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Ifiu-^'vtro I CUrv^ ^isUv, 7W«^ l^^ 
 
 l-C-^ 
 
 THE 
 
 POETICAL V/ORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 LORD BY;i^-ON, 
 
 EXPLANATORY NOTES, 
 
 AND A 
 
 COMPREHENSIVE LIFE OF THE AUTHOR 
 
 By THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 WITH NUMEROUS FINE STEEL ENGRAVINGS, EMBRACING THE PRINCIPAL 
 FEMALE CHARACTERS, LANDSCAPES, AND HISTORICAL SUBJECTS. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: ' 
 WILLIAM T. AMIES, 1420 CHESTNUT STREET. 
 
'6 
 
 COPYRIGHT 1878, BY 
 
 HENRY J. JOHNSON. 
 
 
fl' 
 
 rv 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 This Edition of the Works of Lohd Btbon is the first printed in the quarto form. 
 Originally, indeed, many ot the separate Poems which coustitute the volume were issued 
 in this page ; but others first appeared in octavo, and the tendency of recent publication 
 lias been to diminish the size oi the type, till it is now rare, or an expensive luxury, to 
 meet with a really enjoyaole copy of the Poet's Works. This is the distinction of the 
 present ediiion, which separates it from others, that the text is printed in good readable 
 type expressly cast for the purpose, — open and well displayed in an ample quarto page. 
 How different this from the early American editions in narrow twenty-four or thirty- 
 two mo? in miuion type. Yet the receipt of one of these copies, carried to the noble 
 author by an American traveller to the Mediterranean, gave Byeon an unaffected 
 pleasure. The sight, doubtless, stirred his imagination, suggesting to his mind new 
 generations of readers in a remote land, insensible to the difficulties or prejudices which 
 beset him at home. But however this may have been, Byron always regarded the 
 land of Washington with peculiar admiration. Every reader will remember his tribute 
 to Washington in the fourth Canto of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage : — 
 
 Can tyrants but by tyrants conquer'd be, 
 
 And Freedom find no champion and no child, 
 
 Such as Columbia saw arise when she 
 
 Sprung forth a Pallas, arm'd and undefiled ? 
 
 Or must such minds be nourish'd in the wild, 
 
 Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the roar 
 
 Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled 
 
 On infant Washington ? Has Earth ao more 
 
 Such seeds within her breast or Europe no such shore ? 
 
 — the coupling of Washington with Leonidas, and other tributes to his fame in Don Juan. 
 Tiiere is a yet more particular passage in one of Byron's Diaries in which he records 
 the visit of a young American. " Whenever," he writes, " an American requests to 
 see me (which is not unfrequently), I comply, urstly, because I respect a people who 
 acquired their freedom by their firmness without excess ; and, secondly, because these 
 trans- Atlantic visits, ' few and far between,' make me feel as if talking with posterity 
 from the otlier side of the Styx. In a century or two the new English and Spanish 
 Atlantides will be masters of the old countries, in all probability, as Greece and Europe 
 overcame their mother Asia in the older or earlier ages, as they are called." 
 
ii PREFACE. 
 
 Such was the feeling of Lord Bteox towards America where his popularity haa 
 undergone no change since his brilliant geuia'? Qrst dawned upon the world. The critics 
 for a while ceased writing of liiiii, having perhaps exhausted the tlieme and needing 
 new subjects ; but his fame has constantly been kept fresh in the popular circulation 
 of his Works. Byrox is still the poet of youth and enthusiasm, of the natural emotions 
 of the heart exhibited in that period of life which has more readers of poetry than the 
 rest of the seven ages of man combined. As an artist his Poems challenge the admiration 
 of all ages ; his classic descriptions in Childe Harold find their way to the scholar's 
 library ; his Dramas and Tales of action and sentiment engage the attention of the most 
 careless readers ; while the Horatian charm of his wit and sentiment is a constant delight 
 to the accomplished student of the world and its affairs. 
 
 Of the merit and interest of the productions of the author of " Childe Harold," " The 
 Corsair," "Manfred," " Don Juan," and a host of others, included in the series '•familiar 
 to our mouths as household words," it is unnecessary at this day to speak. After the 
 lapse of half a century, the extraordinary popularity of the writings of Byron in their 
 own day is continued to new gCLcrations of readers, who delight to acknowledge his 
 rare poetical powers, the fervour of his imagination, his kindling eloquence, his portrayal 
 of character, his animated description of natural scenery, his wit, humor, pathos, his 
 varied pictures of human life in England, Italy and Greece, his unfailing sympathy with 
 liberty and freedom. 
 
 The life of the Poet, accompanying this Edition, is abridged from the best account of 
 Byron, the ample life by his friend and literary executor, Thomas Mooee. The Notes 
 are mostly the Poet's own from the original Editions. The text is that of Murray's 
 Standard Edition. 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 ABRIDGED FROM THE "LIFE AND CORRESPONDENCE' 
 
 By THOMAS MOORE 
 
 rnE family of Lord Byron traces its descent to 
 'be Byrons of Normandy, who came to England 
 with 'William the Conqueror. In Doomsday-book 
 the name of Ralph de Burun ranks high among the 
 tenants of land in Nottinghamshire ; and in the 
 succeeding reigns, under the title of Lords of Hores- 
 tan Castle, we find his decendants holding consider- 
 i^ile possessions in Derbyshire, to which afterward, 
 .n the time of Edward I., were added the lands of 
 Hochdale in Lancashire. Its antiquity however was 
 aot the only distinction by which the name of Byron 
 Tvas recommended to its inheritor; those i^ersonal 
 merits and accomplishments which form the best 
 ornament of a genealogy seem to have been displayed 
 in CO ordinary degree by some of his ancestors. At 
 the siege of Calais under Edward III., and on the 
 memoral)le fields of Cressy, Bosworth and Marston 
 Moor, the Byrons reaped honors both of rank and 
 fame of which theiryoung descendant has shown him- 
 self proudly conscious. In the reign of Henr/ VIII., 
 upon the dissolution of the monasteries, the church 
 and priory of Newstead, vnth the lands adjoining, 
 were added to the possessions of the Byron family. 
 These spoils of the ancient religion were conferred 
 upon the grand-nephew of the gallant soldier wlio 
 fought by the side of Richmond at Bosworth, and was 
 distinguished as " Sir John Byron the Little with 
 the great beard." At the coronation of James I., we 
 find another representative of the family selected as 
 an object of royal favor, — being made on this occa- 
 sion a Knight of the Bath. From the following reign 
 (Cliarles I.,) the nobility of the Byrons dates its ori- 
 gin. In theyear 1643, Sir .John Byron, great grandson 
 of him who succeeded to the rich domains of New- 
 stead, was created Baron Byron of Rochdale, and 
 sckU-m has a title been conferred for more high and 
 honorable services than those of this nobleman. 
 Through the history of the Civil Wars, we trace his 
 Dame in connection with the varying fortunes of the 
 king, and find him faithful, persevering, and disin- 
 terested to the last. 
 Such are a few rf the gallant and distinguished 
 
 personages of this noble house. By the maternal side 
 also Lord Byron had to pride himself on a line of an- 
 cestry as illustrious as any that Scotland can boast, 
 his mother who was one of the Gordons ofGight, 
 having been a descendant of that Sir William Gor- 
 don, who was the third son of the Earl of Huntley 
 by the daughter of James I. 
 
 After the eventful period of the Civil Wars the 
 celebrity of the name appears to have died away for 
 near a century. About the year 1750, the shipwreck 
 and sufierings of Mr. Byron, afterward Admiral, (the 
 grandfather of the subject of these pages ), awaken- 
 ined no small degree the attention and sympathy of 
 the public. Not long after, a less innocent notoriety 
 attached itself to two other members of the family — 
 one, the grand-uncle of the poet, and the other, his 
 father. The former, in tlie year 1T65, stood his trial 
 before the House of Pe(>r3 for killing, in a duel, or 
 rather scuffle, his relation and neighbor, 'Mt. Cha- 
 worth ; and the latter, having carried ofi' to tlie Con- 
 tinent the wife of Lord Carmarthen, on the marquis 
 obtaining a divorce from the lady, was married to 
 her. Of this short union one daughter only was the 
 issue, Augusta Byron, afterwards the wife of Colonel 
 Leigh. 
 
 The first wife of the father of the poet having 
 died in 1784, he, in the following year, married Miss 
 Catharine Gordon, only child and heiress of George 
 Gordon, Esq., of Gight. In addition to the estate 
 of Gight, this lady possessed no inconsiderable prop- 
 erty, and it was known to be solely with a view 
 of relieving himself from his debts that Jlr. Byron 
 paid his addresses to her. Soon after the mar 
 riage they removed to Scotland. The creditors ot 
 Mr. Byron now lost no time in pressing their de- 
 mands, and not only was the whole of her ready 
 money, bank shares, fisheries, etc., sacrificed to satisfy 
 them, but a large sum raised by mortgage on the 
 estate for the same purpose. In the luimmer of 
 1786 she and her husband proceeded to France 
 and in the following year the estate of Gight itself 
 was sold and the purchase money applied to thi 
 
 (i) 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 payment of debts, with the exception of a small sum 
 vested in trustees for the use of Jlrs. Bp-ou. 
 
 From France Mrs. Byron returned to England at 
 the close of the year 1787, and on the 22d of Janu- 
 ary, 1788, gave birth, in Holies-Street, London, to 
 her first and only child, George Gordon Byron. 
 From London she proceeded with her infant to 
 Scotland, and in the year 1790, took up her resi- 
 dence in Aberdeen, where she was soon after joined 
 by Captain Byron. Here for a short time they lived 
 together, but their union being by no means happy, 
 a separation took place between them, and Mrs. 
 Byron removed to lodgings at the other end of the 
 street. Notwithstanding this schism, they contin- 
 ued to visit each other ; but the elements of discord 
 were strong on both sides, and their separation was, 
 at last, complete and final. Captain Byron would 
 frequently, however, accost the nurse and his son in 
 their walks, and ex^jrcssed a wish to have the child 
 for a day or two, on a visit with l;im. To this 
 request Mrs. Byron at last acceded, on the represen- 
 tation of the nurse, that " if he kept the boy one 
 night, he would not do so another." The event 
 proved as the nurse had predicted, for she was told 
 by Captain Byron the nest morning, that he had 
 quite enough of his young visitor, and she might 
 take him home again. It is certain that as a child, 
 Byron's temper was violent, or rather sullenly pas- 
 sionate. Even when in petticoats, he showed the 
 same uncontrollable spirit with his nurse which he 
 afterward exhibited, when an author, with his 
 critics. But notwithstanding this th^re was in his 
 disposition, as appears from the concurrent testimony 
 of all who were employed about him, a mixture of 
 affectionate sweetness and playfulness, by which it 
 was impossible not to be attached, and which ren- 
 dered him then, as in his riper years, easily manage- 
 able by those who loved and understood him sufli- 
 ciently. The female attendant of whom we have 
 spoken, as well as her sister, Mary Gay, who suc- 
 ceeded her, had gained an influence over his mind 
 against which he very rarely rebelled ; while his 
 mother, whose capricious excesses, both of anger 
 and of fondness, left her httle hold on either his re- 
 spect or affection, was indebted solely to his sense of 
 filial duty for any portion of authority she was ever 
 able to acquire over him. 
 
 By an accident which, it is said, occurred at the 
 time of his birth, one of his feet was twisted out of 
 its natural position, and this defect (chiefly from the 
 contrivances employed to remedy it) was a source of 
 much pain and inconvenience to him, during his 
 earlier years. The expedients first made use of to 
 restore theliml) to shape were adopted by the advice 
 of the celebrated sur^^eon, John Hunter; and his 
 nurse, to whom fell the task of putting on these ma- 
 chines o- bandages at bedtime, would often sing him 
 
 to sleep, or tell him stories or legends, in which like 
 most other children, he took great delight It is a re- 
 markable fact, indeed that through the care of tliis 
 woman, who was her.self of a very religious disposi- 
 tion, he obtained a far earlier and more intimate ac- 
 quaintance with the Sacred Writings than falls to the 
 lot of most young people. 
 
 The malformation of his foot was, even at this 
 childish age, a subject on which he showed peculiar 
 sensitiveness. Sometimes, however, as in after-life, 
 he could talk indifferently, and even jestingly, of this 
 lameness ; there being another little boy in the 
 neighborhood, who had a similar defect in one of 
 his feet, Byron would sometimes say, laughingly, 
 " Come and see the twa laddies with the twa club 
 feet going up the Broad-Street." 
 
 Captain Byron now determined to retire to France, 
 and preWous to his departure he returned to Aber- 
 deen, which he had left sometime after his (juarrel 
 with his wife. As on the former occasion, hia object 
 was to entreat more money from the unfortunate 
 woman whom he had beggared; and so far was hu 
 successful, that during his last visit, she contrived 
 to furnish him with the money neccssaj^' for hi? 
 journey to Valenciennes, where in the following year 
 1791, he died. Though latterly Mrs. Byron would 
 not see her husband, she entertained a strong affec- 
 tion for him to the last, and when the intelligenc* 
 of his death arrived her grief bordered on distrac 
 tion, and her shrieks were so loud as to be heard in 
 the street She was indeed a woman full of passion- 
 ate extremes and her sorrow and affection were 
 bur,-;ts as much of passion as of feeling. 
 
 When not quite five years old, young Bvron was 
 sent to a day-school in Aberdeen, taught by Mr. 
 Bowers, and he remained there with son)e inter- 
 ruiJtions, during a twelvemonth. The terms of this 
 school were only five shillings a quarter for reading, 
 and it was evidently less with a view to the boy's 
 advance in learning than as a cheap mode of keep 
 ing him quiet, that his mother had sent him there. 
 Of the progress of his infantine studies at Aberdeen, 
 Lord Byron gives some particulars in one of his 
 journals. " I was sent at five years old or earlier, 
 to a school kept by Mr. Bowers. It was a school 
 for both sexes. I learned little there, except to re- 
 peat by rote the first lesson of monosyllables, with- 
 out acquiring a letter. Whenever proof was made 
 of my progress at home, I repeated these words 
 with the most rapid fluency, but on tiuning over a 
 new leaf, I continued to repeat them, so th.at th« 
 narrow boundaries of my first year's accomplish 
 mcnts were detected, and my intellects consigned 
 to a new preceptor. lie was a very devout, clever 
 little clergyman, named Boss, afterwards ministei 
 of one of the kirks. Under him I made astonish- 
 ing progress, and I recollect to this day his mild 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 manners and good-natured painstaking. The mo- 
 ment I could read, my grand passion was history ; 
 and why, I know not, but I was particularly taken 
 with the battle of Lake Regillus in the first Roman 
 history put into my hands. Pour years ago, when 
 standing on the heights of Tusculum, and look- 
 ing down ujion the little round lake that was once 
 Regillus, and which dots the immense expanse be- 
 low, I remembered my young enthusiasm and my 
 old instructor. Afterward I had a very serious, 
 saturnine, but kind young man, named Paterson, 
 for a tutor. He was the son of my shoemaker, but 
 a good scholar, as is common with the Scotch. He 
 was a rigid Presbyterian also. Witli him I began 
 Latin in Ruddiman's grammar, and continued till 
 I went to the grammar school ; where I threaded 
 all the classes to t\icfimrlh, when I was recalled to 
 England by the demise of my uncle. I acquired 
 this handwriting, which I can scarcely read my- 
 self, under the fair copies of Jlr. Duncan of the 
 same city. The grammar school might consist of a 
 hundred and fifty of all ages under age." 
 
 Byron was much more anxious to distinguish 
 himself among his school-fellows by prowess in all 
 roanly sports and exercises, than by advancement 
 in learning. Though quick, when he had any study 
 that pleased him, he was in general very low in 
 the class, nor seemed aml>itious of being promoted 
 any higher. 
 
 In the summer of 1796, after an attack of scarlet- 
 fever, he was removed by his mother for change of 
 air into the Highlands ; and it was either at this 
 time, or in the following year, that they took up 
 their residence at a farm-house in the neighborhood 
 of Ballater, a favorite summer resort for wealth and 
 gayety, about forty miles up the Dec from Aberdeen. 
 Within a short distance of this house, all those fea- 
 tures of wildness and beauty, which mark the course 
 of the Dee through the Highlands, may be com- 
 manded. "From this period," he says, "I date my 
 love of mountainous countries. I can never forget 
 the effect, a few years afterward in England, of the 
 only thing I had long seen, even in miniature, of a 
 mountain, in the Malvern Hills." 
 
 It was about this time, when he was not quite 
 eight years old, that a feeling, jjartaking more of 
 the nature of love than it is easy to believe possible 
 in so young a child, took, according to his own ac- 
 count, entire possession of his thoughts, and showed 
 how early, in this passion, as in most others, the sen- 
 Bibilities of his nature were awakened. The name 
 of the object of this attachment was Mary Dufi", and 
 a passage from a journal, kept by him in 1813, will 
 show how freshly, after an interval of seventeen 
 years, all the circumstances of this early love still 
 lived in his memory. " I have been thinking lately 
 I goo i deal of Mary Duff. How very odd that I 
 
 should have been bo utterly, devotedly fond of thai 
 girl, at an age when I could neither feel passion, 
 nor know the meaning of the word. And the ef- 
 fect ! — my mother used always to rally me about 
 this childish amour ; and at last, many years after, 
 when I was sixteen, she told me one day, ' Oh, By- 
 ron, I have had a letter from Edinburgh, from Jliss 
 Abercromby, and your old sweetheart, Jlary Duff, 
 is married to a Mr. Coe ;' — and what was my an- 
 swer ? I really cannot explain or account for my 
 feelings at that moment ; but they nearly threw me 
 into convulsions." 
 
 By the death of the grandson of the old lord at 
 Corsica in 1794, the only claimant that had hitherto 
 stood between little George and the peerage, was re- 
 moved ; and the increased importance which this 
 event conferred upon them was felt, not only by 
 Mrs. Byron, but by the young future Baron of New- 
 stead. The title of which he thus early anticipated 
 the enjoyment, devolved to him but too soon. Had 
 he been left to struggle on for ten years longer as 
 plain George Byron, there can be little doubt that 
 his character would have been, in many respects, 
 the better for it. In the year 1798, his grand-uncle, 
 the fifth Lord BjTon, died at Newstead Abbey, hav- 
 ing passed the latter years of his life in a state of 
 austere, almost savage seclusion. The cloud which, 
 to a certain degree undeservedly, his unfortunate 
 affray with Mr. Chaworth had thrown upon his char- 
 acter, was deepened and confirmed by the eccentric 
 and unsocial course of life to which he afterward be- 
 took himself. The only companions of his solitude 
 — besides a colony of crickets, which he is said to 
 have amused himself with rearing and feeding — 
 were Old Murray, afterward a favorite servant of hia 
 successor, and a female domestic. Though living in 
 this sordid and solitary style, he was frequently 
 much distressed for money ; and one of the most 
 serious injuries inflicted by him upon the property, 
 was his sale of the family estate of Rochdale in 
 Lancashire. On account of his inability to make 
 out a title, proceedings were instituted during the 
 young lord's minority for its recovery, which after 
 some years were successful. At Newstead the man- 
 sion and the grounds around it were allowed to fall 
 hopelessly into decay. 
 
 On the death of his grand-uncle. Lord Byron, hav- 
 ing become a ward in Chancery, the Earl of Carlisle, 
 who was in some degree connected with the family, 
 was appointed his guardian ; and in the autumn of 
 1798, Mrs. Byron and her son, attended by theii 
 fiiithful Mary Gay, left Aberdeen for Newstead 
 On their arrival, Mrs. Bj-ron, with the ho}oe of hav- 
 ing his lameness removed, placed her son under the 
 care of a person who professed the cure of such 
 cases, at Nottingham. The name of this man, who 
 appears to have bera a mere empirical pretender, 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 was Lavender, and the manner in which he is said 
 to have proceeded, was first by rubbing the font 
 with oil, and then twisting the limb forcibly around, 
 and screwing it in a wooden-machine. That the 
 ooy might not lose ground in his education, during 
 this interval he received lessons in Latin from a 
 respcctal)le schoolmaster, Mr. liogcrs,who read parts 
 of Virgil and Cicero with him, and represents his 
 proficiency to have been, for his age, considerable. 
 Finding but little benefit from the Nottingham 
 practitioner, jVIrs. Byron, in the summer of the year 
 1799, thought it best to remove her boy to London, 
 where at the suggestion of Lord Carlisle, he was 
 put under the care of Dr. Baillie. It being an ob- 
 ject, too, to place him at some quiet school, where 
 the means adajjted for the cure of his iufirmity 
 might be more easily attended to, the establish- 
 ment of Dr. Glennie, at Dulwich, was chosen for 
 that purpose. 
 
 Mrs. Byron, who had remained behind a short 
 time at Kewstead, now came to town ; and an in- 
 strument was constructed under Dr. Baillie's direc- 
 tion, for straightening the limb of the child. Mod- 
 eration in all athletic exercises was, of course, pre- 
 Bcribed ; but Dr. Glennie found it by no means easy 
 to enforce compliance with this rule, as though suf- 
 ficiently quiet when with him in his study, no sooner 
 was the boy released for play, than he showed as 
 BUich amljition to e.xcel in all such games as the most 
 roljust youth in school. It was proliably duiing one 
 of the vacations of this year that the boyish love for 
 his young cousin. Miss Parker, to which he attri- 
 butes tbe glory of having first inspired him with 
 poetry, took possession of his fancy. " My first dash 
 into poetry," he says, " was as early as 180Q. It was 
 the ebullition of a passion for my first cousin, Mar- 
 garet Parker, one of the most beautiful of evanes- 
 cent beings. I have long forgotten the verses, but 
 it would be ditlicuU for me to forget her — -her dark 
 eyes — her long eye-lashes — her completely Greek 
 cast t)f face and figure ! I was then about twelve — 
 she ratlier older, perhaps a year ; she died a year 
 or two afterward, in consequence of a fall, which 
 injured her spine, and induced cousumjition. I 
 knew nothing of her illness, being at Harrow in 
 the country, till she was gone. Some years after I 
 made an attemjit at an elegy, a very dull one." 
 
 When he had been nearly two years under the 
 , tuition of Dr. Glennie, his mother, discontented at 
 the slowness of his progress — although slie herself, 
 by her interference, was the cause of it — entreated 
 so urgently of Lord Carlisle to have him removed 
 to a public school, that her wish was at length ac- 
 ceded to ; and " accordingly," says Dr. Glennie, " to 
 Harrow he went, as little prepared as it is natural 
 to suppose from two years of elementary instruction, 
 thwarted b_y every art that could estrange the mind 
 
 of youth from preceptor, from school, and from all 
 serious study." To a shy disposition, such as By- 
 ron's was in his youth, a transition from a quiet es- 
 tablishment, Uke that of Dulmch Grove, to the 
 bustle of a great public school, was sufficiently try- 
 ing. We find from his own account that, for the 
 first year and a half, he hated Harrow. The ac- 
 ti\-ity however, and sociableness of his nature soon 
 conquered this repugnance ; and from being, as he 
 says, " a most unpopular boy," he rose at length to 
 be a leader in all the sports, schemes, and mischief 
 of the school. At Harrow Lord Byron was remarked 
 for the great extent and readiness of his general in- 
 formation, but in all other respects idle, capable of 
 great sudden exertions, but of few continuous drudg- 
 eries. His qualities, at this time, seemed much more 
 oratorical and martial, than poetical, and it was the 
 opinion of Dr. Durry, the head master, that he 
 would turn out an orator. His first verses (in Eng- 
 lish) were received but coolly. 
 
 Byron's ardent temperament led him to con- 
 tract friendsliips among his companions, which 
 from their warmth might almost be described as 
 passions. When he met one of his school-fellows in 
 after-life, he was aflfected almost to tears by the re- 
 collections which rushed upon him. Notwithstand- 
 ing his general Iiabits of play and idleness, there 
 were moments when the youthful poet would retire 
 thoughtfully within himself and give way to fits 
 of musing uncongenial with the usual cheerfulness 
 of his age. They show a tomb in the church-yard 
 at Harrow, commanding a view over Windsor, where 
 he used to sit for hours, wrapped up in thought. 
 
 We come now to an event, which according to 
 his own deliberate persuasion, exercised a lasting 
 influence over the whole of his subsequent character 
 and career. It was in the year 180:!, that he con- 
 ceived an attachment, which sunk so deep into his 
 mind as to give a color to all his future life. On 
 leaving Bath, Mrs. Byron took up her abode in lodg- 
 ings at Nottingham — Newstead Abbey being at that 
 time let to Lord Grey de Ruthen — and during the 
 Harrow vacations of this year she was joined there 
 by her son. So attached was he to Newstead that 
 he was continually in its neighborhood. An inti- 
 macy soon sprang up between him and his noble 
 tenant, and an apartment in the Abbey was hence- 
 forth always at his service. To the family of Jliss 
 Chaworth,who resided at Annesley, in the neighbor- 
 hood, he had been made known some time before in 
 London, and he now renewed his acquaintance with 
 them. The young heiress possessed much i)ersonal 
 beauty, with a disposition the most amiable and at- 
 taching. Byron at this time was in his nineteenth 
 year, and the object of his adoration two years older. 
 The six short summer weeks which he now passed 
 in her company, were suflBcient to lay the founda- 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 tion of a feeling for all life. At first lie used to re- 
 turn to Newstead Abbey every night, but being in- 
 duced one evening to remain at Annesley, lie stayed 
 there during the rest of his visit. His time here 
 was mostly passed in riding with Miss Chaworth 
 and her cousin ; sitting in idle reverie, as was his 
 custom, pulling at his handkerchief, or in firing at a 
 mark. During all this time he had the pain of 
 kno'n'ing that the heart of her he loved was occu- 
 pied by another — that, as he himself expresses it, 
 
 " Her sighs were not for him ; to her he was 
 Even as a brother — but no more !" 
 
 Neither is it probable that, had even her affec- 
 tions been disengaged. Lord Byron would have been 
 selected as the olyect of them. Miss Chaworth 
 looked upon him as a mere sch.oolboy. He was in 
 his manners, too, at that period, rough and odd, 
 and by no means popular among girls of his own 
 age. If at any moment he had flattered himself 
 with the hope of being loved by her, a circumstance 
 mentioned in his " memoranda," as one of the most 
 painful humiliations to which the defect in his foot 
 had exposed him, must have let the truth in, with 
 the dreadful certainty, upon his heart. He was 
 either told of, or overheard. Miss Chaworth saying 
 to her maid, " Do you think I could care anything 
 for that lame boy ?" This speech, as he himself 
 described it, was like a shot through his heart. 
 Though late at night when he heard it, he instantly 
 darted out of the house, and scarcely knowing 
 whither he ran, never stopped, till he found him- 
 self at Newstead. In one of the most interestins 
 of his poems, " The Dream," he has drawn a pic- 
 ture of this youthful love. In the follomng year, 
 1805, Miss Chaworth was married to his successful 
 rival, Jlr. .John Winters. 
 
 The general character which Byron bore among 
 the masters at Harrow was that of an idle boy, who 
 would never learn anything ; and as far as regarded 
 his tasks in school, this reputation was, by his own 
 avowal, not ill-founded. But notwithstanding his 
 backwardness in mere verbal scholarship, on which 
 so large and precious a portion of life is wasted, in 
 all that general and miscellaneous knowledge, which 
 is alone useful in the world, he was making rapid 
 progress. The list, which he has left to us, of the 
 books which he had read before he was fifteen years 
 of age, is such, from its variety and extent, as al- 
 most to startle belief 
 
 In the month of October, 1803, he was removed 
 to Trinity College, Cambridge, and his feelings on 
 the change to this new scene of life are thus de- 
 scribed by himself: — " AMien I first went up to col- 
 lege it was a new and a heavy-hearted scene for 
 me : first, I so much disliked leaving Harrow, that 
 though it was time (I being seventeen), it broke my 
 
 very rest for the last quarter, with counting the daya 
 that remained. I always hnted Harrow till the last 
 year and a half, but then I liked it. Secondly, I 
 wished to go to Oxford, and not to Cambridge. 
 Thirdly, I was so completely alone m this new 
 world, that it half broke my spirits. My compan- 
 ions were not unsocial, but the contrary — lively, hos- 
 pitable, of rank and fortune, and gay far beyond 
 my gayety. I mingled with, and dined and supped, 
 etc., with them ; but, I know not how, it was one 
 of the deadliest and heaviest feelings of my life to 
 feel that I was no longer a boy." To remain long, 
 however, without attaching himself, was not By- 
 ron's nature, and he soon formed friendships at 
 college which were as remarkable for their warmth 
 and romance as any of his schoolboy attachments. 
 
 It was in the summer of this y.ar that he first en- 
 gaged in preparing a collection of his poems for the 
 press ; the idea of printing them first occurred to 
 him during his vacation at Southwell. Miss Pigot, 
 a young lady with whose family he had become very 
 intimate, was reading aloud the poems of Bums, 
 when young Byron said that '• he, too, was a poet 
 sometimes, and would write down for her some ver- 
 ses of his own which he remembered." He then, 
 with a pencil, wrote those lines beginning, " In thee 
 I fondly hoped to clasp ; " he also repeated to her 
 the verses, " When in the hall my father's voice," so 
 remarkable for the anticipations of his ftiture fame 
 that glimmer through them. From this moment 
 the desire of appearing in print took entire posses- 
 sion of him, though for the present his ambition did 
 not extend in view beyond a small volume for pri- 
 vate circulation. In consequence of the objection ot 
 his friend, the Rev. Mr. Becher, to a certain poem in 
 this volume, the edition was suppressed, and Lord 
 Byron set about preparing another, which was pro- 
 duced about six weeks after. The fame which he 
 now reaped within a limited circle, made him more 
 eager to try his chance on a wider field. T!ie hun- 
 dred copies of which this edirion consisted were 
 hardly out of his hands, when with fresh activity he 
 went to press again, and his first published volume, 
 the " Hours of Idleness," made its appearance. Some 
 new pieces which he had written in the interim 
 were added, and no less than twenty of those con- 
 tained in the former volume omitted. The rank 
 and name of Lord Byron gained for tliis volume a 
 considerable circulation in the fashionalile world of 
 London, which, perhaps, the merits of the poetry 
 alone might not have attained. 
 
 Upon his return to Cambridge he again engaged 
 in all the dissipations that were at that time so fre- 
 quent among young men of rank and fashion. W( 
 oljserve in his letters of this jjeriod that sort of dis 
 play and boast of rakishness, which is but too com- 
 mon a folly at this period of life, when the young as- 
 
VI 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 pirant to manhood persuades himself that to be pro- 
 fligate is to be manly. Unluckily, this desire of being 
 thought worse 'ban he was remained with Byron 
 long after the i me when such foUies are usually past 
 and forgotten. We see from passages in his earlier 
 poems, and some of his journals, that while he was 
 yet a buy the authority of all systems and sects was 
 avowedly shaken off by his inquiring spirit. Yet 
 even in these 2)oems there is a fervor of adoration 
 mingled with a defiance of creeds, through which 
 the piety implanted in his nature unequivocally 
 shows itself; and had he fallen wthin the reach of 
 such guidance and example as would have fostered 
 these natural dispositions, the license of oijinion, in- 
 to which he afterward broke loose, might have been 
 averted. After his departure from Southwell he had 
 not a single friend or relative to whom he could 
 look up with respect, but was thrown alone on the 
 world, with his passions and his pride, to revel in 
 the fatal discovery which he imagined himself to 
 have made, of the nothingness of the future, and 
 the all-paramount claims of the present. By singu- 
 lar ill fortune, too, the most intimate of his college 
 friends, Charles Skinner Matthews, wliosc loss he af- 
 terward lamented with brotherly tenderness, was to 
 the same extent as himself, if not more thoroughly, 
 a skeptic. 
 
 In the spring of this year, 1808, appeared the me- 
 moralile critique upon the " Hours of Idleness " in 
 the JJUiiiliurc/h h'/'Puup* The ( ifec t this criticism 
 produced upon him can only be cojceived by those 
 who, besides having an adequate notion of what 
 most poets would feel under such an attack, can un- 
 derstand all that there was in the tem23er and dis- 
 position of Lord Byron to make him feel it with 
 tenfold more acuteness than others. Prom his sensi- 
 tiveness to the praise of the meanest of his censors, 
 we may guess how painfully he must have writhed 
 under the sneers of the highest. A friend, who 
 found him in the first moments of excitement after 
 reading the arricle, inquired anxiously whether he 
 had received a challenge, not knowing how else to 
 account for the fierce defiance of his looks. Among 
 the less sentimental effects of this review upon his 
 mind, he used to mention tliat on the day he read it, 
 he drank three bottles of claret, to his own share, 
 after dinner ; that nothing, however, relieved him 
 till he had given vent to his in<lignatiou in rhyme, 
 and tliat "after the first twenty lines he felt himself 
 considerably better." 
 
 His time at Newstead during the autumn was prin- 
 cipally occupied in enlarging and preparing his sa- 
 tire lor the pres.^. This work, which owed its force 
 end spirit chiefly to the article we have just spoken 
 of, had been commenced by Lord Byron a long time 
 
 * Now known to have been written by Lord Brougham. 
 
 before. The importance of this new move in litera- 
 ture seems to have been fully appreciated by him. 
 He saw that his chances of future eminence now de- 
 pended upon the effort he was about to make, and 
 therefore deliberately collected all his energies for 
 the spring, and the misanthropic mood of mind into 
 which he had fallen at this time, from disappointed 
 affections and thwarted hopes, made the office ul 
 satirist but too congenial and welcome to his spirit 
 XHis coming of age in 1809 was celebrated at New- 
 stead by such festivals as his narrow means and so- 
 ciety could furnish. Besides the ritual roasting of an 
 ox, there was a ball, it seems, given on the occasion. 
 Of Lord Byron's own method of commemorating 
 the day, the following curious record occurs in a let- 
 ter written from Genoa in 1823 : "Did I ever tell 
 you that the day I came of age I dined on eggs and 
 bacon and a bottle of ale ? For once in a way they 
 are my favorite dish and drinkable ; but as neither 
 of them agrees with me, I never use them but on 
 great jubilees, once in four or five years or so." It 
 was not till the beginning of this year that he took 
 his satire to London. During the progress of this 
 poem through the press he increased its length by 
 more than a hundred lines, and the alterarions which 
 he constantly made, show to what a degree his judg- 
 ment and feelings were affected by the impressions 
 of the moment. On the 13th of Slarch Lord By- 
 nor took his seat in the House of Lords ; and a fesv 
 days after tlie " English Bards and Scotch Review- 
 ers " made its appearance. This satire was issued 
 anonymously, but it was not long l)efore the name ot 
 the author was generally known. Lord Byron im- 
 mediately upon its publication had retired into the 
 country. He was soon, however, called back to Lou- 
 don to superintend a new edition, in consequence of 
 the rapid sale of the first. To this second edition 
 he made considerable additions, and prefixed his 
 name. He now made up his mind to leave Kngland 
 with his friend Mr. Hobhousc, early in the following 
 June, for an extended tour in Spain and the East. 
 In a letter of his friend Matthews, we have a char- 
 acteristic picture of his life at Newstead at this per- 
 iod. After a description of the Abl)ey, he says : — 
 "Ascend, then, with me the hall stejjs, that I may 
 introduce you to my lord and his visitants. Bu< 
 have a cnre how you proceed, for should you maka 
 any blunder, should you go to the right of the hall 
 steps, you are laid hold of by a bear ; and should 
 you go to the left, your case is still worse, for you 
 run full against a wolf; nor when you have attained 
 the door is your danger over ; for the hall being de- 
 cayed, and therefore standing in need of repair, a 
 body of inmates are very probably banging at ona 
 end of it with their pistols, so that, if you enter 
 without giving loud notice of your approach, you 
 have only escaped the wolf and the bear to expire 
 
LIFE OF LORD BTRON. 
 
 vu 
 
 by '.he pistol shots of the merry monks of Ncw- 
 Btead." 
 
 Having put the finishing hand to his new edition 
 he took leave of London, on the 11th of June, and 
 in about a fortnight after, sailed for Lisbon, in com- 
 pany with his friend, Mr. Hobhouse, taking with 
 him his valet, Fletcher, Murray, the old family ser- 
 vant, a German attendant, and a boy name Robert 
 Rushton, who is introduced as his page, in the Fir'it 
 Canto of Childe Harold. Prom Lisbon he travelled 
 on horseback through Portugal and Spain, visiting, 
 on the way, the beautiful scenes of Cintra and Maira, 
 Seville and Cadiz, and thence in the Hj'perion frigate 
 to Gibraltar. His letters of the time, record in a 
 most lively manner, the adventures which he met 
 with during this hasty passage. The dark eyed 
 beauties of Andalusia appear to have made deep 
 impressions upon the heart of Byron, to judge from 
 the frequent allusions in his poems of tliis period. 
 Having made a short stay at Gibraltar, on the 15tb 
 of August he sailed for Malta. Here through some 
 trifling misunderstanding, he was at the point of 
 fighting a duel with an officer of the garrison. Lord 
 Byron was on the ground at the time appointed, 
 but through some mistake in the arrangements 
 his adversary did not appear ; but an hour after 
 an ofiicer deputed by him arrived, and not only ac- 
 counted for the delay, but made every explanation 
 with respect to the supposed ofience that could be 
 required. This incident is interesting as showing 
 the manly courage and coolness of Lord Byron, in 
 the only action of the kind that he was ever en- 
 gaged in. The route which he now took through 
 Albania, and other parts of Turkey, may be traced, 
 by those who desire the details, in Jlr. Hobhouse's 
 account of his travels. He passed fi-om Prevesa, 
 where he landed, through Acarnania and JEtolia, 
 viewing the famous sites of Actium and Lepanto, 
 and the classic ground of Delphi and Parnassus, and 
 after crossing Mount Cithojron, he arrived at Athens, 
 the city of his dreams, on Christmas-day, 1809. Here 
 he made a stay of between two and three months, 
 not a day of which he let pass without employing 
 some of its hours in visiting the grand monuments 
 of ancient genius around him ; and he has left in 
 his own verses, an ever-during testimony of the 
 enthusiasm with which he now contemplated these 
 spirit-stirring scenes. In addition to the magic of 
 its nauie and associations, the city of Minerva 
 possessed another sort of attraction to tlie poet. His 
 pretty song, "Maid of Athens, ere we part," is said 
 to have been adilressed to the oldest daughter of the 
 Greek lady in whose house he lodged. 
 
 On the 5th of March the travelers took a reluctant 
 leave of Athens, and continued their journey to 
 Smyrna, where, with the exception of a visit to the 
 rums of Ephesus, tlxey remained for aljout a month. 
 
 It was during this time, as appears from a memo- 
 randum of his own, that he finished the first two 
 Cantos of Childe Harold. From Smyrna he sailed 
 up the Dardanelles to Constantinople. During hia 
 passage up the straits. Lord Byron repeated Lean- 
 der's famous exploit of swimming across the Helles- 
 pont, a feat to which he afterward alludes in his let- 
 ters. Another year was now passed in the East, at 
 Constantinople and Athens, and among the islands 
 of the Archipelago, and aljout the middle of July 
 1811, we find him again in England. 
 
 The Eastern travels of Lord Byron contributed 
 essentially to the formation of his poetic character. 
 In youth, the wild tales of Turkish conquest and 
 adventure which he had read had taken a strong 
 hold of his imagination, and it was to the East, " the 
 land of the sun," that the dreams of his childhood 
 looked for their realization. The quick change of 
 place and scene, the diversity of men and manners 
 surveyed by him, the succession and variety of fresh 
 excitement, brought into play and invigorated all 
 the energy of his character. Amid all this stimulat- 
 ing variety of objects, tlie melancholy which he 
 brought from home still lingered around his mind, 
 but as his views opened on a freer and wider hori- 
 zon, every feeling of his nature kept pace with their 
 enlargement, and this inborn sadness, mingling it- 
 self with the effusions of his genius, became one of 
 the constituents, not only of their pathos, 1mt their 
 grandeur. 
 
 He had no sooner arrived in England than he set 
 about preparing for the press some of the poems 
 which he had wi'itten while abroad. His first at- 
 tention was given to a paraphrase of the Ars Poetica 
 of Horace, a poem hardly worthy of his genius, 
 but which, with that strange blindness of authors 
 to the merits of their own works, he perferred 
 to his glorious Childe Harold. Happily, tlie bet- 
 ter judgment of his friends averted the risk to 
 his reputatiou which would have been the conse- 
 quence of his giving this poem to the press at this 
 time, and he at length consented to the immediate 
 publication of Childe Harold, and it was put into 
 the hands of Mr. Murray for that puri^ose. 
 
 While thus busily engaged in his literary projects, 
 he was called away to Newstead by the intelligence 
 of the illness of his motlier. She had been indis- 
 posed for some time, but not to any alarming de- 
 gree. At the end of July her illness took a new and 
 fatal turn, and so strangely characteristic was the 
 close of the poor lady's life, that a fit of rage, 
 brought on, it is said, by reading over the uphol- 
 sterer's biUs, was the ultimate cause of her death. 
 Although Lord Byron started from town as soon as 
 he heard of the attack, he was too late, — she had 
 breathed her last. 
 
 Besides the loss of his mother h". liad to mourn 
 
TIU 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 in quick succession, the untimely fate of two or 
 three of his most vahied friends. " In the short 
 space of one niontli," he says, " I have lost her who 
 gave me being, and most of those who made that 
 being toleral)le." Of these, young Wingfield, one <if 
 his Harrow favorites, died of a fever at Coimbra ; 
 and JIatthews, tlie idol of his admiration at college, 
 was drowned while bathing in the Cam. 
 
 Chilile Harold was not ready for publication until 
 February of the following year. A few days previ- 
 ous to its appearance. Lord Byron made the first 
 •rial of his eloquence in the House of Lords. The 
 gubject of debate was the Nottingham Frame-break- 
 ing Bill. In reference to his parliamentary displays, 
 he says : " I spoke once or twice ; but dissipation, 
 shyness, haughty and reserved opinions, together 
 with the short time I staid in England, prevented 
 me from repeating the experiment; as fiir as I went, 
 it was not discouraging, particularly my first speech 
 (I spoke three or four times in all), but just after it 
 my poem of Cliilde Harold was published, and no- 
 body ever thought of my prose afterward, nor, in- 
 deed, did I." 
 
 Two days after his speech, the poem appeared ; 
 and t'le impression which it produced upon the 
 public was as instantaneous as it proved deep and 
 lasting — the effect was electric ; his fame had not 
 to wait for any of the ordinary gradations, but 
 seemed to spring up, like the palace in the fairy 
 tale, in a night. As he himself briefly described it 
 in his memoranda : — " I awoke one morning and 
 found myself famous." The first edition of his 
 work was disposed of instantly. "Lord Byron' 
 and " Childe Harold " became the theme of every 
 tongue. At his door most of the leading men of 
 the day presented themselves ; from morning till 
 night the most flattering testimonies of success 
 crowded his table ; he saw the whole splendid in- 
 terior of higli life thrown open to receive him, and 
 found himself its most distinguished object. The 
 coijyright of his poem which was purchased by Mr. 
 Murray for £000, he presented to his friend, Jlr. Dal- 
 las, saying that " he never would receive money for 
 his writings," a resolution, the mixed result of gen- 
 erosity aud pride, which he afterwards wisely aban- 
 doned. 
 
 The facility with wliich he soon gave himself up 
 to the current of fashionable life, and mingled in all 
 the festivities through which it leads, showed that 
 the novelty, at least, of this mode of existence had 
 charms for him, however he might estimate its 
 pleasures. His air and port, amid these scenes, 
 were those of one whose bet*cr thoughts were else- 
 wnere. and who looked with melancholy alistraction 
 on the gay crowd around him. This deportment 
 was the result partly of shyness and partly of his 
 natural love of efifect and impression. 
 
 Early in the spring of 1813, he brought out, 
 anonymously, his poem on " Waltzing," and in the 
 month of Jlay appeared his wild and beautiful 
 " Fragment," the " Giaour." The public hailed this 
 new offspring of his genius with wonder and de- 
 light. This poem, which when first published was 
 contained in four hundred lines, was increased by 
 subsequent additions to fourteen hundred. The plan, 
 indeed, which he had adopted, of a series of frag 
 ments, left him free to introduce, without reference 
 to more than the general complexion of his story, 
 whatever sentiments or images his fancy, in its ex- 
 cursions, could collect. This was succeeded by the 
 "Bride of Abydos," which was published at the be- 
 ginning of December of the same year, having been 
 struck off, like its predecessor, in one of those par- 
 oxysms of passion and imagination, which adven- 
 tures such as the poet was now engaged in were, 
 in a temperament like his, calculated to excite. He 
 says of it, in his diary : " It was written in four 
 nights to distract my thoughts from .... were it 
 not thus, it had never been composed, and had I 
 not done something at that time, I must have gone 
 mad, by eating my own heart." The "Corsair" 
 and " Lara," the other poems of this series, soon 
 followed. Although a certain degree of foundation 
 in fact seemed necessary to Byron to caU into action 
 the power which he wielded over the passions, the 
 connection with reality wliich satisfied him, in many 
 instances, was so small, that an aim at tracing through 
 his stories these links with his own fate and fortunes, 
 would be a task as uncertain as unsafe ; and this re- 
 mark applies not only to the " Bride of Abydos," 
 but to the " Corsair," " Lara," and all the beautiful 
 fictions in which, though the emotions expressed 
 by the poet may be regarded as vivid recollections 
 of what had at different times agitated his ovrn 
 bosom, there are but little grounds for connect- 
 ing him personally with the ground-work or inci- 
 dents of the stories. 
 
 About a year before, Lord Byron had licen in 
 duced to turn his thoughts seriously to marriage, 
 at least as seriously as his thoughts were ever capa- 
 ble of being so turned, — and, chiefly l)y the advice 
 and intervention of his fiiend, Lady Jlellioume, to 
 become a suitor for the hand of a relation of that 
 lady, Miss Milbanke. Though his proposal was not 
 then accepted, every assurance of friendship and re- 
 gard accomijanied the refusal ; a wish was even ex- 
 pressed that they should continue to write to eacH 
 other, and a correspondence ensued between them. 
 To this singular relation, he refers in his diary: 
 " Yesterday, a very pretty letter from Annabella ; 
 whicli I answered. What an odd situation and 
 friendship is oure ! Without one part of love on 
 cither side, and produced by circumstances whii;^ 
 in general lead to coldness on one side, and aver 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON, 
 
 a 
 
 Bion on the other. She is a very superior ■woman, 
 and very little spoiled, which is strange in an heir- 
 ew — a girl of twenty — a peeress that is to be, in her 
 Q-wii right — an only child, and a sm-ante, who has 
 always had her own way. She is a poetess — a 
 mathematician — a metaphysician ; and yet withal, 
 very kind, generous, and gentle, with very little pre- 
 tension." 
 
 His own account of the circumstances which led 
 to his second proposal for Miss Milbanke, is, in sub- 
 stance as follows : A person, who had for some time 
 stood high in his affection and confidence, observ- 
 ing how cheerless and unsettled was the state both 
 of his mind and prospects, advised him strenuously 
 A) marry ; and after much discussion, he consented. 
 The next point for consideration was, who was to 
 be the object of his choice ; and while his friend 
 mentioned one lady, he himself named Miss Mil- 
 banke. To this, however, his adviser strongly ob- 
 jected, as Jkliss Milbanke had at present no fortune, 
 and that his own embarrassed affairs would not per- 
 mit him to marry without one, and that she would 
 not at all suit him. In consequence of these repre- 
 sentations, he agreed that his friend should write a 
 proposal for him to the other lady named, which 
 was accordingly done ; — and an answer containing 
 a refusal, arrived as they were, one morning, sitting 
 together. " Tou see," said Lord Byron, " that after 
 all, Miss Milbanke is to be the person ; — I will write 
 to her." He accordingly wrote on the moment, and 
 a few days after he received a very flattering accept- 
 ance of his offer. The die was cast now, and he had 
 no alternative but to proceed. Accordingly, at the 
 end of December, accompanied by his friend, 5Ir. 
 Hobhouse, he set out for Seaham, the residence of 
 Sir Ralph Milbanke, the lady's father, in the county 
 of Durham ; and on the 2d of January, 1815, he was 
 married. The touching picture, that he has drawn, 
 in "The Dream," of his feelings on this occasion, 
 agrees perfectly with the account of his wedding, 
 in his memoranda. He awoke with the most melan- 
 choly reflections, in the morning ; he wandered alone 
 about the grounds, tiU he was summoned to the cere- 
 mony. He knelt do^vn, — he repeated the words 
 after the clergyman ; but a mist was before his 
 eyes; his thoughts were elsewhere ; and he was but 
 awakened by the congratulations of the bystanders 
 to find that he was — married. 
 
 After the wedding. Lord Byi'on resided with his 
 wife for some time at Seaham, but he soon wearied 
 of the monotony of country life ; and towards the 
 end of Marcli, he returned to London, where, on the 
 10th of December of the same year, his daugliter, 
 Augusta Ada, was boin. The strong and aft'ection- 
 ate terms in which, after his marriage, he had in 
 some of his letters declared his own happiness, 
 tended to still those apprehensions which the first 
 
 view of his alliance gave rise to. These indications 
 of a contented heart, however, soon ceased. His 
 mention of the partner of his home became rare and 
 formal ; and a feeling of unquiet and weariness tp- 
 peared, which brought back all the worst anticipa- 
 tions of his fate. 
 
 About a month after the birth of her child, Ladj 
 Byron most unexpectedly adopted the resolution of 
 separating from her husband. She had left London 
 at the latter end of January, on a visit to her father's 
 house, in Leicestershire, and Lord Byron was, a short 
 time after, to accompany her. They had parted in 
 the utmost kindness, — she wrote him a letter, full 
 of playfulness and affection, on the road ; and imme- 
 diately on her arri\'al at Kirkley Mallory, her father 
 wrote to acquaint Lord Byron that she would return 
 to him no more. At the moment when he had to 
 stand this unexpected shock, his pecuniary embar- 
 rassments, which had been fast gathering aroimd 
 him during the whole of the last year, (there hav- 
 ing been no less than eight or nine executions in 
 his house within that period,) had arrived at their 
 utmost ; and at a moment, when to use his own ex- 
 pression, he " was standing alone on his hearth, with 
 his household gods shivered around him," he was 
 doomed to receive the startling intelhgence that 
 the wife who had just parted with him in kindness 
 had jiarted with him — forever ! 
 
 With respect to the causes which may have led 
 to this separation, it seems needless, with the char- 
 acters of both parties before our eyes, to go in quest 
 of any very mysterious or remote reasons to account 
 for it. Even had the new condition of life into which 
 he passed been one of prosperity and smoothness, 
 some time, as well as tolerance, must stiU have been 
 allowed for the subsiding of so excited a spirit into 
 rest. But on the contrary, his marriage, from the 
 reputation, no doubt, of tlie lady, as an heiress, was 
 the signal for all the arrears and claims of a long- 
 accumulating state of embarrassment to explode upon 
 him ; and in addition to these anxieties and indig- 
 nities of poverty, he had the pain of fancjnng, 
 whether rightly or wrongly, that the eyes of ene- 
 mies and spies were upon him, even under his own 
 roof, and that every hasty word or look was inter- 
 preted in the most j^erverting light. 
 
 As from the state of their means they saw but 
 little society, his only relief and diversion from the 
 annoyances of his Ufe was in those avocations which 
 his duties, as a member of the Drury-Lane Commit- 
 tee, to which he had been elected since his mar- 
 riage, imposed uijon him. And here, this connec- 
 tion with the theatre gave rise to new suspicions. 
 From the reputation which he had previously ac- 
 quired for gallanti-ies, it was not difficult to misrep- 
 resent some of those acquaintances which his fre- 
 quent intercourse vnth the green-room induced him 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 to form, and even to connect with his name injuri- 
 ously that of a person to whom he had scarcely ever 
 *ddressed a single word. 
 
 Not content with such ordinary and tangible 
 charges, tlie tongue of rumor was emboldened to 
 proceed still farther ; and jjrcsuming upon the mys- 
 terious silence maintained by one of the parties, ven- 
 tured to throw out dark hints and vague insinu- 
 ations, of which the fancy of every hearer was left 
 to fill up the outline as he pleased. In consequence 
 of all this exaggeration, such an outcry was now 
 raised against Lord iiyron as in no case of private 
 life, perhaps, was ever before witnessed, nor had the 
 whole amount of fame which he had gathered in 
 the course of the last four years, much exceeded in 
 proportion the reproach and obloquy tliat were now, 
 within the space of a few weeks, licapcd upon him. 
 In every form of paragraph, jjamphlet, and carica- 
 ture, both his cliaractcr and person were held up to 
 odium ; and hardly a voice was raised, or at least 
 listened to, in his behalf; and though a few faith- 
 ful friends remained unshaken by his side, alter a 
 few efforts to gain a fair hearing they submitted in 
 ailence. 
 
 The poet now determined to leave England for a 
 tour through Switzerland, the Netherlands, and Italy. 
 Since his early travel in the East, his thoughts had 
 often fondly reverted to those southern lands which 
 had so powerfully impressed his imagination, and he 
 now turned away without regret from the country 
 which had given him up, and the iriends who had 
 forsaken him. 
 
 During the month of January and part of Febru- 
 ary, his poems of the " Siege of Corinth " and " Pa- 
 risina," were in the hands of the printers, and 
 about the end of the latter montli, they made their 
 appearance. Although Lord Byron was in the most 
 embarrassed circumstances, and his creditors, ani- 
 mated by the general outcry, were pressing their 
 claims with more severity than ever, he still refused 
 to accept any compensation for his works. 
 
 It was under these disastrous and almost humili- 
 ating circumstances that Lord Byron took his final 
 leave of England. On the Sotli of April he sailed 
 for Ostend, accompanied by l)r. Poliilori, two for- 
 eign servants, and William Fletcher and Robert 
 Rushton, the same " yeoman " and " page " who had 
 set out with him in his youthful travels in 1809. 
 
 The course which he now pursued through Flan- 
 ders, and by the Rhine, may In'st be traced in his 
 own matcliless verses in the Third Canto of "Childe 
 Harold." At Geneva, lie took up his residence at the 
 Hotel Lecheron, on the banks of the lake. Here he 
 first made the acquaintance of Shelley and his wife, 
 who were living in the same hotel. Tlie constant 
 jitercoursc of the poets, thus thrown together, pro- 
 duced au intimacv between them which lasted with 
 
 unabated warmth until the death of Shelley. The 
 opinions and theories of his new companion were 
 not without their influence upon the impressionable 
 mind of Lord Byron, and among those fine Imrsta 
 of passion and description which abound in his later 
 poetry, may be discovered traces of that mysticism 
 of meaning — that sublimity losing itself in vague- 
 ness, which characterized the writings of his extra- 
 ordinary friend. 
 
 After a tay of a few weeks at this place, he removed 
 to a villa in the neighborhood, called Diodati, very 
 beautifully situated on the high banks of the lake, 
 where he established his residence for the remainder 
 of the summer. About the same time, Mr. and Mrs. 
 Shelley removed to a small house on the same side 
 of the lake, within about ten minutes' walk of Lord 
 Byron's villa. At Diodati, Byron's life was passed 
 in the same regular round of habits and oecui)ations 
 into which, when left to himself, he always naturally 
 fell ; a late breakfast, then a visit to the Shelleys' 
 cottage, and an excursion on the lake ; at five, din- 
 ner, when he usually [^referred being alone, and then, 
 if the weather permitted, an excursion again. He 
 and Shelley had joined in purchasing a small sail- 
 ing vessel, fitted to stand the usual squalls of the 
 climate, and at that time, the only keeled boat on 
 the lake. When the weather did not allow of their 
 excui-sions after dinner, the inmates of the cottage 
 passed their evenings at Diodati. Towards the lat- 
 ter end of June, Lord Byron and his friimd made a 
 tour in his boat around the lake, and visited, with the 
 '' Heloise " before him, all those scenes around Meil- 
 lerie and Clarens, which had become consecrated for 
 ever by the genius of Rousseau. At Ouchy, near 
 Lausanne, they were detained two days, in a small 
 inn, by the weather ; and it was there, in that short 
 interval, that Byron wrote his " Prisoner of Chillon." 
 Soon after he paid a visit to Madame de Stael, in 
 her villa at Capet, and he was received by his dis- 
 tinguished hostess with a cordiality which, from his 
 unijopulai-ity at the time, he hardly ventured to count 
 upon. She took him to task upon Lis matrimonial 
 conduct, and her eloquence so far prevailed, that he 
 was induced to write a letter to a friend in England, 
 declaring himself still willing to be reconciled to 
 Lady Byron. There can be little doubt that the 
 failure that ensued upon these negotiations, was 
 
 j what first infused any bitterness or resentment into 
 the more kindly feelings which he had hitherto. 
 entertained through these painful ditlerences. 
 
 The eftect of the late struggle upon his mind, in 
 stirring up all its resources and energies, was visi- 
 ble in the great activity of his genius during the 
 whole of this period, and the rich variety, both in 
 character and coloring, of the works \^'ith which it 
 teemed. Besides the Third Canto and the " Pris- 
 
 1 oner of Chillon," he produced also his two poema 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON". 
 
 ■' Darkness " and " The Dream," the latter of which 
 must have cost him many a tear in writing, neing, 
 indeed, the most moumfhl, as well as picturesque 
 "story of a wandering life," that ever came from 
 the pen and heart of man. He also began at this 
 time a prose romance, founded upon the story of the 
 marriage of Belphegor, and intended to shadow out 
 his own matrimonial fate. While engaged, however, 
 upon this work, he heard from Englaud that Lady 
 Byron was ill, and his heart softening at this intelli- 
 gence, he threw the manuscript into the fire. 
 
 Soon afterward, upon the arrival of his friends, 
 Mr. Hobhouse and Mr. S. Davies, he set out with 
 the former on a tour through the Bernese Alps. He 
 has left a journal of this excursion, in which he re- 
 cords in hasty memoranda the first impressions pro- 
 duced upon his mind by the magnificent scenery 
 through which he traveled, and it is interesting to 
 trace in these careless notes, the germs of his most 
 splendid imagery in " Manfred " and " Childe Har- 
 old." After accomplishing this journey, about the 
 beginning of October, he took his dej:)arture for 
 Italy. After a month spent at various places on the 
 way, chiefly at Milan and Verona, he reached Venice, 
 where he intended tn reside for the winter. All the 
 restraint of popular opinion being now removed, and 
 rendered desperate and careless of his reputation by 
 the constant recollection that he was an outcast from 
 his native land. Lord Byron jjlungod into all the dis- 
 sipations which were ofi'ered to him in the licentious 
 society and easy morals of an Italian city. During 
 this time, however, his literary occupations were not 
 entirely neglected ; he finished his extraordinary 
 creation of ''Manfred," and wrote several smaller 
 pieces. He usually devoted a part of the morning 
 to the study of Armenian, at the convent of the Ar- 
 menian monks on one of the islands of the lagoon. 
 In this language he does not seem to have attained 
 much proficiency, although he took some part in the 
 translation of an Epistle of St. Paul, not generally 
 considered genuine, which had been preserved in 
 the Aj-menian writings. The irregular course of life 
 which he had adopted soon showed its effect 
 upon his health, and in a few months he was at- 
 tacked with a low fever, which left him quite weak. 
 ^n order to escape the unhealthy season at Venice, 
 and to recruit his constitution by a change to the 
 purer and more wholesome air of tiie main land, he 
 removed for the summer to a villa at La Mira, on the 
 Brenta, not far from the city. 
 
 Some time before this Lord BjTon had made a 
 hurried trip to Florence and Rome, which was suf- 
 ficient, however, to store his mind with the vivid 
 imijressions of these famous cities, and their treas- 
 ures of art and antiquity, which enrich his poems. In 
 fact, so far from the povi-ers of his intellect being 
 weakened by his 'rregularities, he was, perhaps, 
 
 at no time of his life so actively in the full posses- 
 sion of his energies, for it was at this time that ho 
 produced the fourth and last canto of " Childe Har- 
 old," which was considered even to surpass its pre- 
 decessors. About this period his humorous story of 
 " Beppo," descriptive of Italian life, was also pub- 
 lished. 
 
 Lord Byron in one of his letters remarks, that the 
 ancient beauty of the Venetian women had deserted 
 the "dame," or higher orders, and that the faces 
 which adorn the canvass of Titian and Giorgione 
 were now only to be found under the " fazziole," or 
 kerchiefs of the lower. It was unluckily among 
 these latter specimens of the " bel sangue " of Ven- 
 ice, that he was now, by a sudden descent in the 
 scale of refinement, to select the companions of his 
 disengaged hours. A proof, however, that in this 
 short and desperate career of libertinism, he was 
 only seeking relief for a wronged and mortified 
 spirit, is that, sometimes when his house was in the 
 possession of such visitants, he would hurry away 
 in his gondola, and pass the greater part of the 
 night upon the water, as if hating to return home. 
 It is, indeed, certain that he always looked back to 
 this period of his life witli self-reproach ; and the 
 excesses to which he had there abandoned himself 
 were among the prominent causes of the detestation 
 which he afterwards felt for Venice. It was while 
 these different feelings were struggling in his breast, 
 that he conceived and began his poem of " Don 
 Juan ;" and never did pages more faithfully repre- 
 sent every variety of emotion, and whim, and pas- 
 sion, that, like the rack of autumn, swept across the 
 author's mind in writing them. The cool shrewd- 
 ness of age, with the vivacity and glowing tempera- 
 ment of youth — the wit of a Voltaire, with the sen- 
 sibility of a Rousseau — the minute practical know- 
 ledge of a man of society, with the abstract and 
 self-contemplative spirit of a poet — a susceptibiKty 
 of all that is grandest and most aflecting in human 
 virtue, with a deep, withering experience of all th.at 
 is most fatal to it, the two extremes in short, of 
 man's wild and inconsistent nature, such was the 
 strange assemblage of contrary elements all meeting 
 in the same mind, and all brought to bear, in turn 
 upon the same task, from wliieli alone could hav* 
 sprung this extraordinary jjoem, — the most power- 
 ful, and in many respects, the most painful display 
 of the versatiUty of genius that has ever lieen left 
 for succeeding ages to wonder at and deplore. 
 
 It was about the time that a full consciousness of 
 the evils of this course of life broke upon him that 
 an attachment, differing altogether, both in dura- 
 tion and intensity, from any of those that since the 
 dreams of his boyliood had inspired him, gained an 
 influence over his mind whicli lasted through his 
 few remaining years, and undenialily wrong and im- 
 
lU 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 moral, even from an Italian point of view, as was the 
 nature of this connection, we can hardly perhaps — 
 taking into account the far worse wrong from which 
 it rescued him — consider it othern-ise than fortu- 
 nate. 
 
 The fair object of this last love was a young Ro- 
 magnesc lady, the Countess Guiccioli, the daughter 
 of Count Gamba, of Ravenna. Her husliand had 
 in early life been the friend of Alficri, and had dis- 
 tinguished himself in the promotion of a national 
 theatre, in which cause he joined his own wealth to 
 the talents of the poet. Notwithstanding his age, 
 and a character by no means reputable, his opulence 
 made him a prize which all the mothers of Ravenna 
 strove to secure for their daughters, and the young 
 and beautiful Teresa Gamba, just emancipated from 
 a convent and only eighteen, was the selected victim. 
 
 The lirst time that Lord Byron met this lady was 
 at the house of the Countess Albrizzi, in the autumn 
 of 1818. No acquaintance, at this time, ensued be- 
 tween them, and it was not till the following spring 
 that they were introduced to each other. The love 
 tliat sprang up at this interview was instantaneous 
 and mutual. " From that evening," she says, " we met 
 every day as long as I remained at Venice." 
 
 About the middle of April the Countess was 
 obliged to quit Venice with her husband, for Ra- 
 venna. From every place on the road she wrote 
 letters to her lover, expressing in the most passion- 
 ate and pathetic terms her despair at leaving him. 
 So great was her afHietion that it produced a dan- 
 gerous illness, which by the time that she reached 
 the end of her joui'ney had assumed such an alarm- 
 ing aspect that her life was despaired of. The timely 
 arrival of Lord Byron at Ravenna had, however, a 
 most favorable effect ; and she was soon sufficiently 
 recovered to go to Bologna; whither he accompanied 
 her. The state of her health before long, however, 
 obliged her to return to Venice ; her husband being 
 unable to go with her, he consented that Lord By- 
 ron should be the companion of her journey. The 
 air of the city not agreeing with the countess, they 
 shortly afterward took up their residence at a villa 
 on the Brenta. 
 
 This arrangement, as might be expected, hardly 
 pleased the count, her liusliand ; and in the winter 
 he returned to Venice to claim his absent si^ouse. 
 He immediately insisted that his lady should return 
 witli him, and after some negotiations she reluct- 
 antly consented to accompany her lord. 
 
 Lord Byron now turned his thoughts toward Eng- 
 land. For sometime he had contemplated a visit 
 to his native land to attend to his affairs at home, 
 and now he had at last, though unwillingly, resolved 
 upon the journey, and fixed the time for his depar- 
 ture, when the tidings reached him that the count- 
 ess was asrain alarmingly ill at Ravenna. Her sor- 
 
 row at her separation had so preyed upon her mind, 
 that even her own family, and her husband, fearful 
 of the consequences, had withdrawn all opposition 
 to her wishes, and entreated her lover to hasten to 
 her side. Lord Byron, only too glad of any excuse 
 for abandoning his journey, and eager to return to 
 the woman for whom he felt the deepest passion 
 that had, since his boyhood, animated his existence, 
 and who had shown such a devoted attachment to 
 him, more touching amid the coldness .and ingrati- 
 tude that he had lately met with, lost no time in 
 responding to the summons. His presence, as before, 
 revived her sinking health. He now transferred his 
 wandering household to Ravenna, when he fell into 
 his usual routine of daily employments; riding in 
 the pine forest celebrated by Boccaccio in the after- 
 noon, and passing his evenings in the comjjany of 
 his iiiamoriita, or going occasionally into the society 
 of the place. At this time, all connection with his 
 own countr3'men, except by correspondence, had 
 almost entirely ceased. There were no resident 
 EngUsh at Ravenna, and travelers seldom came 
 there, and never stayed long. He was surrounded 
 by a retinue of Italian servants, and the only person 
 that he ever saw who spoke his native tongue, was 
 his valet Fletcher, and he, he says, spoke Notting- 
 hamshire dialect. At that time tlie state of Italy 
 was very much disturbed by the talk of revolutions 
 and secret leagues against the existing foreign gov- 
 ernment. Lord Byron, as it appears from many 
 allusions in his letters, took a warm interest, if not 
 a more active part, in these movements. An event 
 occurred at this time which made a deep imjjression 
 upon his mind, and which he has alluded to in Don 
 Juan. It is best described in his own words : " I 
 open my letter to tell you a fact which will show 
 the state of this country better than I can. The 
 commandant of the troops is now lying dead in my 
 house. He was shot at a little past eiglit o'clock, 
 about two hundred paces from my door. I was 
 putting on my coat to visit Madame la Contcssa 6., 
 when I heard the shot ; on coming into the hall, I 
 found all my servants on the balcony, exclaiming 
 that a man was murdered. I immediately ran 
 down, calling on Tita, the bravest of them, to fol- 
 low me. The rest wanted to hinder us from going, 
 as it is the custom for every one here, as it seems, 
 to run away from ' the stricken deer !" 
 
 " However, down we ran, and found him lying on 
 his back, almost, if not quite, dead, with five wounds, 
 one in the heart, two in the stomach, one in the fin- 
 ger, and the other in the arm. Some soldiers cocked 
 their guns, and wanted to hinder me from passing. 
 However, we passed, and I found Diego, the adju- 
 tant, crying over him like a child — a surgeon, who 
 said nothing of his profession — a priest sobbing a 
 frightened prayer, and the commandant, all this 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 time on bis back, on tlie hard, cold pavement, with- 
 out light or assistance, or anything around him but 
 confusion and dismay. 
 
 "As nobody could, or would, do anything but 
 howl and pray, and as no one would stir a finger to 
 move him, for fear of consequences, I lost my pa- 
 tience — made my servant anv'l a couple of the mob 
 take uj) the body, sent off two soldiers to the guard, 
 dispatched Diego to the cardinal with the news, 
 and had the commandant carried up stairs luto my 
 own quarters. But it was too late, he was gone. 
 Everjbody conjectures why he was killed, but no 
 one knows. 
 
 " He only said, ' O Dio !' and ' Gesu !' tTvo or three 
 times, and appeared to have suffered little. Poor 
 fellow ! He was a brave officer, but had made him- 
 self much disliked by the people. I knew him per- 
 sonally, and had met him often at conrerzazioni and 
 elsewhere. My house is full of soldiers, dragoons, 
 doctors, priests, and all kinds of persona — though I 
 have now cleared it, and clapped sentinels at the 
 doors. To-morrow the body is to be moved. The 
 town is in the greatest confusion, as you may sup- 
 [K)se. 
 
 " You are to know that, if I had not had the body 
 moved, they would have left it there till morning in 
 the street, for fear of consequences. I would not 
 choose to let even a dog die in such a manner, with- 
 out succor ; and as for consequences, I care for none 
 in a duty." 
 
 Before long these agitations excited so much alarm 
 m the hearts of the rulers of Italy, that they issued 
 a sentence of proscription and bauishment against 
 all those whom they supposed had in the remotest 
 degree contributed to them. The two Gambas, the 
 father and brother of the Countess Guiccioli, were, 
 of course, as suspected chiefs of the Carbonari of 
 Romagna, included. About the middle of July, the 
 Countess wrote to inform Lord Byron that her father, 
 in whose palazzo she was now residing, and her 
 brother, had just been ordered to quit IJavenna 
 within twenty-four hours. She herself found a few 
 days after, that she must also join the crowd of ex- 
 iles. Lord Byron himself had become an object of 
 strong suspicion to the government, but not daring 
 to attack him directly, they hoped that by driving 
 his friends away he would be induced to share their 
 banishment. The desired result was obtained, for a 
 short time afterward he joined them at Pisa, in Tus- 
 cany, which place they had agreed upon for the win- 
 ter. In his journey to this place, he met at Bologna, 
 by a previous appointment, the poet Rogers, who 
 has introduced the circumstance in his " Italy." 
 
 Upon his arrival at Ksa, Lord Byron took up his 
 residence in a famous old feudal palazzo on the Arno, 
 the Lanfranchi Palace. Soon after his removal from 
 Ravenna, he received the sad intelligence that his 
 
 1 
 
 natural daughter, Allegra Byron, whom he had left 
 at the convent of Bagna Cavallo for the care of her 
 education, was dead. The blow was a heavy one, 
 but after the first violent burst of grief, he bore up 
 against it with a firmness and composure unusual to 
 his temperament. While he was at Piba, «. serious 
 affray occurred, in which he was personsUy con- 
 cerned. Lord Byron, with some of his friends, was 
 riding near the gates of the city, when a dragoon, 
 whom he mistook for an officer, but who afterward 
 turned out to be only a sergeant-major, called upon 
 the guard to arrest them. Lord Byron and another, 
 an Italian, rode through the guard, without heeding 
 them, but they detained the rest. He then rode 
 home, and sent his secretary to give an account of 
 the affair to the government and procure their re- 
 lease. Upon returning to the spot, he met the same 
 dragoon, and had some words with him, and sup- 
 posing him to be a gentleman, asked him his name 
 and address. As the dragoon was riding away, he 
 was stabbed and dangerously wounded Isy one of 
 Lord Byron's servants, wholly, however, without his 
 direction or approval. The consequence of this ren- 
 contre was, that the two Gambas and Lord Byron's 
 servants were Ijanished from Pisa. He himself was 
 advised to leave it. As the countess went with her 
 father, he a short time after joined them at Leghorn, 
 and spent six weeks at Montenero, in the neighbor- 
 hood. His return to Pisa was occasioned by a new 
 prosecution of the family of the Gambas. They 
 were commanded to leave the Tuscan states in 
 four days. After their departure, the Countess 
 Guiccioli and Lord Byron returned to the Lanfranchi 
 Palace. 
 
 During all this time he had not been idle with 
 his pen. " The Prophecy of Dante," '' Sardana- 
 palus," a tragedy ; '' Heaven and Earth," a myste- 
 ry ; and " Cain," a mystery, were written at Ra- 
 venna. The last production called forth the 
 severest denunciations, for what appeared to be its 
 impiety in questioning the benevolence of Provi- 
 dence. From this the author defended himself on 
 the ground that it was strictly a dramatic work ; 
 that if it was blasphemous, so also must be Milton's 
 " Paradise Lost," with Satan's " Evil, be thou my 
 good." At Pisa he wrote, however, a tragedy, " Thi 
 Deformed Transformed," and continued '• Don Juan ' 
 through the Seventeenth Canto. 
 
 Lord Byron, when in England, had become ac- 
 quainted with Leigh Hunt, the editor of the Ex- 
 aminer. His regard for him had lieen strengthened 
 by the manner in which Mr. Hunt had stood forward 
 in his justification, when public opinion was so 
 strongly opposed to him. This feeling now induced 
 him to invite Mr. Hunt to Pisa, and to give him and 
 his family a suite of apartments in the Lanfranchi 
 Palace. Besides this hospitality, Jlr. Hunt often 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 received jienuniary assistance from Lord Byron, 
 but being always totally unable to rcjiay these bene- 
 fits in any way, he afterwards thought it proper 
 to revenge upon the dead the obligations which he 
 had accepted from the living. Of the book which 
 he wrote it is hardly necessary to speak, from the 
 utter oblinon and conten pt into which it fell. In 
 it the author sought to expose the weaknesse-s and 
 detract from the fame of his patron, but succeeded 
 only in exposing his own vulgarity and petty spite.* 
 On his arrival at Pisa, in the spring of 1822, a 
 monthly magazine was projected, to be pubhshed in 
 London, of which Mr. Hunt was to be the editor, and 
 to which Lord Byron and his friend, the poet Shelley, 
 were to contribute. Three numbers of this period- 
 ical. The Lihra], were published, after which, chiefly 
 in consequence of the death of Shelley, who was 
 drowned in the Gulf of Spezzia bj the upsetting 
 of his yacht in a squall, it was discontinued. Lord 
 Byrou's principal contribution was " The Vision of 
 Judgment," a parody of the Laureate Southey's 
 poem of the same name. 
 
 In consequence of further trouble from the gov- 
 ernment. Lord Byron thought it expedient to leave 
 Pisa, and after balancing in his mind various pro- ! 
 jects — sometimes thinking of Genoa, and some- 
 times of South America — he at length decided, for 
 the present, to transfer his home to Genoa, where 
 he took a valla in Albano, one of the suburbs of the 
 city. During his residence here, he became ac- 
 quainted with Lord and Lady Blcssington, who 
 were at that time making the grand tour. The 
 young Countess of Blessington was at that time in 
 the full height of all her charms, and Lord Byron 
 felt the influence of those attractions which after- 
 wards made her the centre of the brilliant literary 
 circle of Gore House. Upon his suggestion they 
 took a villa at Genoa. In their society he met the 
 celebrated Count D'Orsay, of whose accomplishments 
 he speaks with great warmth in his letters. 
 
 "^e now come to a period in Byron's career when 
 a new start was to be taken by his daring spirit, 
 and a course, glorious as it was brief and fatal, en- 
 tered upon. It may be well, before we go on with 
 our narrative, to take a passing view of some of the 
 chief causes which led him to engage in the strug- 
 gle for Grecian independence. Looking back from 
 the point to whicli we have now arrived, and atten- 
 tively cousideriiig his writings, we cannot fail to ob- 
 serve, through the whole of his past life, amid all his 
 seeming inconsistencies and contradictions, an ad- 
 lierence to tlie original princijiles on the great sub- 
 jects that interested him through life, essentially 
 
 • " Re.uinlecenees of Lord Byron and his Contemporaries," 
 Dy Lei_' I Hunt. See the verses, " The Living Dog and the Dead 
 t.ou," m Sloore'b PoutioiU Worlis. 
 
 unchanged. After the failure of those hopes which 
 he had so sanguinely entertained in the late struggle 
 between Italy and her rulers, it was a relief to him 
 to turn his eyes to Greece, where a spirit was now 
 rising such as he had himself imaged forth in 
 dreams of song. His early travels had left a deep 
 impression on his mind, and whenever his fancy 
 for a roving life returned, he looked with fondness 
 to the regions of the " blue Olympus.'' Since his 
 residence in Italy, this propensity had, in a great 
 degree, subsided. In adilitlon to tlie sedentary 
 eff'ects of his new domestic tie, there had grown 
 upon him a degree of inertness and indisposition to 
 change, which in the instance of his departure from 
 Ravenna was with difficulty surmounted. But now 
 the unsettled state of life into which he was again 
 thrown, revived all his former restlessness and love 
 of adventure, and it is not wond<-rful that Greece, 
 as oftering this in its most exciting form, should 
 kindle in him a desire not only to witness, but per- 
 haps to share in, the triumphs of liberty on the very 
 fields where he had already gathered for immortal- 
 ity such memorials of her former glory. Among the 
 feelings that concurred with this sentiment to de- 
 termine him to this enterprise, the fear that his 
 poetical popularity was declining, was among the 
 strongest. The only difficulty that still remained to 
 retard his resolution was the necessity of a temjiorary 
 separation from Madame Guiccioli, who was herself 
 anxious to participate in his perils, but whom it was 
 impossible, of course, to think of exposing to the 
 chances of a life, even for men, so rude. 
 
