd dower. XII. The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns — 6 An emperor tramples where an emperor knelt; Kingdoms 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 Dandolo!7 Th* octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe. XIII. 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? 8 Are they not bridled? — Venice, lost and won, Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done, Sinks, like a sea-weed, into whence she rose ! Better be whelm'd beneath the waves, and shun. Even in destruction's depth, her foreign foes, From whom submission wrings an infamous repose. xrv. In youth she was all glory,— a new Tyre, Her very by-word sprung from victory, The « Planter of the Lion,»9 which through fire And blood she bore o'er subject earth and sea; Though making many slaves, herself still free, And Europe's bulwark gainst the Ottomite; Witness Troy's rival, Candia! Vouch it, ye Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's fight! For ye are names no time nor tyranny can blight. XV. Statues of glass— all shiver'd— the long file Of her dead doges are declined to dust; But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust; Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust, Have yielded to the stranger: empty halls, Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must Too oft remind her who and what enthrals, 10 Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely walls. XVI. When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, Aud fetter'd thousands bore the yoke of was, Redemption rose up in the Attie Muse, 11 Her voice their only ransom from afar: See! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car Of the o'crmaster'd victor stops, the reins Fall from his hands— his idle scimitar Starts from its belt — he rends his captive's chains, And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his strains. XVII. Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine, Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot, Thy choral memory of the bard divine, Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the knot Which ties thee to thy tyrants; and thy lot Is shameful to the nations,— most of all, Albion! to thee: the ocean queen should not Aba ceau's children; in ak of thine, despit ifall liy watery ' CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. XVIH. I loved her from my boyhood — she to me Was as a fairy city of the heart, Rising like water-columns from llio sea, Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart ; And Otway, Ratcliffe, Schiller, Shakspeare's art, 12 Hud stamp'd her image in me, and even so, Although I found her thus, \vc did not part, Perchance even dearer in her day of woe, Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show. XIX. 1 can repeople with the past— and of The present there is still for eye and thought, And meditation chasteu'd down, enough; And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought: Aud of the happiest moments which were wrought Within the web of From thee, fait Ve their colours caughl Nor torture shake, or miue would now he cold and dumb. XX. But from their nature will the taonen grow l3 Loftiest on lofli. si and bast shelter d rocks, Rooted in barrenness, where nought below Of soil supports them gainst (he Alpine shocks * if eddying siurms ; yet springs the trunk, and mocks The howling tempest, till its height and frame Are worthy of the mountains from whose blocks Of bleak, grey granite, into life it came, And grew a giant tree; — the mind may grow the same. XXI. Existence may be borne, and the deep root Of life and sufferance mike its firm abode In bare and desolated bosuns: mute The camel labours with the heaviest load, And the wolf dies in silence,— not bestow'd In vain should such example be; if they, Things of ignoble or of savage mood, Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay May temper it to bear, — it is but for a day. XXII. All suffering doth destroy, or is destroy'd, Even by the sufferer; and in each event Ends:— some, with hope replenish d and rebuoy'd. Return to whence they came— with like intent, And weave their web again; some bow'd and bent, W.ix prey and ghastly, withering ere their time. And perish with the reed on which they leant : Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime, According as their souls were form d to sink or climb : XXIII But ever and anon of grief subdued There comes a token like a scorpion's sling, Srarrr «.**(■ n, hut with fresh bitterness imbued; And slight withal may be the things which bring Back on the heart the weight which it would fling Aside f.,r ever: it may boa sound— A (lower— the wind— the ocean— which shall wound, Striking (lie electric chain wherewith we arc darkly bound; And how and why we know not, nor can trac Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind, Hut feel the shock renew'd, nor can efface XXV. Rut my soul wanders; I demand it back To meditate amongst decay, and stand A ruin amidst ruins; thereto track Fallen states and buried greatness, o'er a land Which was the mightiest in its old command, And is the loveliest, and must ever be The master-mould of nature's heavenly hand, Wherein were cast the heroic aud the free. The beautiful, the brave— the lords of earth and sea, XXVI. The commonwealth of kings, the men of Rome ! And even since, and now, fair Italy! Thou art the garden of the world, the home Of all art yields, and nature can decree; Even in thy desert, what is like to thee ? Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste More rich than other climes' fertility ; Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced. XXVII. 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 colours seems to be Melted to one vast Iris of the west, Where the day joins the past eternity; While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest Finals through the azure air — an island of the blest! XXVIII. A single star is at her side, and reigns Willi her o'er half the lovely heaven ; but still '4 Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains Roll'd o'er the peak of the far Rhaetian hill, As day and night contending were, until Nature reclaim'd her order:— gently (lows The deep-dyed Rrenta, where their hues instil The odorous purple of a new-born rose, Wlmh streams upon her stream, and glass'd within ii glows. XXIX. Fill'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 lis mantle o er the mountains ; parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues Willi a new colour as it gasps away, The last still loveliest, till — l is gone — and all is gray. BYRON'S WORKS. XXX. There is a tomb in Arqua; — rear'd in air, Pillar'd in their sarcophagus, repose The hones 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 '5 With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. xxxr. They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died; l6 The mountain-village where his latter days Went down the vale of years ; and 't is 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. XXXII. 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 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, xxxm. Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers, And shining in the brawling brook, whereby, Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours With a calm languor, which, though to the eye Idlesse it seem, hath its morality. No hollow aid ; alone with his God must s XXXIV. Or, it may be, with demons, who impair '7 The strength of better thoughts, and seek their prey In melancholy bosoms, such as were Of moody texture from their earliest day And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay, Deeming themselves predestined to a doom Which is not of the pangs that pass away; Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb, The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom. XXXV. Ferrara ! in thy wide and grass-grown streets, Whose symmetry was not for solitude, There seems as 't were a curse upon the seats Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood Of Este, which for many an age made good Its strength within thy waUs, and was of yore Patron or tyrant, as the changing mood Of petty power impell'd, of those who wore The wreath which Dante's brow alone had worn before. XXXVI. And Tasso is their glory and their shame. Hark to his strain! and then survey his cell ! And see how dearly earn'd Torquato's fame, And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell : The miserable despot could not quell The insulted mind he sought to quench, and blend With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell Where he had plunged it. Glory without end Scatter'd the clouds away, and on that name attend XXXVII. The tears and praises of all time; while thine Would rot in its oblivion— in the sink Of worthless dust, which from thy boasted line Is shaken into nothing; but the link Thou formest in his fortunes bids us think Of thy poor malice, naming thee with scorn — Alfonso ! how thy ducal pageants shrink From thee! if in another station born. Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou mad'st to mourn : XXXViH. Thou! form'd to eat, and be despised, and die, Even as the beasts that perish, save that thou Hadst a more splendid trough and wider sty : He ! with a glory round his furrow'd brow, Which emanated then and dazzles now In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire; And Boileau, whose rash envy could allow 18 No strain which shamed his country's creaking lyre, That whetstone of the teeth — mouotouy in wire! XXXIX. Peace to Torquato's injured shade? 't was his In life and death to be the mark where Wrong Aim'd with her poison'd arrows ; but to miss. Oh, victor unsurpass'd in modern song! Each year brings forth its millions; but how long The tide of generations shall roll on, And not the whole combined and countless throng Compose a mind like thine? though all in one Condensed their scatter'd rays, they would no t form a sun. XL. Great as thou art, yet parallel'd by those, Thy countrymen, before thee born to shine, The bards of hell and chivalry : first rose The Tuscan father's comedy divine ; Then, not unequal to the Florentine, The southern Scott, the minstrel who call'd forth XLI. The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust'9 The iron crown of laurel's mimick'd leaves; Nor was the ominous element unjust, For the true laurel-wreath which glory weaves : Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves, And the false semblance bul disgraced his brow Yet still, if fondly superstition grieves, Know that the lightning sanctifies below *» Whate'er it strikes ;— yon head is doubly sacred no CIIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. xlii. Ttalia ! oh Italia ! thou who hast SI The fatal gift of heauiv. which hecamc A funeral dower of present woes and past. On thv sweet brow is sorrow plough'd by shame. And annals graved in characters of tlame. Oh God! that thou wert in thy nakedness Less lovely or more powerful, and eouldst claim Thy right, and awe the robbers back who press To shod thv blood, and drink the tears of thy distress XLIIL Then might's t thou more appal; or, less desired. Re homely and be peaceful, undeplorcd For thv destructive charms; then, still untired, Would not be seen the armed torrents pour'd Down the deep Alps; nor would the hostile horde Of marfv-uatiou'd spoilers from the Po Ouaff blood and water; nor the stranger's sword lie thy sad weapon of defence, and so, Motor or vanquish'd, thou the slave of friend or foe. XXI V. The friend of Tully: as my bark did skim The bright blue waters with a fanning wind, Came Megara before me, and behind .Egina lay, Piraus ou the right, And Corinth on the left; I lav reclined Along the prow, and saw all these unite n ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight ; XLV. For time hath not rebuilt them, but uprear'd Barbaric dwellings on their sliatter'd site, Which only make more mourn d and more endear d The few last rays of their far-scalter'd light. And the crush'd relics of their vanish d might. The Roman saw these tombs in his own age, These sepulchres of cities, which excite Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page The moral lesson bears, drawn from such pilgrimage. XL VI. That page is now before me, and on mine His country's ruin added to the mass Of pcrish'd states he mourn d in their decline. And I in desolation: all that vns Of then destruction is; and now, alas! Rome — Rome imperial, bows her to die storm, In the same dust and blackness, anil we pass The skeleton of her Titanic form, J * Wrecks of another world, v\ho-e ashes still are warm. XLVII. Yet, Italy! through OVfflrJ other land Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side to side; Slother of arts! as once of arms; thy hand Was then our guardian, and is Mill our guide; Parent of our religion ! whom the »idc Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven! Europe, repentant of her parricide. Shall vet redeem thee, and. all backward driven, Roll the barbarian tide, arid mi«- to be forgiven. XLYIIL But Arno wins us to the fair white walls. Where the Ktrurian Athens claims aud keeps A softer feeling for her fairy halls. Cirt by her theatre of hills, she reaps Her corn, and wine, and oil, aud plenty leaps To laughing life, with her redundant horn. Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps ind buried learning rose, redeem d to a new mo XLIX. There, too, the goddess loves in stone, and fill! The air around with beauty; we inhale The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils Part of its immortality; the veil Of heaven is half undrawn; within the pale We stand, and in that form and face behold 3 self i We gaze and turn away, and know not where, Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart Reels with its fulness; there — for ever there — Chaiu'd to the chariot of triumphal art, We stand as captives, and would not depart. Away! — there need no words, nor terms precise. The paltrv jargon of the marble mart, Where pedantry gulls folly — we have eyes: Wood — pulse — and breast, confirm the Dardau shep- LL Appear'dst thou not to Paris in this guise? Or to more dccplv blest Anchises? or, In all thy perfect goddess-ship, when lies Before thee thy own vanquish'd lord of war ? And gazing in thy face as toward a star, Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn, Feeding on thy sweet cheek! 