 At the beginning of the month of April, Lord 
 BjTon received a visit from Mr. Blaquiere, the agent 
 of the Greek Committee, in England. He had been 
 directed to stop at Genoa and communicate with 
 Lord Byron, as it was thought that he might feel 
 inclined to aid the revolutionists. In this way Lord 
 Byron's active participation in the struggle began, 
 and he found himself, almost before he had time to 
 form a decision, or well knew what he had under- 
 taken, obliged to set out for Greece. AU the pre- 
 parations for his departure were now hastened. He 
 wrote to Mr. Trelawney, who was then at Home, to 
 accompany him. He engaged a young physician, 
 Dr. Bruno, as the surgeon of the expedition, and 
 among other things, he ordered tlireii splendid 
 helmets to be made — with his never-forj^otten crest 
 engraved upon them — for himself and the twc 
 friends that were to accompany him. With the aid 
 of his banker, and Mr. Barry, of Genoa, he was en- 
 abled to raise the large sums of noney necKsary for 
 his supply; 10,000 crowns it ipecie and 40,00C 
 crowns in bills of exchange, being the amount that 
 he took with him. A portion of this was raised 
 ujjon his furniture and books. 
 Notwithstanding the attractions that this voyage 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 XV 
 
 presented to him, and his affection for the land to 
 which he was going — notwithstanding the conscious- 
 ness of liis own moral energies, which made him 
 always say that "' a man ought to do something 
 more for society than write verses," — and, more- 
 over, that he was resolved to return to Italy within 
 a few months — notwithstanding all this, every per- 
 son who was near him at the time, can bear witness 
 to the struggle which his mind underwent at his de- 
 parture. He had also a sort of ominous presenti- 
 ment that he was but fulfilling his own doom in this 
 expedition, and should die in Greece. The evening 
 before Lord and Lady Blessington left Genoa, he 
 called upon them for the purpose of taking leave. 
 He appeared in low spirits, and after talking for 
 some time in a very melancholy strain, he leaned his 
 head upon the arm of the sofa on which they were 
 seated, and bursting into tears, wept for some min- 
 utes in uncontrollable emotion. He had before pre- 
 sented each of the party with some little farewell 
 gift. He gave Lady Blessington a small cameo of 
 Napoleon which he wore. The next day he wrote 
 to her requesting her to return it, as he felt some 
 superstition about parting with it, and- suljstitute a 
 Venetian gold chain, which he sent, in its place. 
 
 All was now ready, and on the 13th day of July 
 he slept on board the Hercules, an English brig, 
 which had been taken to convey him to the East. 
 His suite, at this time, consisted of Count Gamba, 
 Mr. Trelawncy, Dr. Bruno, and eight domestics. 
 About sunrise the next morning they succeeded in 
 clearing the port, but after remaining in sight of 
 Genoa the whole day, they were oliliged, by ad- 
 verse winds, to return. This incident was regarded 
 by Byron as a bad omen, and tended still more to 
 depress his spirits. When, however, they had fairly 
 got to sea on the next day, and he was wholly dis- 
 engaged, a3 it were, from his former existence, the 
 natural power of his spirit shook off this despond- 
 ency, and the light and life of his better nature 
 again shone forth. After a passage of five days 
 they reached Leghorn, where they were to stop to 
 take in a supjjly of powder and other English goods, 
 not to be had elsewhere. On the 24th of July, after 
 a most favorable voyage, they cast anchor at Agostoli, 
 the chief port of Cephalonia. It had been thought 
 prudent that Lord Byron should first direct his 
 course to one of the Ionian islands, from whence, as 
 a post of observation, he should be able to ascertain 
 the exact position of affairs on the mainland. With 
 this view he determined nut to land at Agostoli, but 
 to await on board hia vessel further information from 
 the government of Greece. While awaiting the 
 return of his messengers, he employed his time in a 
 vijit to the neighlioring island of Ithaca. Un- 
 changed since his early travels, he .still preferred 
 the svild channs of nature to the classic associations 
 
 of art and story, although he viewed with much 
 interest those places which tradition had sanctified. 
 The benevolence, which was one of the chief mo- 
 tives of his present course, had opportunities of 
 showing itself, even during his short stay in Ithaca. 
 On hearing that a number of destitute families had 
 fled thither for refuge from Scio, Patras, and other 
 parts of Greece, he sent to the commandant three 
 thousand piastres for their relief Upon Lord By- 
 ron's return to Cephalonia, a messenger brought him 
 a letter from Marco Botzari, one of the chiefs of the 
 insurrection in Western Greece. He hailed his arri- 
 val with enthusiasm, and thanked him for the aid 
 which he had already given to the cause, in arming 
 forty Suliotes, and sending them to assist in the re- 
 lief of Missolonghi, at that time besieged by the 
 Turks. This letter preceded, only by a few hours, 
 the death of the writer. The same night he led his 
 band into the midst of the Turkish camp, and fell 
 at last close to the tent of the Pacha himself. This 
 glorious enterprise checked, but did not prevent the 
 advance of the Turks. After the battle. Lord Byron 
 transmitted bandages and medicines, of which he 
 had a large supply, and also pecuniary assistance to 
 the wounded. 
 
 The state of Greece at this time was such as would 
 discourage any but the most sanguine spirit. The 
 resources and obstinacy of the powerful Turk, oi>- 
 posed to a hardly organized government destitute 
 of unity, and a degenerate people controlled by a 
 multiplicity of leaders, each pursuing his own sel- 
 fish ends, and the doubtful fiivor with which the 
 courts of Europe looked upon the attempts of any 
 nation to be its own emancipator, gave little hope 
 that Greece would ever work out her own hberation, 
 or that anything but a fortuitous combination of 
 political circumstances could ever accomplish it 
 That Lord Byron, on a nearer view, saw the contest 
 in this light, his letters leave no room to doubt. 
 Though he had little hope of signally serving the 
 cause, he thought that he at least might be able to 
 lighten some of the manifold evils that pressed upon 
 it. To infuse some spirit of union among the lead- 
 ers, to convince them of the paralyzing efl'ect of 
 dissensions, and to humanize the feelings of the 
 belligerents on both sides, so as to take from the 
 war that character of barbarism which deterred the 
 more civilized friends of liberty from joining in it 
 as well as to aid it with money, were the objects to 
 which he applied himself and strove to effect by his 
 interference. 
 
 Aware that to judge deliberately of the state 
 of parties he must keep out of their vortex, and 
 warned of the risk he should run by connecting 
 himself with any, he resolved to remain for some- 
 time longer at Cephalonia. During the six weeks 
 that he had been here, he had been Uving iu th« 
 
XVI 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON". 
 
 most comfortless manner, on board the vessel which 
 brought hirr Having made up his mind to prolong 
 his s^ay, he decided upon fixing his residence on 
 short, and he retire'', for the sake of i)riyacy, to a 
 gmall village called X ;taxata, aljout seven miles from 
 Agostoli. 
 
 Before his removal he despatched 3Ir. Trelawney 
 and Mr. Hamilton Browne with a letter to the ex- 
 isting government, explaining his own views and 
 those of the committee whom he represented ; and 
 it was not til! a month after that intelligence from 
 these gentlemen reached him. The picture they 
 gave of the state of the country was confirmatory of 
 what has already been described, — incapacity and 
 Bfcltislmess at the head of affairs, disorganization 
 throughout the body politic, but still with all this, 
 the heart of the nation sound, and bent on resist- 
 ance. His lordship's agents had been received with 
 all due welcome by the government, who were most 
 anxious that he should set out for the Morea with- 
 out delay ; and pressing letters to this purport were 
 sent to him, both from the legislative and executive 
 bodies. 
 
 Here, in his retirement, while awaiting more posi- 
 tive assurances to direct his movements, conflicting 
 caUs were reaching him from all the various scenes 
 of action ; Metaxa, at Missolonghi, entreated him to 
 hasten to the relief of that place, which the Turks 
 were now blockading by sea and land; the head of 
 the military chiefs, C'olcotroni, was no less urgent 
 that he should present himself at the approaching 
 congress of Salamis, where, under the dictation of 
 these rude wariiors, the aflairs of the country were 
 to be settled ; while from another quarter, the great 
 opponent of these chieftains, JIavrocordato, was, with 
 more urgency, as well as more ability than any, en- 
 deavoring to impress upon him his own views, and 
 imploring his presence at Hydra, whither he had 
 been forced to retire. Byron listened with equal at- 
 tention to all these conflicting appeals, and not com- 
 mitting himself to any party, strove in his own way 
 to /liscover the truth, and to form his judgment 
 from it. During all this time he pursued his usual 
 occupations, rising earlier, however, than he was ac- 
 customed to, for the disjjatch of business. Though 
 so much occupied, he was accessible to visitors at 
 all hours, a privilege which appears to have been 
 somewhat abused by the native garrison. The per- 
 son whose visits gave him the most pleasure, as well 
 from the interest he took in the subject of their 
 discussions, as the amusement that he derived from 
 his peculiarities, was a Dr. Kennedy, who from a 
 strong sense of the value of religion to himself had 
 taken up the benevolent task of communicating his 
 own light to others. Lord Byron had long and 
 frequent conferences on religious subjects with this 
 gentleman, ind quite astonished the worthy doctor 
 
 by his intimate knowledge of the Scriptures, ana 
 of the writings of the English divines, in which ha 
 had rather the advantage of his opponent, who seems 
 to have been strong only in faith. In these con- 
 versations Lord Byron expressly disclaimed being an 
 infidel, on the contrary, " desirous to Ix'lieve, as he 
 experienced no happiness in having his religious 
 opinions so imfixed." He was unable, however, " to 
 understand the Scriptures." Those who conscien- 
 tiously believed in them he would always respect, 
 and was more disposed to trust iu them than in 
 others. 
 
 Besides the aid which he had already aflbrded tc 
 the Greeks, in many dift'erent ways. Lord Byron as- 
 sisted the government by the loan of large sums of 
 money, to raise which he sold his manor of Roch- 
 dale, and drew largely upon his income for the en- 
 suing year. 
 
 The Grecian squadron, which had been long ex- 
 pected at Missolonghi, had now arrived, and Mav- 
 rocordato, the only leader worthy of the name of 
 statesman, having been appointed to organize West- 
 em Greece, the time for Lord Byron's presence on 
 the scene of action seemed to have arrived, and he set 
 about preparing for his departure. His friends en- 
 deavored to dissuade him from fixing on such an 
 unhealthy spot as Missolonghi for his residence, but 
 his mind was made up, — the proximity of the port 
 in some degree temiiting him, — and having hired 
 for himself and suite a light, fast-sailing vessel, with 
 a boat for i^art of his baggage, and a larger vessel 
 for the horses, etc., he was on the 26th of December 
 ready to sail. This short voyage was not without its 
 accidents. Several hours before daybreak, while wait- 
 ing for the other party to come up. Lord Byron found 
 himself close under the stem of a large vessel which 
 was soon found to be a Turkish frigate. By good 
 fortune, they were mistaken for a Greek fire- 
 ship by the Turks, who therefore feared to fire, but 
 with loud shouts frequently hailed them. By main- 
 taining perfect silence, and under cover of the dark; 
 ness. Lord Byron's vessel was enabled to get away safe- 
 ly ; and took shelter among the Sci'ofes, a cluster of 
 rocks but a few hours' sail from Missolonghi. Finding 
 his jjosition here untenable in case of an attack, he 
 thought it right to venture out again, and making 
 all sail, got safe to Dragomestina, a small sea-port 
 town on the coast of Acamania. The other boat, 
 with Count Gamba on board, was not so fortunate, 
 having been brought to by the Turkish frigate and 
 carried into Patras, where the commander of the 
 squadron was stationed. Here after an interview 
 with the Pacha, by whom he was treated most court- 
 eously, during his detention he had the good for- 
 tune to procure the release of his vessel and freight 
 and on the 4th of January he arrived at Missolonghi, 
 where, on the next day, he was joined jy Lord By 
 
LIFE OF LORD BTRON. 
 
 roTi, wl.o was received by the garrison and the in- 
 habitants -with the greatest demonstrations of enthu- 
 siasm. The ivhole population of the place crowded 
 to the shore to welcome him ; the ships anchored 
 off the fortress fired a salute as he passed, and all 
 the troops and dignitaries of the place, with Prince 
 Mavrocordato at their head, met him on his land- 
 ing, and accompanied him, amid the mingled din 
 of shouts, wild music, and discliarges of artillery, 
 to the house that had been prepared for him. 
 
 After a week of such fatigue as Lord Byron had 
 undergone, some repose might fairly have been ex- 
 pected by him. But the scene on which he entered 
 was one that precluded all hope of rest. There was 
 collected together, within the narrow precincts of 
 that town, every imaginable element of unquiet and 
 misrule. In every quarter, dissatisfaction and dis- 
 organization presented themselves. Half of the brigs 
 of war which had come to the relief of Jlissolonghi, 
 had returned to Hydra, in desijair of being paid. 
 The sailors of the remaining vessels had quitted 
 their ships, and were remaining idly on shore. The 
 inhabitants, seeing themselves thus deserted, with a 
 famine threatening them and the Turkish fleet be- 
 fore their eyes, were ready for riot and revolt, and 
 to complete the confusion a general assembly was 
 to be held in tJie town, and the wild chiefs of the 
 mountains, ripe for dissension, with all their follow- 
 ers were now thronging to it. Ill provided with 
 pay or food tuis military mob were no less discon- 
 tented than the sailors, and in every direction the en- 
 tire population presented a mass of insubordination, 
 and discord more likely to produce warfare among 
 themselves than with the enemy. Such was the state 
 of aflairs that Lord Byron encountered, with the ad- 
 ditional weight of the consciousness that all looked to 
 him to set them right. He lost no time in beginning 
 his attempts at reform, and in trying to reduce this 
 chaos to something like order. His first act was to 
 pay the fleet. He next organized a regiment of five 
 hundred Suliotes, with himself as their chief. Hav- 
 ing learned that there were a few Turkish soldiers 
 in confinement at Slissolonghi, he obtained their re- 
 lease from the government, and sent them to Yussuf 
 Pacha, with a letter, thanking him for his courtesy 
 to Count Gamba. 
 
 An expedition against Lepanto. a fortified town 
 on the Gulf of Corinth, was now proposed, and the 
 command was given to Lord Byron, who entered 
 into the project with great enthusiasm. The delay 
 of Parry, the engineer, who was expected with sup- 
 plies necessary for the formation of a brigade of ar- 
 tillery, for some time checked this important enter- 
 prise, and a still more formidable embarrassment 
 presented itself in the turbulence and insubordina- 
 tion of the Suliote troops, on whose ser\-iccs it de- 
 pended. Presuming upon the generosity of Lord 
 
 Byron and their own military importance, they 
 never ceased to rise in the extravagance of theii 
 demands. They pleaded the utterly destitute and 
 homeless state of their families, whom they had 
 been compelled to bring with them, as a pretext 
 for their exaction and discontent. A serious riot, 
 which occurred between the Suliotes and the people 
 and in which several lives were lost, also added mucl. 
 to the anxiety of Lord Byron, who deeply felt the dis- 
 appointment which the ill success of his endeavors 
 had caused Mm. Kotwithstanding all this, how- 
 ever, neither his eagerness nor his efforts for the ac- 
 complishment of this sole personal object of his am- 
 bition, were relaxed an instant. To whatever little 
 glory was to be won by the attack on Lepanto, he 
 looked forward as the only reward for all the sacri- 
 fice that he was making. Such an achievement as 
 the storming of the fortress he aspired to, not only 
 as the sole means of redeeming worthily the pledge 
 he had given, but as the most lasting and signal 
 seiwice that a name like his — echoed as it would 
 then be, among the watch-words of liberty from age 
 to age — could bequeath to her cause. 
 
 Towards the middle of February, the indefatigable 
 activity of Mr. Parry having brought the artillery 
 brigade into such a state of forwardness as to be 
 almost ready for service, an inspection of the Suliote 
 corps look place preparatory to the expedition ; and 
 after much of the usual deception and unmanage 
 bleness on their part, every obstacle appeared to be 
 at length surmounted. It was agreed that they 
 should receive a month's pay in advance ; — Count 
 Gamba, with three hundred of their corps, as a van- 
 guard, was to march next day and take up a posi- 
 tion under Lepanto, and Lord Byron with the main 
 body and the artiUery was speedily to follow. New 
 difiiculties. however, were soon started by these in- 
 tractable mercenaries ; and at the instigation, as 
 it afterwards appeared, of Colcotroni, the great rival 
 of Mavrocordato, they put forward their exactions 
 in a new shape, by requiring the government to ap- 
 point generals, colonels, captains, and inferior offi- 
 cers out of their own ranks, to the extent that there 
 should be out of three or four hundred Suliotes, one 
 hundred and fifty above the rank of private. This 
 audacious dishonesty roused the anger of Lord By- 
 ron, and he at once signified to the whole body that 
 aU negotiation with them was at an end ; that he 
 could no longer have confidence in persons so little 
 true to their engagements ; and, although he should 
 still keep up the relief which he had given to their 
 families, all his agreements with them were thence- 
 forward void. 
 
 It was on the 14th of February that this rupture 
 with the Suliotes took place ; and though on the 
 following day, in consequence of the full submission 
 of their chiefs, they were again received into his 
 
IVIU 
 
 LIFE OF L0KJ3 BYRON. 
 
 service on his own terms, the whole affair, com- 
 bined with tlie other difficulties that beset him, agi- 
 tated his mind considerably. He saw with pain 
 that he should imperil the cause of Greece and his 
 own character, by relying on troops that any intrig- 
 uer might seduce from their duty in the moment of 
 danger ; and that, till some regular force should be 
 organized, the expedition against Lepanto must be 
 suspended. 
 
 While these vexatious events were occurring, the 
 interruptions of his accustomed exercise by the rains 
 increased the irritability that these delays excited ; 
 and the whole together, no doubt, concurred with 
 whatever predisposing tendencies were already in 
 his constitution to bring on that convulsive tit — 
 the forerunner of his death, — which, on the evening 
 of the 15th of February, seized him. He was sit- 
 ting, at about eight o'clock, with only Mr. Parry and 
 Mr. Hesketh, in the apartment of Colonel Stanhope, 
 talking jestingly upon one of his favorite topics, the 
 difference between himself and this latter gentleman, 
 and saying that "he believed, after all, the author's 
 brigade would be ready before the soldier's print- 
 ing-press." There was an unusual iiush on his face, 
 and from the rapid changes of his countenance it 
 was manifest that he was suffering under some nerv- 
 ous agitation. He then complained of being thirsty, 
 and calling for some cider, drank it ; upon which, 
 a still greater change being observaijle over his fea- 
 tures, he rose from his seat, but was unable to walk, 
 and, after staggering forward a step or two, fell into 
 Mr. Parry's arms. In another minute his teeth were 
 closed, his speech and senses gone, and he was in 
 strong convulsions. So violent, indeed, were his 
 struggles, that it required all the strength both of 
 Mr. Parrj' and his servant Tita, to hold him during 
 the fit. His face, too, was much distorted, and, as 
 he told Count Gamba afterward, " So intense were 
 his sufferings during the convulsion, that had it 
 lasted but a minute longer, he believed he must 
 have died." The fit was, however, as short as it 
 w&a violent ; in a few minutes his speech and senses 
 returned ; his features, though still pale and hag- 
 gard, resumed their natural shape, and no effect 
 remained from the attack l)ut excessive weakness. 
 " As soon as he could speak," says Count Gamba, 
 " he showed himself perfectly free from all alarm, 
 but he very coolly asked whether his attack was 
 likely to prove fatal ' Let me know,' he said ; ' do 
 not think I am afraid to die — ^I am not.' " 
 
 The next morning he was found to be better, but 
 still pale and weak, and he complained much of a 
 sensation of weight in his head. Leeches were 
 tlierefofe applied to his temples, but on their re- 
 moval it was some time before they could stop the 
 blood, which flowed so copiously that he fainted 
 fiom exhaustion. Whila he was thus lying pros- 
 
 trate upon his bed, a party of mutinous Suliotca 
 rushed into the room, covered with dirt and splen- 
 did attire, brandishing their wild arms, and wildly 
 insisting upon compUance with their demands. 
 Lord Byron, electrified by this unexpected act, 
 seemed to recover from his sickness, and the more 
 they raged the more his calm courage returaed. His 
 health now slowly improved, and his strength in- 
 creased so that in a few days he was enabled to take 
 bis daily rides in the neighborhood. 
 
 The insubordination of the Suliotes continued to 
 grow more uncontrollable. A short time after the out- 
 break just spoken of, a quarrel arose between them 
 and the Frank guard, in which a Swedish officer 
 was killed, and a general fight appeared imminent. 
 It now became absolutely necessai-y, for the safety of 
 the European population, to get rid of them alto- 
 gether ; and by some sacrifices on the part of Lord 
 Byron, this object was at length effected. The ad- 
 vance of a month's pay by him, and the discharge 
 of their arrears by the government (the latter, too, 
 with money lent by the same universal paymaster), 
 at length induced them to quit the town, and with 
 them vanished all hopes of the exijcdition against 
 Lepanto. 
 
 Compelled to abandon his favorite project. Lord 
 Byron contented himself with strengthening the for- 
 tifications of Missolonghi, and forming a brigade, 
 with a view to other operations in the next cam- 
 paign. From the period of his attack in April ha 
 was never in as good health as before, being trou- 
 bled with frequent vertigo, shivering and tremor, 
 which, though proceeding apparently from excessive 
 debility, he attributed to an excessive fullness of 
 habit. Proceeding upon this notion, he lived upon 
 a most abstemious diet, eating very little animal 
 food, and confining himself to dry toast, vegetables 
 and cheese. Every day brought new trials. The 
 constant rains had rendered the swamps of Misso- 
 longhi impassable, and an alarm of plague aided to 
 keep him within doors, so that he was almost en- 
 tirely deprived of his customary exercise. His mind, 
 too, was harassed by constant anxiety. The demands 
 upon his pecuniary resources every day increased, 
 and the embarrassments of his public position, in 
 connection with the rival chiefs, grew all the time 
 more compUcated. 
 
 On the 9th of .Vpril, Lord Byron went out on 
 horseback with Count Gamba. About three miles 
 from Missolonghi they were overtaken by a heavy 
 shower, and returned to the walls wet through, and 
 in a state of violent perspiration. It had been their 
 usual practice to dismount at the walls, and return 
 to tlieir house in a boat ; but on this day. Count 
 Gamba, representing to Lord Byron how dangerous 
 it would be, warm as he then was, to sit exposed so 
 long to the rain in a boat, entreated him to go back 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 the whole way on horseback. To this Lord Byron 
 would not consent, and they accordingly returned 
 as usual. 
 
 About two hours after his return home he was 
 seized with a shuddering, and complained of a fever 
 and rheumatic pains. " At eight this evening," says 
 Count Gamba, " I entered his room. He was lying 
 on a sofa, restless and melancholy. He said to me, 
 ' I suffer a great deal of pain. I do not care for 
 death, but these agonies I cannot bear.' " 
 
 The following day he rose at his accustomed hour, 
 transacted business, and was even able to take his 
 ride in the olive woods. He complained, however, 
 of perpetual shudderings, and had no appetite. 
 
 On the evening of the 11th, his fever, which was 
 pronounced to be rheumatic, increased ; and on the 
 12th he kept his bed all day. The two following 
 days, although the fever apjiarently diminished, he 
 became still more weak, and suffered much from 
 pains in his head. 
 
 It was not till the 14tli tliat his physician. Dr. 
 Bruno, finding his sudorifics of little avail, began to 
 urpie upon Lord Byron the necessity of being bled. 
 Of this, bowever, his patient would not hear. He 
 had evidently but little reliance on his medical at- 
 tendant, and from the specimens of his intellect that 
 this young man subsequently gave to the world, it 
 is lamentable that a valuable life should have been 
 entrusted to such ordinary hands. To the faithful 
 Fletcher, the idea of his master's life being in dan- 
 ger seems to have occurred some days before it 
 struck either Count Gamba or the physician. So 
 little, according to his friend's narrative, had the 
 suspicion crosseci Lord Byron's own mind, that he 
 even expressed himself "rather ghid of his fever, as 
 it might cure hini of his tendency to epilepsy." To 
 Fletcher, however, it appears he had professed, more 
 than once, strong doubts as to the nature of his 
 complaint being so slight as the physician seemed 
 to suppose it ; and on his servant renewing his en- 
 treaties to send for Dr. Thomas to Zante, made no 
 further opposition ; though still, out of considera- 
 tion for these gentlemen, he referred him to Dr. 
 Bruno and Mr. Jlillingen. Wliatever might have 
 been the advantage or satisfaction of this step, it 
 was now rendered wholly impossible by the weather, 
 such a hurricane blowing into the port that not a 
 ship could get out. The rain, too, descended in 
 torrents, and between the floods on the land side, 
 and the sirocco from the sea, Missolonghi was, for 
 the time, a pestilential prison. 
 
 Mr. Millingen was now called in to visit Lord 
 Byron in his professional capacity. It would seem 
 that his assistance was requested chiefly that he 
 might join with Fletcher and Dr. Bruno in prevail- 
 ing upon his patient to suffer himself to be bled, 
 which was now considered absolutely necessary from 
 
 the increase of his fever. Notwithstanding all tht 
 arguments and reasoning of the doctor. Lord Byron 
 would not yet consent. Of all his prejudices he 
 declared the strongest was that iigainst bleeding. 
 His mother had on her deathbed obtained a promise 
 from him that he would never consent to being bled. 
 " Besides, is it not," he asked, " asserted by Dr. 
 Reid in his essays, that less slaughter is done by the 
 lance than by the lancet ? — that minute instrument of 
 mighty mischief" After much reasoning and re- 
 peated entreaties, Jlr. Millingen at length succeeded 
 in getting a promise from him, that should he feel 
 his fever increase during the night, he would let Dr. 
 Bruno bleed him. 
 
 During this day he transacted business and re- 
 ceived several letters. In the evening he conversed 
 a good deal with Parry, who sat by his beside, talk- 
 ing very calmly of his family and affairs, his inten- 
 tions as to Greece, and what he should ultimately 
 do for that country. He spoke of death with great 
 composure, and, though he did not believe his end 
 was near, he appeared more resigned and composed 
 than his friend had ever before seen him. On re- 
 visiting his patient early the next morning, Mr. Mil- 
 lingen learned from him that having passed on the 
 whole, rather a better night, he had not thought it 
 necessary to ask Dr. Bruno to bleed him. Mr. Mil- 
 Ungen now thought it his duty to put away all consid- 
 erations of his feelings, and to represent to him in 
 the plainest language that he was trifling with his 
 life, and that he had lost precious time in not sub- 
 mitting to the operation before, and that if he was 
 not bled immediately he could not answer for the 
 consequences. It was true he did not care for life, 
 but the uncontrolled disease, if it went on, might 
 perhaps destroy his reason forever. He had here 
 hit upon the sensitive chord of Byi-on's nature, who, 
 casting at them a savage glance of vexation, held 
 out his arm. Seizing the moment, they drew twenty 
 oimces of blood, but the relief did not at all corre- 
 spond to the hopes they had formed, and during the 
 night his fever became stronger than it had been 
 hitherto. The following morning, the 17th, the 
 bleeding was repeated ; for, although the rheumatic 
 pains had been removed, the appearances of inflam- 
 mation of the brain were now hourly increasing. 
 
 It is painful to dwell on the details, but we ars 
 now approaching the close. In addition to most of 
 those sad varieties of wretchedness which inevita- 
 bly surround all deathbeds, there was also in the 
 scene now passing around the dying B}Ton such a 
 degree of confusion and discomfort as renders it 
 doulily dreary to contemplate. There having been 
 no person since his Dlness invested with authority 
 over the household, neither order nor quiet was 
 maintained in his apartment. Most of the comforts 
 necessary to such an illness were wanting ; and those 
 
sy 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 around liim, unprepared for the danger, were either, 
 like Bruno, bewildered by it, or like the kind-hearted 
 Fletcher and Gamba, rendered no less helpless by 
 their feelings. The attendants emulated each other 
 in their eagerness to be of service, but as almost 
 every one spoke a difierent language, their zeal only 
 added to the confusion. 
 
 The next day was Easter, a holyday which the 
 Greeks celebrate by firing off muskets and artillery, 
 and as it was apprehended that the noise might be 
 injurious to Lord Byron, and as a means of drawing 
 away the crowd from the neighborhood, the artil- 
 lery brigade was marched out to exercise their guns 
 at some distance from the town, and, at the same 
 time, the town-guard patrolling the street, informed 
 the people of the danger of their benefactor, and 
 entreated them to preserve all possible quiet. 
 
 About three o'clock in the afternoon, Lord Byron 
 rose and went into the adjoining room. He was 
 able to walk across the chamber, leaning on his ser- 
 vant Tita ; and when seated asked for a book, which 
 was brought to liim. After reading, however, for a 
 few minuti'S, he found himself faint; and again tak- 
 ing Tita's arm, tottered into the next room and re- 
 turned to bed. 
 
 At this time, the physicians becoming alarmed, 
 held a consultation, and called in to assist them 
 Dr. Freiber and Luca Vaya, a native physician. It 
 was after this consultation, as it aj^pears, that Lord 
 Byron first became aware of his ajiproaching end. 
 Mr. Millingen, Fletcher and Tita were standing 
 around his bed ; but the two first, unable to restrain 
 their tears, left the room. Tita also wept, but as 
 Byron held his hand, he could not retire. He, how- 
 ever, turned away his face ; while Byron, looking at 
 him steadily, said, half smiling : " Oh, questa e una 
 bella sccna !'' He then seemed to reflect a moment, 
 and exclaimed, " Call Parry." Almost immediately 
 afterward a fit of delirium ensued, and he began to 
 talk wildly, as if he were mounting a breech at an 
 assault, calling out half in English, half in Italian, 
 *' Forward, forward — courage — follow," etc. 
 
 On coming again to himself, he asked Fletcher 
 whether he had sent for Dr. Thomas as he desired. 
 On being told that he had, he expressed his satis- 
 faction. It was now evident that he knew he was 
 dying ; and between his anxiety to make his ser- 
 vant understand his last wishes, and the rapid fail- 
 ure of his powers of utterance, a most painful scene 
 ensued. On Fletcher offering to bring pen ^jnd pa- 
 per to take down his words — " Oh, no," he replied, 
 " there is no time, it is now nearly over. Go to my 
 sister — tell her — go to Lady Byron — you will see 
 
 her, and say " Here his voice faltered, and 
 
 gradually became indistinct, so that only a few words 
 sould be heard. 
 
 The decision adopted by the consuJtat'ii had 
 
 been, contrary to the opinion of Mr. Millingen and 
 Dr. Freiber, to administer to the patien' a strong 
 anti-spasmodic potion, which, while it produced 
 sleep, jjossibly hastened his death. After takin<jr 
 some of this, he fell into a slumber. In about hall 
 an hour he again woke, when a second dose waf 
 given to him. His speech now became very indis- 
 tinct, though he still kept on muttering to himself 
 so incoherently that nothing could be understood. 
 About six o'clock on the evening of this day, he said 
 " Now I shall go to sleep ;" and then turning roimd 
 fell into that slumber from which he never woke. 
 For the next twenty-four hours he lay incaixible of 
 either sense or motion — with the exception of, now 
 and then, slight symptoms of suffocation, during 
 which his servant raised his head — and at a quar- 
 ter past sis o'clock on the following day, the 19th. 
 he was seen to open his eyes, and immediately shut 
 them again. The physicians felt his pulse — he was 
 no more ! 
 
 To attempt to describe how this sad event struck 
 on all hearts would be superHuous. He, whom the 
 world was to mourn, had on the tears of Greece a 
 peculiar claim, — as it was at her feet he had now laid 
 down the harvest of such a life of fame. To the people 
 of Missoloughi the event seemed incredible. It was 
 but the other day he had come among them, radi- 
 ant with renown, — insj^iring faith, by his very name 
 in the miracles of success he was about to achieve 
 All this had now vanished like a short dream ; nO' 
 can we wonder that the poor Greeks, to whom hit 
 coming had been sucli a glory, and who, on the last 
 evening of his life were thronging around his house, 
 eagerly asking about his state, should regard the 
 thunder-storm which broke over the town at the 
 moment of his death, as the signal of his doom, and 
 cry to each other in their superstitious grief, " The 
 great man is gone !" 
 
 Prince Mavrocordato immediately issued a procla- 
 mation directing that tliirty-seven minute guns, the 
 number for the age of the deceased, should be fired 
 the tiext morning at daylight, that the public oflSces 
 should 1)0 closed for three days, and all business sus- 
 pended during that time, and that a general mourn- 
 ing should be observed for twenty-one days. Simi- 
 lar honors were paid to his memory at many other 
 places in Greece. 
 
 In speaking of the effect produced on the war, 
 Mr. Trelawney says, " I think Byron's name was the 
 great means of getting the loan." A Mr. Marshall, 
 with £8,000 per annum, was on his way as far as Corfu, 
 and turned back on hearing of Lord Bwon's death. 
 Thousands were flocking to Missoloughi ; some 
 had aiTived as far as Corfu, and hearing of his death, 
 confessed they came to devote their fortunes, not to 
 the Greeks, or from any interest in their cause, but 
 to the poet, and he being gone, they turned back- 
 
LIFE OF LORD BTEON. 
 
 xxi 
 
 The funeral ceremony took place in the church of 
 Saint Nicholas, at Jlissolonghi, on the 22d of April. 
 His remains were borne to the church on the should- 
 ers of the officers of his corps, in the midst of his 
 own brisade, with almost the whole population fol- 
 lowing. The coffin was a rude, ill-constructed chest 
 of wood : a lilack mantle served for a pall ; and on 
 it were placed a helmet and a sword, with a crown of 
 .aurel. After the funeral service was read, the bier 
 was left in the church until the next day, that all 
 might view for the last time, the features of their 
 benefactor. 
 
 The first step taken, before any decision as to its 
 ultimate disposal, was to have the body conveyed 
 to Zante, and on the morning of the 2d of May, the 
 remains were embarked, under a mournful salute 
 from the guns of the fortress. "How different," 
 says Count Gamba, "from that which had wel- 
 comed the arrival of Byron only fo\ir months 
 before !" 
 
 At Zante it was determined to send the body to 
 England. Lord Byron had, when in Italy, expressed 
 very decidedly his repugnance to the idea of his re- 
 mains resting in English ground ; and the injunc- 
 tions he so frequently gave to his friends, show his 
 wishes to have been, at that time, sincere. But dur- 
 ing his residence at Pisa, and particularly since he 
 Lad come to Greece, he had shown a more cordial 
 feeling toward his covmtrymen, which gave hopes, 
 that with his ever changing impulses, his antipathy 
 to England as a last resting-place might have been 
 overcome. The corpse was accordingly placed on 
 board of the Florida, an English brig which had 
 just arrived from the committee with an installment 
 of the loan, in charge of Colonel Stanhope, and ar- 
 rived in the Downs on June 29th. 
 
 It is said, that upon the suggestion being made 
 that Lord Byron should be buried in Westminster 
 Abbey, such an answer was returned by the authori- 
 ties who had the disj^osal of these honors, as left no 
 doubt but that a direct refusal would be the result 
 of a regular application. However this might be, 
 it was the wish of his dearest relative to have his 
 remains laid in the family vault at Hucknall, near 
 Newstead. On being removed from the Florida, the 
 body had, under the direction of his lordship's ex- 
 ecutors, Mr. Hobhouse and Mr. Hanson, been re- 
 moved to the house of Sir Edward Knatchbull in 
 Great George Street, where it lay in state during 
 Friday and Saturday, the 9th and 10th of .July, and 
 on the following Monday the funeral procession took 
 place. Leaving Westminster at eleven o'clock in the 
 morning, attended by a large number of the per- 
 sonal friends of the departed, and the carriages of 
 several persons of rank, it proceeded through vari- 
 ous streets to Pancras Church, in the suburbs of 
 liondon, where, the ceremonial being at an end, the 
 
 carriages returned, and the hearse continued its way, 
 by slow stages, to Nottingham. 
 
 It was on Friday, the 16th of July, that, in the 
 small village church of Hucknall, the last duties 
 were paid to the remains of Byron, by depositing 
 them close to those of his mother, in the family 
 vault. Cn a tablet of white marble in the chancel 
 is thi' inscription : — 
 
 IH THE VAtTLT BENEATH, 
 WHERE MANY OF HIS ANCESTORS AND HIS MOTUEB 
 ARE BITRIED, 
 LIE THE REMAINS OP 
 GEORGE GORDON NOEL BYRON, 
 LORD BTROS, OP R0CIID.\LE, 
 IN THE COUNTY OF LANCASTER, 
 THE AUTHOR OP " CHILDE HAROLD's Pn.GRIMAGE." 
 HE WAS BORN IN LONDON, ON THE 
 22d OP JANUARY, 1788, 
 HE DIED AT MISSOLONGHI, IN WESTERN GREECE, 
 ON THE 19th OP APRIL, 1824. 
 ENGAGED IN THE GLORIOUS ATTEMPT TO 
 RESTORE THAT COUNTRY TO HER ANCIENT FREE- 
 DOM AND RENOWN. 
 
 HIS SISTER, THE HONORABLE 
 
 AUGUSTA MARIA LEIGH, 
 
 PLACED THIS TABLET TO HIS MEMORY. 
 
 We have now followed to its close a life whicn, 
 brief as was its span, may be said, perhaps, to have 
 comprised within itself a greater variety of those 
 excitements and interests which spring out of the 
 deep workings of passion and of intellect, than any 
 that the pen of biography has ever before commem- 
 orated. 
 
 To give a clear idea of the character of Lord By- 
 ron is a difficult task. In considering the characters 
 of most celebrated men, we find some strong central 
 point, some fixed governing purpose, to which aU 
 their actions may be referred, and the motives traced, 
 and from which all their impulses and tendencies 
 of their mind seem to radiate. In Byron this influ- 
 ence was wholly absent. He was controlled entirely 
 by the impulse of the moment, and accordingly, at 
 different times, we find him acting on princiijles that 
 we should supi^ose to be entirely contradictory to his 
 usual disposition, as for instance, his short attack 
 of parsimony in Italy, which was directly opposed 
 to his former extravagance. So various and con- 
 flicting were his attributes, both moral and intellect- 
 ual, that they seem to belong, not to one character 
 but to many. It was this multiform aspect that led 
 the world to compare hiui to a medley host of per 
 sonages, all differing from each other. He tells us, 
 in his journal, that in the course of nine years, he 
 had been likened to Rousseau, Goethe, Young, Are- 
 
XSIU 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 tine, Timon of Athens, Dante, Petrarch, Satan, Shak- 
 Bpere, Buonaparte, Tiberius, Sophocles, Harlequin, 
 Sternhold and Hopkins, and a host of others. It 
 will appear, too, on reflection, that this very versa- 
 tility which renders it so diflicnlt to fix "ere it 
 change " the fairy fabric of his character, is, in itself, 
 a true clue through all that fabric's mazes, — is in 
 itself the solution of whatever was most dazzling in 
 his might or startling in his levity, of all that most 
 attracted or repelled whether in his life or his ge- 
 nius. A variety of powers almost boundless, and a 
 pride no less vast in displacing them, — a suscepti- 
 bility of new impressions and impulses, even beyond 
 the usual allotment of genius, and an uncontrolled 
 impetuosity, as well from habit as from tempera- 
 ment, in j-ielding to them ; such were the two great 
 and leading sources of all that varied spectacle 
 which his life exhibited ; of that succession of vic- 
 tories achieved by his genius, in almost every field 
 of mind that genius ever trod, and of all those sal- 
 lies of character in every shape and direction that 
 unchecked feeling and dominant self-will could 
 dictate. 
 
 It was impossible but that such a range of will 
 and power should be abused. It was impossible 
 that, among the spirits that he invoked from all 
 quarters, those of darkness should not appear, at his 
 bidding, with those of light. And here the dangers 
 of an energy so multiplied, and thus luxuriating in 
 its own transformations, show themselves. To this 
 
 one object of displaying power, — various, splendiu 
 and all-adoming power, — every other consideration 
 and duty were but too likely to be sacrificed. Could 
 it have been expected that from such a career no mis- 
 chief would ensue, or that among these crosslights 
 of imagination, the moral vision could have remained 
 undisturbed ? Is it to be wondered at. that in the 
 works of one thus gifted and carried away, wa 
 should find a false splendor given to vice, to make 
 it look like virtue, and evil too often invested with a 
 grandeur which belongs intrinsically but to good. 
 
 Of the personal character of Lord Byron, it may 
 fairly be said that it was not worse than that of any 
 one of the majority of men of his rank in England, 
 and that while 'his vices were almost universal in 
 his own day, he constantly displayed nobler traits 
 of character, and higher aspirations, which entitled 
 him to be considered morally far above the Alvan- 
 leys and Brummels, and the other debauchees of 
 the Regency among whom his youth was spent. 
 
 It is unnecessary here to speak of the merits of 
 Lord Byr.on's poetry. It is enough to say that no 
 later critics have reversed the judgments of his con- 
 temporaries, and at the present day, when nearly all 
 the sentimental interest in the author which lent 
 such an attraction to his poems on their first ap- 
 pearance has faded away, and that school of poetry 
 which he liimself opposed with all his powers of 
 ridicule has gained the ascendancy, his works are 
 still read and retain their popularity. 
 
CHRONOLOGY OF LORD BYROFS LIFE AND WORKS. 
 
 1788. 
 «an 22. Bom, in Holles-etreet, London. 
 
 1790— (^etat. 2.) 
 Taken by his mother to Aberdeen. 
 
 1798— (10.) 
 
 May 19. SucccedB to the family title. 
 Made a ward of chancery. 
 Removed from Aberdeen to Newstead Abbey. 
 Placed under the care of an empiric at Nottingham for 
 the cure of his lameness. 
 
 1799— (11.) 
 Removed to London, and placed under the care of Dr. 
 
 Baillie. 
 Becomes the pupil of Dr. Glennie at Dolwich. 
 
 1800— (13.) 
 Ib sent to Harrow School. 
 
 1803— (15.) 
 Passes the vacjition at Nottingham and Annesley. — 
 And forms an attachment to Miss Chaworth. 
 
 1805— (17.) 
 Leaves Harrow for Trinity College, Cambridge. 
 
 1806— (18.) 
 Prepares a collection of his Poems for the press. 
 Prints a volume of his Poems ; but, at the entreaty of 
 a friend, destroys the edition. 
 
 Oct. 
 
 Jan. 
 Nov. 
 
 March. 
 Oct. 
 
 Jan. 
 Aug. 
 Sept. 
 
 Jan. 23. 
 Uarcb 1.3. 
 IG. 
 May. 
 
 Jtme 11. 
 
 " 30. 
 
 1807 -(19.) 
 * Hours of Idleness." 
 
 See Fac Similes, 
 
 July 
 
 Ang. C. 
 BepL 1. 
 
 act. 1 
 
 Publishes 
 
 No. I. 
 Begins an epic, to be entitled " Bosworth Field."— And 
 
 writes part of a novel. 
 
 1808— (20.) 
 I Passes his time between the diseipations of Cambridge 
 f and London. 
 Takes up his residence at Newstead.— Forme the de- 
 sign of visiting India. —Ensa;_'ed in preparing "Eng- 
 lish Bards and Scotch Reviewers " for the press. 
 
 1809— (31.) 
 
 Hi? coming of age celebrated at Newstead. 
 
 Takes his seat iii the Hou^■e of Lords. 
 
 Publishes " English Bards and :?cotch Reviewers." 
 
 Engaged in preparing a becond edition of " English 
 Bards " for the press. 
 
 Leaves London on his travels, accompanied by Mr. 
 Hobhouse. 
 
 Writeh, on board the Lisbon packet, " Huzza I Hodg- 
 son, we are goin^ I" 
 
 Sails from Falmouth. 
 
 Lands at Lisbon.— 17. Leaves Lisbon for Seville and 
 Cadiz. 
 
 Arrives at Gibraltar.— 19. Takes his departure for Malta. 
 Lands at JIalta.— 14. Writes, "As o'er the cold sepnl- 
 chral stone." — "Oh, Lady I when I left the shore." 
 —'•ZX. Leaves Malta.— 2!). Lands at Prevesa. 
 Proceeds to Solara, Arta, and Joanniui.— 9. Leaves 
 Joannini for Zitza.— Composes, during a thunder- 
 storm. " C'hill and mirk is the nightly blast." — 
 11. Reaches Tepaleen.~12. Is introduced to All 
 Pacha.— 2fi. Returns to Joannini.— 31. Begins the 
 fiTHt canto of " fhilde Harold." 
 
 (xxiii) 
 
 3. Proceeds by sea to Prevesa.— 10. Driven on the coasi 
 of Suli. — 12. Writes, in passing the Ambracian gulf, 
 " Through cloudless skies, in Fiivery sheen. ' — 
 13. Sails''do^vn the gulf of Arta. — 14. Reaches Utrai- 
 key.— 15. Traverses Acarnania.- 21. Reaches Misso- 
 longhi.- And, 25. Patras. 
 
 4. Leaves Patras.— 14. Passes across the ^nlf of Lepanto. 
 — Hj. Visits Mount Parnassus. Castn, and Delphi.— 
 23. Thebes.— 25. Arrives at Athens. 
 
 1810— (£Ptat. 23.) 
 
 I Spends ten weeks in visiting the monuments of Athens, 
 makin^occasional excursions to several parts of At- 
 tica. — Writes, "The spell is broke, the charm ia 
 flown !"— " Lines in the Travelers' Book at Orcho- 
 menus."— And " Maid of Athens, ere we part." 
 March 6. Leaves Athens for Smyrna.- 7. Visits the ruins of 
 Ephesus. — 28. Concludes, at Smyrna, the second 
 canto of "Cliilde Harold." 
 April 11. Leaves Smyrna for Constantinople.- Visits the Troad, 
 9. Writes, ''Lines after swimming from Sestos toAby- 
 dos."- 14. Arrives at Conslaulinople. 
 Makes an Excursion Ihroueh the Bosphorus to the 
 Black Sea and Cypnean Sj-inplegades. 
 14. Departs from (_'onstanLinople.— 19. Reaches Athens,— 
 visits Corinth. 
 
 (Makes a tour of the Morea, and visits Velay Pacha.— 
 f Returns to Aihens. 
 
 Jan. 
 Feb. 
 
 April 
 Miiy 
 
 June. 
 
 July 
 
 Aug. 
 Sept. 
 Oct. 
 
 1811— (33.) 
 Jan. Takes np his residence at the Franciscan Convent, 
 
 Athens.— Writes, "Dear object of defeated care 1" 
 Feb. Writes, " ?onsof the Greeks, arise !" — " I enter thy gar- 
 
 den of roses."- And, "Remarks on the Romaic or 
 
 modern Greek Language." 
 March 12. Writes, " Hints from Horace."— 17. " The Curse of 
 
 Minen'a."— And " Lines on Parting." 
 May. Leaves Athens for Malta.— lt>. Writes " Epitaph for 
 
 Joseph Blackett."— And, 2G. " Farewell to Malta." 
 July. Returns to Ent^dand. 
 
 Aug. 1. Death of his Mother. 
 Oct. 11. Writes Epistle to a Friend, "Ohl banish care — such 
 
 ever be." — And Stanzas to Thyrza, " Without a stone 
 
 to mark the spot." 
 Dec. 6. Writes "Away, away, ye notes of wo I" 
 
 1813— (24.) 
 
 Jan. Writes " One struggle more, and I am free !"— *' When 
 
 time, or soon oV late, shall bring."- "■ And thou art 
 dead, as young as fair." 
 
 Feb. 27. Makes his lirst Speech in the House of Lords.— 29. Pub- 
 lishes the first two cantos of " i.hiJde Harokl." 
 
 March. Commits a new edition of "'English Bards," etc., to the 
 flames. — Writes "If sometimes in the haunts of men." 
 — "On a Cornelian Heart which was broken."—" Linea 
 to a Lady weeping."— And " The Chain I gave !" 
 
 April 19. Writes " Lines on a blank leaf of the Pleasures of 
 Memory." 
 
 Sept. Writes " Address on the Opening of Drury Lane The- 
 
 atre." 
 
 Oct. Writes "The Waltz; an Apostrophic Hymn."— And, 
 
 " A Pareiitbetical Address by Dr. Plai:riary." 
 
 Nov. Writes " Address to Time."— And, " Thou art not false, 
 
 but thou art fickle I" 
 
 1813— (jetat. 35.) 
 
 Jan. Writes *' Remember him whom passion's power. 
 
 March. Publishes " The Waltz " anonymously. 
 
 May. Publishes " The Giaour." :^ee" Fac Similes^ No. H. 
 
 July. Projects a journey to Abyssinia. 
 
 Sept. Writes " When from the Heart where Sorrow sits." 
 
 Nov. Is u unsuccessful suitor for the hand c ^ Miss Milbanka^ 
 
XXIV 
 
 CHRONOLOGY. 
 
 10. 
 
 Doc 
 
 Feb. 
 
 April 
 
 May. 
 
 Aug. 
 Sept. 
 Oct 
 Doc. 
 
 Jan. 
 
 Ftih. 
 MarcU 
 
 Jnly. 
 
 Aug. 
 Dec. 10. 
 
 Jan. 
 
 Feb. 
 
 March 17. 
 April. 16 
 
 May. 
 June. 
 
 July. 
 
 Sept. 
 
 Oct. 
 Nov. 
 
 Feb. 
 Man A. 
 
 April. 
 
 Hay. 
 
 2. Publishes "The Bride of Abydos.''— 13. Writes "The 
 Devil's Drive." -17. And "Two Sonnets to Ciene^Ta." 
 —IS. Bc^^inb "The Corsair."— 31. Finishes "The 
 
 Coreair." 
 
 18U-(26.) 
 Writes " Windsor Poetici?.'" 
 \Vnlcs"Ode to Napoleon Bonaparte."— Resolves to 
 
 write no more poetry, and to t-upprcss all he had ever 
 
 written. 
 Begins " Lara"— Writes " I speak no\ I trace not ^'— 
 
 And " Address to be recited at the Caledonian Mcet- 
 
 PubUehes "Lara."— Writes "Condolatory Verses to 
 
 Lady Jcrt^ey." 
 Makes a second proposal for the hand of Miss Mil- 
 
 banke, and is accepted. 
 Writes " Kle^'y on tlie Death of Sir Peter Parker."- 
 
 And " Lines to Belslinzzar." 
 Writes " Hebrew Melodies." 
 
 1815— (27.) 
 
 Marries Miss Milbanke. See i?Vfc Similes. No. m. 
 Writes " There be none of Beauty's Daughters." 
 Writes '• Lines on Napoleon Bonaparte's Escape from 
 
 Elba." 
 Begins " The Sie^e of Corinth."- And writes " There's 
 
 not a Joy the World can give."— And " We do not 
 
 curse thee, Watvrloo." 
 Writes "Must tbou go, my glorious Chief?"-" Star 
 
 of the Brave."— And " Napoleon's Farewell." 
 Birth of bis daughter, Augusta. Ada. 
 
 181G— (28.) 
 
 Publishes " The Siege of Corinth." 
 
 Publishes " Parisina."— Lady Bynm adopts the resolu- 
 tion of separating from him. 
 
 Writes "Fare thee well I and if forever." — And, 29. 
 A Sketch, " Born in the Mrret." 
 
 Writes "When all around grew drear and dark." — 
 25. Takes a last leave of his native country. — I'ro- 
 ceed;', through Flanders and by the Rhine, to Swit- 
 zerland. 
 
 Begins the third canto of " Childe Harold." 
 
 Writes "The Prisoner of'XJhillon" at Oncby, near 
 Lausanne.— Takes up his abode at the C-impague 
 Diodati. near Geneva. 
 
 Finishes the third canto of " Childe Harold."- Writes 
 "Monody on the Death of Sheridan."— Stanzas to 
 Augusta, " Though the Day of my Destiny."—" The 
 Dream." — " Darkness." r-* " Churchiirs Grave." — 
 " Prometheus."— "Could I remount."- Epistle to 
 AiiL'u^ta. " My Sister, my s^eet Sister." — And, " Son- 
 net to Liike Leman." 
 
 Makef^ a tour of the Bernei^e Alps. — Writes " Lines on 
 hearing that Lady Byron was Ul."— And begins 
 " Manlied.' 
 
 Leaves Switzeriand for Italy. 
 
 Takes up his residence at Venice. — Translates " Ro- 
 mance iMuy Doloroso," etc. ; and " Sonetto di Vitto- 
 relli." — Writes " Lines on the Bust of Helen by Ca- 
 nova."—" Bright be the Place of my Soul."— And 
 " They say that Hope is Happiness."- Studies the 
 Armenian language. 
 
 1817— (29.) 
 
 Finishes " jSfanfred." 
 
 Translates, from the Armenian, a Correspondence be- 
 tween St. Paul and the Corinthians. 
 
 Visits Ferrara for a day.— 20. Writes " The Lament of 
 Tasso." 
 
 Visits Rome for a few days.- 5. Writes there a new 
 third act to " Manfred." 
 
 June. Begins, at Venice, the fourth canto of " Childe Harold.'- 
 Oct. Writes " Bcppo." 
 
 1818— (aetat. 30.) 
 Jnly. Writes " Ode to Venice " 
 Sept, Finishes the first canto of " Don Juan." 
 Oct. Finishes " Mazeppa." 
 
 Dec. 13. Begins the second canto of " Don Juan " 
 
 1819— (31.) 
 Jan. 20. Finishes the second canto of " Don Juan." 
 April. Commences an acquaintance with the Countess (jruit 
 
 cioli.— Writes "Stanzas to the Po." 
 Aug. Writes " Letter to the Editor of my Grandmother's Re 
 
 Wew."— And " Sonnet totieorge the Fourth." 
 Nov. Finishes the third and fourth cantos of "Don Juan." 
 Dec. Removes to Ravenna. 
 
 Jan. 
 Feb. 
 
 March. 
 
 April 
 July 
 Oct. 
 Nov. 
 
 1820— (32.) 
 Is domesticated with the Countess GuiccioH. 
 Translates the first canto of " Morgantc Mai^giore." 
 Writes " The Prophecy of Dante."— Translates " Fran- 
 cesca of Rimini." And writes " Observations upon 
 an Article in Blackwood's Magazine." 
 4. Begins "^larino Faliero." 
 l(i. Finishes " Marino Faliero." 
 ly. Begins the fifth canto of " Don Juan." 
 20. Finishes the filth canto of "Don Juan." — And write* 
 " The Blues ; a Literary Eclogue." 
 
 1821— (33.) 
 
 Jan. 13. 
 
 Feb. 7. 
 
 March 25. 
 
 May n. 
 
 Juno 11. 
 
 July 10. 
 
 Sept. 9. 
 
 Oct. 
 
 Nov. 
 
 Begins " Sardanapalus." 
 
 Writes " Letter to John Murray, Esq., on Bowles's 
 
 Strictures upon Pope." 
 Whites " Second Letter to John Murray, Esq.," etc. 
 Finishes "Sardanapalus." 
 Begins " The Two Foscari." 
 Finishes "The Two Foscari." — 16. Begins "Cain; a 
 
 Mystery." 
 Finishes " Cain."— Writes " Vision of Judgment." 
 Writes " Heaven and Earth ; a Mystery." 
 Removes to Pisa.— Is. Begins "Werner." — And "The 
 Deformed Transformed. 
 
 Jan. 
 Feb. 
 
 Sept. 
 
 1822— (34.) 
 I. Finishes "Werner." 
 Writes the sixth, seventh, and eighth cantos of "Don 
 
 Juan." 
 Finishes " The Deformed Transformed."— Writes the 
 
 ninth, tenth, and eleventh cantos of "Don Juan.'* 
 Removes to Genoa. 
 
 1823— (35.) 
 
 Jan. Writes "The Age of Bronze." 
 
 Feb. Writes " The Island "—And more cantos of " Don Jnan." 
 
 April. Tunis his ^iews towards tireece. 
 
 May. Receives a communication from the Greek Committee 
 
 sitting in London. 
 July 14. Sails for Oreecc. 
 
 Aug. I Reaches Argostoll. —Makes an excursion to Tthaca. — 
 Dec. ( Waits at Cephalonia the arrival of the Greek fleet. 
 
 1824— (36.) 
 
 Jan. 5. ArrivesQt Missolon^hi.— 92. Writes "Lines on completii.g 
 my Thirty-sixth Year." — 30. Is appninted commander- 
 in-chief of an expedition against Lepauto. 
 
 Feb. 15. Is seized with a convulsive fit. See Fac Simiie»^ No. rV 
 
 April 9. His last illness. 
 
 April 1». His Death. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 5 
 
 THE GIAOUR; A Fkaqment of a Turkish 
 
 T.u,E 63 
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS ; A Turkish Tale. . 77 
 
 THE CORSAIR ; A Tale 90 
 
 LARA; ATale 110 
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH 123 
 
 PARISINA 134 
 
 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON ; A Fable. ... 140 
 
 Sonnet to Chillon 
 
 BEPPO ; A Venetian Story 144 
 
 MAZBPPA 153 
 
 THE ISLAND; Or, Christian and his Com- 
 rades 161 
 
 MANFRED ; A Dramatic Poem 176 
 
 MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OP VENICE ; An 
 
 Historical Tragedy 191 
 
 HEAVEN AND EARTH ; A Mystery 330 
 
 BARDANAPALUS : A Tragedy 242 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI ; AN Historical Tragedy 376 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED ; A Drama 300 
 
 CAIN ; A Mystery 317 
 
 WERNER ; Or, The Inheritance : A Tragedy 359 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS ; A Series of Poems, 
 
 Original and Translated 378 
 
 Dedication 378 
 
 Preface 378 
 
 Ou the Death of a Toung Lady, cousin to the 
 
 author, and very dear to him 379 
 
 To E . . 379 
 
 To D 380 
 
 Epitaph on a Friend 380 
 
 A Fragment 380 
 
 On leaving Newstead Abbey 380 
 
 Lines written in " Letters of an Italian Nun 
 and an English Gentleman ; by J. J. Rous- 
 
 Beau : founded on Facts " 381 
 
 Answer to the foregoing, addressed to Miss 381 
 
 Adrian's Address to his Soul when Dying. . . . 381 
 
 Translation from Catullus. Ad Lesbiara 381 
 
 Translation of the Epitaph on Virgil and Tibul- 
 lus, by Domitius Marsus 381 
 
 Imitation of TibuUus. " Sulpicia ad Csrin- 
 
 thum" 381 
 
 Translation from Catullus. " Lugete Veneres, 
 
 Cupidiuesque," etc 381 
 
 Imitated from Catullus. To Ellen 383 
 
 Translation from Horace. " Justum et tena- 
 
 cem," etc 883 
 
 From Anacreon. '* QeXu Xeyeiv ArpfttSa^." .... 382 
 From Anacreon. " MEaownTiaic Trob' upaig." . . 383 
 From the Prometheus Vinctus of .3<;schylus. 
 
 " HijSa/j.' 6 nuvra ve/iuv," k. t.1 383 
 
 To Emma 383 
 
 To M. S. G 383 
 
 To Caroline 384 • 
 
 To the same 384 
 
 To the same 384 
 
 Stanzas to a Lady, with the Poems of Camoens 385 
 
 The First Kiss of Love 385 
 
 On a Change of Masters at a great Public 
 
 School 385 
 
 To the Duke of Dorset 386 
 
 Fragment, written shortly after the Marriage 
 
 of Miss Chaworth 387 
 
 Granta ; a Medley 387 
 
 On a Distant View of the Village and School 
 
 of Harrow on the HiU 388 
 
 ToM 389 
 
 To Woman 389 
 
 To M. S, G 389 
 
 To Mary, ou receiving her Picture 389 
 
 To Lesbia 390 
 
 Lines addressed to a Young Lady, who was 
 
 alarmed at the Sound of a Bullet hissing 
 
 near her 390 
 
 Love's last Adieu 391 
 
 Damaetas 391 
 
 To Marion 391 
 
 To a Lady who presented to the Author a Lock 
 
 of Hair, braided with his own 393 
 
 Oscar of Alva. A Tale 393 
 
 The Episode of Nisus and Euryalus 396 
 
 Tarnslation from the Jledea of Euripides, 
 
 *' Eptjref iiTrep fiev dyav,'^ a. r.?.... ... . 40C 
 
 (xxv) 
 
IXVl 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAQB 
 
 Thouglits suffgiisted by a College Examination 400 
 
 To a beautiful Quaker 401 
 
 The Cornelian 403 
 
 An Occasion Prologue to " The WTieel of For- 
 tune " 403 
 
 On the Death of Mr. Fox 403 
 
 The Tear 403 
 
 Reply to some Verses of J. M. B. Pigot, Esq., 
 on the Cruelty of his Mistress 403 
 
 To the sighing Strephon 404 
 
 To Eliza 404 
 
 Lachin y Gair 404 
 
 To Romance 405 
 
 Answer to some elegant Verses sent by a 
 Friend to the Author, complaining that one 
 of hia Descriptions was rather too warmly 
 
 drawn 40G 
 
 Elegy on Newstead Abbey 406 
 
 Childish Recollections 408 
 
 Answer to a beautiful Poem, entitled " The 
 
 Common Lot " 413 
 
 To a Lady who presented the Author with the 
 
 Velvet Band which bound her Tresses 413 
 
 Remembrance 413 
 
 Lines addressed to the Rev. J. T. Becher, on 
 his advising the Author to mis more with 
 
 Society 413 
 
 The Death of Calmar and Orla. An Imitation 
 
 of Macpherson's Ossian 413 
 
 L'Amitiu est I'Amour sans Ailes 415 
 
 The Prayer of Nature 416 
 
 To Edward Noel Long, Esq 417 
 
 Oh I had my fate been join'd with thine ' . 418 
 
 I would I were a careless Child 418 
 
 When I roved a young Highlander 419 
 
 To George, Earl Delawarr 419 
 
 -To the Earl of Clare 430 
 
 Lines written beneath an Elm in the Church- 
 yard of Harrow 431 
 
 ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEW- 
 ERS ; A S.vTiiiE 423 
 
 HINTS FROM HORACE ; Being an Allusion, 
 IN English Verse, to the Epistle " Ad 
 PisoNES, DE Arte Poetic.\ " 439 
 
 THE CURSE OF MINERVA 450 
 
 THE WALTZ ; An Apostrophic Hymn 454 
 
 ODE TO NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.... 458 
 
 HEBREW MELODIES 460 
 
 She Walks in Beauty 460 
 
 The Harp the Monarch Minstrel swept 460 
 
 If that High World 460 
 
 PAOB 
 
 The ^vild Gazelle 460 
 
 Oh ! weep for those 461 
 
 On Jordan's Banks 461 
 
 Jephtha's Daughter 461 
 
 Oh ! snatchd away in Beauty's Bloom 461 
 
 MySoulisdark 461 
 
 I saw thee weep 462 
 
 Thy Days are done 463 
 
 Song of Saul before his last Battle 463 
 
 Saul 463 
 
 " AU is Vanity, saith the Preacher " 462 
 
 When Coldness wraps this suffering Clay .... 463 
 
 Vision of Belshaizar. 463 
 
 Sun of the Sleepless 463 
 
 Were my Bosom as false as thou deem'st it 
 
 to be 464 
 
 Herod's Lament for Mariamne 464 
 
 On tlie Day of the Destruction of Jerusalem 
 
 by Titus 464 
 
 By the Rivers of Babylon we sat down and 
 
 wept 464 
 
 The Destruction of Sennacherib 464 
 
 A Spirit pass'd before me. From Job 465 
 
 DOMESTIC PIECES— 1816 465 
 
 Fare thee Well 465 
 
 A Sketch 466 
 
 Stanzas to Augusta. " When all around 
 
 grew drear and dark " 467 
 
 Stanzas to Augusta. " Though the Day of 
 
 my Destiny's over " 467 
 
 Epistle to Augusta. " My Sister ! my sweet 
 
 Sister ! if a Name " 468 
 
 Lines on hearing that Lady Byron was ill. . . . 409 
 
 MONODY ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT 
 
 HON. R. B. SHERIDAN 470 
 
 THE DREAM 471 
 
 THE LAMENT OF TASSO 473 
 
 ODE ON VENICE 476 
 
 THE MORGANTE MAOGIORE OF PULCI.... 477 
 
 THE PROPHECY OF DANTE 485 
 
 PRANCESCA OP RIMINI 493 
 
 THE BLUES; A LiTEU.uiY Eclogue 493 
 
 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT 495 
 
 THE AGE OF BRONZE ; Or, Carmen Secu- 
 
 LAEE et Annus haud Mirabilis 511 
 
 OCCASIONAL PIECES : 1807-1834 519 
 
 The Adieu. Written imder the Impression 
 
 that the Author would soon die 519 
 
 To a vain Lady 530 
 
 To Anne 530 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 xxvu 
 
 PAGE 
 
 To the same 531 
 
 To the Author of a Soiinet beginning, " Sad 
 
 is my Verse, you say, and yet no Tear " 531 
 
 On finding a Fan 531 
 
 Farewell to the Muse 531 
 
 To au Oak at Newstead 533 
 
 On revisiting Harrow 523 
 
 Epitaph on John Adams of Southwell, a Car- 
 rier, who died of Drunkenness 533 
 
 TomySon 523 
 
 Farewell ! If ever fondest Prayer 523 
 
 Bright be the Place of thy Soul 523 
 
 When we Two parted 523 
 
 To a Youthful Friend 534 
 
 Lines inscribed upon a Cup formed from a 
 
 Skull 524 
 
 Well, thou art happy ! 535 
 
 Inscription on the Monument of a Newfound- 
 land Dog 535 
 
 To a Lady, on being asked my Reason for quit- 
 ting England in the Spring 525 
 
 Remind me not, remind me not 526 
 
 There was a Time, I need not name , 536 
 
 And wilt thou weep when I am low ? 526 
 
 Fill the Goblet again. A Song 537 
 
 Stanzas to a Lady, on leaving England 537 
 
 Lines to Mr. Hodgson. Written on board the 
 
 Lisbon Packet 538 
 
 Lines written in an Album at Malta 528 
 
 To Florence 529 
 
 Stanzas composed during a Thunder-storm. . . 539 
 Stanzas written on passing the Ambracian 
 
 Gulf 530 
 
 The spell is broke, the Charm is flown ! 530 
 
 Written after swimming from Sestos to Abydos 530 
 Lines in the Travelers' Book at Orchomenus. . 531 
 
 Maid of Athens, ere we part 581 
 
 Translation of the Nurse's Dole in the Medea 
 
 of Euripides 531 
 
 My Epitaph 531 
 
 Substitute for an Epitaph 531 
 
 Lines written beneath a Picture 531 
 
 Translation of the famous Greek War Song, 
 
 " Aevre Traidef;" etc 531 
 
 Translation of the Romaic Song, " Mnevu fie^ 
 
 'to' -EQiCo'/u," etc 533 
 
 On Parting 533 
 
 Epitaph for .Joseph Blackett, late Poet and 
 
 Shoemaker 533 
 
 Farewell to Malta 533 
 
 To Dives. A Fragment 533 
 
 On Moore's last Operatic Farce, or Farcical 
 
 Opera 533 
 
 Epistle to a Friend, in answer to some Lines 
 exhorting the Author to be cheerful, and to 
 
 " banish care " 53£ 
 
 To Thyrza. " Without a Stone," etc 534 
 
 Stanzas. " Away, away, ye Notes of Wo ".. . 534 
 Stanzas. " One Struggle more, and I am free " 535 
 
 Euthanasia. " When Time," etc 535 
 
 Stanzas. " And thou art dead, as young as 
 
 fair" 536 
 
 Stanzas. " If sometimes in the Haunts of 
 
 Men" 537 
 
 On a Cornelian Heart which was broken 537 
 
 Lines from the French 537 
 
 Lines to a Lady weeping 537 
 
 " The Chain I gave," etc. From the Turkish. 537 
 Lines written on a Blank Leaf of " The 
 
 Pleasures of Memory " .' 537 
 
 Address, spoken at the Opening of Drury 
 
 Lane Theatre, October 10, 1813 538 
 
 Parenthetical Address, by Dr. Plagiary 538 
 
 Verses found in a Summer-house at Hales 
 
 Owen 539 
 
 Remember Thee ! Remember Thee ! 539 
 
 To Time 539 
 
 Translation of a Romaic Love Song 540 
 
 Stanzas. " Thou art not false," etc 540 
 
 On being asked what was the " Origin of Love " 540 
 
 Stanzas. " Remember Him." etc 541 
 
 On Lord Thurlow's Poems 541 
 
 To Lord Thm-low 541 
 
 To Thomas Moore. Written the Evening be- 
 fore his Visit to Mr. Leigh Hunt, in Horse- 
 
 monger-Lane Jail 54i 
 
 Impromptu. " When liom the Heart where 
 
 Sorrow sits " 5C 
 
 Sonnet, to Genevra 642 
 
 Sonnet, to the same 542 
 
 From the Portuguese. " Tu mi chamas ". . . . 543 
 
 Another Version 542 
 
 The Devil's Drive. An unfinished Rhaywdy. 543 
 
 Windsor Poetics 543 
 
 Stanzas for Music. " I speak not, I trace 
 
 not," etc 544 
 
 Address intended to be recited at '.h j Caledo- 
 nian Meeting 544 
 
 Fragment of an Epistle to Thci^/.j Mcorc 544 
 
 Condolatory Address to Sarhh, Cv/Uiitess of 
 Jersey, on the Prince Reau.'t'b returning 
 
 her Picture to Mrs. Mee 545 
 
 To Belshazzar 51' 
 
xxviii 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Elegiac Stanzas on tlie Death of Sir Peter 
 Parker, Bart 545 
 
 Stanzas for Music. " There's not a Joy the 
 
 World can give," etc 546 
 
 Stanzas for Music. " There be none of Beauty's 
 
 Daughters " 546 
 
 On Napoleon's Escape from BUba 546 
 
 Ode from the French. " We do not curse thee, 
 
 Waterloo " 546 
 
 From the French. " Must thou go, my glo- 
 rious Chief?" 547 
 
 On the Star of " The Legion of Honor." From 
 
 the French 548 
 
 Napoleon's Farewpll. From the French 548 
 
 Endorsement to the Deed of Separation, in the 
 
 April of 1816 549 
 
 Darkness 549 
 
 Churchill's Grave 549 
 
 Prometheus 5.50 
 
 A Fragment. " Could I remount," etc 550 
 
 Sonnet to Lake Leman 551 
 
 A very mournful Ballad on the Siege and Con- 
 quest of Alhama 551 
 
 Translation from Vittorelli. On a Nun 553 
 
 Stanzas for Music. " Bright be the Place of 
 
 thy Soul" 552 
 
 Stanzas for Music. " They say that Hope is 
 
 Happiness " 553 
 
 To Thomas llooro. " My Bark is on the 
 
 Shore ' 553 
 
 On the Bust of Helen by Canova 5.58 
 
 Song for the Luddites 553 
 
 To Thomas Moore. " What are you doing 
 now ?" 553 
 
 So, we '11 go no more a roving. 553 
 
 Versicles 554 
 
 To Mr. Murray. " To hook the Reader " 554 
 
 Epistle from Mr. Murriy to Dr. Polidori 554 
 
 Epistle to Mr. Murray. " My dear Mr. Mur- 
 ray," etc 555 
 
 To Mr. Murray. " Strahan, Tonson," etc. . . . 555 
 On the Birth of John William Rizzo Hoppner 556 
 
 Stanzas to the Po 555 
 
 Sonnet to George the Fourth, on the Repeal 
 of Lord Edward Fitzgerald's Forfeiture. . . . 556 
 
 Epigram from the Frencli of Rulhiures 556 
 
 Stanzas. " Could Love forever," etc 556 
 
 On my Wedding Day 657 
 
 Epitaph for William Pitt 557 
 
 Epigram. " In digging up your Bones, Tom 
 
 Paine," etc 557 
 
 Stanzas. " When a Man hath no Freedom to 
 
 fight for at home," etc 557 
 
 Epigram. " The World is a Bundle of Hay " 557 
 
 The Charity Ball 557 
 
 Epigram on my Wedding Day 658 
 
 On my Thirty-third Birth Day 558 
 
 Epigram on the Braziers' Company 558 
 
 Martial, Lib. I. Epist. I 558 
 
 Bowles and Campbell 558 
 
 Epigrams on Lord Castlereagh 558 
 
 Epitaph on Lord Castlereagh 558 
 
 John Keats 558 
 
 The Conquest. A Fragment 558 
 
 To Mr. Murray. " For Orford and for Walde- 
 grave," etc 658 
 
 The Irish Avatar 559 
 
 Stanzas written on the Road between Florence 
 
 and Pisa 560 
 
 Stanzas to a Hindoo Air 560 
 
 Impromptu. " Beneath Blessington b Eyes". 561 
 
 To the Countess of Blessington 661 
 
 Stanzas inscribed — " On this Day I complete 
 
 my Thi-ty -sixth Year" 561 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
THE 
 
 POETICAL WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 LORD BYRON. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 %, llomaunt. 
 
 L'niiivers est nne esp^ce de Uvre. dont on n'a lu que la premiere page quand on n'a vu que son pays. J^en ai feuU]tt6 nn 35aeR 
 ^rand norahrc, que j'ai trouve 6galement mauvai^ee. Cet examen ne m'a point ^te uiCractueux. Je hal^sais ma patrie. Toutes los 
 Impertinences des peuples divers, parmi lesquels j'ai vc^'cu, m'ont reconcilie avec elle. Quand je n'anrais tir6 d'autre bt'nijflce de inca 
 vcyacfes que celui-la, je u^en regretteraia ni les frais ni les fati;^ies. 
 
 Le Cosmopolite. 1 
 
 PREFACE. 
 [to the rmsT and second cantos.] 
 
 The following poem was written, for the most part, 
 amidst the scenes which it attempts to describe. It 
 was begun in Albania ; and the parts relative to Spain 
 and Portugal were composed from the author's obser- 
 vations in those countries. Thus much it may be ne- 
 cessary to state for the correctness of the descriptions. 
 The scenes attempted to be sketched are in Spain, Por- 
 tugal, Epirus, Acamania, and Greece. There, for the 
 present, the poem stops : its reception will determine 
 whether the author may venture to conduct his read- 
 ers to the capital of the East, through Ionia and Phry- 
 gia : these two Cantos are merely experimental. 
 
 A fictitious character is introduced for the sake of 
 giving some connection to the piece ; which, however, 
 makes no pretensions 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 — 
 Harold is the child of imagination, for the pui-pose I 
 have stated. In some very trivial particulars, and those 
 merely local, there might be grounds for such a notion ; 
 but in the main points, I should hope, none whatever. 
 
 It is almost superfluous to mention that the appella- 
 tion "ChUde," as "ChUde 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 sng- 
 
 ' I'ar M. de Montbron, Paris, 179S. Lord Byron somewhere 
 calls it ' au anmsing UtUe volume, full of French flippancy." 
 
 gested by " Lord Maxwell's Good Night," in the Bor- 
 der Minstrelsy, edited by Mr. Scott. 
 
 With the diifcrent poems which have been published 
 on Spanish subjects, there may be found some slight 
 coincidence in the first part, which treats of the Penin 
 sula, but it can only be casual ; as, with the exception 
 of a few concluding stanzas, the whole of this poem 
 was -written in the Levant. 
 
 The stan7,a of Spenser, according to one of our most 
 successful poets, admits of every variety. Dr. Beattie 
 makes the following observation : — " Not long ago, I 
 began a poem in the style and stanza of Spenser, in 
 which I propose to give full scope to my inclination, 
 ana be either droll or pathetic, descriptive or senti 
 mental, tender or satirical, as the humor strikes me 
 for, if I mistake not, the measure which I have adopted 
 admits equally of all these kinds of compo.sition." — 
 Stiengthened in my opinion by such authority, and by 
 the example of some in the highest order of Italian 
 poets, I shall make no apology for attempts at similar 
 vrtriations in the following composition ; satisfied that, 
 if they are vmsuccessful, their failure must be in the 
 execution rather than in the design, sanctioned by the 
 pi actice of Ariosto, Thomson, and Beattie. 
 
 London, February, 1812. 
 
 ADDITION TO THE PREFACE. 
 
 I HATE now waited tiU almost all our periodical 
 journals have distributed their usual portion of criti- 
 cism. To the justice of the generality of their criti- 
 cisms I have nothing to object ; it would ill become 
 
BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 me to quarrel ■vrith their very Blight degree of censure, 
 when, perliaps, 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 Childe," (whom, notwith- 
 standing many hints to the contrary, I still maintain 
 to be a fictitious personage,) it has been stated, that 
 besides the anachronism, he is very unkniyhtly, as the 
 times of the Knights were times of Love, Honor, and 
 so forth. Now, it so happens that the good old times, 
 when " I'amour du bon Nieux temps, I'amour antique " 
 flourished, were the most profligate of all possible cen- 
 turies. Those who have any doubts on this subject 
 may consult Sainte-Palaye, passim, and more particu- 
 larly vol. ii,, p. 69. The vows of chivalry were no bet- 
 ter kept than any other vows whatsoever ; and the 
 songs of the Troubadours were not more decent, and 
 certainly were much less refined, than those of Ovid. 
 The " Cours d'amour, jjarlemeuts d'amour, ou de cour- 
 toisie et de gentilesse " had much more of love than of 
 courtesy or gentleness. See Roland on the same sub- 
 ject with Sainte-Palaye. Whatever other objection 
 may be urged to that most unamiable personage Childe 
 Harold, he was so far perfectly knightly in his attri- 
 butes — " No waiter, but a kniglit templar." By the by, 
 I fear that Sir Tristrem and Sir Lancelot were no bet- 
 ter than they should be, although very poetical person- 
 ages and true knights " sans peur," though not " sans 
 reproche." If the story of the institution of the " Gar- 
 ter " be not a fable, tlie knights of that order have for 
 several centuries borne the badge of a Countess of 
 Salisbury, of indifferent memory. So much for cliiv- 
 alry. Burke need not have regretted tliat its days are 
 over, though Marie Antoinette was quite as chaste as 
 most of those in whose honor lances were shivered, 
 and kniglits unhorsed. 
 
 Before the days of Bayard, and down to those of Sir 
 Joseph Banks, (tlie most chaste and celebrated of an- 
 cient and modern times,) few exceptions will be found 
 to this statement ; and I fear a little investigation wOl 
 teach us not to regret these monstrous mummeries of 
 the middle ages. 
 
 I now leave "Childe Harold" to live his day, such 
 as he is ; it had been more agreeabh^ and certainly 
 more easy, to have drawn an auiiabli; (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 example, further than to show, that early perver- 
 sion of mind and morals leads to satiety of past pleas- 
 ures and disappointment in new ones, and that even 
 the beauties of nature, and tlie stimulus of travel, (ex- 
 cept ambition, the most powerful of all excitements,) are 
 lost on a soul so constituted, or rather misdirected. 
 Had I proceeded with the poem, this character would 
 have deepened as ho drew to the close ; for the out- 
 line which I once meant to fill up for him was, with 
 Fomo exceptions, the sketch of a modern Timon, per- 
 haps a poetical Zeluco. 
 
 London, 1813. 
 
 TO lANTHE.' 
 
 Not in those climes where I have late been straying, 
 Though Beauty long hath there been matchless 
 
 deem'd ; 
 Not in those visions to the heart displapng 
 Forms which it sighs but to have only dreamM, 
 Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seem'd : 
 Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek 
 To paint those channs which varied as they 
 
 beam'd — 
 To such as see thee not my words were weak ; 
 To those who gaze on thee what language could 
 
 they speak ? 
 
 Ah ! niayst thou ever be what now thou art, 
 Nor unlicseem the promise of thy spring, 
 As fair in form, aa warm yet pure in heart, 
 Love's image upon earth without his wing, 
 And guileless beyond Hope's imagining ! 
 And surely she who now so fondly rears 
 Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening, 
 Beholds the rainbow of her future years. 
 Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears. 
 
 Young Peri of the "West ! — 'tis well for me 
 My years already doubly number thine ; 
 My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee, 
 And safely view thy ripening beauties shine ; 
 Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline ; 
 Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed, 
 Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign 
 To those whose admiration shall succeed. 
 But mix'd with pangs to Love's even loveliest hours 
 decreed. 
 
 Oh ! let that eye, which, wild as the Gazelle's, 
 Now brightly bold or beautifully shy, 
 Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells. 
 Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny 
 That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh, 
 Could I to thee be ever more than friend : 
 This much, dear maid, accord ; nor question why 
 To one so young my strain I would eonimeiid. 
 But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend, 
 
 Such is thy name with this my verse intwined ; 
 And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast 
 On Harold's page, lanihe's here enshrined 
 Sliall thus be first beheld, forgotten last : 
 My days once numbcr'd, should this homage past 
 Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre 
 Of him who hail'd thee, loveliest as thou wast. 
 Such is the most my memory may desire ; 
 Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship 
 less require ? 
 
 1 The Lady Charlotte Ilarlcy, second dniighter of Edward, Fiflfc 
 Earl of Oxford, (now Lady Charlotte Bacon,) in the antiimn of 
 1812, when thc>!e lines were addressed to be.-, had not complelod 
 her elerentb year. 
 
(^S>^ti^' 
 
Catsto l 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 nilLDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 CANTO THE FIRST. 
 
 Oh, tliou 1 in Hellas deem'd of Tieavenly oirth, 
 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,' 
 'vVliere, save that feeble fountain, all is still ; 
 Nor mote my shell awake the weary Xine 
 To grace so plain a tale — this lowly lay of mine. 
 
 II. 
 
 Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth. 
 Wlio ne in virtue's way did take delight ; 
 But spent, his days in riot most uncouth, 
 And vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear of Ivight. 
 Ah, me ! in sooth he was a shameless wight, 
 Sore given to revel and ungodly glee ; 
 Few earthly things found fiivor in his sight 
 Save concubines and carnal conipanie. 
 And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree. 
 
 Til. 
 Childe Harold was he hight : — but whence his name 
 And linc!:ge 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 losel soils a name for aye. 
 However mighty in the olden time ; 
 Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay. 
 Nor florid prose, nor honey'd lies of rhyme, 
 "an blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime. 
 
 rv. 
 
 childe Harold basked him in the noontide sun. 
 Disporting there like any other fly. 
 Nor deem'd before his little day was done " 
 
 One blast might chill him into misery. 
 Rut long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by, 
 Worse than adversity the Childe befell ; 
 He felt the fullness of satiety : 
 Then loathed he in his native land to dweU, [celL 
 WTiich seem'd to him more lone than Eremite's sad 
 
 1 The little villaiyo of Castri stand? partly on the ?!te of Delphi. 
 Alnns the path of the monntain, from Chrysso. are the remains of 
 ftcpnlchres hewn in and from the rock. " One." ?aid the ^ide, 
 " of a kin? who broke hi? neck hantin»." Hi? majesty had cer- 
 tainly chosen the fittest spot for snch an achievement. A little 
 ahove Castri is a cave, supposed the Pythian, of immense depth ; 
 the npper part of it is p.aved. and now a cowhouse. On the other 
 eide of rastri stands a Greek monastery ; some way above which 
 Is the cleft in the rock, with a range of caverns difflcnlt of ascent, 
 and apparently leading? to the interior of the monntain ; probably 
 to the Coryclan Cavern mentioned by Pausanias. From this part 
 descend the foont^n and the "Dews of Castalie." 
 
 For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run. 
 Nor made atonement when he did amis.?. 
 Had sigh'd to many though he loved but one, 
 And that loved one, alas ! could ne'er be hia. 
 Ah, happy she ; to 'scape from him whose kiss 
 Had been pollution unto aught so chaste ; 
 Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bUss, 
 And spoil'd her goodly lands to gild his waste, 
 Nor 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 ce : 
 Apart he stalk'd in joyless revery. 
 And from his native land resolved to go. 
 And visit scorching climes beyond the sea ; 
 With pleasure drugg'd, he almost long'd for wo. 
 An d e'en for change of scene would seek the shades 
 below. 
 
 VII. 
 The Childe departed from his father's hall ; 
 It was a vast and venerable pile ; 
 So old, it seemed only not to fall, 
 Yet strength was pillar'd in each massy aisle. 
 Monastic dome ! condemn'd to uses vile ! 
 Where Superstition once had made her den 
 Now Papliian girls were known to sing and smile . 
 And monks might deem their time was come agen, 
 If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy 
 men. 
 
 Tin. 
 Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood [brow. 
 Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's 
 As if the memory of some daily feud 
 Or disappointed passion lurk'd below ; 
 But this none knew, nor haply cared to know ; 
 For his was not that open, artless soul 
 That feels reUef by bidding sorrow flow. 
 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 flatt'rers of the festal hour ; 
 The heartless parasites of present cheer. 
 Yea ! none did love him — not his lemans dear — 
 But pomp and power alone are woman's care, 
 And where these are Ught Eros finds a feere ; 
 Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare. 
 And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might 
 despair. 
 
BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Cauto I. 
 
 X. 
 
 Childe Harold had a mother — not forgot, 
 Though parting from that mother he did shun ; 
 A sister whom he loved, but saw her not 
 Before liis 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 'tis to dote upon 
 A few dear objects, will in sadness feel 
 Such cartings break the heart they fondly hopeto 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 hands. 
 Might shake the saintship of an anchorite. 
 And long had fed his youthful appetite ; 
 nis goblets brimm'd with every costly 'wine, 
 And all that mote to luxury invite. 
 Without a sigh he left to cross the brine, [line. 
 And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's central 
 
 XII. 
 The sails were fll'd, and fair the light winds blew, 
 As glad to waft him from his native home ; 
 And fast the white rocks faded from his view, 
 And soon were lost in circumambient foam : 
 And then, it may be, of his wish to roam 
 Repented he, but in his bosom slept 
 The silent thought, nor from his lips did come 
 One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept. 
 And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept. 
 
 XIII. 
 But when the sun was sinking in the sea 
 He seized his harp, which he at times could string, 
 And strike, albeit with untaught melody. 
 When deem'd he no strange ear was listening : 
 And now his fingers o'er it he did fling. 
 And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight, 
 Wliile flew the vessel on her snowy wing. 
 And fleeting shores receded from his sight. 
 Thus to the elements he pour'd his last " Good Night." 
 
 " Adietj, adieu, my native shore 
 
 Fades o'er the waters blue ; 
 The Night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, 
 
 And shrieks the wild sea-mew. 
 Yon Sun that sets mpon the sea 
 
 We follow iu his flight ; 
 Farewell awhile to him and thee. 
 
 My native Land— Good Night I 
 
 " A few short hours and He will rise 
 To give the morrow birth ; 
 And I shall hail the main and skies, 
 But not my mother eartn. 
 
 Deserted is my own good hall. 
 
 Its hearth is desolate ; 
 Wild weeds are gathering on the wall ; 
 
 My dog howls at the gate. 
 
 " Come hither, hither, my little page I 
 
 Why dost thou weep and wail ? 
 Or dost thou dread the billow's rage, 
 
 Or tremble at the gale ? 
 But dash the tear-drop from thine eye ; 
 
 Our ship is swift and strong : 
 Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly 
 
 More merrily along. 
 
 ' Let winds be shrUl, let waves roll high, 
 
 I fear not wave nor wind : 
 Yet marvel not, Sir Childe. that I 
 
 Am sorrowful in mind ; 
 For I have from my father gone, 
 
 A mother whom I love. 
 And have no friend, save these alone, 
 
 But these — and one above. 
 
 ' My father bless'd me fervently, 
 Yet did not much complain ; 
 But sorely will my mother sigh 
 Till I come back again.' — 
 " Enough, enough, my little lad I 
 Such tears become thine eye ; 
 If I thy guileless bosom had. 
 Mine own would not be dry. 
 
 " Come hither, hither, my stanch yeoman. 
 Why dost thou look so pale ? 
 Or dost thou dread a French foeman ? 
 Or shiver at the gale ?" — 
 ' Deem'st thou I tremble for my life ? 
 Sir Childe, I'm not so weak ; 
 But thinking on an absent wife 
 Will blanch a faithfiJ cheek. 
 
 ' My spouse and boys dwell near thy haU 
 
 Along the bordering lake. 
 And when they on their father call, 
 What answer shall she make ?' — 
 " Enough, enough, my yeoman good. 
 Thy grief let none gainsay ; 
 But I, who am of lighter mood. 
 Will laugh to flee away. 
 
 " For who would trust the seeming sighs 
 
 Of wife or paramour ? 
 Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyos 
 
 We late saw streaming o'er. 
 For pleasures past I do not grieve, 
 
 Nor perils gathering near ; 
 My greatest grief is that I leave 
 
 No thing that claims a tear. 
 
Canto i 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 " Ajid now I'm in the world alone, 
 
 Upon the wide, wide sea : 
 But why should I for others groan. 
 
 When none will sigh for me ? 
 Perchance my dog will whine in vain, 
 
 TiU fed by stranger hands ; 
 But long ere I come back again 
 
 He'd tear me where he stands. 
 
 " With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go 
 
 Athwart the foaming brine ; 
 Nor care what land thou bear'st me to. 
 
 So not again to mine. 
 Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves I 
 
 And when you fail my sight, 
 Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves I 
 
 My native land — Good Night I" 
 
 XIV. 
 On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone. 
 And winds are rude, in Biscay's sleepless bay. 
 Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon, 
 New shores descried make every bosom gay ; 
 And Cintra's mountain greets them on their way, 
 And Tagus dashing onward to the de^p. 
 His fabled golden tribute bent to pay ; 
 And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap, [reap. 
 And steer 'twist fertile shores where yet few rustics 
 
 XT. 
 
 Oh, Christ ! it is a goodly sight to see 
 What Heaven hath done for this delicious land 1 
 What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree I 
 What goodly prospects o'er the hiUs expand ! 
 But man would mar them with an impious hand : 
 And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scourge 
 'Gainst those who most transgress his high com- 
 mand. 
 With treble vengeance will his hot shaft urge 
 Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest foemen 
 purge. 
 
 XTI. 
 
 Wliat beauties doth Lisboa first unfold ! 
 Her image floating on that noble tide. 
 Which poets vainly pave witii sands of gold, 
 But now whereon a thousand keels did ride 
 Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied. 
 And to the Lusians did her aid afford : 
 A nation swoln with ignorance and pride, 
 Wlio lick yet loathe the hand that waves the sword 
 To save them from the v.Tath of Gaul's unsj>aring 
 lord. 
 
 XVII. 
 But whoso entercth vidthin this town, 
 That, sheening far, celestial seems to be. 
 Disconsolate will wander up and dovm, 
 'ilid many things unsightly to strange ee ; 
 2 
 
 For hut and palace show like filthily : 
 The dingy denizens are rear'd in dirt ; 
 Ne personage of high or mean degree 
 Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt. 
 Though shent with Egypt's plague, unkempt, un 
 wash'd; unhurt. 
 
 XVIII. 
 Poor, paltry slaves ! yet bom 'midst noblest scenes — 
 Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men ? 
 Lo 1 Cintra's glorioiw Eden intervenes 
 In variegated maze of mount and glen. 
 Ah, me ! what hand can pencil guide, or pen. 
 To foUow half on which the eye dilates 
 Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken 
 Than those whereof such things the bard relates. 
 Who to the awe-struck world unlock'd Elysium's 
 gates ? 
 
 XIX. 
 The horrid crags, by toppling convent crown'd. 
 The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep, 
 The mountain-moss by scorching skies imbrown'd, 
 The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep, 
 The tender azure of the imruflled deep, 
 The orange tints that gild the greenest bough. 
 The torrents that from cliff' to vaUey leap. 
 The vine on high, the willow branch below, 
 5Iix'd in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow, 
 
 XX. 
 
 Then slowly climb the many-winding way. 
 And frequent turn to linger as you go, 
 From loftier rocks new loveliness survey. 
 And rest ye at •" Our Lady's house of wo ;" ' 
 Where frugal monks their little relics show. 
 And sundry legends to the stranger tcU : 
 Here impious men have punish'd been, and lo ! 
 Deep in yon cave Honorius long did dwell. 
 In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a HeU. 
 
 XXI. 
 And here and there, as up the crags you spring, 
 Mark many rude-carved crosses near the path : 
 ■ Yet deem not these devotion's ofl'ering — 
 These are memorials frail of murderous wrath : 
 For wheresoe'er the shrieking victim hath 
 
 1 The convent of " Onr Lady of Punishment," Nossa Senora lit 
 Pena, on the summit of the rock. Below, at some distance, is th» 
 Cork Convent, where St. Honorias dug his den, over which ia hia 
 epitaph. From the hiUs, the sea adds to the Ijeauty of the view.— 
 Note to First Ec/ilion.—S'mcQ the publication of this poem, I have 
 been informed of tho misapprehension of the term A'ossa Senora 
 de Perm. It was owing to the want of the lUde or mark over the 
 n, which alters the signification of the word : with it, Pena signi- 
 fies a rock ; without it, Pena has the sense I adopted. I do not 
 think it necessary to alter the passage ; as, though the common 
 acceptation affixed to it is, " Our Lady of the Uock," I may well 
 fiBsnme the other sense from the severities practised '.here.— .VC^ 
 tc Second Edition. 
 
10 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto i, 
 
 Pour'ci forth his blood beneath the asaassin's knife, 
 Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath ; 
 And grove and glen with thousand such arc rife 
 rhroughout this purple land, where law secures no 
 life.' 
 
 XXII. 
 On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath, j 
 
 Are domes where whilome kings did make repair ; ■ 
 But now the wild-flowers round them only breathe ; 
 Yet ruin'd splendor still is lingering there, i 
 
 And yonder towers the Prince's palace fair : | 
 
 There thou too, Vathek ! England's wealthiest son, ; 
 Once form'd thy Paradise, as not aware [done, 
 When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hath 
 Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to shun. 
 
 XXIII. 
 Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure 
 
 plan. 
 Beneath yon mountain's ever beauteous brow ; 
 But now, as if a thing unblcst by Man, 
 Thy fairy dwelling is as lone as thou I 
 Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow 
 To haUs deserted, portals gaping wide ; 
 Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, how 
 Vain are the pleasaunces on earth supplied ; 
 iBwept into wrecks anon by Time's ungentle tide 1 
 
 XXIV. 
 Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened !^ 
 Oh, dome displeasing unto British eye ! 
 With diadem hight foolscap, lo 1 a fiend, 
 A little fiend that scoffs incessantly. 
 There sits in parchment rolie array'd, and by 
 His side is hung a seal and sable scroll, 
 Where blazon'd glare names known to chivalry, 
 And sundry signatures adorn the roU, [soul. 
 
 "Whereat the Urchin points, and laughs with all his 
 
 XXV. 
 Ponvention is the dwarfish demon styled 
 That foil'd the knights in Marialva's dome : 
 Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled. 
 And turn'd a nation's shallow joy to gloom. 
 Here FoUy dash'd to earth the victor's plume, 
 
 J It ie a well-known fact, that in the year 1800, the assassinations 
 to the streets of Lisbon and its vicinity were not confined by the 
 Portugu-ese to their countrymen ; but that Enj^lit^hmen were daily 
 butchered : and so far i'rom redress being oblaiued, we were re- 
 quested not to inleifere if we perceivetl any compatriot defending 
 himself against his allies. I was once stopped in the way to the 
 theatre at eight o'cloelv in tlie evening, when the streets were not 
 more emply than they generally are at that hour, opposite to an 
 open shop, and in a carriage with a friend : had we not fortunately 
 bfiffl armed, I have not the least doul)t that we should have 
 "adorned a tale" instead of telling one. The crime of assassin- 
 ation is not confined to Portugal : ui Sicily and Malta we are 
 knocked on the head at a handsome average nightly, and not a 
 Bicilian or Maltese is ever punishwi I 
 
 2 The Convention of Ciutra w»« signed In the palace of the Mar- 
 »bese Mjirialva. 
 
 And PoUcy regain'd what arms had lost : 
 For chiefs Uke ours in vain may laurels bloom 1 
 Wo to the conqu'ring, not the conqucr'd host, 
 Since bafiled Triumph droops on Lusitania's coast ' 
 
 XXVI. 
 And ever since that martial synod met, 
 Britannia sickens, Cintra ! at thy name ; 
 And folks in office at the mention fret, 
 And foin would blush, if blush they could, fol 
 How will posterity the deed proclaim 1 [shamei 
 Win not our own and fellow-nations sneer 
 To view these champions cheated of their fame, 
 By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet victors here. 
 
 Where Scorn her finger points through many a com- 
 ing year ? 
 
 XXVII. 
 So deem'd the Childe, as o'er the mountains he 
 Did take his way in solitary guise : 
 Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to flee, 
 More restless than the swallow in the skies : 
 Though here awhile he learned to moralize, 
 For Meditation fix'd at times on him ; 
 And conscious Reason whisper'd to despise 
 His early youth misspent in maddest whim ; 
 
 But as he gazed on truth his aching eyes drew dim 
 
 XXVIII. 
 To horse ! to horse ! he quits, forever quits 
 A scene of peace, though soothing to his soul : 
 Again he rouses from his moping fits. 
 But seeks not now the harlot and the bowl. 
 Onward he fiies, nor fix'd as yet the goal 
 Where he shall rest him on his pilgrimage ; 
 And o'er him many changing scenes must roll 
 Ere toil his thirst for travel can assuage. 
 Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experience sage. 
 
 XXIX. 
 Yet Mafra shall one moment olaim delay. 
 Where dwelt of yore the Lusians' luckless queen ; 
 And church and court did mingle their array, 
 And mass and revel were alternate seen ; 
 LordUnga and frercs — ill-sorted fry I ween ! 
 But here the Babylonian whore hath built' 
 A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious sheen, 
 That men forget the blood which she has spilt. 
 
 And bow the knee to Pomp that loves to varnish 
 guilt. 
 
 XXX, 
 O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hiUs, 
 (Oh, that such hills upheld a freel)orn race 1) 
 Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills, 
 
 Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant place, 
 
 8 The extent of Mafra is prodigious ; it contains a palace, coo* 
 vent, and most superb church. The sis organs are the most bean- 
 tiful I ever beheld, in point of decoration : we did not he.ar them, 
 but were told that their tones wore correspondent tc *eir splca 
 dor. Mafra is termed the Escurial of Portugal. 
 
Canto i. 
 
 CHII.DE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 11 
 
 Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase, 
 And marvel men should quit their easy chair, 
 The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace, 
 Oh I there is sweetness in the mountain air, 
 And Ufe, that bloated Ease can never hope to share. 
 
 XXXI. 
 More bleak to view the hills at length recede. 
 And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend ; 
 Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed ! 
 Far as the eye discerns, withouten end, 
 Spain's realms appear whereon her shepherds tend 
 Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader 
 
 knows — 
 Now must the pastor's arm his lambs defend 
 For Spain is compass'd by unyielding foes, [woes. 
 And all must shield their all, or share Subjection's 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Where Lusitania and her Sister meet. 
 Deem ye w-hat bounds the rival realms divide ? 
 Or ere the jealous queens of nations greet. 
 Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide ? 
 Or dark Sierras rise in craggy pride ? 
 Or fence of art, like China's vasty waU ? — 
 Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide, 
 Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall, 
 Rise like the rocka that part Hispania's land from 
 Gaul: 
 
 XXXIII. 
 But these between a silver streamlet glides. 
 And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook, 
 Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides. 
 Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook, 
 And vacant on the rippling waves doth look. 
 That peaceful still 'twixt bitterest foemen flow ; 
 For proud each peasant as the noblest duke : 
 Well doth the Spanish hind the difl"crence know 
 Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low.' 
 
 XXXIV. 
 But ere the mingling bounds have far been pass'd. 
 Dark Guadiana rolls his power along 
 In sullen billows, murmuring and vast, 
 So noted ancient roundelays amoi'.g. 
 Wliilome upon his banks did legions throng 
 Of Moor and Knight, in mailed splcv.dor dress'd : 
 Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk the 
 
 strong ; 
 The Paynim turban and tlie Christian crest 
 .Vtix'd on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts op- 
 
 press'd. 
 
 ' Ap I found the Portuguese, po I have characterized them. That 
 they are sicce improved, at least in conrage, is evident. The late 
 iixDloita of Lord Wellington have effaced the follies of Cintra. He 
 haP. Indeed, done wonders : he has, perhaps, changed the charac- 
 ter of a nation, reconciled rival superstitions, and hatlled an enemy 
 irho never retreated before his predecessors. — 1812. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Oh, lovely Spain ! renown'd, romantic land ! 
 Wlierc is that standard which Pelagio bore. 
 When Cava's traitor-sire first caU'd the band 
 That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothic gore ? ' 
 Where are those bloody banners which of yore 
 Waved o'er thy sons, victorious to the gale. 
 And drove at last the spoilers to their shore ? 
 Red gleam'd the cross, and waned the crescent pale. 
 While Afric's echoes thriU'd with Moorish matrons' 
 waiL 
 
 XXXVI. 
 Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale ? 
 Ah ! such, alas ! the hero's amplest fate ! 
 When granite moulders and when records fail, 
 A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date. 
 Pride ! bend thine eye from heaven to thine es- 
 See how the mighty shrink into a song ! [tate. 
 Can Volume, PiOar, Pile, preserve thee great ? 
 Or must thou trust Tradition's simple tongue, 
 When Flattery sleejjs with thee, and History does 
 thee wrong ? 
 
 XXXVII. 
 Awake, ye sons of Spain ! awake ! advance ! 
 Lo ! Chi valry, your ancient goddess, ciies ; 
 But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance. 
 Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies . 
 I Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies. 
 
 And speaks in thunder through yon engine's roar I 
 In every peal she calls — " Awake ! arise !" 
 Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore. 
 When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's shore ? 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 Hark ! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note I 
 Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath ? 
 Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote ; 
 Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath 
 Tyrants and tyrants' slaves ? — the fires of death. 
 The bale-fires flash on high : — from rock to rock 
 Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe 
 Death ndes upon the sulphm'y Siroc, [shock. 
 
 Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel tV 
 
 XXXIX. 
 Lo ! where the Giant on the mountain stands. 
 His blood-red tresses deep'uingHn the sun. 
 With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands. 
 And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon ; 
 Restless it roDs, now fix'd, and now anon 
 Flashing afar, — and at his iron feet 
 Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done 
 
 5 Count Julian's daughter, the Helen of Spain. Pelagius pre- 
 served his independence in the fastnesses of the Asturias, and tb6 
 descendants of bis followers, after some centuries, completed 
 their stmggle by the conquest 3f Granada, 
 
12 
 
 WORKS. 
 
 Uanto l 
 
 For on this mom three potent nations meet, 
 To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most 
 sweet. 
 
 XL. 
 By Heaven ! it is a splendid sight to see 
 (For one who hath no friend, no brother there) 
 Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery, 
 Their various arms that glitter in the air ! 
 What gallant war-hounds rouse them from tlieir lair, 
 And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey I 
 AU join the chase, but few the triumph share ; 
 The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away, 
 (Lad Havoc scarce for joy can number their array. 
 
 XLI. 
 Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice ; 
 Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high ; 
 Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies ; 
 The shouts are Franco, Spain, Albion, Victory ! 
 The foe, the victim, and the fond ally 
 That fights for all, but ever fights in vain. 
 Are met — as if at home they could not die — 
 To feed the crow on Talavora's plain, 
 And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain. 
 
 XLII. 
 There shall they rot — Ambition's honor'd fools ! 
 Yes, Honor decks the turf that wraps their clay 1 
 Vain Sophistry ! in these behold the tools. 
 The broken tools, that tyrants cast away 
 By myriads, when they dare to pave their way 
 With human hearts — to what ? — a dream alone. 
 Can despots compass aught that hails their sway ? 
 Or call with truth one span of earth their own, 
 Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone ? 
 
 XLIII. 
 Oh, Albuera, glorious field of grief! 
 As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim prick'd his steed, 
 Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief, [bleed 1 
 A< scene where mingling foes should boast and 
 Peace to the perish'd ! may the warrior's meed 
 And tears of triumph their reward prolong I 
 Till others fall where other chieftains lead. 
 Thy name shall circle roimd the gaping throng, 
 \nd shine in worthless lays, tlio theme of transient 
 • song. 
 
 XLIV. 
 Enough of Battle's minions ! let them play 
 Their game of lives, and liartcr breath for fame : 
 Fame that will scarce reanimate their clay. 
 Though thousands fall to deck some single name. 
 In sooth 'twere sad to thwart their noble aim 
 Who strike, blest hirelings 1 for their country's good. 
 And die, that living might have proved lier shame ; 
 Perish'd, perchance, in some domestic feud, 
 Oi in a narrower sphere wild llapiue's path pursued. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way 
 Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued : 
 Yet is she free — the spoiler's wish'd-for prey 
 Soon, soon shall Conquest's fiery foot intrude. 
 Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude. 
 Inevitable hour ! 'Gainst fate to strive 
 Where Desolation plants her faniish'd brood 
 Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre might yet survive, 
 And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease to thrive 
 
 XLVI, 
 But all unconscious of the coming doom, 
 
 The feast, the song, the revel here abounds ; 
 Strange modes of merriment the hours consume, 
 Nor bleed these patriots \^^th their country's wounds 
 Nor here War's clarion, Itut Love's rebeck sounds; 
 Here FoUy still his votaries inthralls ; [rounds • 
 And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnight 
 Girt with the silent crimes of Capitals, 
 Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tott'ring walls, 
 
 XLVII. 
 Not so the rustic — with his trembling mate 
 He hu-ks, nor casts his heavy eye afar, 
 Lest he should view his vineyard desolate, 
 Blasted below the dun hot breath of war. 
 No more beneath soft Eve's consenting star 
 Fandango t'n'irls his jocund Castanet : 
 Ah, monarchs ! could ye taste the mirth ye mar, 
 Not in the toils of Glory would ye fret : [yet J 
 The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man be happy 
 
 XLVIII. 
 How carols now the lusty muleteer ? 
 Of love, romance, devotion is his lay. 
 As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer, 
 His quick bells wildly jingling on the way 1 
 No 1 as he speeds, he chants " Viva el Key !"• 
 And checks his song to execrate Godoy, 
 The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day 
 Wlien first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed boy, 
 And gore-faced Treason sprung from her adulterate 
 
 joy- 
 
 XIJX. 
 On yon long, level plain, at distance crown'd 
 With crags, whereon those Moorisli turrets rest. 
 Wide scatter'd hoof-marks dint the wounded 
 
 groimd ; 
 And, scathed by fire, thegreensward's darken'd vest 
 
 ' " Viva el Rey Fernando I" Long live King Ferdinand I Is thf 
 choma of most of tlio Ppanjsli patriotic songs. Tliey are ehietlj 
 in dispraise of the old Wing Cliarles, tlie Quc*in and llic Prince of 
 Peace. I liavi^ heard many of them : some of the aii-s are beautl- 
 ftil. Don Manuel Godoy, the Principe de la Paz, of an ancient 
 but decayed family, was born at Bndajoz. on the frontiers of Por- 
 tugal, and .was originally in the ranks of the 8pani-h guards ; tU] 
 his person attracted the queen's eyes, and raised him to tlie duke* 
 dom of Alcudia, &c. l^'C. It is to this man lonx the Spaniards anSk 
 versally imj ute the ruin of their country. 
 
Canto i. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 13 
 
 Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest : 
 Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host, 
 Here the bold peasant storm'd the dragon's nest ; 
 Still does he mark it with triumphant boast, [lost. 
 And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and 
 
 L. 
 And whomsoe'er along the path you meet 
 Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue, 
 Wliich tells you whom to slam and whom to greet :' 
 "Wo to the man that walks in jjublic view 
 Without of loyalty this token true : 
 Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke ; 
 And sorely would the Gallic foeman rue, 
 If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloak, [smoke, 
 f'ould blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's 
 
 LI. 
 At every turn Morena's dusky height 
 Sustains aloft the battery's ii-ou load ; 
 And, far as mortal eye can compass sight. 
 The mountain-howitzer, the broken road, 
 The bristling paUsade, the fosse o'erflow'd. 
 The statiou'd bands, the uever-va4;ant watch, 
 The magazine in rocky durance stow'd. 
 The holster'd steed beneath the shed of thatch. 
 The ball-piled pyramid,' the ever-blazing match, 
 
 LII. 
 Portend the deeds to come : — but he whose nod 
 Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway, 
 A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod ; 
 A little moment deigneth to delay : 
 Soon wiU his legions sweep through these their way ; 
 The West must own the Scourger of the world. 
 Ah 1 Spain ! how sad will be thy reckoning-day, 
 When soars Gaul's Vulture, with his wings unfurl'd. 
 And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to Hades 
 hurl'd. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 And must they fall ? the young, the proud, the brave. 
 To swell one bloated Chief's unwholesome reign ? 
 No step between submission and a grave ? 
 The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain ? 
 And doth the Power that man adores ordain 
 Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's appeal ? 
 Is all that desperate Valor acts in vain 2 
 And Counsel sage, and patriotic Zeal, 
 The Veteran's skiU, Youth's fire, and JIanhood's heart 
 of steel ? 
 
 LIV. 
 Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused. 
 Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar, 
 
 1 The red cockade, with " Fernando \ 11." in tlie centre. 
 
 2 All who have seen a battery wiU recollect the pyramidal form 
 to which phot and trhells are piled. The Sierra Morena was forti- 
 fied in every defile tlirough which I passed in mj way to Seville. 
 
 And, aU unscx'd, the anlace hath espoused. 
 Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war ! 
 And she, whom once the semblance of a scar 
 Appall'd, an owlet's larum chiU'd with dread, 
 Now views the column-scattering bay'net jar, 
 The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead 
 Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might quak( 
 to tread. 
 
 LV. 
 Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale. 
 Oh ! had you known her in her softer hour, 
 Mark'd her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil 
 Heard her light, Uvely tones in Lady's bower. 
 Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power, 
 Her fairy form, with more than female grace, 
 Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower 
 Beheld her smile in Danger's Gorgon face. 
 Thin the dosed ranks, and lead in Glory's fearful 
 chase. 
 
 LVI. 
 Her lover sinks — she sheds no ill-timed tear ; 
 Her chief is slain — she fills his fatal post ; 
 Her fellows flee — she checks their base career ; 
 The foe retires — she heads the sallying host : 
 AVho can appease hke her a lover's ghost ? 
 Who can avenge so well a leader's faU ? 
 Wliat maid retrieve when man's flush'd hope is lost i 
 Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul, 
 Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a batter'd wall ?* 
 
 LVII. 
 Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons, 
 But form'd for all the witching arts of love : 
 Though thus in arms they emulate her sons, 
 And in the horrid phalanx dare to move, 
 'Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove. 
 Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate : 
 In softness as in firmness far above 
 Remoter females, famed for sickening prate ; 
 Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance aa 
 great. 
 
 LVIII. 
 The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impress'd 
 Denotes how soft that chin which l)ears his touch ; 
 Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest. 
 Bid man be valiant ere he merit such : 
 Her gl.ance how wildly beautiful 1 how much 
 Hath Phoebus woo'd in vain to spoil her cheek, 
 Wliich glows yet smoother irom his amorous clutch ! 
 Wlio round the North for paler dames would seek ? 
 How poor their forms appear ! how languid, wan, and 
 weak ! 
 
 3 Such were the exploits of the Maid of Saragoza, who by her 
 valor elevated herself to the highest rank of heroines. Wlien the 
 author was at Seville, she walked daily on the Prado, decorated 
 with medals and orders, by comiaand of the Junta. 
 
14 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 «JANTO L 
 
 LIX. 
 
 Match me, ye clime* I which poets love to laud ; 
 Match me, ye harems of the land I where now' 
 I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud 
 Beauties tliat ev'n a cynic must avow ; 
 Match me those Houries, whom ye scarce allow 
 To taste the gale lest Love should ride the \\'ind, 
 With Spain's dark-glancing daughters — deigu to 
 There your wise Prophet's paradise we find, [know 
 His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind. 
 
 LX. 
 Oh, thou Parnassus 1 ' whom I now survey, 
 Not in the phrenzy of a dreamer's eye, 
 Not in the fabled landscape of a lay. 
 But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky. 
 In the wild pomp of mountain maicsty I 
 What marvel if I thus essay to sing ? 
 The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by 
 Would gladly woo thine echoes with his string. 
 Though from thy heights no more one Muse will 
 wave her wing. 
 
 LXI. 
 Oft have I dream'd of thee ! whose glorious name 
 Who knows not, knows not man's di\dnest lore : 
 And now I view thee, 'tis, alas ! with shame 
 That I in feeblest accents must adore. 
 When I recount thy worshijjpers of yore 
 I tremble, and can only bend the knee ; 
 Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar, 
 But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy 
 In silent joy to think at last I look on thee 1 
 
 LXII. 
 Happier in this than mightiest bards have been, 
 "WTiose fate to distant homes confined their lot. 
 Shall I unmoved behold the hallow'd scene, 
 Which others rave of, though they Ivnow it not ? 
 Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot. 
 And thou, the Muses' seat, art now their grave, 
 Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot. 
 Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave, 
 Aud glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave. 
 
 LXIII. 
 Of thee hereafter. — Ev'n amidst ray strain 
 I turn'd aside to pay my homage here ; 
 Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain ; 
 Her fate, to every freebom bosom dear ; 
 And h.iil'd thee, not perchance \vithout a tear. 
 Now to my theme — but from thy holy haunt 
 Let me some remnant, some memorial bear ; 
 Yield rac one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant, 
 Kor let thy votary's hope be deem'd an idle vaunt. 
 
 LXIV. 
 But ne'er didst thou, fair Mount ! when Greece wai 
 
 young. 
 See round thy giant base a brighter choir. 
 Nor e'er tlid Delphi, when her priestess simg 
 The Pythian hymn with more than mortal fire, 
 Behold a train more fittin;,' to inspire 
 The song of love than Andalusia's maids. 
 Nursed in the glowing lap of soft desire : 
 Ah 1 that to these were given such peaceful shades 
 As Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly he» 
 
 glades. 
 
 ■ This stanza was written In Turkey. 
 
 'i Thei^e etar 'as were written in Castri, (Delphos,) at the foot of 
 "am 1 <'-:n» nOiT called Liakura, December, 1809. 
 
 LXV. 
 Fair is proud Seville ; let her countiy boast 
 Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days ;' 
 But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast, 
 Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise. 
 Ah, Vice ! how soft are thy voluptuous ways ! 
 Wliile bo^-ish blood is mantling, who can 'scape 
 The fascination of thy magic gaze ? 
 A Cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape, 
 And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape. 
 
 LXVI. 
 When Paphos feU by Time — accursed Time ! 
 The Queen who conquers all must yield to thee^ 
 The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a clime ; 
 And Venus, constant to her native sea, 
 To naught else constant, hither deign'd to flee ; 
 And fix'd her shrine within these walls of white ; 
 Though not to one dome circumscribeth she 
 Her worship, but, devoted to her rite, 
 A thousand altars rise, forever blazing bright. 
 
 LXVII. 
 From morn till night, trom night till startled Morr 
 Peeps blushing on the revel's laughing crew, 
 The song is heard, the rosy garland worn ; 
 Devices quaint, and frolics ever new. 
 Tread on each other's kibes. A long adieu 
 He bids to sober joy that here sojourns : 
 Naught interrupts the riot, thougli in lieu 
 Of true devoti(m monkish incense burns, 
 And love and ])rayer unite, or rule the hour bj 
 tm-ns. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 The Sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest 
 What hallows it upon this Cluistian shore ? 
 Lo ! it is sacred to a solemn feast : 
 Hark ! heard you not the forest-monarch's roar '? 
 Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting gore 
 Of man and steed, o'erthrown beneath his horn : 
 The throng'd arena shakes with shouts for more 
 Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly torn. 
 Nor shrinks the female eye, nor ev'n affects to mourn 
 
 i Seville was the Hispalis of the RoTaane. 
 
Canto i. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 15 
 
 LXIX. 
 The seventh day this ; the jubilee of man. 
 London ! right well thou know'st the day of pray- 
 Then thy spruce citizen, wash'd artisan, [er : 
 And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air : 
 Thy coach ?{ hackney, whiskey, one-horse chair, 
 And humblest gig through sundry suburbs whirl ; 
 To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow, make repair ; 
 Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl. 
 Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian 
 churl. 
 
 LXX. 
 Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribbon'd fair, 
 Others along the safer turnpike fly ; 
 Some Richmond-hiU ascend, some scud to Ware, 
 And many to the steep of Highgate hie. 
 Ask ye, BcEotian shades ! the reason why ? 
 'Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn,^ 
 Grasp'd in the holy hand of Mystery, [sworn, 
 
 In whose dread name both men and maids are 
 And consecrate the oath with draught, and dance 
 till mom. 
 
 LXXI. 
 All have their fooleries — not alike are thine, 
 Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark blue sea 1 
 Soon as the matin bell proclaimeth nine, 
 Thy saint-adorers count the rosary : 
 Much is the Virgin teased to shrive them free 
 (Well do I ween the only ^-irgin there) 
 From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be ; 
 Then to the crowded circus forth they fare : 
 Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion 
 share. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 The lists are oped, the spacious area clear'd. 
 Thousands on thousands piled are seated round ; 
 Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is heard, 
 Ne vacant space for lated wight is found : 
 Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound, 
 SkiU'd in the ogle of a roguish eye. 
 Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound ; 
 None through their cold disdain are doom'd to die. 
 As moon-struck bards complain, by Love's sad arch- 
 ery. 
 
 I This wsa written at Thel)C8, and consequently in the best sitn- 
 ation for asking and answering such a qaestion ; not as the birth- 
 place of Pindar, b it as the capital of Boeotia, where the first rid- 
 dle was propounded and solved. 
 
 ^ [Lord Byron alludes to a ridiculons custom which formerly 
 prevailed at the public-houses in llighgate, of administering a bur- 
 lesque oath to all travelers of the middling rank who stopped 
 there. The party was sworn on a pair of boms, fastened, ''never 
 to kjss the maid when he could the mistress ; never to cat brown 
 %rea<i when he could get wliite ; never to drink small beer when 
 he ci/oiil get strong," with many other injunctions of the like 
 kind.— lo all which was added the saving clause, — " unless you 
 Uke It beet."] 
 
 LXXIII. 
 Hush'd is the din of tongues — on gallant steeds, 
 With miUc-white crest, gold spur, and Ught-poised 
 
 lance. 
 Four cavaUers prepare for venturous deeds. 
 And lowly bending to the Usts advance ; 
 Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance ; 
 If in the dangerous game they shine to-day, 
 The crowd's loud shout and ladies' lovely glance, 
 Best prize of better acts, they bear away. 
 And aU that kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils re- 
 pay. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array'd, 
 But aU afoot, the Ught-hmb'd Matadore 
 Stands in the centre, eager to invade 
 The lord of lowing herds ; but not before 
 The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o'er, 
 Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed. 
 His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more 
 Can man achieve without the friendly steed — 
 Alas ! too oft condemn'd for him to bear and bleed. 
 
 LXXV. 
 Thrice soimds the clarion ; lo ! the signal falls, 
 The den exiaands, and Expectation mute 
 Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls. 
 Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brutfi, 
 And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot. 
 The sand, nor bUndly rushes on his foe : 
 Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit 
 His first attack, wide waving to and fro 
 His angry tail ; red roUs his eye's dilated glow. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 Sudden he stops ; his eye is fix'd : away. 
 Away, thou heedless boy ! prepare the spear : 
 Now is thy time, to perish, or display 
 The skiU that yet may clieck his mad career. 
 With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers veer ; 
 On foams the bull, Ijut not unscath'd he goes ; 
 Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear : 
 He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes ; 
 Dart follows dart ; lance, lance ; loud bellowingl 
 speak his woes. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 Again he comes ; nor dart nor lance avail. 
 Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse ; 
 Though man and man's avenging arms assail, 
 Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force. 
 One gallant steed is stretch"d a mangled corse ; 
 Another, hideous sight ! unseam'd appears. 
 His gory chest unveils life's panting source ; 
 Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears, 
 Staggering, but stemming aU, his lord imharm'd 
 he bears. 
 
Ifl 
 
 BTKON'S WORKS. 
 
 CiXTO I 
 
 Lxxvni 
 Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last, 
 Full in the centre stands the bull at bay, 
 'Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast, 
 And foes disabled in the brutal fray : 
 And now the Matadores around him play, 
 ♦ Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand : 
 Once more through all he bursts Ms thimdering 
 
 way — 
 Vain rage ! the mantle quits the conynge hand, 
 Wraps his fierce eye — 'tis past — he sinks upon the 
 sand 1 
 
 LXXIX. 
 Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine, 
 Sheath'd in his form the deadly weapon lies. 
 He stops — he starts — disdaining to decline : 
 Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries. 
 Without a groan, without a struggle dies. 
 The decorated car appears — on high 
 The corse is piled — sweet sight for vulgar eyes — 
 Pour steeds that sjiurn the rein, as swift as shy. 
 Hurl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in dashing by. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Such the imgentle sport that oft invites 
 The Spanish maid, and cheers the Sjxmish swain. 
 Nurtured in blood betimes, his lieart delights 
 In vengeance, gloating on another's pain. 
 What private feuds the troubled village stain I 
 Though now one phalanx'd host should meet the 
 Enough, alas ! in humble homes remain, [foe. 
 
 To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blow, 
 For some sliglit cause of ^vrath, whence life's warm 
 stream must flow. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 But Jealousy has fled : his bars, his bolts, 
 His wither'd sentinel. Duenna sage 1 
 And all whereat the generous soul revolts. 
 Which the stem dotard deem'd he could encage. 
 Have pass'd to darkness with the vanish'd age. 
 Wlio late so free as Spanish girls were seen, 
 (Ere War uprose in his volcanic rage,) 
 With braided tresses bounding o'er the green. 
 While on the gay dance shone Night's lover-loving 
 Quc.n ? 
 
 LXXXII, 
 Oh ! many a time, and oft, had Harold loved. 
 Or dream'd he loved, since rapture is a dream ; 
 But now his wayward bosom was unmoved. 
 For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream ; 
 And lately had he Icarn'd with truth to deem, 
 Love has no gift so grateful as his wings : 
 How fair, how young, how soft soe'er he seem. 
 Full from the fount of Joy's delicious springs 
 Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 Tet to the beauteous form ho was not blind, 
 Though now it moved him as it moves the vrise ; 
 Not that Philosophy on such a mind 
 E'er deign'd to bend her chastely-awful eyes : 
 But Passion raves itself to rest, or llics ; 
 And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb, 
 Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise : 
 Pleasure's pall'd victim ! life-abhorring gloom 
 Wrote on his faded brow cursed Cain's unresting 
 doom. 
 
 LXXXtV. 
 
 Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng ; 
 But view'd them not with misanthropic hate : 
 Fain would he now have join'd the dance, the song 
 But who may smile that sinks beneath his fate ? 
 Naught that he saw his sadness could abate : 
 Tet once he struggled 'gainst the demon's sway, 
 And as in Beauty's bower he pensive sate, 
 Pour'd forth this unpremeditated lay, [day. 
 
 To charms as fair as those that sooth'd his happiei 
 
 TO INEZ. 
 
 1. 
 
 Nat, smile not at my sullen brow ; 
 
 Alas ! I cannot smlie again : 
 Tet Heaven avert that ever thou 
 
 Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain. 
 
 3. 
 
 And dost thou ask, what secret wo 
 I bear, corroding joy and youth ? 
 
 And wilt thou vainly seek to know 
 A pang, e'en thou must fail to sooth ? 
 
 3. 
 It is not love, it is not hate. 
 
 Nor low Ambition's honors lost, 
 That bids me loathe my present state. 
 
 And fly from all I prized the most : 
 
 4. 
 It is that weariness which springs 
 
 From all I meet, or hear, or see : 
 To me no pleasure Beauty brings ; 
 
 Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me. 
 
 It is that settled, ceaseless gloom 
 The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore ; 
 
 That will not look beyond the tomb, 
 But cannot hope for rest before. 
 
 G. 
 Wliat exile from himself can flee ? 
 
 To zones, though more and more remote, 
 Still, still pursues, where'er I be. 
 
 The blight of life — the demon Thought. 
 
Cani'o l 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 17 
 
 Yet other? rapt in pleasure seem, 
 And ta-te of all that I forsake ; 
 
 Oh ! may they sdll of trans]X)rt dream, 
 And ne'er, at least like me, awake ! 
 
 8. 
 Through many a clime 'tis mine to go, 
 
 With many a retrospection cursed ; 
 And all my solace is to know, 
 
 Whate'er betides, I've known the worst. 
 
 What is that -worst ? Xay do not ask — 
 
 In pity from the search forbear : 
 Smile on — nor venture to unmask 
 
 Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there. 
 
 LXXXT. 
 Adieu, fair Cadiz ! yea, a long adieu ! 
 WIio may forget how well thy walls have stood ? 
 When all were changing thou alone wert true, 
 First to be free and last to be subdued : 
 And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude, 
 Some native blood was seen thy streets to dye ; 
 A traitor only fell beneath the feud : ' 
 ncre all were noble, save Nobility ; [airy ! 
 
 None hugg'd a conqueror's chain, save fallen Chiv- 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate ! 
 Tliey fight for freedom who were never free ; 
 A Kinglcss people for a nerveless state. 
 Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee, 
 True to the veriest slaves of Treachery ; 
 Fond of a land which gave them naught but life, 
 Pride points the path that leads to liberty ; 
 Back to the struggle, batSed in the strife. 
 War, war is still the cry, " War even to the knife ?"" 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 Ye who would more of Spain and Spaniards know, 
 Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strife : 
 Whate'er keen Vengeance urged on foreign foe 
 Can act, is acting there against man's life : 
 From flashing cimeter to secret knife. 
 War mouldeth there each weapon to his need — 
 So may he guard the sister and the wife. 
 So may he make each cursed oppressor bleed, 
 Bo may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed ! 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 Flows there a tear of pity for the dead ? 
 Look r'er the ravage of the reeking plain ; 
 Jjook on the hands with female slaughter red ; 
 Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain, 
 
 1 Alludin.^ to the conduct and death of Solano, the Governor of 
 Cadiz, in \[ay, 1S09. 
 
 ' " W.ir to the Knife." Palafox's answer to the French general 
 at the siege of Sarajioza. 
 
 3 
 
 Then to the vulture let each corse remain ; 
 
 ■ Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw, [stain, 
 Let their bleach'd bones, and blood's unbleaching 
 Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe : 
 
 Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw ' 
 
 LXXXIX. , 
 
 Nor yet, alas ! the dreadful work is done ; 
 Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees : 
 It deepens still, the work is scarce begun. 
 Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees. 
 FaU'n nations gaze on Spain ; if freed, she frees 
 More than her feU Pizarros once enchain'd : 
 Strange retribution I now Columbia's ease 
 Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustain'd. 
 
 While o'er the parent clime prowls >Iurder unre- 
 strain'd. 
 
 XC. 
 Not all the blood at Talavera shed. 
 Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight. 
 Not Albuera lavish of the dead, 
 Have won for Spain her well-asserted right. 
 When shaU her ohve-branch be free from blight? 
 Wlien shall she breathe her from the bhisliing toUl 
 How many a doubtful day sliall sink in night, 
 Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil. 
 
 And Freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the soil I 
 
 XCI. 
 And thou, my friend != since unavailing wo 
 Bursts from my heart and mingles vrith the strain — 
 Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low. 
 Pride might forbid e'en Friendship to complain : 
 But thus unlaureU'd to descend in vain. 
 By all forgotten, save the lonely breast. 
 And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain, 
 Wliile Glory crowns so many a meaner crest I 
 What hadst thou done to sink so peacefully to rest ? 
 
 XCII. 
 Oh, known the earliest, and esteem'd the most ! 
 Dear to a heart where naught was left so dear ! 
 Though to my hopeless days forever lost. 
 In dreams deny m« not to see thee here ! 
 
 ' The Honorable John Wingfield, of the Gnards, who died of a 
 fever at Coimbra. (May 14, ISll.) I had known him ten years, the 
 better part of his life, and the happiest part of mine. In the short 
 space of one mouth, I have lost her who gave me bein;;r. and most 
 of those who had made that being tolerable. To me the lines of 
 Young are no fiction : — 
 
 *' Insatiate archer 1 conld not one suffice ? 
 
 Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain. 
 
 And thrice ere thrice yon moon had fiU'd her horn." 
 T should have ventured a verse to the memory of the late Charles 
 Skinner Matthews. Fellow of Downing College, Cambri'lge, were 
 he not too much above all praise of mine. His powers of mind, 
 shown in the attaium'^nt of greater honors, against the ablest can- 
 didate*, tluin those of any graduate on record at Cambridge, have 
 sufficiently established his fame on the spot where it was acquired : 
 while bis softer qualities live in the recoUectiru of friends who 
 loved him loo well to en%'y his superiority. 
 
18 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canti> a. 
 
 Ami Mom in secret shall renew the tear 
 Of Consciousness awaking to her woes, 
 And Fancy hover o'er thy bloodless bier, 
 Till my frail frame return to whence it rose, 
 .\jid mourn'd and mourner lie united in repose. 
 
 XCIII. 
 Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage : 
 Ye who of him may further seek to know, 
 Shall find some tidings in a future page, 
 If lie that rhymcth now may scribble moe. 
 Is this too much ? stern Critic ! say not so : 
 Patience ! and ye shall hear what he beheld 
 In other lands, where he was doom'd to go : 
 Lands that contain the monuments of Eld, 
 lire Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands 
 were quell'd. 
 
 CIIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 CANTO THE SECOXD. 
 
 Comb blue-eyed maid of heaven ! — but thou, alas i 
 Didst never yet one mortal song inspire — 
 Goddess of Wisdom ! here thy temple was. 
 And is, desjjite of war and wasting fire,' 
 And years, that bade thy worship to expire : 
 But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow, 
 Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire 
 Of men who never felt the sacred glow [bestow. 
 Tliat thoughts of thee and thine on polish'd breasts 
 
 H. 
 Ancient of days ! august Athena 1' where. 
 Where are thy men of might ? thy grand in soul ? 
 Gone^glimmering through the dream of things 
 
 that were : 
 First in the race that led to Glory's goal, 
 
 ' Part of the Acropolis was destroyed by the explosion of a mag- 
 azine duriDg the Venetian siege. 
 
 ^ We can nil feel, or imagine, the regret with which the niins of 
 cities, once the capitals of empires, are baheld : the rclleclioiis 
 enggested 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 valor to defend his country, 
 appear more couspicuons than In the record of what Athens was, 
 and the certainty of what she now is. This theatre of contention 
 between mighty factious, of the struggles of orators, the c.taltation 
 and deposition of tyrants, the triumph and punishment of gener- 
 als, is now become a scene of petty intrigue and perpetual disturb- 
 ance, between the bickering agents of certain British nobility and 
 gentry. " The wild foxes, the owls and serpents in the ruins of 
 Babylon," «ere surely less degrading than sucli inhabitants. The 
 furies have the plea of conquest for their tyranny, and the Greeks 
 have oidy sull'ered the fortunes of war, incidental to the bravest: 
 but how are the mighty fallen, when two painters contest the priv- 
 ilege of plundering the Parthenor. and riamph -a turn, according 
 
 They won, and pass'd away — is this the whole ! 
 A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour ! 
 The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole 
 Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering tower 
 Dimwith the mist of years,gray flits the shade of powM 
 
 III. 
 Son of the morning, rise I approach you here I 
 Come — but molest not yon defenceless urn ; 
 Look on this spot — a nation's sepulclire ! 
 Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer bum. 
 Even gods must yield — rehgions take tlicir turn : 
 'Twas Jove's — 'tis Mahomet's — and other creeds 
 Will rise with other years, till man shall learn 
 Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds : [reeds 
 Poor child of Doubt and Death,who8e hope is built on 
 
 IV. 
 Bound to the earth, he lifts his eye to heaven — 
 Is't not enough, unhappy thing 1 to know 
 Thou art ? Is this a boon so kindly given. 
 That being, thou wouldst be again, and go. 
 Thou know'st not, reck'st not to what region, s« 
 On earth no more, but mingled with the skies i 
 Still wilt thou dream on future joy and wo ? 
 Kegard and weigh yon dust before it Hies : 
 That little urn saith more than thousand homiUeu. 
 
 V. 
 Or burst the vanish'd Hero's lo<"ty mound , 
 Far on the solitary shore he slei:ps : " 
 He fell, and fiilling nations mourn'd around ; 
 But now not one of saddening thousands weeps, 
 Nor warlike worshipper his vigil keeps 
 Where dcmi-gods appear'd, as records tell. 
 Remove yon skull from out the scattered heaps : 
 Is that a temple where a God may dwell ? 
 Why ev'n the worm at last disdains her shatter'd cell 
 
 VI. 
 Look on its broken arch, its ruin'd wall. 
 Its chambers desolate, and portals foul : 
 
 to the tenor of each succeeding firman I Sylla could but ponlsb, 
 Philip subdue, and Xerxes burn Athens ; but it remained for th« 
 palti-y antiquarian, and his despicable agents, to render her con- 
 temptible as himself and his pursuits. The Parthenon, before it« 
 destruction in part, by tire during the Venetian siege, had been s 
 temple, a church, and a mosque. In eacli point of view it is an 
 object of regard : it changed its worshippers ; but still it was a 
 place of worship thrice sacred to devotion : its violation is a tri- 
 ple sacrifice. But — 
 
 '* Man, proud man, 
 Dress'd in a little brief authority. 
 Plays such fantastic tricks before high bcaven 
 As make the angels weep." 
 ' It was not always the custom of the Greeks to b'irn their dead , 
 the greater .\jax, in particular, was interred entire. Almost all 
 the chiefs became gods after their decease ; and he was indeed ne- 
 glected, who had not annual games near his tomb, or festivals in 
 honor of his memory by his countrymen, as Achilles, Brasidas. Ac, 
 and at last even Antinous, v, hose death was as heroic as hie Itfe 
 was infamous. 
 

 n 
 
 ft 
 
 <=3 
 
U\>;t(j n. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 Vi 
 
 Yes, this was oncp Ambition's airy hall, 
 The dome of Tb ught, the palace of the Soul : 
 Behold through iach lack-lustre, eyeless hole, 
 The gay recess cf Wisdom and of Wit, 
 And Passion's host that never brook'd control : 
 Can all saint, sage, or sophist ever writ, 
 People this lonely tower, this tenement refit ? 
 
 VII. 
 Well didst tliou speak, Athena's msest son ! 
 " AU that we know is, nothing can be known." 
 Why should we shrink from what we cannot shun? 
 Each hath his pang, but feeble sufferers groan 
 With brain-bom dreams of e^-il all their own. 
 Pursue what Chance or Fate proclaimeth best ; 
 Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron : 
 There no forced banquet claims the sated guest, 
 But Silence spreads the couch of ever welcome rest. 
 
 VIII- 
 Yet if, as holiest men have deem'd, there be 
 A land of souls beyond that sable shore. 
 To slmme the doctrine of the Sadducee 
 And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore ; 
 How sweet it were in concert to adore 
 With those who made our mortal laliors light ! 
 To hear each voice we fear'd to hear no more I 
 IJehold each mighty shade reveal'd to sight. 
 
 right! 
 
 IX. 
 
 There, thou ! — whose love and life together fled, 
 Have left me here to love and live in vain — 
 Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee dead, 
 When busy memory flashes on my brain ? 
 Well — I will dream that we may meet again. 
 And woo the vision to my vacant breast : 
 If aught of young Remembrance then remain. 
 Be as it may Futurity's behest, 
 For me 'twere bliss enough to know thy spirit blest I 
 
 X. 
 Here let me sit upon this massy stone. 
 The marble column's yet unshaken base ; 
 Here, son of Saturn ! was thy fav'rite throne,' 
 Mightiest of many such ! Hence let me trace 
 The latent grandeur of thy dwelling-place. 
 It may not be : nor ev'n can Fancy's eye 
 Restore what Time hath labor'd to deface. 
 Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sigh : 
 iJiimoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek carols by. 
 
 * The iRmple of Japiter Olympius, of which eixtcen column?, 
 intirel/ of marble, yfit survive: originally there were one hundred 
 »nd fifty. These columns, however, are by many supposed to have 
 belonfied to the Pantheon. 
 
 ■ Alluding to Lord Elgin's removal of works of art ffom tho 
 Acropolis at Athena. 
 
 XI. 
 
 But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane 
 t)n high, where Pallas linger'd, loath to flee 
 The latest relic of her ancient reign ; 
 The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he ? 
 Blush, Caledonia ! such thy son could be ! 
 England ! I joy no child he was of thine : 
 Thy free-bom men should spare what once was free, 
 Yet they could violate each saddening shrine, 
 And bear these altars o'er the long-reluctant brine.'- 
 
 XII. 
 But most the modem Pict's ignoble boast. 
 To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hath spared: 
 Cold as the crags upon his native coast, 
 His mind as barren and his heart as hard, 
 Is he whose head conceived, whose hand prepared, 
 Aught to displace Athena's poor remains : 
 Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard. 
 Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains,! 
 And never knew, till then, the weight of despots' 
 chains. 
 
 XIII. 
 Wliat ! shall it e'er be said by British tongue, 
 Albion was happy in Athena's tears ? 
 Though in thy name the slaves her bosom wrung, 
 Tell not the deed to blushing Europe's ears ; 
 The ocean queen, the free Britannia, bears 
 The last poor plunder from a bleeding land : 
 Yes, she, whose gen'rous aid her name endears. 
 Tore down those remnants with a harpy's hand. 
 Which envious Eld forbore, and tyrants left to 
 stand. 
 
 XIV. 
 Where was thine .^Igis, Pallas ! that appall'd 
 Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way ?' 
 Where Peleus' son ? whom Hell in vain inthrau fl, 
 His shade from Hades upon that dread day 
 Bursting to light in terrible array ! 
 What ! could not Pluto spare the chief once more, 
 To scare a second robber from his prey ? 
 Idly he wander'd on the Stygian shore. 
 Nor now preserved the walls he loved to shield 
 before. 
 
 " I cannot resist avaiEng myself of the permission of my friend. 
 Dr. Clarke, whose name requires no comment with the public, bnt 
 whose sanction will add tenfold weit^ht to my testimony, to insert 
 the following extract from a very obliging letter of his to me, as 
 a note to the above lines : — '' When the last of tne metopes waa 
 taken from the Parthenon, and, in moving of it. great part of the 
 euperstmcture with one of the triglyphs was thrown down by the 
 workmen whom Lord Elgin employed, the Disdar, who beheld the 
 mischief done to the building, tools his pip<' from his mouth, 
 dropped a tear, and, in & supplicating tone of voice, said to Lusieri, 
 r^^} (If- 1 — I was presr-nt." The Disdar alluded to was the father 
 of the present Disdar. 
 
 * According to Zosimns, Minerva and Achilles frightened Alaric 
 ft-om the Acropolis ; bnt others relate that the Gothic king ma» 
 nearly as mischievous as the Scottish peer. — Peo Chandler. 
 
eo 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Cajtto il 
 
 XV. 
 
 Cold is the heart, fair Greece ! that looks on thee, 
 Nor leels as lovers o'er the dust they loved ; 
 Dull is the eye that will not weep to see [ed 
 
 Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines remov- 
 By British hands, which it had best behooved 
 To guard those relics ne'er to be restored. 
 Cursed be the hour when from their isle they roved, 
 A.nd once again thy hapless bosom gored, 
 ^nd snatch'd thy shrinking Gods to northern climes 
 abhorr'd ! 
 
 XVI. 
 But where is Harold ? shall I then forget 
 To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave ? 
 Little reck'd he of all tliat men regret ; 
 No loved one now in feigu'd lament could rave; 
 No friend the parting hand extended gave. 
 Ere the cold stranger pass'd to other climes ; 
 Hard is his heart whom charms may not enslave ; 
 But Harold felt not as in other times, 
 4nd left without a sigh the land of war and crimes. 
 
 XVII. 
 He that has sail'd upon the dark blue sea 
 Has view'd at times, I ween, a full fair sight; 
 When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be. 
 The white sail set, the gallant frigate tight ; 
 Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right. 
 The glorious main expanding o'er the bow, 
 The convoy spread hke wild swans in their flight. 
 The dullest sailer wearing bravely now. 
 So gayly curl the waves before each dashing prow. 
 
 XVIII. 
 And oh, the little warlike world within ! 
 The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy,' 
 The hoarse command, the busy humming din. 
 When, at a word, the tops are maun'd on high : 
 Hark, to the boatswain's call, the cheering cry ! 
 While through the seaman's hand the tackle glides ; 
 Or schoolboy midshipman that, standing by. 
 Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides, 
 And well the docile crew that skillful urchin guides. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 White is the glassy deck, without a stain, 
 Wliere on the watch the staid lieutenant walks : 
 Look on that part which sacred doth remain 
 For the lone chieftain, who majestic stalks 
 Silent and fear'd by all — not oft he talks 
 With aught beneath him, if he would preserve 
 That strict restraint, which liroken, ever balks 
 Conquest and Fame : but Britons rarely swerve 
 From law, however stern, which tends their strength 
 to nerve. 
 
 * To prevent clocks or splinters from falling on deck during ac- 
 iuu. 
 
 XX. 
 Blow ! swiftly blow, thou keel-compelUng gale I 
 Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray • 
 Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail. 
 That lagging barks may make their lazy way. 
 Ah ! grievance sore, and hstless dull delay. 
 To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze ! 
 What leagues are lost before the dawn of day. 
 Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas, [these I 
 The flapping sail haul'd down to halt for logs like 
 
 XXI. 
 
 The moon is up ; by Heaven, a lovely eve ! 
 Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand; 
 Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe : 
 Such be our fate when we return to land 1 
 Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand 
 Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love ; 
 A circle there of merry listeners stand. 
 Or to some well-known measure featly move, 
 Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free *o rove 
 
 XXII. 
 Through Calpe's straits survey the steepy shore ; 
 Europe and Afric on each other gaze ! 
 Lands of the dark-eyed maid and dusky Moor 
 Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze : 
 How softly on the Spanish shore she plays, 
 Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown. 
 Distinct, though darkening with her waning phase: 
 But Mauritania's giant-shadows frown, [down. 
 From mountain-cUfF to coast descending sombre 
 
 XXIII. 
 'Tis night, when Meditation bids us feel 
 We once have loved, though love is at an end : 
 The heart, lone mourner of its baflled zeal. 
 Though friendless now, will dream it had a fiiend. 
 Who with the weight of years would wish to bend, 
 When Youth itself survives young Love and Joy! 
 Alas ! when mingling souls forget to blend, 
 De.ath hath but little left him to destroy ! [boy i 
 Ah ! happy years ! once more who would not be a 
 
 XXIV. 
 Thus bending o'er the vessel's Laving side. 
 To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere. 
 The soul forgets her schemes of hope and pride. 
 And flies unconscious o'er each backward year. 
 None are so desolate but something dear. 
 Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd 
 A thought, and claims the homage of a tear; 
 A flashing pang ! of which the weary breast 
 Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy hf art divest 
 
 XXV. 
 To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell. 
 To slowly trace the fr rest's shady scene. 
 
Canto il 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 Where things that own not man's dominion dwell. 
 And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been ; 
 To cUmb the trackless mountain aU unseen, 
 With the wild flock that never needs a fold ; 
 Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean ; 
 This is not solitude; 'tis but to hold [unroll'd. 
 Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores 
 
 XXVI. 
 But 'midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, 
 To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, 
 And roam along, the world's tired denizen, 
 With none who bless us, none whom we can bless ; 
 Minions of splendor shrinking from distress ! 
 None that, with kindred consciousness endued, 
 If we were not, would seem to smile the less 
 Of all that flatter'd, foUow'd, sought, and sued ; 
 This is to be alone ; this, this is solitude ! 
 
 XXVII. 
 More blest the life of godly eremite, 
 Such as on lonely Athos may be seen. 
 Watching at eve upon the giant height, 
 Which looks o'er waves so blue, skies so serene, 
 That he who there at such an hour hath been 
 Will wistful linger on that hallow'd spot; 
 Then slowly tear him from the witching scene, 
 Sigh forth one wish that such had been his lot, 
 flien turn to hate a world he had almost forgot. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 Pass we the long, unvarying course, the track 
 Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind ; 
 Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the tack, 
 And each well known caprice of wave and wind ; 
 Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors find, 
 Cooped in their winged sea-girt citadel ; 
 The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind, 
 As breezes rise and fall and billows swell, 
 I'ill on some jocund morn — lo, land ! and all is well. 
 
 XXIX. 
 But not in silence pass Calypso's isles, ' 
 The sister tenants of the middle deep ; 
 There for the weary still a haven smiles. 
 Though the fair goddess long hath ceased to weep 
 And o'er her cliffs a fruitless watch to keep 
 For him who dared prefer a mortal bride : 
 Here, too, his boy essay'd the dreadful leap 
 Stem ^Mentor urged from high to yonder tide ; 
 tSTuie thus of both bereft, the nymph-CLueen doubly 
 
 sigh'd. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone : 
 But trust not this ; too easy youth, beware I 
 A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous throne, 
 And thou mayst find a new Calypso there. 
 
 > Q- zs is eaid 'o bare been the Island of Calypeo. 
 
 Sweet Florence ! could another ever share 
 This wayward, loveless heart, it would be thine 
 But check'd by every tie, I may not dare 
 To cast a worthless ofiering at thy shrine. 
 Nor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for mine. 
 
 XXXI. 
 Thus Harold deem'd, as on that lady's eye 
 He look'd, and met its beam without a thought, >& 
 Save Admiration glancing harmless by : 
 Love kept aloof, albeit not far remote. 
 Who knew his votary often lost and caught, 
 But knew him as his worshipper no more, 
 And ne'er again the boy his bosom sought : 
 Since now he vainly urged him to adore, 
 WcU deem'd the little god his ancient sway waj 
 o'er. 
 
 XXXII. 
 Fair Florence found, in sooth with some amaze, 
 One who, 'twas said, still sigh'd to all he saw, 
 Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze. 
 Which others hail'd with real or mimic awe. 
 Their hope, their doom, their punishment, their law 
 All that gay Beauty from her bondsmen claims : 
 And much she marvell'd that a youth so raw 
 Nor felt, nor feign'd at least, the oft-told flames, 
 Which, though sometimes they frown, yet rarelj 
 anger dames. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 Little knew she that seeming marble heart. 
 Now mask'd in silence or withheld by pride. 
 Was not unskillful in the spoiler's art. 
 And spread its snares licentious far and wide ; 
 Nor from the base pursuit had tum'd aside, 
 As long as aught was worthy to pursue : 
 But Harold on such arts no more relied ; 
 And had he doted on those eyes so blue, 
 Tet never would he join the lovers' whining crew. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 Not much he kens, I ween, of woman's breast, 
 Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs ; 
 What careth she for hearts when once possess'd ! 
 Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes ; 
 But not too humbly, or she will despise 
 Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes ; 
 Disguise ev'n tenderness, if thou art wise ; 
 Brisk Confidence still best with woman copes ; & 
 Pique her and sooth in turn, soon Passion crowns 
 thy hopes. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 'Tis an old lesson ; Time approves it true. 
 And those who know it best, deplore it most ; 
 When all is won that all desire to woo, 
 The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost : 
 Youth wasted, minds degraded, honor lost, 
 
22 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Uanto n. 
 
 These are tuy fruits, successful Passion ! these I 
 If, kindly cruel, early Hope is cross'd, 
 Still to the last it raukles, a disease, 
 Not to be cured when love itself forgets to please. 
 
 XXXTI. 
 
 Away I nor let me loiter in my song, 
 For we have many a mountain-path to tread, 
 And many a varied aliorc to sail along. 
 By ijensive Sadness, not by Fiction, led — 
 Climes, fair withal as ever mortal head 
 Imagined in its little sche-mes of thought ; 
 Or e'er in new Utopias were read. 
 To teach man what he might be, or he ought : 
 If that corrupted thing could ever such be taught. 
 
 XXXTII. 
 Dear Nature is the kindest mother still, 
 Though alway changing, in her asjiect mild ; 
 From her bare bosom let me take my fill. 
 Her never-wean'd, though not her favor'd child. 
 Oh I she is fairest in her features wild, 
 Where nothing polish'd dares pollute her path : 
 To me by day or night she ever smiled. 
 Though I have mark'd her when none other hath, 
 And sought her more and more, and loved her best 
 in wrath. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 Land of Albania ! where Iskander rose, 
 Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise. 
 And he his namesake, whose oft^baffled foes 
 Shrunk from his deeds of chivalrous emprise : 
 Land of Albania ! let me bend mine eyes 
 On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men ! 
 The cross descends, thy minarets arise, 
 And the pale crescent sparkles in the glen, 
 I'hrough many a cypress grove within each city's ken. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 ^Childe Harold sail'd, and pass'd the barren spot 
 Where sad Penelope o"erlook'd t'ne wave ; ' 
 And onward view'd the mount, not yet forgot, 
 The lover's refuge, and the Lesbian's grave. 
 Dark Sappho ! could not verse immortal save 
 That breast imbued with such immortal fire ? 
 Could she not live who life eternal gave ? 
 If life eternal may await the lyre, [aspire, 
 
 rhat only Heaven to which Earth's children may 
 
 XL 
 'Twas on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve 
 Childe Harold hail'd Leucadia's cape afar ; ' 
 A spot he long'd to see, nor eared to leave : 
 Oft did he mark the scenes of vanish'd war. 
 
 1 Ithaca. 
 
 8 jcucadia, now Santa Maura. From Ihe promontory (the Lov- 
 w'b Leap) Sappb*^ *.» haid to nave thrown i-ersulf. 
 
 Actium, I/cpanto, fatal Trafalgar ;> 
 Mark them unmoved, for he would not delight 
 (Born beneath some remote ingiorioui star) 
 In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight, [wight 
 But loathed the bravo's trade, and laugh'd at m&rtia] 
 
 XLI. 
 But when he saw the evening star above 
 Leucadia's far-projecting rock of wo. 
 And hail'd the last resort of fruitless love, 
 He felt, or deem'd he felt, no common glow : 
 And as the stately vessel glided slow 
 Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount. 
 He watch'd the biUows' melancholy flow. 
 And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont. 
 More placid seem'd his eye, and smooth his pallid 
 front. 
 
 XLII. 
 Morn dawns ; and with it stem Albania's hills, 
 Dark Suli's rocks, and Pindus' inland peak, 
 Pobed halt' in mist, bedew'd with snowy rills, 
 Array'd in many a dun and purple streak. 
 Arise ; and, as the clouds along them break, 
 Disclose the dwelling of the mountaineer : 
 Here roams the wolf, the eagle whets his beak, 
 Birds, beasts of prey, and wilder men appear. 
 And gathering storms around convulse the closing 
 year. 
 
 XLIII. 
 Now Harold felt himself at length alone, 
 And bade to Christian tongues a long adieu ; 
 Now he adventured on a shore unknown, 
 Which all admire, but many dread to view : [few ; 
 His breast was arm'd 'gainst fixte, his wants were 
 Peril he sought not, but ne'er shrank to meet : 
 The scene was savage, but the scene was new ; 
 This made the ceaseless toil of travel sweet, [heat. 
 Beat back keen winter's blast, and welcomed summer's 
 
 XLIV. 
 Here the red cross, for still the cross is here, 
 Though sadly scofT'd at by the circumcised. 
 Forgets that pride to pamper'd priesthood dear j 
 Churchman and votary alike despised. 
 Foul Superstition ! howsoe'er disguised. 
 Idol, s.aint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross, 
 For whatsoever sjnnbol thou art jirized. 
 Thou sacerdotal gain, luit general loss I [dross t 
 Who from true worship's gold can separate thj 
 
 XLV. 
 Ambracia's gulf behold, where once was lost 
 A world for woman, lovely, harmless thing ' 
 
 8 ,\ctium and Traralj::Jir need no further mention. Tlie hattle of 
 Lepantt), equally bloody and considerable, hut less known, was 
 ] fought in the Gulf of Patras. Here the author of Don l^uixotelosl 
 I bis left band. 
 
T'EFPtJf? rOWV E.VH PPfrlPrK THr 
 
Casto II. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 23 
 
 In yonder rippling bay, their naval liost 
 Did many a Roman chiuf and Asian king' 
 To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter bring : 
 Look where the second Caesar's trophies rose !' 
 Now, like the hands that rear'd them, withering ; 
 Imperial anarchs, doubUng human woes 1 
 OoD ! was thy globe ordain'd for such to win and 
 lose ? 
 
 XLYl 
 From the dark barriers of that rugged clime, 
 Ev'n to the centre of lUyria's vales, 
 Childe Harold pass'd o'er many a mount sublime, 
 Through lands scarce noticed in liistoric tales ; 
 Yet in famed Attica such lovely dales 
 Are rarely seen ; nor can fair Tempe boast 
 A charm they know not ; loved Parnassus fails, 
 Though classic ground and consecrated most. 
 To match som.e spots that lurk within this lowering 
 coast. 
 
 XLVII. 
 He pass'd bleak Pindus, Acherusia's lake,' 
 And left the primal city of the land, 
 ;ind onwards did his further journey take 
 To greet Albania's' chief, whose dread command 
 Is lawless law ; for with a bloody hand 
 He sways a nation, turbulent and bold : 
 Yet here and there some daring mountain-band 
 Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold 
 nari their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold. ' 
 
 XLVUI. 
 Monastic Zitza \' from thy shady brow, 
 Thou small, but favor'd spot of holy ground ! 
 Where'er we gaze, around, above, below, 
 What rainbow tints, what magic charms are found ! 
 Rock, river, forest, mountain, all abound, 
 
 ' It i3 said, that, on tlie clay preWous to tlie bailie of Actium, 
 Antony had Ihirteen kings at his levee. 
 
 • Nicopolis, whose ruins are most extensive, is at some distance 
 fi-om Actium. where the waJ of the Hippodrome survives in a few 
 fragments. These mins are large masses of briclnvork, the bricks 
 of which are joined by interstices of mortar, as large as the bricks 
 themselves, and equally durable. 
 
 3 According to Pouqueville, the lake of Tanina : but PouqneviUe 
 is always out. 
 
 * The celebrated All Pacha. Of this extraordinary man there is 
 in incorrect account in Pouqueville's Travels. 
 
 '' Five thousand Suliotcs, among the rocks and in the castle of 
 Suli, withstood thirty thousand .\ibanians for eighteen years ; the 
 castle at last was taken by bribery. In this contest there were 
 several acts performed not unworthy of the better days of Greece. 
 
 ° The convent and village of Zitza are four hour's journey from 
 Joannina, or Yanina, the capital of the Pachalick. In the valley 
 the river Kalamas (once the .\cheron) Ilows, and, not far from Zit- 
 za, forms a fine cataract. The situation is perhaps the finest in 
 Greece, though the approach to Delvinachi and pans of .\carnania 
 and .^tolia may contest the palm. Delphi, Parnassus, and, in At- 
 tica, even Cape Colonna and Port Rapbti, are very inferior ; as also 
 ever} scene in Ionia, or the Troad : I am almost inclined to add 
 the approach to Constantinople ; but from the difi'erent features of j 
 lie luet, a comparison can hardly t>e made. I 
 
 And bluest skies that harmonize the whole : 
 Beneath, the distant torrent's rushing sound 
 TeUs where the volumed cataract doth roll [the souL 
 Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet please 
 
 XLIX. 
 Amidst the grove that crowns yon tufted hiU, 
 Which, were it not for many a mountain nigh 
 Rising in lofty ranks, and loftier still, 
 Might well itself be deem'd of dignity, 
 The convent's white walls gUsten fair on high : 
 Here dwells the caloyer,' nor rude is he, 
 jSTor niggard of his cheer ; the passer by 
 Is welcome still ; nor heedless will he flee 
 From hence, if he delight kind Nature's sheen to aeu 
 
 Here in the sultriest season let him rest. 
 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 I let him seize 
 Pure pleasure while he can ; the scorching ray 
 Here pierceth not, impregnate with disease : 
 Then let his length the loitering pilgrim lay. 
 And gaze, untired, the morn, the noon, the eve away 
 
 LI. 
 Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight, 
 Nature's volcanic amphitheatre," 
 Chimiura's alps extend from left to right : 
 Beneath, a living valley seems to stir ; [fii 
 
 Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the mountain 
 Nodding above ; behold black Acheron I' 
 Once consecrated to the sepulchre. 
 Pluto ! if this be heU I look upon, [for none. 
 
 Close shamed Elsyium's gates, my shade shall seek 
 
 LII. 
 Ne city's towers pollute the lovely view ; 
 Unseen is Yanina, though not remote, 
 Veil'd by the screen of hiUs : here men are few, 
 Scanty the hamlet, rare the lonely cot ; 
 But, peering down each precipice, the goat 
 Browseth ; and, pensive o'er his scatter'd flock. 
 The Uttle shepherd in his white capote'" 
 Doth lean his boyish form along the rock. 
 Or in his cave awaits the tempest's short-lived shock. 
 
 LIII. 
 Oh ! wliere, Dodona ! is thine aged grove, 
 Prophetic foimt, and oracle divine ? 
 What valley echoed the response of Jove ? 
 What trace remaineth of the Thunderer's shrine I 
 
 ' The Greek monks are so called. 
 
 " The Chimariot mountains appear to have been volcanic. 
 
 " Now called Kalamas, 
 
 '» Albanese cloak. 
 
24 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Cajtto n 
 
 All, all forgotten — and shall man repine 
 That 1113 frail bonds to il meting life are Ijrokc ? 
 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 beneath 
 the stroke ! 
 
 LIV. 
 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 die : 
 Ev'n 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, 
 i)r with the moonbeam sleep in midnight's solemn 
 trance. 
 
 LV. 
 The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit,' 
 And Laos wide and fierce came roaring by ;' 
 The shades of wonted night were gathering yet, 
 When, down the steep banks winding warily, 
 Childe Harold saw, like meteors in the sky. 
 The glittering minarets of Tepalen, [nigh, 
 
 Whose waUs o'erlook the stream ; and drawing 
 He heard the busy hum of warrior-men [glen. 
 Swelling the breeze that sigh'd along tlie lengthening 
 
 LVI. 
 He pass'd the sacred Harem's silent tower, 
 And underneath the wide o'erarching gate 
 Survey'd the dwelhng of this chief of power. 
 Where all around proclaim'd his high estate. 
 Amidst no common pomp the despot sate. 
 While busy preparation shook the court, 
 Slaves, eunuchs, soldiers, guests, and santons wait ; 
 Within, a palace, and without, a fort : 
 Here men of every cUme appear to make resort. 
 