3li while thy lips are With lava kisses melting while they burn, Shower'd on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as from ; LI I. Glowing, and eircumfuscd iu speechless love, Their full divinirv inadequate That feeling to express, or to improve, The gods become as mortals, and man's fate Has moments like their brightest; but the weight Of earth recoils » and. :.;«: From what has been or might be, things which Into thy statues form, and look like gods below. LIII. I leave to learned lingers, and wise hands, The artist and his ape, to leach aud tell How well his eonuoisseurship understands The graceful bend, and the voluptuous swell : Let these describe the undescribablc : I would not their vile breath should crisp the s Wherein that image shall fo; ever dwell; The mini filed mirror of the lowliest dream Thai ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam. BYRON'S WORKS. LIV. Tn Santa Croce's holy precincts lie 2 7 Ashes which make it holier, dust which is Even in itself an immortality, Though there were nothing save the past, and this, The particle of those sublimities Which have relapsed to chaos: — here repose Angclo's, Alficri's bones, and his, 28 The starry Galileo, with his woes; lere iilachi a vein's earth return'd to whence it rose. 2 9 These are four minds, which, like the elements, Might furnish forth creation:— Italy! Time, which hath wrong'd thee with ten thousand Of thine imperial garment, shall deny, And hath denied, to every other sky, Spirits which soar from ruin: — thy decay Is still impregnate with divinity. Which gilds it with revivifying ray; uch as the great of yore, Ganova is to-day. LVf. But where repose the all Etruscan three— Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they, The Bard of Prose, creative spirit! he Of the Hundred Tales of love — where did they lay Their bones, disllnguish'd from our common clay In death as life ' Are they resolved to dust, And li;ue their country's marbles nought to say ? Could not her quarries furnish forth one bust? Did they not to her breast their filial earth entrust? lvil Ungrateful Florence! Dante sleeps afar, 3 ° Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore; 3l Thy factions, iu their worse than civil war, Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore Their children's children would in vain adore With the remorse of ages; and the crown 32 Which Petrarch's I iiiivnt brow supremely wore, Upon a far and foreign soil had grown, His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled— not thine lviii. . Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeath'd 33 Ilis dust, — and lies it not her great among, With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed . O'er him who form'd the Tuscan's siren tongue? That music in itself, whose sounds are song, The poetry of speech ? No ;— even his tomb Uptorn, must bear the hyaena bigot's wrong, Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for ivhom! LIX. And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust; Yet for this want more noted, as of yore The Caesar's pageant, shorn of Brutus' bust. Did hut of Rome's best son remind her more ; Happier Ravenna! on thy hoary shore, Fortress of falling empire! honour'd sleeps The immortal exile; — Arqua, too, her store Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps. While Florence vainly begs her bauishddeadand weeps. ■ pyramid of j 734 Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones Of merchant-dukes? the momentary Hews Which, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse Freshness in the green turf that wraps the dead, Whose names are mausoleums of the muse. Are gently prest with far more reverent tread Than ever paced the slab which paves the princely head. lxl There be more things to greet the heart and eyes Ju Arno's dome of art's most princely shrine, Where sculpture with her rainbow sister vies; There be more marvels yet — but not for mine; For I have been accuslom'd to entwine ■ My thoughts with nature rather in the fields, Than art in galleries: though a work divine Calls for my spirit's homage, yet it yields Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wields LXIL Is of another temper, and I roam By Thrasimene's lake, in the defiles Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home; For there the Carthaginian's warlike wiles Come back before me, as his skill beguiles The host between the mountains and the shore, Where courage falls in her despairing files, And torrents, swoln to rivers with their gore. Reek through the sultry plain, with legions scatter d o'er, LXIIL Like to a forest fell'd by mountain winds; And such the storm of battle on this day, And such the phrenzy, whose convulsion blinds To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray, An earthquake reel'd unheededly away! 35 None felt stern nature rocking at his feet, And yawning forth a grave for those who lay Upon their bucklers for a winding sheet; Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations meet! LXIV. The earth to them was as a rolling bark Which bore them to eternity ; they saw The ocean round, hut had no time to The motions of their vessel ; nature's In them suspended, reck'd not of the Which reigns when mountains tremble, and the birds Plunge in the clouds for refuge and \ From their down-toppling nests ; and bellowing herds Stumble o'er heaving plains, and man's dread hath no LXV. Far other scene is Thrasimcne now; Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough; Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain Lay where their roots are; but a brook hath t A little rill of scanty stream and bed — A name of blood from that day's sanguine rail And Sanguinetto tells ye w Made the earth wet, and turn' CHILDE HAROLDS PILGlt IM A <; K. LXVl. Cut iliou, Clitumnus ! in iliy sweetest wave 3ti Of llie most living crystal that was e'er The haunt of ri\er 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 wators! And most serene of aspect, and most clear; Surely that stream was nnprofaned by slaughters — V mirror and a bath for benny's youngest daughters! Lxvir. And ou 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 2 the shallower wave still tells its bubbling LXVIU. nblest the genius of the pb Along bis margin a more eloquent green, If on the heart the freshness of the scene Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry du With natures baptism, — 't is to him ye mi i of disgust. LXIX. The roar of waters! — from the headlong height Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice; The fall of waters! rapid as the light The Hashing mass foams shaking the abyss; The hell of waters ! -where they howl and hiss, Aud boil in endless torture, while the sweat Of their great agony, wrung out from this Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet That g'rrd the gulf around, in pitiless horror set, LXX. And mounts in spray the skies, aud thence agaii 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 From rock t Crushing tin fearful * LXXT. To the broad column which rolls on, and shows More like the fountain of an infant sea Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes Ufa new world, than only thus- In be Parent of rivers, which How gushingly, Willi many windings, through the vale:— look back! Lo! where it comes like an eternity, As if lo sweep down ail things in its track, Charming the eye will* dread, — a matchless ealai.n t,\ An Ir Like hope upou a death-bed, and, unworn- Its steady dyes, while all around is torn lty the distracted waters, bears serene Its brilliant hues with all their beams nnshorn Resembling, 'mid the torture ofthe- scene, ove watching madness with unalterable mien. LXXIU. Once more upon the woody Apeuniue, The infant Alps, which—had I not before Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pit The thundering Iauwinc — might be worshipp more; 3 !) Rut I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear Her never-trodden snow, aud seen the hoar Glaciers of bleak Mont-Blanc both far and neat .nd in Ghimari heard the thunder-hills of fear, LXXIY. And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly Like spirits of the spot; as 't-wcre for fame. For still they soar'd unutterably high: I 've look'd on Ida with a Trojan's eye; Athos, Olympus, Mtna, Atlas, made These hills seem things of lesser dignity, .,;;!„ I NX\ For our remembrance, and from out the plain Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break, And on the curl hangs pausing: not in vain May he, who will, his recollections rake And quote in classic raptures, and awake The hills with Latian echoes; I abhorr'd Too much, to conquer for the poet's sake, The drill'd dull lesson, forced down word by wor In my repugnant youth, with pleasure lo record LXXVI. Aught that rccals the daily drug which lurn'd My sickening memory ; and, thougl : then i veteracy wrought f my early thought That, with the freshness wearing out heron My miud could relish what it might have S( If free to choose, I cannot now restore Is health; but what it then detested, still ahh LXXV1I. Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so, Not for iby faults, but mine; it is a curse To understand, not feci thy lyric How, To comprehend, but never love thy verse, Altl gh no deeper moralist rehearse (Kir little life, nor bard prescribe his arl. Nor livelier satirist the conscience pierce. nmdiag the touch d 1 i Soractc's ridge we p BYRON'S WORKS. lxxvhi. Oh Rome ! my country! city of the soul! The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, Lone mother of dead empires! and control In their shut breasts their petty misery. What are our woes and sufferance? Gome and see The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, yc ! A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay., LXXIX. The Niobe of nations! there she stands, Childless and crownless, iu her voiceless woej An empty urn within her wither d hands, "Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago; The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now; 4' The very sepulchres lie tenantless Of their heroic dwellers: dost thou flo.w, Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness? Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress! LXXX. The goth, the christian, time, war, flood, and fire, Have dealt upou the seven-hill'd city's pride; She saw her glories star by star expire, And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride, "Where the car climb'd the cap'itol ; far and wide Temple and tower went down, nor left a site:— Chaos of ruins ! who shall trace the void, er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, And say, «here was, or is,» where all is doubly night? LXXXI. The double night of ages, and of her, Night's daughter, ignorance, hath wrapt and wrap All round us; we but feel our way to err: The ocean hath his chart, the stars their map, And knowledge spreads them on her ample lap; But Rome is as the desert, where we steer Stumbling o'er recollections; now we clap Our hands and cry « Eureka !» it is clear — When but some false mirage of ruin rises near. LXXXII. Alas! the lofty city! and alas! The trebly hundred triumphs?**- and the day "When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away ! Alas, for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay, And Livy's pictured page! — but these shall be Her resurrection ; all beside — decay. Alas, for earth, for never shall we see That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free LXXXIII. Oh thou, whose chariot roll'd on fortune's wheel, i ; Triumphant Sylla ! thou, who didst subdue Thy country's foes ere thou would pause to feel The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew O'er prostrate Asia; — thou, who with thy frown Annihilated senates — Roman, too, With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down With an atoning smile ;i more slt:in <-:ir:i,)v ctou i - LXXXIV. The dictatorial wreath, — couldst thou divine To what would one day dwindle that which made Thee more than mortal? and that so supine By aught than Romans Rome should thus he laid ? She who was named eternal, and array'd Her warriors but to conquer — she who veil'd Earth with her haughty shadow, and display'd, Until the o'er-canopied horizon fail'd, (Icr rushing wings — Oh ! she who was almighty hail'd! LXXXV. Sylla was first of victors; but our own The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell; he Too swept off senates while he hew'd the throne Down to a block — immortal rebel! See What crimes it costs to be a moment free And famous through all ages! but beneath His fate the moral lurks of destiny ; His day of double victory and death Beheld him win two realms, and, happier, yield his breath. LXXXVI. The third of the same moon whose former course Had all but crown'd him, on the self-same day Deposed him gently from his throne of force, And laid him with the earth's preceding clay. 44 And show'd not fortune thus how fame and sway, And all we deem delightful, and consume Our souls to compass through each arduous way, Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb? Were they but so in man's, how different were his doom! LXXXVII. And thou, dread statue! yet existent in 45 The austerest form of naked majesty, Thou who beheldest, 'mid the assassins' din, At thy bathed base the bloody Ccesar lie, Folding his robe in dying dignity, An offering to thine altar from the queen Of gods and men, great Nemesis ! did he die, Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a scene? LXXXVIII. And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome ! 46 She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart The milk of conquest yet within the dome Where, as a monument of antique art, Thou standest: — mother of the mighty heart, Which the great founder suck'd from thy wild teat, Scorch'd by the Roman Jove's etherial dart, And thy limbs black with lightning— dost thou yet Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge forget? LXXXIX. Thou dost;— but all thy foster-babes are dead- The men of iron; and the world hath rear'd Cities from out their sepulchres: men bled Jn imitation of the things they fear'd, And fought and conquerd,and the same course st At apish distance; but as yet none have. Nor could, the same supremacy have near'd, Save one vain man, who is not in the grave. But, vanquish'd by himself, to his own slaves a sla GHILDK IIAItOLD'S PILGRIMAGE. XC. Tin 1 fool of false dominion — and a kiud Of bastard Osar, following him of old With steps unequal ; for the Roman's mind Was modell'd in a less terrestrial mould, 47 With passions tierecr, yet a judgment cold, And an immortal instinct which redeem'd The frailties of B heart so soft, yet bold; Ah ides with tbe distaff now lie scem'd > feet, — and now himself he beam'd. XCI. And came — and saw — and couquer'd! But the man Who would have tamed his eagles down lo flee. Like a train'd falcon, in the Gallic van, Which he, in sooth, long led to victory, A listener to itself, was strangely framed; With but one weakest weakness — vanity, Coquettish in ambition— still he aim'd — I what? can he avouch — or auswer what he claim'd? Had lix'd him with the Casars in his fete. On whom wc tread: for this the conqueror rears The arch of triumph ! and for this the tears And blood of earth How on as they have flow'd, An universal deluge, which appears Without an ark for wretched man's abode, And ebbs but to rcllow ! — Renew thy rainbow, God ! Life short, and trutli a i;em which loves the deep, And all things weigh'd in custom's falsest scale; Opinion an omnipotence, — whose veil Mantles the earth with darkness, until right Lest their own judgments should become too brigbl nd their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have toi much light. XCIV. And thus they plod in sluggish misery. Rotting from sire to son, and age to age, Proud of their trampled nature, and so die, Bequeathing their hereditary rage To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage War for their chains, and, rather than be free. Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage Within the same arena where they sec Their fellows fall before, Jikc leaves of the same tree. XCY. I speak not of men's creed* — they rest between Man and his Maker — hut of things allow'd, Averrd, and known, — and dailv. hourly seen, The yoke (h.it is upon lis doubly bnw'd, And Ihe intent of tyranny SVOW'd, The edict of earth s rulers, who are grown The apes of him who humbled once the proud, And shook them from their slumbers on the throne Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done. XCVI. Can tyrants but by tyrants couquer'd be, And freedom find no champion and no child Such as Columbia saw arise when she Sprung forth a Pallas, arm'd and undefiled? Or must such minds be nourish d in the wild, Deep in the unpenned forest, 'midst the roar Of cataracts, where nursing nature smiled On infant Washington? lias earth no more Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore '! XGVIL Rut France got drunk with blood to vomit crime. And fatal have her Saturnalia been To freedom's cause, in every age and clime; Recause the deadly days which we have seen, And vile ambition, that built up between Man and his hopes an adamantine wall, And the base pageant last upon the scene, Arc grown the pretext for the eternal thrall Which nips life's tree, and dooms man's worst — his second fall. XCVIII. Yet, freedom ! yet thy banner, torn, but flying, Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind; Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and dying. The loudest still the tempest leaves behind; Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, Chopp'd by the axe, looks rough and little worth, But the sap lasts, — and still the seed we find Sown deep, even in the bosom of the north; So shall a better spring bss bitter fruit bring forth. XCIX. There is a stern round tower of other days, 4y Fir 11 as a fortress, with its fence of stone, Such as an army's hafilrd siiy wiTt. — 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 i bought, and softly bodied forth. CXYI. The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled With thine Khsim w;iter-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, I'risond in marble; bubbling from the base Of the cleft statue, with a geutle leap The rill runs o'er, and round, fern, (lowers, and ivy creep, CXV II. Fantastically tangled; the green hills Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the hills Of summer-birds sing welcome .is ye pass; Flowers fresh in hue, and many fn their class, Implore the pausing step, aud with their dyes Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass; The sweetness of the violets deep blue eyes, Kissd by the breath of heaven, seems culmtr'd by its skies. cxvirr. Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, Fgeria! thy all heavenly bosom beating For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover; The purple midnight veil d that mystic meeting With her most starry canopy, and seating Thyself bv thiiir adorer, what befel ? This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting Of an enamonr'd goddess, and the cell Haunted by holy love— the earliest oracle! CXIX. And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying, IMend a celestial with a human heart; And love, which dies as it was born, in sighing, Share with immortal transports? could thine art Make them imbed immortal, and impart The purity of heaven to earthly jovs. Expel the venom and not blunt the dart — The dull satiety which all destroys— And root from out ihe soul the deadly weed wlnrh.Io' , ? t:xx. Alas! our young affections run to waste, Or water but the desert; whence arise Hut weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste. Hank at the core, though tempting to the eyes, Flowers whose wild odours breathe but agonies, Aud trees whose gums are poison; such the plar Which spring beneath her steps as passion Mies O'er the worlds wilderness, and vainly pants or some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants. CXXI. Oli love! no habitant of earth thou art — An unseen seraph, wc believe in thee, A faith whose martyrs arc the broken heart, hut never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see The naked eye, thy form, as it should be; The mind hath made thec, as it peopled heaven, Evea with its own desiring phantasy, And to a thought such shape and image given, ,s haunts the unquencli'd soul — parch'd— wearii wrung — and riven. CXXII. Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, And fevers into false creation: — where, i forms the sculptor's soul hath sei \nd. ire the i 1 boyhood and pursue as men — -informs the pencil and the pen, crs the page where it would bloon Who loves, cv Is bitterer still CXXIII. t is youth's frenzy — but the cur harm by charm unwinds Which robed our idols, and we sec too sure Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind's Ideal shape of such, yet still it binds The fatal spell, aud still it draws us on, Heaping the whirlwind from the oft -sown winds; The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun, done. CXXIV. Wc wither from our youth, we gasp away- Sick. — siek; uufound the boon — unslaked the ihirs Though to the last, in verge of our decay, Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first — But all too late,— so arc wc doubly curst. Love, fame, ambition, avarice — t is the same. Each idle — and all ill — and none the worst — For all arc meteors with a different name, And death the sable Mimke where vanishes the Maine. Few- CXXV. -find what they | Though accident, blind contact, and the strong Necessity of loving, have removed Envenom d with irrevocable wrong: And circumstance, that unspiritual god And niiscreator, makes and helps along Our coming evils with a rriiteh-like rod. Whose touch turns hope to dust, — the dust we all have BYRON'S WORKS. CXXVI. Our life is a false nature — 't is not in The harmony of things,— this hard decree, This uneradicable taint of sin, This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree, Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches he The skies which rain their plagues on men like dew- Disease, death, bondage — all the woes we see — And worse, the woes we see not — which throb through The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new. CXXVII. Yet let us ponder boldly — 't is a base 5 7 Abandonment of reason to resign Our right of thought — our last and only place Of refuge; this, at least, shall still be mine : Though from our birth the faculty divine Is chaiu'd and tortured— cabin'd, cribb'd, confined, And bred in darkness, lest the truth should shine Too briglilly on the unprepared mind, The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch the blind. CX XVIII. Arches on arches! as it were that Rome, Collecting the chief trophies of her line, Would build up all her triumphs in one dome. Her Coliseum stands; the moonbeams shine As 't were its natural torches, for divine Should he the light which streams here, to illume This long-explored but still exhaustless mine Of contemplation; and the azure gloom Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume CXXIX. And shadows forth its glory. There is given Unto the things of earth, which lime hath bent, A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power And magic in the ruined battlement, For which the palace of the present hour lust yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower. exxx. Oh time ! the beautifier of the dead, Adorner of the ruin, comforter And only healer when the heart hath hied — Time! 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! unto thee I lift My hands, and eves, and heart, and crave of thee a gift CXXXL Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine And temple more divinely desolate, Among thy miglui.T nttr-riii^s here are mine, Ruins of years — though few, yet full of fate: — If thou hast ever seen me too elate, Hear me not: but if calmly I have borne Good, and reserved my pride against the hale Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn 'his iron in my soul in vain — shall they not mourn? CXXXII. And thou, who never yet of human wrong Lost the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis! i8 Here, where the ancient paid thee homage long- Thou, who didst call the furies from the abyss, And round Orestes bade them howi and hiss For that unnatural retribution — just, Had it but been from hands less near — in this Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust! Dost thou not hear my heart? — Awake! thou shalt, and CXXXHI. It is not that I may not have incurr'd For my ancestral faults or mine the wound I bleed withal, and, had it been eonferr'd With a just weapon, it had flovv'd unbound; But now my blood shall not sink in the ground ; To thee I do devote it — thou shalt take The vengeance, which shall yet be sought and found, Which if J have not taken for the sake But let that pass— I sleep, hut thou shalt yet awake. CXXXIV. And if my voice break forth, 't is 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; But in this page a record will I seek. Not in the air shall these my words disperse, Though I be ashes; a far hour shall wreak The deep prophetic fulness of this verse, And pile on human beads the mountain of my curse exxxv. That curse shall he forgiveness.— Have I not— Hear me, my mother earth ! behold it, Heaven! — Have I not had to wrestle with my lot? Have I not suffe,r'd things to be forgiven? Have I not had my brain scar'd, my heart riven, Hopes sapp'd, name blighted, life's life lied away? And only not to desperation driven, Because not altogether of such clay As rots into the souls of those whom I survey. CXXXVI. From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy, From the loud roar of foamh To the small whisper of the as paltry few, And subtler venom of the reptile crew, The Janus glance of whose significant eye. Learning to lie with silence, would seem true. And without utterance, save the shrug or sigh, Deal round to happy fools its speechless obloquy. CXXXVII. But I have lived, and have not lived in vain: My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire, And my frame perish even in conquering pain, But there is that within me which 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 jiow the late remorse of love. ings could do? CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. CXXXVIII. The seal is set. — Now welcome, tliou dread power ! Nameless, yel thus omnipotent, which here Walk'st in the shadow of the midnight hour Willi a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear; Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear That we become a part of what has been, And grow unto ibe spot, all-seeing but unseen. i:\XXIX. \n,l I hi- J. H77 ot .m|]i i- nations ran, Id murmurd pity, or loud-roar'd applause, As man was slaugbter'd by bis fellow man. And wherefore slaughter d? wherefore, but because Such were the IJno.lv Circus genial laws, And the imperial pleasure.— Wherefore not? What matters where we-fall to (ill the maws Of worms— on battle-plains or listed spol? oih are but theatres where the chief actors rot. CXL. T see before me the gladiator lie: 5 ? He leans upon his hand — his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony, And his droopd head sinks gradually low"— And through his sidr 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 thewrctel who won. CXLL He heard it, but he heeded nol — his eyes Were with his heart, and that was far away; He reek'd not of the life he lost nor prize. Rut where his rude hut by the Danube lay There were his young barbarians all at play, Tliere was their Dacian mother— be, their sire, Itulcher'd lo make a Roman holiday— 60 AH this rush d wiib bis blood— Shall he expire, And unavenged? — Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire CXLII. But here, where murder breathed her bloody steam ; And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways, And roar'd or murmurd like a mountain stream Dashing or winding as iu torrent strays; Here, where the Roman millions blame or praise Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd, 6 ' My voice sounds much — and fall the stars' faint rays Od the arena void— seats crush'd— walls bowd— And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely loud CXLHL A ruin — yet what ruin ! from its mass Walls, palaces, half-cities, hare been rear'd; Vet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass And marvel where the spoil could have appear'd. Ilaih it indeed been plunder d, or but cleard I Alas! developed, opens ibe dcrav. When the colossi! fabric's form is near'd : It will not bear the brightness of the day, Mrbich streams loo much on all roars, man, have reft CXI. IV. the i a 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-fur. -st, which the grav walls wear, Like laurels on the baJd first Cesar's tod;* When the light shines serene but doth not glare, Then in ibis magic circle raise ibe dead: Heroes have trod this spot — 'tis on their dust ye tread. CXLV. "While stauds the Coliseum, Rome shall stand ; fil 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 . .11 ml i ings : On their foundations, and unalter'd all ; Rome and her ruin past redemption's skill, The world, the same wide den — of thieves, or what ye will. CXLVI. Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime— From Jove to Jesus — spared and blest by timejGf Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and man plods His way through thorns to ashes — glorious dome ! Shalt thou not last ? Time's scythe ami tyrants rods Shiver upon thec — sanctuary and home Of art and piety— Pantheon 1 — pride of Rome ! cxlvii. Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts! Despoild yet perfect, with thy circle spreads A holiness appealing 'o all hearts — To art a model; and to him who treads Rome for the sake of ages, glory sheds Her light through thy sob- aperture; to those Who worship, here are altars for their beads; And they who feel for genius may repose Their eyes on honour'd forms, whose busts around them close. 65 CXLVFII. There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light 66 What do I gaze on? Nothing. Look again! Two forms are slowly shadow'd on my sight — Two insulated phantoms of the brain: It is not so; I see them full and plain — An old man, and a female young and fair, Knsli as a nursing mother, in whose vein The blood is nectar:— but what doth she there, Wiih her unmantb-d neck, and bosom white and bare? CXL IX. Full swells ibe deep pure fountain of young life. Where ore the heart and from the heart wc took Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife, Rlest into mother, in the innocent look. Or even the piping cry of lips that brook No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives M in knows not. when from oul its cradled nook She sees her little bud put forth its leaves— What may the fruit beyet?