 LVII. 
 Richly caparison'd, a ready row 
 Of armed horse, and many a warlike store. 
 Circled the wide-extending court below ; 
 Above, strange groups adorn'd the corridore ; 
 And ofttimes through the Area's echoing door, 
 Some high-capp'd Tartar spurr'd his steed away : 
 The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, and the Moor, 
 Here mingled in their many-hued array. 
 While the deep war-drum's sound announced the close 
 of day. 
 
 ' Anciently Mount TomaruB. 
 
 ' The river Laos was full at the time tlio author passed it ; and, 
 Immediately above Tepaleen, was to the eye as wide as the Thames 
 kt Westminster ; at least in the opinion of the author and his fol- 
 fow-traveller. In the summer it must he much narrower. It cer- 
 lainly is the flnost river m the Levant ; ueilher Achelous, Alpheus, 
 iclieron, Scamander, nor Cayater, approach it in breadth or beauty. 
 
 J.VIIL 
 The wild Albanian kirtled to his knee, 
 With shawl-girt head and ornamented gun, 
 And gold-em broider'd garments, fair to see : 
 The crimson-scarfed men of ilaeedon ; 
 The Delhi with his cap of terror on, 
 And crooked glaive ; the lively, supple Greek ; 
 And swarthy Nubia's mutilated son ; 
 The bearded Turk, that rarely deigns to speak, 
 Master of aU around, too potent to be meek, 
 
 LIX. 
 Are mix'd consjiicuous : some recline in groups, 
 Scanning the motley scene that varies round ; 
 There some grave Moslem to devotion stoops. 
 And some that smoke, and some that play, are found ; 
 Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground ; 
 Half-whispering there the Greek is hoard to prate ; 
 Hark I from the mosque the nightly solemn soimd, 
 The Muezzin's call doth shake the minaret, 
 " There is no god but God ! — to prayer — lo ! God ia 
 great !" 
 
 hX. 
 
 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 aU was bustle, and the menial train 
 F^repared and spread the plenteous board within ; 
 The vacant gallery now seem'd made in vain, 
 But from the chambers came the mingling din, 
 As page and slave anon were passing out and in. 
 
 LXI. 
 Here woman's voice is never heard : apart, 
 And scarce permitted, guarded, vcil'd, to move. 
 She yields to one her person and her heart, 
 Tamed to her cage, nor feels a wish to rove : 
 For, not unhappy in her master's love. 
 And joyful in a mother's gentlest cares, 
 Blest cares ! all other feeUngs fiir above 1 
 Herself more sweetly rears the babe she bears, 
 Who never quits the breast no meaner passioE 
 shares. 
 
 LXII. 
 In marble-paved pa^dlion, 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, [disgrace. 
 
 The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him with 
 
 s The vizier to Ali Paclia. 
 
Cajtto n. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 25 
 
 Lxni. 
 
 It is not tliat yon hoary lengthening beard 
 Til 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, 
 fji bloodier acts conclude th ose 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 Jloslem 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, 
 And Pleasure, leagued with Pomp, the zest of both 
 destroys. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Fierce are Albania's children, yet they lack 
 Not virtues, were those virtues more mature. 
 Wliere is the foe that ever saw their back ? 
 Who can so well the toil of war endure ? 
 Their native fastnesses not more secure 
 Than they in doubtful time of troublous need : 
 Their wrath how deadly ! but their friendship sure. 
 When Gratitude or Valor bids them bleed, 
 Unshaken rushing on where'er their chief may lead. 
 
 LXVl. 
 
 Childe Harold saw them in their chieftain's tower, 
 Thronging to war in splendor and success ; 
 And after view'd them, when, within their power. 
 Himself awhile the victim of distress ; 
 That saddening hour when liad men hotlier press : 
 But these did shelter him beneath their roof. 
 When less barbarians would have cheer'd him less, 
 And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof — ' 
 In aught that tries the heart how few withstand the 
 proof ! 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 It chanced that adverse winds once drove his bark 
 FuU 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, 
 Duljious to trust where treachery might lurk : 
 At length they ventured forth, though doubting sore 
 That those who loathe alike the Frank and Turk 
 5Iight once again renew their ancient butcher-work. 
 
 1 A JadiBg to 'he wrectera of Cornwall. 
 4 
 
 LXVIII. 
 Vain fear ! the Suliotes stretch'd the welcome hand, 
 Led them o'er rocks and past the dangerous swamp, 
 Kinder than polish'd slaves though not so bland, 
 And piled the hearth, and wrung their garment*) 
 
 damp. 
 And fiU'd the bowl, and trimm'd the cheerful lamp, 
 And spread their fare ; though homely, all they had ; 
 Such conduct bears Philanthropy's rare stamp- 
 To rest the weary and to soothe the sad. 
 Doth lesson happier men, and shames at least the bad. 
 
 LXIX. 
 It came to pass, that when he did address 
 Himself to quit at length this mountain-land. 
 Combined marauders, half-way, barr'd egress. 
 And wasted far and near with glaive and brand ; 
 And therefore did he take a trusty band 
 To traverse Acamania's forest wide. 
 In war well season'd, and with labors tann'd, 
 Till he did greet white Achelous' tide. 
 And from his further bank ^toUa's wolds espied. 
 
 LXX. 
 Where lone Utraikey forms its circling cove. 
 And weary waves retire to gleam at rest. 
 How brovni the foUage of the green hill's grove, 
 Nodding at midnight o'er the cahn bay's breast, 
 As winds come whispering lightly from the west, 
 Kissing, not r ufflin g, the blue deep's serene : 
 Here Harold was received a welcome guest ; 
 Nor did he pass unmoved the gentle scene, [glean. 
 For many a joy could he from Night's soft presence 
 
 LXXI. 
 On the smooth shore the night-fires brightly blazed, 
 The feast was done, the red wine circling fast.' 
 And he that unawares had there ygazed 
 With gaping wonderment had stared aghast ; 
 For ere night's midmost, stillest hom- was past, 
 The native revels of the troop began ; 
 Each Palikar^ his sabre from him cast. 
 And bounding hand in hand, man link'd to man 
 Yelling their uncouth dirge, long danced the kit- 
 tled clan. 
 
 LXXII. 
 Childe Harold at a little distance stood. 
 And view'd, but not displeased, the revelry, 
 Nor hated harmless mirth, however rude : 
 In sooth, it was no vulgar sight to see 
 Their barbarous, yet their not indecent, glee ; 
 And, as the flames along their faces gleam'd, 
 Their gestures nimble, dark eyes flashing free, 
 
 ' The Albanian Mussulmans do not abstain from wine, and, in- 
 deed, very few of the others. 
 
 ' Palil^ar, shortened when addressed to a single person lYom 
 Tla?u!caoL^ a general name for a soldier amongst the Greeka and 
 Albanese who speak Uomaic : it means, properly, " a lad." 
 
26 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 L/AaTO u, 
 
 The long wild locks that to their girdles stream'd 
 WTiile thus in concert they this lay half sung, half 
 scream'd : 
 
 1. 
 Gives hope to the viiUant, and promise of war ; 
 Tambourgi 1 Tambourgi ! ' thy larum afar 
 All the sons of the mountains arise at the note, 
 Chimariot, Illyrian, and dark Suliote !" 
 
 3. 
 
 OL ! v,lio is more brave than a dark Suliote, 
 In his sno\vy camesc and his shaggy capote ? 
 To the wolf and the vulture he leaves his wild flock, 
 Ajid descends to the plain like the stream from the 
 rock. 
 
 3. 
 Shall the sons of Chimari, who never forgive 
 The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live ? 
 Let those guns so unerring sucli vengeance forego ? 
 What mark is so fair as the breast of a foe ? 
 
 Macedonia sends forth her invincible race ; 
 For a time they abandon the cave and the chase : 
 But those scarfs of blood-red sliall be redder, before 
 The sabre is sheath'd and the buttle is o'er. 
 
 5. 
 Then the pirates of Parga that dwell by the waves, 
 And teach the pale Franks what it is to be slaves, 
 Shall leave on the beach the long galley and oar. 
 And track to his covert the captive on shore. 
 
 G. 
 
 I ask not the pleasures that riches supply. 
 My sabre shall win what the feeble must buy ; 
 Shall win the young bride with her long flowing hair, 
 And many a maid from her mother shaU tear. 
 
 7. 
 I love the fair face of the maid in her youth. 
 Her caresses shall lull me, her music shaU soothe ; 
 Let her liring from her chamber the many-toned lyre. 
 And sing us a sons on the fall of her sire. 
 
 Remember the moment when previsa feU 
 The shrieks of the conquer'd, the conquerors' yell ; 
 The roofs tliat we fired, and the plunder we shared. 
 The wealthy we slaughter'd, the lovely we spared. 
 
 9. 
 
 I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear ; 
 He neitlier must know who would serve the Vizier : 
 Since the days of niir propliet the Crescent ne'er saw 
 A chief ever glorious Uke All I'ashaw. 
 
 ' Drnminer. 
 
 ' These «tan::n3 are ()firtly taken from diff rmt Albanese gongs, 
 as far a9 I wa?* able to make tliem out by the exposition of the Al- 
 banese in Romaic and Italian. 
 
 8 It wan laksn by slonn fropi the French. 
 
 10. 
 
 Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped. 
 Let the yellow-hair'd* Giaours' view his horse-tail 
 with dread, ['"''D^^ 
 
 When his Delhis' come dashing in blood o'er tlie 
 How few shall escape from the Muscovite ranks ' 
 
 11. 
 SeUctar !• unsheath then our chief's scimitar : 
 Tambourgi ! thy larum gives promise of war. 
 Ye mountains, that see us descend to the shore, 
 Shall view us as victors, or view us no more 1 
 
 LXXIII. 
 Fair Greece ! sad relic of departed worth ! 
 Immortal, though no more ; though fallen, great : 
 Who now shall lead thy scatter'd children forth. 
 And long accustom'd bondage uncreate ? 
 Not such thy sons who whilome did await. 
 The hopeless warriors of a willing doom. 
 In bleak Thermopyke's sepulchral strait — 
 Oh I who that gallant spirit shall resume, 
 Leaj) from Eurotas' banks, and call thef from the tomb! 
 
 LXXIV. 
 Spirit of Freedom ! when on Phyle's brow 
 Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train, 
 Couldst thou forbode the dismal hour which bow 
 Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain ? 
 Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain. 
 But every carle can lord it o'er thy land ; 
 Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain, 
 Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand, 
 From birth till death enslaved ; in word, in deed, 
 unmann'd. 
 
 LXXV. 
 In all save form alone, how changed 1 and who 
 That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye, 
 Wlio but woukl deem their bosoms bum'd anew 
 With thy unquenched beam, lost Liberty I 
 And many dream withal the hour is nigh 
 Tliat gives them back their fathers' heritage : 
 For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh. 
 Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage, [page. 
 
 Or tear their name defiled from Slavery's mournful 
 
 LXXVI. 
 Hereditary bondsmen 1 know ye not 
 Who would be free themselves must strike the blow 1 
 By their right arms the conquest must be wrought 1 
 Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye ? no 1 
 
 * Yellow is the epithet given to the Russians 
 
 <■ IiiiWel. 
 
 " The insignia of a Pacha. 
 
 ' Horseman, answering to our forlorn hope. 
 
 ^ Sword-bearer. 
 
 ' rhyle, which commands a beantiftil yiew of Athens, has BtU 
 considerable remains ; it was seized by Thrasybulus, prerloas tc 
 the expulsion of the Thirty. 
 
Canto ii. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 27 
 
 True, thcT may lay your proud dcspoilers 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 stiU the same; 
 I'hy 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 ;' 
 Or Wahab's rebel brood, who dared divest 
 The prophet's- tomb of all its pious spoil, 
 May ^dnd their path of blood along the West ; 
 But ne'er will freedom seek this fated soil. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 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 joyaunce are decreed to all, 
 To take of pleasaunce each his secret share, 
 In motley robe to dance at masking ball, 
 And join the mimic train of merry Carnival. 
 
 LXXIX 
 And whose more rife with merriment than thine, 
 Oh Stambouj ! 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. 
 As woo'd the eye, and thriU'd the Bosphorus along. 
 
 LXXX. 
 Loud was the lightsome tumult on the shore, 
 Oft Music changed, but never ceased her tone, 
 And timely echo'd 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, 
 'Twas, as if darting from her heavenly throne, 
 A brighter glaLve her form reflected gave, [lave. 
 Till sparkling billt Vrs seem'd to light the banks they 
 
 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 
 
 > When taken Dy the Latins, and retained for several years. 
 ' Mecca and Medina were taken some time ago by the Wafaabces, 
 « sect yearly increasing. 
 
 Exchanged the look few bosoms may withstand, 
 Or gently press'd, return'd the pressure stiU : 
 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 
 
 LXXXII. 
 But, midst the throng in merry masquerade. 
 Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret pain, 
 Even through the closest scarment half betray'd ) 
 To such the gentle murmurs of the main 
 Seem to re-echo aU 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 1 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 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 aU 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 most; 
 Their birth, their blood, and that sublime record 
 Of hero sires, who shame thy now degenerated horde ! 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 When riseth Lacedsemon's hardihood, 
 When The'oes Epaminondas rears again. 
 When Athens' children are with hearts endued, 
 When Grecian mothers shall give birth to men, 
 Then mayst thou be restored ; but nut tiU 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 splendor renovate. 
 Recall its virtues back, and vanquish Time and Fate 1 
 
 LXXXV. 
 And yet how lovely in thine age of wo. 
 Land of lost gods and godlike men ! art thou 1 
 Thy vales of evergreen, thy hills of snow,^ 
 Proclaim thee Nature's varied favorite now ; 
 Thy fanes, thy temjiles to thy surface bow, 
 Commingling slowly with heroic earth. 
 Broke by the share of every rustic plough : 
 So perish monuments of mortal birth. 
 So perish aU in turn, save weU-recorded Worth ; 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 Save where some solitary column moums 
 Above its prostrate brethren of the cave ;•' 
 
 5 On many of the moiintainji. particularly Liaitura, the snownevei 
 is entirely melted, notwithstanding the intense heat of the summer 
 but I never saw it lie on the plains, even in winter. 
 
 ■* Of Mount Pentelicus. from whence the marble was dug that 
 constmcted the public edifices of Athens. The modem name is 
 Mount Mendeli. .\n immense cave, formed by ilie quarries, stUi 
 remains, and will till the end of time. 
 
OS 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto il 
 
 Save where Tritonia's airy shrine adorns 
 C'o!onna'3 cliff,' and gleams along the wave ; 
 Save o'er some warrior's half-lbrgotten grave 
 Wliere the gray stones and unmolested grass 
 Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave, 
 While strangers only not regardless pass, ["Alas 1" 
 Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and sigh 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 Tet are 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 honey'd 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 Mendeli's marbles glare ; 
 ^rt. Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still is fair. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 Where'er we tread 'tis haunted, holy ground ; 
 No earth of thine is lost in \-ulgar mould. 
 But one vast realm of wonder spreads around, 
 And all the Muse's tales seem truely told, 
 Till the sense aches with gazing to behold 
 The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon : 
 Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold 
 Defies the power which crush'd thy temples gone : 
 Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 The sun, the soil, bet not the slave, the same ; 
 Unchanged in all except its foreign lord — 
 
 » In allAttica, if we except Athens itself and Maratlion, there is 
 no scene more interesting than Cajje Colonna. To tlie antiquary 
 and artist, sixteen columns are an inexhaustible source of ohser- 
 val ion and design ; to the philosopher, the supposed sceue of some 
 of Plato's conversations will not be unwelcome ; and the traveller 
 will be struck with the beauty of the prospect over " Isles that 
 cro\^^l the J5gean deep ;" but, for an Englishman, Colonna has yet 
 au additional interest, as the actual spot of Falconer's Shipwreck ; 
 Pallas and Plato are forgotten, in the recollection of Falconor and 
 Campbell : — 
 
 " Here in the dead of nit^'ht by Lonna's steep, 
 The seaman's cry was heard along the deep." 
 This temple of Minerva may be seen at sea JVom a great distance. 
 In two journeys which I made, and one voyage to Cape Colonna, 
 the view from either side, by laiul, was less striking than the ap- 
 proach from the isles. In our second land excursion, we had a 
 narrow escape from a party of Mainotes, concealed in the caverns 
 beneath. Wc were told afterwards by one of their prisoners, sub- 
 sequently riinsomed, tiiat they were deterred from attacking us by 
 the appearance of my two Albanians ; conjecturing very sagacious- 
 ly, but falsely, that we had a complete guard of these Arnaouts at 
 band, they remained stationary, and thus saved our party, which 
 was too small to have opposed any eliectual resistance. Colonna 
 Is no less a resort of painters tlian of pirates ; there 
 " The hireling artist plants his paltry desk. 
 And makes degraded nature pictttresque." 
 
 (See nodgson's Lady Jane Grey, &c.) 
 But there Nature, with the aid of ,\rt, has done that for herself. I 
 was fortunate enough to engage a very superior German artist; 
 and hope to renew my acpifiintance with this and many other T.e- 
 pantiuc scenes, by thi arrival of his performances. 
 
 Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame 
 The battle-field, where Persia's victim horde 
 First bow'd beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword. 
 As on the morn to distant Glory dear. 
 When Marathon became a magic word;^ 
 Which utter'd, to the hearer's eye appear 
 The camji, the host, the fight, the conqueror's career 
 
 XC. 
 The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow ; 
 The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear ; 
 Mountains above. Earth's, Ocean's plain below ; 
 Death in the front. Destruction in the rear ! 
 Such was the scene — what now remaineth here ? 
 What sacred trophy marks the hallow'd ground, 
 Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear ? 
 The rifled urn, the violated mound, [around 
 
 The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger 1 spuml 
 
 XCI. 
 Yet to the remnants of thy splendor past 
 Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, throng ; 
 Long shall the voyager, with th' Ionian blast. 
 Hail the bright clime of battle and of song ; 
 Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue 
 Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore ; 
 Boast of the aged ! lesson of the young ! 
 Wliich sages venerate and bards adore. 
 As Pallas and the Muse unveil their a^vful lore. 
 
 XCII. 
 
 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 on congenial earth. 
 
 Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth ; 
 
 But he whom Sadness sootheth may abide, 
 
 And scarce regret the region of his birth. 
 
 When wandering slow by Delphi's sacred side. 
 
 Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian 
 
 died. 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 Let such approach this consecrated land. 
 
 And pass in peace along the magic waste : 
 
 But sjjare its relics — let no busy hand 
 
 Deface the scenes, already how defaced 1 
 
 Not for such purpose were these altars placed: 
 
 Revere the remnants nations once revered : 
 
 So may our country's name be undisgraced, 
 
 So mayst thou prosper where thy youth was rear'd, 
 
 By every honest joy of love and life endear'd 1 
 
 * " Slste Viator — heroa calcas I" was the epitaph on the famone 
 Count Mercl ; — what then must be our feelings when Mtauding on 
 the tumulus of the two hundred (Greeks! who fell on Marathon 1 
 The principal barrow has recently been opened by Fauvcl : few or 
 no relics, as vases, Ac, were found by the excavator. The plain 
 of Marathon was offered to me for sale at the sum of sixteen thou- 
 sand piastres, about nine hundred pounds. Alas I— "Expende— 
 qiiot tibras in duce summo — invenies 1''— was the dust of Miltl 
 ades worth no more? It could scarcely have fetched less if sold 
 by weight. 
 
Canto n. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 29 
 
 XCIV. 
 For thee, who thus in too protracted song 
 Hast sooth'd thine idlesse with inglorious lays, 
 Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the throng 
 Of louder minstrels in these later days : 
 To such resign the strife for fading bays — 
 111 may such content now the spirit move 
 Which heeds nor keen reproach nor partial praise ; 
 Since cold each kinder heart that might approve, 
 And none are left to please when none are left to 
 love. 
 
 xcv. 
 
 Tliou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one ! 
 Whom youth and youth's affections bound to me ; 
 Who did for me what none beside have done, 
 Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee. 
 What is my being ? thou hast ceased to be 1 
 Nor stay'd to welcome here thy wanderer home, 
 Who mourns o'er hours which we no moie shall 
 
 see — 
 Would they had never been, or were to come 1 
 Would he had ne'er retum'd to find fresh cause to 
 
 roam ! 
 
 XOVI. 
 Oh ! ever loving, lovely, and beloved ! 
 How selfish Sorrow ponders on the past. 
 And clings to thoughts now better far removed I 
 But Time shall tear thy shadow from me last 
 Ah thou couldst have of mine, stern Death ! thou 
 
 liast ; 
 The parent, friend, and now the more than friend : 
 Ne'er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast. 
 And grief with grief continuing still to blend. 
 Hath snatch'd the little joy that life had yet to 
 
 lend. 
 
 XCVII. 
 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 flagging spirit doubly weak ; 
 Still o'er the features, which perforce they cheer, 
 To feign the jjleasure or conceal the pique ; 
 Smiles form the channel of a future tear, 
 Dr raise the writhing lip with ill-dissembled sneer. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 Wliat is the worst of woes that wait on age ? 
 What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow ? 
 To view each loved one blotted from life's page, 
 And be alone on earth, as I am now. 
 Before the Chastener humbly let me bow. 
 O'er hearts divided and o'er hopes destroy 'd: 
 Roll on, vain days ! full reckless may ye flow, 
 Since Time hath reft whate'er my soul enjoy'd, 
 And with the ills of Eld mine earlier years alloy'd. 
 
 CIIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 " Afin que cette application vons for^At de pcn^er a a-jtre choRe ; 
 il n'y a en vcrite de remede qne celui-la et ie temps." — LettTe dtl 
 Soi de Prusee d D'Atemiert, Sept. 7, ItTB. 
 
 CANTO THE "JUIRD. 
 
 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. — • 
 
 Awaking with a start. 
 The waters heave around me ; and on high 
 The winds lift up their voices : I depart, 
 Whither I know not ; but the hour's gone by, 
 When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad 
 mine eye. 
 
 II. 
 Once more upon the waters ! yet once more I 
 And the waves bound beneath me as a steed 
 That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar 1 
 Swift be their guidance, whereso'er it lead 1 
 Though the strain'd mast should quiver as a reed, 
 And the rent canvass fluttering strew the gale, 
 Still must I on ; for I am as a weed. 
 Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail 
 Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath 
 prevail. 
 
 III. 
 In my youth's summer I did sing of one, 
 The wandering outlaw of his ovrn dark mind : 
 Again to seize the theme, then but begun. 
 And bear it with me, as the rushing wind 
 Bears the cloud onwards : in that tale 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 ap 
 pears. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Since my young days of passion— joy, or pain, 
 Perchance my heart and harjj 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 
 Forgetfulness around me — it shall seem 
 To me, though to none else, a not ungratitfnJ 
 theme. 
 
30 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto ii. 
 
 V. 
 He, wlio grown aged iu tlri wnrld of woe, 
 In deeds, not years, piercing tlie dej)ths of life, 
 So tliat no won<ler waits him ; nor liclow 
 Can love, or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife. 
 Cut to his heart again with the keen knife 
 Of silent, sharp endurance : he can tell 
 TVliy thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife 
 With »iry images, and shapes which dwell 
 Btill unimpair'd, though old, in the soul's haunted celL 
 
 VI 
 'Tis to create, and in creating 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, blended with thy birth, 
 A.nd feeling still with thee in my cmsh'd feelings' 
 dearth. 
 
 vir. 
 Yet must I think less wildly : — I hriTc thought 
 Too long and darkly, till my brain became, 
 In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought, 
 A whirling gulf of jjhantasy and flame: 
 And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame, 
 My springs of life were poison'd. 'Tis too late I 
 Yet am I changed ; though still enough the same 
 In strength to bear what time cannot abate. 
 And feed on bitter fniits without accusing Fate. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Something too much of this : — but now 'tis past, 
 And the spell closes with its silent seal. 
 Long absent H.A.ROLD reappears at last ; 
 He of the breast which fain no more would feel. 
 Wrung with the wounds which Idll not, but ne'er 
 Yet Time, who changes all, had alter'd him [heal ; 
 In soul and aspect as in age, years steal 
 Fire from the mind as vigor from the limb : 
 And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim. 
 
 IX. 
 His had been quaff'd too quickly, and he found 
 The dregs were wormwood ; but he fill'd again, 
 And from a purer fount, on liolier ground. 
 And dcem'd its spring perpetual ; but in vain. 
 Still rounil him clung in\isil)ly a chain 
 Wliich gall'd forever, fettering though unseen, 
 And lieavy though it elank'd not ; worn with pain. 
 Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen, 
 Kntering with every step he took through many a 
 scene. 
 
 X. 
 Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix'tl 
 Again in fancied safety with his kind, 
 
 And deem'd his spirit now so firmly fix'd 
 And shcath'd 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 
 Fit speculation ; such as in strange land [hand. 
 He found in wonder-works of God and Nature's 
 
 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 cheek, 
 Nor feel the heart can never all grow old ? [fbld 
 Wlio can contemplate Fame through clouds un- 
 The star which rises o'er her steep, nor climb ? 
 Harold, once more within the vortex, roU'd 
 On with the giddy circle, chasing Time, [prime. 
 Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's fond 
 
 XII. 
 But 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 quell'd 
 In youth by his own thoughts ; still uncompell'd 
 He would not yield dominion of his mind 
 To spirits against whom his own rebell'd ; 
 Proud though in desolation ; which could find 
 A life within itself, to breathe without mankiud. 
 
 XIII. 
 Where rose the mountains, there to him wera 
 
 friends ; 
 Wliere roll'd the ocean, thereon was his home ; 
 Wliere a blue sky, and glowing cUme, extends, 
 He had the passion and the power to roam ; 
 The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam. 
 Were unto him companionship ; they spake 
 A mutual language, clearer than the tome 
 Of his land's tongue, which he woulil oft forsake 
 For Nature's pages glass'd by sunbeams on the lake 
 
 XIV. 
 Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars, 
 Till he had peopled them with beings bright 
 As their own beams ; and earth, and earth-borr 
 And human frailties, were forgotten quite : [jars 
 Could he have kept his spirit to that flight 
 He had been luippy ; but this clay will sink 
 Its spark immortal, envying it the fight 
 To which it mounts, as if to break the link [brink 
 That keeps us from yon heaven which woos us ia iti 
 
 XV. 
 
 But in Man's dwellings he became a thing 
 Restless and worn, and stem and wearisome 
 Droop'd as a wild-born falcon with clipp'd wing, 
 To vhom the boundless air alone were home 
 
Cat^to ni. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGR1:NJ A.GE. 
 
 31 
 
 Then came his fit again, which to o'ercome, 
 As eagerly the barr'd-up bird will beat 
 His breast and beak against his wiry dome 
 Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat 
 Of his impeded soul would through Ms bosom eat. 
 
 XTI. 
 Self-exiled Harold wanders forth again. 
 With naught of hope left, but with less of gloom ; 
 The very knowledge that he lived in rain. 
 That all was over on this side the tomb. 
 Had made Despair a smilingness assume, [wreck 
 ■\Vliich, though 'twere wild, — as on the plunder'd 
 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 Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below ! 
 Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust ? 
 Nor column tropliied for triumphal show ? 
 None ; but the moral's truth tells simpler so, 
 As the ground was before, thus let it be ; — 
 How that red rain hath made the harvest grow ! 
 And is this all the world has gained by thee, 
 Thou first and last of fields ! king-making Victory ? 
 
 XVin. 
 And Harold stands upon this place of skuUs, 
 The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo ! 
 How in an hour the power which gave annuls 
 Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too I 
 In "pride of place"' here last the eagle flew. 
 Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain, 
 Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through ; 
 Ambition's life and labors all were vain ; [chain. 
 He wears the shatter'd links of the world's broken 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Fit retribution ! Gaul may champ the bit 
 And foam in fetters ; — but is Earth more free ? 
 Did nations combat to make One submit ; 
 Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty ? 
 Wliat ! shall reviving Thraldom again be 
 The patch'd-up idol of enlighten'd days ? 
 Sha.l we, who struck the Lion down, shall we 
 Pay the Woif homage ? profiering lowly gaze 
 Vnd servile knees to thrones ? No ; j/roce before ye 
 praise ! 
 
 XX. 
 
 [f not, o'er one fallen despot boast no more I 
 In vain fair cheeks were furrow'd with hot tears 
 For Europe's flowei-s long rooted up before 
 The trampler of her vineyards ; in vain years 
 
 1 *' Pride of place " is a term of falconry, and mean? the highest 
 pitch of flight. See Macbeth, etc. 
 
 "An eagle towering in hia pride of place," etc. 
 
 Of death, depopulatjon, bondage, fears, 
 Have all been borne, tad broken by the accord 
 Of roused-uj) millions • all that most endears 
 Glory, is when the myrt'e wreathes a sword 
 Such as Harmodius^ drew on Athens' tjrant lord. 
 
 XXI. 
 There was a sound of revelry hy night. 
 And Belgium's capital had g^tiier'd then 
 Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright 
 The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men 
 A thousand hearts beat happily : and when 
 !Music arose with its voluptuous swell. 
 Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again. 
 And all went merry as a marriage-b'iU : = [knell ! 
 But hush ! hark ! a deep soimd strikes Ukp a rising 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Did ye not hear it ? — No ; 'twas but thn -onud. 
 Or the car rattling o'er the stony street ; 
 On with the dance ! let joy be unconfined ; 
 No sleep till mom, when Youth and Pleasure- tueel 
 To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet — 
 But hark ! — that heavy sound breaks in once ra<»''v. 
 As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 
 And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! 
 Arm J arm ! it is — it is — the cannon's opening roat 
 
 XXIII. 
 Witliin a window'd niche of that high haO 
 Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did he.ar 
 That sound the first amidst the festival. 
 And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear ; 
 And when they smiled because he deem'd it near, 
 His heart more truly knew that peal too well 
 Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier, 
 And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: 
 He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, felL 
 
 XXIV. 
 Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
 And gathering tears, and trembling of distress, 
 And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
 Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness ; 
 And there were sudden partings, such as press 
 The life from out young hearts, and choking sigha 
 Which ne'er might be repeated ; who could guess 
 If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 
 Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could 
 rise ! 
 
 XXV. 
 And there was mounting in hot haste : the steed, 
 The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 
 
 3 See the famons song on Harmodiu? and Aristojriton. The boat 
 English translation is in Bland's Anthologj', by Mr. (now Lord 
 Chief Justice) Denman : 
 
 " With myrtle my sword wiE I wreathe," etc. 
 
 8 On the night prevlons to the action, it Is said that a ball wae 
 given at Bmssels. 
 
82 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto m 
 
 Went pouring forward ivith impetuous speed, 
 An() swiftly forming in the ranks of war ; 
 An ■ the deep thunder peal on peal afar ; 
 And near, the beat of the alarming drimi 
 Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ; 
 Wliile throng'd the citizens with terror dumb. 
 Or whispering, with white lips — " The foe 1 They 
 come 1 they come !"' 
 
 XXVI. 
 And wild and high tlie " Cameron's gathering " 
 
 rose ! 
 The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's bills 
 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-j^ipe, so fill the mountaineers 
 With the fierce native daring which instils 
 The stirring memory of a thousand years. 
 And Evan's, Donald's' fame rings in each elans- 
 man's ears 1 
 
 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. 
 Over the unretuming lirave, — alas I 
 Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
 Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 
 (n its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
 Of living valor, rolling on the foe, [low. 
 
 * id burning with high hojse, shall moulder cold and 
 
 xxvni. 
 Last noon beheld them full of lusty life. 
 Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay. 
 The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, 
 The morn the marshalling in arms, — the day 
 Battle's magnificently-stern array ! 
 The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent 
 The earth is cover'd thick with other clay, 
 Wliich her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, 
 Rider and horse, — friend, foe, — in one red burial 
 blent ! 
 
 XXIX. 
 Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than mine ; 
 Yet one I would select from that proud throng 
 Partly because they blend me with his line. 
 And partly that I did his sire some ^Tong, 
 And partly that bright names will hallow song ; 
 
 * Sir Evan Cameron and his descendant Donald, the "gentle 
 I or.hiel ' of the " Ibrly-flve." 
 
 ' The wood of Soi^tiies is supposed to he a remnant of the forest 
 yf .\r<'.cunes, fiuunus in Roiardo's Orlando, and immortal in Shak- 
 Bjitsare's " As you lil<e it." It ii* also celebi-atcd in Tacitus, as bein!;,' 
 the ■••pot of successful defence by the Germans against tlte Roman 
 enero.iclnnents. I have ventured to adopt the name connected 
 with nobler aspociaious than those of mere slfl-iErUter, 
 
 And his was of the bravest, and when shower'c 
 The death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files along. 
 Even where the thickest of war's tempest lower'o, 
 They reach'd no nobler breast than thine, young, 
 gallant Howard ! 
 
 XXX. 
 There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee, 
 And mine were nothing, had I such to give ; 
 But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree, 
 Which living waves wliere thou didst cease to live, 
 And saw around me the wide field revive 
 With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring 
 Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, 
 With all her reckless birds upon the wing, [bring.' 
 I turn'd from all she brought, to those she could not 
 
 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 trach 
 Forgetfulncss were mercy for their sake , 
 The Archangel's trump, not Glory's, must awake 
 Those whom they thirst for, though the sound of 
 
 Fame 
 May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake 
 The fever of vain longing, and the name 
 So houor'd but asstimes a stronger, bitterer claim. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 They mourn, but smile at length ; and, smiling, 
 
 mourn : 
 The tree will wither long before it fall ; 
 The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn, 
 The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall 
 In massy hoariness ; the ruin'd wall 
 Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone; 
 The bars survive the captive they inthral ; [sun 
 The day drags through though storms keep out the 
 And thus the heart wiU break, yet brokenly live on ; 
 
 3 My guide from Mont St. Jean over the field seemed intelligent 
 and accurate. The place where Major Howard fell was not far 
 from two tall and solitary trees, {there was a third, cut down, or 
 shivered in the battle.) which stand a few yards from each other at 
 a pathway's side. Beneath these he died and was buried. The 
 body has since been removed to Eni,'land. A small hollow for the 
 present marks where it lay, but will probably soon be eflaced ; the 
 plough has been upon it, and the grain is. After pointing out the 
 ditferent spots where Picton and other gallant men had perished, 
 the guide said, " Here Major Howard lay : I was near him when 
 wounded." I told bun my relationship, and he seemed then still 
 more anxious to point out the particular spot and circ'.imstances. 
 The place is one of the most markixl in the field. IVoni the pecnlt- 
 arlly of the two trees above mentit>ued. I went on horseback 
 twice over the field, comparing it with my recollection of similar 
 scenes. As a plain, Waterloo seems marked out for the scene of 
 some great action, though this may be mere imagination : I have 
 viewed with attention those of I'hitea, Troy, Mantinea. Leuctra, 
 Cha?ronea and Maratlion ; and the field around Mont St. Jean and 
 Houiroimiout ap])eflrs to want little but a bcttei- cause, and that 
 undertnable but impressive halo which the lapse of ages throws 
 around a celebrated spot, to vie in interest with any or all of thesa 
 except, perhaps, the last mentioned. 
 
YOUR BWDOE OF SIOIIS TOUB aTRAKOI.ISO CKAKDEB AND 
 TOUR TORTinilSG OfSTRimEWrS IIAVK MAOE IE 8EEU 
 ?HE BEINGS OP AKOTHEB .MID WORSE WORLD' (.,„|,, „ , 
 
CiNTO III. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 33 
 
 XXXIII. 
 Even as a broken mirror, which the glass 
 In every fragment multiplies ; and makes 
 A thousand images of one that was, 
 The same, aud still the more, the more it breaks ; 
 And thus tlie heart will do wliich not forsakes, 
 Living in shatter'd guise, and still, and cold, 
 And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches. 
 Yet withers on till all without is old, 
 Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 There is a very life in our despair, 
 VitaUty of poison, — a quick root 
 Wliich feeds these deadly branches ; for it were 
 As nothing did ye die ; but Life wiU suit 
 Itself to Sorrow's most detested fi'uit. 
 Like to the apples' on the 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 name 
 threescore ? 
 
 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 fleeting span. 
 More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo ! 
 Millions of tongues record thee, and anew 
 Their children's lips shall echo them, and say^ 
 " Here, where the sword united nations drew. 
 Our countrymen were warring on that day 1" 
 h ad t'uis is much, and all which will not pass away. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men. 
 Whose spirit antithetically mis'd 
 One moment of the mightiest, and again 
 On little objects with like firmness fix'd. 
 Extreme in all things ! hadst thou been betwixt, 
 Thy throne had stiU been thine, or never been ; 
 For daring made thy rise as faU : thou seek'st 
 Even now to reassume the imperial mien. 
 And shake again the world, the Thunderer of the 
 scene ! 
 
 XXXVII. 
 Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou 1 
 She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name 
 Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds than now 
 That thou art nothing, save the jest of Fame, 
 Wlio 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 astoimded kingdoms all inert, 
 Wlio deem'd t hee for a time whate'er thou didst assert. 
 
 ' The (faWofl ) upplea on the brink of the lake Apphaltes were said 
 X) be fiiir without, and, within, ashes. Vide Tacjtas, Hist. lib. t. 7. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 Oh, more or less than man — in high or low. 
 Battling with nations, flying from the field , 
 Now making monarchs' necks thy footstool, now 
 More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield : 
 An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild, 
 But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor. 
 However deeply in men's spirits skiU'd, 
 Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war. 
 Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest star. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 Yet well thy soul hath brook'd the turning tide 
 With that untaught innate philosophy. 
 Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride. 
 Is gaU and wormwood to an enemy. 
 When the whole host of hatred stood hard by. 
 To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast 
 With a sedate and all-enduring eye ; — [smiled, 
 WTien Fortune fled her spoil'd and favorite child. 
 He stood unbow'd beneath the iUs upon him piled. 
 
 XL. 
 Sager than in thy fortunes ; for in them 
 Ambition steel'd thee on too far to show 
 That just habitual scorn, which could contemn 
 Men and their thoughts ; 'twas wise to feel, not so 
 To wear it ever on thy lip and brow. 
 And spurn the instruments thou wert to use 
 TiU they were tum'd imto thine overthrow ; 
 'Tis but a worthless world to win or lose ; 
 So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who choose. 
 
 XLI. 
 If, like a tower upon a headlong rock. 
 Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone. 
 Such scorn of man had help'd to brave the shock ; 
 But men's thoughts were the steps wliich paved 
 
 thy throne. 
 Their admiration thy best weapon shone ; 
 The part of Philip's son was thine, not then 
 (Unless aside thy purple had been thrown) 
 Like stem Diogenes to mock at men ; 
 For sceptred cynics earth were far to wide a den.* 
 
 XLII. 
 But quiet to quick bosoms is a heU, 
 And there hath been thy bane ; there is a fire 
 And motion of the soul which will not dwell 
 In its own narrow being, but aspire 
 
 2 The great error of Napoleon, " if we liave writ our annals tiae," 
 was a continued obtrusion on mankind of his want of ail commu- 
 nity of feeling fur or with them ; perhaps more offensive to human 
 Tanity than the active cruelty of more trembling aud suspicious 
 tyranny. Such were his speeches to public assemblies as well as 
 individuals ; and the sinj,'le expression which he is said to Imvfl 
 need on returning to I'aris after the Russian winter had destroyed 
 uis army, rubbing hi* hands over a Ore, "This is pleasanter than 
 Moscow." would probably alienate more favor from his cause thau 
 the destruction and reverses which led to the remark. 
 
84 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto nt 
 
 Beyond the fitting medium of desire ; 
 And, but once kindled, queiicliless evermore, 
 Preys upon higli adventure, nor can tire 
 Of aught but rest ; a fever at the core. 
 Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. 
 
 XIJII. 
 This makes the madmen who have made men mad 
 By their contagion ; Conquerors and Kings, 
 Founders of sects and systems, to whom add 
 Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things 
 Which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs. 
 And are themselves the fools to those they fool ; 
 Envied, yet how unenviable ! what stings 
 Are theirs ! One breast laid open were a school 
 
 WTiich would unteach mankind the lust to shine or 
 rule : 
 
 XLIT. 
 Their breath is agitation, and their life 
 A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last 
 And yet bo nursed and bigoted to strife. 
 That should their days^ surviving perils past. 
 Melt to calm tvdlight, they feel overcast 
 With sorrow and su])ineness, and so die ; 
 Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste 
 With its own flickering, or a sword laid by, 
 
 Wliich eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously. 
 
 XLV. 
 He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find 
 The loftiest peaks most wrapp'd in clouds and 
 He who surpasses or subdues mankind, [snow ; 
 Must look down on the hate of those below. 
 Though high ahore the sun of glory glow. 
 And far hencath the earth and ocean spread, 
 Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow 
 Contending tempests on his naked head, [led. 
 And thus reward the toils which to those summits 
 
 XLVI. 
 Away with these I true Wisdom's world will be 
 Within its own creation, or in thine. 
 Maternal Nature ! for who teems like thee. 
 Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine ? 
 There Harold gazes on a work divine, 
 A blending of aU beauties ; streams and dells, 
 Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, cornfield, mountain, 
 
 vine. 
 And chiefless castles breathing stern far? ivells 
 From gray but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly 
 
 dwells. 
 
 XI.VII. 
 And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind, 
 Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd. 
 All tenantless, save to the crannying wind. 
 Or holding dark communion with the cloud. 
 There was a day when they were young and 
 
 proud, 
 
 Banners on high, and battles pasa'd below ; 
 But they who fought are in a bloody shroud. 
 And those which waved are shredless dust ere now 
 And the bleak battlements shall bear no future blow 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 Beneath these battlements, within those walls. 
 Power dwelt amidst her passions ; in proud 3tat« 
 Each robber chief upheld his armed halls. 
 Doing his evil will, nor less elate 
 Th.an mightier heroes of a longer date. 
 Wliat want these outlaws' conquerors should have 
 But History's purchased page to call them great I 
 A wider space, an ornamented grave ? [as brave. 
 Their hopes were not less warm, their souls witc full 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 In their baronial feuds and single fields, 
 Wliat deeds of prowess unrecorded died ! 
 And Love, which lent a blazon to their shields. 
 With emblems well devised by amorous pride. 
 Through al! the mail of iron hearts would glide ; 
 But still their flame was fierceness, and drew on 
 Keen contest and destruction near allied. 
 And many a tower for some fair mischief won. 
 Saw the discolor'd Rhine beneath its ruin run. 
 
 L. 
 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 mo 
 Even 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 r.ay ; 
 But o'er the blacken'd memory's blighting dream 
 Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as they 
 seem. 
 
 LTI. 
 Thus Harold inly said, and pass'd along, 
 Yet not insensilily to all which here 
 Awoke the jocund birds to early song 
 In glens which might have made even exile dew 
 
 ' " What wants that knave that a king shonld have f" was King 
 dames' question on meeting .Johnny Armstrong and his foliowe** 
 in full accoutrements. — See the Ballad. 
 
Canto in. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 35 
 
 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, 
 
 rtut o'er it in such scenes would steal with transient 
 trace. 
 
 LIII. 
 Nor was all love shut from him, though his days 
 Of passion had consumed themselves to dust. 
 It is in vain that we would coldly gaze 
 On such as smile upon us ; the heart must 
 Leap kindly back to kindness, though disgust 
 Hath wean'd it from all worldlings : thus he felt, 
 For there was soft remembrance, and sweet trust 
 In one fond breast, to which his own would melt, 
 
 And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt 
 
 LIT. 
 And he had leam'd to love, — I know not why. 
 For this in such as him seems strange of mood, — 
 The helpless looks of blooming infancy. 
 Even in its earliest nurture ; what subdued. 
 To change like this, a mind so far imbued 
 With scorn of man, it little boots to know ; 
 But thus it was ; and though in solitude 
 Small power the nipp'd aflections have to grow. 
 
 In him this glow'd when all beside had ceased to 
 glow. 
 
 LV. 
 And there was one soft breast, as nath oeen said. 
 Which unto his was bound by stronger ties [wed. 
 Than the church hnks withal ; and, though un- 
 Thnt love was pure, and, far above disguise. 
 Had stood the test of mortal enmities 
 Still undivided, and cemented more 
 By peril, dreaded most in female eyes ; 
 But this was firm, and from a foreign shore [pour ! 
 
 Well to that heart might his these absent greetings 
 
 1. 
 The castled crag of Drachenfels ' 
 Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, 
 Whose breast of waters broadly swells 
 Between the banks which bear the vine. 
 And hills all rich with blossom'd trees. 
 And fields which promise corn and wine, 
 And scattei'd cities crowning these. 
 Whose far "ivhite walls along them shine. 
 
 ^ The castle of Drachenfels stands on the highest sammit of 
 '* The Seven Mountains," over the Rhine banks ; it is in ming, 
 md cunnected with some singular traditions : it is the first in 
 Tiew on the road from Bonn, but on the opposite side of the 
 river ; on this hank, nearly facing it, are tiie remains of another, 
 called the Jew's Castle, and a large cross commemorative of the 
 murder of a chief by his brother. The number of castles and 
 cities along the course of the Rhine on both sides is very great, 
 ind their situation remarkably beautiful. [These verses were 
 written on the banks of the Rhine, in May. They were addressed 
 4) his sister.l 
 
 Have strew'd a scene, which I should see 
 With double joy wert thou with me. 
 
 2 
 And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes. 
 And hands which offer early flowers. 
 Walk smiling o'er this paradise ; 
 Above, the frequent feudal towers 
 Through green leaves lift their walls of gray, 
 And many a rock which steeply lowers. 
 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 ! 
 
 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 ofler'd from my heart to thine. 
 
 4. 
 The river nobly foams and flows. 
 The charm of this enchanted ground. 
 And all its thousand turns disclose 
 Some fresher beauty varying round : 
 The haughtiest breast its wish might bound 
 Through life to dwell delighted here ; 
 Nor could on earth a spot be found 
 To nature and to me so dear. 
 Could thy dear eyes in following mine 
 Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine ! 
 
 LVI. 
 By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground. 
 There is a smaU and simple pyramid. 
 Crowning the summit of the verdant mound 
 Beneath its base are heroes' ashes hid, 
 Our enemy's, — but let not that forbid 
 Honor to Marceau I o'er whose early tomb [lid, 
 Tsars, big tears, gush'd from the rough soldier's 
 Lamenting and yet envying such a doom, [sume. 
 Falling for France, whose rights he battled to re- 
 
 LVII. 
 Brief, brave, and glorious was his young career,— 
 His mourners were two hosts, his friends and foes 
 And fitly may the stranger lingering here 
 Pray for his gallant spirit's bright repose ; 
 For he was Freedom's champion, one of those, 
 The few in number, who had not o'erstepp'd, 
 The charter to chastise which sb t bestows 
 
36 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Cavto n\ 
 
 On such as ■wield her weapons ; he had kept 
 The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him 
 wept.' 
 
 LTIII. 
 Here Ehrenbreitstein,^ with he» shatter'd wall 
 Black with the miner's blast, Ujaju her height 
 Yet shows of what she was, when s!itll and ball 
 Rebounding idly on her strength did light : 
 A tower of victory ! from whence the flight 
 Of baffled foes was watch'd along the plain : 
 But Peace destroy'd what War could never blight. 
 And laid those proud roofs bare to summer's rain, 
 u which the iron sho^\cr for years had pour'd in 
 vain. 
 
 LIX. 
 Adieu to thee, fair Rhine ! How long delighted 
 The stranger fain would linger on his way ! 
 Thine is a scene alike where souls united 
 Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray ; 
 And could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey 
 On self-condemning bosoms, it were here, 
 ■^niere Nature, nor (oo sombre, nor too gay, 
 Wild )jut not rude, awful yet not austere, 
 [s to the mellow Earth as autumn to the year. 
 
 LX. 
 Adieu to thee again ! a vain adieu ! 
 There can be no farewell to scene like thine ; 
 The mind is color'd by thy every hue ; 
 And if reluctantly the eyes resign 
 Their cherish'd gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine I 
 'Tis with the thankful glance of parting praise ; 
 More mighty spots may rise — more glaring shine. 
 But none unite in one attaching maze 
 The brilliant, fair, and soft, — the glories of old days. 
 
 1 The monument of the yonn? and lamented Oenoral Marceau 
 (killed by a riflo-hall at Alterkirchen, on Ihe last day ol" the fourth 
 year of the French Rcpublie) still remains as described. The in- 
 ecriptions on his monument are rather too long, a7id not required ; 
 his name was enoujrh ; France adored, and her enemies admired ; 
 both wept over him. nis funeral was attended by the generals 
 and detachments from both armies. In the same grave General 
 Hoche is interred, a gallant man also in every sense of the word : 
 bnt though ho distinguished himself greatly in battle, he had not 
 the good fortune to die there : his death was atteiulcd by suspic- 
 ions of poison. A separate monument (not o^-er his body, which 
 Is buried by Marceau's) is raised for hira near Andernacli, oppo- 
 Bite to which one of his most memorable exploits was performed. 
 Id thromng a bridge to an island on the Rhine. The shape and 
 style are difterenv IVom that of Marceau's, and the inscription 
 Diore simple and pleasing : " The Army of the Sambre and Mense 
 to its Commander-in-Chief Iloclie." This is all, and as it should 
 be. ITf^iche was esteemed among the first of France's earlier gen- 
 erals, before Bonaparte monopolized her triumphs. He was the 
 destined commander of the invading anny of Tnsland. 
 
 ^ Ehrcnhreitstein, i. c. "the broad stone of honor," one of the 
 strongest fortresses in Europe, was dismantled and blown np by 
 the French at the truce of Leoben. It had been, and could only 
 be, reduced by famine or treachery. It yielded to Ihe former, 
 Rlded by surprise. After htiving seen the fortifications of tiihral- 
 Uir and MaltA, it did not much strike by comparison ; but the 
 
 LXI. 
 The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom 
 Of coming ripeness, the white city's sheen. 
 The rolling stream, the precipice's gloom. 
 The forest's growth, and Gothic w-alls between, 
 The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been 
 In mockery of man's art ; and these withal 
 A race of faces happy as the scene, 
 Whose fertile bounties here extend to all, 
 StOl springing o'er thy banks, though Empires neai 
 them faU. 
 
 LXII. 
 But these recede. Above me are the Alps, 
 The palaces of Nature, whose vast wahs 
 Have pinnacled in cloud? their snowy scalps, 
 And tlironed Eternity in icy halls 
 Of cold sublimity, where forms and fiiUs 
 The avalanch — the thunderbolt of snow ! 
 All that expands the spirit, yet appals. 
 Gather around these summits, as to show [below. 
 How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man 
 
 LXIII. 
 But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan. 
 There is a spot should not be pass'd in vain, — 
 Morat ! the proud, the patriot field ! where man 
 May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain. 
 Nor blush for those who conqucr'd on that plain ; 
 Here Burgundy bequeath'd his tomblcss host, 
 A bony heap, through ages to remain. 
 Themselves their monument ; — the Stygian coast 
 Unsepulchred they roam'd, and shriok"d each wan- 
 dering ghost." 
 
 LXIV. 
 While Waterloo vrith Cauna;'s carnage vies, 
 Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand ; 
 They were true Glory's stainless -v-ictorics, 
 Won by the unambitious heart and hand 
 Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band, 
 AU unbought champions in no princely cause 
 Of vice-entail'd Corni))tion ; they no land 
 Doom'd to l)ewail the Ijhispheiny of laws 
 Making kings' rights divine, by some Draconic clause. 
 
 situation Is commanding. General Marceau besieged It in vain 
 for s(.mc time, and I slept in a room where I was shown a window 
 at which he is said to have been standing observing the progress 
 of the siege by moonlight, when a ball struck immediately below it. 
 ^ The chapel is destroyed, and the pyramid of bones diminished 
 to a small number by the Burgnndian legion in the scnice of 
 France, who anxiously effaced this record of their ancestors' lesa 
 successfid invasions. ,\ few still remain, notwithstanding the 
 pains taken by the Burgtmdians lor ages (all who passed that way 
 remo\'ing a bone to their own country), and the less justifiable 
 larcenies of the Swiss postillions, irho carried them oft* to sell for 
 knife-handles, a purpose for whie* .be whiteness imbibed by the 
 bleaching of years had rendered them in great request. Of thes« 
 relics I ventured to bring away as much as may have made a quar- 
 ter of a hero, for which the sole excuse is, that if I had not, the 
 next jmsser-by iniglit have i)erverted them to worse uses than tb« 
 careltil preservation which I intend tor them. 
 
Canio in. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 37 
 
 LXY. 
 By a lone -wall a lonelier column rears 
 A gray and grief-worn aspect of old days ; 
 "Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years, 
 And looks as with the ^vild-bewilder'd gaze 
 Of one to stone converted by amaze, 
 Yet still with consciousness ; and there it stands 
 Making a marvel that it not decays, 
 When the coeval pride of human hands, 
 LeveU'd Aventicum,' hath strew'd her subject lands. 
 
 LXVI. 
 And there — oh 1 sweet and sacred be the name I — 
 Julia — the daughter, the devoted — gave 
 Her youth to heaven ; her heart, beneath a claim 
 Nearest to Heaven's, broke o'er a father's grave. 
 Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers would crave 
 The life she lived in ; but the judge was just. 
 And then she died on him she could not save. 
 Their tomb was simple, and without a bust, 
 
 And held within their urn one mind, one heart, one 
 dust.- 
 
 LXVII. 
 But these are deeds which should not pass away, 
 And names that must not wither, though the earth 
 Forgets her empires with a just decay, [birth ; 
 The enslavers and the enslaved, their death and 
 The high, the mountain-majesty of worth 
 Should be, and shall, survivor of its wo. 
 And from its immortality look forth 
 In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow,^ 
 
 Imperishably pure beyond all things below. 
 
 I-XVIII. 
 Lake Lcman woos me with its crystal face. 
 The min-or where the stars and mountains view 
 The stillness of their aspect in each trace 
 Its clear depth yields of their far height and hue : 
 There is too much of man here, to look through 
 With a fit mind the might which I behold ; 
 But soon in me shall loneliness renew 
 
 1 Aventicum, near Morat, was the Eoman capital of Helvetia, 
 where Avenclie;; now stands. 
 
 ■■' Julia Alpinula, a young Aventian priestess, died soon after a 
 vain endeavor to save her father, conderaned to death as a traitor 
 Dy Auius Ciecina. Her epitaph was discovered many years ago ; 
 —It is thus :— " Julia Alpinula : Hie jaceo. Infelicis patris infelix 
 proles. Dese Aventise Sacerdos. Exorare patris necem non potul : 
 Male mori in fatis ille erat. Vixi annos ssm." — I know of no 
 human composition so affecting as this, nor a historj" of deeper 
 interest. These are the names and actions which oui^ht not to 
 perish, and to which we tnm with a true and healthy tenderness, 
 from the wretched and glittering detail of a confused mass of con- 
 quests and battles, with which the miud is roused for a time to a 
 false and feverish s Tnpathy, from whence ft recurs at length with 
 all the nausea conseqaent on such intoxication. 
 
 3 This is written in the eye of Mont Bianc (Jtine 3, 1816), which 
 even at this distance dazzles mine.— (.July 20tb). T this day ob- 
 ser^'ed for some time the distinct reflection of Mont Blanc and 
 Mont Argeutitre in the calm of the lake, which I was crossing in 
 my boat ; the distance of these mountains from their mirror Is 
 t'ixty miles. 
 
 Thoughts hid, but not less cherish'd than of old, 
 Ere mingUng with the herd had penn'd me in theii 
 Void. 
 
 LXIX. 
 To fly from, need not be to hate, mar Jdnd : 
 AU are not fit with them to stir and toU, 
 Nor is it discontent to keep the mind 
 Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil 
 In the hot throng, where we become the spoil 
 Of our infection, till too late and long 
 We may deplore and struggle with the coil, 
 In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong 
 'Midst a contentious world, striving where none are 
 strong. 
 
 LXX. 
 There, in a moment, we may plunge our yeais 
 In fatal penitence, and in the blight 
 Of our own soul, turn all our blood to tears. 
 And color things to come with hues of Xight ; 
 The race of life becomes a hopeless flight 
 To those that walk in darkness : on the sea, 
 The boldest steer but where their ports invite. 
 But there are wanderers o'er Eternity [shall be. 
 Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er 
 
 LXXI. 
 Is it not better, then, to be alone. 
 And love Earth only for its earthly sake ? 
 By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone.' 
 Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake, 
 Wliich feeds it as a mother who doth make 
 A fair but froward infant her own care. 
 Kissing its cries away as these awake ;— 
 Is it not better thus our lives to wear, [bear ? 
 
 Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd to inflict or 
 
 LXXII. 
 I live not in myself, but I become 
 Portion of that arotmd me ; and to mo 
 High mountains are a feeling, but the hum 
 Of human cities torture : I can see 
 Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be 
 A link reluctant in a fleshly chain, 
 Class'd among creatures, when the soul can flee, 
 And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain 
 Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life : 
 I look upon the peopled desert past. 
 As on a place of agony and strife. 
 Where, for some sin, to sorrow I was cast. 
 To act and suifer, but removmt at last 
 
 * The color of the Bhone at Geneva is blue, to a depth of tint 
 which I have never seen equalled in wate: salt or fresh, oscept In 
 the Mediterranean and Archipelago. 
 
38 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto m 
 
 With a fresh pinion ; which 1 feel to spring, 
 Though young, yet waxing vigorous, as the blast 
 Which it would cope with, on delighted wing. 
 Spuming the clay-cold bonds which round our being 
 cling. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 And when, at length, the w, nd shall be all free 
 From what it hates in this degraded form, 
 Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be 
 Existent happier in the fly and worm, — 
 When elements to elements conform. 
 And dust is as it should be, shall I not 
 Feel aU I see, less dazzling, but more warm ' 
 The bodiless thought ? the Spirit of each e pot ? 
 Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot ? 
 
 LXXV. 
 Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part 
 Of me and of my soul, as I of them ? 
 Is not the love of these deep in my heart 
 With a pure passion ? should I not contemn 
 All objects, if compared with these ? and stem 
 A tide of suffering, rather than forego 
 Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm 
 Of those whose eyes are only turn'd belcw, 
 Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare 
 not glow ? 
 
 LXSVI. 
 But this is not my theme ; and I return 
 To that which is immediate, and require 
 Those who find 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 for a while — a passing guest. 
 Where he became a being, — whose desire 
 Was to he glorious ; 'twas a foolish quest, 
 The which to gain and keep, he sacrificed all rest. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 Here the self-torturing sophist, vrild Rousseau, 
 The apostle of affliction, he who threw 
 Enchantment over passion, and from wo 
 Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew 
 The breath which made him wretched; yet he 
 
 knew 
 How to make madness beautiful, and cast 
 O'er .erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue 
 Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they pass'd 
 J ^e eyes, which o'er them shed tears feeUngly and 
 
 fast. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 His love was passion's essence — as a tree 
 On fire by lightning ; with etherei-j flame 
 Kindled he was, and blasted ; for to be 
 Thus, and enamorVl, witc in him the same. 
 But his was not the lo»f of Uving dame, 
 
 Nor of the dead who rise upon om dreams 
 But of ideal beauty, which became 
 In him existence, and o'erflowing teems 
 Along his burning page, distcmper'd though it seemBt 
 
 LXXIX. 
 This breathed itself to life in Julie, t/iin 
 Invested her with all that's wild and sweet ; 
 This liallow'd, too, the raemoral)le kiss' 
 Which every morn his fever'd lip would greet, 
 From hers, who but with friendship his would 
 meet ; 
 - But to that gentle touch, through brain and breast 
 Flashed the thrill'd spirit's love-devouring heat; 
 In that absorbing sigh perchance more bless'd 
 Than vulgar minds may be with aU they seek pos- 
 sess'd. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 His life was one long war with soLf-sought foes, 
 Or friends by him self-banish'd ; for his mind 
 Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and chose 
 For its own cruel sacrifice the kind, [blind. 
 
 'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and 
 But he was phrensied, — wherefore, who may know 1 
 Since cause might be which siill could never find ; 
 But he was phrensied by disease or wo [show. 
 To that worse pitch of all, which wears a reasoning 
 
 LXXXI. 
 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 flame. 
 Nor ceased to bum till kingdoms were no more 
 Did he not this for France ? which lay before 
 Bow'd to the inborn tyranny of years ? 
 Broken and trembling, to the yoke she l)ore. 
 Till by the voice of him and his compeers. 
 Roused up to too much wrath, which follows o'er 
 grown fears ? 
 
 LXXXII. 
 They made themselves a fearful monument : 
 The wreck of old opinions — things which grew. 
 Breathed from the birth of time : the veil they 
 And what behind it lay, all earth shall view, [rent 
 But good with ill they also overthrew. 
 Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild 
 Upon tlie same foundation, and renew [fill'd, 
 
 Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour re- 
 Ab heretofore, because ambition was self-will'd. 
 
 1 This refers to the nccoiinr in his "Confessions" of his passion 
 for the ComUjss d'Houdctot (tlie mistress of St. Lambert), and hii 
 long walk every raoniin;;, for the sake of the siujjle kiss whicV 
 was the common salutation of French acqnaintauce. KonsseauV 
 description of nis feelings on this occasion may be considered as 
 Uie most passionate, yet not impure, description and expression 
 of love that ever kindled into words : which, after all, must be 
 felt, from their very force, to he inadequate to the deli.ication; « 
 paiatlog can give no Bufilcieut idea of the oct.in. 
 
CiNTO III. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 3)3 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 But this will not endure, nor be endured ! 
 Mankind have felt their strength, and made it felt. 
 They might have U3ed it better, but, allured 
 By their new vigor, sternly have they dealt 
 On one 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 ; 
 WTiat marvel then, at times, if tliey 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 atone for years ; none need despair : 
 It came, it cometh, and will come, — the power 
 To punish or forgive — in one we shall be slower. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 Clear, jjlacid Lcman ! thy contrasted lake. 
 With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing 
 Which warns me, with its stiUness, to forsake 
 Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. 
 This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
 To waft me from distraction ; once I loved 
 Tom ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring 
 Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved. 
 That I with stem delights should e'er have been so 
 moved. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 It is the hush of night, and all between 
 Tliy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, 
 Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen. 
 Save darken'd Jura, whose capp'd heights appear 
 Precipitously steep ; and drawing near. 
 There breathes a living fragrance from the shore. 
 Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; on the ear 
 Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, 
 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 
 Starts into voice a moment, then is still. 
 There seems a floating whisper on the hiU, 
 But that is fancy, for the starlight dews 
 All silently their tears of love instiU, 
 Weeping themselves away, till they infuse 
 Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of hor hues. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 Ye stars I 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 you ; for ye are 
 A beauty and a mystery, and create 
 In us such love and reverence from afar 
 That fortune, fame, power, life, have named them 
 selves a star. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 AH heaven and earth are still — though not in sleep. 
 But 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 ho8t 
 Of stars, to the luU'd lake and mountain-coast, 
 All is concentred in a life intense. 
 Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, 
 But hath a part of being, and a sense 
 Of that which is of aU Creator and defence. 
 
 XC. 
 
 Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt 
 In solitude, where we. are least alone ; 
 A truth, which through our being then doth melt, 
 And purifies fi'om 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. 
 Binding all things with beauty ; — 'twould disai'm 
 The spectre Death, had he substantial power to 
 harm. 
 
 XCI. 
 
 Not vainly did the early Persian make 
 His altar tlie high places and the peak 
 Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, and thus take 
 A fit and unwall'd temple, there to seek 
 The Spirit, in whose honor shrines are weak, 
 Uprear'd of human hands. Come, and compare 
 Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek, 
 With Nature's realms of worship, earth and air, 
 Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy pray'r ' 
 
 XCIL 
 
 The sky is changed ! — and such a change ! Oh 
 
 night, 
 And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strcng 
 Yet lovely in your strengtli, as is the light 
 Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along. 
 From peak to peak the rattUug crags among 
 Leaps the live thunder ! Not from one lone cloud 
 But every mountain now hath found a tongue, 
 And .Jiu-a answers, through her misty shroud, 
 Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud ! 
 
40 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 VyANTO Uli 
 
 XCIII. 
 And this is in the night : — Most glorioiis night ! 
 Thou ■ncrt not sent for slumber ! et me be 
 A sharer in thy fierce and far del ght, — 
 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 1 
 And now again 'tis black, — and now, the glee 
 Of the loud hill 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 be- 
 tween 
 Heights which appear as lovers who have parted 
 In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, 
 That they can meet no more, though broken- 
 hearted ; [thwarted, 
 Tliough in their souls, which thus each other 
 Love was the very root of the fond rage [parted : 
 Which blighted their life's bloom, and then de- 
 Itself expired, but leaving them an age 
 Of years all winters, — war within themselves to wage. 
 
 XCV. 
 Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his 
 
 way, 
 The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand : 
 For here, not one, but many, make their play. 
 And fling their thunderbolts from hand to hand. 
 Flashing and cast around ; of all the band, 
 The brightest through these parted hiUs hath 
 His hghtnings, — as if he did understand, [fork'd 
 That in such gaps as desolation work'd, [lurk'd. 
 There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein 
 
 XCVI. 
 Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye 1 
 With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul 
 To make these felt and feeling, well may be 
 Things that have made mo watchful ; the far roll 
 Of your departing voices, is the knoll 
 Of what in me is sleei3le3s,--jf 1 rest. 
 But where of ye, oh, tempests ! is the goal ? 
 Are ye like those within the human breast ? 
 Dr do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest? 
 
 XCVII. 
 Could I embody and unbosom now 
 That which is most within me, — could I wreak 
 My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw 
 Soul,heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak. 
 All that I would have sought, and aU I seek. 
 Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe — into one word, 
 
 » The tDnnder-Btorm to which these lines refer occurred on the 
 i3th of June, ISlfi, at midni^'bt. I have seen, among the Acro- 
 ceraiinian mnnntaina of Chimari, Keveral raore terrihle, hut none 
 more beautitiil. 
 
 And that one word were lightning, I would speak ; 
 
 But as it is, I live aad die unheard, [sword. 
 
 With a most voiceless thought, sheatldng it as a 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 The mom is up again, the dewy mom. 
 With breath all incense, and with cheek all l)l<>om, 
 Laughing the clouds awa}' with playful scorn, 
 And living as if earth contain'd no tomb, — 
 And glowing into day : we may resume 
 The march of our existence : and thus I, 
 Still on thy shores, fair Leman ! may find rooru 
 And food for meditation, nor pass by 
 Much, that may give us pause, if pouder'd fittingly. 
 
 XCIX. 
 Clarens ! sweet Clarens,' birthplace of deep love I 
 Thine air is the yoimg breath of passionate thought ; 
 Thy trees take root in Love ; the snows above 
 The very glaciers have his colors caught, 
 And simset into rose-hues sees them -nTOUght 
 By rays which sleep there lovingly : the rocks. 
 The permanent crags, tell here of love, who sought 
 In them a refuge from the worldly shocks. 
 Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woes, 
 then mocks. 
 
 C. 
 Clarens ! by heavenly feet thy paths arc trod,- 
 Undying love's, who here ascends a throne 
 To which the steps are moimtains ; where the god 
 Is a pervading life and light, — so shown 
 Not on those summits solely, nor alone 
 In the still cave and forest ; o'er the flower 
 His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown 
 His soft and summer breath, whose tender power 
 Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate 
 hour. 
 
 CI. 
 
 All things are here of him ; from the black pines, 
 Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar 
 Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines 
 Wliich slope his green path downward to the shore, 
 Wliere the bow'd waters meet him, and adore. 
 Kissing his feet with murmurs ; and the wood, 
 The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar. 
 But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it 
 stood, 
 Ofiering to him, and his, a populous solitude — 
 
 CII. 
 
 A populous solitude of bees and birds, 
 And fairy-form'd and many-color'd things, 
 Wlio worship him with notes more sweet than 
 And innocently open their glad wings, [word.'ii 
 Fearless and full of life : the gush of springs, 
 
 3 Scone of the romance of Roueseao. 
 
Canto m. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 41 
 
 And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend 
 Of stii-ring branches, and the bud which brings 
 The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend, 
 Mingling, and made by love, unto one mighty end. 
 
 cm. 
 
 He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore. 
 And make his heart a spirit ; he who knows 
 That tender mystery, wiU love the more. 
 For this is love's recess, where vain men's woes, 
 And the world's waste, have driven him far from 
 For 'tis his nature to advance or die ; [those, 
 
 He stands not stiU, but or decays, or grows 
 Into a boimdless blessing, which may vie 
 ■fVith the immortal lights, in its eternity ! 
 
 CIV. 
 'Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot. 
 Peopling it with affections ; but he found 
 It was the scene which passion must allot 
 To the mind's purified beings ; 'twas the ground 
 Where early love his Psyche's zone unbound. 
 And hallow'd it with loveliness ; 'tis lone. 
 And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound. 
 And sense, and sight of sweetness ; here the Rhone 
 Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have rear'd 
 a throne. 
 
 CV. 
 Lausanne ! and Fcrney ! ye have been the abodes 
 Of names which unto you bcqueath'd a name ;' 
 Mortals, who sought and foimd, by dangerous roads, 
 A path to perpetuity of fame : 
 They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim 
 Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile 
 Thoughts which should caU down thunder, and 
 
 the flame 
 Of Heaven, again assail'd, if Heaven the while 
 On man and man's research could deign do more 
 
 than smile. 
 
 CVI. 
 The one was fire and fickleness, a child. 
 Most mutalile ia wishes, but in mind 
 A wit as various, — gay, grave, sage, or wild, — 
 Historian, bard, philosopher, combined ; 
 He multipUed himself among mankind, 
 The Proteus of their talents : But his own 
 Breathed most in ridicule, — which, as the wind, 
 Blew where it listed, laying aU things prone, — 
 Mo^i to o'erthrow a fool, and now to sliake a throne. 
 
 CVII. 
 The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought, 
 Ajid hiving wisdom with each studious year. 
 In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought. 
 And shaped his weapon with an edge severe, 
 
 ' Voltaire and Gibbon. 
 
 6 
 
 Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer ; 
 The lord of irony, — that master-spell. 
 Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from 
 And doom'd him to the zealot's ready hell, [fear, 
 Which answers to all doubts so eloquently wcU. 
 
 CVIII. 
 
 Yet, peace be with their ashes, — for by them. 
 
 If merited, the penalty is paid ; 
 
 It is not ours to judge, — far less condemn ; 
 
 The hour must come when such things shall be 
 
 made 
 Known unto all, — or hope and dread aUay'd 
 By slumber, on one pillow, — in the dust. 
 Which, thus much we are sure, must he decay'd ; 
 And when it sliall revive, as is our trust, 
 'Twill be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just. 
 
 CIX. 
 But let me quit man's works, again to read 
 His Maker's, spread around me, and suspend 
 This page, which from my reveries I feed. 
 Until it seems jirolonging without end. 
 The clouds above me to the white Alps tend. 
 And I must pierce them, and survey whate'er 
 May be permitted, as my steps I bend 
 To their most great and growing region, where 
 The earth to her embrace comjjels the powers of air. 
 
 ex. 
 Italia ! too, Italia ! looking on thee, 
 FuU flashes on the soul the Ught of ages. 
 Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee, 
 To the last halo of the chiefs and sages, 
 Wlio glorify thy consecrated pages ; 
 Thou wert the throne and grave of empires ; still, 
 The fount at which the panting mind assuage^ 
 Her thirst of knowledge, quafling there her fill, 
 Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial bill. 
 
 CXI. 
 Thus far have I 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 : — Xo matter, — it is taught. 
 
 CXIL 
 
 And for these words, thus woven into song, 
 It may be that they are a harmless wile, — • 
 The coloring of the scenes which fleet along, 
 Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile 
 My breast, or that of others, for a wliile. 
 Fame is the thirst of youth, — but I am not 
 So young as to regard men's frown or smile. 
 
BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Cajsto hi. 
 
 As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot ; 
 I stood and stand alone, — remembcr'd or forgot. 
 
 CXIII. 
 I have not lovid the world, nor the world me ; 
 I have not tlatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd 
 To its idolatries a patient knee, — 
 Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles, — nor cried aloud 
 In worship of an echo ; in the crowd 
 They could not deem me one of such ; I stood 
 Among them, but not of them ; in a shroud 
 Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and 
 still could, 
 Had I not filed' my mind, which thus itself subdued. 
 
 CXIV. 
 I have not loved the world, nor tl.e world me, — 
 But let us part fair foes ; I do believe. 
 Though I have found them not, that there may be 
 Words which are things, — hopes which will not 
 
 deceive. 
 And virtues which are merciful, nor weave 
 Snares for the failing : I would also deem 
 O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve ;'' 
 That two, or one, are almost what they seem, — 
 That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream. 
 
 CXV. 
 My daughter ! with thy name this song begun — 
 My daughter ! with thy name thus much shaU end — 
 I see thee not, — I hear thee not, — but none 
 Can be so wrapp'd in thee ; thou art the friend 
 To whom the sliadows of far years extend : 
 Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behold. 
 My voice shall with thy future visions blend. 
 And reach into thy heart,— when mine is cold, — 
 A token and a tone, even from thy father's mould. 
 
 CXVI. 
 To aid thy mind's development, — to watch 
 Thy dawn of little joys, — to sit and see 
 Almost tliy very growth, — to view thee catch 
 Knowledge of objects, — wonders yet to thee I 
 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, 
 [ know not what is there, yet something like to this. 
 
 CXVII. 
 Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be taught, 
 I know that thou •n'ilt love me ; though my name 
 Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught 
 With desolation, — and a broken claim : [same. 
 Though the grave closed between us, — 'twere the 
 
 1 " If it be thus, 
 
 For BanqnoV h^ue have I fkd my mind."— Macbeth. 
 
 • It is i^aid by Ro('lii?fbnaiuIt, that " there i? always somethiog 
 
 II the lujHfortauef^ of men's bestfrieuds not displeasing to them." 
 
 I know that thou wilt love me ; though to drain 
 My blood from out thy being were an aim. 
 And an attainment, — all would be in rain, — 
 Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than lifi 
 retain. 
 
 CXVIII. 
 The child of love, — though bom in bitterness, 
 And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire 
 These were the elements, — and thine no less. 
 As yet such are around thee, — but thy lire 
 ShaU 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, 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 CANTO THE FOfllTH. 
 
 Visto ho Toscana, Lombardia, RomaoTia, 
 Quel Monte che di\ide, e quel che sena 
 Italia, e un mare e 1' altro, che la bagna. 
 
 Ariosto, Satira iii. 
 
 TO JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ., A. M., F. R. S., &c. 
 
 Venice, January 2, 1818. 
 My de.\r Hobhodse,^ 
 
 After an interval of eight years between the com 
 position of the first and last cantos of Childe Harold 
 the conclusion of the poem is about to be submitted 
 to the public. In parting with so old a friend, it is not 
 extraordinary that I should recur to one still older and 
 better, — to one who has beheld the birth and death of 
 the other, and to whom I am far more indeljted for the 
 social advantages of an enlightened frioncLship, than — 
 though not imgrateful — I can, or could lie, to Childa 
 Harold, for any pul)lic favor reflected throujj-ii the poem 
 on the poet, — to, one, whom I have known long, and 
 accompanied far, whom I have found wakeful over my 
 sickness and kind in my sorrow, glnd in n;y prosperity 
 and firm in my adversity, true in counsel and trusty in 
 peril, — to a friend often tried and never fuuud wanting ; 
 — to yourself 
 
 In 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 honor to myself l>y the record of many years 
 intimacy with a man of leai'ning, of talent, of steadi 
 ness, and of honor. It is not for minds like ours to givc 
 or to receive flattery ; yet the praises of sincerity hav« 
 
Canto it 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 43 
 
 ever been pKrmitted lo ilw voice of frieudsbip ; and it 
 is nut for jou, nor even for otliers, but to relieve a 
 heart which lias not elsewhere, or lately, been so much 
 accustomed to the encounter of good-will as to with- 
 stand the shock fii-mly, that I thus attempt to commem- 
 orate your good qualities, or rather the advantages 
 which I have derived from their exertion. Even the 
 recurrence of the date of tliis letter, the anniversa- 
 ry 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 recollection for 
 both, inasmuch as it will remind us of this my attempt 
 to thank you for an indefatigable regard, such as few 
 men have experienced, and no one could experience, 
 without thinking better of his species and of himself. 
 
 It has been our fortune to traverse together, at vari- 
 ous periods, the countries of chivalry, history, and 
 fable — Spain. Greece, Asia Minor, and Italy ; and what 
 Athens and Constantinople were to us a few years ago, 
 Venice and Rome have been more recently. The poem 
 also, or the pilgiim, or both, have accompanied me from 
 tirst to last ; and perhaps it may be a pardonable vanity 
 which induces mo to reflect with complacency on a com- 
 position which in some degree connects me with the 
 spot where it was produced, and the objects it would 
 fain describe ; and however unworthy it may be deem- 
 ed of those magical and memorable abodes, however 
 short it may fall of our distant conceptions and imme- 
 diate impressions, yet as a mark of respect for what is 
 venerable, and of feeling for what is glorious, it has 
 been to me a source of pleasure in the production, and 
 I part %vitli it with a kind of regret, which I hardly 
 suspected that events could have left me for imaginary 
 objects. 
 
 With regard to the conduct of the last canto, there 
 ■will be found less of the pilgrim than in any of the 
 preceding, and that little slightly, if at all, separated 
 from the author speaking in his own person. The fact is, 
 that I had become weary of drawing a line which every- 
 one seemed determined not to perceive : like the Chin- 
 ese in Goldsmith's " Citizen of the World," whom nobody 
 would believe to be a Chinese, it was in vain that I as- 
 serted, and imagined that I had drawn, a distinction 
 between the author and the j>ilgrim ; and the very anx- 
 iety to preserve this difference, and disappointment at 
 finding it unavailing, so far crushed my efforts in the 
 composition, that I determined to abandon it altogether 
 — and have done so. The opinions which have been, or 
 may be, formed on that subject, are now a matter of in- 
 difference ; 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 perman- 
 ent, which is to arise from his literary efforts, deserves 
 tlie fate of authors. 
 