— I know not— Cain wa< Eves. BYRON'S WORKS. To whom she renders hack the debt of blood Born with her birth. No ; he shall not expire While in those warm and lovely veins the lire Of health and holy feeling can provide Great nature's Nile, -whose deep stream rises higher Thau Egypt's river: — from that gentle side Drink, drink and live, old man! Heaven's realm holds tide. <;u. 111-! y fable of the milky way hy story's purity; it is this ««M7 And sacred nature triumphs Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss Where sparkle distant worlds : — Oh, holi No drop of that clear stream its way sha To thy sire's heart, replenishing its sourc With life, as our freed souls rejoin the uni CLII. Turn to the mole which Adrian rear'd 01 Imperial mimic of old Egypt's piles, Colossal copyist of deformity, Whose travelld phantasy from the far Nile's Enormous model, doom'd the artist's toils To build for giants, and for his vain earth, His shrunken ashes raise this dome: How smiles The gazer's eye with philosophic mirth, To view the huge design which sprung from such a birth ! CLIH. But lo I the dome — the vast and wondrous dome, 68 To which Dianas marvel was a cell- Christ's mighty shrine above his martyr's tomb! I have beheld the Ephesians miracle- Its columns strew the wilderness ; and dwell The hyxna and the jackall in their shade: Hiave beheld Sophia's bright roofs swell Their glittering mass i' the sun, and have survey'd Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem .pray'd- CLIV. But thou, of temples old, or altars new, Standest alone — with nothing'like to thee— Worthiest of God, the holy and the true, Since Zion's desolation, when that He Forsook his former city, what could be. Of earthly structures, in his honour piled, Of asublimer aspect? Majesty, Power, glory, strength, and beauty, all are aisled In this eternal ark of worship undefiled. CLV. Enter: Us grandeur overwhelms thee not; And why? it is not lessen'd; but thy mind, Expanded by the genius of the spot, Has grown colossal, and can only find A lit abode wherein appear enshrined Thy hopes of immortality; and thou Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined, See thy God face to face, as thou dost riow His Holy of holies, nor be blasted by his brow. n ihi& CLVI. Thou movest— but increasing with the advance, Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth rise, Deceived by its gigantic elegance ; Vastness which grows— but grows to harmonize All musical in its immensities; Rich marbles— richer painting— shrines where f The lamps of gold— and haughty dome which vi In air with earth's chief structures, though their frame Sits on the firm-set ground — and this the clouds must CLVII. Thou seest not all; but piecemeal thou must break, To separate contemplation, the great whole; And as the ocean many bays will make, That ask the eye — so here condense thy soul To more immediate objects, and control Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by heart Its eloquent proportions, and unroll In mighty graduations, part by part, The glory which at once upon thee did not dart, CLVIH. Not by its fault — but thine : our outward sense Is but of gradual grasp — and as it is That what we have of feeling most int-—- Outstrips our faint expression; even st Outshining arid overwhelming edifice Fools our fond gaze, and, greatest of the great, Defies at first our nature's littleness, Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate. CLIX. Then pause, and be enlighlen'd; there is more In such a survey than the sating gaze Of wonder pleased, or awe which would adore The worship of the place, or the mere praise Of art and its great masters, who could raise What former time, nor skill, nor thought could pla The fountain of sublimity displays Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of man Its golden sands, and learn what great conceptions ca CLX. Or, turning to the Vatican, go see Laocooo's lunun ili<;nil : yLN;; [i.un — A father's love and mortal's agony With an immortal's patience blending: — vain The struggle ; vain, against the coiling strain And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's grasp, The old man's clench; the long envenom'd chain Rivets the living links, — the enormous asp Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp. GLXI. Or view the Lord of the unerring bow, The God of life, and poesy, and light — The sun in human limbs array'd, and brow All radiant from his triumph in the fight; The shaft hath just been shot — the arrow bright With an immortal's vengeance; in his eye And nostril beautiful disdain, and might. And majesty, Hash their full lightnings by, Developing in that one glance the deity. CHILDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 83 CLXII. But in his delicate form — a dream of love, Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast Long'd for a deathless lover from above, And maddeo'd in that vision — are cxprest All that ideal beauty ever bless'd The mind with in its most unearthly mood. When each conception was a heavenly guest — A ray of immortality — and stood. Starlike, around, until they gather'd to a god! CLxnr. And if it be Prometheus stole from heaven The fire which we endure, it was repaid By him to whom the energy was given Which this poetic marble hath array'd With an eternal glory — which, if made By human hands, is not of human thought; And time himself hath hallow'd it, nor laid One ringlet in the dust — nor hath it caught A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which 't was wrought. CLXIV. But where is he, the pilgrim of my song, The being who upheld it through the past? MJethmks he comelh late and tarries long. fie is no more — these breathings are his last ; His wanderings done, hi- visions ebbing fast," And lie himself as nothing: — if he was Aught but a phantasy, and could be class'd With forms which live and suffer— let that pass— His shadow fades away into destruction's mass, CLXV. shadow, substauce, life, and all t in its mortal shroud, And spreads the dim and universal pall Through which all things grow phantoms; and the Between us sinks, and all which e\crglowd, Till glory's self is twilight, and displays- A melancholy halo scarce allow'd To hover on the verge of darkness; rays Sadder than saddest night, fur they distract the gaze, CLXVI. And send-us prying into the* abyss. To gather what we shall be when the frame Shall be resolved to something less than this Its wretched essence; and to dream of fame, And wipe the dust from off the idle name We never more shall hear, — but never more, Oh, happier thought! can we be made the same: It is enough in sooth that once we bore These fardels of the heart— the heart whose sweat was gore. CLXVII. Hark I forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, A long low distant murmur of dread sound, Such as arises when a nation bleeds With some deep and immedicable wound; Through storm and darkness yawns the rending 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 e!asp> a babe, lo whom her brrasi yields no relief. Which galhe CLXV MI. Scion of chiefs and nionarchs, where art thou? Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead? 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 for ever: with thee fled The present happiness and promised joy Y\ lii.li jill'-l the imperial isles, so full it seem'd to cloy. CLXiX. Peasants bring forth in safety. — Can it be, O thou that wert so happy, so adored! Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee. And freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard Her many griefs for One; for she had pour'd Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head Beheld her Iris.— Thou, too, lonely lord, And desolate consort — vainly wert thou wed ! The husband of a year! the father of Hie dead! CLXX. 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 we did entrust 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 buta meteor beam'd. CLXXT. Woe unto us, not her; for she sleeps well: The fickle wreath of popular breath, the tongue Of hollow counsel, the false oracle, Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstung Nations have arm'd in madness, the strange fate c l> Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath (lung Against their blind omnipotence a weight Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late, — CLXXH. These might have been her destiny ; but no, Our hearts deny it: and so young, so fair, Good without effort, great without a foe; How ubjects breast ke's, and opprcst rxxxm. 7" I.o, Ncmi! naYcll'd in the woody hills So far, that the uprooting wind which tears The oak from his foundation, and which spills The ocean o'er its boundary, and bears Us foam against the skies, reluctant spares The oval mirror of thy glassy lake; And, calm as cherishd hate, its surface wears A deep cold sell led aspeet nought . an -hake. All coil'd into Usclf and round, as sl<< | ' i ■ u i i- , 84 BYRON'S WORKS. CLXXIV. And near Albano's scarce divided waves Shine from a sister valley;— and afar The Tiber -winds, and the broad ocean laves The Latian coast where sprung the Epic war, « Arms and the man,» whose re-ascending star Rose o'er an empire; — but beneath thy right Tully reposed from Rome;— and when yon bar Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight The Sabine farm .was till'd, the weary bard's delight CLXXV. But I forget. — 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 ro CLXXVI. Upon the blue Symplegadcs: long years — Long, though not very many\ since have done Their work on both ; some suffering and some tt 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, \nd reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear As u there were no man to trouble what is clear. GLXXVH. Oh ! that the desert were my dwelling place, With one fair spirit for my minister, That I might all forget the human race, And, hating no one, love but only her ! 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 Ic CLXXYHL There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar: I love not man the less, but nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the universe, and feel What I cau ne'er express, yet can not all conceal. CLXXIX. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean — roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; Man marks the earth with ruin— his control Stops with the shore; — upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, "Without a grave, unkuell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown, for 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 CLXXXI. The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake; 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 toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. CLXXXH. Thy shores are empires, changed in all sa' Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they Thy waters wasted them while they were free, And many a tyrant since; their shores obey The Such ; thci ave to thy wild waves' play — wrinkle on thine azure brow- . dawn beheld, thou rollest noi CLXXXIII. 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; — bouudless, endless, and sublime — The image of eternity — the throne Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. CLXXXIV. And I have loved the*, 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 — 't was 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. GLXXXV. My task is done — my song hath ceased — my then Has died into an echo; it is fit The spell should break of this protracted dream. The torch shall be exlinguish'd which hath lit My midnight lamp — and what is writ, is writ, — Would it were worthier! but I am not now That which I have been— and my visions flit Less palpably before me — and the glow Which in my spirit dwelt, is fluttering, faint, and k CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 85 CLXXXVI. Farewell ! a word that must be, and halli been— A sound which makes us linger ;— yet— farewell ! Yc ! who have traced the pilgrim to the scene Which is his last, if in your memories dwell A thought which once was his. if on ye swell A single recollection, not in vain He wore his sandal-shoon, and scallop-shell; Farewell ! with luni alone may rest the pain, If such there were — with you, the moral of his strai NOTES. Note 1. Stanza i The little village of Castri stauds partly on the site of Delphi. Along the path of the mountain, from Chrysso, are the remains of sepulchres hewn in and from the rock: « One,» said the guide, « of n king who broke his neck hunting." His Majesty had certainly chosen die fittest spot for such an achievement. A little above Castri is a cave, supposed the Pythian, immense depth; the upper part of it is paved, and On the other side of Castri stands a Greek monas- th a range of caverns difficult of ascent, and ap- parently lending to [he interior of the mountain: pro- bably to the Corycian Cavern mentioned by Pausanias. Worn tins part descend the fountain and the ■< Dews of Castalic. Note 2. Stanza xx. rock. Below, at some distance, is the Cork Convent, where St Iio- norius dug his den. over which is his epitaph. From the hills, the sea adds to the beauty of the view. Note 3. Stanza xxi. It is a well known fact, that, in the year 1809, the assassinations in the streets of Lisbon and its vicinity were not confined by the Portuguese to their cou men; but that Englishmen were daily butchered: and so far from redress being obtained, we were requestec uotto interfere if we perceived any compatriot defend- ing hinwlf again-l his allies. I was onee stopped ir the way to the theatre at eight o'clock in the evening when the streets were not more empty than they gene- rally are at that hour, opposite 10 an open shop, and in a carriage with a friend; bad wo not fortunately b.OB.« ibf «Viva el Rey Fernando !» — Long live King Fcrd! nand! is the chorus of most of the Spanish patriotic songs : they are chiefly in dispraise of the old king Charles, the Oueen, and the Prince of Peace. I have heard many of them; some of the airs are beautif Godoy, the Principe de la Paz, was born at Badaj on the frontiers of Portugal, and was originally in I ranks of the Spanish Guards, till his person attracted the rjueen's eyes, and raised him to the dukedom of Alcudia, etc. etc. It is to this man that the Spaniards universally impute the ruin of their country. Note o. Stanza I. The red cockade with ■< Fernando Scpiimo» in the Note 10. Stanza li. All who have seen a battery will recollect the pyra- midal form in which shot and shells arc piled. Thf Sierra tforcna was fortified in every defile through which I passed in my way to Seville. 1. Stanza Ivi. xploits of the Maid of is at Seville she walked daily nu the 86 BYRON'S WORKS. Prado, decorated with medals and orders, by of the Junta. Note 12. Stanza lviii. Note 1 3. Stanza lx. Oh, tbou Parnassus! These stanzas were written in Castri (De)phos), at the foot of Parnassus, now called AietKUg A — Liakura. Note 14. Stanza lxv. Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days. Seville was the Hispalis of the B.omans. ^ Note i5. Stanza lxx. Ask yc, Boeotian shades! the reason why? 1 at Thebes, and consequently in the ng such a ques- best situation for asking and not as the birth-place of Pindar, but as the ca- pital of Bceotia, where the first riddle was propounded ad solved. Note 1 8. Stanza lxxxvi. « the knife, » Palafox's answer to the French the siege of Saragoza. Note in. Stanza xci. 5V**. of the Guards, who died : Coimbra. I had known him ten years, the better half of his life, and the happiest part of mine. lu the short space of one month I have lost her who gave me being, and most of those who had made that tolerable. To me the lines of Young are no fiction : I should have ventured a verse to the mem*ory of the late Charles Skinner Matthews, Fellow of Downing College, Cambridge, were he not too much above all praise of mine. His powers of mind, shown iu the at- tainment of greater honours, against the ablest candi- dates, than those of any graduate on record at Cam- bridge, have sufficiently established his fame on the spot where it was acquired, while hi--, softer qualities in the recollection of friends who loved him too well to envy his superiority. Note 1. Stanza i t of the Acropolis was destroyed by the explosion magazine during the Venetian siege. Note 2. Stanza i That thoughts of thee and thine on polish" d breasts be* tow. We can all feel, or imagine, the regret with which the ruins of cities, once the capitals of empires, are beheld; the reflections suggested by such objects are too trite to require recapitulation. But never did the littleness of man, and the vanity of his very best virtues, of patriotism to exalt, and of valour to defend his country, appear more conspicuous than in the record of what Athens was, and the certainty of what she is. This theatre of contention between mighty factions, of the struggles of orators, the exaltation and depositio of tyrants, the triumph and punishment of generals, now become a scene of petty intrigue and perpetual disturbance, between the bickering agents of cer British nobility and gentry. «The wild foxes, the ( and serpents in the ruins of Babylon," were surely less, n, there it no .cene more interesting tlun Cape Ci.loi trcivn thr JF.gtatt H T I.onnaV .lerp. The tcaraan'a cry m heard along the deep.. Tbi* (emplr of Mi terra may be *een at »ea from a great distance. Ii mrnryiwbitb I made, and one HrylgC to Cape Colon na, the vtrv deterred front •tudun| u» by tlie appearant eol mv tno Alba : ronjreturing .cry ta ); anc,u»W, but faltely. Out ne had a com I make* degraded nature pJcWtftjQ*.* (See It™tg.n n » Lad, Jane Ore,, «r.) e. «,.b the aid of art. I... done that for ber.elf. 1 wa, speak impartially: I ; On this lector or admirer of collections, consequently ;ome early prepossession in favour o t think the honour of England advanced by hcthcr of India or Attica. noble Lord has done better, becau done less: but some others, more or less noble, yet honourable men, » have doue best, because, after il of excavaliou and execration, bribery to the Waywode, mining and countermining, they have done hing at all. We had such ink-shed, an ' ich almost ended in bloodshed! Lord E.s «png,» — Jonathan Wylde for the definition of « priffgism,) i[h ;i not her. Grofiius ' by name ,i \erv good ir his business), and muttered something iction, in a verbal a poor Prussian : this was stated at table to Gropius, who laughed, but could cat no dinner afterwards. The : reconciled when I left Greece. I have mber their squabble, for they ' make me their arbitrator. Note 7. Stanza xii. I cannot resist availing myself of the permissio my friend Dr Clarke, whose name requires no comn with the public, but whose sanction will add tenfold weight to my testimony, to insert the following ex from a very obliging letter of bis to me, as a note t "When the last of the Metopes was taken fron Parthenon, and, in moving of it, great part of the super- structure with one of the triglyphs was thrown down by the workmen whom l.onl I'.l^in employed, the Disi who beheld the mischief done to the building, took his pipe from his mouth, dropped a lear, and, in a suppli- cating tone of voice, said to Lusieri: T«aos !— I was present." The Disdar alluded to was the father of the present Disdar. According to Zozim us, Minerva a ml Achilles frightened Alaric from the Acropolis; but others relate that the Gothic king was nearly as mischievous as the Scottish peer.— See Chandler. Note q. Stanza xviii. The netting to prevent blocks or split n deck during action. s from falling Coza is said to have been the island of Calypst hi* noble patron dt*a«o*. all coi If the error in the tir.t and «co. noble lord a moment*, pain. I ■ f.r.lto be undeeeircd) BYRON'S WORKS. his IIi;;liu day's Albania comprises part of Macedonia, Illyria,Chaonia, and Epirus. Iskander is the Turkish word for Alexan- der ; and the celebrated Scanderbeg (Lord Alexander) is alluded to in the third and fourth lines of the thirty- eighth stanza. I do not know whether I am correct in making Scanderbeg the countryman of Alexander, who who born at Pclla in Macedon, but Mr Gibbon terms him so, and adds Pyrrhus to the list, in speaking of his Of Albania Gibbon remarks, that a country « within sight of Italy is less known than the interior of Ame- rica. •> Circumstances, of little consequence to men- tion, led Mr Hobhouse and myself into that country before we visited any other part of the Ottoman domi- nions; and with the exception, of Major Leake, then officially resident at Joanuina, no other Englishmen have ever advanced beyond the capital into the interior, as that gentleman very lately assured me. Ali Pacha was at that time (October, iSoq) carrying on w;ir a;;;im-.f Ibrahim Pacha, whom he had driven to Herat, a strong fortress which he was then besieging: on our arrival Joannina we were invited to Tepale birth-place, and favourite Serai, only from Berat; at this juncture the vizh head-quarters. After some stay in the capital, we accordingly fol- lowed; but though furnished with every accommoda- tion and escorted by one of the vizier's secrataries, we were nine days (on account of the rains) in accomplish- ing a journey which, on our return, barely occupied On our route we passed two cities, Argyrocastro and Libochabo, apparently little inferior to Yanina in size; and no pencil or pen can ever do justice to the scenery in the vicinity of Zitza and Delvinachi, the frontier village of Epirus and Albania proper. On Albania and its inhabitants I am unwilling to descant, because this will be done so much better by my fellow traveller, in a work which may probably pre- cede this in publication, that I as little wish to follow as I would to anticipate him. Cut some few observa- tions are necessary to the text. TheArnaouts or Albanese, struck me forcibly by their resemblance to the Highlanders of Scotland, in dress, figure, and manner of living. Their very mountains seemed Caledonian, with a kinder climate. The kilt, though white; the spare, active form; their dialect, Celtic in its sound, and their hardy habits, all carried me back to Morven. No nation are so detested and dreaded by their neighbours as the Albanese : theGreeks hardly regard them as Christians, or the Turks as Mos- lems; and in fact they area mixture of both, and some- times neither. Their habits are predatory: all are armed; and the red-shawled Arnaouts, the Montene- grins, Chimariots, and Gegdes, are treacherous; the others differ somewhat in garb, and essentially in cha- racter. As far as my own experience goes, I can speak favourably. I was attended by two, an Infidel and a Mussulman, to Constantinople and every other part of Turkey which came within my observation; and more faithful in peril, or indefatigable in service, are rarely to be found. The Infidel was named Basilius, the Mos- lem, Dervish Tahiri; the former a man of middle age, the abo • n. Basil! charged by All Pacha iu person to attend vish was one of fifty who accompanied us through the forests of Acarnania to the banks of Acheloiis, and ward to Messalunghi in ^Etolia. There I took him into my own service, and never had occasion to repent till the moment of my departure. When in 1810, after the departure of mv friend Mr II. for England, I was seized with a severe fever Morea, these men saved my life by frightcnini my physician, whose throat they threatened to i was not cured within a given time. To this consola- tory assurance of posthumous retribution, and lute refusal of Dr Romanelli's prescriptions, I att my recovery. I had left my last remaining English servant at Alliens; my dragoman was as ill as myself, and my poor Arnaonts nursed ir which would have done honour to civilization. They had a variety of adventures; for the Mosl Dervish, being a remarkably handsome man, was ways squabbling with the husbands of Athens; in much that four of the principal Turks paid me a v of remonstrance at the Convent, on the subject of his having taken a woman from the bath — whom he had lawfully bought however — a thing quite contrary etiquette. Basili also was extremely gallant amongst his o persuasion, and had the greatest veneration for the church, mixed with the highest contempt of church- men, whom he cuffed upon occasion in a most hetero- dox manner. Yet he never passed a church without crossing himself; and I remember the risk he ran ic entering St Sophia, in Stambol, because it had onct been a place of his worship. On remonstrating with him on his inconsistent proceedings, he invariably answered, «our church is holy, our priests and then he crossed himself as usual, and boxed the ears of the first « papas » who refused to required operation, as was always found sary where a priest had any influence with the Cogia Bashi of his village. Indeed a more abandoned of miscreants cannot exist than the lower orders of the Greek clergy. When preparations were made for my took his with an awkward shew of regret tended departure, and marched away to h wiili In* hag of piastres. I sent for Dervish, but foi some time he was not to be found ; at last he entered just .is Signor Logotheti, father to the ci-devant Anglo consul of Athens, and some other of my Greek ac- quaintances, paid me a visit. Dervish took the money, but on a sudden dashed it to the ground; and clasping his hands, which lie raised to his forehead, of the room weeping bitterly. From that the hour .of my embarkation, he continued tations, and all our efforts to console him only pro- duced this answer, « -Met arture from England, a noble and cause he had to attend a relation i felt no less surprised than humi- i and the past recollec- That Dervish would leave me with some regret was to be expected: when master and man have been srr.imblin;; over the mount aiiis of a dozen provinces to- gether, they arc unwilling to separate ; but his present feelings, contrasted with his native ferocity, improved my opinion of the human heart. I believe this almost f.udal fidelity is frequent amongst them. One day, on our journey over Parnassus, an Englishman in my ser- vice gave him a push in some dispute about the bag- gage, which he unluckily mistook for a blow ; he spoke not, but sat down, leaning his head upon his hands. Foreseeing the consequences, we endeavoured to ex- plain away the affront, which produced the following answer: — «I have teen a robber, lam a soldier; no captain ever struck me ; you ;ir«' iny nin^tcr, 1 liavecateii your bread; but by that bread! (a usual oath) had it been otherwise, 1 would have stabbed the dog your ser- vant, and gone to the mountains..' So the affair ended. but from th.it day forward he never thoroughly forgave the thoughtless fellow who insulted him. Dervish excelled in the dance of his country, conjec- tured to be a remnant of the ancient Pyrrhic: be that as it may, it is manly, and requires wonderful agility. very distinct from the stupid Romaika, the dull roi about of the Greeks, of which our Athenian party so many specimens. The Albanians in general ([ do not mean the cub tors of the earth in the provinces, who have also and I.ibochabo. Their manner of walking is truly atrical; but this strut is probably the effect of the ca- pote, or cloak, depending from one shoulder. Their longhair reminds you of the Spartans, and their cou- rage in desultory warfare is unquestionable. Though they have some cavalry amongst the Gcgdes, I never saw a good Arnaoui horseman: my own preferred the English saddles, which, however, they could never keep. But on foot they arc not to be subdued by fatigue. Note 12. Stanza xxxix. It is said, that on the day previous to the battle of tium, Anthony had thirteen kings at his levee. Note 16. Stanza xlv. Nicopolis, whose ruins are most extensive, isats tance from Actium, where the wall of the Hippo- drome survives in a few fragments. Note 17. Stanza xlvii. the According to Pouqueville the Lake of Ya Pouqueville is always out- Note 18. Stanza xlvii. To C rcct Albania', cbief. The celebrated Ali Pacha. Of this extraon Five thousand Suliotcs, among the rocks and in castle of Suli, withstood 3o.ooo Albanians for eighteen years : the castle at last was taken by bribery. In thi: contest there were several acts performed not unworthy of the better days of Greece. Note 20. Stanza xlviii. The convent and village of Zitza arc four hours jour nev from .loanuiua, or Yanina, the capital of the Pa chalick. In the valley the river Kalamas (once the Ache- ron) Hows, and not far from Zii/.i forms a fine ( The situation is perhaps the finest in Greece, though the approach to Delv inaclu and parts of Ararnania and ,'!'"- Attica, even Gape Golonna and Port Raphti, arc very in- ferior; as also every scene in Ionia or the Troad: I am almost inclined to add the approach to Constantinople; but from the different features of the last, a comparison can hardly be made. Note 21. Stanza xlix. Here dwell, tlie ealnycr. The Greek monks are so called. Note 22. Stanza li. Note 1 3. Stanza xl. Actium, Lejunlo, fit* I Trafalgar Acliurn and Trafalgar need no further mention. The battle of Eepaiito. equally bloody and considerable, hut less known, was fought in the gulf of Patras ; here the author of Don 'Juixote lost his left hand. Note 14. Stanza xli. Lcucadia, now Santa Maura. From the promontory (the Lover's Leap / Sappho is said to have thrown her- Critobulus or Cleobulus, the philosopher, complained of a shooting pain as far as his shoulder for some days after, and therefore very properly resolved to teach U\~, ilisripl..': in future without touching them. Note 3i. Song, stanza i. These stanzas are partly taken from different Alba- nese songs, as far as I was able to make them out by the exposition of the Albanese in Romaic aud Italia Note 02. Song, stanza viii. It was taken by storm from the French, Note 33. Stanza Ixxiii. Some thoughts on this subje ibjoined papers. Note 34. Stanza lxx be found in the h commands a beautiful view of Athens, lerable remains; it was seized by Thrasy- j to the expulsion of the Thirty. CIIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 9 1 Note 35. Stanza lxxvii Receive tbe fiery Frank, her former (jue.t. When taken by tlie Latins, and retained for years. — See Gibbon. Note 36. Stanza lxxvii. Mecca and Medina were taken some time ago 1 iy the Wahabccs, a sect yearly increasing. Note 3j. Stanza Ixxxv. On many of the mountains, particularly Liakura, tl snow never is entirely melted, notwithstanding the ii tense heat of the summer; but I never saw it lie on ll plains even in winter. Note 38. Stanza lxxxvi. Of Mount Pentelicus, from whence the marble was dug that constructed the public edifices of Athens. The modern name is Mount Mendeli. An immense cave formed by the quarries still remains, and will till the end of lime. Note 3g. Stanza lxxxix. «Siste, viator— heroa calcas!»was the epitaph on the famous Count Merci ; — what then must be our feelings when standing on the tumulus of the two hundred (Greeks) who fell on Marathon? The prin- eipal barrow has recently been opened by Fauvel; &.