 In the course of the following canto it was my in- 
 tention, either in the text or in the notes, to have 
 touched upon the present state of Italian literature, 
 and perhaps of manners. But th.e text, within the 
 limits I proposed, I soon found hardly sufficient for the 
 labyrinth of external objects, and the consequent reflec- 
 
 tions ; and for the whole of the notes, excepting a few 
 of the shortest, I am indebted to yourself, and these 
 were neccessarily limited to the elucidation of the text 
 It is also a delicate, and no very grateful task, to diS' 
 serf upon the literature and manners of a nation so dis- 
 similar ; and requires an attention and impartiality 
 which would induce us — though perhaps no inattentive 
 I observers, nor ignorant of the language or customs of 
 i the people amongst whom we have recently abode — ^to 
 distrust, or at least defer our judgment, and more nar- 
 rowly examine our information. The state of literary, 
 as weU as political party, appears to run, or to liam run, 
 so high, that for a stranger to steer impartially between 
 them is next to impossible. It may be enough, then, 
 at least for my purpose, to quote from their own beau- 
 tiful language — " Sli pare che in uu paese tutto poetico, 
 che vanta la lingua la piu nobUe ed iusieme la piu dolce, 
 tutte tutte le vie divei-se si possono tentare, e che sin- 
 che la patria di Alfieri e di Monti non ha perduto 1' an- 
 tico valore, in tutte essa dovrebbe essere la prima." 
 Italy has great names stiU — Canova, Monti, Ugo Fos- 
 colo, Piudemonte, Visconti, Morelli, Cicoguara, All)rizzi, 
 Mezzophanti, Mai, Mustoxidi, Aglietti, and Vacca, will 
 secure to the present generation an honorable place in 
 most of the departments of Ai't, Science and Belles Let- 
 tres ; and in some the very highest — Europe — the 
 World — has but one Canova. 
 
 It has been somewhere said by Alfieri, that " La pian- 
 ta uomo nasce piii robusta in Italia che in qualunque 
 altra terra — e che gli stessi atroci delitti che vi si com- 
 mettono ne sono una prova." Without subscribing to 
 the latter part of his proposition, a dangerous doctrine, 
 the truth of which may be disputed on better grotmds, 
 namely, that the Italians are in no respect more fero- 
 cious than their neighbors, that man must be wilfuUy 
 blind, or ignorantly heedless, who is not struck with 
 the extraordinary capacity of this people, or, if such a 
 word be admissible, their capabilities, 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 deso- 
 lation of battles, and the despair of ages, their still uu- 
 quenchcd " longing after immortality," — the immortal 
 ity of independence. And when we ourselves, in riding 
 round the walls of Rome, heard the simple lament of 
 the laborers' chorus, " Roma I Roma ! Roma ! Roma 
 non e piu come era prima," it was dilEcult not to con- 
 trast this melancholy dirge with the bacchanal roar of 
 the songs of exultation still yelled from the Loudon ta 
 verns, over the carnage of Mont St. Jean, and the be- 
 trayal 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, — 
 
 " Non movero mai corda 
 Ove la turba di sue ciance asBorda." 
 
 WTiat Italy has gained by the late transfer of nations, 
 it were useless for Englishmen to inquire, till it becomes 
 ascertained that England has acquired sonujlhing mora 
 than a permanent army and a suspended Habeas Cor- 
 pus ; it is enough for them to look at home. Foi what 
 
44 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CAiTTO I^V 
 
 they have done abroad, and especially in the South, 
 " Verily tliey will have their reward," and at no very dis- 
 tant i)eriod. 
 
 WishinfT you, my dear Hobhouso, a safe and agreea- 
 ble return to that country whose real welfare can be dear- 
 er to none than to yourself, I dedicate to you this poem 
 in its completed state ; and repeat once more how truly 
 I am ever, 
 
 Your obliged 
 
 And affectionate friend^ 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 I. 
 I STOOD in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs ; 
 A palace and a prison on each hand : 
 I saw from out the wave her structures rise 
 As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand : 
 A thousand years their cloudy 'nings expand 
 Around me, and a dying glory smiles 
 O'er the far times, when many », subject land 
 Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles, [isles ! 
 Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred 
 
 II. 
 She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean,' 
 Rising with her tiara of proud towers 
 At airy distance, with majestic motion, 
 A ruler of the waters and their powers : 
 And such she was ; — her daughters had their dowers 
 From spoils of nations, and tlie exhaustless East 
 Pour'd in her lap aD gems in sparkling showers. 
 In purple was she robed, and of her feast 
 Monarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity in- 
 creased. 
 
 III. 
 In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, 
 And silont rows the songless gondolier ; 
 Her palaces are crumbling to the shore. 
 And music meets not alwf.ys now the ear ; 
 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 all festivity. 
 The I'evel of the earth, the masque of Italy. 
 
 IV. 
 But imto 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 ; 
 
 ' SabeMicue, dcscribinjj tlie appearance r V^enice, has made use 
 af the above imairc. which would not be poetical were It not true. 
 -" Qno lit nt qni nnperne urboni coutcmpletur, turritam telluris 
 mapiocm medio oceano fl;,airatani se putet iu^picere." 
 
 Ours is a trophy which will not deqay 
 With the Kialto ; Shylock and the Moor. 
 And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away — 
 The keystones of the arch ! though all were o'er, 
 For us repeopled were the solitary shore. 
 
 V. 
 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 wliich Fate 
 Prohibits to duU life, in this our state 
 Of mortal bondage, by these spirits suj^ilied, 
 First exiles, then replaces what we hate ; 
 Watering the heart whose early flowers have died, 
 And with a fresher growth replenisliing the void. 
 
 VI. 
 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 
 O'er her wild universe is skillful to diffuse : 
 
 VII. 
 I saw or drcam'd of such, — but let thorn go- 
 They came like truth, and disappeared like dreams 
 And whatso'er they were — ai'o 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. 
 
 vm. 
 
 I'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 ? 
 
 I.\'. 
 Perhaps I loved it well : and should I lay 
 My ashes in a soil wliich is not mine, 
 My spirit shall resume it^ — if we may 
 Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine 
 My hopes of being rcmember'd in my line 
 With my land's language : if too fond and far 
 These aspirations in their scope iicline, — 
 
Canto iv. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 4P 
 
 If my fame should be, as my fortunes are, 
 Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar 
 
 My name from out tlic temple where the dead 
 Are honor'd by the nations — let it be^ 
 And light the laurels on a loftier head ! 
 And be the Spartan's epitaph on me — 
 " Sparta hath many a worthier son than he." ' 
 Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need ; 
 The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree 
 I planted, — they have torn me, — and I Ijleed ! 
 should have known what fruit would spring from 
 such a seed. 
 
 XI. 
 The spouseless .Vdri.atic mourns her lord ; 
 And, annual marriage now no more rcnew'd. 
 The Buccntaur lies rotting unrestored. 
 Neglected garment of her widowhood ! 
 St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood 
 Stand, but in mockery of his 'n'ither'd power, 
 Over the proud Place where an Emperor sued. 
 And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour 
 \^Tien Venice was a queen -n-ith an unequall'd dower. 
 
 The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns — 
 An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt ; 
 Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains 
 Clank over sceptred cities ; nations melt 
 From jjowcr's Jiigh pinnacle, when they have felt 
 The sunshine for a while, and downward go 
 Like lauwine loosen'd from the moimtain's belt ; 
 Oh, for one hour of bUnd old Dandolo ! 
 Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe. 
 
 XIII. 
 Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass, 
 Their gilded collars gUttering in the sun ; 
 But is not Doria's menace come to pass ? 
 Are they not bridled ! — Venice, lost and won, 
 Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done, 
 Sinks, Uke a sea-weed, into whence she rose ! 
 Better be whehn'd beneath the waves, and shun. 
 Even in destruction's depth, her foreign foes, 
 From whom submission wrings an infamous repose. 
 
 XIV. 
 In youth she was aU glory, — a new Tyre, — 
 Her very by-word spnmg from victory. 
 The "Planter of the Lion,"- which through fire 
 And blood she bore o'er subject earth and sea ; 
 
 ' The nnswer of the motherof Braeidas, the Lacedaemonian gen- 
 eral, to the strangers who praised the memory of her eon. 
 
 2 That is, the Lion of St. Mark, the standard of the Repuhlic, 
 which is the origin of the word Pantaloon— Piantaleoue, Panta- 
 loon, Pantaloon. 
 
 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 Lcpanto's fight ! 
 For ye sre names no time nor tyraimy can blight 
 
 XV. 
 
 Statues of glass — all shiver'd — the long file 
 Of her dead Doges are declined to dust ; [pile 
 But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous 
 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 asijects, such as must 
 Too oft remind her who and what euthralls. 
 Have flimg a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely walls. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Wiien Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, 
 And fetter'd thousands bore the yoke of war, 
 Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse,= 
 Her voice they only ransom from afar : 
 See ! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car 
 Of the o'ermaster'd victor stops, the reins 
 Fall from his hands — his idle scimitar 
 Starts from its belt — he rends his cajjtive's chains, 
 And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his 
 strains. 
 
 XVII. 
 Thus, Venice, if no stronger ciaim were thine, 
 Were all thy proud historic decnis forgot. 
 Thy choral memory of the Bard di^nne, 
 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 
 Abandon Ocean's children ; in the fall 
 Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery waU. 
 
 XVIII, 
 I loved her from my boyhood — she to. me 
 Was as a fafry city of the heart. 
 Rising like water-columns from the sea. 
 Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart ; 
 And Otway, Radclifie, Schiller, Shakspeare's art,' 
 Had stamp'd her image in me, and even so. 
 Although I found her thus, we did not part. 
 Perchance even dearer in her day of wo. 
 Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 I can repeople with the past — and of 
 The present there is stiU for eye and thought, 
 And meditation chastcn'd do-wn, enough ; 
 And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought ; 
 
 ' The story ia told in Plutarch's Life of Nicias. 
 * Venice Preserved ; Mysteries of XTdolpho ; the Ghoet-Secr. at 
 Armenian ; the Merchant of Venice ; Othello. 
 
f6 
 
 BYKON'S WORKS. 
 
 Cxs, 
 
 And of the happiest moments, which were wrought 
 Within the web of my existence, some 
 From thee, iiiir Venice ! have their colors caught I 
 There are some feelings Time can not benumb. 
 Nor Torture shake, or mine would now be cold and 
 dumb. 
 
 XX. 
 
 But from their nature will the tannen grow' 
 Loftiest on loftiest and least shultcr'd rocks. 
 Rooted in barrenness, where naught below 
 Of soil supports them 'gainst the Alpine shocks 
 Of eddying storms ; yet springs the trunk, and 
 
 mocks 
 The howling tempest, till its height and frame 
 Are worthy of the mountains from whose blocks 
 Of bleak, gray granite, into life it came, 
 A.nd grew a giant tree ; — the mind may grow the 
 same. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Existence may be borne, and the deep root 
 Of life and sufiferance make its lirm abode 
 In bare and desolated liosoms : mute 
 The camel labors with the heaviest load, 
 And the wolf dies in silence, — not bestow'd 
 In vain should such e.\ample 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 sufTering doth destroy, or is destroy'd, 
 Even by the sufferer ; and, in each event. 
 Ends : — SomCjVknth hope replenish'd and rebuoy'd, 
 Eetum to whence they came — with like intent, 
 And weave their web again; some, bow'd and bent, 
 Wax gray 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 griefs subdued 
 There comes a token like a scorpion's sting, 
 Scarce seen, hut with fresh liitterness imbued ; 
 And slight withal may be t!ie things which bring 
 Back on the heart th ; weight which it would fling 
 Aside forever : it may be a sound — 
 A tone of music — summer's eve — or spring — 
 A flower — the vrind — the ocean — which shall 
 
 wound, 
 ,^iking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly 
 
 bo md ; 
 
 * Tannen is the plural of fanne, a species of flr pecnllar to the 
 Alps, which only thrives in very rocky pnrts, where scarcely soil 
 Bufficieut Ibi its mmriiilnne'it can be found. On these spots it 
 trows to a greater height than any other mountain tree. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 And how and why we know not. nor can trace 
 Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind, 
 But feel the shock renew'd, nor can efface 
 The blight and blackening which it leaves behind 
 Which out of things familiar, undcsign'd, 
 Wlien least we deem of such, calls up to view 
 The spectres whom no exorcism can liind. 
 The cold — the changed — perchance the dead — 
 anew, [how few i 
 
 The moum'd the loved, the lost — too many ' — yd 
 
 XXV. 
 
 But my soul wanders ; I demand it back 
 To meditate amongst decay, and stand 
 A ruin amidst ruins ; there to track 
 FalFn states and buried greatness, o'er a land 
 Wliich ipiis 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 and the free. 
 The beautiful, the brave — the lords of earth and sea, 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 The commonwealth of kings, the men of Rome I 
 And even since, and now, fair Italy ! 
 Thou art the garden of the world, the home 
 Of all Art yields, and Xaturc 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 [ftccd, 
 With an immaculate eluirin which cannot be de- 
 
 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 lilue Priuli's mountains ; Heaven is free 
 From clouds, Init of all colors 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 
 Floats through the azure air — an island of the blest 1* 
 
 XXVIII. 
 A single star is at her side, and reigns 
 With her o'er half the lovely heaven ; but still 
 Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains 
 Roll'd o'er the peak of the far Rhwtian hill. 
 As day and night contending were, until 
 Nature reelaim'd her order ; — gently flows 
 The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil 
 
 ' The above description may seem fiintasticnl or exajgerateci tn 
 those who have never noen an Oriental or ILilian pl<y. yet is but * 
 literal and hardly sufficient dclincatlnn of .'.n August evenir g (thl 
 eighteenth), as contemplated ."; one of nia' y rides along tUf bankl 
 of the Brenta, near La Min 
 
Canto iv. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 47 
 
 The odorous purple of a new-bom rose, 
 Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within 
 it glows, 
 
 XXIX. 
 Fill'd with the faoe of heaven, which, from afar. 
 Comes down upon the waters ; all its hues. 
 From the rich sunset to the rising star. 
 Their magical variety diffuse : 
 And now they change ; a paler shadow strews 
 Its mantle o'er the mountains ; parting day 
 Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues 
 With a new color as it gasps away, 
 f^'p. last still loveliest, till— 'tis gone— and all is gray. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 There is a tomb in Arqua ; — rear'd in air, 
 Pillar'd in their sarcophagus, repose 
 The bones of Laura's lover : here repair 
 Many familiar -with his well-sung woes. 
 The pilgrims of his genius. He arose 
 To raise a language, and his land reclaim 
 From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes : 
 Watering the tree which bears his lady's name 
 With his melodious tears, he gave himself to feme. 
 
 XXXI. 
 They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died ; 
 The mountain-village where his latter days 
 Went down the vale of years ; and 'tis their pride — 
 An honest pride— and let it be their praise. 
 To offer to the passing stranger's gaze 
 His mansion and his sepulchre ; both plain 
 And venerably simple, such as raise 
 A feeling more accordant with his strain 
 Than if a pyramid form'd Iiis 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, 
 Wliich 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 hoUday, 
 
 XXXIII. 
 Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers. 
 And shining in the brawling brook, where-by, 
 Clear as its current, glide the sauntering Hours 
 With a calm languor, which, though to the eye 
 Idlesr.e it seem, hath its morality. 
 If from society we learn to live, 
 'Tis solitude should teach us how to die ; 
 It hath no flatterers ; vanity 'an give 
 No hollow aid ; alone — man with his God must strive : 
 
 XXXIV. 
 Or, it may be, with demons, who impair" 
 The strength of better thoughts, and seek tl.eii 
 In melancholy bosoms, such as were [prej 
 
 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 'twere a ciu-se upon the seats 
 Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood 
 Of Este, which for many an age made good 
 Its strength within thy walls, 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. 
 
 m XXXVI. 
 
 And Tasso is their glory and their shame. 
 Hark to his strain 1 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 bom. 
 Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou mad"; I to mourn ; 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 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 I 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 
 No strain which shamed his country's creaking 
 lyre, 
 That whetstone of the teeth — monotony in wire ! 
 
 1 The straggle is to the fnll as likely to be mth demops as witi 
 oar better thoughts. Satan chose the wilderness for the temptar 
 tion of our Savionr. And our unenllied John I.ocke preferrnd the 
 presence of a child to complete solitude. 
 
48 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto it 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Peace to Torquato's injured shade ! 'twas liis 
 
 In life and death to be the mark where Wrong 
 
 Aim'd with her poison'd arrows ; but to miss. 
 
 Oh, victor imsurpass'd in modern song ! 
 
 Each year brings forth its millions ; but bow long 
 
 The tide of generations shaU 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 not form 
 a sun. 
 
 XL. 
 &reat as thou art, yet paraUel'd by those. 
 Thy countrymen, before thee bom to shine, 
 The Cards 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 
 A. new creation with his magic line. 
 And, like the Ariosto of the North, 
 
 Sang ladye-love and war, romance and knightly 
 worth. 
 
 XLI. 
 The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust 
 The iron crown of laurel's miraick'd leaves ; 
 Nor was the ominous element unjust. 
 For the true laurel-wreath which Glory weaves 
 Is of tlie tree no bolt of thuuder cleaves. 
 And the false semblance but disgraced his brow ; 
 Yet still, if fondly Superstition grieves. 
 Know, that the lightning sanctifies below 
 NATiate'er it strikes ; — yon head is doubly sacred now. 
 
 XLII. 
 Italia ! oh, Italia 1 thou who bast 
 The fatal gift of beauty, which became 
 A funeral dower of joresent woes and past, 
 
 «i thy sweet Ijrow is sorrow plough'd by shame, 
 And annals graved in characters of flame. 
 Oh, God ! that thou wert in thy nakedness 
 Lfess lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim 
 Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who press 
 To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy distress ; 
 
 XLIII. 
 Then might'st thou more appal ; or, less desired, 
 Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored 
 For thy destructive charms ; then, still untired, 
 Would not be seen the armed torrents pour'd 
 Down the deep Alps ; nor would the hostile horde 
 Of many-nation'd spoilers from the Po 
 QualV Ijlood and water ; nor the stranger's sword 
 Be thy sad weapon of defence, and so, 
 Victor or vanquish'd, thou the slave of friend or foe.' 
 
 > The two stanzas xllf. and xllil. arc, with the exception of a 
 Inc or two, a translation of the famous sonnet of Filicaja : — 
 ' Jtalia, Italia, tr cui fan '« «•«« i" 
 
 XLTV. 
 Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him,« 
 The Roman friend of Rome's least-mortal mind, 
 The friend of Tully : as my bark did skim 
 Tlxe bright blue waters with a fanning wind, 
 Came Megara before me, and behind 
 iEgina lay, Pirieus on the right, 
 And Corinth on the left ; I lay reclined 
 Along the prow, and saw all these unite 
 in ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight ; 
 
 XLV. 
 
 For Time hath not rebuilt them, but uprear'd 
 Barljaric dwellings on their shatter'd site, 
 Which only make more mourn'd and more endcar'd 
 The few last rays of their far-scatter'd light. 
 And the crush'd relies 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 pag3 
 The moral lesson bears, draw-n from such pilgrimage. 
 
 XLVI. 
 That page is now before me, and on mine 
 ffis country's ruin added to the mass 
 Of perish'd states he mourn'd in their decline, 
 And I in desolation ; all that ictis 
 Of then destruction is ; and now, alas 1 
 Rome — Rome imperial, bows her to the etorm, 
 In the same dust and blackness, and we pass 
 The skeleton of her Titanic form," 
 Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are warm. 
 
 XLVII. 
 Yet, Italy ! through every other land [side ; 
 
 Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side tc 
 Mother of Arts I as once of arms ; thy hand 
 Was then oiu' guardian, and is still our guide ; 
 Parent of our Religion ! whom the wide 
 Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven I 
 Europe, repentant of her parricide. 
 Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven, 
 RoU the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven. 
 
 2 The celebrated letter of Senius Sulpicius to Cicero, on the 
 death of his daughter, describes as it then was. and now is, a path 
 which I often traced in Greece, both by sea and land, in different 
 jonmeya and voyages. " On my return from Asia, as 1 was Ball- 
 ing from iEgina towards Megara, I began to contemplate the pros- 
 pect of the countries around me : ^{gina was behind, Megara 
 before me : Pirajus on the right, Corinth on the left ; all which 
 to^vns, once famous and flourishing, now lie overturned and buried 
 in their ruins. Upon this sight, I could not but think presently 
 within myself, .Mas 1 how do we poor mortals fret and vex our- 
 selves if any of our friends happen to die or be killed, whose life 
 is yet so short, when the carcasses of so many noble cities lie hero 
 exposed before me in one view."— See Mldtiltioii's Cicero, vol. ii., 
 p. 371. 
 
 8 It is Poggio, who, looking from the Capitoline bill upon mined 
 Home, breaks forth in tlie exclamation : " Ut nunc omni decore 
 nudata, prostrata jacet, instar gigautei cadaverls eorrupli atque 
 undlque exosi.'^ 
 
Canto it. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 49 
 
 XLYIII. 
 But Arno wins us to tlie fair ^vlnte ■walls 
 Where tbe Etrurian Athens claims and keeps 
 A softer feeling for her fairy halls. 
 Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps 
 Her corn, and Tvine, and oil, and Plenty leaps 
 To laughing life, with her reduntant horn. 
 Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps 
 Was modern Luxury of Commerce born, 
 A.nd buried Learning rose, redeem'd to a new morn. 
 
 XLIX. 
 There, too, the Goddess loves in stone, and fills 
 The air around with beauty ; we inhale 
 The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instills 
 Part of its immortality ; the veil 
 Of heaven is half undrawn ; within the pale 
 We stand, and in that form and face behold [fail ; 
 What Jlind can make, when Nature's self would 
 And to the fond idolaters of old [mould : 
 
 Envy the innate flash which such a soul could 
 
 We gaze and turn away, and know not where. 
 Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart 
 Reels with its fiUness ; there — forever there — 
 Chain'd to the chariot of triiunphal Art, 
 We stand as captives, and would not depart. 
 Away ! — there need no words, nor terms precise. 
 The paltry jargon of the marble mart. 
 Where Pedantry gulls Folly — we have eyes : 
 Blood — pulse — and breast, confirm the Dardan Shep- 
 herd's prize. 
 
 LI. 
 Appear'dst thou not to Paris in this guise ? 
 Or to more deeply bless'd 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 1 while thy lips are 
 With lava kisses melting while they bum, [urn ! 
 Shower'd on his eyelids,-brow, and mouth, as from an 
 
 LIL 
 Glowing, and circumfused in speechless love, 
 Their full divinity inadequate 
 That feeling to express, or to improve, 
 The gods become as mortals, and man's fate 
 Has moments like their brightest ; but the weight 
 Of earth recoils upon us ; let it go ! 
 We can recall such visions, and create, [grow 
 
 From what has been, or might be, things which 
 lUto thy statue's form, and look like gods below. 
 
 LIII. 
 I leave to learned fingers, and wise hands. 
 The artist and his ape, to teach and tell 
 7 
 
 How well his connoisseurship understands 
 The graceful bend, and the voluptuous swell : 
 Let these describe the undescribable : 
 I would not their vile breath should crisp the 
 Wherein that image shall forever dwell ; [stream 
 The unruffled mirror of the loveUest dream 
 That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam 
 
 LTV. 
 In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie 
 Ashes which make it hoUer, dust which la 
 Even in itself an immortality. 
 Though there were nothing save the past, and this, 
 The particle of those sublimities 
 Which have relapsed to chaos : — here repose 
 Angelo's, Alfleri's bones, and his, 
 The starry Galileo, with his woes ; 
 Here MachiaveUi's earth retum'd to whence it rose. 
 
 LV. 
 These are four minds, which, like the elements, 
 Might furnish forth creation : — Italy ! 
 Time, which hathwrong'd thee with ten thousand 
 Of thine imperial garment, shall deny, [rents 
 
 And hath denied to every other sky. 
 Spirits which soar from ruin : — thy decay 
 Is still impregnate with divinity. 
 Which gilds it with revivifjang ray ; 
 Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day. 
 
 LVL 
 But where repose the all Etruscan three — 
 Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they, 
 The Bard of Prose, creative spirit ! he 
 Of the Hundred Tales of love — where did they lay 
 Their bones, distinguish'd from our common clay 
 In death as life ? Are they resolved to dust. 
 And have their country's marbles naught to say ? 
 Could not her quarries furnish forth one bust ? 
 Did they not to her breast their filial earth intruSt ? 
 
 LVII. 
 Ungrateful Florence ! Dante sleeps alar. 
 Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore ; 
 Thy factious, in their worse than civil war. 
 Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore 
 Their children's children would in vain adore 
 A7ith the remorse of ages ; and the crown 
 Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely wore. 
 Upon a far and foreign soil had g^o^^^l, 
 His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled — not thina 
 own. 
 
 LVIII. 
 Boccaccio to his parent earth bcqucath'd 
 His dust, — and lies it not her Great among, 
 With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed 
 O'er him who form'd the Tusran's siren tongue ? 
 That music in itself, whose sounds are aong, 
 
60 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS 
 
 Cv.NT() rv 
 
 The poetry of speech ? No ; — even his tomb 
 Uptorn, must bear the hyfena bigot's wrong, 
 No more amidst the meaner dead find room, 
 Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for whom. 
 
 LIX. 
 And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust ; 
 Yet for this want more noted, as of yore 
 The CiPsar's pageant, shorn of Brutus' bust. 
 Did but of Home's best Son remind her more : 
 Happier Ravenna ! on thy hoary shore, 
 Fortress of falUng empire I houor'd sleeps 
 The immortal exile ; — Arqua, too, her store 
 Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps, 
 Wliile Florence vainly begs her banish'd dead and 
 weeps. 
 
 LX. 
 Wliat is her pyramid of precious stones ? 
 Of porjihyry, jasper, agate, and all hues 
 Of gem and marble, to incrust the bones 
 Of merchant-dukes ? the momentary dews 
 Which, sparkling to the tT\'ilight stars, infuse 
 Freshness in the green turf that wraps the dead, 
 Whose names are mausoleums of the Muse, 
 Are gently press'd with far more reverent tread 
 Than ever paced the slab which paves the princely 
 head. 
 
 LXI. 
 There be more things to greet the heart and eyes 
 In Arno's dome of Art's most princely shrine, 
 Where Sculpture mth her rainbow sister vies ; 
 There be more marvels yet — but not for mine ; 
 For I have been accustom'd to entwine 
 My thoughts with Nature rather in the fields, 
 Than Art in galleries : though a work divine 
 Calls for my spirit's homage, yet it yields 
 Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wields 
 
 LXII. 
 Is of another temper, and I roam 
 By Thrasimene's lake, in the defiles 
 Fatal to Koman 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, s^voll'n to rivers with their gore, 
 Ileek through the sultry plain, with legions scattor'd 
 o'er, 
 
 LXIII. 
 Like to a forest fell'd by mountain winds ; 
 And such the storm of battle on this day. 
 And such th<! jjlirenzy, wliose convulsion blinds 
 To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray, 
 XD earthquake reel'd unheededly away 1 
 
 None felt stem Nature rocking at his feet. 
 And yawning forth a grave for those who lay 
 Upon their bucklers for a winding sheet ; [meet ! 
 Such is the absorbing hate when warring natioQB 
 
 LXIV. 
 The Earth to them was as a rolling bark 
 Which bore them to Eternity ; they saw 
 The Ocean round, but had no time to mark 
 The motions of their vessel ; Nature's law, 
 In them suspended, reck'd not of the awn [birds 
 Wliich reigns when mountains tremble, and the 
 Plunge in the clouds for refuge and withdraw 
 From their down-toppling nests ; and I)el!owing 
 herds [no words. 
 
 Stumble o'er heaving plains, and man's dread hatL 
 
 lAV. 
 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 
 A little rill of scanty stream and bed — [ta'en — 
 A name of blood from that day's sanguii. o rain ; 
 And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead [red. 
 Made the earth wet, and turn'd the unwilling waters 
 
 LXVI. 
 But thou, Clitumnus ! in thy sweetest wave 
 Of the most living crystal that was e'er 
 The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave 
 Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear 
 Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer 
 Grazes ; the purest god of gentle waters ! 
 And most serene of aspect, and most clear ; 
 Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughters— 
 A mirror and a bath for Beauty's youngest daughters. 
 
 r.XVII. 
 And on thy happy shore a Temple still, 
 Of small and delicate proportion, keeps, 
 Upon a mild declivity of hill, 
 Its memory of thee ; beneath it sweeps 
 Thy current's calmness ; oft from out it leaps 
 The finny darter with the glittering scales. 
 Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps ; 
 Wliile, chance, some scatter'd water-lily sails 
 Down where the shallower wave still tells its bub 
 bling tales. 
 
 LXVI II. 
 Pass not unbless'd the Genius of the place 1 
 If through the air a zephyr more serene 
 Win to the brow, 'tis his ; and if ye trace 
 Along his margin a more eloquent green. 
 If on the heart the freshness of the scene 
 Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust 
 Of weary life a moment lave it clean 
 
Canto rv. 
 
 CHIXDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 51 
 
 "With Nat'ire's baptism, — 'tis to him ye must 
 Pny orisons <br this suspension of disgust. 
 
 LXIX. 
 The roar of waters . — from the headlong height 
 VeUno e.loaves the wave-worn precipice ; 
 The fall "f waters ! rapid as the light 
 The flas'iing mass foams shaking the abyss ; 
 The hcl' of waters ! where they howl and hiss, 
 And boil in endless torture ; while the sweat 
 Of th^ir great agony, wrung out from this 
 TliP"- Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet 
 riiat rrird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set, 
 
 LXX. 
 And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again 
 Returns in an unceasing shower, which round, 
 With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain, 
 Is «n eternal April to the ground. 
 Making it all one emerald : — how profound 
 The gulf 1 and how the giant element 
 ■Prom rock to rock leaps with delirious bound, 
 •^rushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and 
 
 rent 
 ••- Hh his tierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful 
 
 vent 
 
 LXXI. 
 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 
 Of a new world, than only thus to be 
 Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly, [back 1 
 With many windings, through the vale : — Look 
 Lo ! where it comes like an eternity. 
 As if to sweep down all things in its track, 
 Charming the eye with dread — a matchless cataract,' 
 
 LXXII. 
 Horribly beautiful ! but on the verge. 
 From side to side, beneath the glittering mom, 
 An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge," 
 Like Hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn 
 Its steady dyes, while all around is torn 
 
 ' I saw the Cascata del Marmore of Terni twice, at different 
 periods* : once from the summit of the precipice, and again from 
 the valley helow. The lower view is far to be preferred, if the 
 traveler has time for one only : hut in any point of yievi, either 
 fh)m above or below, it is worth all the cascades and torrents of 
 Switzerland put together : the Staubach, Reichenbach. PisseVache, 
 Pall of Arpenaz, etc., arc rills in comparative appearance. Of the 
 Fall of Schaff hausen I cannot speak, not yet having seen it. 
 
 ^ or the time, place and qualities of this kind of iris, the reader 
 will see a short account in a note to Manfred. The fall looks so 
 much like " the hell of waters." that Addison thought the descent 
 BUuded to by the gulf in which Alecto plunged into the infernal 
 regions. It is singular enough, that two of the fiuest cascades in 
 Europe should be artiflcial— this of the Velino. and the one at Ti- 
 voli. The traveler is strongly recommended to trace the Velino, 
 at least as high as the little lake, called Pk' di Lup. The Reatine 
 territory was the Italian Tempe, (Cicer. Epist. ad Attic, xv. lib. 
 IV.,) and the ancient naturalists. (Plin. Hist. Nat. lib. ii. cap. Ixii.,) 
 ■monj;9t other beautiful varieties, remarked the daily rainbows of 
 
 By the distracted waters, bears serene 
 Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn : 
 Reseml^Ung, 'mid the torture of the scene. 
 Love watching Madness with unalterable mien. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 Once more upon the woody Apennine, 
 The infant Alps, which — had I not before 
 Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine 
 Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roarj 
 The thundering lauwine — might be worshipp'd 
 But I hiive seen the soaring Jungfrau rear [more 
 > Her never-trodden snow, and seen the hoar 
 
 Glaciers of bleak Mont Blanc both far and near, 
 And in Chimari heard the thunder-hUls of fear, 
 
 LXXIV. 
 Th' Acroceratmian mountains of old name ; 
 And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly 
 Like spirits of the spot, as 'twere for fame, 
 For still they soar'd unutterably high : 
 I've look'd on Ida with a Trojan's eye ; 
 Athos, Olympus, iEtna, Atlas, made 
 These hiUs seem things of lesser dignity. 
 All, save the lone Soracte's height, display'd 
 Not now in snow, which asks the lyric Roman's aid 
 
 LXXV. 
 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 raptiu-es, and awake 
 The hiUs with Latian echoes ; I abhorr'd 
 Too much, to conquer for the poefs sake, 
 The driU'd dull lesson, forced down word by word: 
 In my repugnant youth, with pleasiu-e to record 
 
 the lake Velinns. A scholar of great name has devoted a treaties 
 to this district alone. See Aid. llanut. de Reatina Urbe Agroque, 
 ap. Sallengre, Thesaur. tom. i. p. 77.3. 
 
 = In the greater part of Switzerland, the avalanches are known 
 by the name of lauwine. 
 
 * These stanzas may probably remind the reader of Ensign 
 Northcrton'9 remarks : "D— n Homo," etc. ; but the rcasoaa for 
 our disUke are not exactly the same. I wish to express, that we 
 become tired of the task before we can comprehend the beauty; 
 that we learn by rote before we can get by heart ; that the fresh- 
 ness is worn away, and the future pleasure and advantage dead- 
 ened and destroyed, by the didactic anticipation, at an age when 
 we can neither feel nor understand the power of composiiiona 
 which it requires an acquaintance with life, as well as Latin and 
 Greek, to relish, or to reason upon. For the same reason, wa 
 can never be aware of the fullness of some of the finest passages 
 of Shakspeare (-'To be, or not to be," for instance), from the 
 habit of having them hammered into us at eight years old, as an 
 exercise, not of mind, but of memory : so that when wo are old 
 enough to enjoy them, the taste is gone, and the appetite palled. 
 In some parts of the continent, young persons are taught from 
 more common authors, and do not read tlic best classics till theii 
 maturity. I certainly do not speak on this point from any piqne 
 or aversion towards the place of my education. I was not a slow, 
 though an idle boy ; and I believe no one could, or can he, more 
 attached to Harrow than I have always been, and with reason ;— a 
 part of the time passed there was the happiest of my life ; and 
 
52 
 
 BYRON S WORKS 
 
 Caxto IV 
 
 lAXVI. 
 Aught that recalls the daily drug which tum'd 
 My sickening memory ; and, though Time hath 
 My mind to meditate what then it learn'd, [taught 
 Tet such the fix'd inveteracy wrought 
 By the imijauence of my early thought, 
 That, with the fi-eshness wearing out before 
 My mind could relish what it might have sought, 
 If free to choose, I can not now restore 
 Its health ; but what it then detested, still abhor. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 Then farewell, Horace ; whom I hated so, 
 Not for thy faults, but mine ; it is a curse 
 To imderstand, not feel thy lyric flow, 
 To comprehend, but never love thy verse, 
 Although no deeper Moralist rehearse 
 Our little life, nor Bard prescribe his art, 
 Nor livelier Satirist the conscience pierce, 
 Awakening without wounding the touch'd heart, 
 Yet fare thee well — upon Soracte's ridge we part. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 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 miseiy. 
 What are our woes and sufferance ? Come and 
 The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way [see 
 O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, ye 1 
 Whose agonies are evils of a day — 
 A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 The Niobe of nations ! there she stands. 
 Childless and crownlcss, in her voiceless wo ; 
 An empty urn within her wither'd hands. 
 Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago ; 
 The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now ; 
 
 ^ The very sepulchres lie tcnantless 
 Of their heroic dweUera dost thou flow. 
 Old Tiller 1 through a marble wilderness ? 
 
 Rise, with thy yeUow waves, and mantle her distress ! 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and 
 Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's pride ; [Fire, 
 She saw her glories star by star expire. 
 And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride, 
 AVliere the car cUnib'd the capitol ; far and wide 
 
 my preceptor, the Rev. Dr. Joseph Drary, was the best and worth- 
 iest friend I over possessed, whose warnings I have remembered but 
 too wet', tboiij,'li too late when I have erred.— and whose counsels 
 I have l)ut followed when I have done well or wisely. If ever this 
 Impcrl'ecl record of roy feelings towards him should reach his eyes, 
 let it remind him of one who never thinks of him bnt with grati- 
 tndc and veneration— of one who would more yladly boast of hav- 
 ing been bis pupil, if, by more c.osely following his injunctions, 
 laf could rollec* any honor upon uis ;i.*»'.ructor. 
 
 Temple and tower went down, nor left a site :— 
 Chaos of ruins ! who shall trace the void, 
 O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light. 
 And say, " here was, or is," where all is doubly night I 
 
 LXXXI. 
 The double night of ages, and of her, [wrap 
 
 Night's daughter. Ignorance, hath wrapp'd and 
 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 Home 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 1 the lofty city ! and alas ! 
 The trebly himdred triumphs !' and the day 
 When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass 
 The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away I 
 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 [free ! 
 
 That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome waa 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 Oh thou, whose chariot roD'd on Fortune's wheel, 
 Triumphant SyUa 1 Thou, who didst subdue 
 Thy country's foes ere thou wouldst 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 a more than earthly crown — 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 The dictatorial wreath, — couldst thou divine 
 To what would one d.ay dwindle that which made 
 Thee more tlian mortal ? and that so supine 
 By aught than Romans Rome should thus be laid? 
 She who was named Eternal, and array'd 
 Her warriors l)ut to conquer — she who veil'd 
 Earth with her haughty shadow, and display'd. 
 Until the o'er-canopied horizon fail'd, [hail'd 
 Her rushing wings — Oh ! she who was Almightj 
 
 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 1 See 
 What crimes it costs to be a moment free 
 And famous through all ages ! but beneath 
 His fate the moral lurks of destiny ; 
 
 1 Orosins gives 320 for the number of triumphs. He i> fbUowei) 
 by Panvlnius, by Mr. Gibbon and the modem wrileri 
 
Cahto IV. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 53 
 
 E[is day of double victory and death [breath. 
 
 BohcM him win two reahiis, and, happier, yield his 
 
 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.i 
 And show'd not Fortune tluis 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 
 The austerest form of naked majesty. 
 Thou who beheldest, 'mid the assassins' din. 
 At thy bathed base the bloody Ciesar lie. 
 Folding his robe in dying dignity, 
 An oifering to thine altar from the queen 
 Of gods and men, great Nemesis ! did he die, 
 And thou, too, perish, Pompey ? have ye been 
 V'ictors of countless kings, or puppets of a scene ? 
 
 LXXXVIII 
 And thou, the thunder-stricken nm-se of Rome ! 
 She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart 
 The milk of conquest yet within the dome 
 Where, as a monument of antique art. 
 Thou standest : — Mother of the mighty heart. 
 Which the great founder suek'd from thy wild teat, 
 Scorch'd by the Roman Jove's ethereal dart. 
 And thy limbs black with lightning — dost thou yet 
 Kuard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge 
 forget ? 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 Thou dost ; — but aU thy foster-babes are dead — 
 The men of iron ; and the world hath rear'd 
 Cities from out their sepulchres : men bled 
 In imitation of the things they fear'd [steer'd, 
 And fought and conquer'd, and the same course 
 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, 
 B it, vanquish'd by himself, to his own slaves a slave — 
 
 XC. 
 The fool of false dominion — and a kind 
 Of bastard Ca?sar, following him of old 
 With steps unequal ; for the Roman's mind 
 Was modell'd in a less terrestrial mould, 
 With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold, 
 
 > On the .3d of September Cromwell gained the victory of Dan- 
 Dar : a year afterwards he obtained "hie crowning mercy " of Wor- 
 rester ; and a few years after, on the same day, which he had ever 
 isteemcd the mosl fortmiatc for him, died. 
 
 And an immortal instinct which redeem'd 
 The frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold. 
 Alcides with the distaff now he seem'd 
 At Cleopatra's feet, — and now himself he beam'd 
 
 XCI. 
 And came — and saw — and conquer'd ! But the man 
 Who would have tamed his eagles doTMi to flee, 
 Like a train'd falcon, in the Gallic van. 
 Which he, in sooth, long led to victory. 
 With a deaf heart which never seem'd to be 
 A listener to itself, was strangely fi-amed ; 
 With liut one weakest weakness — vanity. 
 Coquettish in ambition — still he aim'd — 
 At what ? can he avouch — or answer what he claim'd 
 
 XCII. 
 And would be all or nothing — nor could wait 
 For the sure grave to level him ; few years 
 Had iis'd him with the Coesars in his fate. 
 On whom we tread : For this the conqueror rears 
 The arch of triumph I and for this the tears 
 And blood of earth flow on as they have flow'd, 
 A universal deluge, which appears 
 Without an ark for wretched man's abode. 
 And ebbs but to reflow ! — Renew thy rainbow, God 
 
 XCIII. 
 Wliat from this barren being do we reap ? 
 Our senses narrow, and our reason frail, 
 Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep, 
 And all things weigh'd in custom's falsest scale ; 
 Opinion an omnipotence, — whose veil 
 Mantles the earth with darkness, imtil right 
 And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale 
 Lest their own judgment-s shouldbecome too 1 iright. 
 And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have 
 too much Ught. 
 
 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 glatliator-like, and still engage 
 Within the same arena where they see 
 Their feUows fall before, hke leaves of the same tree 
 
 XCV. 
 I speak not of men's creeds — they rest between 
 Man and his Maker — but of things al.low'd, 
 Averr'd, and known — and daily, hourly seen- 
 The yoke that is upon us doubly bow'd 
 And the intent of tyranny avow'd, 
 Tlie edict of Earth's rulers, who are grown 
 The apes of him who huml)led once the proud, 
 And shook them from their slumbers on the throne 
 Too glorious, were this aU his mighty arm had done, 
 
54 
 
 BY it OX'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto iv 
 
 XCVI. 
 Can tyrants but by tjTants conquered be, 
 And Freedom tind no champion and no child 
 Such as Columbia saw arise when she 
 Sprung fortli a Pallas, ann'd and undefiled ? 
 Or must such minds be nourish'd in the wild. 
 Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the roar 
 Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled 
 On infant Washington 'I Has Earth no more 
 Huch seeds within lier breast, or Europe no such sliore ? 
 
 XCVII. 
 But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime. 
 And fatal have her Saturnalia been 
 To Freedom's cause, in every age and clime ; 
 Because the deadly days which wc liave seen, 
 And vile Ambition, that built up between 
 JIau and his hopes an adamantine wall, 
 And the base pageant last upon the scene. 
 Are grown the pretext for the eternal thraU 
 Wliich nips life's tree, and dooms man's worst — his 
 second fall. 
 
 X'CVIII. 
 5"et, Freedom ! yet thy banner, torn, but flj-ing. 
 Streams like the thunder-storm agiibml the wind ; 
 Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and djdng, 
 The loudest still the tempest leaves behind ; 
 Thy tjee hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, 
 Chopi)'d by the axe, looks rough and little worth, 
 But the sap lasts, — and still the seed we find 
 Sown deep, even in the liosom of the North ; 
 So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth. 
 
 XCIX. 
 There is a stern round tower of other days,' 
 Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone. 
 Such as an army's baffled strength delays, 
 Standing with half its battlements alone. 
 And with two thousand years of ivy grown. 
 The garland of eternity, where wave 
 The green leaves over all by time o'erthrown ; — 
 What w^as this tower of strength ? within its cave 
 What treasure lay so lock'd, so hid ? — A woman's 
 grave. 
 
 C. 
 But who was she, the lady of the dead, 
 Tomb'd in a j)alace ? Was she chaste and fair ? 
 Worthy a king's — or more — a Roman's bed ? 
 What race of chiefs and heroes did she boar ? 
 What daughter of her licauties was the heir ? [not 
 H iw lived —how loved — liow died she 3 Was she 
 Sc honorxl — and conspicuously there, 
 Wliere meaner relics must not dare to rot. 
 Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot ? 
 
 ' AUndiDg to the tomb of Cecilia MeteUa, c.illecl Capo di Bove. 
 
 CI. 
 
 Was she as those who love their lords, or they 
 Who love the lords of others ? such have been 
 Even in the olden time, Rome's annals say. 
 Was she a matron of Cornelia's mien. 
 Or the light air of Egj-pt's graceful queen. 
 Profuse of joy — or 'gainst it did she war, 
 Inveterate in virtue ? Did she lean 
 To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar 
 Love from amongst her griefs ? — for such the affec- 
 tions are. 
 
 CII. 
 Perchance she died in youth : it may be, bow'd 
 With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb 
 That weigh'd upon her gentle dust, a cloud 
 Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom 
 In her dark eye. prophetic of the doom 
 Heaven gives its fiivorites — early death ; yet shed 
 A sunset charm around her, and illume 
 With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead, 
 Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-like red. 
 
 cm. 
 
 Perchance she died in age — surviving all. 
 Charms, kindred, children — with the silver gray 
 On her long tresses, which might yet recall. 
 It may be, still a something of the day 
 When they were braided, and her proud array 
 And lovely form were envied, jDraised, and eyed 
 By Rome. But whither would Conjecture stray ? 
 Thus much alone we know — Metella died. 
 The wealtliicst Roman's wife : Bcliold his love oi 
 pride ! 
 
 (MV. 
 I know not why — l)ut standing thus by thee 
 It seems as if I had thine inmate known. 
 Thou Tomb ! and other day come back on me 
 With recollected music, though the tone 
 Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan 
 Of dying thunder on the distant wind ; 
 Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone 
 Till I had bodied forth the heated mind 
 Forms from the floating wreck which Ruin leaves 
 behind ; 
 
 CT. 
 
 And from the planks, far shatter'd o'er the locks, 
 Built me a little bark of hope, once more 
 To battle with the ocean and the shocks 
 Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar 
 Which rushes on the solitary shore 
 Wliere all lies foundcr'd that was ever dear : 
 But could I gather from the wave-worn store 
 Enough for my rude boat, wliere should I steer t 
 There woos no liomt , nor liope, nor life, save what is 
 here. 
 
C 4NT0 TV. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 6? 
 
 CVI. 
 Then let the "vinds liowl on ! their harmony 
 Shall henceforth be my music, and the night 
 The sound shall temper with the owlets' cry, 
 As I now hear them, in the foding light 
 Dim o'er the bird of darkness' native site, 
 Answering each other on the Palatine, 
 With their large eyes, all glistening gray and bright, 
 And sailing pinions. Upon such a shrine 
 V\Tiat are our petty griefs ? — let me not number mine. 
 
 CVII. 
 Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown 
 Matted and mass'd together, hiUocks heap'd 
 On what were chambers, arch crush'd, columns 
 
 strewn 
 In fragments, choked up vaults, and frescoes steep'd 
 In subterranean damps, where the owl peep'd, 
 Deeming it midnight : — Temples, baths, or halls ? 
 Pronounce who can ; for all that Learning reap'd 
 From her research hath been, that these are walls — 
 Behold the Jmjjerial Mount! 'tis thus the mighty falls. 
 
 CVIII. 
 There is the moral of all human tales ; 
 'Tis but ^he same rehearsal of the past, 
 First Freedom, and then Glory — when that fails. 
 Wealth, %-ice, corruption, — barl^arism at last. 
 And History, with aU her volumes vast. 
 Hath but orie page,— 'tis better written here, 
 Where gorgeous Tyi-anny hath thus amass'd 
 All treasures, all dehghts, that eye or ear, 
 Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask — Away with 
 words, draw near, 
 
 CIX. 
 Admire, exult — despise — laugh, weep, — for here 
 There is such matter for all feeling : — Man ! 
 Thou pendulum betsvixt a smile and tear. 
 Ages and realms are crowded in this span, 
 This mountain, whose obliterated plan 
 The pjTamid of empires pinnacled. 
 Of Glory's gewgaws shining in the van 
 Till the sun's rays with added flame were fill'd 1 
 Where are its golden roofs 2 where those who dared 
 to build 1 
 
 ex. 
 
 Tally was not so eloquent as thou, 
 Thou nameless column with the buried base 1 
 What are the laurels of the C;esar's brow ? 
 Crown me with \vy from his dwelling-place. 
 Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face, 
 Titus or Trajan's ? No — 'tis that of Time : 
 Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace 
 Scofting ; and apostoUc statues climb 
 To crush the imperial um, whose ashes slept sublime,' 
 
 1 The column of Trajan is surmounted by St. Peter ; 
 Aorelias by St. Paul. 
 
 that of 
 
 CXI. 
 Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Eome, 
 And looking to the stars : they had contain'd 
 A spirit which with these would find a home. 
 The last of those who o'er the whole earth reign'd, 
 The Roman globe, for after none sustain'd, 
 But yielded back his conquests : — he was more 
 Than a mere Alexander, and, unstain'd 
 With household blood and wine, serenely wore 
 His sovereign virtues — stiU we Trajan's name adore 
 
 CXII. 
 Where is the rock of Triumph, the high place 
 Where Rome embraced her heroes 2 where the 
 
 steep 
 Tai-peian ? fittest goal of Treason's race. 
 The jjromontory whence the Traitor's Leap 
 Cured aU ambition. Did the conquerors heap 
 Their spoils here ? Yes ; and in yon field below. 
 A thousand years of silenced factions sleep — 
 The Forum, where the immortal accents glow, 
 
 And stin the eloquent air breathes — burns wiih 
 Cicero ! 
 
 CXIII. 
 The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood : 
 Here a proud people's passions were exhaled. 
 From the first hour of empire in the bud 
 To that when further worlds to conquer fail'd ; 
 But long before had Freedom's face been veii'd, 
 And Anarchy assumed her attributes ; 
 Till every lawless soldier who assail'd 
 Trod on the trembling senate's slavish mutes, 
 
 Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes. 
 
 CXIV. 
 Then turn we to her latest tribime's name, 
 From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee 
 Redeemer of dark centuries of shame — 
 The friend of Petrarch — hope of Italy^ 
 Rienzi ! last of Romans 1- While the tree 
 Of freedom's witlicr'd trunk puts forth a leaf. 
 Even for thy tomb a garland let it be — 
 The forum's champion, and the people's chief — 
 Her new-bom Numa thou — -with ruign, alast too brief 
 
 CXV. 
 Egeria 1 sweet creation of some heart 
 Which found no mortal resting-place so fair 
 As thine ideal breast ; wliate'er thou art 
 Or wert, — a young Aurora of the air, 
 The nympholcpsy of some fond despair ; 
 Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth, 
 Wlio found a more than common votary there 
 Too much adoring ; whatsoe'er thy birth, 
 Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied 
 forth. 
 
 ' The name and exploits of Eienzi mast be fimiUiar to the 
 reader of Gibbon. 
 
h6 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto iy. 
 
 cxvi. 
 
 The mosses of tliy fountain still are sprinkled 
 With thine Elysian water-drops ; the face 
 Of thycavc-guardcd spring, with years un wrinkled, 
 Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the 2)lace, 
 Whose gieen, wild margin now no more erase • 
 Art's works ; nor must the delicate waters sleep, 
 Prison'd in marbk-, bubbling from the base 
 Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap 
 
 The riU runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, and ivy, 
 creep, 
 
 CXVI I. 
 Fantastically tangled : the green hills 
 Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass 
 The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills 
 Of summer-birds sing welcome as ye pass ; 
 Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class, 
 Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes 
 Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass ; 
 The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes, 
 
 Kiss'd by the breath of heaven, seems color'd by its 
 skies. 
 
 CXVUI. 
 ITere didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, 
 Egeria 1 thy all-heavenly bosom beating 
 For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover; 
 The purple Midnight veil'd that mystic meeting 
 With her most starry canopy, and seating 
 Thyself by thine adorer, what befell ? 
 This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting 
 Of an enmor'd Goddess, and the cell 
 
 Haimted by holy Love — the earliest oracle ! 
 
 CXIX. 
 And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying, 
 Blend a celestial with a human heart ; 
 And Love, which dies as it was born, in sighing. 
 Share with immortal transport ? could thine art 
 Make them indeed immortal, and impart 
 The purity of heaven to earthly joys, 
 Expel the venom and not Ijlunt the dart — 
 The dull satiety which all destroys — 
 
 And root from out the soul the deadly weed which 
 cloys ? 
 
 CXX. 
 Alas ! our young affections run to waste, 
 Or water but the desert ; whence arise 
 But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste, 
 Rank at the core, though tempting to the eyes, 
 Flowers whose wild odors breathe but agonies. 
 And trees whose gums arc poison ; such the plants 
 Which spring beneath her steps as Passion flies 
 O'er the world's wilderness, and vainly pants 
 
 For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants. 
 
 CXXI. 
 Oh, Love I -no habitant of earth thou art — 
 An unseen seraph, we believe in thee. 
 
 A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart, 
 But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see 
 The naked eye, thy form, as it should be ; 
 The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven. 
 Even with its own desiring phantasy. 
 And to a thought such shape and image given. 
 As haunts the unquench'd soul — parch'd — wearied 
 — wrung — and riven. 
 
 CXXII. 
 Of its own beauty is the mind diseased. 
 And fevers into false creation : — where, 
 Wliere are the forms the sculptor's soul hath 
 In him alone. Can Nature show so fair ? [seized ? 
 Where are the charms and virtues which we dare 
 Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men, 
 The unreach'd Paradise of our despair. 
 Which o'er-informs the pencil and the pen. 
 And overpowers the page where it would bloom 
 again ? 
 
 CXXIH. 
 Who loves, raves-'tisyouth's phrenzj' — but the cure 
 Is bitterer still ; as charm by charm unwinds 
 Which robed our idols, and we see too sure 
 Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind's 
 Ideal shape of such ; j'et still it binds 
 The fatal spell, and still it draws us on, 
 Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sown winds ; 
 The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun, [undone. 
 Seems ever near the prize, — wealthiest when most 
 
 CXXIV. 
 We wither from our youth, we gasp away — 
 Sick — sick ; unfound the boon — imslaked the 
 Though to the last, in verge of our decay, [thirst. 
 Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first- 
 But all too late, — so are we doulily cursed. 
 Love, fame, ambition, avarice — 'tis the same, 
 Each idle — and all ill — and none the worst — 
 For aU are meteors with a different name. 
 And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame. 
 
 CXXV. 
 Few — none — find wdiat they love or could hava 
 
 loved. 
 Though accident, blind contact, and the strong 
 Necessity of loving, have removed 
 Antipathies — but to recur, ere long, 
 Envenora'd with irrevocable wrong ; 
 And Circumstance, that unspiritual god 
 And miscrcator, makes and helps along 
 Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod. 
 Whose touch turns Hope to dust, — the dust we aii 
 
 have trod. 
 
 CXXVI. 
 Our lift is a false nature — 'tis not in 
 The harmony of things, — this hard decree, 
 
CaXTO IV. 
 
 CIIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 57 
 
 This uneradicable taint of sin, 
 This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree, 
 "Wliose root is earth, whose leaves and bi-iinches be 
 The skies which rain their plagues on men like 
 
 dew — 
 Disease, death, bondage — all the woes we see — 
 And worse, the woes we see not — which throb 
 
 through 
 The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new. 
 
 CXXVII. 
 Yet let us ponder boldl}- — 'tis a base 
 Abandonment of reason to resign 
 Our right of thouglit — our last and only place 
 Of refuge ; this, at least, shall still be mine : 
 Though from our birth the faculty divine 
 Is chain'd and tortured — cabin'd, cribb'd, confined. 
 And bred in darkness, lest the truth should shine 
 Too brightly on the unprepared mind, [l)lind. 
 rbft beam pom-s in, for time and skill will couch the 
 
 CXXVIII. 
 Arches on arches ! as it were that Rome, 
 Collecting the chief trophies of her line, 
 Would build up all lier triumphs in one dome, 
 Her Coliseum stands ; the moonbeams shine 
 As 'twere its natural torches, for divine 
 Should be the light which streams here, to illume 
 This long-exi5lored but still exhaustless mine 
 Of contemplation ; and the aziurc gloom 
 Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume 
 
 CX-XIX. 
 Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven. 
 Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument, 
 And shadows forth its glory. There is given 
 Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bent, 
 A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant 
 His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power 
 And magic in the ruin'd battlement, 
 For which the palace of the present hour 
 Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower. 
 
 CXXX. 
 Oh, Time ! the beautifier of the dead, 
 Adorner of the ruin, comforter 
 And only healer when the heart hath bled — 
 Time ! the corrector where our judgments err. 
 The test of truth, love, — sole philosopher. 
 For all besides are sophists, from thy thrift. 
 "Which never loses though it doth defer — 
 Time, the avenger ! unto thee I lift [t?ift 
 
 My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a 
 
 CXXXI. 
 Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a slirine 
 And temple more divinely desolate. 
 Among thy mightier offerings here are mine, 
 Uxiins of years — though few, yet full of fate : — 
 8 
 
 If thou hast ever seen me too elate. 
 Hear me not ; but if calmly I have bom« 
 Good, and reserved my pride against the hate 
 Which shall not whelm me, let mp cot have won! 
 This ii'on in my soul in vain — shall they not mourn % 
 
 CXXXII. 
 And thou, who never yet of human wrong 
 Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis ! 
 Here, where the ancient p.aid thee homage long— 
 Thou, who didst call the Furies from the abyss, 
 And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss 
 For that unnatural retril.)ution — 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 lieart ? — Awake ! thou shall, 
 and must. 
 
 CXXXIII. 
 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 conferr'd 
 With a just weapon, it had fiow'd imbound ; 
 But now my blood shall not sink in the ground ; 
 To thee I do devote it — thou shalt take [found, 
 The vengeance, which shall yet be sought and 
 
 Which if / have not taken for the sake 
 
 But let that pass — I sleep, but thou shalt yet awake. 
 
 CXXXIV. 
 
 And if my voice break forth, 'tis not that now 
 I shrink from what is sufl'er'd : let him speak 
 Who hath l/cheld 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 fullness of this verse, 
 An d pile on human heads the mountain of my curse 1 
 
 CXXXV. 
 That curse sliaU be Forgiveness. Have I not — 
 Hear me, my mother Earth ! behold it. Heaven 1 
 Have I not had to wrestle with my lot ? 
 Have I not sufter'd things to be forgiven ? 
 Have I not had my brain sear'd, my heart riven, 
 Hopes sapp'd, name blighted. Life's life lied away ! 
 And only not to desperation driven. 
 Because not altogether of such clay 
 As rots into the souls of those whom I survey. 
 
 CXXXVI. 
 
 From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy 
 
 Have I not seen what human things could do \ 
 
 From the loud roar of foaming calumny 
 
 To the small whisper of the as paltry few, 
 
 And subtler venom of the reptile crew. 
 
 The Janus glance of whose signiiicant eye. 
 
 Learning to lie with silence, would seci true. 
 
58 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ^jIlNTO !▼ 
 
 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 jjerish even in conquering pain ; 
 IJut 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 romember'd tone of a mute lyre. 
 Shall on their soften'd spirits sink, and move 
 tu hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love. 
 
 CXXXVIII. 
 The seal is set. Now welcome, thou dread power ! 
 Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here 
 Walk'st in the shadow of the midnight hour 
 With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear : 
 Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear 
 Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene 
 Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear 
 That we become a part of what has been, 
 And grow unto the spot, all-seeing but unseen. 
 
 CXXXIX. 
 And here the buzz of eager nations ran. 
 In murmur'd pity, or loud-roar'd applause, 
 As man was slaughter'd by his fellow-man. 
 And wherefore slaughter'd ? wherefore, but be- 
 Such were the bloody Circus' genial laws, [cause 
 And the imperial pleasure. Wherefore not ? 
 What matters where we fall to fill the maws 
 Of worms — on battle-plains or listed spot ? 
 Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot. 
 
 CXL. 
 I see before me the Gladiator lie : 
 He leans upon his hand — his manly brow 
 Consents to death, but conquers agony. 
 And his droop'd head sinks gradually low — 
 And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow 
 From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one. 
 Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and now 
 The arena swims around him — he is gone. 
 Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the 
 wretch who won. 
 
 CXLI. 
 He heard it, but he heeded not — his eyes 
 Were with his heart, and that was far away ; 
 He rcck'd not of the Ufe he lost nor prize. 
 But where his rude hut by the Danube lay. 
 There were his young barliarians all at play, 
 There was their Dacian mother — he, their sire, 
 Butcher'd to make a Roman lioiiday — 
 All this rush'd with his blood — Shall he expire 
 fiund unavenged V — Arise I ye Goths, and glut your 
 ire! 
 
 CXLII. 
 But here, where Murder breathed her bloody steam , 
 And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways, 
 And roar'd or murmur'd like a moimtain stream 
 Dashing or winding as its torrent strays ; 
 Here, where the Roman million's blame or praise 
 Was death or Ufe, the playthings of a crowd. 
 My voice sounds much — and fall the stars' faint raye 
 On the arena void — seats crush'd — walls bow'd — 
 
 And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely 
 loud. 
 
 Ill CXLIII. 
 
 A ruin — yet what ruin ! from its mass 
 Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been rear'd ; 
 Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass, 
 And marvel where the sjjoil could have appear'd. 
 Hath it indeed been plunder'd, or but clear'd ? 
 Alas 1 develop'd, opens the decay, 
 When the colossal fabric's form is near'd ; 
 It will not bear the brightness of the day, 
 
 Which streams too much on all years, man, have 
 reft away. 
 
 Ill CXLIV. 
 
 But when the rising moon begins to climb 
 Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there ; 
 When the stars twinkle through the loojss of time, 
 And the low night-breeze waves along the air 
 The garland-forest, which the gray walls wear, 
 Like laurels on the bald first Cftsar's head ;' 
 When the light shines serene but doth not glare, 
 Then in this magic circle raise the dead : 
 Heroes have trod this spot — 'tis on their dust yv 
 tread. 
 
 CXLT. 
 " While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand ,« 
 " When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall tail ; 
 '' And when Rome falls — the World." From our 
 
 own land 
 Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty vail 
 In Saxon times, which we are wont to caU 
 Ancient ; and these three mortal thing? f^re still 
 On their foundations, and unalter'd aU ; 
 Rome and her Ruin past Redemptioub skill, 
 The World, the same wide den — of thieves, or what 
 ye wilL 
 
 & CXLVI, 
 
 Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime — 
 Shrine of all saints and temple of all gods, 
 
 ' Suetonius informs us tliat Julius Ctesar was particularly gratl- 
 fled by that decree of the senate which enabled him to wear a 
 wreath of laurel on all occasions. He was anxious, not to show 
 that he wa:» the conqueror of the world, but to hide that he waa 
 bald. A strani^er at Rome would hardly have ^iicsscd at the mo- 
 tive, nor should we without the help of the historian. 
 
 2 This is quoted in the " Decline and Kail of the Roman Em- 
 pire," as a proof that the Coliseum was ejitire. when seen by the 
 Anj;!o-Sa£ou pil^Tinis at the end of the seventh, or the he^nnuii; 
 of the ei;;hth, century. 
 
^ 
 
CilfTd IV. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 59 
 
 FrouL Jove t : Jesus — spared and bless'd by time ; 
 Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods 
 AjcIi, empire, each thing round thee, and man jjlods 
 His way through thorns to ashes — glorious dome ! 
 Shalt thou not last ? Time's sc3i;he and tyrants' 
 
 rods 
 Shiver upon thee — sanctuary and home 
 Of art and piety— Pantheon 1 — ^pride of Rome ! 
 
 CXLVII. 
 Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts ! 
 Despoil'd, yet perfect, with thy circle spreads 
 A holiness appealing to all hearts — 
 To art a model ; and to him who treads 
 Rome for the sake of ages, Glory sheds 
 Her light thiough thy sole aperture ; to those 
 Who worship, here are altars for their beads ; 
 And they who feel for genius may repose 
 Their eyes on honor'd forms, whose busts around 
 them close.' 
 
 CXLVIII. 
 There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light- 
 What do I gaze on ? Nothing : Look again ! 
 Two forms are slowly shadow'd on my sight — 
 Two insulated phantoms of the brain : 
 It is not so; I see them full and plain — 
 ^n old man, and a female young and fair. 
 Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein 
 The blood is nectar : — but what doth she there. 
 With her unmantlcd neck, and bosom white and 
 bare ? 
 
 CXLIX. 
 Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life. 
 Where on the heart and froni the heart we took 
 Our fir3l and sweetest nurture, when the wife, 
 Blest into mother, in the innocent look. 
 Or even the pi])ing cry of lips that brook 
 No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives 
 Man knows not, when from out its cradled nook 
 She sees her little bud put forth its leaves — 
 What may the fruit be yet ? — I know not, Cain was 
 Eve's. 
 
 CL. 
 But here youth offers to old age the food 
 The milk of his own gift : — it is her sire 
 To whom she renders back the debt of Iilood 
 Born with her birth. No ; he shall not expire 
 
 ' The Pantheon hm been made a receptacle for the busts of mod- 
 em great, or, at least, distlng:ui8hed, men. The flood of light 
 which once fell through the large orb above on the whole circle of 
 diTiuities, now shines on a namei-ous assemblage of mortals, gome 
 ono or two of whom have been almost deified by the veneration 
 of their countrjonen. 
 
 - This and the three nest stanzas allude to the story of the 
 Roman dau^rhter, which is recalled to the tr.ivcler by the site, or 
 pretended site, of that adventure, now sho.v.i at the church of St. 
 Nicholas in Carcere. 
 
 While in those warm and lovely veins the fire 
 Of health and holy feeling can provide 
 Great Nature's Nile, whose deejD stream rises highel 
 Than Eg3'i3t's river : — from that gentle side 
 Drink, drink and live, old man ! Heaven's realm 
 holds no such tide. 
 
 CLI. 
 The starry fable of the milky way 
 Has not thy story's purity ; it is 
 A constellation of a sweeter ray, 
 And sacred Nature triumphs more in this 
 Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss 
 Where sjjarkle distant worlds : — Oh, holiest nurse ! 
 No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss 
 To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source 
 With life, as our freed souis rejoin the universe. 
 
 CLII. 
 Turn to the Mole which Hadrian rear'd on high,' 
 Imperial mimic of old Egypt's pile. 
 Colossal copj'ist of deformity, 
 Whose travel'd phantasy from the far Nile's 
 Enormous model, doom'd the artist's toils 
 To build for giants, and, for his vain earth. 
 His shrunken ashes, raise this dome : How smiles 
 The gazer's eye with philosophic mirth, [birth 1 
 To \-iew the huge design which sprung from such a 
 
 CLIII. 
 But lo ! the dome — the vast and wondrous dome, 
 To which Diana's marvel was a cell — 
 Christ's mighty shrine above his martyr's tomb 1 
 I have beheld the Ephesian's miracle — 
 Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell 
 The hyiBna .and the jackal in their shade ; 
 I have 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 honor piled, 
 Of a sublimer aspect ? Majesty, 
 Power, Glory, Strength, and Beauty, all are aisled 
 In this eternal ark of worship undetOed. 
 
 CLV. 
 Enter : its 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 fit abode wherein appear enshrined 
 Thy hopes of immortality ; and thou 
 
 " The castle of St. Angelo. 
 
BO 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ^/Ajrro lY, 
 
 Shalt one flay, if found worthy, so defined, 
 
 See thy God face to face, as thou dost now 
 
 His Holy of Holies, nor oe blasted by his brow. 
 
 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 
 
 flame 
 The lamps of gold — and haughty dome which vies 
 In air with Earth's chief structures, though their 
 
 frame [claim. 
 
 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, 
 
 CLVIII. 
 Not by its fault — but thine : Our outward sense 
 Is but of gradual grasp — and as it is 
 That what we have of feeling most intense 
 t)ut3trii3s our faint esisrcssion ; even so this 
 Outshining and o'erwhelraing edifice 
 Fools our fond gaze, and, greatest of the great. 
 Defies at first our Nature's littleness, 
 Tin, growing with its growth, we thus dilate 
 Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate. 
 
 CLIX. 
 Then pause, and be enlighten'd ; there is more 
 Ip 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 
 The fountain of sublimity displays [plan ; 
 
 Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of man 
 Its golden sands, and learn what great conceptions 
 can. 
 
 CLX. 
 Or, turning to the Vatican, go see 
 Laocoon's torture dignifying pain — 
 A father's love and mortal's agony 
 With an immortal's patience blending : — Vain 
 The struggle ; vain, against the coiling strain 
 And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's grasp. 
 The old man's clench ; the long envenom'd chain 
 
 Rivets the living Unks, — the enormous asp 
 Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp. 
 
 CLX I. 
 Or viewtthe 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, flash their full Ughtnings by, 
 Developing in that one glance the Deity. 
 
 CLXH. 
 But in his delicate form — a dream of Love, 
 Shaped by some sohtary nymph, whose breast 
 Long'd for a deathless lover from above. 
 And madden'd in that %asion — are express'd 
 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, 
 StarHke, around, until they gather'd to a god 1 
 
 CLXIII. 
 And if it lie 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 wth which 
 'twas wrought. 
 
 CLXIV. 
 
 But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song. 
 The being who upheld it through the past ? 
 Methinks he cometh late and tarries long. 
 He is no more — these breathings are his last ; 
 His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast, 
 And he himself as nothing : — if he was 
 Aught but a phantasy, and could be class'd 
 With forms which live and sufler — let that pass — 
 
 His shadow fades away into Destruction's mass, 
 
 CLXV. 
 Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and all 
 That we inherit in its mortal shroud. 
 And spreads the dim and universal ])all [cloud 
 Through which all things grow jihantouis ; and the 
 Between us sinks and all which ever glow'd, 
 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 nit'ht. for they distract the gazn 
 
Canto rv. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 61 
 
 CLXVI. 
 And send us prying into the abyss, 
 To gather what we shall be when the framo 
 Shall be resolved to something less than this 
 Its wretched essence ; and to dream of fame, 
 And wipe the dust from oft' the idle name 
 We nerer more shall hear, — but never more. 
 Oh, happier thought ! can we be made the same : 
 It is enough in sooth that once we bore [was gore. 
 Tliese fardels of the heart — the heart whose sweat 
 
 CLXTII. 
 Hark ! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, 
 A long low distant murmur of dread sound, 
 Such as arises when a nation bleeds 
 With some deep and immedicable wound : [ground, 
 
 ■y Throiigh 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 clasps a babe, to whom her breast jields no relief. 
 
 CLXVIII. 
 Scion of chiefs and monarchs, 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 ? 
 la the sad midnight, while thy heart stiU bled, 
 The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy, 
 Death hush'd that pang forever : with thee fled 
 The present happiness and promised joy 
 WTiich fill'd the imperial isles so full it seem'd to cloy. 
 
 CLXIX. 
 Peasants bring forth in safety. — Can it be. 
 Oh thou that wert so tappy, 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 Oite ; for she had pour'd 
 Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head 
 Beheld her Iris. — Thou, too, lonely lord. 
 And desolate consort — vainly wert thou wed ! 
 The husband of a year ! the father of the dead ! 
 
 CLXX. 
 Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made ; 
 Thy bridal's fruit is ashes : in the dust 
 The fair-hafr'd Daughter of the Isles is laid. 
 The love of millions ! How we did intrust 
 Futurity to her ! and, though it must 
 Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd 
 Our children should obey her child, and bless'd 
 
 * " Tlie death of the Princess Charlotte has heen a shock even 
 her^, O'enice.) and mast have heen an earthquake at home. The 
 fete of this poor girl is melancholy in every respect; dying at 
 tv."eoty or so, in childbed — of a boy too, a present princess and fti- 
 ttu-e q-jeen, and just as she began to be happy, and to enjoy her- 
 eeir, end the hopes which shr inspired. I feel sorry in every res- 
 p3Cl."- B^/rm Letters. 
 
 Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seem'd 
 Like stars to shepherds' eyes : — 'twas but a meteor 
 beam'd. 
 
 CLXXI. 
 Wo unto us, not her ;' for she sleeps weD ; 
 The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue 
 Of hollow counsel, the false oracle. 
 Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung 
 Its kneU in princely ears, till the o'erstung 
 Nations have arm'd in madness, the strange fate' 
 Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath 
 Against their blind omnipotence a weight [flung 
 Within the ojaposing scale, which crushes soon oi 
 late, — 
 
 CLXXII. 
 These might have been her destiny ; but no, 
 Our hearts deny it : and so young, so fair 
 Good without effort, great without a foe ; 
 But now a bride and mother — and now there ! 
 How many ties did that stem moment tear ! 
 From thy Sire's to his humblest subject's breast 
 Is link'd the electric chain of that despair. 
 Whose shock was as an earthquake's, ;ind oppress'd 
 The land which loved thee so that none could love 
 thee best. 
 
 cLxxiri. 
 
 Lo, I\emi !^ naveU'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 
 Its foam against the skies, reluctant spares 
 The oval mirror of thy glassy lake ; 
 And, calm as cherish'd hate, its surface wears 
 A deep cold settled aspect naught can shake, 
 All coil'd into itself and round, as sleeps the snake. 
 
 CLXXIV. 
 And near Albano's scarce divided waves 
 Sliine from a sister valley ; — and af;ir 
 The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves 
 The Latian coast where sprung the Epic war, 
 " Arms and the Man," whose reascending star 
 Rose o'er an empire : — but beneath thy right 
 TuUy reposed from Rome ; and where yon bar 
 Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight 
 The Sabine farm was tiU'd, the weary b.ard's delight 
 
 CLXXV. 
 But I forget. — My Pilgrim's shrine is won. 
 And he, and I must part, — so let it be — 
 
 "^ Mary died on the scaffold ; Elizabeth of a broken heart ; Chap 
 les y. a hemiit ; Louis XTV. a bankrupt in means and glory ; Crom- 
 well of anxiety ; and, " the greatest is behind." Najtoleon lives a 
 prisoner. To these soverei^ois a long but superfluous list might 
 he added, of ntmes equally illustrious and unhappy. 
 
 ^The village of Nemi was near the Arician retre.it of Egeria, 
 and, from the shades which embosomed the temple of Diana, hag 
 preserved to this day its distinctive app^lation cf The Qrovo. 
 Nemi is but an evening's ride from the comfortable inn -if Alhana 
 
ft2 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto iv 
 
 His task and mill i alike are nearly done ; 
 Yet oncu 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 foUow'd on till the dark E uxine roU'd 
 
 CLXXVI. 
 Upon the blue Symplegades : long years — 
 Long, though not very many, since have done 
 Their work on both ; some suffering and some tears 
 Have left us nearly whore we had begun : 
 Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run, 
 We have had our reward — and it is here ; 
 That we can yet feel gladden'd by the sun. 
 And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear 
 As if there were no man to trouble what is clear. 
 
 CLXXVII. 
 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 1 
 Ye Elements ! in whose ennoljling stir 
 I feel myself exalted — Can ye not 
 Accord me such a being ? Do I err 
 In deeming such inhabit many a spot ? 
 Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot. 
 
 CLXXyill. 
 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 can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. 
 
 CLXXIX. 
 Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll ! 
 Ten th<iusand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
 Man marks the earth ■nith ruin — his control 
 Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain 
 The wrecks are aU thy deed, nor doth remiain 
 A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 
 Wlien, for a moment, like a drop of rain, 
 He sinks into thy dejrtlis with bubbling groan. 
 Without a grave, unknell'd, uncofHn'd, and un- 
 known. 
 
 CLXXX. 
 
 His stciJS are not upon thy paths, — thy fields 
 Are not a spoil for liim, — thou dost tfrise [wields 
 And shake him from thee; the vile strength he 
 For earth's destruction thou dost all despise. 
 Spuming h:'.m from thy bosom to the skies 
 
 And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray 
 And hcwling, to his Gods, whore haply lies 
 His pettj" hope in some near port or bay, 
 And dashest him again to earth : — there let him lay 
 
 CLXXXI. 
 The armaments which tliunderstrike the walls 
 Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 
 And monarchs tremble in their capitals. 
 The oak leviathans, whose huge ril)s 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. 
 
 CLXXXII. 
 Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee— 
 Assyria, Greece, Rome, Cartilage, what are they ? 
 Thy waters wasted them while thoy were free, 
 And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 
 The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay 
 Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so thou, 
 Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play — 
 Time writes no vrrinkle on thine azure brow — 
 Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 
 
 cLxxxin. 
 
 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-)icaving; — boundless, endless, and sublime—" 
 The image of Eternity — the throne 
 Of the Innsiljle ; even from out thy slime 
 The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone 
 Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomlesa 
 alone. 
 
 CLXXXIV. 
 And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy 
 Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
 Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy 
 I wanton'd witli thy breakers — they to me 
 Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
 Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear, 
 For I was as it were a child of thoe. 
 And trusted to thy billows far and near. 
 And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. 
 
 CLXXXV. 
 
 My task is done — my song hath ceased — my themi 
 Has died into an eclio ; it is fit 
 The spoil should break of tliis protracted dream. 
 The torcli shall be extinguish'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 
 
■^ 
 
THE GIAOUR. 
 
 63 
 
 Less palpably before me — and the glow 
 Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low. 
 
 CLXXXVI. 
 Farewell I a word that must be, and hath been — 
 A sound which makes us linger ; — yet — fareweU I 
 Te ! 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 ; 
 FareweD 1 with him alone may rest the pain, 
 If such there were — ^with you, the moral of hii 
 strain I 
 
 THE GIAOUR; 
 
 A. FRAGMENT OF A TURKISH TALE. 
 
 ' One fetal remembrance — one sorrow that throwe 
 Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and oar woes — 
 To which Life nothing darker nor brighter can bring, 
 For which joy hath no balm— and affliction no sting." 
 
 MOOBS. 
 
 To SAMUEL ROGERS, Esq., 
 
 Ae A BLIGHT BUT MOST SrXCERE TOKEN OF ADMIRATIOX FOB HIS GENTCTS, RE9P3CT 
 FOR HIS CHARACTER, ANI> GRATITUDE FOR HIS FRIENDSHIP, 
 
 TmS PRODUCTION IS mSCHIBED, 
 
 London, May, 1813. 
 
 BY HIS OBLIGED AND AFFECTIONATE SERVANT, 
 
 BTRON. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 The tale which these disjointed fragments present, 
 Is founded upon circumstances now less common in the 
 East than formerly ; either because the ladies are more 
 circumspect than in the " olden time," or because the 
 Christians have better fortunes, or less enterprise. The 
 Btory, when entire, contained the adventures of a female 
 slave, who was thrown, in the Mussulman manner, into 
 the sea for infidelity, and avenged by a young Venetian, 
 her lover, at the time the Seven Islands were possessed 
 by the Republic of Venice, and soon after the Arnauts 
 were beaten back from the Morea, which they had 
 ravaged for some time subsequent to the Russian in- 
 vasion. The desertion of the Mainotes, on being re- 
 fused the plunder of Misitra, led to the abandonment 
 of that enterprise, and to the desolation of the Morea, 
 during which the cruelty exercised on all sides was 
 nnparalleled even in the annals of the faithful. 
 
 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 No breath of air to break the wave 
 That roUs below the Athenian's grave. 
 That tomb' which, gleaming o'er the clifl", 
 First greets the homeward-veering skiff, 
 
 ^ A tomb aboTC the rocks on the promonotory, by some enp- 
 poeed the sepulchre of Themietocles. 
 
 High o'er the land he saved in vain ; 
 When shall such hero live again ? 
 
 Fair clime I where every season smiles 
 Benignant o'er those blessed isles. 
 Which, seen from far Colonna's height, 
 Make glad the heart that hails the sight, 
 And lend to loneliness deUght. 
 There mildly dimpling, Ocean's cheek 
 Reflects the tints of many a peak 
 Cauglit by the laughing tides that lave 
 These Edens of the eastern wave : 
 And if at times a transient breeze 
 Break the blue crystal of the seas, 
 Or sweep one blossom from the trees. 
 How welcome is each gentle air 
 That wakes and wafts the odors there I 
 For there — the Rose o'er crag or vale, 
 Sultana of the Nightingale,^ 
 The maid for whom his melody. 
 His thousand songs are heard on high. 
 Blooms blushing to her lover's tale : 
 
 ' The attachment of the cightingale to the rose is a weU-kRom 
 Persian fable. If I mistiike not, the " BiUbal of a thousand lale« 
 IB one of his appellations. 
 
64 
 
 BYRON'S "WORKS. 
 
 His queen, the garden queen, his Rose, 
 Unbent by winds, unchill'd by snows, 
 Far from the \vinters of the west. 
 By every breeze and season bless'd. 
 Returns the sweets by nature given 
 In softest incense back to heaven ; 
 And grateful yields that smiling sky 
 Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh. 
 And m.any a summer flower is there. 
 And many a shade that love might share. 
 And many a grotto, meant for rest. 
 That holds the pirate for a guest ; 
 "Wliose bark in sheltering cove below 
 Lurks for the passing peaceful prow. 
 Till the gay mariner's guit-ir' 
 Is heard, and seen the evening star ; 
 Then stealing with the muffled oar. 
 Far shaded by the rocky shore. 
 Rush the night-prowlers on the prey. 
 And turn to groans his roundelay. 
 Strange — that where Nature loved tc trace, 
 As if for gods, a dwelling-place. 
 And every charm and grace hath mix'd 
 Within the paradise she fix'd. 
 There man, cnamor'd of distress. 
 Should mar it into wilderness, 
 And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower 
 That tasks not one laborious hour ; 
 Nor claims the culture of his hand 
 To bloom along the fairy land. 
 But springs as to preclude his care. 
 And sweetly woos him — but to spare : 
 Strange — that where all is peace beside, 
 There passion riots tn her pride. 
 And lust and rapine wildly reign 
 To darken o'er the fair domain. 
 It is as though the fiends prevail'd 
 Against the seraphs they assail'd. 
 And, fix'd on heavenly thrones, should dwell 
 The freed inheritors of heU ; 
 -So soft the scene, so form'd for joy. 
 So cursed the tyrants that destroy ! 
 
 He who hath bent him o'er the dead 
 Ere the first day of death is fled, 
 The first dark day of nothingness. 
 The last of danger and distress, 
 (Before Decay's effacing fingers 
 Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,) 
 And mark'd tlic mild angelic air. 
 The rapture of repose that's there. 
 
 ' The guitar is the constant amnsement of the Greek saHor hy 
 
 sight : wllh a steady fair wind, nnd during a cilin, it is accom- 
 panied ilwayp hy the voice, and often by dancing. 
 2 " .\y. but to die and go we know not where. 
 To lye in cold ohstniction ?"— 
 
 Meaminfor Meamre, Act iff. Scene 2. 
 • I trust that few of my readers have ever hail an opportunity 
 of witnessinf whwt is here attempted in descrlotlon, hnt those 
 
 The fix'd yet tender traits that streak 
 The languor of the placid cheek. 
 And — but for that sad shrouded eye, 
 That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now, 
 And but for that chill, changeless brovr, 
 Wliere cold Obstruction's apathj- 
 Appals the gazing mourner's heart, 
 As if to him it could impart 
 The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ; 
 Yes, but for these and these alone. 
 Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour 
 He still might doubt the tyrant's power ; 
 So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd. 
 The first, last look by death reveal'd 1= 
 Such is the aspect of this shore ; 
 'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more I 
 So coldly sweet, so deadly fair. 
 We start, for soul is wanting there. 
 Hers is the lovehuess in death. 
 That parts not quite with parting breath ; 
 But beauty with that fearful bloom. 
 That hue which haunts it to the tomb. 
 Expression's last receding ray, 
 A gilded halo hovering round decay. 
 The farewell beam of FeeUng pass'd away ! 
 Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, 
 AVhich gleams, but warms no more its cherish'd earth 
 
 Chme of the unforgotten brave 1 
 Whose land from plain to mountain-cave 
 Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave 1 
 Shrine of the mighty ! can it be. 
 That this is all remains of thee ? 
 Approach, thou craven crouching slave : 
 
 Say, is not this Thermopyhe ? 
 These waters blue that round you lave. 
 
 Oh, servile offspring of the free — 
 Pronoimce what sea, what shore is this ? 
 The gulf, the rock of Salamis 1 
 These scenes, their story not unknown, 
 Arise, and make again your own ; 
 Snatch from the ashes of your sires 
 The embers of their former fires ; 
 And he who in the strife exijires 
 Will add to theirs a name of fear 
 That Tyranny shall quake to hear. 
 And leave his sons a hope, a fame, 
 They too will rather die than shame ; 
 For Freedom's battle once begun, 
 Bequeath'd by bleeding sire to son. 
 
 who have will probahly retain a painftil remembrance of that 
 singular beauty which pervades, with few exceptions, the features 
 of the dead, a few hours, and but for a few hours, after " the spirit 
 is not there." It is to be remarked in cases of violent death by 
 gnn-ehot wounds, the expression is alw.ay8 that of languor, what- 
 ever the natural energy of the sufferer's character : but in death 
 from a slab the countenance preserves its traits of feeling or 
 ferocity and the mind its bias, to the last. 
 
THE GIAOTJR. 
 
 65 
 
 Though baffled oft is ever won. 
 Bear witness, Greece, thy living page, 
 Attest it many a deathless age ! 
 Wliile kings, in dusky darkness hid, 
 Have left a nameless pyramid. 
 Thy heroes, though the general doom 
 Hath swept the column from their tomb, 
 A. mightier monument command. 
 The mountains of their native land ! 
 There points thy Muse to stranger's eye 
 The graves of those that cannot die ! 
 'Twere long to tell, and sad to trace, 
 Each step from splendor to disgrace : 
 Enough — no foreign foe could quell 
 Thy soul, till from itself it fell ; 
 Tes ! Self-abasement paved the way 
 To villain-bonds and despot sway. 
 
 What can he tell who treads thy shore ! 
 
 No legend of thine olden time. 
 No theme on which the muse might soar 
 High as thine own in days of yore. 
 
 When man was worthy of thy clime. 
 Tlie hearts within thy valleys bred. 
 The flery souls that might have led 
 
 Thy sons to deeds sublime, 
 Now crawl from cradle to the grave, 
 Slaves— nay, the bondsmen of a slave. 
 
 And callous, save to crime ; 
 Stain'd with each evil that pollutes 
 Mankind, where least above the brutes ; 
 Without even savage virtue bless'd. 
 Without one free or valiant breast. 
 Still to the neighboring ports they waft 
 Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft ; 
 In this the subtle Greek is found, 
 For this, and this alone, renown'd. 
 In vain might Liberty invoke 
 The spirit to its bondage broke. 
 Or raise the neck that courts the yoke : 
 No more her sorrows I bewail, 
 Tet this will be a mournful tale. 
 And they who listen may believe. 
 Who heard it first had cause to grieve. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing, 
 The shadows of the rocks advancing, 
 Start on the fisher's eye like boat 
 Of island-pirate or Mainote ; 
 And fearful for his light caique. 
 He shuns the near but doubtful creek : 
 Though worn and weary with his toil. 
 And cumber'd with his scaly spoil, 
 
 ' Athena is the property of the Kislar Aga (the elave of the sera- 
 glio and guardian of the women), who appoints the Waywode. A 
 pander and ennnch — these are not polite, yet true appellations — 
 DOW govern) the Governor ot Athens I 
 9 
 
 Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar. 
 Till Port Leone's safer shore 
 Receives him by the lovely light 
 That best becomes an Eastern night. 
 ***** 
 Who thundering comes on blackest steed, 
 With slacken'd bit and hoof of speed ? 
 Beneath the clattering iron's sound 
 The cavem'd echoes wake around 
 In lash for lash, and bound for bound ; 
 The foam that streaks the courser's side 
 Seems gather'd from the ocean-tide : 
 Though weary waves are sunk to rest. 
 There's none within his rider's breast ; 
 And though to-morrow's tempest lower, 
 'Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour ! 
 I know thee not, I loathe thy race. 
 But in thy lineaments I trace 
 What time shall strengthen, not efiace : 
 Though young and pale, that sallow front 
 Is scathed by fiery passion's brunt ; 
 Though bent on earth thine evil eye. 
 As meteor-Uke thou gUdest by. 
 Right well I view and deem thee one 
 Whom Othman's sons should slay or shun. 
 
 On — on he hasten'd, and he drew 
 My gaze of wonder as he flew ; 
 Though like a demon of the night 
 He pass'd, and vanish'd from my sight, 
 His aspect and his air impress'd 
 A troubled memory on my breast, 
 And long upon my startled ear 
 Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear. 
 He spurs his steed ; he nears the steep, 
 That, jutting, shadows o'er the deep ; 
 He winds aroimd ; he hurries by ; 
 The rock relieves him from mine eye ; 
 For well I ween unwelcome he 
 Whose glance is fix'd on those that flee ; 
 And not a star but shines too bright 
 On him who takes such timeless flight. 
 He wound along ; but ere he pass'd 
 One glance he snatch'd, as if his last, 
 A moment check'd his wheeling steed, 
 A moment breathed him from his speed, 
 A moment on his stirrup stood — 
 Why looks he o'er the olive wood ? 
 The crescent glimmers on the hill. 
 The Mosque's high lamps are quivering still 
 Though too remote for sound to wake 
 In echoes of the far tophaike,^ 
 The flashes of each joyous peal 
 Are seen to prove the Moslem's zeal. 
 
 ' "Tophaike," muijbet. The Bairam is annonnced by the can 
 non at sunset ; the illumination of the Mosques, and the firing of 
 all kinds of small arms, loaded with '«/;, proclaim it during the 
 night. 
 
66 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 To-niglit, set Rhamazani's sun ; 
 To-night, the Bairam feast begun ; 
 To-night — liut who and what art thou 
 Of foreign garb and fearful brow ? 
 And what are these to thine or thee, 
 That thou shouldst either pause or flee ? 
 
 He stood — some dread was on his face, 
 Soon Hatred settled in its place : 
 It rose not with the reddening flush 
 Of transient Anger's hasty blush, 
 But pale as marble o'er the tomb, 
 Wliose ghostly whiteness aids its gloom. 
 His brow was bent, his eye was glazed ; 
 He raised his arm, and fiercely raised, 
 And sternly shook his hand on high, 
 As doubting to return or fly ; 
 Impatient of his flight dclay'd, 
 Here loud his raven charger neigh'd— ^ 
 Down glanced that hand, and grasp'd his blade ; 
 That sound had burst his waking dream, 
 As Slumber starts at owlet's scream. 
 The spur hath lanced his courser's sides ; 
 Away, away, for life he rides : 
 Swift as the hurl'd on high jerreed' 
 Springs to the touch his startled steed ; 
 The rock is doubled, and the shore 
 Shakes with the clattering tramp no more ; 
 The crag is won, no more is seen 
 His Christian crest and haughty mien. 
 'Twas but an instant he restrain'd 
 That fiery barb so sternly rein'd ; 
 'Twas but a moment that he stood. 
 Then sped as if by death pursued ; 
 But in that instant o'er his soul 
 Winters of Memory seem'd to roU, 
 And gather in that drop of time 
 A life of pain, an age of crime. 
 O'er him who loves, or hates, or fears, 
 Such moment pours the grief of years : 
 What felt he then, at once oppress'd 
 By all that most distracts the breast ? 
 That pause, which pondcr'd o'er his fate, 
 Oh, who its dreary length shall date ! 
 Though in Time's record nearly naught. 
 It was Eternity to Thought 1 
 For infinite as boundless space 
 The thought that Conscience must embrace, 
 Wliich in itself can comprehend 
 Wo without name, or hope, or end. 
 
 The hour is past, the Giaour is gone ; 
 And did he fly or fall alone ? 
 Wo to that hour he came or went ! 
 
 ' Jerreed, or Djerrid, a blunted Turkish javelin, which is darted 
 ftCTn horseback with preat force and precision. It is a favorite 
 eiercise of tlie Mussulmans ; but I know not if it can be called 
 a manly one, sijice the most expert in the art are the Black Eu- 
 
 The curse for Hassan's sin was sent 
 
 To turn a palace to a tomb : 
 
 He came, he went, like the Simoom,' 
 
 That harliinger of fate and gloom. 
 
 Beneath whose widely-wasting breath 
 
 The very cypress droops to death — 
 
 Dark tree, still sad when others' grief is fled, 
 
 The only constant mourner o'er the dead 1 
 
 The steed is vanish'd from the stall ; 
 No serf is seen in Hassan's hall ; 
 The lonely spider's thin gray pall 
 Waves slowly widening o'er the wall ; 
 The bat builds in his harem bower. 
 And in the fortress of his power. 
 The owl usurps the beacon-tower : 
 The wild-dog howls o'er the fountain's brim. 
 With baflled thirst, and famine grim ; 
 For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed. 
 Where the weeds and the desolate dust are spread 
 'Twas sweet of yore to see it play 
 And chase the sultriness of day.. 
 As springing high the silver dew 
 In whirls fantastically flew, 
 And flung luxurious coolness round 
 The air, and verdure o'er the ground. 
 'Twas sweet, when cloudless stars were bright. 
 To view the wave of watery light. 
 And hear its melody by night. 
 And oft had Hassan's Childhood play'd 
 Around the verge of that cascade ; 
 And oft upon his mother's breast 
 That sound had harmonized his rest ; 
 And oft had Hassan's Youth along 
 Its bark been sooth'd by Beauty's song ; 
 And softer seem'd each melting tone 
 Of Music mingled with its own. 
 But ne'er shall Hassan's Age repose 
 Along the brink at twiUght's close : 
 The stream that fill'd that font is fled — 
 The blood that warm'd his heart is shed I 
 And here no more shall human voice 
 Be hoard to rage, regret, rejoice. 
 The last sad note that sweU'd the gale 
 Was woman's wildest funeral wail : 
 J'/iiit qucnch'd in silence, all is still. 
 But the lattice that flaps when the wind is shrill 
 Though raves the gust, and floods the rain. 
 No hand shall close its clasp again. 
 On desert sands 'twere joy to scan 
 The rudest steps of fellow-man. 
 So here the very voice of Grief 
 Might wake an Echo Hke relief— 
 At least 'twould say, " All are not goue ; 
 
 nnchs of Constantinople. I think, next to these, a Mamlouk al 
 
 Smyrna was the most skillful that came within my observation. 
 
 2 The blast of llie desert, fatal to everything livinp, and oftet 
 alluded to in eastern poetry. 
 
THE GIAOUR. 
 
 67 
 
 There lingers Life, thougli but in one — " 
 For many a gilded chamber 's there, 
 Wliieh Solitude might well forbear ; 
 Within that dome as yet Decay 
 Hath slowly work'd her cankering way — 
 But gloom is gather'd o'er the gate, 
 Nor there the Fakir's self will wait ; 
 Nor there will wandering Dervise stay, 
 For bounty cheers not his delay ; 
 Nor there will weary stranger halt 
 To bless the sacred " bread and salt." ' 
 Alike must Wealth and Poverty 
 Pass heedless and unheeded by. 
 For Courtesy and Pity died 
 With Hassan on the mountain side, 
 nis roof, that refuge unto men. 
 Is Desolation's hungry den. 
 
 The guest flics the hall, and the vassal from labor, 
 
 Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre ! ' 
 
 ****** 
 
 I hear the sound of coming feet, 
 But not a voice mine ear to greet ; 
 More near — -each turban I can scan, 
 And silver-sheathed ataghan ; ^ 
 The foremost of the band is seen 
 An Emir by his garb of green :* 
 " Ho ! who art thou ?'' " This low salam ' 
 Replies of Moslem faith I am." 
 " The burden ye so gently bear 
 Seems one that claims your utmost care. 
 And, doubtless, holds some precious freight, 
 My hiunble bark would gladly wait." 
 
 " Thou speakest sooth ; thy skiff unmoor, 
 And waft us from the silent shore ; 
 Uay, leave the sail still furl'd, and ply 
 The nearest oar that's scatter'd by, 
 And midway to those rocks where sleep 
 The channel'd waters dark and deep. 
 Rest from your task — so — bravely done, 
 Our course has been right swiftly run ; 
 Yet 'tis the longest voyage, I trow, 
 That one of—" * * * 
 
 ***** 
 
 SuUcn it plunged, and slowly sank, 
 The calm wave rippled to the bank ; 
 I watch'd it as it sank, methought 
 Some motion from the current caught 
 
 ' To partake of food, to break bread and salt with yoar host, en- 
 sures the safety of the g:nest : even thongh an enemy, his person 
 from that moment is sacred. 
 
 = 1 need hardly observe, that Charity and Hospitality are the 
 Srst duties eiyoined by Mahomet ; and to say the truth, very «n- 
 eiaUy practised by his disciples. The first praise tliat can be '>e- 
 Btowc i on a chief. Is a panegyric on his bounty ; the nest, on Ms 
 ralor. 
 
 ' The ataghan, a long da^er worn with pistols in the belt, in a 
 metal scabbard, generally of silver : and, among the wealthier, 
 Rilt, or of gold. 
 
 Bestirr'd it more, — 'twas but the beam 
 That checker'd o'er the living stream : 
 I gazed, till vanishing from view. 
 Like lessening pebble it withdrew ; 
 Still less and less, a speck of white 
 That gemm'd the tide, then mock'd the sight 
 And aU its hidden secrets sleep, 
 Known but to Gemi of the deep. 
 Which, trembling in their coral caves. 
 They dare not whisper to the waves. 
 ***** 
 
 As rising on its purple wing 
 The insect-queen' of eastern spring. 
 O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer 
 Invites the yotmg pursuer near. 
 And leads him on from flower to flowe» 
 A weary chase and wasted hour, 
 Then leaves him, as it soars on high, 
 With panti^g heart and tearful eye : 
 So Beauty lures the full-grown child. 
 With hue as bright, and wing as wild, 
 A chase of idle hopes and fears. 
 Begun in folly, closed in tears. 
 If won, to equal ills betray'd, 
 Wo waits the insect and the maid ; 
 A life of pain, the loss of peace. 
 From infant's play, and man's caprice 
 The lovely toy so fiercely sought 
 Hath lost its charm by being caught. 
 For every touch that woo'd its stay 
 Hath brush'd its brightest hues away. 
 Till charm, and hue, and beauty gone, 
 'Tis left to fly or fall alone. 
 With wounded wing, or bleeding breast. 
 Ah ! where shall either victim rest ? 
 Can this with faded pinion soar 
 From rose to tulip as before ? 
 Or Beauty, blighted in an hour. 
 Find joy \\-ithin her broken bower? 
 No : gayer insects fluttering by 
 Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die. 
 And lovelier things have mercy shown 
 To every failing but their own, 
 And every wo a tear can claim 
 Except an erring sister's shame. 
 
 ***** 
 
 The Jlind, that broods o'er guilty woes, 
 Is like the Scorpion girt by fire. 
 
 * Green is the privileged color of the prophet's nmnerona pi» 
 tended descendants ; with them, as here, faith (the family inheri- 
 tance) is supposed to supersede the necessity of good works : 
 they are the worst of a very indifferent brood. 
 
 ' " Salam alcikonm 1 aleikonm salam !" peace be with yon ; b« 
 with you peace— the salutation reserved for the faithful :— to a 
 Christian, " Urlarula," a good journey ; or " saban hiresem, saban 
 serula," good mom, good even; and sometimes, "may your end 
 be happy," are the usual salntes. 
 
 • The blue-winged butterfly of Kashmeer, the most rare »nd bca» 
 tifUl of the species. 
 
88 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 In circle narrowing as it glows, 
 
 The flames around their ca2rtive close, 
 
 Till inly search'd by thousand throes. 
 
 And maddening in her ire, 
 One sad and sole relief she knows, 
 '''''« sting she nourish'd for her foes, 
 Wliose venom never yet was vain, 
 Gives but one pang, and cures aU pain, 
 And darts into her desperate brain : 
 So do the dark in soul expire. 
 Or live like Scoqjion girt by fire ;' 
 So writhes the mind Remorse hath riven, 
 Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven, 
 Darkness above, despair beneath. 
 Around it flame, within it death 1 
 ***** 
 
 Black Hassan from the Harem flies. 
 Nor bends on woman's form his eyes. 
 The unwonted chase each hour employs. 
 Yet shares he not the hunter's joys. 
 Not thus was Hassan wont to fly 
 When Lelia dwelt in his Serai. 
 Doth LeUa there no longer dwell ? 
 That tale can only Hassan tell : 
 Strange rumors in our city say 
 Upon that eve she fled away, 
 Wlien Rhamazan's^ last sun was set. 
 And flashing from each minaret 
 Millions of lamps proclaim'd the feast 
 Of Bairam through the boundless East. 
 'Twas then she went as to the bath. 
 Which Hassan vainly search'd in wrath ; 
 For she was flown her master's rage. 
 In likeness of a Georgian page. 
 And far beyond the Moslem's power 
 Had ^vrong'd him with the fiiithless Giaour. 
 Somewhat of this had Hassan deem'd. 
 But still so fond, so fair she seem'd, 
 Too well he trusted to the slave 
 Whose treachery deserved a grave : 
 And on that eve had gone to mosque, 
 And thence to feast in his kiosk. 
 Such is the tale his Nubians tell, 
 
 ' Aliading to the dnbions suicide of tlie scorpion, bo placed for 
 •rpcriraent by gentle pliilosoplicra. Some maintain that the posi- 
 tion of the stin?, when turned towards the head, is merely a con- 
 ntlsive movement ; but others have actually brought in the verdict 
 "Felo de se." The scorpions are surely interested in a speedy 
 decision of the question ; a^. if once fairly established as insect 
 Catos, they will probably be allowed to live as long as they think 
 proper, without being martyred for the sake of an hypothesis. 
 
 ' The cannon at sunset close the Rhamazan. 
 
 * Phingari, the moon. 
 
 < The celebrated fabulous ruby of Sultan Giamschid, the embel- 
 lieher of Istakhar ; ftom its splendor, named Schebgerag, " the 
 torch of uight ;" also " the cnp of Ihe sun," &c. In the first edi- 
 tion, " CJiamschid " was wri'tcn as a word of three syllables ; so 
 D'llerbelot has it ; hut I am told Hichardson reduces it to a diseyl- 
 ^ble, and writes ■' Jamsbid." I have left in tlie text the orthogra- 
 phy of the one with the pronunciation of the other. 
 
 ^ AJ Sii-at, the bridge of breadth, narrower than Ihe thread of a 
 
 Who did not watch their charge too well ; 
 But others say, that on that night. 
 By pale Phingari's= trembling Ught, 
 The Giaour upon his jet-black steed 
 Was seen, but seen alone to speed 
 With bloody spur along the shore. 
 Nor maid nor page behind him bore. 
 ***** 
 
 Her eye's dark charm 'twere vain to tell. 
 But gaze on that of the Gazelle, 
 It will assist thy fancy well ; 
 As large, as languishingly dark. 
 But Soul beam'd forth in every spark 
 That darted from beneath the lid, 
 Bright as the jewel of Giamschid.* 
 Yea, Soul, and should our prophet say 
 That form was naught but breathing clay, 
 By Alia ! I would answer nay ; 
 Though on jM-Sirat's' arch I stood. 
 Which totters o'er the flery flood. 
 With Paradise within my view, 
 And all his Houris beckoning through. 
 Oh ! who young Leila's glance could read 
 And keep that portion of his creed. 
 Which saith that woman is but dust, 
 A souUess toy for tyrant's lust ?• 
 On her might Muftis gaze, and own 
 That through her eye the Immortal shone ; 
 On her fair cheek's unfading hue 
 The young pomegranate's' blossoms strew 
 Their bloom in blushes ever new ; 
 Her hair in hyacinthine* flow. 
 When left to roll its folds below. 
 As midst her handmaids in the hall 
 She stood superior to them all, 
 Hath swept the marble where her feet 
 Gleam'd whiter than the mountain sleet. 
 Ere from the cloud that gave it birth 
 It fell, and caught one stain of earth. 
 The cygnet nobly walks the water ; 
 So moved on earth Circassia's daughter, 
 The loveliest bird of Franguestan !" 
 
 fiimished spider, and sharper than the edge of a sword, over whicb 
 
 the Mussulmans must skate into Paradise, to which it is the onlj 
 entrance; but this is not the worst, the river beneath being hell 
 itself, into which, as may be expected, the unskillful and tender o( 
 foot contrive to tumble with a " facilis descensus Avemi," not 
 very pleasing prospect to the next passenger. There is a shorter 
 cut downwards for the Jews and Christians. 
 
 " .\ vulgar error ; the Koran allots at least a third of Paradise 
 to well-behaved womeii ; but by far the greater number of Mussul- 
 mans interpret the text their own way, and exclude their moieties 
 from heaven. Being enemies to Platonics, they cannot disceiTi 
 '■ any litncss of things " in the souls of the other sex, conceiving 
 them to be superseded by the Houris. 
 
 ' An oriental simile, which may, perhaps, though fairly stolen, 
 be deemed " plus Arabe quVn Arable." 
 
 ' Ilyacinlliine, in Arabic " Sunbul ;" as common a tbooght tl 
 the eastern poets as it was among the Greeks. 
 
 » '* Franguestan," Circassia. 
 
c 
 
 c^//^^ 
 
THE GIAOUR. 
 
 68 
 
 As rears her crest the ruffled swan, 
 
 And spurns the wave with wings of pride. 
 When pass the steps of stranger man 
 
 Along the banks that bound her tide ; 
 Thus rose fair Leila's whiter neck : — 
 Thus arm'd with beauty would she check 
 Intrusion's glance, tiU Folly's gaze 
 Shrunk from the charms it meant to praise : 
 Thus high and graceful was her gait ; 
 Her heart as tender to her mate ; 
 Her mate — stem Hassan, who was he ? 
 Alas ! that name was not for thee I 
 
 Stern Hassan hath a journey ta'en 
 With twenty vassals in his train. 
 Each arm'd, as best becomes a man, 
 With arquebuss and ataghan ; 
 The chief before, as deck'd for war, 
 Bears in his belt the scimatar 
 Stain'd with the best of ^\-rnaut blood, 
 When in the pass the rebels stood. 
 And few returu'd to tell the tale 
 Of what befeU in Fame's vale. 
 The pistols which his girdle bore 
 Were those that once a jjasha wore, 
 Wldch still, though gemm'd and boss'd with gold, 
 Even robbers tremble to behold. 
 'Tis said he goes to woo a bride 
 More true than her who left his side ; 
 The faithless slave that broke her bower, 
 iVnd, worse than faithless, for a Giaour ! 
 ***** 
 
 The sun's last rays are on the hiU, 
 And sparkle in the fountain riU, 
 "VNTiose welcome waters, cool and clear. 
 Draw blessings from the mountaineer : 
 Here may the loitering merchant Greek 
 Find that repose 'twere vain to seek 
 In cities lodged too near his lord. 
 And trembUng for his secret hoard — 
 Here may he rest where none can see, 
 In crowds a slave, in deserts free ; 
 And with forbidden wine may stain 
 The bowl a Moslem must not drain. 
 * * * H * 
 
 The foremost Tartar 's in the gap, 
 Conspicuous by his yellow cap ; 
 The rest in lengthening hue the while 
 Wind slowly through the long deffle : 
 Above, the mountain rears a peak. 
 Where vultures whet the thirsty beak, 
 
 ' BisiniUah— " In the name of Gotl I" the commencement of all 
 the chapters of the Koran but one. and of prayer and thanke;rivin£r. 
 
 ^ A phenomenon not uncommon with an aufrry Mussulman. In 
 1809, the Capitan Pacha's whiskers at a diplomatic audience were 
 DO less livelr with indignation than a tijer cat's, to the "norror of 
 
 And theirs may be a feast to-night. 
 Shall tempt them down ere morrow's light ; 
 Beneath, a river's ■n-intry stream 
 Has shrtmk before the summer beam. 
 And left a channel bleak and bare, 
 Save shrubs that spring to perish there : 
 Each side the midway path there lay 
 Small broken crags of granite gray. 
 By time, or mountain lightning, riven 
 From summits clad in mists of heaven : 
 For where is he that hath beheld 
 The peak of Liakura unveil'd ? 
 
 They reach the grove of pine at last : 
 " Bismillah ! ' now the peril's past ; 
 For yonder view the opening plain. 
 And there we'U prick our steeds amain ;" 
 The Chiaus spake, and as he said, 
 A bullet whistled o'er his head '; 
 The foremost Tartar bites the ground ! 
 
 Scarce had they time to check the rein, 
 Swift from their steeds the riders bound ; 
 
 But three shall never mount again : 
 Unseen the foes that gave the wound. 
 
 The dying ask revenge in vain. 
 With steel unsheath'd, and carbine bent. 
 Some o'er their courser's harness leant. 
 
 Half shelter'd by the steed ; 
 Some fly behind the nearest rock. 
 And there await the coming shock. 
 
 Nor tamely stand to bleed 
 Beneath the shaft of foes unseen. 
 Who dare not quit their craggy screen. 
 Stern Hassan only from his horse 
 Disdains to light, and keeps his course, 
 TiU fiery flashes in the van 
 Proclaim too sure the robber-clan 
 Have well secured the only way 
 Could now avail the promised prey ; 
 Then curl'd his very beard = with ire. 
 And glared his eye with fiercer fire : 
 " Though far and near the bullets hiss, 
 I've 'scaped a bloodier hour than this." 
 And now the foe their covert quit. 
 And call his vassals to submit ; 
 But Hassan's frown and furious word 
 Are dreaded more than hostile sword, 
 Nor of his little band a man 
 Resign'd carbine or ataghan. 
 Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun ! s 
 In fuUcr sight, more near and near, 
 The lately ambush'd foes appear. 
 
 all the dragomans ; the portentous raustachios twisted, they stood 
 erect of their own accord, and were expected every moment te 
 change their color, but at last condescended to subside, wbidi 
 probably, waved more heads than they contained hairs, 
 s ''Amaun," quarter, pardon. 
 
70 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 And, issuing from the grove, advance 
 Some wlio on battle-charger prance. 
 WTio leads them on with foreign brand 
 Far flashing in his red right hand ? 
 " Tis lie ! 'tis he ! I know him now ; 
 I know him by his pallid brow ; 
 I know him by the evil eye ' 
 That aids his envious treachery ; 
 I know him by his jet-black barb : 
 Though now array'd in Arnaut garb, 
 A^postate from his own vile faith, 
 ft shall not save him from the death : 
 'Tis he ! well met in any hour, 
 Lost I^ila's love, accursed Giaour !" 
 
 As rolls the river into ocean, 
 [u sable torrent wildly streaming ; 
 
 As the sea-tide's opposing motion, 
 In azure column proudly gleaming. 
 Beats back the current many a rood. 
 In curling foam and mingling flood. 
 While eddying whirl, and breaking wave, 
 Roused by the blast of winter, rave ; 
 Through sparkling sjjray, in thundering clash, 
 The lightnings of the waters flash 
 In awful whiteness o'er the shore. 
 That shines and shakes beneath the roar ; 
 Thus — as the stream and ocean greet, 
 With waves that madden as they meet — 
 Thus join the bands, whom mutual wrong, 
 And fate, and fury, drive along. 
 The bickering sabres' shivering jar ; 
 
 And pealing wide or ringing near 
 
 Its echoes on the throIil)ing ear. 
 The deathshot hissing from afar ; 
 The shock, the shout, the groan of war, 
 
 Reverberate along that vale, 
 
 More suited to the shepherd's tale : 
 Though few the numbers — theirs the strife, 
 That neither spares nor sjieaks for life ! 
 Ah ! fondly youthful hearts can press. 
 To seize and share the dear caress ; 
 But Love itself could never pant 
 For all that Beauty siglis to grant 
 With half the fervor Hate bestows 
 Upon the last embrace of foes, 
 When grappling in the fight they fold 
 Those arms that ne'er shall lose their hold : 
 Friends meet to part ; Love laughs at faith ; 
 True foes, once met, are join'd till death I 
 * * * * * 
 
 With sabre shivcr'd to the hilt. 
 
 Yet dripping with the blood he spilt ; 
 
 Yet strain'd within the sever'd hand 
 
 1 Tlie '* evil eye," a common euperstit jou in the Levant, and of 
 ivhicli the imaginary- cflccts aio yet very singular on Iboije who 
 tfiiiceivc Ihcmaelves affected. 
 
 Which quivers round tliat faithless brand : 
 
 His turban far behind him roll'd, 
 
 And cleft in twain its firmest fold ; 
 
 His flowing robe by falchion torn. 
 
 And crimson as those clouds of mom 
 
 That, streak'd with dusky red, portend 
 
 The day shall have a stormy end ; 
 
 A stain on every bush that bore 
 
 A fragment of his palampore,^ 
 
 His breast with woiuids unnumber'd riven, 
 
 His back to earth, his face to heaven, 
 
 Fall'n Hassan lies — his unclosed eye 
 
 Yet lowering on his enemy, 
 
 As if the hour that seal'd his fate 
 
 Surviving left his quenchless hate ; 
 
 And o'er him liends that foe with brow 
 
 As dark as his that bled below. 
 
 ***** 
 
 " Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave, 
 But his shall be a redder grave ; 
 Her spirit pointed well the steel 
 Which taught that felon lieart to feel. 
 He call'd the Proijhet, but his power 
 Was vain against tlie vengeful Giaour : 
 He call'd on Alia — but the word 
 Arose unheeded or unheard. 
 Thou Paj-nim fool ! could Leila's prayer 
 Be pass'd, and thine accorded there ? 
 I watch'd my time, I leagued with these, 
 The traitor in his turn to seize ; 
 My wrath is wreak'd, the deed is done, 
 ;\jid now I go — but go alone." 
 
 The browsing camel's bells are tinkling 
 His Mother look'd from her lattice high — 
 
 She saw the dews of eve besprinkling 
 The pasture green beneath her eye, 
 
 She saw the planets fiintly tmnkling : 
 "'Tis twilight — sure his train is nigh." 
 She could not rest in the garden-bower, 
 But gazed through the grate of his steepest tower : 
 " Wliy comes he not ? his steeds are fleet. 
 Nor shrink they from the summer heat ; 
 Wliy sends not the Bridegroom his promised gift J 
 Is his heart more cold, or his barb less swift ? 
 Oil, false reproach ! yon Tartar now 
 Has gain'd our nearest mountain's brow, 
 And warily the steej) descends. 
 And now within the valley bends ; 
 And he bears the gift at his saddle bow — 
 How could I deem his courser slow ? 
 Right well my largess shall repay 
 His welcome speed, and weary way." 
 
 ' The flowered Bhawls generally worn by persons of rank. 
 
THE GIAOUR. 
 
 71 
 
 Th( Tartar lighted at the gate, 
 But scaixe upheld his fainting weight : 
 His swarthy visage spake distress, 
 But this might be from weariness ; 
 His garb with sanguine spots was dyed. 
 But these might be from his courser's side ; 
 He drew the token from his vest — 
 Angel of Death I 'tis Hassan's cloven crest 1 
 His calpac ' rent — his caftan red — 
 ■'Lady, a fearful bride thy Son hatli wed • 
 Me, not from mercy, did they spare, 
 But this impurpled pledge to bear. 
 Peace to the brave ! whose blood is spilt 
 Wo to the Giaour ! for his the guilt." 
 
 A turban = carved in coarsest stone, 
 a. pillar vrith rank weeds o'ergrown. 
 Whereon can now be scarcely read 
 The Koran verse that mourns the dead. 
 Point out the spot where Hassan fell 
 A victim in that lonely deU. 
 There sleeps as true au Osmanlie 
 As e'er at Mecca bent the knee ; 
 As ever scorn'd forbidden wine. 
 Or pray'd with face towards the shrine, 
 In orisons resumed anew 
 At solemn sound of " AUa Hu !"=' 
 Yet died he by a stranger's hand. 
 And stranger in his native land ; 
 Yet died he as in arms he stood. 
 And unavenged, at least in blood. 
 But liim the maids of Paradise 
 
 Impatient to their halls invite. 
 And the dark Heaven of Houris' eyes 
 
 On him shall glance forever bright ; 
 They come — their kerchiefs green they wave,' 
 And welcome with a kiss the brave 1 
 Who falls in battle 'gainst a Giaour 
 Is worthiest an immortal bower. 
 
 1 The calpac is the solid cap or centre part of the head-dress ; 
 Ihe shawl is wound round it, and forms the turban. 
 
 2 The turban, pillar, and inscriptive verse, decorate the tombs 
 of the Osraanliei*, whether in the cemeterj' or the wilderness. In 
 the mountains you frequently pass similar mementoes ; and on 
 inquiry you are informed that they record some victim of rebel- 
 lion, plunder, or revenge. 
 
 => '■ Alia Hu 1" the concluding words of the Muezzin's call to 
 prayer from the highest gallery on the exterior of the minaret. 
 On a still evening, when the Muezzin has a fine voice, which is 
 frcqaently the case, the effect is solemn and beautiful beyond all 
 the bells in Christendom. [\'alid. the son of Abdalmalek, was the 
 first who erected a minaret or turret ; and this he placed on the 
 grand mosque at Damascus, for the muezzin, or crier, to announce 
 from it the hour of prayer. The practice is kept to this day. See 
 D'Horbelot.] 
 
 * The following is part of a battle song of the Turks :— " I see— 
 I sec a dark-eyed girl of Paradise, and she waves a handkerchief, 
 a kerchief of green ; and cries aloud : ' Come, kiss me, for I love 
 thee.' " etc. 
 
 ' Monkir and Nekir are the inqnisitors of the dead, before 
 whom the corpse undergoes a slight novitiate and preparatory 
 
 But thou, false Infidel ! shalt writhe 
 Beneath avenging Monkir's > scythe ; 
 And from its torment 'scape alone 
 To wander round lost El_ilis'« throne ; 
 And fire unquench'd, imquenchable, 
 Arovmd, within, thy heart shall dwell ; 
 Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell 
 The tortures of that inward heU 1 
 But first, on earth as Vampire ' sent, 
 Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent : 
 Then ghastly haunt thy native place, 
 And suck the blood of all thy race ; 
 There from thy daughter, sister, wife. 
 At midnight drain the stream of life ; 
 Yet loathe the banquet which perforce 
 Must feed thy Uvid living corse : 
 Thy victims ere they yet expire 
 Shall know the demon for their sire. 
 As cursing thee, thou cursing them. 
 Thy flowers are wither'd on the stem. 
 But one that for thy crime must faU, 
 The youngest, most beloved of all. 
 Shall bless thee with a/aihei-''s name — 
 That word shall wrap thy heart in flame 1 
 Yet must thou end thy task, and mark 
 Her cheek's last tinge, her eye's last spark, 
 And the last glassy glance must view 
 Which freezes o'er its Ufeless blue ; 
 Then with unhallow'd hand shalt tear 
 The tresses of her yellow hair, 
 Of which in Ufe a lock when shorn 
 Affection's fondest pledge was worn. 
 But now is borne away by thee, 
 Memorial of thine agony ! 
 Wet with thine own best blood shall drip » 
 Thy gnashing tooth and haggard lip ; 
 Then stalking to thy suUen grave. 
 Go — and with Gouls and Afrits rave ; 
 TiU these in horror shrink away 
 From spectre more accursed than they ! 
 
 training for damnation. If the answers are none of the clearest, 
 he is hauled up with a scythe and thumped down with a red-hol 
 mace tUl properly seasoned, with a variety of subsidiary proba- 
 tions. The office of these angels is no sinecure ; there are but 
 two, and the number of orthodox deceased being in a small pro- 
 portion to the remainder, their hands are always full. See Relig, 
 Ceremon. and Sale's Koran. 
 
 8 Eblis, the Oriental Prince of Darkness. 
 
 ' The Vampire superstition is still general in the Levant. Honest 
 Toumefort tells a long story, which Mr. Southey. in the notes on 
 Thalaba, quotes, about these '■Vroucolochas," as he calls them. The 
 Romaic term is " Vardonlachn." I recollect a whole family being 
 terrified by the scream of a child, wl ich they imagined must pro- 
 ceed from such a visitation. The Greeks never mention the word 
 withoitt horror. I find that " Broucolokas " is an cdd legitimate 
 Hellenic appellation— at least is so applied to Arseuuis, who ac- 
 cording to the Greeks, was after his death animated by the De\il. 
 The modems, however, use the word I mention. 
 
 » The freshness of the face, and the wetness of the lip with 
 blood, are the never-failing signs of a Vampire. The stories told 
 in Hungary and Greece of these foul feeders are singular, and 
 some of them most incredibly attested. 
 
V2 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 " How name yc yon lone Caloyer ? 
 
 Ilis foaturea I have scann'd before 
 In mine own land : 'tis many a year, 
 
 Since, dashing by the lonely shore, 
 I saw him urge as fleet a steed 
 As ever served a horseman's need. 
 But once I saw that face, yet then 
 It was so mark'd with inward pain, 
 I could not pass it by again ; 
 It breathes the same dark spirit now, 
 As death were stamp'd upon his brow. 
 
 " 'Tis twice three years at summer tide 
 Since first among our frercs he came ; 
 And here it soothes him to abide 
 
 For some dark deed he will not name. 
 Bqi never at our vesper prayer. 
 Nor e'er before confession chair 
 Kneels he, nor recks he when arise 
 Incense or anthem to the skies, 
 But broods within his cell alone, 
 His face and lace alike unknown. 
 The sea from Paynim land he cross'd, 
 And here ascended from the coast ; 
 Yet seems he no'-, of Othman race. 
 But only Christiin in his face : 
 I'd judge him some stray renegade, 
 Repentant of the change he made. 
 Save that he shims our holy shrine, 
 Nor tastes the sacred bread and wine. 
 Great largess to these walls he brought, 
 And thus our abbot's favor bought ; 
 But were I prior, not a day 
 Should brook such stranger's further stay, 
 Or pent within our penance ceU 
 Should doom him there for aye to dweU. 
 Much in his vLsions mutters he 
 Of maiden whelm'd beneath the sea ; 
 Of sabres clashing, foemen flj-ing, 
 •Wrongs avenged, and Moslem dying. 
 On cliff he hath been knowTi to stand, 
 And rave as to some bloody hand 
 Fresh sever'd from its parent limb. 
 Invisible to all but him. 
 Which beckons onward to his grave. 
 And lures to leaj) into the wave." 
 
 ill * * ^ ^ 
 
 ***** 
 
 Dark and unearthly is the scowl 
 That glares beneath his dusky cowl : 
 The flash of that dilating eye 
 Keveals too much of times gone by; 
 Though varying, indistinct its hue. 
 Oft will his glance the gazer rue. 
 For in it lurks tliat nameless spell, 
 Which speaks, itself unspeakable, 
 
 A spirit yet unqueU'd and high. 
 
 That claims and keeps ascendency ; 
 
 And like the bird whose pinions quake. 
 
 But cannot fly the gazing snake. 
 
 Will others quail beneath his look. 
 
 Nor 'scape the glance they sc".rce can brook. 
 
 From him the hali-afirighted Friar 
 
 Wlicn met alone would fain retire. 
 
 As if that eye and bitter smile 
 
 Transferr'd to others fear and guile : 
 
 Not oft to smile descendeth he. 
 
 And when he doth 'tis sad to see 
 
 That he but mocks at Misery. 
 
 How that pale Up will curl and quiver 1 
 
 Then fix once more as if forever ; 
 
 As if his sorrow or disdain 
 
 Forbade him e'er to smile again. 
 
 Well were it so — such ghastly mirth 
 
 From joyaunce ne'er derived its birth. 
 
 But sadder still it were to trace 
 
 Wliat once were feelings in that face : 
 
 Time hath not yet the features fix'd. 
 
 But brigliter traits with evil mLx'd ; 
 
 And there are hues not always faded. 
 
 Which speak a mind not all degraded 
 
 Even by the crimes through which it waded : 
 
 The common crowd but see the gloom 
 
 Of wayward deeds, and fitting doom ; 
 
 The close observer can espy 
 
 A noble soul, and lineage high : 
 
 Alas 1 though both bestow'd in vain. 
 
 Which Grief could change, and Guilt could staiu, 
 
 It was no vulgar tenement 
 
 To which such lofty gifts were lent. 
 
 And still with little less than dread 
 
 On such the sight is riveted. 
 
 The roofless cot, dccay'd and rent. 
 
 Will scarce delay the passer by ; 
 The tower by war or tempest bent, 
 Wliile yet may frown one battlement. 
 
 Demands and haunts the stranger's eye ; 
 Each ivied arch, and pillar lone. 
 Pleads haughtily for glories gone I 
 
 " His floating robe around him folding, 
 
 Slow sweeps he through the column'd aisle ; 
 
 With dread beheld, with gloom beholding 
 The rites that sanctify the pile. 
 
 But when the anthem shakes the choir, 
 
 And kneel the monks, his steps retire ; 
 
 By yonder lone and wavering torch 
 
 His aspect glares within the porch ; 
 
 There will he pause till all is done — 
 
 And hear the prayer, but utter none. 
 
 See — by the half-illurained wall 
 
 His hood fly back, his dark hair fall. 
 
 That pale brow wildly wreathing round, 
 
THE GIAOUR. 
 
 73 
 
 As if the Gorgon there had bound 
 
 The sablest of the serpent-braid 
 
 That o'er her fearful forehead stray'd : 
 
 For he declines the convent oath, 
 
 And leaves those locks' unhallow'd growth, 
 
 And wears our garb in all beside ; 
 
 And, not from pietj' but pride, 
 
 Gives wealth to walls that never heard 
 
 Of his one holy vow nor word. 
 
 Lo ! — mark ye, as the harmony 
 
 Peals louder praises to the sky, 
 
 That livid cheek, that stony air 
 
 Of mis'd defiance and de.spair ! 
 
 Saint Francis, keep him from the shrine ! 
 
 Else may we dread the wrath divine 
 
 Made manifest by awful sign. 
 
 If ever evil angel bore 
 
 The form of mortal, such he wore : 
 
 By all my hope of sins forgiven, 
 
 Such looks are not of earth nor heaven !" 
 
 To love the softest hearts are prone, 
 
 But such can ne'er be aU his own ; 
 
 Too timid in his woes to share. 
 
 Too meek to meet, or brave despair ; 
 
 And sterner hearts alone may feel 
 
 The woimd that time can never heal 
 
 The rugged metal of the mine. 
 
 Must bum before its surface shine. 
 
 But plunged within the furnace-flame. 
 
 It bends and melts — though still the same ; 
 
 Then temper'd to thy want or wOl, 
 
 'Twill serve thee to defend or kill ; 
 
 A breastplate for thine hour of need. 
 
 Or blade to bid thy foeman bleed ; 
 
 But if a dagger's form it bear. 
 
 Let those who shape its edge, beware ! 
 
 Thus passion's fire, and woman's art. 
 
 Can turn and tame a sterner heart ; 
 
 From these its form and tone are ta'en, 
 
 And what they make it, must remain. 
 
 But break — before it bend again. 
 
 If soUtude succeed to grief. 
 Release from paiu is slight relief; 
 The vacant bosom's wilderness 
 Might thank the pang that made it less. 
 We loathe what none are left to share : 
 Even bhss — 'twere wo alone to bear ; 
 The heart once left thus desolate 
 Must fly at last for ease — to hate. 
 It is as if the dead could feel 
 The icy worm around them steal, 
 And shiiddet as the reptiles creep 
 To revel o'er their rotting sleep. 
 Without the power to scare away 
 The cold consumers of their clay I 
 10 
 
 It is as if the desert-bird,' 
 
 Wliose beak unlocks her bosom's stream 
 
 To stiU her famish'd nesthngs' scream, 
 Nor mourns a life to them transferr'd. 
 Should rend her rash devoted breast, 
 And find them flown her empty nest. 
 The keenest pangs the wretched find 
 
 Are rapture to the dreary void. 
 The leafiess desert of the mind. 
 
 The waste of feeUngs uuemploy'd. 
 Wlio would be doom'd to gaze upoi» 
 A sky without a cloud or shn ? 
 Less hideous far the tempest's roar 
 Than ne'er to brave the billows more — 
 ThroMTi, when the war of winds is o'er, 
 A lonely wreck on fortune's shore, 
 'Mid sullen calm, and silent bay. 
 Unseen to drop by dull decay ; — 
 Better to sink beneath the shock 
 Than moulder piecemeal on the rock I 
 
 " Father ! thy days have pass'd in peace, 
 
 'Mid counted beads, and countless jjrayer ; 
 To bid the sins of others cease, 
 
 Thyself without a crime or care. 
 Save transient ills that all must bear, 
 Has been thy lot from youth to age ; 
 And thou wilt bless thee from the rage 
 Of passions fierce and uncontroU'd 
 Such as thy penitents unfold. 
 Whose secret sins and sorrows rest 
 Within thy pure and jritj-ing breast. 
 My days, though few, have pass'd below 
 In much of joy, but more of wo ; 
 Tet still in hours of love or strife, 
 I've scaped the weariness of life : 
 Now leagued with friends, now girt by foes, 
 I loathed the languor of repose. 
 Now nothing left to love or hate. 
 No more with hope or jjride elate, 
 I'd rather be the thing that crawls 
 Most noxious o'er a dungeon's walls. 
 Than pass my dull, unvarying days, 
 Condemn'd to meditate and gaze. 
 Yet, lurks a wish -n-ithin my breast 
 For rest — but not to feel 'tis rest. 
 Soon sliall my fate that wish fulfill , 
 
 And I shall sleep without the dream 
 Of what I was and would be still, 
 
 Dark as to thee my deeds may seem : 
 3Iy meuLory now is but the tomb 
 Of joys long dead ; my hope, their doom : 
 Though better to have died with those 
 Than bear a life of lingering woes. 
 
 * The pelican is, I believe, the binl eo libelled, by the impi t« 
 lion of feediDg her chickens with her I tood. 
 
PYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 My spirit shrunk not to sustain 
 
 The searching throes of ceaseless pain ; 
 
 Nor sought the self-accorded grave 
 
 Of ancient fool and modern knave : 
 
 Vet death I have not fear'd to meet ; 
 
 And in the field it had been sweet, 
 
 Had danger woo'd me on to move 
 
 The slave of glory, not of love. 
 
 I've braved it — not for honor's boast ; 
 
 I smile at laurels -Ron or lost ; 
 
 To such let others carve their way. 
 
 For high renown, or hireling pay : 
 
 But place again before my eyes 
 
 Aught that I deem a worthy jjrize ; 
 
 The maid I love, the man I hate, 
 
 And I will hunt the steps of fate. 
 
 To save or slay as these require. 
 
 Through rending steel, and rolling fire : 
 
 Nor need'st thou doubt his speech from one 
 
 Who would but do — what he hath done. 
 
 Death is but what the haughty brave, 
 
 The weak must bear, the wretch must crave ; 
 
 Then let Life go to him who gave : 
 
 I have not quail'd to danger's brow 
 
 When high and happy — need I nuw ? 
 
 " I loved her. Friar 1 nay, adored — 
 
 But these are words tliat all can use — 
 I proved it more in deed than word ; 
 There's blood upon that dinted sword, 
 
 A stain its steel can never lose : 
 'Twas shed for her, who died for me, 
 
 It warm'd the heart of one abhorr'd : 
 Nay, start not — no — nor bend thy knee. 
 
 Nor midst my sins such act record : 
 Thou wilt absolve me from the deed, 
 For he was hostile to thy creed 1 
 The very name of Nazarene 
 Was wormwood to his Paynim spleen. 
 Ungrateful fool ! since but for brands 
 Well wielded in some hardy hands, 
 And wounds by Galileans given. 
 The surest pass to Turkish heaven, 
 For him his Ilouris still might wait 
 Impatient at the Prophet's gate, 
 I loved her — love will find its way 
 Through paths where wolves would fear to prey ; 
 And if it dares enough, 'twere hard 
 If passions met not some reward — 
 No matter how, or where, or why, 
 I did not vainly seek, nor sigh : 
 Yet sometimes, with remorse, in vain 
 I wish she had not loved again. 
 She died— I dare not tell thee how ; 
 But look — 'tis written on my brow 1 
 There read of Cain the curse and crime. 
 In characters unworn by time : 
 
 Still, ere thou dost coiiJemn me, pause ; 
 Not mine the act, though I the cause. 
 Yet did he but wbat I had done 
 Had she been false to more than one. 
 Faithless to him, he gave the blow ; 
 But true to me, I laid him low : 
 Howe'er deserved her doom might be, 
 Her treachery was truth to me ; 
 To me she gave lier heart, that all 
 Which tyraimy can ne'er inthral ; 
 And I, alas I too late to save I 
 Yet all I then could give, I gave, 
 'Twas some relief, our foe a grave. 
 His death sits lightly ; but her fate 
 Has made me — what thou well mayst hat<». 
 
 His doom was seal'd— he knew it well, 
 Warn'd Liy the voice of stem Taheer, 
 Deep in wliose darkly boding ear 
 The deathshot peal'd of murder near, 
 
 As filed the troop to where they fell 1 
 He died too in the battle broil. 
 A time that heeds nor pain nor toil ; 
 One cry to JIahomet for aid, 
 One prayer to Alia all he made : 
 He knew and cross'd me in the fray — 
 I gazed ujiou him where he laj-. 
 And watch'd his spirit ebb away : 
 Though pierced hke pard by liunters' steel. 
 He felt not half that now I feel. 
 I search'd, but vainly search'd, to find 
 The worlvings of a wounded mind ; 
 Each feature of that sullen corse 
 Betray'd his rage, but no remorse. 
 Oh, what had Vengeance given to trace 
 Despair upon his djing face ! 
 The late repentance of that hour, 
 When Penitence hath lost her power 
 To tear one terror from the grave. 
 And will not soothe, and cannot save 
 
 " The cold in clime are cold in blood. 
 
 Their love can scarce deserve the name ; 
 But mine was like a lava flood 
 
 That boils in Ji^tna's breast of flame 
 I cannot prate in puling strain 
 Of ladye-love, and beauty's chain : 
 If changing cheek, and scorching vein, 
 Lips taught to writhe, but not complain, 
 If bursting heart, and madd'ning brain, 
 And daring deed, and vengeful steel. 
 And all tliat I have felt and feel. 
 Betoken love — that love was mine. 
 And shown by many a bitter sign. 
 'Tis true, I could not whine nor sigh, 
 I knew but to obtain or die. 
 I die — but first I have possess'd, 
 And come what may, I have been blcss'd. 
 
THE GIAOUR. 
 
 IS 
 
 Shall I the doom I sought upbraid ? 
 No — reft of all, yet undismay'd 
 But for the thought of Leila slain, 
 Give me the pleasure with the pain, 
 So would I Uve and love again. 
 I grieve, but not, my holy guide 1 
 For him who dies, but her who died : 
 She sleeps beneath the wandering wave — 
 Ah I had she but an earthly grave. 
 This breaking heart and throbbing head 
 Should seek and share her narrow bed. 
 She was a form of life and light. 
 That, seen, became a part of sight : 
 And rose, where'er I tum'd mine eye. 
 The Moming-star of Memory ! 
 
 " Yes, Love indeed is light from heaven ; 
 
 A spark of that immortal fire 
 With angels shared, by Alia given 
 
 To lift from earth our low desire. 
 Devotion ^afts the mind above. 
 But Heaven itself descends in love ; 
 A feeling from the Godhead caught, 
 To wean from self each sordid thought ; 
 A Ray of him who form'd the whole ; 
 A Glory circling round the soul ! 
 I grant yny love imperfect, aU 
 That mortals by the name miscall ; 
 Then deem it evil, what thou wilt ; 
 But say, oh say, hers was not guilt ! 
 She was my Ufe's unerring light : 
 That quench'd, what beam shall break my night ? 
 Oh ! would it shone to lead me still. 
 Although to death or deadliest ill ! 
 Why marvel ye, if they who lose 
 This i3resent joy, this future hope. 
 No more with sorrow meekly cope ; 
 In phrensy then their fate accuse : 
 Li madness do those fearful deeds 
 That seem to add but guilt to wo ? 
 
 Alas ! the breast that inly bleeds 
 Hath naught to dread from outward blow ; 
 
 Who fells from aU he knows of bliss, 
 
 Cares httle into what abyss. 
 
 Fierce as the gloomy vulture's now 
 To thee, old uian, my deeds appear : 
 
 I read abhorrence on thy brow. 
 And this too was I born to bear ! 
 
 'Tis true, that, like that bird of prey. 
 
 With havoc have I mark'd my way : 
 
 But this was taught me by the dove, 
 
 To die — and know no second love. 
 
 This lesson yet hath man to learn. 
 
 Taught by the thing he dares to spurn : 
 
 The bird that sings -svithin the brake, 
 
 The swan that swims upon the lake, 
 
 One mate, and one alone, vnU take. 
 
 And let the fool still prone to range, 
 And sneer on all who cannot change, 
 Partake his jest with boasting boys ; 
 I envy not his varied joys. 
 But deem such feeble, heartless man, 
 Less than yon soUtary swan ; 
 Far, far beneath the shallow maid 
 He left believing and bctray'd. 
 Such shame at least was never mine- • 
 Leila 1 each thought was only thine 1 
 My good, my guilt, my weal, my wo, 
 My hope on high — my aU below. 
 Earth holds no other like to thee, 
 Or, if it doth, in vain for me : 
 For worlds I dare not view the dame 
 ResembHng thee, yet not the same. 
 The very crimes that mar my youth, 
 This bed of death — attest my truth ! 
 'Tis all too late — thou wert, thou art 
 The cherish'd madness of my heart ! 
 
 " And she was lost — and yet I breathed, 
 But not the breath of human life : 
 A seiijent round my heart was wreathed. 
 And stung my every thought to strife. 
 Alike all time, al^horr'd all jjlace. 
 Shuddering I shrunk fi'om Nature's face, 
 Where every hue that charm'd before 
 The blackness of my bosom wore. 
 The rest thou dost already know, 
 And all my sins, and half my wo. 
 But talk no more of penitence ; 
 Thou see'st I soon shaU part from hence : 
 And if thy holy tale were true. 
 The deed that's done canst thou undo ? 
 Think me not thankless — but this grief 
 Looks not to priesthood for relief. 
 My soul's estate in secret guess : 
 But wouldst thou pity more, say less. 
 When thou canst bid my Leila Uve, 
 Then wiU I sue thee to forgive ; 
 Then plead my cause in that high place 
 Wliere purchased masses proffer grace. 
 Go, when the hunter's hand hath wrung 
 From forest-cave her shrieking young. 
 And calm the lonely Uoness : 
 But soothe not — mock not my distress I 
 
 " In earUer clays, and calmer hours. 
 
 When heart with heart delights to blend, 
 Where bloom my native vaUey's bowers 
 I had — ah ! have I now ? — a friend ! 
 To him this pledge I charge thee send. 
 
 Memorial of a youthful vow ; 
 I would remind him of my end : 
 
 Though souls absorb'd like mine allow 
 Brief thought to distant friendsiiiiD's claim, 
 Yet dear to him my bUghted name. 
 
76 
 
 BYRON'S ^YORKS. 
 
 'Tis strange — he prophesied my doom, 
 
 And I have smiled — I then could smile — 
 When Prudence would his voice assume, 
 
 And warn — I reck'd not what — the while ; 
 And now remembrance whispers o'er 
 Those accents scarcely mark'd before. 
 Say — that his bodings came to pass, 
 And he will start to hear their truth. 
 And Avish his words had not been sooth : 
 Tell him, unheeding as I was, 
 
 Through many a busy bitter scene 
 Of all our golden youth had been, 
 In pain, my faltering tongue had tried 
 To bless his memory ere I died ; 
 But Heaven in wrath would turn away, 
 If Guilt should for the guiltless pray. 
 I do not ask him not to blame. 
 Too gentle he to wound my name ; 
 And what have I to do with fame ? 
 I do not ask him not to mourn. 
 Such cold request might sound like scorn ; 
 And what than friendship's manly tear 
 May better grace a brother's bier ? 
 But bear this ring, his own of old. 
 And tell him — what thou dost Ix-hold I 
 The wither'd frame, the ruin'd mind. 
 The wreck Ijy passion left behind, 
 A shrivell'd scroll, a scatter'd leaf, 
 Sear'd by the autumn blast of grief ! 
 
 * Tell me no more of fancy's gleam, 
 No, father, no, 'twas not a dream ; 
 Alas ! the dreamer first must sleep, 
 I only watch'd, and wish'd to weep ; 
 But could not. for my burning brow 
 Throbb'd to the very brain as now : 
 I wdsh'd but for a single tear, 
 As something welcome, new, and dear ; 
 I 'wish'd it then, I wish it still ; 
 Despair is stronger than my will. 
 Waste not thine orison, desjiair 
 Is mightier than thy pious prayer : 
 I would not, if I might, be blest ; 
 I want no paradise, but rest. 
 'Twas then, I tell thee, father 1 then 
 I saw her ; yes, she lived again ; 
 And shining in her white symar. 
 As through yon pale gray cloud the star 
 Which now I gaze on, as on her, 
 Who look'd and looks far lovelier ; 
 Dimly I view its tremliling sjxirk ; 
 To-nuuTow's night shall be more dark; 
 And I, l^efore its rays appear, 
 That lifeless thing the living fear. 
 I wander, father I for my soul 
 Is Heeling towards the final goal. 
 
 I saw her, friar 1 and I rose 
 Forgetfiil of our former woes ; 
 And rushing from my couch, I dart, 
 And clasp her to my desperate heart ; 
 I clasp — what is it that I clasp ? 
 No breathing form within my grasp, 
 No heart that beats reply to mine. 
 Yet, Leila 1 yet the form is thine ! 
 And art thou, dearest, changed so much, 
 As meet my eye, yet mock my touch ? 
 Ah 1 were thy beauties e'er so cold, 
 I care not ; so my arms enfold 
 The all they ever wish'd to hold. 
 Alas ! around a shadow press'd. 
 They shrink upon my lonely breast ; 
 Yet still 'tis there I In silence stands. 
 And beckons with beseeching hands ! 
 With braided hair, and bright-black eye- 
 I knew 'twas false— she could not die 1 
 But he is dead 1 within the deU 
 I saw him buried where he fell ; 
 He comes not, for he cannot break 
 From earth ; why then art thou awake ? 
 They told me wild waves roll'd above 
 The face I view, the form I love ; 
 They told me — 'twas a hideous tale 1 
 I'd tell it, but my tongue would fail : 
 If true, and from thine ocean-cave 
 Thou com'st to claim a calmer grave ; 
 Oh ! pass thy dewy fingers o'er 
 This lirow that then will burn no more ; 
 Or place them on my hopeless heart : 
 But, shape or shade 1 whate'er thou art, 
 In mercy ne'er again depart 1 
 Or farther with thee bear my soul 
 Than winds can waft or waters roll 1 
 
 " Such is my name, and such my tale. 
 
 Confessor 1 to tliy secrect ear 
 I breathe the sorrows I bewail. 
 
 And thank thee for the generous tear 
 This glazing eye could neyer shed. 
 Then lay me -n-ith the humblest dead, 
 And, save the cross above my head. 
 Be neither name nor emblem spread, 
 By prying stranger to be read, 
 Or stay the passing pilgrim's tread." 
 
 He pass'd — nor of his name and race 
 Hath left a token or a trace. 
 Save what the father must not say 
 Who shrived him on his dying day : 
 This broken tale was all we knew 
 Of her he loved, or him he slew. 
 
i'€^rt 
 
Canto i. 
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 11 
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS, 
 
 A TURKISH TALE. 
 
 'Had we never loved so kindly, 
 Had we never loved eo blindly, 
 Never met or never parted. 
 We had ne'er been broken-hearted." 
 
 TO 
 
 THE EIGHT HONORABLE LORD HOLLAND, 
 
 THIS TALE IS rNSCRIBED, 
 
 WITH EVERY SENTIMENT OF REGARD AND RESPECT, 
 
 BY HIS GRATEFULLY OBLIGED AN1> 8INCBBB FRlEyD, 
 
 BYBON. 
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 CANTO THE FIRST. 
 
 I. 
 
 Know ye the land -where the cypress and myrtle 
 
 ^Vre emblems of deeds that are done in their clime, 
 Where the r.age of the viilture, the love of the turtle, 
 
 Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime 2 
 Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, [shine : 
 WTiere the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever 
 Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with 
 
 perfume. 
 Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul ' in her bloom ; 
 Wliere the citron and oUve are fairest of fruit. 
 And the voice of the nightingale never is mute : 
 Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the 
 Tn color though varied, in beauty may vie, [sty. 
 And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye ; 
 Where the margins are soft as the roses they twine, 
 .Vnd all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? 
 'Tis the cUme of the East ; 'tis the land of the Sun — 
 Can he smile on such deeds as his children have 
 Oh I wild as the accents of lovers' farewell [done ?a 
 Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which 
 they tell. 
 
 II. 
 Begirt with many a gallant slave, 
 AppareU'd as becomes the brave, 
 
 * ' Gnl," the rose. 
 
 ' ' Soula made of fire, and children of the Snn, 
 
 With whom revenge is virtue."— Yotrao's Bevengt 
 
 Awaiting each his lord's behest 
 
 To guide his steps, or guard his rest. 
 
 Old Giaflir sate in his Divan : 
 
 Deep thought was in his aged eye ; 
 And though the face of 5Iussulman 
 
 Not oft betrays to standers by 
 The mind within, well skill'd to hide 
 All but unconquerable pride. 
 His pensive cheek and pondering brc t 
 Did more than he was wont avow. 
 
 III. 
 " Let the chamber be clear'd." The train disap 
 pear'd — 
 
 " Now call me the chief of the Harem guard." 
 With Giaflir is none but his only son. 
 
 And the Nubian awaiting the sire's award. 
 
 " Haroun — when all the crowd that wait 
 
 Are pass'd beyond the outer gate, 
 
 (Wo to the head whose eye beheld 
 
 My child Zuleika's face unveil'd !) 
 
 Hence, lead my daughter from her tower ; 
 
 Her fate is fix'd this very hour : 
 
 Yet not to her repeat my thought ; 
 
 By me alone be duty taught !" 
 
 " Pacha 1 to hear is to obey." 
 No more must slave to despot say — 
 Then to the tower had ta'en his way. 
 But here young Selim silence brake. 
 
 First lowly rendering reverence meet ; 
 And downcast look'd, and gently spake, 
 
 StiU standing at the Pacha's feet : 
 
78 
 
 BYRON'S "WORKS 
 
 Canto l 
 
 For son of Moslem must expire, 
 Ere dare to sit before bis sire ! 
 
 " Father ! for fear that thou shouldst chide 
 My sister, or her sable guide, 
 Know — for the fault, if fault there be, 
 Was mine, then faU thy frowTis on me — 
 So lovelily the morning shone, 
 
 That — let the old and weary sleep — 
 I could not ; and to view alone 
 
 The fairest scenes of land and deep, 
 With none to listen aid reply 
 To thoughts with which my heart beat high 
 Were irksome — for wbate'er my mood, 
 In sooth I love not solitude ; 
 I on Zuleika's slumber broke. 
 
 And, as thou knowest that for me 
 
 Soon turns the harem's grating key. 
 Before the guardian slaves awoke 
 We to the cyjjress groves had flown. 
 And made earth, main, and heaven our own I 
 There lingei'd we, beguiled too long 
 With Mejnoun's tale, or Sadi's song ; ' 
 Till I, who heard the deep tambour- 
 Beat thy divan's approaching hour. 
 To thee, auc" to my duty true, 
 Warn'd by the sound, to greet thee flew : 
 But there Zuleika wanders yet — 
 Nay, father, rage not — nor forget 
 That none can pierce that secret bower 
 But those who watch the women's tower." 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Son of a slave" — the Pacha said — 
 
 " From unbelieving mother bred. 
 
 Vain were a father's hope to see 
 
 Aught that beseems a man in thee. 
 
 Thou, when thine arm should bend the bow. 
 And hurl the dart, and curb the steed. 
 Thou, Greek in soul if not in creed. 
 
 Must pore where babbling waters flow, 
 
 And watch unfolding roses blow. 
 
 Would that yon orb, whose matin glow 
 
 Thy listless eyes so much admire, 
 
 Would lend thee something of his fire I 
 
 Thou, who wouldst see this battlement 
 
 By Christian cannon piecemeal rent ; 
 
 Nay, tamely view old StamViol's wall 
 
 Before the dogs of Moscow fall, 
 
 Nor strike one stroke for life and death 
 
 Against the curs of Nazareth ! 
 
 Go — let thy less than woman's hand 
 
 Assume the distafl" — not the brand. 
 
 But, Ilaroun ! — to my daughter speed : 
 
 And hark — of thine own head take heed — 
 
 > Mojnonn and loila, the Borneo and Juliet of the Kast. Sadl, 
 [he mornl poet of Persia. 
 ^ Turkieh drum, which sounds at sunrise, noon, und twilight. 
 
 If thus Zuleika oft takes wing — 
 Thou seest yon bow^it hath a string 1" 
 
 No sound from Selim's lip was heard. 
 
 At least that met old GiaflRr's ear. 
 But every frowai and every word 
 Pierced keejier than a Christian's sword. 
 
 " Son of a slave ! — reproacli'd \rith fear I 
 
 Those gibes had cost another dear. 
 Son of a slave ! — and f/c my sire ?" 
 
 Thus held his thoughts their dark care»x 
 And glances ev'n of more than ire 
 
 Flash forth, then faintly di.<!appear. 
 Old Giaffir gazed upon his son 
 
 And started ; for wdtliin his eye 
 He read how much his wrath had done ; 
 He saw rebellion there begun : 
 
 " Come hither, boy — what, no reply ? 
 I mark thee- — and I know thee too ; 
 But there be deeds thou dar'st not do ; 
 But if thy beard had manlier length. 
 And if thy hand had skill and strength, 
 I'd joy to see thee break a lance. 
 Albeit against my own perchance." 
 
 As snecringly these accents feU, 
 On Selim's eye he fiercely gazed : 
 
 That eye return'd him glance for glance 
 And proudly to his sire's was raised. 
 
 Till Giaflir's quail'd and shrunk askance- 
 And why — he felt, but durst not tell. 
 " Much I misdoubt this wayward boy 
 Will one day work me more annoy : 
 I never loved him from his birth, 
 And — but his arm is little worth, 
 And scarcely in the chase could cope 
 With timid fawn or antelope. 
 Far less would venture into strife 
 Where man contends for fame and life — 
 I would not trust that look or tone : 
 No — nor tile blood so near my own. 
 That blood — he hath not heard — no more- - 
 I'll watch him closer than before. 
 He is an Arab ' to my sight, 
 Or Christian crouching in the fight — 
 But hark I — I hear Zuleika's voice ; 
 
 Like Ilouris' liymn it meets mine ear ; 
 She is the oflfspring of my choice ; 
 
 Oh 1 more tlian ev'n her mother dear, 
 With all to hope, and naught to fear — 
 My Peri ! ever welcome here 1 
 Sweet, as the desert fountain's wave. 
 To lips just cool'd in time to save — 
 
 Such to my longing sight art thou ; 
 
 3 The Turks abhor the Arabs (who return the compliment a hnji 
 dred-fold) even more tlian thev hate the Christians. 
 
Canto i. 
 
 THE BKIDE OF xVBYDOS. 
 
 79 
 
 Nor can they waft to Mecca's shrine 
 More thanks for life, than I for thine, 
 
 Wlio blest thy birth, and bless thee now." 
 
 VI. 
 
 Fair, as the first that fell of womankind, 
 
 When on that dread yet lovely serpent smiling, 
 Wliose image then was stamp'd upon her mind — 
 
 But once beguiled — and ever more beguiling ; 
 Dazzling, as that, oh, too transcendent vision 
 
 To Sorrow's phantom-peopled slumber given. 
 When heart meets heart again in dreams Elysian, 
 
 And paints the lost on Earth revived in Heaven 1 
 Soft, as the memory of buried love ; 
 Pure, as the prayer which Childhood wafts above ; 
 Was she — the daughter of that rude old Chief, 
 Who met the maid with tears — but not of grief. 
 
 Who hath not proved how feebly words essay 
 To fix one spark of Beauty's heavenly ray 2 
 Who doth not feel, until his failing sight 
 Faints into dimness with its own delight. 
 His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess 
 The might — the majesty of Loveliness ? 
 finch was Zuleika — such around her shone 
 The nameless charms unmark'd by her alone ; 
 The light of love, the purity of grace. 
 The mind, the Music' Ijreathing from her face. 
 The heart whose softness harmonized the whole — 
 And, oh ! that eye was in itself a Soul ! 
 
 Her graceful arms in meekness bending 
 Across her gently-budding breast ; 
 
 At one kind word those arms extending 
 To clasp the neck of him who blest 
 His child caressing and carcss'd, 
 Zuleika came — and Giaffir felt 
 His purpose half within him melt : 
 Not that against her fancied weal 
 His heart though stern coidd ever feel ; 
 Affection chain'd her to that heart ; 
 Ambition tore the links apart. 
 
 1 This eipressiou has met with objections. I will not refer to 
 ■■ Him who hath not Music in his soul," but merely request the 
 reader to recollect, for ten seconds, the features of the women 
 whom he believes to be the most beautiful ; and. if he then does 
 not comprehend fully what is feebly expressed in the above line, 
 I shall be sorry for us both. For an eloquent passage in the lat- 
 est work of the first female writer of this, perhaps of any age. 
 Mad. De St.ael, on the analogy (and the immediate comparit*on ex- 
 cited by that analogy) between " painting and music," see vol. iii. 
 cap. 10, De lWllemagjte, And is not this connection still strong- 
 er with the original than the copy ? with the coloring of Nature 
 than of Art ? After all, this is rather to be felt than described; 
 etill I think there are some who will understand it, at least they 
 would have done had they beheld the countenance whose speak- 
 ing harmony suggested the idea ; for this passage is not djawn 
 from tniagination but memory, that mirror which Affliction dashes 
 lO the earth and lookmg down upon the fragments, only beholds 
 lie reflection multiplied I 
 
 vn. 
 
 " Zuleika 1 child of gentleness I 
 
 How dear this very day must tell. 
 When I forget my own distress. 
 
 In losing what I love so well. 
 
 To bid thee with another dwell . 
 
 Another ! and a braver man 
 
 Was never seen in battle's van. 
 AVe Moslem reck not much of blood ; 
 
 But yet the line of Carasman- 
 TJnchanged, unchangeable hath stood 
 
 First of the bold Timariot bands 
 That won and well can keep their lano^ 
 Enough that he who comes to woo 
 Is kinsman of the Bey Oglou : 
 His years need scarce a thought emplo' 
 I would not have thee wed a boy. 
 And thou shalt have a noble dower : 
 And his and my united power 
 WiU laugh to scorn the death-firman, 
 Which others tremble but to scan, 
 And teach the messenger' what fate 
 The bearer of such boon may wait. 
 And now thou know'st thy father's will , 
 
 All that thy sex hath need to know : 
 'Twas mine to teach obedience still — • 
 
 The way to love, thy lord may show." 
 
 1 m VIII. 
 
 In silence bow'd the virgin's head ; 
 
 And if her eye was fiU'd with tears 
 That stifled feeling dare not shed, 
 And changed her cheek from pale to red, 
 
 And red to pale, as through her ears 
 Those winged words like arrows sped, 
 
 Wliat could such be but maiden fears ? 
 So bright the tear in Beauty's eye, 
 Love half regrets to kiss it dry ; 
 So sweet the blush of Bashfulness, 
 Even Pity scarce can wish it less ! 
 
 Whate'er it was the sire forgot ; 
 
 Or if remember'd, mark'd it not ; 
 
 Thrice clapp'd his hands, and call'd his steed," 
 
 = Carasman Oglou, or Kara Osman Oglou, is the principal land 
 owner in Turkey ; he governs Magnesia : those who, by a kind oi 
 feudal tenure, possess land on condition of service, are called 
 Timariots : they serve as Spahis, according to the extent of ter- 
 ritory, and bring a certain nnraber into the field, generally cavalry. 
 
 3 When a Pacha is sufEciently strong to resist, the single mefl- 
 senger, who is always the first bearer of the order for his death, i« 
 strangled instead, and sometimes five or sis, one after the other, 
 on the same errand, by command of the refractor?" patient ; if, on 
 the contrary, he is weak or loyal, he bows, kisses tlie Sultan's re- 
 spectflhle signature, and is bow-stning with great complacency. 
 In ISIO, several of these presents were exhibited in the niche of 
 the Seraglio gate ; among others, the head of the Pacha of Bag- 
 dat, a brave yoimg man, cut off by treachery, after a desperate re- 
 sistance. 
 
 * Clapping of the hands calls the sen'PPts. The Turk* batf h 
 superfluous expenditure of voice, and Uey have no bells. 
 
RO 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Cattto l 
 
 Resign'd his gem-adom'd chibouque,' 
 And mounting featly for the mead, 
 
 With Maugrabee^ and Mamaluke, 
 
 His way aniid his Delis took,' 
 To witness many an active deed 
 With sabre keen, or blunt jerreed. 
 The Kislar only and his Moors 
 Watch woll the Harem's massy doors. 
 
 IX. 
 His hcdd was leant upon his hand, 
 
 His eye look'd o'er the dark blue water 
 That swiftly ghdes and gently swells 
 Between the winding Dardanelles ; 
 But yet he saw nor sea nor strand. 
 Nor even his Pacha's turban'd band 
 
 >Iix in the game of mimic slaughter, 
 Careering cleave the folded felt' 
 With sabre stroke right sharjjly dealt ; 
 Nor mark'd the javelin-darting crowd. 
 Nor heard the Ollahs' wild and loud — 
 
 He thought but of old GiatBr's daughter 1 
 
 No word from SeUm's bosom broke ; 
 
 One sigh Zuleika's thought bespoke : 
 
 Still gazed he through the lattice grate, 
 
 Pale, mute, and mourufiilly sedate. 
 