-w or no relics, as vases, etc. were found by the excavator. The plain of Marathon was offered to me for sale at the sum of sixteen thousand piastres, about nine hun- dred pound-;! Alas! — ■• Expcnde — quol Ultras in duee summo— invcnies!»— was the dust of Miltiades worth no more? it could scarcely have fetched less if sold by PAPERS REFERRED TO BY NOTE 33. I. Before I say any thing about a city of which every body, traveller or not, has thought it necessary to say something, I will request Miss Owcnson, when she next borrows an Athenian heroine for her four volumes, to have the goodness to marry her to somebody more of a gentleman than a « Disdar Aga» (who by the by is not an Aga), the most impolite of petty officers, the greatest patron of larceny Athens ever saw (except Lord E.), and the unworthy occupant of the Acropolis, on a handsome annual stipend of i9o piastres (eight pounds sterling), out of which he has only to pay his garrison, the most ill-regulated corps in the ill-regulated Otto- man Empire. I speak it tenderly, seeing I was once the cause of the husband of « Ida of Athens.* nearly suffering the bastinado; and because (he said «Disdar» is a turbulent husband, and beats his wife, so that I exhort and beseech Miss Owcnson (n sue for a separate maiiUcri.iu. -■ in behalf r,f u Ida. 1 Having premised thus much, on a mailer of such import to th< rental of romances, I may now leave Ida, 10 mention her birth-place. Selling aside the magic of the name, and all those associations which it would be pedantic anil super- fluous to recapitulate, the very lilaation of Athens of all who have eyes f> me at least, appeared .j ...jrs on horseback: ra f never lies in the plains, and ible rarity. In Spain, Portugr if the East which I visited, except Ion would render it the fa\ perpetual spring; during cigh day without being as many h is extremely rare, snow nevei cloudy day is an agreeable rarity and every part of the East which and Attica, I perceived no such superiority of cl to our own; and at Constantinople, where I passed May, June, and part of July (1810). you might «( the climate, and complain of spleen, » five days c days out of The air of the Morea is heavy and unwholesome, but the moment you pass the isthmus in the direction of Megara the change is strikingly perceptible. But I fear llcsiod will still be found correct in bis description of a Boeotian winter. We found at Livadia an « esprit fort*) in a Greek bishop, of all free-thinkers! This worthy hypocrite rallied his own religion with preat intrepidity (but not before his flock,), and talked of a mass as a «Coglio- ueria.rt It was impossible to think better of him for this : but, for a IJceolian, he was brisk with all his ab- surdity. This phenomenon (with the exception indeed of Thebes, the remains of Ghaeronea, the plain of Platea, Orchomenus, Livadia, and its nominal cave of Trophoniusj, was the only remaikablc thing we saw before we passed Mount Githsron. The fountain of Dirce turns a mill : at least, my com- panion (who, resolving to be at once cleanly and clas- sical, bathed in it) pronounced it to be the fountain of Dirce, and any body who thinks it worth while may, contradict him. At Castri we drank of half a- dozen, streamlets, some not of the purest, before we decided to our satisfaction which was the true Castalian, ami even that had a villanous twang, probably from the. snow, though it did not throw us into an cpie fever- like poor Dr Chandler. From Fort Phyle, of which large remains still exist, the Plain of Athens, Pentelicus, Hymeltus, the figean, and the Acropolis, burst upon the eye at once; in my opinion, a more glorious prospect than even Cintra or Islamhol. Not the view from the Troad, with Ida, the Hellespont, and the more distant Mount Athos, can equal it, though so superior in extent. I heard much of the beauty of Arcadia, but except- ing the view from the monastery of Megaspelion ''which is inferior to Zitza in a command of country), and the descent from the mountains on the way from Tripolitza to Argos, Arcadia has little to recommend it beyond ■Ar C o... > the 1 Argive ; and (with reverence be it spoken j il does deserve the epithet. And if the Polynices of Sta- tins, .. In mediis audit duo litora eampis... did actually hear both shores in crossing the isthmus of Corinth, he ad better ears than have ever been worn in such a mrney since. « Athens, says a celebrated topographer, ■• is still the lost polished eily of Greece. » Perhaps it may of '.rcrrr, but not of t\ic'Greckt; for .loaimiua in l.pirus ■ universally allowed, amongst themselves, to be silpe- loriti the wealth, refinement, learning, and dialect of s inhabitants. The Athenians are remarkable for 9 2 BYRON'S WORKS. cunning ; and the 1 perly characterized in t with « the Jews of Salonica, and the Turks of the Negropont.» long the various foreigners resident in Athens, French, Italians, Germans, Ragusans, etc. there was • a difference of opinion in their estimate of the Greek character, though on all other topics they dis- uled with great acrimony. Mr Fauvcl, the French consul, who has passed thirty ;ars principally at Athens, and to whose talents as an -tist and manners as a gentleman none who have known him can refuse their testimony, has frequently declared in my hearing, that the Greeks do not deserve emancipated; reasoning on the grounds of their « national and individual depravity,» while he forgot that such depravity is to be attributed to causes which in only be removed by the measure he reprobates. Mr Roque, a French merchant of respectability long settled in Athens, asserted with the most amusing gra- « Sir, they are the same canaille that existed in the days of Tkemistocles /» an alarming remark to the u Laudator temporis acti.» The ancients banished The- mistocles; the moderns cheat Monsieur Roque: thus great men have ever been treated! In short, all the Franks who are fixtures, and most of the Englishmen, Germans, Danes, etc. of passage, came over by degrees to their opinion, on much the same grounds that a Turk in England would condemn the nation by wholesale, because he was wronged by his lacquey, and overcharged by his washerwoman. Certainly it was not a little staggering when the Sieurs Fauvel and Lusieri, the two greatest demagogues of the day, who divide between them the power of Pericles and the popularity of Clcon, and puzzle the Waywode with perpetual differences, agreed in the utter condemnation, « nulla virtute redciiiptiinv> of the Greeks in general, and of the Athenians in par- For my own humble opinion, I am loth to hazard it, nowing, as I do, that there be now in MS. no less lan five tours of the first magnitude and of the most threatening aspect, all in typographical array, by per- sons of wit, and honour, and regular common-place books: but, if I may say this without offence, it seems to me rather hard to declare so positively and pcriiiui- ciously, as almost every body has declared, that the Greeks, because they are very bad, will never be better, Eton and Sonnini have led us astray by their pane- yrics and projects; but, on the other hand, De Pauw nd Thornton have debased the Greeks beyond their The Greeks will never be independent; they will ever be sovereigns as heretofore, and God forbid they ver should! but they may be subjects without being laves. Our colonies are not independent, but they re free and industrious, and such may Greece be hereafter. At present, like the Catholics of Ireland and the ews throughout the world, and such other Qujigejled and heterodox people, they suffer all the moral and physical ills that can afflict humanity. Their life is a struggle against truth ; they are vicious in their own defence. They are so unused to kindness, that when they occasionally meet with it they look upon it with suspicion, as a dog often beaten snaps at your fingers if you attempt to caress him. «They are ungrateful, notoriously, abominably ungrateful!..— this is the ge- neral cry. Now, in the name of Nemesis! for what are they to be grateful? Where is the human being that ever conferred a benefit on Greek or Greeks ? They are to be grateful to the Turks for their fetters, and to the Franks for their broken promises and lying counsels. They arc to be grateful to the artist who engraves their ruins, and to the antiquary who carries them away: to the traveller whose janissary flogs them, and to the scribbler whose journal abuses them! This is the amount of their obligations to foreigners. II. Fran ent, A tiiens, January 23, 1811. Amongst the remnants of the barbarous policy of the earlier ages, are the traces of bondage which yet exist in different countries ; whose inhabitants, however di- vided in religion and manners, almost all agree in op- pression. The English have at last compassionated their ne- groes, and, under a less bigoted government, may pro- bably one day release their Catholic brethren: but the mtvTjio-ition of foreigners alone can emancipate the Greeks, who, otherwise, appear to have as small a prion from the Turks, as the Jews have Of the ancient Greeks we know more than enough; at least the younger men of Europe devote much of their time to the study of the Greek writers and history, which would be more usefully spent in mastering their own. Of the moderns, we are perhaps more neglectful than they deserve; and while every man of any pretensions to learning is tiring out his youth, and often his age, in the study of the language and of the harangues of the Athenian demagogues in favour of freedom, the real or supposed descendants of these sturdy republicans are left to the actual tyranny of their masters, although a very slight effort is required to strike off their chains. To talk, as the Greeks themselves do, of their rising again to their pristine superiority, would be ridiculo as the rest of the world must resume its barbarism, al re-asserting the sovereignty of Greece: but there se« to be no very great obstacle, except in the apathy of Franks, to their becoming an useful dependency, even a free state with a proper guarantee ; — under c rection, however, be it spoken, for many and well- formed men doubt the practicability even of this. The Greeks have never lost their hope, though they are now more divided in opinion on the subject of probable deliverers. Religion recommends the Russ but they have twice been deceived and abandoned by that power, and the dreadful lesson they received after the Muscovite desertion in the Morea has never been for- gotten. The French they dislike; although the subju- gation of the rest of Europe will, probably, be attended by the deliverance of continental Greece. "The islanders look to the English for succour, as they have very lately possessed themselves of the Ionian republic, Corfu ex- cepted. Rut whoever appear with arms in their hands will be welcome; and when that day arrives, Heaven have mercy on the Ottomans; they cannot expect it from the Giaours. But instead of considering what they have been, and CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 93 speculating on what tlicy may be, let us look at them as they are. And here it is impossible to reconcile the contrariety of opinion-.: some, particularly tin- merchants, decrying the Greeks in the strongest language; oihrrs, generally travellers, turning periods in tlieir eulogy, and puhlish- ?ry curious speculations grafted on their former which can have no more effect on their present lot, than the existence of the Incas on the future for- unes of Peru. One very ingenious person terms them the « natural llies» of Englishmen; another, no less ingenious, will iot allow them to be the allies of any body, and denies their very descent from the ancients; a third, more in- us than cither, builds a Greek empire on a Russian foundation, and realizes (on paper) all the chimeras of Catherine II. As to the question of their descent, what ■an it import whether the Mainotes arc the lineal La- :oniansor not? or the present Athenians as indi;|enmis is the bees of Hymettus, or as the grasshoppers, to ivhieh they once likened themscKcs? What English- nan cares if he be of a Danish, Saxon, Norman, or Trojan blood? or who, except a Welehman, is afflicted with a desire of being descended from Caractacus? e poor Greeks do not so much abound in the good things of this world, as to render even their claims to antiquity an object of envy; it is very cruel then in Mr Thornton, to disturb them in the possession of all that has left them; viz. their pedigree, of which they he more tenacious, as it is all they can call their It would be worlh while to publish together, and tare, the works of Messrs Thornton and De Pauw, Eton and Sonnini ; paradox on one side, and prejudire 1 the other. Mr Thornton conceives himself to have claims to public ronfiilenee from a fourteen years' resi- dence at Pera ; perhaps he may on the subject of the Turk.-, but tin- an give him m> more insight into the years spent in Wapping, into that of the Western High The Greeks of Constantinople live in Fanal; and if Mr Thornton did not oftener cross the Golden Horn than his brother merchants are accustomed to di should place no great reliance on his information ally heard one of these gentlemen boast of their : general intereouse with the city, and assert of him- self with an air of triumph, that he had been but four es at Constantinople in as many years, sto Mr Thornton's voyages in the Black Sea with ek vessels, they gave him the same idea of Greece as uise to Berwick in a Scotch smack would of Johnny Grots house. Upon what grounds then does he arro- gate the right of condemning by wholesale a body of , of whom he can know little? It is rather a curious imstance that Mr Thornton, who so lavishly dis- praises Pouqtieville on every occasion of mentioning the Turks, has yet recourse to him as authority on the Greeks, and terms him an impartial observer. Now Dr Poiifjiiesille i, as lillh* entitled to that appellation, as Mr Thornton to confer it on him. The fan is. wc arc deplorably in want of informa- ioii on the subject of the Greeks, and in particular their terature, nor is their any probability of our being bet- ter acquainted, till our intercourse becomes more inti- mate or their independence confirmed: the relations of passing traveller* areas little to be depended on as the may be, they are preferable who have read superficially invectives of angry fact' wever def**cii\e 1 to the paradoxes of : the ancients, and sc De Pauw; who, when he asserts that the British breed of horses is ruined by Newmarket, Spartans were cowards in the field, betrays an equal knowledge of English horses and Sparta "philosophical observations" have a mucl to the title of « poetical. » It could not be expected that he who so liberally condemns some of the most celebrated institutions of the ancient, should have mercy on the modern Greeks: and it fortunately hap- pens, that the absurdity of his hypothesis forefathers refutes his sentence on thernselvi Let us trust, then, that in spite of the prophecies of De Pauw, and the doubts of Mr Thornton, t reasonable hope of the redemption of a race who, whatever may be the errors of their reli policy, have been amply punished by three and a half of captivity. III. Some time after my return from Constantinople to this city I rcceiwd the thirty-first number of the Edin- burgh Review as a great favour, and certainly at this distance an acceptable one, from the Captain of an English frigate off Salamis. In that number, Art. 3. containing the review of a French translation of Strabo, there are introduced some remarks on the modern Greeks and their literature, with a short accoui Coray, a co-translator in the French version. On those remarks I mean to ground a few observations, the spot where I now write will, I hope, be sufficient excuse for introducing them in a work in some degree connected with the subject. Coray, the most celebrated u( living Greeks, at least among the Franks, was born ... N.B. Foflh. 1 M ,.f M, 1lK,|n)r,h. 94 BYRON'S WORKS. Scio (in the Review Smyrna is stated, I have reason think, incorrectly), and, besides the translation of Beccaria and other -works mentioned by the reviewer, published a lexicon in Romaic and French, if I trust the assurance of some Danish travellers lately arrived from Paris ; but the latest we have seen in French and Greek is that of Gregory Zoliko- gloou. 1 Coray has recently been involved in an unplea- nt controversy with M. Gail, 2 a Parisian commenta- r and editor of some translations from the Greek poets, consequence of the Institute having awarded him the prize for his version of Hippocrates "Uept l/^TOiv^t to tin- < j ! .], u lament, and consequently displeasure, the said Gail. To his exertions literary and patriotic great praise is undoubtedly due, but a part of that praise ought not to be withheld from the two brothers Zosimado (merchants settled in Leghorn) who sent to Paris, and maintained him, for the express purpose of elucidating the ancient, and adding to the nodern, researches of his countrymen. Coray, however, s not considered by his countrymen equal to some Jvho lived in the two last centuries: more particularly Dorotheus of Mitylene, whose Hellenic; writings .ire so much esteemed by the Greeks, that Miletius terms him, :Va tov ©ou/.OcSWvjV xat Esvojjwvtk a^tarcs EMvjvgjv.w (p. 224. Ecclesiastical History, vol. iv.] Panagiotes Kodrikas, the translator of Fontenelle, nd Kamarases, who translated Ocellus Lucanus on the Universe into French, Christodoulus, and more particularly Psalida, whom I have conversed with in Joannina, are also in high repute among their literati. The last-mentioned has published in Romaic ami Latin iwork on « True Happiness," dedicated to Catherine II. But Polyzois, who is stated by the reviewer to be the nly modern except Coray who has distinguished him- self by a knowledge of Hellenic, if he he the Poly?.ois Lampanitziotes of Yanina, who has published a num- )er of editions in Romaic, was neither more nor less han an itinerant vender of hooks; with the contents )f which he had no concern beyond his name on the itle-page, placed there to secure his property in the .mblication, and he was, moreover, a man utterly destitute of scholastic acquirements. As the name, :ver, is not uncommon, some other Polyzois may have edited the Epistles of Aristametus. is to be regretted that the system of continental blockade has closed the few channels through which the Greeks received their publications, particularly Venice and Trieste. Even the common grammars for ren are become too dear for the lower orders. Amongst their original works the Geography of Mele- is, Archbishop of Athens, and a multitude of theo- logical quartos and poetical pamphlets, are to be met : their grammars and lexicons of two, three, and four languages are numerous and excellent. Their poe- try is in rhyme. The most singular piece I have lately seen is a satire in dialogue between a Russian, English, and French traveller, and the Waywode of Wallachia (or Blackbey, as, they term him), an archbishop, a merchant, and Cogia Bachi (or primate), in succession ; to all of whom under the Turks the writer attributes their present degeneracy. Their songs are sometimes pretty and pathetic, but their tunes generally unpleasing to the ear of a Frank : the best is the famous « Asure mud"es twv EMvjvwv," by the unfortunate Riga. But from a catalogue of more than sixty authors, now be- fore me, only fifteen can be found who have touched on any theme except theology. I am entrusted with a commission by a Greek of Athens named Marmarotouri to make arrangements, if possible, for printing in London a translation of Barthelemi's Anacharsis in Romaic, as he has no other opportunity, unless he dispatches the MS. to Vienna by the Black Sea and Danube. The reviewer mentions a school established at Heca- tonesi, and suppressed at the instigation of Sebastiani : he means Cidonies, or, in Turkish, Haivali ; a town on the continent where that institution for a hundred students and three professors still exists. It is true that this establishment was disturbed by the Porte, under the ridiculous pretext that the Greeks were con- structing a fortress instead of a college; but on inves- tigation, and the payment of some purses to the Divan, it has been permitted to continue. The principal pro- fessor, named Vcniamin (i. e. Benjamin), is stated to be a man of talent, but a free-thinker. He was born in Lesbos, studied in Italy, and is master of Hellenic, La- tin, and some Frank languages ; besides a smattering of the sciences. Though it is not my intention to enter farther on this topic than may allude to the article in question, I cannot but observe that the reviewer's lamentation over the fall of the Greeks appears singular, when he closes it with these words: « the change is to be attributed to their misfortunes rather tlian to any physical degrada- tion.^ It may he true that the Greeks are not physi- cally degenerated, and that Constantinople contained, on the day when it changed masters, as many men of six feet and upwards as in the hour of prosperity; hut something more than physical perfection is necessary to rve a state in vigour and independence ; and the Greeks, in particular, air a melancholy example of the ar connexion between moral degradation and na- >nal decay. The reviewer mentions a plan, « me believe^ by Po- temkin for the purification of the Romaic, and I have ■ •i]&.6w/«v, et RON'S WORKS. Z7TK/5TK, 27T«^T«, Tl XQtyZcQi U7TVGV Irtdxp'/QV jBaduV £u7rV7j50V x/sals Aflvjvas OV/JLfJiXXOV 7TKVT0T££V/JV Ev0u/*£i0vj7£ AeovWou vj/swos zov %x.xogtou tou avd/cos iTCXLVEpivQU foGcpQU Xai TpOfJLSpGU. Ta oTria as Xa£w//s OiTCU Si? T« K&lsyov auTos XpOTEL xat tous ne'^aas apavftjEt xai auT&iv xaTa x/saTEt MsT/staxocfous oivdpcts el$ to xevTpov irpoxoipst xai ws Xe'wv Suyoiydvos £?S TO «t/*« TWV /3oUT££. T« OTtXa «s Xa&u/AEV ROMAIC EXTRACTS. / - ' t. I s^ y jovtes tvjv Tteprfr/rfiiv tvjs EXXa piVUnjva, ttco? jjs'^eis tvjv trxXaSiav zai tvjv Airxptydpr^ov tvjv Tou^xeov rvpxvvictv 7rws toes |u/aes xat bSpiGftovs xai aid/ipofoaplaw TTttiouv, ttapdivavj yuvatxfiiv avyjxouorov pdopeixv Aev e?G0at icels a7ioyovoi foctvuv twv EXXvjveov t£>v ileudspoiv xat cropwv xat twv piXoTraTftdcov xat 7:615 exsivoi a7rs'9vvjc7XOV yta tvjv ZlsuOspiccv xat -zdspu. laeis b-nouxEiaSxt _el$ TSTotav TU^avvt'av xat 7rotov ys'vog cos essIs ior&Bft p wTic^e'vav erg tvjv aofictv, ouva/Atv, eis x* oXa ^xxounyivov ttws vuv^xaTacrrvjuaTS tvjv jjwtivvjv EXXatJa. /5a£x! a>s E'va.ffXsXe.fysov, ws exojeivijv IxynuSxv 6/uXst, fikraxs. Tpxixe, eItts ya,; tvjv afrtav fJLV) XpV-n7Yl$ T17T0TVJS VJ//CJV, XlJS TVJV OLTZOplXV. l O *IAE r AAHN02. Ptuas-ayxXo-yaXXoi, EXXas, xat o^t «XX«, vjtov, ws Xs'ts , Ticfov ^syaXvj, vuv c?e «0Xta, xai st%ia «p' Tr/v.;v >■/■'..'. ^ .; f ^ ffTcSva tt^oxotttouv o'Xa 7r^05Tac;eE xai tots eX7rt£st 0TtX£/C(?t$et. eupeiv, otcov 'x^t VUV TVJV pXoytijEt Mdt* OffTtS ToX/AVjOV] V« TVJV |u7TVV7ffVJ 7T&7st cttov adviv ^co^ts Ttva xpioiv The above is the commencement of a long dramatic satire on the Greek priesthood, princes, and gentry; it is contemptible as a composition, but perhaps curious as a specimen of their rhyme; I have the whole in MS. in tins composition is so easy as to render a version an insult to a scholar; but those who do not understand the original will excuse the following bad translation of what h in itself indifferent. TRANSLATION. A Russian, Englishman, and Frenchman, making the tour of Greece, and observing the miserable state of the country, interrogate, in turn, a Greek Patriot, to learn the cause; afterwards an Archbishop, then a Vlackbey, 1 a Merchant, and Cogia Bachi or Primate. Thou friend of thy country ! to strangers record Why bear ye the yoke of the Ottoman lord? Si The reply of the Philellenist I have not translated, as it is no better than the question of the travelling trium- virate; and the above will sufficiently show with what kind of composition the Greeks are now satisfied. I trust I have not much injured the original in the few lines given as faithfully, and as near the « Oh, Miss Bai- ley ! unfortunate Miss Bailey ! » measure of the Romaic, as I could make them. Almost all their pieces, above a song, which aspire to the name of poetry, contain exactly the quantity of feet of which is in fact the present heroic of the Ro SCENE FROM 'O KAENE2. TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF GOLDONI BT SPERIDION VLANTI. ZKHNH KV. tlAATZIAA eI$ tvjv Tzoprxv tou ^avtou, xai q{ ITAA. O 0E£'! «7to to izv.pcf.Bii pi yoXi lpuv/i v« axouuw tvjv jswvvjvtou avdpds you- av auTos£tvat idw, k'pdxoz ff£ xat^ovvaTOV levT/ooTTtasw. [Euyai'vEt svas douXos a-ro to e^yacTv^t.] UaXtxv.pt 7te's you as 7ra- ^axaXw Trows shoti ixsi £^s exstvous tous dvraSis; AOTA- Tpe'is xfritaipoi JivSpsg. Evas o xvp Euys- vtos-t o aXXos oxUjoMa^TtosNairoXtTavos^atoT^otTOs 6 KUjO Kovts As'avO/sos Ayade'vTvjs. IIAA. (AvK/AEffa sU a'JTflus dlv £?va£ o ^Xa/At'vtos, X'j ayo}$ d"sv aXXa^ev ovoyx. ) AEA. Na ^vj 'h KaXv; tu^yj tou x\jp EuyEvtou. [Ilt- OAOI. N«^, va^vj. IIAA. (Auto's stvat o avd^aj you x^pU «XXo.) KaXa civQpams xxy.e you tvjv ^a/stv va ye auvzpo- CIIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 99 fsuni,- xltxyoi e<\- kjtov; touj cJ»£vtc vi T3U; 7Tat'?w /iistv. [npis tov ofeuAsv.] iOT. Opundsaxi- (ouvYi9io/.vE , vovcj> ? (zt9vT6ivd'oi<- Ao/rSv.) [Ti;v iprtx^t d-b to ipyxtrrrjpt -zou Ttxi- yvttiwv. ] PIA. Ka/30'idr, xxpSlx, xxp%.-!i xaW.v x.xpStxi , ohv eivat Ti'rroTij. [n^oj t>jv BtTT4,otav.] BIT. E-/oi aicOxvopxi 71&5 d-iQxhu. [1j:ot GTVOy CTizovwvTat «T70 To ipx-iCl ouyywp.E- vot , eii Tov |apy w,uov tou \zd-jdpov /3Xe';toiv rx; tj,v nXaT?lo"a, zxi o'iocti avToj iiiyytt vtok ^£"iet va t^v poveuev). ] E1T. 6>;t, otkoijte. MAP. Mijv XXpiVSTS... AEA. 2t'xa), f=uys thr" e'tfw. I1AA. Bovifliio!, /So-/)9=ra [*£■>/£! iztto t-/jv exdlx-i, 6 Ae'scvg/jo. S-e'/ei 'ix-rfj dxolouOr^-a p'z zb gttxlTl, xxl b E-jy. tov BaoTK. ] TPA. [Me i'va TltiTO /a£ fjayl dj pfav TtETijEro: ~y;sir K7T5 TO TZXpxOipt, /XL OZJ'/Zl zl; TOV ZI^EVE.] IIAA. [ Ei>/s«'vei arro TO ipyxczrjpt toS Ttxiynolou -piyurnxs , /.at jjsuysc st, to yxvt.] EJT. [Mi oiyO/MtTK Si," TO ^E/OI Tr^os imfivreuaiv z7,i n'/xr^iGXs, hxvziov zou \zdv3pou , bitCi tvjv Tarp^e,. ] MAP. [Ejysltvst zsd avTo, alyx ctyx dttb to i^'/o:- npt, xx\ fzityzl Aeyuvrag.] Rumores fugc. [Poy,ao- jS!J piir/j] ■ Oi AoO/ot [A-o to ipyxrript xjiapvoy-J eI> to ^«vt, zai Asieuy t»;v niptav. ] BIT. [Ms'vsi £1,- TOV Ptrfslpov. ] AEA. ASSETS TOTTOV" ezstvo to yxn. [Ms to DEiyevieu.] E1T. 0>i, pig jrtSieK xxpoos hx; o:z^£vt:^7-. Z££V£ (iorfap.z'-Jr, v.r.b Tov £>oj va e'/adw va e'/aow £^ to a~xOl e^s to ^s'^t ivavTtov .»9(TO 7T0TE'' thxt EVX S - 5//CS- ys.'yx/^i s'jj , /at £-/:,, ir£/ £: t/;v Sote^ov at/jia. AEA. SouzKKvoi ic/vv 7/'j; J£/£l TO //ETXvstoJoy;;. [Klvrr/5 tov EvyEviov /*e to n-x6i.] Err. Asv ce foSiupLXi. [KxTXTpiyzi tov Aeavo"/59v, ZC TSV /;C-^££ ','/ 7VC7/ ( 07T[S'^ T07VV. 07TJV £J ( Ct7/'^V- z; KvoizTov to c7t?t: r^; yopEw-pix;, ipfyj.hu v; TRANSLATION. Plnt-Jdn from the Door of tiie Hotel, and Hie Otliers. Pla. Oil God! from llic window it seemed tli.it I heard my husband's voire. If lie k here, I have arrived le to make him ashamed. {A Servant enters from tlie Shop.) Boy, tell me, pray, who are in those cham- ■v. Three Gentlemen: one Signor Eu(;enio; the Signor Martio, (he Neapolitan; and the third, my Lord, the Count Leandcr Ardenti. Pla. Flaminio is not amongst these, unless lie has changed his name. ' Ao-/5,- AccrtVB&f, 07roj Se/ii ix cinr,- fvjysrx'ts myxtsii. Leander. [Within, drinking.] Long live the good fortune of Signor Eugenio. [The whole Company.] Long live, etc. (Literally, Ni &;, vi 0), May he live.) Pla. Without doubt that is my husband. [7b the Serv.] My good man, do me the favour to accompany me above to those Gentlemen : I have some business. Serv. At your commands. [4side.] The old office of us waiters. [He goes out of the Gnming-House.] Ilidolpho. [To Victoria on another part of the stage.] Courage, courage, be of good cheer, it is nothing. Victoria. I feel as if about to die. [ieanmo 011 him as if fainting.] [From the windows above all within are seen rising from table in confusion : Leander starts at tlie sight of Plutzidn, and appears by his gestures to threaten her life.] Eugenio. No, stop Martio. Don't attempt Leander. Away, fly from hence! Pla. Help! help! [Flies down tlie stairs, Leander at- tempting to follow widi his sword, Eugenio hinders him.] [Trappola with a plate of meat leaps over tlie balcony from tlie window, and runs into the Coffee-House] [Platzida runs out of the Gaming-house, and takes shelter in tlie Hotel.] Martio steals softly out of the Gaming-house, and goes off exclaiming, xRumores fuge.» The Servants from tlie Gaming-house enter the Hotel, and shut tlie [Victoria remains in tlie Coffee-house assisted by Ridolpho.] Leander sxvord in hand opposite Eugenio exclaims. Give way— I will enter that hotel.] Eugenio. No, that shall never be. You are a scoun- drel to your wife, and I will defend her to the last drop f my blood. Leander. I will give you cause to repent this. [Me- acing with his sword.] Eugenio. I fear you not. [He attacks Leander and iih,-, him )5£T£. Go to seek. SoivETKt — • Boithrta-a«liinnll| enough, but it i« tbc liie- om.ie; n 1. mutb »,t« .muting ib.u our ... . ti.r.. bj Tb. cbancut ,.t Ltlio ii b-u,r ur.-u ib.u Vounp, Wiljin c . i.pl.J.. ,„n,i. P i r ..Ti,c ir.„ of . I0O BYRON'S WORKS. Tlipx euSus. Now directly. Asv »s!Xw Xei^ei vk tou to I will not fail to tell him of f! xxpiSi poulivpi;, xxps- My dear Sir, do me this dnSi. it. rips OLjtw •"! v X&pn- favour. TtpooxuvrtpxTX el; tvjv My compliments to her iLyoi gx; TtxpxxxlGi. ' I entreat you. i.pxbvri. ■'■J-'J-r,: r.'.^l-oi;,--;;, zzi nn-ntt, and testify ri- Ata vk xk/^-oj t/jv npoirrxyriv To comply with your com- ptkixxls 0°e?iWe;. gard. oa;. mand. Eyw ok; luyxplorSi. I thank you. Aev K7X71W Tooat; TZtpmoir I do not like so much ce- Z&S yvoipifyi xxpvt. I return you thanks. >?oe;. remony. 