 To him Zuleika's eye was turn'd. 
 
 But little from his aspect learn'd ; 
 
 Equal her grief, yet not the same ; 
 
 Her heart confess'd a gentler flame : 
 
 But yet that heart, alarm'd or weak. 
 
 She knew not why, forbade to speak. 
 
 Vet speak she must — but when essay ? 
 
 " How strauge he thus should turn away 1 
 
 Not thus we e'er before have met ; 
 
 Not thus shall be our parting yet." 
 
 Thrice paced she slowly through the room, 
 And watch'd his eye — it still was fis'd : 
 She snatch'd the urn wherein was mix'd 
 
 The Persian Atar-gul's' perfume, 
 
 Aud sprinkled all its odors o'er 
 
 The pictured roof ' and marble floor : 
 
 The drojjs, that through his glittering vest 
 
 The playful girl's ajjpeal address'd, 
 
 " Chibouque," the Turkish pipe, of which the amber month- 
 p. ce, and sometimes the ball which contains the leaf, is adorned 
 w h precious stones, If in possession of the wcallhier orders. 
 
 ' " Maugrabee," Moorish mercenaries. 
 
 ' " Delis," bravoes who form the forlorn hope of the cavalry, 
 an 1 always begin the action. 
 
 " A twisted fold at/elt is used for cimetar practice by the Turljs, 
 and few but Mussulman arms can cut through it at a single stroke : 
 sometimes u tough turban is used for the same purpose. The jer- 
 reel is a game of blunt javelins, animated and graceful. 
 
 » "Ollnus," Alia il Allah, the "Leilies," as the Spanish poets 
 call them, the sound is Ollah ; n cry of which the Turks, for a si- 
 lent people, are somewhat profuse, particularly during the jerreed, 
 or I J the chase, but mostly ia battle. Their animation in the 
 
 Unheeded o'er his bosom flew. 
 As if that breast were marble too. 
 " What, sullen j-ct ? it must not be — 
 Oh, gentle Selim, this from thee !" 
 She saw in curious order set 
 
 The fairest flowers of eastern land — 
 " He loved them once ; may touch them yet, 
 
 If oflcr'd by Zuleika's hand." 
 The childish thought was hardly breathed 
 Before the rose was pluck'd and wreathed ; 
 The next fond moment saw her seat 
 Her fairy form at Selim's feet : 
 " This rose to calm my brother's cares 
 A message from the Bulbul" bears ; 
 It says to-night he will prolong 
 For Selim's car his sweetest song ; 
 And though his note is somewhat sad, 
 He'U try for once a strain more glad. 
 With some faint hope his alter'd lay 
 May sing these gloomy thoughts away. 
 
 XI. 
 " What ! not receive my foolish flower ? 
 
 Nay then I am indeed unblest : 
 On me can thus thy forehead lower ? 
 
 And know'st thou not who loves thee best f 
 Oh, Sehm dear ! oh, more than dearest ! 
 Say, is it me thou hat "st or fearest ? 
 Come, lay thy head uj)on my breast. 
 And I ■n'ill kiss thee into rest. 
 Since words of mine, and songs must fail, 
 Ev'n from my tabled nightingale. 
 I knew our sire at times was stem. 
 But this from thee had yet to learn ; 
 Too well I know he loves thee not ; 
 But is Zuleika's love forgot ? 
 Ah ! deem I right ? the Pacha's plan — 
 This kinsman Bey of Carasman 
 Perhaps may prove some foe of thine : 
 If so, I swear by Jlccca's shrine, 
 If shrines that ne'er approach allow 
 To woman's step admit her vow. 
 Without thy free consent, command. 
 The Sultan should not have my hand ! 
 Think'st thou that I could bear to part 
 With thee, and learn to halve my heart ? 
 
 field, and gravity in the chamber, with their pipes and comboUos, 
 form an amusing contrast. 
 
 • " Atar-gul," ottar of roses. The Persian is the finest. 
 
 ' The ceiling and wainscots, or rather walls, of the Mncsulman 
 apartments are generally painted, in great houses, with one eter- 
 nal and highly colored view of Constantinople, wherein the prin- 
 cipal feature is a noble contempt of perspective ; below, anne, 
 cimetars, etc., are in general fancifully and not inelegantly dis- 
 posed. 
 
 ' It has been much doubted whether the notes of this " Lorei 
 of the rose" are sad or merr>-; and Mr. Fox's remarks on the 
 subject have provoked some learned controversy as to the opin- 
 ions of the ancients on the subject. I dare not venture a conjec- 
 ture on the point, though a little inclined to the "errarc mallcm." 
 etc., if Mr. Fox was mistaken . 
 
Canto i. 
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 81 
 
 Ah I were I sevcr'd from thy side, 
 Wlitre were thy friend — and wlio my guide ? 
 Years have not seen, Time shall not see 
 The hour that tears my soul from thee : 
 Even Azrael," from his deadly quiver 
 
 When flies that shaft, and fly it must, 
 That parts all else, shall doom forever 
 
 Our hearts to undivided dust 1" 
 
 XII. 
 He lived — ^he breathed — he moved— he felt ; 
 He raised the maid from where she knelt ; 
 His trance was gone — his keen eye shone 
 With thoughts that long in darkness dwelt ; 
 With thoughts that burn — in rays that melt. 
 As the stream late concealed 
 
 By the fringe of its willows. 
 When it rushes reveal'd 
 
 In the light of its billows ; 
 As the bolt bursts on high 
 
 From the black cloud that bound it, 
 Flash'd the soul of that eye 
 
 Through the long lashes round it. 
 A war-horse at the trumpet's sound, 
 A lion roused by heedless hoimd, 
 A tyrant waked to sudden strife 
 By graze of ill-directed knife. 
 Starts not to more convulsive life 
 Than he, who heard that vow, display'd, 
 And all, before repress'd, betray'd : 
 " Now thou art mine, forever mine, 
 With life to keep, and scarce with life resign ; 
 Now thou art mine, that sacred oath. 
 Though sworn by one, hath boimd us both. 
 Yes, fondly, wisely hast thou done ; 
 That vow hath saved more heads than one ; 
 But blench not thou — thy simplest tress 
 Claims more from me than tenderness ; 
 I would not wrong the slenderest hair 
 That clusters round thy forehead fair, , 
 For all the treasures buried far 
 Within the caves of Istakar.'-' 
 This morning clouds upon me lower'd, 
 Reproaches on my head were shower'd, 
 And GiafBr almost caU'd me coward I 
 Now I have motive to bo brave ; 
 The son of his neglected slave. 
 Nay, start not, 'twas the term he gave. 
 May show, though Uttle apt to vaunt, 
 A heart his words nor deeds can daunt, 
 ///s son, indeed ! — yet, thanks to thee, 
 Perchance I am, at least shall be ; 
 But let our plighted secret vow 
 Be only known to us as now. 
 
 ■• " Ar.rael," the angel of aeath. 
 
 ' The treasares of the Pre-adamite Snltans. See D'Herbelot, 
 •rtic.e btakar 
 
 11 
 
 I know the wretch who dares demand 
 
 From Giaffir thy reluctant hand ; 
 
 More ill-got wealth, a meaner soul 
 
 Holds not a MusseUm's' control : 
 
 Was he not bred in Egripo ?2 
 
 A viler race let Israel show ; 
 
 But let that pass — to none be told 
 
 Our oath ; the rest shall time unfold. 
 
 To me and mine leave Osman Bey ; 
 
 I've partisans for peril's day : 
 
 Think not I am what I appear ; 
 
 I've arms, and friends, and vengeance near." 
 
 XIII. 
 " Think not thou art what thou appearest 1 
 
 My Selim, thou art sadly changed : 
 This morn I saw thee gentlest, dearest ; 
 
 But now thou'rt from thyself estranged. 
 My love thou surely knew'st before, 
 It ne'er was less, nor can be more. 
 To see thee, hear thee, near thee stay, 
 
 And hate the night I know not why, 
 Save that we meet not but by day ; 
 
 With thee to live, with thee to die, 
 
 I dare not to my hope deny : 
 Thy cheek, thine eyes, thy lips to kiss, 
 Like this — and this — no more than this , 
 For, AUa 1 sure thy lips are flame : 
 
 What fever in thy veins is flushing ? 
 My own have nearly caught the same. 
 
 At least I feel my cheek, too, blushing. 
 To soothe thy sickness, watch thy health, 
 Partake, but never waste thy wealth. 
 Or stand with smiles unmurmuring by 
 And lighten half thy poverty ; 
 Do all but close thy dying eye. 
 For that I could not live to try ; 
 To these alone my thoughts aspire : 
 More can I do ? or thou require ? 
 But, Selim, thou must answer why 
 We need so much of mystery ? 
 The cause I cannot dream nor tell. 
 But be it, since thou saj-'st 'tis well ; 
 Yet what thou mean'st by ' arms ' and ' friends, 
 Beyond my weaker sense extends. 
 I meant that Giaflir should have heard 
 
 The very vow I plighted thee ; 
 His wrath would not revoke my word : 
 
 But surely he would leave me free. 
 
 Can this fond wish seem strange in me, 
 To be what I have ever been ? 
 What other hath Zuleika seen 
 
 • "Mnseelim," a covemor, the next in rank alter a Pacha; a 
 Waywode is the third ; and then come the Agas. 
 
 ^ " Egripo," the Negroport. .\ccording to the proverb, the 
 TnrliB of Egripo, the Jews of Salonica, and the Greelia of Atheuo. 
 are the woret of fheir respective racea. 
 
82 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canio a. 
 
 From simple childliood'8 earliest hour ? 
 
 Wliat other can she seek to see 
 Tlian thee, companion of her bower, 
 
 The partner of her infancy ? 
 These cherish'd thoughts, with life begun, 
 
 Say, why must I no more avow ? 
 Wliat change is wrought to make me ahun 
 
 The truth ; my pride, and thine till now ? 
 To meet the gaze of stranger's eyes 
 Our law, our creed, our God denies ; 
 Nor shall one wandering thought of mine 
 At such, our Prophet's will, repine : 
 No ! happier made by that decree I 
 He left me all in leaving thee. 
 Deep were my anguish, thus compell'd 
 To wed with one I ne'er beheld : 
 This wherefore should I not reveal? 
 VHiy wilt thou urge me to conceal ? 
 I know the Pacha's haughty mood 
 To thee hath never boded good : 
 And he so often storms at naught, 
 Allah ! forbid that e'er he ought I 
 And why I know not, but wthin 
 My heart concealment weighs like sin. 
 If then such secrecy be crime, 
 
 And such it feels while lurking here ; 
 Oh, Selim ! teU me yet in time. 
 
 Nor leave me thus to thoughts of fear. 
 Ah ! yonder see the Tchocadar,' 
 My father leaves the mimic war ; 
 I tremble now to meet his eye — 
 Say, Selim, canst thou tell me why ?" 
 
 XIV. 
 " Zuleika — to thy tower's retreat 
 Betake thee — Giafflr I can greet : 
 And now with him I fain must prate 
 Of firmans, impost, levies, state. 
 There's fearful news from Danube's banks, 
 Our Vizier nobly thins his ranks, 
 ■< For which the Giaour may give him thanks 1 
 Our Sultan li.ath a shorter way 
 Such costly triumph to repay. 
 But, mark me, when the twilight drum 
 
 Hath wam'd the troops to food and sleep. 
 Unto thy cell will Selim come : 
 Then softly from the Harem creep 
 Where we may wander by the deep 
 Our garden-battlements are steep ; 
 Nor these will rash intruder climb 
 To list our words, or stint our time ; 
 And if ho doth, I want not steel 
 Which some have felt, and more may feeL 
 Then shalt thou learn of Selim more 
 Than thou hast heard or thought before : 
 
 * " Tchocadar "—one of the attendants who precedee a man of 
 ■nthority. I 
 
 Trust me, Zuleika — fear not me 1 
 Thou kuow'st I hold a harem key." 
 
 " Fear thee, my Selim 1 ne'er till now 
 Did word like this — " 
 
 " Delay not thou ; 
 I keep the key — and Haroun's guard 
 Have some, and hope of more reward. 
 To-night, Zuleika, thou shalt hear 
 My tale, my purpose, and my fear : 
 I am not, love ! what I appear." 
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 CANTO THE SECOND. 
 
 The winds are high on Helle's wave, 
 As on that night of stormy water 
 When Love, who sent, forgot to save 
 The young, the beautiful, the brave, 
 
 The lonely hope of Sestos' daughter. 
 Oh ! when alone along the sky 
 Her turret-torch was blazing high, 
 Though rising gale, and breaking foam. 
 And shrieking sea-birds waru'd him hon: e ; 
 And clouds aloft and tides below. 
 With signs and sounds, forbade to go, 
 He could not see, he would not hear, 
 Or sound or sign foreboding fear ; 
 His eye but saw that light of love, 
 The only star it hail'd above ; 
 EUs ear but rang with Hero's song, 
 " Ye waves, divide not lovers long 1" — 
 That tale is old, but love anew 
 May nerve young hearts to prove as true. 
 
 II. 
 The winds are high, and Helle's tide 
 RoUs darkly heaving to the main ; 
 And Night's descending shadows hide 
 
 That field with blood bedew'd in vain, 
 The desert of old Priam's pride ; 
 The tombs, sole relics of his reign, 
 All — save immortal dreams that could beguile 
 The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle I 
 
 HI. 
 Oh I yet — for there my steps have been ; 
 
 These feet have press'tl tlie sacred shore. 
 These limbs that buoyant wave hath bom©— 
 Minstrel ! vnth thee to muse, to mourn, 
 
 To trace again those fields of yore. 
 Believing every hillock green 
 Contains no fabled 1 <^ro's asbes, 
 
Canto ii. 
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 83 
 
 And that around the undoubted scene 
 
 Thine own " broad Ilellesijont '" stiU dashes, 
 Be long my lot ! and cold were he 
 Who there could gaze denying thee 1 
 
 IV. 
 The night hath closed on Helle's stream, 
 
 Nor yet hath risen on Ida's hill 
 That moon, which shone on his high theme : 
 No warrior chides her peaceful beam. 
 
 But conscious shepherds bless it stiU. 
 Their flocks are grazing on the mound 
 
 Of him who felt the Dardan's arrow : 
 That mighty heap of gather'd ground 
 Which Ammon's son ran proudly round," 
 By nations raised, by monarchs crown'd. 
 
 Is now a lone and nameless barrow ! 
 
 AVithin — thy dwelling-place how narrow ! 
 Without — can only strangers breathe 
 The name of him that icas beneath : 
 Dust long outlasts the storied stone ; 
 But Thou — thy very dust is gone ! 
 
 Late, late to-night will Dian cheer 
 
 The swain, and chase the boatman's fear : 
 
 Till then — no beacon on the clifl" 
 
 May shape the course of struggling skiif ; 
 
 The scatter'd lights that skirt the bay, 
 
 All, one by one, have died away ; 
 
 The only lamp of this lone hour 
 
 IS glimmering in Zuleika's tower. 
 
 Yes ! there is light in that lone chamber, 
 
 And o'er her silken Ottoman 
 Are thrown the fragrant beads of amber. 
 
 O'er which her fairy fingers ran ;' 
 Kear these, with emerald rays beset, 
 (How could she thus that gem forget ?) 
 Her mother's sainted amulet,' 
 Wlicreon engraved the Koorsee text, 
 Oould smooth this life, and win the next ; 
 And by her comboloio'^ lies 
 A Koran of illumined dyes ; 
 
 ^ The wranglinf;: about this epithet, " the broad Hellespont," or 
 (he " bouudless Hellespont," whether it means one or the other, 
 or what it means at all, has been beyond all possibility of detail. 
 I have even heard it disputed on the spot ; and not foreseeinsj a 
 Bpeedy conclusion to the controversy, amused myself with swim- 
 ming across it in the meantime ; and probably may again, before 
 the point is settled. Indeed, the question as to the truth of " the 
 tale of Troy divine " still continues, much of it resting npon the 
 '.alismanic word a~ei:.or probably Homer had the same notion 
 of distance that a coquette has of time ; and when he talks of 
 boundless, means half a mile ; as the latter, by a like figure, when 
 Bhe says eternal attachment, simply specifies three weeks. 
 
 " Before his Persian invasion, and crowned the altar with laurel, 
 etc. He was afterwards Imitated by Caracalla in his race. It is 
 believed that the last also poisoned a friend, named Festus, for 
 the sake of new Patroclan games. I have seen the sheep feeding 
 
 And many a bright emblazon'd rhyme 
 By Persian scribes redeem'd from time; 
 And o'er those scrolls, not oft so mute, 
 Beclincs her now neglected lute ; 
 And round her lamp of fretted gold 
 Bloom flowers in urns of China's mould, 
 The richest work of Iran's loom. 
 And Sheeraz' tribute of perfume ; 
 All that can eye or sense delight 
 
 Are gather'd in that gorgeous room : 
 
 But yet it hath an air of gloom. 
 She, of this Peri cell the sprite. 
 What doth she hence, and on so rude a nJTht I 
 
 YI. 
 Wrapp'd in the darkest sable vest, 
 
 Wliich none save noblest Moslem wear. 
 To guard from winds of heaven the breast 
 
 As heaven itself to Selim dear. 
 With cautious stejjs the thicket treading. 
 
 And starting oft, as through the glade 
 
 The gust its hollow moanings made, 
 Till on the smoother pathway treading. 
 More free her timid bosom beat. 
 
 The maid persued her silent guide ; 
 And though her terror urged retreat. 
 
 How could she quit her Sclim's side ? 
 
 How teach her tender lips to chide ? 
 
 VII. 
 They reach'd at length a grotto, hewn 
 
 By nature, but enlarged by art, 
 Wliere oft her lute she wont to time, 
 
 And oft her Koran conn'd apart ; 
 And oft in youthful revery 
 She dream'd what Paradise might be : 
 Where woman's parted soul shall go 
 Her Prophet had disdain'd to show ; 
 But Sclim's mansion was secure. 
 Nor dcem'd she, could lie long endure 
 His bower in other worlds of bliss. 
 Without Iter, most beloved in this ! 
 Oh ! who so dear with him could dwell ? 
 WTiat Houri soothe him half so well ? 
 
 on the tombs of .^Esietes and Antilochns : the first is in the centre 
 of the plain. 
 
 3 When rubbed, the amber is susceptible of a perfhme, which ifl 
 slight but not disagreeable. 
 
 * The belief in amulets engraved on gems, or enclosed in gold 
 boxes, containing scraps from the Koran, worn ronnd the neck, 
 wrist, or arm, is still universal in the East. The Koorsee (throne) 
 verse in the second cap. of the Koran describes the attributes of 
 the Most High, and is engi'aved in this manner, and worn by the 
 pious, as the most esteemed and sublime of all sentences. 
 
 6 *^ Comboloio " — a Turkish rosaty. The MSS., particularly 
 those of the Persians, are richly adorned and illuminated. The 
 Greek females are kept in utter ignorance ; but many of the Turk- 
 ish girls are highly accomplished, though not actually qualified for 
 a Christian coterie. Perhaps some of our own '• btu^ " might D»t 
 be worse for bleac: Ing. 
 
«4 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 <TO n 
 
 viri. 
 Since la it she visited the spot 
 ^ome cliange seem'd wrought -ndthin the grot : 
 It miglit be only that the night 
 Disguised things seen by better light : 
 That brazen lamp but dimly threw 
 A ray of no celestial hue ; 
 But in a nook within the ceU 
 Her eye on stranger objects fell 
 There arms were piled, not such as wield 
 The turban'd DeUs in the field ; 
 But brands of foreign blade and hilt, 
 And one was red — perchance with guilt 1 
 Ah ! how without can blood be spilt ? 
 A cup too on the board was set 
 That did not seem to hold sherbet. 
 What may this mean ? she tum'd to see 
 Her Selim— " Oh ! can this be he ?" 
 
 IX. 
 His robe of pride was thro^ii aside, 
 
 His brow no high-crown'd turban bore, 
 But in its stead a shawl of red, 
 
 Wreathed lightly round, his temples wore ; 
 That dagger, on whose hilt the gem 
 Were worthy of a diadem, 
 No longer glittcr'd at his waist, 
 Wliere jiistols unadorn'd were braced ; 
 And from his bolt a saljre swung. 
 And from his shoulder losely hung 
 The cloak of white, the thin capote 
 That decks the wandering Candiote : 
 Beneath — his golden i)lated vest 
 f'hing like a cuiras to his breast ; 
 Tile greaves below his knoe that wound 
 Witli silvery scales were sheathed and bound. 
 But were it not tliat high command 
 Spake in his eye, and tone, and hand, 
 All that a careless eye could see 
 In him was some young Galiongee' 
 
 X. 
 " I said I was not what I seem'd ; 
 
 And now thou see'st my words were true : 
 I have a tale thou hast not dream'd. 
 
 If sooth— its truth must others rue. 
 My story now 'twere vain to hide, 
 I must not see thee Osman's bride : 
 But had not thine own lips declared 
 How much of that young heart I shared, 
 
 - " Galiongee" — or Galiongi, a sailor, that is, a Turkish Bailor; 
 Uw Greeks liavi^ate, the Turks worlc the <jun9. Their dress is pic- 
 hiresque ; and I have soon the Capitaii Pacha more than once wear- 
 ing it as a kind of incog. Their lei^s, however, are generally naked. 
 The huskins described in the text as sheathed behind with sil- 
 TBr arc those of an Arnaut robber, who was my host (he had quit- 
 ted the profession^ at his Pyrj^o, near Oastoiiiii in the Mt>rt'a ; they 
 irere plated in siUes one over the other, like the back of an arma- 
 Ifflo. 
 
 I could not, must not, yet have shown 
 The darker secret of my own. 
 In this I sjjeak not now of love ; 
 That, kt time, trutli, and peril prove ■ 
 But first — Oh 1 never wed anotiier— 
 Zuleika 1 I am not thy brother !" 
 
 XI. 
 " Oh 1 not my brother I — yet unsay— 
 
 God ! am I left alone on earth 
 To mourn — I dare not curse— the day 
 
 That saw my solitary birth ? 
 Oh ! thou wilt love me now no more ! 
 
 My sinking heart foreboded ill ; 
 But know me all I was before. 
 
 Thy sister — fi-iend — Zuleika still. 
 Thou led'st me here perchance to kill ; 
 
 If thou hast cause for vengeance, see 
 My breast is offer'd — take thy fill 1 
 
 Par better with the dead to be 
 
 Than live thus nothing now to thee : 
 Perhaps far worse, for now I know 
 Why Giaffir always seem'd tliy foe ; 
 And I, alas I am Giaffir's child, 
 Por whom thou wert contemn'd, reviled 
 If not thy sister — wouldst thou save 
 My Ufe, oh ! bid me be thy slave !" 
 
 XII. 
 " My slave Zuleika ! — nay, I'm thine : 
 
 But, gentle love, this transport calm. 
 Thy lot shaU yet be link'd with mine ; 
 I swear it by our Prophet's shrine, 
 
 And he that thought thy sorrow's balm 
 So may the Koran'' verse display'd 
 Upon its steel direct my blade, 
 In danger's hour to guard us both, 
 As I preserve th.it awful oath ! 
 The name in which thy heart hath prided 
 
 Must change ; but, my Zuleika, know, 
 That tie is mden'd, not divided. 
 
 Although thy sire's my deadliest foe. 
 My father was to Giaffir all 
 
 That Selim late was dcem'd to thee ; 
 That brother wrought a brother's fall, 
 
 But spared, at least, my infancy ; 
 And lull'd me with a vain deceit 
 That yet a Uke return may meet. 
 
 ^ The characters on all Turkish cimetern contain sometimes th« 
 same of the i)liice of their manufacture, hut more generally a text 
 fVom the Koran, in hMters of gold. Amongst those in my posses- 
 Dion is one with a blade of singular construction ; it is very broad, 
 and the edge notched into serpentine cur\*e3 like the ripple of wa- 
 ter, or the wavering of tiame. X asked the Armenian who sold it, 
 what possible u-e such a figure could add ; he said, in Ilallan, that 
 he did not know ; but the musssulmans had an idea that those ol 
 this form gave a severi-r wound ; and liked it because it was " plu 
 feroce." I did not nuich admire the reason, but bought it for lt« 
 peculiarity. 
 
Canto ii. 
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 86 
 
 He rear'd me, not with tender lielp, 
 
 But like the nephew of a Cain ;' 
 He watch'd me like a lion's whelp, 
 
 That gnaws and yet may break Lis chain. 
 
 My father's blood in every vein 
 Is boiling ; but for thy dear sake 
 No present vengeance will I take ; 
 
 Though here I must no more remain. 
 But first, beloved Zuleika ! hear 
 How Giaffir wrought this deed of fear. 
 
 XIII. 
 " How first their strife to rancor grew 
 
 If love or envy made them foes, 
 It matters little if I knew ; 
 In fiery spirits, slights, though few 
 
 And thoughtless, will disturb repose. 
 In war Abdallah's arm was strong, 
 Remember'd yet in Bosniac song, 
 And Paswan's- rebel hordes attest ' 
 
 How Uttle love they bore such guest : 
 His death is all I need relate, 
 - The stem effect of Giaflir's hate ; 
 And ho^v my birth disclosed to me, 
 Whate'er beside it makes, hath made me Iree. 
 
 XIV 
 " When Paswan, after years of strife. 
 At last for power, but first for life. 
 In Widin's walls too proudly sate. 
 Our Pachas rallied round the state ; 
 Nor last nor least in high command. 
 Each brother led a sejjarate band ; 
 They gave their horse-tails' to the wind. 
 
 And mustering in Sophia's plain 
 Their tents were pitch'd, their post assign'd; 
 
 To one, alas ! assign'd in vain I 
 What need of words i the deadly bowl, 
 
 By Giatfir's order drugg'd and given. 
 With venom subtle as his soul, 
 
 Dismiss'd Abdallah's hence to heaven. 
 RecUned and feverish ia the bath. 
 
 He, when the hunter's sport was up, 
 But little deem'd a brother's wrath 
 
 To quench his thirst had such a cup : 
 The bowl a bribed attendant bore ; 
 He drank one draught,* nor needed more I 
 If thou my tale, Zuleika, doubt. 
 Call Haroun — he can tell it out. 
 
 XV. 
 " The deed once done, and Paswan's feud 
 In part suppress'd, though ne'er subdued, 
 
 AbdaUah's Pachalic was gain'd : — 
 Thou know'st not what in our Divan 
 Can wealth procure for worse than man — 
 
 AbdaUah's honors were obtain'd 
 By him a brother's murder stain'd ; 
 'Tis true, the purchase nearly drain'd 
 His ill-got treasure, soon replaced. 
 Wouldst question whence ? Survey the waste 
 And ask the squaUd peasant how 
 His gains repay his broiling brow 1 
 Why me the stern usurper spared. 
 Why thus with me his palace shared, 
 I know not. Shame, regret, remorse, 
 And little fear from infant's force ; 
 Besides, adoption as a son 
 By him whom Heaven accorded none. 
 Or some unknown cabal, caprice, 
 Preserved me thus ; — but not in peace. 
 He cannot curb his haughty mood, 
 Nor I forgive a father's blood. 
 
 XVI. 
 " Within thy father's house are foes : 
 
 Not all who break his Isread are true : 
 To these should I my birth disclose, 
 
 His days, his very hoiu-s were few ; 
 They only want a heart to lead, 
 I A hand to point them to the deed. 
 But Harouu only knows, or knew 
 
 This tale, whose close is almost nigh : 
 He in Abdallah's palace grew, 
 
 And held that jjost in his Serai 
 
 Which holds he here — he saw him di» 
 But what could single slavery do ? 
 Avenge his lord ? alas ! too late ; 
 Or save his son from such a fate ? 
 He chose the last, and when elate 
 
 With foes subdued, or friends betray'd, 
 Proud Giaffir in high triumph sate. 
 He led me helpless to his gate. 
 
 And not in vain it seems essay'd 
 
 To save the life for which he pray'd. 
 The knowledge of my birth secured 
 
 From all and each, but most from me ; 
 Thus Giaffir's safety was ensured. 
 
 Removed he too from Roumelie 
 
 > It is to be observed, tbat every allusion to any thing or person- 
 lige in the Old Testament, Buch as the Ark. or Cain, is equally the 
 privilege of Mussulman and Jew ; indeed, the former profess to be 
 much better acquained with the lives, true and fabulous, of tho pa- 
 triarchs, thau is warranted by our own sacred writ ; and not content 
 with .\dara, they have a biography of Pre- Adamites. Solomon ia 
 the monarch of all necromancy, and Moses a prophet inferior only 
 to Christ and Mahomet. Zuleika is the Persian name of Potiphar'e 
 wife ; and her amour with .Joseph constitutes ono of the finest 
 poems in their language. It is, therefore, no violation of costume 
 U> put the names of Cain, or Noah, into the mouth of a Moslem. 
 
 ^ Paswan Oglou, the rebel of Widin ; who, for the last years of 
 his life, set tne whole power of the Porte at defiance. 
 
 * " Horse-tail," the standard of a Pacha. 
 
 * Giaffir, Pacha of .\rgyro Castro, or Scutari, I am not sure which, 
 was actually taken ofi' by the .Mbanian Ali. in the manner de?cril> 
 cd in the text. Ali Pacha while I was in the country, married the 
 daughter of his victim, some years after the event had taken place 
 at a bath in Sophia, or Adr;anople. The poison was mixed in ih# 
 cup of coffee, which is presented before the sherbet by the bath 
 keeper, after dressing. 
 
86 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canio II 
 
 To this our Asiatic side. 
 
 Far from our seats by Danube's tide, 
 
 With none but Ilaroun, who retains 
 Such knowledge — and that Nubian feels 
 
 A tyrant's secrets are but chains, 
 From which the captive gladly steals, 
 And this and more to me reveals : 
 Such still to guilt just Alia sends — 
 Slaves, tools, accomplices — no Mends 1 
 
 XVII. 
 
 " All this, Zukika, harshly sounds ; 
 
 But harsher still my tale must be • 
 Howe'er my tongue thy softness wounds, 
 
 Yet I must prove all truth to thee. 
 
 I saw thee start this garb to see, 
 Yet is it one I oft have worn, 
 
 And long must wear : this GaliongCe, 
 To whom thy plighted vow is sworn. 
 
 Is leader of those pirate hordes, 
 
 "Wliose laws and lives are on their swords ; 
 To hear whose desolating tale 
 Would make thy waning cheek more pale : 
 Those arms thou see'st my band have brought. 
 The hands that wield are not remote ; 
 This cup too for the rugged knaves 
 
 Is fill'd — once quaff'd, they ne'er repine : 
 Our prophet might forgive the slaves ; 
 
 They're only intidels in wine. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " What could I be ? Proscribed at home, 
 And taunted to a wish to roam ; 
 And listless left — for Giafflr's fear 
 Denied the courser and the spear — 
 Though oft — Oh, Mahomet ! how oft ! — 
 In full Divan the despot scoff 'd, 
 As if mil weak unwilling hand 
 Refused the l:>ridlc or the brand : 
 ' He ever went to war alone, 
 And pent me here untried — unknown ; 
 To Haroun's care with women left, 
 By hope unbless'd, of fame bereft. 
 While thou — whose softness long endear'd, 
 Though it immann'd me, still had cheer'd — 
 To Brusa's walls for safety sent, 
 Awaitedst there the field's event. 
 Ilaroun, who saw my spirit pining 
 
 Beneath inaction's sluggish yoke, 
 His captive, though with dread resigning, 
 
 My thraldom for a season broke, 
 
 * Tb*; Turkish notions of almost all islands are confined to the 
 
 Archipelai^o, the scia alUldud to. 
 
 = Liiinliro Canzani, a Greelt. famous for his efforts in 17.S9-90, for 
 the independence of his countrj'. Al)«ndoned by the Russians, 
 he became a pirate, and the ArclupelaLio wiis the scene of his en- 
 terprises, rie is Buid to be stil! alive at PeterslHirg. He and Kiga 
 »re tlie two most celebrated of the Greek revolutionists. 
 
 On promise to return before 
 The day when Giaflir's charge was o"er. 
 'Tis vain — my tongue cannot impart 
 My almost drunkenness of heart. 
 When first this liberated eye 
 Survey'd Earth, Ocean, Sun, and Sky, 
 As if my spirit pierced them through, 
 And all their inmost wonders knew ! 
 One word alone can })aint to thee 
 That more than feeUng — I was Free I 
 E'en for thy presence ceased to pine ; 
 Tlie World — nay, Ileaven itself was mine I 
 
 XIX. 
 " The shaUop of a trusty 5Ioor 
 Convey'd me from this idle shore ; 
 I long'd to see the isles that gem 
 Old Ocean's purple diadem : 
 I soijght by turns, and saw them all ;' 
 
 But when and where I join'd the crew, 
 Witli whom I'm pledged to rise or fall, 
 
 When all that we design to do 
 Is done, 'twill then be time more meet 
 To tell thee, when the tale's complete. 
 
 XX. 
 
 " 'Tis true, they are a lawless brood, 
 But rough in form, nor mild in mood ; 
 And every creed, and every race. 
 With them hath found — may find a place • 
 But open si^eech, and ready hand, 
 Obedience to their chief's command ; 
 A soul for every enterprise. 
 That never sees with terror's eyes ; 
 Friendship for each, and faith to all. 
 And vengeance vow'd for those who fall, 
 Have made them fitting instruments 
 For more than ev'n my own intents. 
 And some — and I have studied all 
 
 Distinguish'd from the vulgar rank. 
 But chiefly to my council call 
 
 The wisdom of the cautious Frank — 
 And some to higher thought aspire. 
 
 The last of Lainbro's- patriots there 
 
 Anticipated freedom share ; 
 And oft around the cavern fire 
 On visionarj' schemes debate. 
 To snatch the Rayahs' from their fate. 
 So let them ease their hearts witli prate 
 Of equal rights, which man ne'er knew; 
 I have a love for ireedom too. 
 Ay 1 let me like the ocean-Patriarch* roam, 
 Or only know on land the Tartar's home I' 
 
 ' " EayahB,"— all who pay the capitation tax, called the " Hai> 
 atch." 
 
 ^ « The first of Toyages is one of the few with which the Mnesui' 
 mans profess much acquaintance. 
 
 * The wandering life of the .Arabs, Tartars, and Turkomans, wili 
 I be found well detailed iu any book of Eastern travels. That It 
 
IJanto n 
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 87 
 
 My tent on shore, my galley on the sea, 
 
 Are more than cities and Serais to me : 
 
 Borne by my steed, or wafted by my sail, 
 
 Across the desert, or before the gale, 
 
 Bound where thou wilt, my barb ! or glide, my prow ! 
 
 But be the star that guides the wanderer, Thou t 
 
 Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my bark ; 
 
 The Dove of peace and promise to mine ark ! 
 
 Or, since that hope denied in worlds of strife, 
 
 Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life 1 
 
 The evening Ijcam that smiles the clouds away, 
 
 And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray ! 
 
 Bless'd — as the Muezzin's strain from Mecca's wall 
 
 To pilgrims pure and prostrate at his call ; 
 
 Soft — as the melody of youthful days, 
 
 That steals the trembling tear of speechless praise ; 
 
 Dear — as his native song to Exile's ears. 
 
 Shall sound each tone thy long-loved voice endears. 
 
 For thee in those brigi. t isles is built a bower 
 
 Blooming as Aden in its earliest hour.' 
 
 A thousand swords, with SeUm's heart and hand. 
 
 Wait — wave — defend — destroy — at thy command I 
 
 Girt by my band, Zuleika at my side, 
 
 The spoil of nations shall bedeck my bride. 
 
 The Harem's languid years of listless ease 
 
 Are well rcsign'd for cares — for joys like these : 
 
 Not blind to fate, I see, where'er I rove, 
 
 Unnumber'd perils, — but one only love ! 
 
 Yet well my toils shall that fond breast repay, 
 
 Though fortune frown, or falser fnends betray. 
 
 How dear the dream in darkest hours of ill, 
 
 Should all be changed, to find thee faithful still I 
 
 Be but thy soul, like Sclim's, firmly shown ; 
 
 To thee be Selim's tender as thine own ; 
 
 To soothe each sorrow, share in each delight, 
 
 Blend every thought, do all — but disunite ! 
 
 Once free, 'tis mine our horde again to guide : 
 
 Friends to each other, foes to aught beside : 
 
 Yet there we follow but the bent assign'd 
 
 By fatal Nature to man's warring kind : 
 
 Mark ! where his carnage and his conquests cease ! 
 
 He makes a solitude, and calls it — peace ! 
 
 I like the rest must use my skill or strength, 
 
 But ask no land beyond my sabre's length. 
 
 Power sways out by division — her resource 
 
 The blest alternative of fraud or force 1 
 
 Ours be the last ; in time deceit may come 
 
 When cities cage us in a social home : 
 
 There ev'n thy soul might err — how oft the heart 
 
 Corruption shakes which peril could not part ! 
 
 And woman, more than man, when death or wo, 
 
 Or even disgrace, would lay her lover low, 
 
 posscBBes a charm peculiar to itBClf. cannot be denied. A young 
 Prvnch renegade confessed to Chateaubriand, that he never found 
 himself a-one, galloping in the desert, \rithout a sensation ap- 
 proaching to raplnre, which wau indescribable. 
 
 • " Jannat a) Aden," the perpetual abode, the liInssDlman para- 
 iiao. 
 
 Sunk in the lap of luxury will shame — 
 Away suspicion ! — not Zuleika's name I 
 But life is hazard at the best ; 
 No more remains to win, and much to fear : 
 Yes, fear ! — the doubt, the dread of losing thee, 
 By Osman's power, and Giafiir's stern decree. 
 That dread shall vanish with the favoring gale, 
 Which Love to-night hath promised to my sail : 
 No danger daunts the pair his smile hath bless'd, 
 Their steps still roving, but their hearts at rest. 
 With thee all toils are sweet, each clime hath charms 
 Earth — sea alike — our world within our arms ! 
 Ay — let the loud winds whistle o'er the deck, 
 So that those arms cling closer round my neck : 
 The deepest murmur of this lip shall be 
 No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee ! 
 The war of elements no fears impart 
 To Love, whose deadliest bane is human Art ; 
 There lie the only rocks our course can check : 
 Here moments menace — there are years of wr-ck I 
 But hence ye thoughts that rise in Horror's st.dpe I 
 This hour bestows, or ever bars escape. 
 Few words remain of mine my tale to close : 
 Of thine but one to waft us from our foes ; 
 Yea — foes — to me will Giaffir's hate dechne ? 
 And is not Osman, who would part us, thine i 
 
 XSI. 
 
 " His head and faith from doubt and death 
 
 Return'd in time my guard to save ; 
 
 Few heard, none told, that o'er the wave 
 From isle to isle I roved the while : 
 And since, though parted from my band, 
 Too seldom now I leave the land, 
 No deed they've done, nor deed shall do, 
 Ere I have heard and doom'd it too : 
 I form the plan, decree the spoil, 
 'Tis fit I oftencr share the toil. 
 But now too long I've held thine car ; 
 Time presses, floats my bark, and here 
 We leave behind but hate and fear. 
 To-morrow Osman with his train 
 Arrives — to-night must break thy chain : 
 And wouldst thou save that haughty Bey, 
 
 Perchance, his life who gave thee thine. 
 With me, this hour away — away ! 
 
 But yet, though thou art plighted mine, 
 Wouldst thou recall thy willing vow, 
 Appall'd by truths imparted now, 
 Here rest I — not to see thee wed : 
 But be that peril on my head 1" 
 
 XXII. 
 ZiJeika, mate and motionless, 
 Stood like that statue of distress, 
 When, her last hope forever gone, 
 The mother harden'd into stone : 
 
88 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS 
 
 Canto n. 
 
 All in tlie maid that eye could see 
 
 Was but a younger Niobe. 
 
 But ere her lip, or even her eye, 
 
 Essay'd to speak, or look reply, 
 
 Beneath the garden's wicket porch 
 
 Far flash'd on high a lilazing torch ! 
 
 Another — and another — and another — [brother 1" 
 
 '•'Oh, fly — no more — yet now my more than 
 
 Far, wide, through every thicket spread, 
 
 The fearful lights are gleaming red ; 
 
 Nor these alone — for each right hand 
 
 Is ready with a sheathlcss brand. 
 
 They part, pursue, return, and wheel 
 
 With searching flambeau, shining steel; 
 
 And last of all, his sabre waving, 
 
 Stern Giaflir in his fury raving : 
 
 And now almost they touch the cave — 
 
 Oh, must that grot be Selim's grave ? 
 
 XXIII. 
 Dauntless he stood — " 'Tis come — soon past — 
 One kiss, Zuleika — 'tis my last : 
 
 But yet my band not far fi'om shore 
 May hear this signal, see the flash ; 
 Yet now too few — the attempt were rash 
 
 No matter^yet one eflbrt more." 
 Forth to the cavern mouth he stepp'd ; 
 
 His pistol's echo rang on high : 
 Zuleika started not, nor wept. 
 
 Despair benumb'd her breast and eye I — 
 •' They hear me not, or if they ply 
 Their oars, 'tis but to see me die ; 
 That sound hath drawn my foes more nigh. 
 Then forth my father's scimitar, 
 rhou ne'er liast seen less equal war ! 
 Jarewell, Zuleika ! Sweet ! retire : 
 
 Yet stay within — here linger safe, 
 
 At thee his rage will only chafe. 
 Stir not — lest even to thee perchance 
 Some erring blade or baU should glance, 
 Fear'st thou for him ? — may I expire 
 If in this strife I seek thy sire ! 
 No — though by him that poison pour'd : 
 No — though again he call me coward 1 
 But tamely shall I meet their steel ? 
 No — as each crest save his may feel 1" 
 
 XXIV. 
 One bound he made, and gain'd the sand : 
 
 Already at his feet hath sunk 
 The foremost of the pr.ving band, 
 
 A gasping head, a quivering trunk : 
 Another falls — l)ut round him close 
 A swarming circle of his foes ; 
 Fiom right to left his path he cleft, 
 
 And almost met the meeting wave : 
 His boat appears — not five oars' length — 
 Ria comrades strain with desperate strength — 
 
 Oh, are they yet in time to save ? 
 nis feet the foremost breakers lave ; 
 Ilis band are plunging in the bay. 
 Their sabres glitter tlirough the spray ; 
 Wet — wild — unwearied to the strand 
 They struggle — now they touch the land I 
 They come — 'tis but to add to slaughter — 
 Ilis heart's best blood is on the water. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Escaped from shot, unharm'd by steel. 
 
 Or scarcely grazed its force to feel. 
 
 Had Selim won, betray'd, beset. 
 
 To where the strand and biUows met : 
 
 There as his last step left the land. 
 
 And the last death-blow dealt his hand — 
 
 Ah ! wherefore did he turn to look 
 
 For her his eye but sought in vain ? 
 That pause, that fatal gaze he took, 
 
 Hath doom'd his death, or fis'd his chain. 
 Sad proof, in peril and in pain. 
 How late will Lover's hope remain ! 
 His back was to the dashing spray ; 
 Behind, but close, his comrades lay, 
 When, at the instant, hiss'd the ball — 
 " So may the foes of Giafiir fall !" 
 Whose voice is heard ? whose carbine rang I 
 Whose bullet through the night-air sang, 
 Too nearly, deadly aim'd to err ? 
 'Tis thine — Abdallah's Jlurderer ! 
 The father slowly rued thy hate, 
 The son hath found a quicker fate : 
 Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling, 
 The whiteness of the sea-foam troubling — 
 If aught his lips essay'd to groan. 
 The rushing billows choked the tone 1 
 
 XXVI. 
 Morn slowly rolls the clouds away ; 
 
 Few troijhics of the fight are there : 
 The shouts that shook the midnight-baj 
 Are silent ; but some signs of fray 
 
 That strand of strife may bear. 
 And fragments of each shiver'd brand ; 
 Steps stamp'd ; and dash'd into the sand 
 The print of many a struggling hand 
 
 May there be mark'd ; nor far remote 
 
 A broken torch, an oarless boat ; 
 And tangled on the weeds that heap 
 The beach where shelving to the deep 
 
 There lies a white capote ! 
 'Tis rent in twain — one dark-red stain 
 The wave yet ripples o'er in vain : 
 
 But where is he who wore ? 
 "Se ! who would o'er his relics weep. 
 Go, seek them where the surges sweep 
 Their burden round Sigsum's steep 
 
 And cast on Lemnos' shore : 
 
Canto ir. 
 
 THE BKIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 89 
 
 The sea-birds shriek above the prey, 
 O'er which their hungry beaks delay, 
 As shaken on his restless pillow, 
 His head heaves with the heaving billow ; 
 That hand, whose motion is not life. 
 Yet feebly seems to menace strife. 
 Flung by the tossing tide on high, 
 
 Then leveU'd with the wave — 
 What recks it, though that corse shaU lie 
 
 Within a living grave ? 
 The bird that tears that prostrate form 
 Hath only robb'd the meaner worm ; 
 The only heart, the only eye 
 Had bled or wept to see him die, 
 Had seen those scatter'd limbs composed, 
 
 And mourn'd above his turban stone,' 
 That heart hath burst — that eye was closed — 
 
 Tea — closed before his own 1 
 
 XXVII. 
 By HeUe's stream there is a voice of wail 1 
 And woman's eye is wet — man's cheek is pale : 
 Zuleika ! last of GiafEr's race. 
 
 Thy destined lord is come too late : 
 He sees not — ne'er shall see thy face ! 
 
 Can he not hear 
 The loud Wul-wulleh^ warn his distant ear ? 
 
 Thy handmaids weeping at the gate. 
 
 The Koran-chanters of the hymn of fate. 
 
 The silent slaves with folded arms that wait, 
 Sighs in the hall, and shrieks upon the gale, 
 
 TeU him thy tale ! 
 Thou didst not ^•iew thy Selim faU ! 
 
 That fearful moment when he left the cave 
 Thy heart grew chill : 
 He was thy hope — thy joy — thy love — thine all — 
 
 And that last thought on him thou couldst not 
 Sufficed to kiU ; [save 
 
 Burst forth in one wild cry — and all was still. 
 
 ""eace to thy broken heart, and virgin grave 1 
 ^n ! happy ! but of Ufe to lose the worst ! [first ! 
 That grief — though deep — though fatal — was thy 
 /hriee happy ! ne'er to feel nor fear the force 
 Of absence, shame, pride, hate, revenge, remorse 1 
 And, oh, that pang where more than madness lies ! 
 The worm that wiU not sleep — and never dies ; 
 Tliought of the gloomy day and ghastly night, 
 That dreads the darkness, and yet loathes the light, 
 That winds around, and tears the quivering heart ! 
 AL, wherefore not consume it — and depart ! 
 Wo to thee, rash and unrelenting chief ! 
 
 Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thy head. 
 
 Vainly th s sackcloth o'er thy hmbs dost spread ; 
 
 By that same hand Abdallah — Selim bled. 
 Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief: 
 
 * A turban ie carved in etone above the graves of men only. 
 3 The death-song of the TurMsh women. The " eilont -slaves " 
 •re the men, whose notions of decorum forbid complaint in public. 
 12 
 
 Thy ijride of heart, thy bride for Osman's bed, 
 She, whom thy sultan had but seen to wed, 
 Thy daughter's dead ! 
 Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely beam, 
 The Star hath set that shone on HeUe's stream. 
 Wliat quench'd its ray ? — the blood that thou hast 
 Hark 1 to the hurried question of Despair ! [shed ! 
 " Where is my child ?" — an Echo answers — 
 "Where?"" 
 
 XXVIII. 
 Within the place of thousand tombs 
 
 That shine beneath, while dark above 
 The sad but living cyjjress glooms. 
 
 And withers not, though branch and leaf 
 Are stamp'd with an eternal grief, 
 
 Like early unrequited Love, 
 One spot exists, which ever blooms. 
 
 Ev'n in that deadly grove— 
 A single rose is shedding there 
 
 Its lonely lustre, meek and pale : 
 It looks as planted by Despair — 
 
 So white — so faint — the slightest gal j 
 Might vfjiirl the leaves on high ; 
 
 And yet, though storms and bhght assail, 
 And hands more rude than wintry sky 
 
 May wring it from the stem — in vain — 
 
 To-morrow sees it bloom again ! 
 The stalk some spirit gently rears. 
 And waters with celestial tears ; 
 
 For well may maids of HeUe deem 
 That this can be no earthly flower. 
 Which mocks the tempest's withering hour. 
 And buds unshelter'd by a bower ; 
 Nor droops, though spring refuse her shower, 
 
 Nor woos the summer beam : 
 To it the livelong night there sings 
 
 A bird unseen — l)ut not remote : 
 Invisible his airy wings, 
 But soft as harp that Houri strings 
 
 His long entrancing note ! 
 It were the Bulbul ; but his throat, 
 
 Though mournful, pours not such a strain : 
 For they who listen cannot leave 
 The spot, but linger there and grieve. 
 
 As if they loved in vain ! 
 And yet so sweet the tears they shed, 
 'Tis sorrow so unmis'd with dread, 
 They scarce can bear the morn to break 
 
 That melancholy spell. 
 
 " "I came to the place of my birth, and crieJ : 'The triend" ' 
 my youth, where are they ?' and an Echo anew ered : * Where an 
 they ?' "'—From an Aral/ic MS. The above quotation (from whicl 
 the idea in the text is taken) must be already familiar to ever; 
 reader: it is given in the ilret annotation, p. (17, of "The Plea* 
 ures of Memory ;" a poem so well known as to render a refereucb 
 almost superfluous ; but to whose pages all will be delighted tu 
 recur. 
 
no 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 And longer yet would weep and wake, 
 
 Eve saw it placed— the Morrow gone I 
 
 He sings so ■n'ikl and well ! 
 
 It was no mortal arm that bore 
 
 But wlien the day-blush burit from high, 
 
 That deep fix'd jiillar to the shore ; 
 
 Expires that magic melody. 
 
 For there, as Ilelle's legends tell, 
 
 And some have been who could believe. 
 
 Next morn 'twas found where Sellm fell ; 
 
 (So fondly youthful dreams deceive. 
 
 Lash'd by the tumljling tide, whose wave 
 
 Yet harsh be they that blame,) 
 
 Denied his bones a holier grave : 
 
 Tliat note so piercing and jjrofound 
 
 And there by night, reclined, 'tis said. 
 
 Will sliape and syllable' its sound ■ 
 
 Is seen a gliastly turban'd head : 
 
 Into Zuk-ika's name. 
 
 And hence extended by the billow, 
 
 'Tis from her cypress summit heard. 
 
 'Tis named the " Pirate-phantom's piUow 1" 
 
 That melts in air the liquid word , 
 
 Where first it lay that mourning flower 
 
 'Tis from her lowly virgin earth 
 
 Hath flourish'd ; flourisheth this hour. 
 
 Tliat white rose takes its tender birth. 
 
 Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale ; 
 
 There late was laid a marble stone ; 
 
 As weeping Beauty's cheek at Sorrow's tale ! 
 
 THE OORSAIR. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 - 1 saoi peneieri in lui donair non pouno." 
 
 Tasso, Oerusalemme Llberaia, canto i. 
 
 TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. 
 My dear Moore, — 
 
 I DEDICATE to you the last production with which I 
 shall trespass on public jmtience, and your indulgence, 
 for some years ; and I own that I feel anxious to avail 
 myself of this latest and only opportunity of adorning 
 my pages with a name;, consecrated by unshaken pub- 
 lic ])rinciple, and the most undoubted and various tal- 
 ents. While Ireland ranks you amonir the firmest of 
 her patriots ; while ymi stand alone the first uf her bards 
 itt her estimation, and Britain repeats and ratifies the 
 decree, permit one, whose only regret, since our first ac- 
 quaintance, has been the years he had lost before it com- 
 menced, to add the humble but sincere suifrage of friend- 
 ship, to the voice of more than one nation. It will at 
 least prove to you, that I have neither forgotten the 
 gratification derived from your society, nor abandoned 
 the prospect of its renewal, whenever your leisure or 
 inclination allows you to atone to your friends for too 
 long an absence. It is said among those friends, I trust 
 truly, that you are engaged in the composition of a 
 poem whose scene will be laid in tlie East ; none can do 
 those scenes so much justice. The wrongs of your own 
 
 * " And aii7 tongues that syllable men's names." — Milton. 
 
 For a belief Ibat tlie souls of the dead inhabit the foim of birds, 
 we need not travel to the E(i8t. Lord Lyttletou's ghost story, the 
 belief of the Dnchess of Kendal, that George I. flew into her win- 
 dow iu the shape of a raven, (see Orford's Reminiscences,) and 
 many other instancca. briiig this superstition nearer home. The 
 
 country, the magnificent and fiery spirit of her sone, 
 the beauty and feeling of her daughters, may there ba 
 found ; and Collins, when he denominated his Oriental 
 his Irish Eclogues, was not aware how true, at least, 
 was a part of his parallel. Your imagination will cre- 
 ate a warmer sun, and less clouded sky ; but wildness 
 tenderness, and originality, are part of your national 
 claim of oriental descent, to which you have already 
 thus far proved your title more clearly than the most 
 zealous of your (Country's antiquarians. 
 
 May I add a few words on a subject on which all men 
 are supposed to l)e fluent, and none agreeable ? — Self 
 I have written much, and published more than enough 
 to demand a longer silence than I now meditate ; but, 
 for some years to come, it is my intention to tempt no 
 further the award of " Gods, men, nor columns." In 
 the present composition I have attempted not the most 
 diflScult, but, perhaps, the best adapted measure to our 
 language, the good old and now neglected heroic couplet. 
 The stanza of Spenser is perhaps too slow and dignified 
 for narrative ; though, I C(jnfess, it is the measure most 
 after my own heart ; Scott alone, of the jin'sent gener 
 ation, has hitherto completely triumphed over the fata! 
 
 most singular was the whim of a Worcester lady, who, believing 
 her daughter to exist in the shape of a singidar bird, litcraliy fur- 
 nished her pew in the cathedral with cages fuil of tlie kind; and 
 as she was rich, and a benefactress in beautifying the ehurch, no 
 objection was made to her harmless folly. For this anecdote, Be« 
 Orford'6 Letters. 
 
(2^ 
 
 
Canto i. 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 91 
 
 facility of the octosyllabic verse ; and this is not the 
 least victory of his fertile and mighty {renins : in blank 
 verse, Milton, Thomson, and our dramatists, are the bea^ 
 cons that shine along the deep, but warn us from the 
 rough and barren rock on which they are kindled. 
 The heroic couplet is not the most popular measiu'e cer- 
 tainly ; but as I did not deviate into the other from a 
 wish to flatter what is called public opinion, I shall quit 
 it without further apology, and take my chance once 
 more with that versification, in which I have hitherto 
 published nothing but compositions whose fonncr cir- 
 culation is part of my present, and wi]\ bo of my future 
 regret. 
 
 With regard to my story, and stories in general, I 
 should have been glad to have rendered my personages 
 more perfect and amiable, if possible, inasmuch as I 
 have been sometimes criticised, and considered no less 
 responsible for their deeds and qualities than if all 
 had been personal. Be it so — if I have deviated into 
 the gloomy vanity of " drawing from self," the pictures 
 are probably like, since they are unfavorable ; and if 
 not, those who know me are undeceived, and those who 
 do not, I have little interest in undeceiving. I have no 
 particular desire that any but my acquaintance should 
 think the author better than the beings of hi.s imagin- 
 ing ; but I cannot help a little surprise, and perhaps 
 amusement, at some odd critical exceptions in the pre- 
 sent instance, when I see several bards (far more deserv- 
 ing, I allow,) in very reputable plight, and quite exemp- 
 ted from all participation in the faults of those heroes, 
 who, nevertheless, might be found with little more mo- 
 rality than ■' The Giaour," and perhaps — but no — I 
 must admit Childe Harold to be a very repulsive person- 
 age ; and as to his identity, those who like it must give 
 >iim what ever " alias " they please. 
 
 K, however, it were worth while to remove the im- 
 pression, it might be of some service to me, that the 
 man who is alike the delight of his readers and his 
 friends, the poet of all circles, and the idol of his own, 
 permits me here and elsewhere to subscribe myself. 
 Most truly. 
 
 And aflfectionately. 
 
 His obedient servant, 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 January 3, 1814. 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 CANTO THE FIRST. 
 
 -nesBon magg:!or dolore, 
 
 Cbe ricordarsi del tempo felice 
 
 Nella miseria. " — Dante. 
 
 " O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea, 
 Our thoughts as boundless, and our souis ds free, 
 
 * The time in ttiis poem may seem too sboit for the occurrences, 
 PUttb-: whole of the -Ecjean isles are within a few hour's' sail of 
 
 Far as the breeze can bear, the biUows foam, 
 Survey our empire, and behold our home ! 
 These are our realms, no limits to their sway — 
 Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey. 
 Ours the wild life in tumult still to range 
 From toil to rest, and joy in every change. 
 Oh, who can tell ? not thou, luxurious slave ! 
 Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave ; 
 Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease ! 
 Whom slumber soothes not — jileasure cannot please— 
 Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried, 
 And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide, 
 Tlie exulting sense — the jiulse's maddening play, 
 That thrills the wanderer of tliat trackless way ? 
 That for itself can woo the approaching fight. 
 And turn what some deem danger to delight ; 
 That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal 
 And where the feebler faint — can only feel — 
 Feel — to the rising Ijosom's inmost core. 
 Its hope awaken and its spirit soar ? 
 No dread of death — if with us die our foes — 
 Save that it seems even duller than repose : 
 Come when it will — we snatch the life of lile — 
 When lost — what recks it — by disease or strife ? 
 Let him who crawls enamor'd of decay. 
 Cling to his couch, and sicken years away ; 
 Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied 
 
 head; 
 Ours— the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed. 
 While gasp by gasj) he falters forth his soul. 
 Ours with one jjang — one bound — escapes control 
 His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave. 
 And they who loathed his life may gild his grave : 
 Ours are the tears, tliough few, sincerely shed, 
 When Ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead. 
 For us, even banquets fond regret supply 
 In the red cu]) that crowns our memory ; 
 And the brief epitaph in danger's day. 
 When those who win at length divide the prey, 
 And cry. Remembrance saddening o'er each brow, 
 How had the brave who fell exulted now .'" 
 
 II. 
 Such were the notes that from the Pirate's isle. 
 Around the kindling watch-fire rang the while : 
 Such were the sounds that thrill'd the rocks along, 
 And imto ears as rugged seem'd a song ! 
 Tn scatter'd groups upon the golden sand. 
 They game— carouse — converse — or whet the brand ; 
 Select the arms — to each his blade assign. 
 And careless eye the blood that dims its shine ; 
 Repair the boat, replace the helm or ^ar. 
 While others straggling muse along the shore ; 
 For the wild-bird the busy sjjringes set. 
 Or spread beneath the sun the dripping net ; 
 
 the tontlnent, and the reader must he liind enough to take tbe 
 wind as I have often found it. 
 
BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto i. 
 
 Gaze \rhere some distant sail a speck supplies, 
 
 With all the tliirsting eye of Enterjiriso ; 
 
 Tell o'er the tales of many a night of toil, 
 
 And marvel where they next shall seize a spoil : 
 
 No matter where — tlieir chief's allotment this ; 
 
 Theirs, to liclieve no prey nor i)lan amiss. 
 
 But who that Cuief ? his name on every shore 
 
 Is famed and fear'd— they ask and know no more. 
 
 With these he mingles not but to command ; 
 
 Few are his words, "out keen his eye and hand. 
 
 Ne'er si^asons he with mirth their jovial mess. 
 
 But they forgive his silence for success. 
 
 Ne'er for his lip the purpling cup they fill, 
 
 That goblet passes him untasted still — 
 
 And for his fare — the rudest of his crew 
 
 Would that, iu turn, have pass'd untasted too ; 
 
 Earth's coarsest liread, the garden's liomchest roots, 
 
 And scarce the smiimer luxury of fruits. 
 
 His short repast in humbleness supply 
 
 With all a hermit's board would scarce deny. 
 
 But while he shuns the grosser joys of sense, 
 
 His mind seems uourish'd by that abstinence, [done. 
 
 " Steer to tliat shore !"— they sail. " Do this "—'tis 
 
 " Now form and follow me !" — the spoil is won. 
 
 Thus prompt Ids accents and liis actions still. 
 
 And all obey and few inquire his vdW ; 
 
 To such, brief answer and contemptuous eye 
 
 Convey reproof, nor further deign reply. 
 
 III. 
 " A sail ! — a sail !" — a promised prize to Hope 1 
 Her nation — flag — how speaks the telescope 2 
 No prize, alas ! — but yet a welcome sail : 
 The blood-red signal glitters in the gale. 
 Yes — she is ours — a home-returning bark — 
 Blow fair, thou breeze ! — she anchors ere the dark. 
 Already doubled is the cape — our bay 
 Receives that prow which proudly spurns the spray. 
 How gloriously her gallant course she goes ! 
 Her white wings flying — never fi-om her foes — 
 She walks the waters like a thing of life. 
 And seems to dare the ch-ments to strife. 
 Who would not brave the Imttle-flre — the wreck — 
 To move the monarch of her peopled deck ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Hoarse o'er her side the rustling cable rings ; 
 The sails are furl'd ; and anchoring round she 
 And gathering loiterers on the land discem [swings : 
 Her boat descending from the latticed stern. 
 'Tis mann'd — the oars keep concert to the strand. 
 Till grates her keel upon the shallow sand. 
 Hail to tlie welcouie shout ! — tlie friendly speech 1 
 When hand grasps hand uni'^ing on the beach ; 
 The smile, the question, and the quick reply. 
 And the heart's promise of festivity ! 
 
 V. 
 The tidings spread, and gathering grows the crowd, 
 The hum of voices, and the laughter loud. 
 And woman's gentler anxious tone is heard — 
 Friends' — husbands' — lovers' names in each deal 
 " Oh, are they safe ? wc ask not of success — [word ; 
 But shall we see tliem ? will their accents bless ? 
 From where the Ijattle roars — the billows chafe — 
 They doubtless boldly did — but who arc safe ? 
 Here let them haste to gladden and surprise, 
 And kiss the doubt from these delighted eyes !" 
 
 VI. 
 " Wliere is our chief? for him we bear repoi-t- 
 And doubt that joy — wliich hails our coming — short 
 Yet thus sincere — 'tis cheering, thougli so brief; 
 But, Juan ! instant guide us to our chief: 
 Our greeting paid, we'll feast on our return. 
 And all shall hear what each may wish to learn." 
 Ascending slovly by the rock-hewn way. 
 To where his watch-tower beetles o'er the bay. 
 By bushy brake, and ■n'ild flowers blossoming. 
 And freshness breathing from each silver spring, 
 Whose scatter'd streams from granite liasins burst, 
 Leap into life, and sparkling woo your thirst ; 
 From crag to clifl" they mount — near yonder cave, 
 Wliat lonely straggler looks along the wave ? 
 In pensive posture leaning on the brand. 
 Not oft a resting-stafl" to that red hand ? 
 " 'Tis he —'tis Conrad — here — as wont — alone ; 
 On — Juan ! — on — and make our purpose known. 
 The Itark he views — and tell him we would greet 
 His ear with tidings he must quickly meet : 
 We dare not yet approach — thou know'st his mood 
 When strange or uninvited steps intrude." 
 
 VII. 
 Him Juan sought, and told of their intent ;■• 
 He spake not — but a sign exprcss'd assent. 
 These Juan caUs — they come — to their salute 
 He bends him slightly, but his lips are mute. 
 " These letters, Chief, are from the Greek — the spy, 
 Wlio still proclaims our spoil or peril nigh : 
 Whate'er his tidings, we can well report [ing short 
 Much that" — "Peace, peace!" — he cuts their prat 
 Wondering they turn, abash'd, while each to each 
 Conjecture whispers in his muttering speech : 
 They watch his glance with many a stealing look, 
 To gather how that eye the tidings took ; 
 But, this as if he guess'd, with head aside. 
 Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or pride, 
 He read the scroll — '' Jly tablets, Juan, hark — 
 Where is Gonsalvo ?" 
 
 " In the anchor'd bark." 
 "There let him stay — to him this order bear — 
 Back to your duty — for my course prepare 
 Myself this enterpiise to night w'l share." 
 
Canto i. 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 03 
 
 " To-night, Lord Conrad ?" 
 
 " Ay ! at set of sim : 
 The hreezc wiU freshen when the day is done. 
 My corslet — cloak — one hour — and we are gone. 
 Hling on thy bugle — see that free from rust, 
 My carbine-lock springs worthy of my trust ; 
 By the edge sharpen'd of my boarding-brand, 
 And give its guard more room to fit my hand. 
 .This let the armorer with speed dispose ; 
 Last time, it more fatigued my arm than foes : 
 Mark that the signal-gun l)e duly fired. 
 To tell us when the hour of stay 's expired." 
 
 VIII. 
 They make obeisance, and retire in haste, 
 Too soon to seek again the watery waste : 
 Yet they repine not — so that Conrad guides ; 
 And who dare question aught that he decides ? 
 That man of loneliness and mystery. 
 Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh ; 
 Whose name appals the fiercest of his crew, 
 And tints each swarthy cheek with sallower hue ; 
 StiU sways their souls with that commanding art 
 That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart. 
 What is that spell, that thus his lawless train 
 Confess and envy, yet oppose in vain ? 
 What should it be, that thus their faith can bind ? 
 The power of Thought — the magic of the Mind ! 
 Link'd with success, assumed and kejjt with skill. 
 That moulds another's weakness to its will ; 
 Wields with their hands, but, still to these unknovra. 
 Makes even their mightiest deeds appear his own. 
 Such hath it '^een — shall be — beneath the sun 
 The many still must labor for the one ! 
 'Tis Nature's doom — but let the wretch who toils 
 Accuse not, hate not him who wears the spoils. 
 Oh, if he knew the weight of splendid chains. 
 How light the balance of his humbler pains ! 
 
 IX. 
 Unlike the heroes of each ancient race, 
 Demons in act, but gods at least in face, 
 In Conrad's form seems little to admire. 
 Though his dark eyebrow shades a glance of fire. 
 Robust but not Herculean — to the sight 
 No giant frame sets forth his common height ; 
 Yet, in the whole, who paused to look again. 
 Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgar men ; 
 They gaze and marvel how — and still confess 
 That thus it is, but why they cannot guess. 
 Sunburnt his cheek, his forehead high and pale 
 The saljle curls in wild profusion veil ; 
 And oft perforce his rising lip reveals 
 The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce conceals. 
 Though smooth his voice, and calm his general mien. 
 Still seems there something he would not have seen : 
 His features' deepening Unes and varying hue 
 At times attracted, yet perplex'd the view, 
 
 As if within that murkiness of mind 
 
 Work'd feelings fearful, and yet undefined ; 
 
 Such might it be — that none could truly tell — 
 
 Too close inquiry his stem glance would quell. 
 
 There breathe but few whose aspect might defy 
 
 The full encounter of his searching eye : 
 
 He had the skill, when Cunning's gaze would seek 
 
 To probe his heart and watch his changing cheek, 
 
 At once the observer's purpose to espy. 
 
 And on himself roll back his scrutiny. 
 
 Lest he to Conrad rather should betray 
 
 Some secret thought, than drag that chief's to-daj 
 
 There was a laughing devil in his sneer, 
 
 That raised emotions both of rage and fear ; 
 
 And where his frown of hatred darkly fell, 
 
 Hope withering fled — and Mercy sigh'd farewell 1 
 
 Slight are the outward signs of evil thought. 
 Within — within — ^'twas there the spirit wrought 1 
 Love shows all changes : Hate, Ambition, Guile, 
 Betray no further than the bitter smile ; 
 The lip's least curl, the lightest paleness thrown 
 Along the govern'd aspect, speak alone 
 Of deeper passsions ; and to judge their mien, 
 He, who would see, must be himself imseen. 
 Then — with the hiu-ried tread, the upward eye, 
 The clenched hand, the pause of agony. 
 That listens, starting, lest the step too near 
 Approach intrusive on that mood of fear : 
 Then — with each feature working from the heart. 
 With feelings loosed to strengthen — not dei^art : 
 That rise — convulse — contend — that freeze or glow, 
 Flush in the cheek, or damp upon the brow ; 
 Then — Stranger ! if thou canst, and tremblcst not, 
 Behold his soul — the rest that soothes his lot ! 
 Moj-k — how that lone and blighted bosom scars 
 The scathing thought of execrated years ! 
 Behold — but who hath seen, or e'er shall see, 
 Man as himself — the secret spirit free ? 
 
 XI. 
 
 Yet was not Conrad thus by Nature sent 
 To lead the guilty— guilt's woret instrument — 
 His soul was changed, before his deeds had driven 
 Him forth to war with man and forfeit heaven. 
 Yt^arp'd by the world in Disajjpointment's school. 
 In words too wise, in conduct tfiere a fool ; 
 Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop, 
 Doom'd liy his very virtues for a dupe, 
 He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill. 
 And not the traitors who betray'd him still ; 
 Nor dcem'd that gifts bcstow'd on better men 
 Had left him joy, and means to give again. 
 Fear'd— fhunn'd — belied — ere youth hid lost hei 
 
 force, 
 He hated man too much to feel remorse, 
 
94 
 
 BVRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Caxto I 
 
 And (houglit the voice of wrath a aacre r. call, 
 
 To pay the injuries of some on all. 
 
 He knew himself a villain — but he deem'd 
 
 The rest no better than the thing he secm'd ; 
 
 And scorn VI the liest as hj-pocrites who hid 
 
 Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did. 
 
 He knew himself detested, but he knew 
 
 The hearts that loathed him crouch'd and dreaded 
 
 too. 
 Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt 
 From all affection and from all contempt : 
 His name could sadden, and bis acts surprise ; 
 But they that fcar'd him dared not to despise : 
 Man spurns the worm, liut pauses ere he wake 
 The slumbering venom of the folded snake : 
 The first may turn — but not avenge the blow ; 
 The last expires — but leaves no living foe ; 
 Past to the doom'd offender's form it clings. 
 And he may crush — not conquer — still it stings I 
 
 XII. 
 None are all evil — quickening round his heart, 
 One softer feeling would not yet depart ; 
 Oft could he sneer at others as beguiled 
 By passions worthy of a fool or child ; 
 Yet 'gainst that passion vainly stiU he strove, 
 And even in him it asks the name of Love 1 
 Yes, it was love — unchangealile — unchanged. 
 Felt but for one from whom he never ranged ; 
 Tliough fairest captives daily met his eye. 
 He shunn'd, nor sought, but coldly pass'd them by ; 
 Though many a beauty droop'd in jtrison'd bower, 
 None ever soothed his most unguarded hour. 
 Yes — it was Love — if thoughts of tenderness, 
 Tried in temptation, strengthen'd by distress, 
 Unmoved by absence, firm in every clime. 
 And yet — Oh more than all ! — untired by time ; 
 Wliich nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile, 
 Could render sullen were she near to smile, 
 Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent 
 On her one murmur of his discontent ; 
 Which stiU would meet with joy, with calmness pari. 
 Lest that his look of grief should reach her heart ; 
 Which naught removed, nor menaced to remove — 
 If there be love in mortals — this was love ! 
 He was a villain — ay — reproaches shower 
 On him — but not the passion, nor its power, 
 Wliich only proved, all other virtues gone. 
 Not guilt itself could quench this loveliest one I 
 
 XIII. 
 ■le parsed a moment — till his hastening men 
 Pass'd the first winding downward to the glen. 
 " Strange tidings ! — many a peril have I pass'd. 
 Nor kn )w I why this next apjiears the last 1 
 Yet so my heart forebodes, but must not fear, 
 Kor shall my followers find me falter here. 
 
 'Tis rash to meet, but surer death to wait 
 
 Till here they hunt us to undoul)tcd fate ; 
 
 And, if my plan but hold, and Fortune smile, 
 
 We'll furnish mourners for our funeral pile. 
 
 A}' — let them slumber — peaceful be their dreams ! 
 
 Mom ne'er awoke them with such brilliant beams 
 
 As kindle high to-night (but blow, thou breeze !) 
 
 To warm these slow avengers of the seas. 
 
 Now to iledora — Oh ! my sinking heart, 
 
 Long may her own be lighter than thou art ! 
 
 Yet was I brave — mean boast where all are brave 1 
 
 Ev'n insects sting for aught they seek to save. 
 
 This common courage which with brutes we share, 
 
 That owes its deadliest efforts to despair. 
 
 Small merit claims — but 'twas my nobler hope 
 
 To teach my few with numbers still to cope ; 
 
 Long have I led them — not to vainly bleed 1 
 
 No medium now — we perish or succeed 1 
 
 So let it be — it irks not me to die ; 
 
 But thus to urge them whence they cannot fly. 
 
 My lot hath long had little of my care. 
 
 But chafes my pride thus baffled in the snare : 
 
 Is this my skill ? my craft ? to set at last 
 
 Hope, power, and life upon a single cast ? 
 
 Oh, Fate I — accuse thy folly, not thy fate — 
 
 She may redeem thee still — nor yet too late." 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Thus with himself communion held he, till 
 He reach'd the summit of his tower-crown'd hill ; 
 There at the portal paused — for wild and soft 
 He heard those accents never heard too oft 
 Through the high lattice far yet sweet thej rung. 
 And these the notes the bird of beauty sung : 
 
 1. 
 
 " Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells, 
 Lonely and lost to light for evermore. 
 
 Save when to thine my heart responsive swells, 
 Then trembles into silence as before. 
 
 " There, in its centre, a sepulchral lamp 
 Burns the slow flame, eternal — but unseen ; 
 
 Which not the darkness of despair can damp 
 Though vain its ray as it had never been. 
 
 3. 
 
 " Remember me — Oh 1 pass not thou my grave 
 Without one thought whose reUes there recline ; 
 
 The only pang my bosom dare not brave 
 Must be to find forgetfulnoss in thine. 
 
 4. 
 " My fondest — faintest — latest accents hear : 
 
 Grief for the dead not Virtue can reprove , 
 Then give me all I ever ask'd — a tear. 
 
 The first — last — sole reward of so much love 1" 
 
/// // //, 
 
 A////^.-/ /''/ 
 
Canto i. 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 95 
 
 He pass'd the portal — cross'd the comdore, 
 And reach'd the chamber as the strain gave o'er : 
 " My own Medora ! sure thy song is sad — " 
 
 " In Conrad's absence wouldst thou have it glad ? 
 Witliout thine ear to listen to my lay, 
 Still must my song my thoughts, my soul betray : 
 Still must each accent to my bosom suit, 
 My heart unhush'd — although my lips were mute ! 
 Oh 1 many a night on this lone couch reclined. 
 My dreaming fear with storms hath wingxl the wind, 
 And deem'd the breath that faintly fann'd thy sail 
 The murmuring prelude of the ruder gale ; 
 Though soft, it soem'd the low prophetic dirge, 
 That mourned thee floating on the savage surge : 
 Still would I rise to rouse the beacon fire. 
 Lest spies less true should let the blaze expire ; 
 And many a restless hour outwatch'd each star, 
 And morning came — and stiU thou wert afar. 
 Oh ! how the chiU blast on my bosom blew. 
 And day broke dreary on my troubled view, 
 And still I gazed and gazed — and not a prow 
 Was granted to my tears — my truth — my vow ! 
 At length — 'twas noon — I hail'd and bless'd the mast 
 That met my sight — it near'd — Alas ! it passed 1 
 Another came — Oh God 1 'twas thine at last ! 
 Would tliat those days were over ! wilt thou ne'er. 
 My Conrad ! learn the joys of peace to share ? 
 Sure thou hast more than wealth, and many a home 
 As bright as this iu's-ites us not to roam ; 
 Thou know'st it is not peril that I fear 
 I only tremble when thou art not here ; 
 Then not for mine, but that far dearer Kfe, 
 Which flies fi-om love and languishes for strife — 
 How strange that heart, to me so tender still. 
 Should war with nature and its better will !" 
 
 " Yea, strange indeed — that heart hath long been 
 
 changed ; 
 Worm-like 'twas trampled — adder-like avenged, 
 Witliout one hope on earth beyond thy love. 
 And scarce a glimpse of mercy from above. 
 Yet the same feeling which thou dost condemn, 
 My very love to thee is hate to them. 
 So closely mingUng here, that disentwincd 
 I cease to .ove thee when I love mankind ! 
 Yet dread not this — the proof of all the past 
 Assures the future that my love will last ; 
 But — Oh, Medora ! nerve thy gentler heart, 
 This hour again — but not for long — we part." 
 
 " This hour we part !— my heart foreboded tliis ! 
 
 Thus ever fade my fairy dreams of bliss. 
 
 This hour — it cannot be — this hour away ! 
 
 Yon bark hath hardly anchor'd in the bay ; 
 
 Her consort still is absent, and her crew 
 
 Have need of rest before they toil anew : 
 
 My love 1 thou mock'st my weakness ; and wouldst steel 
 
 My breast before the time when it must feel ; 
 But trifle now no more with my distress, 
 Such mirth hath less of jjlay than bitterness. 
 Be silent, Conrad ! — dearest ! come and share 
 The feast these hands delighted to prepare ; 
 Light toil ! to cull and dress thy frugal fare ! 
 See, I have pluck'd the fruit that promised best. 
 And where not sure, perplex'd, but pleased, I guess'd 
 At such as seem'd the feirest ; thrice the hill 
 My stejjs have wound to try the coolest riU ; 
 Yes ! thy sherbet to-night will sweetly flow, 
 See how it sparkles in its vase of snow ! 
 The grapes' gay juice thy bosom never cheers ; 
 Thou more than Moslem when the cup appears ! 
 Think not I mean to chide — for I rejoice 
 What others deem a penance is thy choice. 
 But come, the board is spread ; our silver lamp 
 Is trimm'd, and heeds not the sirocco's damp : 
 Then shall my handmaids while the time along. 
 And join with me the dance, or wake the song ; 
 Or my guitar, which stiU thou lov'st to hear. 
 Shall soothe or lull — or, should it vex thine ear, 
 We'U turn the tale, by Ariosto told. 
 Of fair Olympia loved and left of old.' 
 Wliy — thou wert worse than he who broke his vow 
 To that lost damsel, shouldst thou leave me now ; 
 Or even that traitor chief — I've seen thee smile. 
 When the clear sky show'd Ariadne's Isle, 
 Wliich I have pointed from these clifl's the while : 
 And thus, half sportive, half in fear, I said. 
 Lest Time should raise that doubt to more than dread. 
 Thus Conrad, too, will quit me for the main : 
 And he deceived me — for — ho came again !" 
 
 " Again — again — and oft again — my love ! 
 