2k; iipxi Imixpso; xxrx I am much obliged to you. Aev sT/zat OTEleioj; ms^l- I am not at all ceremo- 7rolii. TtotV/Ttxo;. nious. Ey&j 3-c'iw to xa^wfit pzrv. I w ^ do * l VJll ^ i pleasure. Auto eZvhi to xxMrspoy: This is better. xyv-s- Tooov to xxlhepov. So much the better. Ms oivjv pov rhv xxpdixv. With all my heart. E^ete loyov, e'^ste Omcciov. Yon are in the right. Ml xxXvjv ,uou xxpoixi. Most cordially. Atct vk /Ssfotoiffvi;, vk xp- To affirm, deny, consent, 2k; sZ/zxt ujzdypios, I am obliged to you. •■'r/jr;. vi:;jy/a:w^;^,-, e t c . Ec^oct clo; eA'xo; ox;. I am wholly yours. xxl rl. Hlp.xi cTouio; ox;. I am your servant. EIvki x\rfiao-l , eIvki a^vi- It is true, it is_very true. Tx7IE(votxto; Moulds. Your most humble servant es'oraTov. EZoTEZxTKTroMKEUyEvixo;. You are too obliging. AtK vk ok; EtTtw T'^v xlrj- To tell you the truth. IIoMk -KsipiXsaBs. You take too much trouble Bern. To eyoj dtx yxpxv pou va I have a pleasure in serv- Ovtoj; , e't^y] e7vat. Really it is so. T«s dxtauooj. ing you. n.o~ios xppiGoM h; Who doubts it? EwTEeuyEvtxosxaieuTijOOG- You are obliging and Aev d-jxinocbi xpiplSo'i.ix'. There is no doubt. *[/opa$. kind. To 7TWTEUU, o*ev to Tito- I believe it, I do not believe Auto s?v«i itpiitov. That is right. TEUCO. it. Ti S-e'Jete ; Tt o,ot Jets ; What is your pleasure ? Ae'*/oj to vxi. I say yes. What are your commands? As'yo) to oxi. I say no. 25; nxpxxxlGi vie pi ps- I beg you will treat roe BkX/oj oriyrtpx on £?v«£. I wager it is. i<*X"pi&9e iliuSepx. freely. . RxkXoi GZlX'tpx OTtdfiV e7vxc I wager it is not so. Ti-oipl; -nepmoiwe;. Without ceremony. St®. ■ 2k; Kya7rw Q okn; pou I love you with all my Nat, px Tyjv — toTtv /zou. Yes, by my faith. xxpdix;. heart. I I:: Tv;v 'W>i('.'>,7(v ^/ou. In ronx'irn.: c. Kxi lyiit bpoiu;. And t tne same. Mk tvjv Z'jjyj-j pou. By my life. Ti/ujoete //; rats 7I/50ot«- Honour me with your Na't , ok; dpviioi. Yes, I swear it to yon. "/oil; ox;, commands. 2«; bpiuoi eoffiv te/t/j/ae'vo; I swear to you as an ho. E^ete ti'tote; vx ps tspo- Have you any commands oivOpoinos. nest man. «*f««i forme? 2k; dpvuoi ETiavw e?; T/?v I swear to you on my ho- TI^ootks'sts tov dbilov ox;. Command your servant. Ttpjv /iou. n our. Ityoo/tEvoj tk; ttpooxyx; I wait your commands. ritoTEuosTE ps. Believe me. ox;. Kp-KOpGi vk ok; to pcGxioi- I can assure you of it. Me xk/jvete piyilr l vrip.r,v. You do me great honour. ou. *0avouv rj -nspntoir/isq ax; Not so much ceremony, I H Se'^k /3k).») -/jflsra:v. */**&■ ship. Eyw ok; to ySsSatoivo. I assure you of it. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. To iltpOfrrzexioszE You have guessed i To Ittitsu/ete. You have hit upon 23; TTtOTEUW. I believe you. Wpizin vKEj — trr- J3w. A-Jto o;v :»i xo-j-jxzo-j. I must believe you. This is not impossib To Xot-ov=t;^a;u£ /.a/^ Then it is very weU fi/SSCV. Kola, xa/i. Well, well. Aev «?,« iXrflnb-j. It is not true. AEV£tvatTirT5T£5K7TOaOT9. Etvstt eva ^sDco^/ztadTTaTyj E>« dbartti^Ofitow (tyopy.- ■ ""H Eyu T3 EtrraOtK vx yikxou. Mi oifsoEt'xzTa Trotti. 2-jyr.xzx-Jtbu £?j touto. Alcoj ttjv -pr^o-j /jlsu. EV X-JZlOzix.tfJXidiZOXJZO. pZt oi/^p'jjvo;, £x euyit- poivou. E-/w d£y foVj. Eywivav7t!uvo ( aat£^TOuro aroxtufcis, it jx ctrrcpK- s nothing of this, falsehood, an in .joke. Tt jue ovpiSoAiij-ze to. xo> Orfotov zpb-o-j Sit.o/j.vj A; viifl.uij.i-j iz$r,. 'i.-.'j.'l?-'. r.'ii/1-j. Asv igfeXey elvai xxlizepo-j Eyi xyzc-ouzx xxt.izzpx. ?)€ktZtt.i.jJ.ilXXI.iz'.pXX;— k?r,oszi fj.s. Av tJ/Muv £l' s TOV TOCTV ox; I said it to laugh. Indeed. It pleases me much. I agree with you. I give my assent. I do not oppose this. I agree. I will not. I object to this. To consult, consider What ought we to do Whit shall we do? What do you advise r It is better that I Wait a little. Would it not be better You will do better if- Ttie render by the specimens beloxu will be enabled to compare the modern witli the ancient tongue. PARALLEL PASSAGES FROM ST JOHN'S GOSPEL. HJov. Aviflev7<-/.ov. Kspol. i. Kifut,. v.. I. LIZ Tn-Ji.pyr-.-jfrljb i. EN ipxi %' * A*y?«, li-pi- j.'A b tbyOi jtxoj xx\ >dyo; r\-J ttphi zbv fari. 0»ou- xx't 0jO5 rrro-j Scb-j, xx't Gtbi j\-j b t,b-/o;. a. E"touto{ jfrov «(stt,v j. Ouro; r\j h tipxri 3. 0>a [zx Ttpi.yp.xzx] 3. Uxvzx oY kjto j -:■/-:- iix fxioou zo\j [tbyou] iyi- vsto- ii %upU xxizolt iyi- ■jr,ox-J,xx'ixuptixJzb-jii-j veto oiSk tv, 6 yiyotvt. syt-js xxvitx ec'ti Eytvs. 4. Ei; obStov frov §oii- 4. Ev aOrS ^ Jp, xx\ /.at v, >'.(/: /JTOV to pwi twv r, £oj/j ^v TO SWJ TWV xv- dvBpulzw. Bpu-nu-J. 5. Kai to pw; si; t»;v 5. Kai to fOs iv Tij zj.oz-j-j-j - r i// : -t, //A r t cv.o- cxzzix pxtv£(, o'e r, axoTta reta 0%V to xaT&->a€£. ajTO ou xaT£>«6£v. 6. Eytvtv Ivsts av7>oj- 6. Eyi-jeTO i.jHpuTtoc t.o; i-itrxi fj-i-jo; i.r.h zh-j i.-n sttx'j y.ivii;-nxpxQoi\j, Qsb-J, to 0-jo'j.x to-j \ux-j- 0-jojj.x oijtw lojxvjrjc. THE INSCRIPTIONS AT ORCHOMENI S FROM MELETICS. OPXO^IENoi, Y.oi-Ju^l7.piT.o r j,U'j)'.ir.oi'ir.)',jZL' J i- -y-r. j.y.'i iz/jyo-y-r,, -y^-iyj-J /.-jj'-jjfj.iy-ri lioiuzixx't K0?,vy.'., Hi zy,j b-oixj r.ziJ v \xr>i tojv Xxpizu-J, zU to-j orrotov i7tlr)pu-J0-j zil-r, o't OouSatot, ovrtvot zb iixio; y.-jsz-/.i.- r 0i -oz'z 'j~o zu-j Ao-xti.y/.u-J. Ertavv;- ■/jpiZo-J di xjzr,-J zryj ni'/rj zv.^xpizr,--AX,zfj\j brtolou A/..V5C v~f. r jy t-v/-yj.- r y.i l-j zzrlt.-j.ii k-jrh-j zou xTta- -r,i ,..-w rice. e\py;r,j pet* t):o r J. ztpbi zb-j etlrj xdxpiou Ae'ovto;, ir.i tuv Bastliav C'j.cl- :tou, Aeq'jzo;, j.xl Kuvzzxvzhou, Ixovaxi outojs. E'v « Oto- hUu-j zb-j i.yu-tx zu-J yxptziys'tut . Mvj-Jt; kizoXt.u-jizu k-jzwxihe arco Mxixvdpou. W-hpul. Ztof).OiZedi)ou ni.ftoc. Nou//y/Vtoj Nou//v)vtOL» kdrfjxlos. A/iri-jix; hrift.oxt.ioui ®r,5xios. kxt'l.-ttzr,;. h-noXtbdrzoi Kizo'ttooozou Kpr)c. AuWo;. Poo'trr-o; PoXmau kp-fitoi. KiQxpiozr)i. QxjIx; k-rtot.loibzou zouQx-tiov AtoAsus xnb Ku/zr,;. KlQxpuobc. hnftr/zptOi nxp;j.;-jizxou \\x)-/r/Sbvlos. Tr-xyuob;. liTKOxpxz-oi kptozopi-jo-jg VbSioc. Kuftudbc. KxXj.hzpx.zoi Esx/.izzou Qrfixioc. U0Lr,zr,i Xxziipu-J. kp-rj-jlxi Avj/AOX/EOUi 0y;6ato;. ittoxpvxrii. hupbQzoi hupodiov Txpx-JZivbc. notljr^j Tpxyudiu-j. io- r o/tr,; iOfO)0>iOUi hQrpxioc. Inoxpizjji. KxSiptyo; %toiupo-j Orfix'io;. not/rri;; Koi^ojoiGv. k'ii\x-tSpoi kpiozu-jo; k0r,jxioi. kzzxt.Oi kzziJ-ou kQr,-jxioi. 102 BYRON'S WORKS. 0&?£ ivcXOiV TOV VjjjttTJTOV cky&VU. TWV G/AQ&JWV. Ilattfas ay>vj(7T«j. Ilatdas -fiys/J-ovas. Izpaxlvos eijvUou ®r,Gau.o$. iv^orts tysp.6vxs. PoAttttos Podiinzov Apyzios. TpayaSop LTZTtOXptXTYJS kplGTOfJ.£vo\J5 PdAoj. KaXl[;€a£0ff. • / iis'l; avowees kpiGTitoVoz, Adr,val6s. \ , - i Mvasivcj upyovToz, ckyaivodzziovros rbv Xupizzictov, g&aptoerw TravTcovcffTucfe $v««eav7« Ktkpou%. TLlpuiag Iw/.pc'.zios QziSztos- Uoztzug. SlTQGTOip M-faTQpQt; <&WXa££UJ. Kpcizuv Kitwvoj ©etSeraj. A'J>£(T«S. IlEjOtyevetj H^ax^taVo Kau£txqvbs. Ajlzzj$b$. Aa//.vjV£TOs r).aux.w A.pyio$. Kidocpiuzcig. kap-XTpos A/^aXoiw Aio^EU^ arro Mouctvag. IpoLyotext&hf. AffxXaTTtoeiwysos UovOzxo Tupuvrt^bg. KG)p.usu$bs. NiY.6iTzpct.zos <&L\a7 oxpiozzUVj hjacdHtfiti, y.7} diovutrov XKpuo&toa xopwzioi. xxz zb xo- /A=-vi w , WJF IW, Mevoirao 'A W eX<4a /ucvi; w^ktoj. O/uioyS Ei/'Soj)u F aarifl, a x-^ rij iteli Ipxe/uviuv. ETtet^i xsxopkTy TLiBato; Ttap To; Tto- >wj to iSSivftav »?7r«v xkt tk;' bpjAoyms tk; ts«!7«; &uv&p X u7 toxov pspixa fpBXP&S to; //yg; exkotk; xari/tsiya tov xvj ip.Ttpoa.ns e'otw tbv lpx°p£WJ xat tk £fvi;. » Ev aiioi; AMoi;. «kwSapx mvpopov x*~W NOKVEI. « KallimTay Appxptxos, xx'l txllxi. « Ev auft /iio: O.Tllypxyf, 'iio-i T&voy, v] -vfj/za, a o'k v)uEt; v-oypxpopsv, ol ira- ).atot Ttpocsypxpov. Rat Ta e;vj;. The folio-wing is the prospectus of a translation of Anacharsis into Romaic, by my Romaic master, Mar- marotourj, who -wished to publish it in England. eiihsis TrnorPA*iKri. Ilyoo; tou; iv piloy-vii; xx'l fJtXs'X/yjvas. O20I ds fiioiix Tttt-noSxTtx l-npvpatm, -nssupovv Ttbtio'j slvat to yp-rimp.0'1 tTjs iatopixs , t?i' x-jzrjs yxp IsvjpiGxtiai y} ttaevv pz.p.x:/.pu. - ( v 9vj, TT^d^Et; xai a'totxv)- OEt; tto^Xwv xat dixpopav E9vwv xal Tevwv wv T57V p-ri,pr;> Sl'.ianxca xal Sixnazzl yj iGTopixvi Atvjyviat; si; tda-jx zb'j xrtavrx. Mix TS-otx ETTtoT-^avj slvat E-janoxTvjTa; , xat e"v TaJTw apilipti, vi xpsitTOv Etilslv xvxyxxix- SixtX lo'.-'o-> r.p.ii; p/yjOL vd rv)v jtTzpoupefa, pr, -^EUyCOvTE; ovte rd 5 - kcvKs twv n^oyovwv /^a;, TtaQi-J TTOTExai 77w; s : jpiQr,Gxv e ? ; Ta; —x-zpidx; ua;, ojte Tav)'9v;, Ta xxnpQapXTa xat tjjv $loixr,tiiv twv ; Av IpaTozapzv Toiis iXkcy&eis, viJsu/vauv yd ,ua; o'waouv o'^t yuivav tsTO^tzw; T>jv xpyrp xat tv)v -pbodov twv TT^oyovwv ;/a;, d/).d /at zOTtoypxpl/Zi; p.x; fei/ywJ ^d; S-EffEt; twv naTfto"wv ,«as, xat oiovst ^st/MtyMyoi yaops-joi pi Tad; yiuypxptxoij; twv Iltvxxx;, p'is \iyiav , irfw Etvat at Aflflvoei, eJ^ j| Zjtayorji, exe! ai ©>;«!«, Tooa CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. iq3 a r, pihv a-i/u r, pi* i-a.py.13. d~b zr,v vi>r,v. Touto* Ctxodopr.oz Trjv utav TTO/fv , i/zlvoi tz.v d//v;v X«i T5. IlpSGETt dv E^WTrjOOJ.UEV aJTOU; TOU* //r; E/- lr,va» yzipxyor/ovi /in;, note' invpaxivriOr.sxv yd ^". ; :;jv^'^v d.c;/;as togov TTa).a(d,-, vw-^to".''-.)- - ,va-- aTtoxfivovTal //£ a'JTOUs T0C15 Joyous. « Kaflws ix IxuSi'as Avayvpoti, av is xai to ovo.ua xai to Ttpxy/jvx- outoj xai iyUrepot fcwpis, av &v £A<«v- flavs Ta TOU l7r;rox,o«TOUS, -siyvr;' Toil. £v 6 iv violv No/ao9etv;s i£f yiisvi Ta r?9 1 tmv dusyev£v tou- av o P>jtw/j fty v-rrM^zzo t«s eu ?/ o a- cfeia,- xai 7ot>s ^apievTap-oSi tou tLrpocBivous , ;9easv isv^avr; T5'j7r,v tv;v ttec'l E>//jvwv loropivv tou, vjTls riE.oi/v/rots tou Ne'ou Kvxyv.pozui T.vp aJTOu Ttpoooi- vopxoOii, xai Els oAas to,- Eu/ooi-aixas Ala>EXTOus /AETEyAojTTloflyi." Kal £v £vi aoyw, oi Neojte^oi, av o"£v i'-Epav <5Va bo'rr/oii;TOu;npo-/ivousixu;,S,(l;'icn w«s Ttscifipoiv-vi pvzvioii /AS/fi tou vuv. Avtk oev sivai Aoyla ivOo-joiv.op.ivou o\v. to pt).o-/£vs,- ryoatzou, e&ai o"r zuv'/r/JoJi Ylf.v.y.jo'j, 0071; iv.1zvzpy.1l TOV Ne'ov Avvyvpoiv v-.b 70'j X v'Sl i.'.o'j el; TO Tzpp.vtlxbv. Av\oi-bv /'A r.yi'li SjO'jivli vv. y.-Jjiioivi.' rv;-- •/voloEOj; T'iv \vp-npfov xv-ropOoipv-uv br.o\i kxvpwv oi Sv.j/JJX.o?oi iznvoi nc»-KTOf£;>,,iioiv, av imOjyCi'J-v VV !>V l )':V.Vt T^V Tipbodov XVI V'J\t,01V TWV £EJ TtZ; Tiy.vi zat E-(7T)j//.ag zai £i; zv.6< z"/.).o eioo; oavV;- I7£W5, av 'iyoip.lv r.ipiip-/=A'J.v va yvotpiooipEV t:60cV xv:vyip.i<>v , xai br.oiou; Sxvpxzzoui xv\ piyv/ovi 6i:opv;, si xvl T! po-/bvovi r,ij.'iv , ftj , rip'.U oiv yvu- P'X'jviv, di xvipbv b-ov oi Kno/is -aTE/ia; TtavToiaoouv p.vOr,oz;,i oi- €ovzvl, a; tjvocvv.-.j'/ev a-v.vTis -po r Jjpo>; iii zr/ exdooiv tou bwp.vjio-j zoinou ow/-/pv.p.piX70s to'i Ne'ov kvvy.vpoiot. ■/-'-y:7/:zvy-: V,' bi'iop.vt ezts/e'o "^ B(o/(oy /A£ ttjv zaTa • ppotpAvai xai svovipovsi otafitwotTg E/zvjv&iv tt«1o , £5. vj5 upszipvi dyaTir;; i^r t pzv\pivol. lwdvvYis Mocppaporouprfi. bvprtTplos Bevie'jOyj;. 'S.nvpiSoiv n^£0£TOS. Ev T^UOTIOJ , Tj Tt/:oiTvi 6zTOjS,oiov, 1799. THE LORD'S PRAYER IN ROMAIC. fi nATEPAMAS TToD Eloal £ts tov; ojpvvou;, a; vyiaoOf, to ovo//d sou. X; S.flu ») /SaocAeia sou. Xj •/£'vv) to B-0.r,pv. gov. Kaflws £^s tov oupuvov, e't^'/j zat ;v y^v. To ,;/wv T2v iri^v-^v :,; y.y'iv li.ij.ir.'jj. Kvi v:j,£; ■/);/!. T-z o-.iii.T.p.y.zv. i,pj*v, oii xai »],(/3l; v.fizpzv roli if si- \izy.ii r,pdv. Kai /y.r, ziozviyxr,i iipoii zi. vllv. puovt ripv.i v.-'o ZOJ TiOvy]OOU. OTt jlvoasiv, zai r] tfuva.iu;, xai vj cfofa e(; £77C, 0JVKT3V Tjyiv /.a)r # v jjjfiaffcv T-^j vjv /z#' yjvi.- iy.t'/iy.:. xat lr.a&-sre$ rovzo el$ tl»7Tov, 5i\ofj.vJ to za>/&jTtic£ /xsTOt/s rew/^a^t/sj, rir.a/ac //; v.-'/y:; V'^yyu.v. >;;,-(; l-/A"/v t w/uv*ij; £t%- io(/y;j-/; ■,;.->// -vara, -/:o9 yj.r.tVJ'i-/ V'J.'l X'.'J.ioiOV d$ t-/;-. lacvjricw. Oacv to ovy/f ajut/za S-^acc yrfvge sij Ti/iouj ouiSi/m xser« japristv zr,i iTz/isr,; Uoiiiot;. H ti«>j o/ou toO Tr,v r.yj-/)f t /r;i t-..v f -.;>■/ r.y r '/'^ rrivv/.i.jv. O pf>5-/-v^.- uv 2\s-sQp'iij.r 1 7r l ; 7i(i£zei vx rCi.r\f.% t >Tr > el; wSh T6/X09 ftopht e>a /a'c Ka^avravia at/95t t^; Bt^w*;j,xai touts X'^W zaju/itav TTpooovtv, a>/' eiitfis O7:ou5rtif( tw ■nTLpxoofrq 6 T0/A05 Ty7:w//.e'vos /ai oi pivot. CANTO III. « Pride of placen is a term of falconry, and means the lii|;luM pitch nf lli-ht .— S.(- .M.nbeth, elc. W a . by a mou.ing owl ba«k'd at and kfll». Note a. Stanza xx. Such ai Harmfidiu. drew on Allien.' lyrant lord. See the famous Song on Harmodius and AristogitoQ. — The best English translation is in bland s Anthology, by MrDenman. . Willi pljnle my »uord will I wreaihc.. etc. Note 3. Stanza xxi. Notes 4 and 5. Stanza xxvi. Sir Evan Cameron, and his descendant Donald, (he « gentle Lochicl» of the « forty-five.» Note 6. Sum/a xxvii. The wood .»f Soi|;nic> is supposed to he a remnant ol the « forest of Ardennes, » famous in Itnianln s Oi l;indo and immortal in Shakspcarc's « As you tike it.» It if also celebrated in Tacitus as being the spot of successful defence by tlic Germans against the Roman encroach nd;;e. They were formerly twelve, but on the first arrival of the French, the Venetians hastily blocked or broke up the deeper of these dungeons. You may still, however, de- scend by a trap-door, and crawl down through holes, half choked by rubbish, to the depth of two stofeys below the first range. If you are in want of consolation for the extinction of patrician power, perhaps you may ii it there ; sr.>iv,K :i cay of ligb.1 glimmers into the tow gallery which leads to the cells, and the places of lfiuement themselves are totally dark. A small hole ili«- Aiil a. limit. -..I the damp air of the passages, and served for the introduction of the prisoner's food. A wooden pallet, raised a foot from the ground, was the ly furniture. The conductors tell you that a light is not allowed. The cells are about five paces in length, o and a half in width, and seven feet in height. They are directly beneath one another, and respiratic swhat difficult in the lower holes. Only one prisoner found when the republicans descended into these hideous recesses, and he is said to have been confined n years. But the inmates of the dungeons beneath had left traces ,of their repentance, or of (heir despair which are still visible, and may perhaps owe somethin to recent ingenuity. Some of the detained appear to have offended against, and others to have belonged t the sacred body, not only from their signatures, but from the churches and belfries which they have scratched upon the walls. The reader may not object to see a spe- cimen of the records prompted by so terrific a solitude. As nearly as they could be copied by more than one pencil, three of them are as follows : CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGIUMAGE. LA GIOVA 1GD7. ADI 2. GBNAH The copyist lias folio v.,. I. nni r^inricd the solecisms; crnie of which are however not quite so decided*, since the letters were evidently scratched in the dark. It only need be observed, that Bestemmia and Mangiar may be read in the (irst inscription, which was probably frit ten by a prisoner cmihned for some act of impiety ommittcd at a funeral : that Corteltariits is the name of parish on terra firma, near the sea: and .that the last litials evidently are put for Viva la Santa Chiesa Kattolica Ilomana. Note 2. Stanza ii. An old writer, describing the appearance of Venice, as made use of the above image, which would not be poetical were it not true. « Quo ft ut qui superne urban contanpletur, turri- tam telluris innnfintm mrdi<> oimnio fujuratani se putet inspicerc.*' Note 3. Stanza lii. The well-known song of the gondoliers, of alternate stanzas, from Tasso s Jerusalem, lias .lied with the inde- pendence of Venice. Editions of the poem, with the original on one column, and the Venetian variations on the other, as suii|; by (lie bo iimen, were once common, and are still to be found. The following extract wilt serve to show the difference between the Tuscan epic and the ■' Ctltl.i .ilia linear i..|. 1 „ ■ pit-law A' rtnttr (-ho *»gi«, Ul© 1 ha »fjiiu». ■ t compjQni iparp»gn*i TuUi'l ( ;h'ih« m mii n .ir mi .ial ( i.lD.i. * M-rn A.ion.i S.UIJi