 If there be life below, and hope above, 
 
 He will return — but now, the moments bring 
 
 The time of jjarting with redoubled wing : 
 
 The why — the where — what boots it now to tell ? 
 
 Since all musfend in that wild word — farewell ! 
 
 Yet would I fain — did time allow — disclose — 
 
 Fear not — these are no formidable foes : 
 
 And here shall watch a more than wonted guard, 
 
 For sudden siege and long defence prepared : 
 
 Nor be thou lonely — though thy lord's away, 
 
 Our matrons and thy handmaids with thee stay ; 
 
 And tliis thy comfort — that, when next we meet, 
 
 Security shall make repose more sweet. 
 
 List ! — 'tis the bugle " — Juan shrilly blew — 
 
 " One kiss — one more — another — Oh ! Adieu !" 
 
 She rose — she sprung — she clung to his embrace, 
 Till his heart heaved beneath her hidden face. 
 He dared not raise to his that deep-blue eye. 
 Which downcast droop'd in tearless agony. 
 Her long fair hair lay floating o'er his aims, 
 In all the wildness of dishevell'd rharms ; 
 
 ' Orlando Fnrloso, Canto x. 
 
96 
 
 BYRON'S WORK >. 
 
 Canto i 
 
 Scarce beat that bosom where his image dwelt 
 So full — that feeling scera'd almost uufelt ! 
 Hark — peals the thunder of the signal-gim I 
 II told 'twas sunset — and lie cursed that sun. 
 Afrain — again — that form ho madly press'd, 
 ■^Nliich mutely claspVl, -.ploringly caress'd ! 
 And tottering to the cOich his bride he bore, 
 One moment gazed — as if to gaze no more ; 
 Pelt — that for him earth held but her alone, 
 Kiss'd her cold forehead — tum'd — is Conrad gone ? 
 
 XV. 
 " And is he gone ?" — on sudden solitude 
 How oft that fearful question will intrude ! 
 " 'Twas but an instant past — and here he stood 1 
 And now " — without the portal's porch she rush'd, 
 And then at length her tears in freedom gush'd ; 
 Big — bright — and fast, unkno-mi to her they fell ; 
 But still her lips refused to send — " Farewell !" 
 For in that word — that fatal word — howe'er 
 We promise — hope — believe — there breathes despair. 
 O'er every feature of that still, pale face, 
 Had sorrow fix'd what time can ne'er erase : 
 The tender blue of that large loving eye 
 Grew frozen with its gaze on vacancy. 
 Till — Oh, how far ! — it caught a glimpse of him, 
 And then it llow'd — and phrensied soem'd to swim, 
 Througli those long, dark, and glistening lashes dew'd 
 With di'ojjs of sadness oft to be renew'd. 
 " He's gone !" — against her heart that hand is driven, 
 Convulsed and quick — then gently raised to heaven ; 
 She look'd and saw the hca\'ing of the main ; 
 The white sa;! sot — she dared not look again ; 
 But turn'd with sickening soul within the gate — 
 " It is no dream — and I am desolate I" 
 
 XVI. 
 From crag U) crag descending — swiftly sped 
 Stem Conrad down, nor once he tufn'd his head ; 
 But shrunk whene'er the windings of his way 
 Forced on his eye what ho would not survey, 
 His lone, but lovely dwelling on the steep, 
 That hail'd him tirst when homeward from the deep: 
 And she — the dim and melancholy star. 
 Whose ray of beauty reach'd him from afar, 
 On her he must not gaze, he must not think. 
 There he might rest — but on Destruction's brink : 
 Yet once almost he stopp'd — and nearly gave 
 His fate to chance, his projects to the wave : 
 But no — it must not be — a worthy chief 
 May melt, but not betray to woman's grief. 
 tl^. sees his Ijark, ho notes how fair the wind, 
 Vi d stonily gathers all his might of mind : 
 Again he hurries on — and as he hears 
 Tlie clang of tumult vibrate on his ears, 
 T)ie busy sounds, the bustle of the shore. 
 The sbou , the signal, and the dashing oar , 
 
 As marks hi.» eye the sea-boy on the mast, 
 
 Tlie anchors rise, the sails unfiirling fast. 
 
 The waving kerchiefs of the crowd that urge 
 
 That mute adieu to those who stem the surge ; 
 
 And more than all, his blood-rod flag aloft, 
 
 He marveU'd how his heart could seem so soft. 
 
 Fire in his glance, and wildness in his breast. 
 
 He feels of all his former self posscss'd ; 
 
 He bounds — he flies — until his footsteps reach 
 
 The verge where ends th» clifl" begins the beach, 
 
 There checks his speed ; but pauses less to breathe 
 
 The breezy freshness of the deep Ijcneath, 
 
 Than there his wonted statelier step renew ; 
 
 Nor rush, disturb'd by haste, to vulgar \-iew : 
 
 For woU had Conrad learn'd to curb the crowd, 
 
 By arts that veil, and oft preserve the proud • 
 
 His was the lofty port, the distant mien, 
 
 That seems to shur the sight — and awes if seen 
 
 The solemn aspect, and the high-born eye. 
 
 That cliecks low mirth, hut lacks not courtesy ; 
 
 All these he wielded to command assent ; 
 
 But where he wisli'd to v.in, so well un))ent. 
 
 That kindness cancell'd f 'ar in those who heard, 
 
 And others' gifts sliow'd mean beside his word. 
 
 When echo'd to tlio liearl as from his o\n\ 
 
 His deep yet tender melody nf tone : 
 
 But such was foreign to Ins wonted mood. 
 
 He cared not what he soften'd, hut sulidued ; 
 
 The e\\\ passions of his youth had made 
 
 Him value less who loved — tl an what obey'd. 
 
 XVII. 
 Around him mustering ranged his ready guard. 
 Before him Juan stands — " Are all prepared ?" 
 
 " They are — nay more — embark'd : the latest boat 
 
 Waits but my chief " 
 
 " My sword, and my capote. 
 Soon firmly girded on, and lightly slung. 
 His belt and cloak were o'er his shoulders flung : 
 
 " Call Pedro here 1" He comes — and Conrad bends 
 With aU the courtesy he dcign'd his friends ; 
 
 " Receive these tablets, and peruse with care, 
 Words of high trust and truth arc graven there ; 
 Double the guard, and when Anselmo's bark 
 Arrives, let him alike these orders mark : 
 In three days (serve the breeze) the sim shall shine 
 On our return — till then all peace be thine !" 
 This said, his brother Pirate's hand he wrung, 
 Then to his boat with haughty gesture sprung. 
 Flash'd the dipp'd oars, and sparkling with the stroke. 
 Around the waves phosphoric' lirightness broke ; 
 They gain the vessel — on the dock lie stands, — 
 Shrieks the shrill whistle — jjly the busy hands- 
 He marks how well the ship her helm obeys. 
 How gallant all her crew — and deigns to praise. 
 
 ' By night, particularly in a warm latitude, ever}' stroke of the 
 oar, every motion of the boat or ship, ie followed by a sliybt flaill 
 like sheet lightning ftrom the water. 
 
i(.'?7, ?r//> 
 
 / /'/?// (_yf{eacy'u(i>^ 
 
Canto i. 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 97 
 
 nis eyes of pride to young Gonsalvo turn — 
 
 Wliy doth he start, and inly seem to mourn ? 
 
 Alas ! those eyes beheld his rocky tower, 
 
 And live a moment o'er the parting hour ; 
 
 She — his Jlodora — did she mark the prow ? 
 
 Ah ! never loved he half so much as now ! 
 
 But much must yet be done ere dawn of day — 
 
 Again he mans himself and turns away ; 
 
 Down to the cabin with Gonsalvo bends, 
 
 And tV.ere unfolds his plan — his means — and ends : 
 
 Before them bums the lamp, and spreads the chart, 
 
 And all that speaks and aids the naval art ; 
 
 They to the midnight watch protract debate ; 
 
 To anxious eyes what hour is ever late ? 
 
 Meantime, the steady breeze serenely blew. 
 
 And fast and falcon-like the vessel flew ; 
 
 Pass'd the high ?ieadlands of each clustering isle, 
 
 To gain their port — long — long ere morning smile : 
 
 And soon the night-glass through the narrow bay 
 
 Discovers where the Pacha's galleys lay. 
 
 Count they each sail — and mark how there supine 
 
 The lights in vain o'er heedless Moslem shine. 
 
 Secure, unnoted, Conrad's prow pass'd by. 
 
 And anclior'd where his ambush meant to lie ! 
 
 Screen'd from espial by the jutting cajse, 
 
 That rears on high its rude fantastic shape. 
 
 Then rose his band to duty — not from sleep — 
 
 Equipp'd for deeds alike on land or deep ; 
 
 Wlu!e lean'd their leader o'er the fretting flood. 
 
 And calmly talk'd — and yet he talk'd of blood ! 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 CANTO THE SECOND. 
 
 *' Conosceste i dnbiosl deelri f "— Dajjte. 
 
 I. 
 In Coron's bay floats many a galley light. 
 Through Coron's lattices the lamps are bright, 
 For Seyd, the Pacha, makes a feast to-night : 
 A feast for promised ti umph yet to come, 
 Wlien he shall drag the fetter'd Rovers home : 
 Tliis hath he sworn by Alia and his sword, 
 And faithful to his firman and his word, 
 His summon'd prows collect along tha coast, 
 -A-nd great the gathering crews, and loud the boast ; 
 Already shared the captives and the prize, 
 Taough far the distant foe they thus despise ; 
 
 > Coffee. ^ " Chibouque," pipe. ^ Dancing girls. 
 
 • It has been obsen'ed, that Conrad's entering disguised as a spy 
 
 Is out of natnie. Perhaps so. I find something not unlike it in 
 
 history :— " Anxious to explore with his own eyes the state of the 
 
 Vandals, Ms^orian ventured, after diegniaing the color of his hair, 
 
 IS 
 
 'Tis but to sail — no doubt to-morro'iv's sun 
 Will see the Pirates bound — their liavcn v.-on 1 
 Meantime the watch may slumber, if they vdH, 
 Nor only wake to war, but dreaming kill. 
 Though all, who can, disperse on shore and seek 
 To flesh their glowing valor on the Greek ; 
 How well such deed becomes the turban'd brave- • 
 To bare the sabre's edge before a slave ! 
 Infest his dwelling — but forbear to slay, 
 Their arms are strong, yet merciful to-day. 
 And do not deign to smite because they may 1 
 Unless some gay caprice suggests the blow. 
 To keep in practice for the coming foe. 
 Revel and rout the evening hours beguile. 
 And they who wish to wear a head must smile ; 
 For Moslem mouths produce their choicest cheer. 
 And hoard their curses, till the coast is clear. 
 
 II. 
 High in his hall reclines the turban'd Seyd ; 
 Around — the bearded chiefs he came to lead. 
 Removed the banquet, and the last pilaff — 
 Forbidden draughts, 'tis said, he dared to quaff, 
 Though to the rest the sober berry's juice,' 
 The slaves bear round for rigid Moslems' use ; 
 The long chibouque's^ dissolving cloud supply, 
 Wliile dance the Almas' to wild minstrelsy. 
 The rising mom wiU view the chiefs embark ; 
 But waves are somewhat treacherous in the dark . 
 And revellers may more securely sleep 
 On silken couch than o'er the rugged deep ; 
 Feast there who can — ^nor combat till they must. 
 And less to conquest than to Korans trust ; 
 And yet the numbers crowded in his host 
 Mght warrant more than even the Pacha's boast. 
 
 III. 
 With cautious reverence from the outer gate. 
 Slow stalks the slave, whose office there to wait. 
 Bows his bent head — his hand salutes the floor. 
 Ere yet his tongue the trusted tidings bore : 
 " A captive Dervise, from the pirate's nest 
 Escaped, is liere — himself would tell the rest." 
 He took the sign from Seyd's assenting eye, 
 And led the holy man in silence nigh. 
 His arms were folded on his dark-green vest, 
 His step was feeble, and his look depress'd ; 
 Yet worn he seem'd of hardship more than years. 
 And pale his cheek with penance, not from fears. 
 Vow'd to his God — his sable locks he wore. 
 And these his lofty cap rose proudly o'er : 
 Around his form his loose long roI>e was throvm. 
 And wrapp'd a breast bestow'd on heaven alone ; 
 
 to visit Carthage in the character of his own ambassador ; and Gen 
 eerie was afterwards mortified by the discovery, that he had enter* 
 tained and dismissed the Emperor of the Romans. Such an aneo 
 dote may be rejected as an improbable fiction ; but it is a fiction 
 which would not have been imagined unless in the life of a hero.'* 
 —See Gibbon's De^'uie and Fall, vol. vi. p. 180. 
 
93 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Cauto II. 
 
 So jmissive, yet ■with self-possession mann'd, 
 He calmly met the curious eyes that scann'd ; 
 And question of liis couiing faiu would seek, 
 Before the Pacha's will allow'd to speak. 
 
 IV. 
 " Wlieuce com'st thou, Der^■ise ?" 
 
 " From the outlaw's den 
 A fugitive — " 
 
 " Thy capture where and when ?" 
 " From Scalanova's port to Scio's isle, 
 The Saick was bound ; but AUa did not smile 
 Upon our course — the Moslem merchant's gains 
 The Rovers won : our limbs have worn their chains. 
 I had no death to fear, nor wealth to boast, 
 Beyond the wandering freedom which I lost ; 
 At length a fisher's humble boat by night 
 Aftbrdcd hope, and offer'd chance of flight ; 
 I seized the hour, and find my safety here — 
 With thee — most mighty Pacha ! who can fear ?" 
 
 " How speed the outlaws ? stand they well prepared, 
 Their plunder'd wealth, and robber's rock, to guard ? 
 Dream they of this our preparation, doom'd 
 To view with file their scorpion nest consumed ?" 
 
 " Pacha ! the fetter'd captive's mourning eye. 
 That weeps for flight, but iU can play the spy ; 
 I only heard the reckless waters roar, 
 Those waves that would not bear me from the shore ; 
 I only mark'd the glorious sun and sky. 
 Too bright — too blue — for my captivity ; 
 And felt — that all which Freedom's bosom cheers, 
 Must l)reak my chain before it dried my tears. 
 This mayst thou judge, at least, from my escape, 
 They little deem of aught in peril's shape ; 
 Else vainly had I pray'd or sought the chance 
 That leads me here — if eyed with vigilance : 
 The careless guard that did not see me fly. 
 May watch as idly when thy power is nigh. 
 Pacha ! — my Umbs are faint — and nature craves 
 Food for my hunger, rest from tossing waves : 
 Permit my absence — peace be with thee 1 Peace 
 With all aroimd ! — now grant repose — release." 
 
 " Stay, Dervise 1 I have more to question — stay, 
 I do command thee — sit — dost hear ? — obey ! 
 More I must ask, and food the slaves shaU bring ; 
 Thou shalt not pine where all are banqueting : 
 The supper done — prepare thee to reply. 
 Clearly and full — I love not mystery." 
 
 'Twere vain to guess what shook the pious man, 
 Wlio look'd not lovingly on that Divan ; 
 Nor show'd high reUsh for the banquet press'd. 
 And less respect for every fellow guest. 
 'Twas but a moment's peevish hectic pass'd 
 Along his cheek, and tranquillized as fast : 
 
 He sate him down in silence, and his look 
 Resumed the calmness which before forsook : 
 The feast was usher'd in — but sumptuous fare 
 He shunn'd as if some poison mingled tliere. 
 For one so long condcmn'd to toil and fast, 
 Methinks he strangely spares the rich repast. 
 
 " What ails thee, Dervise ? eat — dost thou suppose 
 This feast a Christian's ? or my friends thy foes ? 
 Why dost thou shun the salt ? that sacred pledge, 
 Which, once partaken, lalunts the sabre's edge. 
 Makes even contending triljes in peace unite. 
 And hated hosts seem brethren to the sight !" 
 
 " Salt seasons dainties — and my food is still 
 The humblest root, my drink the simplest riU; 
 And my stem vow and order's: laws oppose 
 To break or mingle bread with friends or foes ; 
 It may seem strange — if there be aught to dread, 
 That peril rests upon my single head ; 
 But for thy sway — nay more — thy Sultan's throne, 
 I taste nor bread nor banquet — save alone ; 
 Infringed our order's rule, the Prophet's rage 
 To Mecca's dome might l)ar my pilgrimage." 
 
 " WeU^as thou wilt— ascetic as thou art — 
 One question answer ; then in peace depart. 
 How many ? — Ha ! it cannot sure l)e day ? 
 What star — what sun is bursting on the bay ? 
 It shines a lake of fire ! — away — away ! 
 Ho I treachery 1 my guards I my scimitar 1 
 The galleys feed the flames — and I afar ! 
 Accursed Dervise ! — these thy tidings — thou [now 1" 
 Some villain spy — seize — cleave him — slay him 
 
 Up rose the Dervise with that burst of light, 
 Nor less his change of form appall'd the sight : 
 Up rose that Dervise — not in saintly garb, 
 But like a warrior bounding on hi.s barb, 
 Dash'd his high cap, and tore his robe away — 
 Shone his mail'd breast, and flash'd his sabre's ray 
 His close but glittering casque, and sable plume. 
 More glittering eye, and black brow's sablcr gloom. 
 Glared on the Moslems' eyes some AfHt sprite, 
 Whose demon death-blow left no hope for fight. 
 The wild confusion, and the swarthy glow 
 Of flames on high, and torches from below ; 
 Tlie shriek of terror, and the mingling yell — 
 For swords began to clash, and shouts to swell — 
 Flung o'er that spot of earth the air of heU 1 
 Distracted, to and fro, the flying slaves 
 Behold but bloody shore and fiery waves ; 
 Naught heeded they the Pacha's angry cry. 
 They seize that Dervise 1 — seize on Zatanai I" 
 
 > Tbe Derrises are o coUeg«e, and of different orders, a> th« 
 monks. 
 ' " Zatanai," Batan. 
 
CvNTo n. 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 99 
 
 He saw their terror — check'd the first despair 
 That urged him but to stand and perish there, 
 Since far too early and too well obey'd, 
 The flame was kindled ere the signal made ; 
 He saw their terror — from his baldric drew 
 His bugle — brief the blast — but shrilly blew ; 
 'Tis answer" d — " Well ye speed, my gaUant crew ! 
 Why did I doubt their quickness of career i 
 And deem design had left me single here T' 
 Sweeps his long arm — that sabre's whirling sway 
 Sheds fast atonement for its first delay ; 
 Completes his fury what their fear begun, 
 And makes the many basely quail to one. 
 The cloven turbans o'er the chamber spread, 
 And scarce an arm dare rise to guard its head : 
 Even Seyd, convulsed, o'erwhclm'd ^\'ith rage, sur- 
 Rctreats before him, though he still defies, [prise. 
 No craven he — and yet he dreads the blow, 
 So much Confusion magnifies his foe ! 
 His blazing galleys still distract his sight. 
 He tore his beard, and foaming fled the fiaiit ;' 
 For now the pirates pass'd the Harem gate. 
 And burst within — and it were death to wait ; 
 Where wild ^Vmazem.ent shrieking — kneeling, throws 
 The sword aside — in vain — the blood o'erflows I 
 The Corsairs pouring, haste to where within, 
 Invited Conrad's bugle, and the din 
 Of gro.aning victims, and wild cries for life, 
 Proclaim'd how well he did the work of strife. 
 
 f hey shout to find him grim and lonely there, 
 
 I glutted tiger mangling in his lair ! 
 
 5ut short their greeting — shorter his reply — 
 ' 'Tis well — but Seyd escapes — and he must die — 
 Much hath been done — but more remains to do — 
 Their galleys blaze — why not their city too ?" 
 
 V. 
 
 Quick at the word — they seized him each a torch, 
 
 And fire the dome from minaret to porch. 
 
 A stem delight was fix'd in Conrad's eye, 
 
 But sudden sunk — for on his ear the cry 
 
 Of women struck, and like a deadly knell 
 
 Knock'd at that heart unmoved by battle's yell. 
 
 " Oh ! burst the Harem — wrong not on your lives 
 
 One female form — remember — ire have wives. 
 
 On them such outrage Vengeance will repay ; 
 
 Man is our foe, and such 'tis ours to slay : 
 
 But still we spai-ed — must spare the weaker prey. 
 
 Oh I I forgot — bat Heaven will not forgive 
 
 If at my word ihe helpless cease to live ; 
 
 Follow who will — 1 go — we yet have time 
 
 Our souls to lighten of at least a crime." 
 
 He climbs the crackling stair — he bursts the door, 
 
 Kor feels his feet glow scorching with the floor ; 
 
 ' A common and not yery novel effect ef Mnesalman anger. 
 Bee Prince Eugene's Memoirs, page 24. '• The Seraekier received 
 I wound in the thigh : he plucked up bis -learu by the rootB, be- 
 ■uue he was obliged to qo it the field." 
 
 His breath choked gasping with the voIuil ed smoke 
 But still from room to room his w ay he broke. 
 They search — they find — they save : with lasty arms 
 Each bears a prize of imregarded charms ; 
 Calm their loud fears ; sustain their sinking frames 
 With all the care defenceless beauty claims : 
 So well could Conrad tame their fiercest mood. 
 And check the very hands with gore imbrued. 
 But who is she ? whom Conrad's arms convey 
 From reeking pile and combat's wreck — away — 
 Who but the love of him he dooms to bleed ? 
 The Harem queen — but still the slave of Seyd 1 
 
 YI. 
 Brief time had Conrad now to greet Guluare,« 
 Few words to reassure the trembling fair ; 
 For in that pause compassion snatch'd from war. 
 The foe before retiring, fast and far, 
 With wonder saw their footsteps unpursued, 
 First slowlier fled — then rallied — then withstood. 
 This Seyd perceives, then first perceives how few, 
 Compared with his, the Corsair's roving crew, 
 And blushes o'er his error, as he eyes 
 The ruin T\TOught by panic and surprise. 
 Alia il AUa ! Vengeance swells the cry 
 Shame mounts to rage that must atone or die ! 
 And flame for flame and blood for blood must tell. 
 The tide of triumph el)bs that flow'd too weU — 
 When wrath returns to renovated strife, 
 And those who fought for conquest strike for life. 
 Conrad beheld the danger — he beheld 
 His followers faint by freshening foes repell'd : 
 " One efibrt — one — to break the circling host I" 
 They form — unite — charge— waver — all is lost I 
 Within a narrower ring compress'd, beset, 
 Hopeless, not heartless, strive and struggle yet — 
 Ah ! now they fight in firmest file no more, 
 Hemm'd in — cut oS'— cleft down — and trampled o'et 
 But each strikes singly, silently, and home, 
 And sinks outwearied rather than o'ercome. 
 His last faint quittance rendering with his breath. 
 Till the blade glimmers in the grasp of death 1 
 
 VII. 
 
 But first, ere came the rallying host to blows. 
 And rank to rank, and hand to hand oppose, 
 Gulnare and all her Harem handmaids freed. 
 Safe in the dome of one who held their creed, 
 By Conrad's mandate safely were bestow'd. 
 And dried those tears for life and fame that flow'd 
 And when that dark-eyed lady, young Gulnare, 
 Recall'd those thoughts late wandering in despair, 
 iluch did she marvel o'er the courtesy 
 That smooth'd his accents ; soften'd in his eye : 
 'Twas strange — that robber thus with gore bedew'd, 
 Seem'd gentler then than Seyd in fondest mood. 
 
 ' Gulnare, a female name : it means, literally, the flower of th* 
 pomegranate. 
 
100 
 
 BTRON'S TTOP.KS. 
 
 Canto n 
 
 The Pacha woo'd as if he deem'd the slave 
 Mu^t seem delighted with the heart he gave ; 
 The Coreair vowVl protection, soothed afiriglit, 
 As if his homage were a woman's right. 
 ''The ■n'ish is wrong — nay, worse for female — vain ; 
 Yet much I long to view that chief again ; 
 If but to thank for, what my fear forgot. 
 The life — my loving lord remember'd not !" 
 
 VIII. 
 And him she saw, where thickest carnage spread, 
 But gather'd breathing from the happier dead ; 
 Far from his band, and battling with a host 
 That deem right dearly won the iield he lost, 
 Feird — bleeding — baffled of the death he souglit, 
 And snatch'd to exjjiate all the ills he wrought ; 
 Preserved to linger and to live in vain, 
 Wliile Vengeance pouder'd o'er new plans of pain, 
 And stanch'd the l>lood she saves to shed again — 
 But drop for drop, for Seyd's unglutted eye 
 tVouId doom him ever dying — ne'er to die ! 
 Can this be he ? triumphant late she saw. 
 When his red hand's wild gesture waved, a law 1 
 'Tis he indeed — disarm'd but undejjress'd, 
 Flis sole regret the life he still posscss'd ; 
 □is wounds too slight, though taken with that will, 
 l\''hicli would have kiss'd the hand that then could 
 Oh, were there none, of all the many given [kill. 
 To send his soul — he scarcely ask'd to heaven 'i 
 Must he alone of all retain his breath, 
 Who more than all had striven and struck for death ? 
 He deeply felt — what mortal hearts must feel, 
 When thus reversed on faithless fortune's wheel. 
 For crimes committed, and the victor's threat 
 Of lingering tortures to repay the debt — 
 He deeply, darkly felt ; but evil pride 
 That led to perpetrate — now serves to hide. 
 Still in his stem and self-collected mien 
 A conqueror's more than captive's air is seen ; 
 Though faint with wasting toil and stiffening wound, 
 ,But few that saw — so calmly gazed around : 
 Though the far shouting of the distant crowd. 
 Their tremors o'er, rose insolently loud. 
 The better warriors who beheld him near, 
 Insulted not tlie foe who taught them fear; 
 And the grim guards that to his durance led, 
 In silence eyed him with a secret dread. 
 
 IX. 
 The Leech was sent — but not in mercy — there. 
 To note how much the life yet left could bear ; 
 He found enough to load with heaviest chain, 
 And promise feeling for the wrench of pain : 
 To-morrow — yea — to-raoi-row"s evening sun 
 Will sinking see impalement's pangs begun, 
 And rising witli tbe wonted blush of mom 
 Behold how well or ill those pangs are borne. 
 Of torments this the longest and the worst, 
 
 Wiiich adds all other agony to thirst. 
 
 That day by day death still forbears to slake, 
 
 Willie famish'd vultures flit around the stake. 
 
 " Oh, water — water !" — smiling Hate denies 
 
 The victim's prayer — for if he drinks — ^he dies. 
 
 This was his doom : — the Leech, the guard, were 
 
 And left proud Conrad fetter'd and alone. [gone, 
 
 X. 
 
 'Twere vain to paint to what his feelings grew 
 
 It ev'n were doubtful if their victim knew. 
 
 There is a war, a chaos of the mind. 
 
 When all its elements convulsed — comljined — 
 
 Lie dark and jarring with perturbed force, 
 
 And gnashing with impenitent Remorse ; 
 
 That juggling fiend — who never spake before — 
 
 But cries " I warn'd thee !" when the deed is o'er. 
 
 Vain voice ! the spirit burning but unbent, 
 
 May writhe— rebel — the weak alone repent ! 
 
 Ev'n in that lonelv hour when most it feels, 
 
 And, to itself, all — all that self reveals. 
 
 No single passion, and no ruling thought 
 
 That leaves the rest as once unseen, unsought ; 
 
 But the wild prospect when the soul reviews — 
 
 All rushing through their thousand avenues. 
 
 Ambition's dreams expiring, love's regret, 
 
 Endanger'd gloi-y, life itself beset ; 
 
 The joy untasted, the contempt or hate 
 
 'Gainst those who fain would triumph in our fate ; 
 
 The hopeless past, the hasting future driven 
 
 Too quickly on to guess if hell or heaven ; 
 
 Deeds, thoughts, and words, perhaps remember'd not 
 
 So keenly tiU that hour, but ne'er forgot ; 
 
 Things light or lovely in their acted time, 
 
 B'lt now to stern reflection each a crime ; 
 
 The withering sense of evil unreveal'd. 
 
 Not cankering less because the more conceal'd — 
 
 AH, in a word, from which all eyes must start, 
 
 That opening sepulchre — the naked heart 
 
 Bares with its buried woes, till Pride awake. 
 
 To snatch the mirror from the soul — and break. 
 
 Ay — Pride can veil, and Courage brave it all. 
 
 All — all — before — beyond — the deadliest fall. 
 
 Each has some fear, and he who least betrays, 
 
 The only hy|mcrite deserving pr.aise : 
 
 Not the loud recreant wretch who boasts and fliea 
 
 But he who looks on death — and silent dies. 
 
 So steel'd by pondering o'er his far career, 
 
 He half-way meets him should he menace near. 
 
 XI. 
 In the high chamber of his highest tower 
 Sate Conrad, fetter'd in the Pacha's power. 
 His palace perish'd in the flame — this fort 
 Contain'd at once his captive and his court. 
 Not much could Conrad of his sentence blame. 
 His foe, if vanquish'd, had but shared the same 
 Alone he sateen solitude had scanu'd 
 
^^^-kid^ 
 
Canto ii. 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 10] 
 
 His guilty bosom, but that breast he mann'd. 
 One thought alone he could not — dared not meet — 
 " Oh, how these tidings will Medora greet ?" 
 Then—only then — his clanking hands he raised, 
 And strain'd with rage the chain on which he gazed : 
 But soon he found — or foign'd — or dream'd relief. 
 And smiled in self-derision of his grief, 
 " And now come torture when it will — or may, 
 More need of rest to nerve me for the day I" 
 This said, mth languor to his mat he crept, 
 And, whatsoe'er his visions, quickly slept. 
 'Twas hardly midnight when that fray begun. 
 For Conrad's plans matured, at once wore done : 
 And Havoc loathes so much the waste of time, 
 She scarce had left an uncommitted crime. 
 One hour beheld him since the tide he stemra'd — 
 Disguised — discover'd — conquering — ta'en — con- 
 
 demn'd — 
 A chief on land — an outlaw on the deep — 
 Destroying — sa^dng — prison'd — and asleep ! 
 
 XII. 
 He slept in calmest seeming^for his breath 
 Was hush'd so deep — Ah ! happy if in death ! 
 He slept — Wlio o'er his placid slumber bends ? 
 His foes are gone — and here he hath no friends ; 
 Is it some seraph sent to grant him grace ? 
 No, 'tis an earthly form with heavenly face ! 
 Its white arm raised a lamp — yet gently hid, 
 Lest the ray flash abruptly on the lid 
 Of that closed eye, which opens but to pain, 
 And once unclosed — but once may close again. 
 That form, with eye so dark, and cheek so fair, 
 And auburn waves of gemm'd and braided hair ; 
 With shape of fairy lightness — naked foot, 
 That shines like snow, and falls on earth as mute — • 
 Through guards and dunnest night how came it there ? 
 Ah ! rather ask what will not woman dare ? 
 Whom youth and pity lead like thee, Gulnare ! 
 She could not sleep — -and while the Pacha's rest 
 In muttering dreams yet saw his pirate-guest, 
 Bhe left his side — his signet-ring slie bore, 
 Wliicli oft in sport adorn'd her hand before — 
 And witli it, scarcely question'd, won her way 
 Through drowsy guards that must that sign obey. 
 Worn out with toil, and tired with changing blows, 
 Their eyes had envied Conrad his repose ; 
 And chill and nodding at the turret door, 
 They stretch their listless limbs, and watch no more : 
 Just raised their heads to hail the signet-ring. 
 Nor ask or what or who the sign may bring. 
 
 XIII. 
 She gazed in wonder, " Can he calmly sleep, 
 While other eyes his fall or ravage weep ? 
 
 ' In Sir Thomas More, for instance, on the scaffold, and .4nne 
 Boleyn, in the Tower, when, grasping her neck, she remarked, 
 that it 'was tio slender to trouble tlie headsman much." During 
 
 And mine in restlessness are wandering heie — 
 What sudden spell hath made this man so tlear ? 
 
 True — 'tis to him my life, and more, I owe. 
 And me and mine he spared from worse than woe : 
 'Tis late to think — but soft — his slumber breaks- 
 How heavily he sighs !— he starts— awakes !" 
 
 He raised his head — and dazzled with the lio-Ut 
 
 His eye seem'd dubious if it saw aright : 
 
 He moved his hand — the grating of his chain 
 
 Too harshly told him that he lived again. 
 
 " Wliat is that form ? if not a shape of air, 
 
 Methinks my jailer's face shows wond'rous fair 1' 
 
 " Pirate ! thou know'st me not — but I am one, 
 Grateftil for deeds thou hast too rarely done ; 
 Look on me — and remember her, thy hand 
 Snatch'd from the flames, and thy more fearful band. 
 
 I come through darkness — and I scarce know why 
 
 Yet not to hurt — I would not see thee die." 
 
 " If so, kind lady I thine the only eye 
 
 That would not here in that gay hope delight : 
 
 Theirs is the chance — and let them use their right. 
 
 But stiU I thank their courtesy or tliine. 
 
 That would confess me at so fair a shrine I" 
 
 Strange though it seem — yet with extremest grief 
 Is link'd a mirth — it doth not bring relief— 
 That playfulness of Sorrow ne'er beguiles, 
 And smiles in bitterness — but still it smiles ; 
 And sometimes with the wisest and the best, 
 Till even the scaflx)ld' echoes with their jest ! 
 Yet not the joy to which it seems akin — 
 It may deceive aU hearts, save that within. 
 Wliate'er it was that flash'd on Conrad, now 
 A laughing wildness half unbent his brow : 
 And these his accents had a sound of mirth. 
 As if the last he could enjoy on earth ; 
 Yet 'gainst his nature — for through that short life. 
 Few thoughts had he to spare from gloom and strife. 
 
 XIV. 
 " Corsair ! thy doom is named — but I have power 
 To soothe the Pacha in his weaker hour. 
 Thee would I spare — nay more — would save thee now 
 But this — time — hope — nor even thy strength allow 
 But all I can, I will : at least, delay 
 The sentence that remits tliee scarce a day. 
 More now were ruin — ev'n thyself were loth 
 The vain attempt should bring luit doom to lioth." 
 
 " Yes 1 — loth indeed : — my soul is nerved to all, 
 Or fall'n too low to fear a further fall : 
 
 one part of the French Revolution, it hecame a fashion to leave 
 some " mot " as a legacy ; and the quantity of facetious last words 
 spoken during that period, would form a melancholy jest-book of 
 a considerable size. 
 
102 
 
 BYROX'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto n 
 
 Tempt not thyself with peril ; me with hope 
 
 Of flight from foes with whom I could not cope : 
 
 Unfit to vanquish — shall I meanly fly, 
 
 The one of all my band that would not die ? 
 
 Yet there is one — to whom my memory clings, 
 
 Till to these eyes her own wild softness springs 
 
 My sole resources in the path I trod 
 
 Were these — my bark — my sword — my love — my 
 
 God! 
 The last I left in youth — he leaves me now — 
 And man but works his will to lay me low. 
 I have no thought to mock his throne with prayer 
 Wrung from the coward crouching of despair ; 
 It is enough — I breathe — and I can bear. 
 My sword is shaken from the worthless hand 
 That might have better kept so true a brand ; 
 My bark is sunk or captive — but my love — 
 For her in sooth my voice would mount above : 
 Oh 1 she is all that still to earth can bind — 
 And this will break a heart so more than kind. 
 And blight a form — ^till thine appear'd, Gulnare I 
 Mine eye ne'er asked if others were as fair." 
 
 " Thou lov'st another then ? — but what to me 
 Is this — 'tis notliing — nothing e'er can be : 
 But yet — thou lov'st— and — Oh I I envy those 
 Whose hearts on hearts as faithful can repose, 
 Wlio never feel the void — the wandering thought 
 That sighs o'er visions — such as mine hath wrought." 
 
 ' Lady — methought thy love was his, for whom 
 This arm redeem'd thee from a fiery tomb." 
 
 '' My love stem Seyd's ! Oh — No — No — not my love — 
 
 Tet much this heart, that strives no more, once strove 
 
 To meet his passion — but it would not be. 
 
 I felt^ — I feel — love dwells with — with the free. 
 
 I am a slave, a favor'd slave at best, 
 
 To share his splendor, and seem very blest ! 
 
 Oft must my soul the question undergo, 
 
 of — ' Dost thou love V and bum to answer, ' No !' 
 
 Oh ! hard it is that fondness to sustain, 
 
 And struggle not to feel averse in vain ; 
 
 But liarder still the heart's recoil to bear, 
 
 And liide from one — perhaps another there. 
 
 He takes the hand I give not — nor withhold — 
 
 Its puls<' nor check'd — nor quicken'd — calmly cold : 
 
 And when resign'd, it drops a lifeless weight 
 
 From one I never loved enougli to hate. 
 
 No warmth these lips return by his impress'd. 
 
 And chill'd remembrance shudders o'er the rest. 
 
 Yes- -had I ever proved that passion's zeal. 
 
 The change to hatred were at least to feel : 
 
 But still — he ^oes unmourn'd — returns vmsought — 
 
 And oft when present — absent from my thought. 
 
 Or when r(!flection comes— and come it must — 
 
 ; foar that henceforth 'twill but bring disgust ; 
 
 I am his slave — but, in despite of pride, 
 'Twere worse than bondage to become his bride. 
 Oil ! that this dotage of his b^-east woulJ ce'»»'e 1 
 Or seek another and give mine relea.te, 
 But yesterday — I could have said, to peace I 
 Yes — if unwonted fondness now 1 feign. 
 Remember — captive i 'tis to break thy chain 
 Repay the hfe that to thy hand I owe ; 
 To give thee back to all endear'd below, 
 Who share such love as I can never know. 
 Farewell— morn breaks — and I must now away : 
 'Twin cost me dear — but dread no death to-day I" 
 
 XV. 
 
 She press'd his fetter'd fingere to her heart, 
 
 And bow'd her head, and tum'd her to depart, 
 
 And noiseless as a lovely dream is gone. 
 
 And was she here ? and is he now alone ? 
 
 What gem hath dropp'd and sparkles o'er his chain 1 
 
 The tear most sacred, shed for other's pain, 
 
 That starts at once — bright — pure — from Pity's mine, 
 
 Already polish'd by the hand divine ! 
 
 Oh ! too convincing — dangerously dear — 
 
 In woman's eye the unanswerable tear ! 
 
 That weapon of her weakness she can wield. 
 
 To save, subdue — at once her sjjear and shield 
 
 Avoid it — Virtue ebbs and Wisdom errs. 
 
 Too fondly gazing on that grief of hers I 
 
 What lost a world, and bade a hero fly ? 
 
 The timid tear in Cleopatra's eye. 
 
 Yet be the soft triumvir's fault forgiven ; 
 
 By this — how many lose not earth — but heaven . 
 
 Consign their souls to man's eternal foe. 
 
 And seal their own to spare some wanton's woe. 
 
 XVI. 
 'Tis mom — and o'er his altcr'd features play 
 The beams — without the hope of yesterday. 
 What shall he be ere night ? perchance a thing 
 O'er which the raven flaps her funeral wing. 
 By his closed eye unheeded and unfelt ; 
 While sets that sun, and dews of evening melt. 
 Chill — wetland misty round each stift'en'd limb, 
 Refreshing earth — reviving all but him ! — 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 CANTO THE TUIRD. 
 
 Come vcdi— ancor non m' abbandona. — Dantb. 
 
 Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run. 
 Along Morea's hills the setting sun ; 
 
^1^ -^^5% -.-.^c^ 
 
 ^■^. 
 
Canto iil 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 103 
 
 Not, is in northern climes, obscurely bright. 
 But one unclouded blaze of living light 1 
 O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws, 
 Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows. 
 On old ^gina's rock, and Idra's isle. 
 The god of gladness sheds his parting smile, 
 O'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine, 
 Though there his altars are no more divine. 
 Descending fast the mountain shadows kiss 
 Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis I 
 Their azure arches through the long expanse 
 More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance, 
 And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, 
 Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven ; 
 Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, 
 Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep. 
 
 On such an eve, his palest beam he cast. 
 When — Athens ! here thy wisest look'd his last. 
 How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray. 
 That closed their murder'd sage's' latest day 1 
 Not yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hiU — 
 The precious hour of parting lingers still ; 
 But sad his light to agonizing eyes. 
 And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes : 
 Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour. 
 The land where Phoebus never frowu'd before ; 
 But here he sank below Citharon's head. 
 The cup of woe was quaff'd — the spirit fled ; 
 The soul of him who scorn'd to fear or fly — 
 Who lived and died, as none can live or die I 
 
 But lo ! irom high Hymettus to the plain, 
 
 The queen of night asserts het silent reign.^ 
 
 No murky vapor, herald of the storm. 
 
 Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form ; 
 
 With cornice gUmmering as the moonbeams play. 
 
 There the white column greets her grateful ray. 
 
 And, bright around with quivering beams beset. 
 
 Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret : 
 
 The groves of olives soatter'd dark and wide 
 
 Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide. 
 
 The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque, 
 
 The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk,' 
 
 And, dun and sombre 'mid the holy calm. 
 
 Near Theseus' fane yon solitary palm, 
 
 AU tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye — 
 
 And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by. 
 
 Again the ^gean, heard no more afar, 
 Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war ; 
 Again his waves in milder tints unfold 
 Their long array of sapphire and of gold. 
 
 * Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before BnnBet (the 
 h©ur of execution), notwithgtandinj^ the entreaties of hie disciplea 
 lo wait till the enn went do^vn. 
 
 ' The twUght i] Greece is much shorter than In ow "m conn- 
 
 Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle, 
 That frown — where gentler ocean seems to smile. 
 
 II. 
 
 Not now my theme — why turn my thoughts to thee ? 
 
 Oh, who can look along thy native sea. 
 
 Nor dwell upon thy name, whate'er the tale, 
 
 So much its magic must o'er all prevail ? 
 
 Who that beheld that svm upon thee set, 
 
 Fair Athens I could thine evening face forget ? 
 
 Not he — whose heart nor time nor distance frees, 
 
 Spell-boimd within the clustering Cyclades ! 
 
 Nor seems this homage foreign to his strain, 
 
 His Corsair's isle was once thine own domain — 
 
 Would that with freedom it were thine again I 
 
 III. 
 The Sim hath sunk— and, darker than the night, 
 Sinks with its beam upon the beacon height, 
 Medora's heart — the third day's come and gone — 
 With it he comes not — sends not — faithless one ! 
 The wind was fair though light ; and storms were 
 Last eve Anselmo's bark retum'd, and yet [none. 
 His only tidings that they had not met ! 
 Though wild, as now, far different were the tale 
 Had Conrad waited for that single sail. 
 
 The night-breeze freshens — she that day had pass'd 
 In watching all that Hope proclaim'd a mast ; 
 Sadly she sate — on high — Impatience bore 
 At last her footsteps to the midnight shore. 
 And there she wander'd, heedless of the spray 
 That dash'd her garments oft, and wam'd away : 
 She saw not — felt not this — nor dared depart. 
 Nor deem'd it cold — her chill was at her heart ; 
 Till grew such certainty from that suspense — 
 His very sight had shock'd from life or sense I 
 
 It came at last — a sad and shatter'd boat, 
 Wliose inmates first beheld whom first they sought ; 
 Some bleeding — all most wretched — these the few — 
 Scarce knew they how escaped — this all they knew. 
 In silence, darkling, each appear'd to wait 
 His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate : 
 Something they would have said ; but seem'd to fear 
 To trust their accents to Medora's ear. 
 She saw at once, yet sunk not — trembled not — 
 Beneath that grief, that loneliness of lot, 
 Within that meek fair form, were feelings high, 
 That deem'd not till they found their energy. 
 While yet was Hope — they soften'd — flutter'd — 
 
 wept — 
 AU lost — that softness died not — but it slept ; 
 
 try : the days in winter are longer, but in sammer of shorter dora- 
 tion. 
 
 3 The kiosk is a Turkish summer-house : the palm is without 
 the present walls of Athens, not far from the temple of Theseus, 
 between which and the tree the wall intervenes. Cephisns' stream 
 is indeed Bcanty , and Qissus lias no stream at all. 
 
 / 
 
104 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto iu. 
 
 And o'er its slumber rose that strength which said, 
 " With nothing left to love — there's naught to dread." 
 'Tis more than nature's ; like the burning might 
 Delirium gathers from the fever's height. 
 
 ' Silent you stand — nor would I hear you tell 
 What — sjxak not — breathe not — for I know it well — 
 Yet would I ask — almost my lip denies 
 The — quick your answer — tell me where he lies." 
 
 " Lady ! we know not — scarce with life we fled ; 
 
 But here is one denies that he is dead : 
 
 He saw him bound ; and bleeding — but alive." 
 
 Bhe heard no further — 'twas in vain to strive — 
 Bo throbb'd each vein — each thought — till then 
 
 withstood ; 
 Her own dark soul — these words at once subdued : 
 She totters — falls — and senseless had the wave 
 Perchance but snatch'd her from another grave ; 
 But that with hands though rude, yet weeping eyes, 
 They yield such aid as Pity's haste sujiplies ; 
 Dash o'er her deathlike cheek the ocean dew, 
 Kaise — fan — sustain — tiU life returns anew ; 
 Awake her handmaids, with the matrons leave 
 That fainting form o'er which they gaze and grieve ; 
 Then seek Anselmo's cavern, to report 
 The tale too tedious — when the triumph short. 
 
 IV. 
 In that wild council words wax'd warm and strange, 
 With thoughts of ransom, rescue, and revenge ; 
 All, save repose or flight : still lingering there 
 Breathed Conrad's spirit, and forbade despair ; 
 Whate'er his fate — the breasts he form'd and led, 
 WiU save him living, or appease him dead. 
 Wo to his foes I there yet survive a few. 
 Whose deeds are daring, as their hearts are true. 
 
 V. 
 Within the Harem's secret chamber sate 
 Stern Seyd, still pondering o'er liis Captive's fate ; 
 His thoughts on love and hate alternate dwell. 
 Now with Gulnare, and now in Conrad's cell ; 
 Here at his foot the lovely slave reclined 
 Surveys his brow — would soothe his gloom of mind; 
 While many an anxious glance her large dark eye 
 Sends in its idle search for sympathy, 
 His only bends in seeming o'er his beads,' 
 But inly views his victim as he bleeds. 
 
 " Paeha I the day is thine ; and on thy crest 
 Sits Triumph — Conrad taken — fall'n the rest 1 
 His doom is fix'd — he dies : and well his fate 
 Was earn'd — yet much too worthless for thy hate : 
 Moth inks, a short release, for ransom told 
 
 ' The combo'ioio, or Mahometan rosary : the beads are In num- 
 ber Dinety-t 'ue. 
 
 With all his treasure, not unwisely sold ; 
 Report speaks largely of his pirate-hoard — 
 Would that of this my Pacha were the lord ! 
 Wliile baffled, weaken'd by this fatal fray — 
 Watch 'd — foUow'd — he were then an easier prey ; 
 But once cut off — the remnant of his band 
 Embark their wealth, and seek a safer strand." 
 
 " Gulnare ! — if for each drop of blood a gem 
 
 Were ofler'd rich as Stamboul's diadem ; 
 
 If for each hair of his a massy mine 
 
 Of virgin ore should supplicating shine ; 
 
 If all our Arab tales divulge or dream 
 
 Of wealth were here — that gold should not redeem 
 
 It had not now redeem'd a single hour ; 
 
 But that I know him fetter'd, in my power ; 
 
 And, thirsting for revenge, I ponder still 
 
 On pangs that longest rack, and latest kiU." 
 
 " Nay, Seyd ! — I seek not to restrain thy rage, 
 Too justly moved for mercy to assuage ; 
 My thoughts were only to secure for thee 
 His riches — thus released, he were not free : 
 Disabled, shorn of half his might and band, 
 His capture could but wait thy first command." 
 
 " His 1 ;apture covld ! — and shall I then resign 
 One diy to him — the wretch already mine ? 
 Release my foe ! — at whose remonstrance ? — thine I 
 Fair suitor I — to thy virtuous gratitude. 
 That thus repays this Giaour's relenting mood, 
 Which thee and thine alone of all could spare, 
 No doubt — regardless if the prize were fair, 
 My thanks and praisa^alike are due — now hear 1 
 I have a counsel for thy gentler ear : 
 I do mistrust thee, woman ! and each word 
 Of thine stamps truth on all Suspicion heard. 
 Borne in his arms through fire from yon Serai — 
 Say, wert thou lingering there with him to fly ? 
 Thou nced'st not answer— thy confession speaks, 
 Already reddening on thy guilty checks ; 
 Then, lovely dame, bethink thee ! and beware : 
 'Tis not his life alone may claim such care I 
 Another word and — nay — I need no more. 
 Accursed was the moment when he bore 
 Thee from the flames, which better far — but — no— 
 I then had mourn'd thee with a lover's wo — 
 Now 'tis thy lord that warns — deceitful thing 1 
 Know'st thou that I can clip thy wanton wing ? 
 In words alone I am not wont to chafe : 
 Look to thyself — nor deem thy falsehood safe !" 
 
 He rose — and slowly, sternly thence withdrew, 
 Rage in his eye and threats in his adieu : 
 Ah ! little rcck'd that chief of womanhood — 
 Which frowns ne'er quell'd, nor menaces subdued f 
 And little deem'd he what thy heart, Gulnare 1 
 When soft could feel, and when incensed could daw 
 
'S^^i^-i-^ta^e^ ,:z^z^ ^^' ^S^ey^o: 
 
Canto hi. 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 105 
 
 His doubts appear'd to wrong — nor yet she knew 
 How deep the root from whence compassion grew — 
 She was a. slave — from such may captives claim 
 A fellow-feeling, differing but in name ; 
 Still half unconscious — heedless of his wrath, 
 Again she ventured on the dangerous path. 
 Again his rage repell'd — until arose 
 That strife of thought, the source of woman's woes I 
 
 VI. 
 
 Meanwhile — long anxious — weary — still — the same 
 
 RoU'd day and night — his soul could terror tame — 
 
 This fearful interval of doubt and dread, 
 
 When every hour might doom him worse than dead, 
 
 When every step that echo'd by the gate 
 
 Slight entering lead where ase and stake await ; 
 
 Wlicn every voice that grated on his car 
 
 Slight be the last that he could ever hear : 
 
 Could terror tame — that spirit stem and high 
 
 Had proved imwiUing as unfit to die ; 
 
 'Twas worn — perhaps decay'd — yet silent bore 
 
 That conflict, deadlier far than all before : 
 
 The heat of fight, the hurry of the gale. 
 
 Leave scarce one thought inert enough to quail ; 
 
 But bound and flx'd in fetter'd solitude. 
 
 To jjine, the prey of every changing mood ; 
 
 To gaze on thine own heart ; and meditate 
 
 Irrevocable faults, and coming fate — 
 
 Too late the last to shun — the first to mend — 
 
 To count the hours that struggle to thine end, 
 
 With not a friend to animate, and tell 
 
 To other ears that death became thee well ; 
 
 Around thee foes to forge the ready lie, 
 
 And blot life's latest scene with calumny ; 
 
 Before thee tortures, which the soul can dare, 
 
 Tet doubts how well the shrinking flesh may bear ; 
 
 But deeply feels a single cry would shame, 
 
 To valor's praise thy last and dearest claim ; 
 
 The life thou leav'st below, denied above 
 
 By kind monopolists of heavenly love ; 
 
 And more than douljtful j^aradise — thy heaven 
 
 Of earthly hope — thy loved one from thee riven. 
 
 Such were the thoughts that outlaw must sustain, 
 
 And govern pangs surpassing mortal pain : 
 
 And those sustain'd he — boots it well or ill ? 
 
 Since not to sink beneath is something still I 
 
 VII. 
 The first day pass'd — ^he saw not her — Gulnare — 
 The second — third — and still she came not there ; 
 But what her words avouch'd, her charms had done, 
 Or else he had not seen another sun. 
 The fourth day roU'd along, and with the night 
 Came storm and darkness in their mingling might : 
 Oh I how he liston'd to the rushing deep, 
 That ne'er tiD now so broke upon his sleep ; 
 And his wild spirit wilder wishes sent, 
 Roused by the roar of his own element 1 
 14 
 
 Oft had he ridden on that winged wave, 
 And loved its roughness for the speed it gave ; 
 And now its dashing echo'd on his ear, 
 A long-known voice — alas ! too vainly near ! 
 Loud smig the wind above ; and, doubly loud, 
 Shook o'er his turret cell the thunder-cloud ; 
 And flash'd the lightning by the latticed bar. 
 To him more genial than the midnight star : 
 Close to the glimmering grate he dragg'd his chaij 
 And hoped that peril might not prove in vain. 
 He raised his iron hand to Heaven, and pray'd 
 One pitj'ing flash to mar the form it made : 
 His steel and impious jjrayer attract alike — 
 The storm roU'd onward, and disdain'd to strike : 
 Its peal was'd fainter — ceased — he felt alone. 
 As if some faithless friend had spurn'd his groan ! 
 
 VIIL. 
 The midnight pass'd — and to the massy door 
 A light step came — it jjaused — it moved once more 
 Slow turns the grating bolt and sullen key : 
 'Tis as his heart foreboded — that fair she ! 
 Whate'er her sins, to him a guardian saint. 
 And beauteous stiU as hermit's hope can paint ; 
 Yet changed since last within that cell she came, 
 More pale her cheek, more trenmlous her frame : 
 On him she cast her dark and hurried eye, 
 ■WTiich spoke before her accents — " Thou must die ! 
 Yes, thou must die — there is but one resource. 
 The last — the worst — if torture were not worse." 
 
 " Lady ! I look to none — my lips proclaim 
 What last proclaim'd they — Conrad still the same : 
 Why shouldst thou seek an outlaw's Ufe to spare. 
 And change the sentence I deserve to bear ? 
 Well liave I earn'd — nor here alone — the meed 
 Of Seyd's revenge, by many a lawless deed. 
 
 " Why should I seek ? because — Oh ! didst thou no* 
 Redeem my Ufe from worse than slavery's lot ? 
 Why should I seek ? hath misery made thee blind 
 To the fond workings of a woman's mind ? 
 And must I say ? albeit my heart rebel 
 With all that woman feels, but should not tell — • 
 Because — despite thy crimes — that heart is moved : 
 It fear'd thee— thank'd thee — pitied — madden'd— 
 
 loved. 
 Reply not, teU not now thy tale again. 
 Thou lov'st another — and I love in vain ; 
 Though fond as mine her bosom, form more fair, 
 I rush through peril which she would not dare. 
 If that thy heart to hers were trucly dear. 
 Were I thine ovm — thou wert not U nely here : 
 An outlaw's sjjouse — and leave her lord to roam ! 
 What hath such gentle dame to do with home ? 
 But speak not now — o'er thine and o'er my head 
 Hangs the keen sabre by a siugle thread ; 
 If thou hast courage still, and wouldst be free 
 
106 
 
 BYRON'S "WORKS. 
 
 Canto m 
 
 Receive this poinard — rise — and follow me 1 
 
 " Ay — -in my chains ! my steps vrill gently tread, 
 
 With these adornments, o'er each slumbering head I 
 
 Thou hast forgot — is this a garb for flight ? 
 
 Or is that instrument more fit for fight 2" 
 
 " Misdoubting Corsair I I have gain'd the guard, 
 Ripe for revolt, and greedy for reward. 
 A single word of mine removes that chain : 
 Without some aid how here could I remain ? 
 Well, since we met, hath sped my busy time. 
 If in aught evil, for thy sake the crime : 
 The crime — 'tis none to punish those of Seyd. 
 That hated tyrant, Conrad — he must bleed ! 
 I see thee shudder— but my soul is changed — 
 Wrong'd, spurn'd, reviled — and it shall be avenged — 
 Accused of what till now my heart disdain'd 
 Too faithful, though to bitter bondage chain'd. 
 Yes, smile ! but he had little cause to sneer, 
 I was not treacherous then — nor thou too dear : 
 But he has said it — and the jealous well, 
 Those tyrants, teasing, tempting to rebel, 
 Deserve the fate their fretting lips foretell. 
 I never loved — he bought me — somewhat high, 
 Since with me came a heart he could not buy. 
 I was a slave unmurmuring : he hath said. 
 But for his rescue I with thee had fled. 
 'Twas false thou know'st — but let such augurs rue, 
 Their words are omens Insult renders true. 
 Nor was thy respite granted to my prayer ; 
 This fleeting grace was only to prepare 
 New torments for thy life, and my despair. 
 Mine too he threatens ; but his dotage still 
 Would fain reserve me for his lordly will : 
 When wearier of these fleeting charms and me, 
 There yawns the sack — and yonder rolls the sea I 
 What, am I then a toy for dotard's play. 
 To wear but tiU the gilding frets away ? 
 I saw thee — loved thee — owe thee all — would save. 
 If but to show how grateful is a slave. 
 Butiiad he not thus menaced fame and life, 
 (And well he keeps his oaths pronounced in strife,) 
 I still had saved thee — but the Pacha spared. 
 Now I am all thine own — for all prepared : 
 Thou lov'st me not — nor know'st— or but the worst. 
 Alas I this love — that hatred are the first — [start, 
 Oh ! couldst thou prove my truth, thou wouldst not 
 Nor fear the fire that lights an Eastern heart ; 
 'Tis now the beacon of thy safety — now— 
 It points within the port a Mainote prow : 
 But in one chamber, where our path must lead. 
 There sleeps — he must not wake — the oppressor 
 Seyd ?•' 
 
 " Gulnare — Gulnare — I never felt tiU now 
 My abject fortune, wither'd fame so low : 
 Seyd is mine enemy : had swept my band 
 From earth with ruthless but mth open hand, 
 
 And therefore came I, in my bark of war, 
 
 To smite the smiter with a scimitar ; 
 
 Such is my weapon — not the secret knife — 
 
 Who spares a woman's seeks not slumber's life. 
 
 Thine saved I gladly, Lady, not for this — 
 
 Let me not deem that mercy shown amiss. 
 
 Now fare thee well — more peace be with thy bre*flt 
 
 Night wears apace — my last of earthly rest I" 
 
 " Rest ! rest ! by sunrise must thy sinews shaka 
 
 And thy Umbs writhe around the ready stake. 
 
 I heard the order — saw — I will not see — 
 
 If thou wilt perish, I will fall with thee. 
 
 My life — my love — my hatted — all below 
 
 Are on this cast — Corsair ! 'tis Init a blow ! 
 
 Without it flight were idle — how evade 
 
 His sure pursuit ? my wrongs too unrepaid, 
 
 Jly youth disgraced — the long, long wasted years 
 
 One blow shall cancel with our future fears ; 
 
 But since the dagger suits thee less than brand, 
 
 I'll try the firmness of a female hand. 
 
 The guards are gain'd — one moment all were o'er- 
 
 Corsair 1 we meet in safety or no more ; 
 
 If errs my feeble hand, the morning cloud 
 
 Win hover o'er thy scaflbld, and my shroud." 
 
 IX. 
 
 She turn'd, and vanish'd ere he could reply, 
 
 But his glance foUow'd far with eager eye ; 
 
 And gathering, as he could, the links that bound 
 
 His form, to curl their length, and curb their sotiB'" 
 
 Since bar and bolt no more his steps preclude. 
 
 He, fast as fettcr'd limbs aUow, ptirsued. 
 
 'Twas dark and winding, and he knew not where 
 
 That passage led ; nor lamp nor guard were there : 
 
 He sees a dusky glimmering — shall he seek 
 
 Or shun that ray so indistinct and weak ! 
 
 Chance guides his steps — a freshness seems to bear 
 
 FuU on his brow, as if from morning air — 
 
 He reach'd an open gallery — on his eye 
 
 Gleam'd the last star of night, the clearing sky : 
 
 Yet scarcely heeded these — another light 
 
 From a lone chamber struck upon his sight. 
 
 Towards it he moved ; a scarcely closing door 
 
 Reveal'd the ray within, but nothing more. 
 
 With hasty step a figure outward pass'd, [last ' 
 
 Then paused — and turn'd — and paused — 'tis she st 
 
 No poniard in that hand — nor sign of ill — 
 
 "Thanks to that softening heart — she could not kill!" 
 
 Again he look'd, the wildness of her eye 
 
 Starts from the day alirupt and fearfully. 
 
 She stopp'd — threw back her dark far-floating hail 
 
 That nearly veil'd her face and bosom fair : 
 
 As if she late had bent her leaning head 
 
 Above some object of her doubt or dread. 
 
 They meet — upon her orow — unknown — forgot — 
 
 Her hurrying hand had left — 'twas but a spot — 
 
 Its hue was all he saw, and scarce withstood — 
 
 Oh 1 slight but certain pledge of crime — 'tis blood 
 
Canto m. 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 lOT 
 
 X. 
 
 He bad seen battle — ^he had brooded lone 
 O'er promised pangs to sentenced guilt foreshown ; 
 3e had been tempted — chasten'd — and the chain 
 Yet on his arms might ever there remain : 
 But ne"cr from strife — captivity — remorse — 
 From all his feelings in their inmost force — 
 So thrill'd — so shudder'd every creeping vein, 
 As now they froze before that purple stain. 
 That spot of blood, that hght but guilty streak, 
 Had banish'd all the beauty from her cheek ! 
 Blood he had view'd— could view unmoved — ^but then 
 It flow'd in combat, or was shed by men ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 " Tis done — li e nearly waked — but it is done. 
 Corsair ! he perish'd — thou art dearly won. 
 All words would now be vain — away — away 1 
 Our bark is tossing — 'tis already day. 
 The few gain'd over now are wholly mine, 
 And these thy yet surviving band shall join. 
 A-non my voice shall vindicate my hand, 
 IVTien once our sail forsakes this hated strand." 
 
 XII. 
 Sheclapp'd her hands — and through the gallery pour, 
 Equipp'd for flight, her vassals — Greek and Moor ; 
 Silent hut quick they stoop, his chains unbind; 
 Once more his limbs are free as mountain wind 1 
 B.it on his heavy heart such sadness sate, 
 As if they there tranferr'd that iron weight. 
 No words are utter'd — at her sign, a door 
 Heveals the secret passage to the shore ; 
 The city lies behind — they speed, they reach 
 The glad waves dancing on the yellow beach ; 
 And Conrad following, at her beck, obey'd, 
 Nor cared he now if rescued or betray'd ; 
 Resistance were as useless as if Seyd 
 Yet lived to view the doom his ire decreed. 
 
 XIII. 
 Embark'd, the sail unfiirl'd, the light breeze blew — 
 How much had Conrad's memory to review ! 
 Sunk he in Contemplation, till the cape 
 Where last he anchor'd rear'd its giant shape. 
 Ah : — since that fatal night, though brief the time, 
 Had swept an age of terror, grief, and crime. 
 As its far shadow frown'd above the mast. 
 He veil'd his face, and sorrow'd as he pass'd ; 
 He thought of all — Gonsalvo and his band, 
 His fleeting triumph, and his faiUng hand ; 
 He thought on her afar, his lonely bride : 
 lie tum'd and saw — Gulnare, the homicide I 
 
 XIV. 
 
 She watch'd his features till she could not bear 
 Their freezing aspect and averted air, 
 And that strange fierceness foreign to her eye, 
 Fell quench'd in tears, too late to shed or dry. 
 
 She knelt beside him and his hand she press'd, 
 " Thou mayst forgive though Allah's self detest ; 
 But for that deed of darkness what wert thou ? 
 Reproach me — but not yet — Oh ' spare me 7iow ! 
 I am not what I seem — this fearful night 
 My brain bewilder'd — do not madden quite i 
 If I had never loved — though less my guilt. 
 Thou hadst not lived to — hate me — if thou wilt." 
 
 XV. 
 She wrongs his thoughts, they more himself upbraiil 
 Than her, though undesign'd, the wrc^tch he made ; 
 But speechless all, deep, dark, and unespress'd. 
 They bleed within that silent cell — his breast. 
 Still onward, fair the breeze, nor rough the surge, 
 The blue waves sport around the stem they urge ; 
 Far on the horizon's verge appears a speck, 
 A spot — a mast — a sail — an armed deck ! 
 Their little bark her men of watch descry. 
 And amjiler canvass woos the wind from high ; 
 She bears her down majestically near. 
 Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier ; 
 A flash is seen — the ball beyond their bow 
 Booms harmless, hissing to the deep below. 
 Up rose keen Conrad from his silent trance, 
 A long, long absent gladness in Ids glance ; 
 " 'Tis mine — my blood-red flag ! again — ag.'iin — 
 I am not aU deserted on the main !" 
 They own the signal, answer to the haii, 
 Hoist out the boat at once, and slacken sail 
 " 'Tis Conrad ! Conrad !" shouting from the deck, 
 Command nor duty could their transport check ! 
 With light alacrity and gaze of pride, 
 They view him mount once more his vessel's side ; 
 A smile relaxing in each rugged face. 
 Their arms can scarce forbear a rough em_brace. 
 He, half forgetting danger and defeat. 
 Returns their greeting as a chief may greet. 
 Wrings with a cordial grasp Anselmc's hand, 
 And feels he yet can conquer and command ! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 These greetings o'er, the feelings that o'erflow, 
 Yet grieve to win him back -n-ithout a blow ; 
 They sail'd prepared for vengeance — had they knowa 
 A woman's hand secured that deed her own, 
 She were their queen — less scrupulous are they 
 Than haughty Conrad how they -svin their way. 
 With many an asking smile, and wondering stare, 
 They whisper round, and gaze upon Gulnare ; 
 And her, at once above — beneath her sex, 
 Wliom blood appall'd not, their regards perplex. 
 To Conrad turns her faint imploring eye. 
 She drops her veil, and stands in silence by ; 
 Her arms are meekly folded on that breast, 
 Wliich — Conrad safe — to ftxte rcsign'd the rest. 
 Though worse than phrensy could that bosom fill, 
 Extreme in love or hate, in good or ill. 
 The worst of crimes had left her woman stil 
 
lOrf 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto in. 
 
 XVII. 
 This Conrad mark'd, and felt — ah ! could he less ? — 
 Hate of that deed — but grief for her distress ; 
 Wliat she has done no tears can wash away, 
 And Heaven must punish on its angry day : 
 But — it was done : he knew, whate'er her guilt. 
 For liim tliat poniard smote, that blood was spilt ; 
 And he was free : — and she for him had given 
 Her all ou earth, and more than all in heaven I 
 And now he turn'd him to that dark-eyed slave, 
 Whose brow was bow'd beneath the glance be gave, 
 WTio now seera'd changed and humbled : — faint and 
 
 meek, 
 But varying oft the color of her cheek 
 To deeper shades of paleness — all its red 
 That fearful spot which staia'd it from the dead I 
 He took that hand — it trembled — now too late — 
 So soft in love — so wildly nerved in hate : 
 He clasp'd that hand — it trembled — and his own 
 Had lost its firmness, and his voice its tone. 
 " Gulnare 1" — but she replied not — " dear Gulnare 1" 
 She raised her eye — her only answer there — 
 At once she sought and sank in his embrace ; 
 If lie had driven her from that resting-place. 
 His had been more or less than mortal heart, 
 But — good or ill — it bade her not depart. 
 Perchance, but for the bodings of his breast, 
 His latest virtue then had joiu'd the rest. 
 Yet even Medora might forgive the kiss 
 That ask'd from form so fair no more than this, 
 The fii'st, the last that Frailty stole from Faith — 
 To lips where Love had lavish'd all his breath, 
 To lips — whose broken sighs such fragrance fling 
 As he had fann'd them freshly with his wing I 
 
 xvm. 
 
 They gain by twilight's hour their lonely isle. 
 To them the very rocks aj^pear to smile ; 
 The haven hums with many a cheering sound. 
 The beacons blaze their wonted stations round. 
 The boats are darting o'er the curly bay. 
 And sportive dolphins bend them through the spray ; 
 Even the hoarse sea-bird's shrill, discordant shriek. 
 Greets like the welcome of his tuneless beak 1 
 Beneath each lamp that through its lattice gleams. 
 Their fancy paints the friends that trim the beams. 
 Oh I what can sanctify the joys of home. 
 Like Hope's gay glance from Ocean's troubled foam ? 
 
 XI.\. 
 The lights are high on beacon and from bower, 
 And 'midst them Conrad seeks Medora's tower : 
 He looks in vain — 'tis strange — and all remark, 
 Amid so many, hers alone is dark. 
 'Tia strange — of yore its welcome never fail'd. 
 Nor now, perchance, extinguish'd, only veil'd. 
 With the first boat descends he for the shore, 
 Ajrd looks impatient on the lingering oar. 
 
 Oh ! for a wing beyond the falcon's flight, 
 To bear him like an arrow to that height I 
 With the first pause the resting rowers gave, 
 He waits not — looks not — leaps into the wave, 
 Strives through the surge, bestrides the beach, and 
 Ascends the path familiar to his eye. [high 
 
 He reach'd his turret door — he paused — no sound 
 Broke from within ; and all was night around. 
 He knoek'd, and loudly — footstep nor reply 
 Announced that any heard or deem'd him nigh ; 
 He knoek'd — but faintly — for his trembling hand 
 Refused to aid his heavy heart's demand. 
 The portal opens — -'tis a well-known face 
 But not the form he panted to embrace. 
 Its lips are silent — twice his own essay'd, 
 And fail'd to frame the question they delay'd ; 
 He snatch'd the lam]) — its light will answer all— 
 It quits his grasj), expiring in the fall. 
 He would not wait for that reviving ray — 
 As soon could he have linger'd there for day , 
 But, glimmering through the dusky corridorc, 
 Another checkers o'er the shadow'd floor ; 
 His steps the chamber gain — his, eyes behold 
 All that his heart believed not — yet foretold ! 
 
 XX. 
 
 He turn'd not — spoke not — sunk not — fix'd his looR, 
 And set the anxious frame that lately shook : 
 He gazed — how long we gaze despite of pain. 
 And know, but dare not own, we gaze in vain ! 
 In litfc itself she was so still and fair. 
 That death with gentler aspect wither'd there ; 
 And the cold flovi'ers' her colder hand eontaiu'd, 
 In that last grasp as tenderly were strain'd 
 As if she scarcely felt, but feign'd a sleep. 
 And made it almost mockery yet to weep : 
 The long dark lashes fringed hei- Uds of snow. 
 And veii"d — thought shrinks from all that lurkM 
 
 below — 
 Oh ! o'er the eye Death most exerts his might. 
 And hurls the spirit from her throne of light ; 
 Sinks those blue orbs in that long last ccliisse. 
 But spares, as yet, the charm around her lijis — 
 Yet, yet they seem as they forcbore to smile, 
 And wish'd repose — but only for a while ; 
 But the white shroud, and each extended tress, 
 Long— fair — but spread in utter lifelessncss, 
 Which, late the sport of every summer wind. 
 Escaped the baflled wreath that strove to bind ; 
 These — and the pale pure cheek, became the bier — 
 But she is nothing — wherefore is he here ? 
 
 XXI. 
 
 He ask'd no question — all were answer'd now 
 By the first glance on that still, marble brow. 
 
 ' In the LevnHt it is the custom to strew flowers on the l)0(lie! 
 of the dead, aud iu tlie hands of j-oudk persons to p,M-r a nosegay . 
 
CAjfTO in. 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 109 
 
 It was enough — slie died — what reck'd it how ? 
 
 The love of youth, the hope of better years, 
 
 The source of softest wishes, tenderest fears, 
 
 The only living thing he could not hate, 
 
 Was reft at once — and he deserved his fate, 
 
 But did not feel it less : — the good explore, 
 
 For peace, those realms where guilt can never soar ! 
 
 The proud — the wayward — who have fix'd below 
 
 Their joy, and find this earth enough for wo. 
 
 Lose in that one their all — perchance a mite — 
 
 But who in patience parts with all delight ? 
 
 Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern 
 
 Mask hearts where grief hath little left to learn ; 
 
 And many a withering thought lies hid, not lost, 
 
 In smiles that least befit who wear them most. 
 
 XXII. 
 By those that deepest feel is ill express'd 
 JThe indistinctness of the suffering breast ; 
 Where thousand thoughts begin to end in one. 
 Which seeks from all the refuge found in none ; 
 No words suiEce the secret soul to show, 
 For Truth denies all eloquence to Wo. 
 On Conrad's stricken soul exhaustion press'd, 
 And stupor almost luU'd it into rest ; 
 So feeble now — his mother's softness crept 
 To those wild eyes, which like an infant's wept : 
 It was the very weakness of his brain. 
 Which thus confess'd without relieving pain. 
 None saw hfs trickling tears — perchance, if seen. 
 That useless flood of grief had never been : 
 Nor long they flow'd — he dried them to depart. 
 In helpless — hopeless — brokenness of heart : 
 The sun goes forth — but Conrad's day is dim ; 
 And the night cometh — ne'er to pass from him. 
 There is no darkness like the cloud of mind. 
 On Grief's vain eye — the blindest of the blind — 
 Which may not — dare not see — but turns aside 
 To blackest shade — nor will endure a guide ! 
 
 * That the point of honor which is represented in one instance 
 of Conrad's character has not been carried beyond the bonnds of 
 probability, may perhap? be in some dej^ee confirmed by the fol- 
 lowing anecdote of a brother buccaneer in the year 1814:—" Otir 
 readers have all seen the account of the enterprise against the pi- 
 rates of Barrataria : but few, we believe, were informed of the sit- 
 uation, history, or nature of that establishment. For the informa- 
 tion of such as were unacquainted with it, we have procured from 
 a friend the following interesting narrative of the main facts, of 
 which he has personal knowledge, and which cannot fail to inter- 
 est some of our readers. — Barrataria is a bay, or a narrow arm of 
 the Gulf of Mexico ; it runs through a rich but very flat country, 
 until it reaches within a mile of the Mississippi river, fifteen miles 
 below the city of New Orleans. The bay has branches almost in- 
 numerable, in which persons can lie concealed from the severest 
 scrutiny. It communicates with three Lakes which lie on the south- 
 west side, and these, with the lake of the same name, and which 
 lies contiguous to the sea, where there is an island formed by the 
 two arms of this lalvC and the sea. The east and west points of 
 this island were fortified, in the year 1811, by a band of pirates, 
 imder the command of one Monsieur La Fitte. A large majority 
 of these outlaws are of that class of the population of the state of 
 Louisiana who fled from the island of St. Domingo during the 
 troubles there, and took rsfuge in the island ef Cuba ; and when 
 
 XXTII. 
 His heart was form'd for softness — warp'd to wrong; 
 Betray'd too early, and beguiled too long ; 
 Each feeling pure — as falls the drojjping dew 
 Within the grot ; Uke that had harden'd too ; 
 Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials pass'd, 
 But sunk, and chill'd, and petrified at last. 
 Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the rock. 
 If such his heart, so shatter'd it the shock. 
 There grew one flower beneath its rugged brow, 
 Though dark the shade — it shelter'd — s.aved till now 
 The thunder came — that bolt hath blasted both, 
 The Granite's firmness, and the Lily's growth • 
 The gentle plant hath left no leaf to tell 
 Its tale, but shrunk and wither'd where it fell ; 
 And of its cold protector, blacken round 
 But shiver'd fragments on the barren ground I 
 
 XXIV. 
 'Tis mom — to venture on his lonely hour 
 Few dare ; though now Anselmo sought his tower. 
 He was not there — nor seen along the shore ; 
 Ere night, alarm'd, their isle is traversed o'er : 
 Another mom — another bids them seek, 
 And shout his name till echo waxeth weak ; 
 Mount — grotto — cavern — -valley search'd in vain, 
 They find on shore a seaboat's broken chain : 
 Their hojje revives — they follow o'er the main. 
 'Tis idle all — moons roll on moons away. 
 And Conrad comes not— came not since that day. 
 Nor trace, nor tidings of his doom declare 
 Where lives his grief, or perish'd his despair. 
 Long moum'd his band whom none could moura 
 
 beside ; 
 And fair the monument they gave Ms bride : 
 For him they raise not the recording stone — 
 His death yet dubious, deeds too widely known ; 
 He left a Corsair's name to other times, 
 Link'd Tvith one virtue,' and a thousand crimes. 
 
 the last war between France and Spain commenced, they were 
 compelled to leave that island with the short notice of a few days. 
 Without ceremony, they entered the United States, the most of 
 them the state of Loiiisiana. with all the negroes they had possessed 
 in Cuba. They were notified by the Governor of that St.Tte of the 
 clause in the Constitution which forbade the importation of slaves ; 
 but, at the same time, received the assurance of the Governor thai 
 he would obtain, if possible, the approbation of the General Gov- 
 emment for their retaining this property.— The island of Barrata- 
 ria is situated about lat. 29 deg, 1,5 min.. Ion. 92 39 ; and is as r» 
 markable for its health as for the superior scale and shell fish witll 
 which its waters abound. The chief of this horde, Uke Charles ae 
 Moor, had mixed with his many vices some virtues. In the year 
 181.3, this party had, from its turpitude and boldness, claimed the 
 attention of the Governor of Louisiana ; and to break up the es- 
 tablishment, he thought proper to strike at the bead. lie therefora 
 oflfered a reward of 500 dollars for the head of Monsieur La Fitte, 
 who was well known to the inlnbitants of the city of New Orleans, 
 j fVom his immediate connection, and his once having been a feno 
 j ing-master in that city of great reputation, which art he learned in 
 Bonaparte's anny. where he was a captain. The reward which 
 was ofl"ered by the Governor for the head of La Fitte was answered 
 i by the otfer of a reward from the latter of 15,000 for the bead of 
 I the Goveriior. The Governor ordered out a company to march 
 
112 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Caxt" j. 
 
 Why slept he not when others were at rest ? 
 WTiy heard no music, and reccired no guest ? 
 All was not well, they deem'd — but where the wrong ? 
 Some knew perchance — but 'twere a tale too long ; 
 And such besides were too discreetly wise, 
 To more than hint their knowledge in surmise ; 
 But if they would — they could " — around the board, 
 Thus Lara's vassals prattled of their lord. 
 
 X. 
 
 It was the night — and Lara's glassy stream 
 
 The stars are studding, each with imaged beam ; 
 
 Bo calm, the waters scarcely seem to stray. 
 
 And yet they glide like happiness away ; 
 
 Reflecting far and fairy-like from high 
 
 The immortal lights that live along the sky : 
 
 Its banks are fringed with many a goodly tree, 
 
 And flowers the fairest that may feast the bee ; 
 
 Such in her chaplet infant Dian wove. 
 
 And Innocence would off'er to her love. 
 
 These deck the shore ; the waves their channel make 
 
 In windings Imght and mazy like the snake. 
 
 All was so still, so soft in earth and air, 
 
 Tou scarce would start to meet a spirit there ; 
 
 Secure that naught of evil could delight 
 
 To walk in such a scene, on such a night I 
 
 It was a moment only for the good : 
 
 So Lara deem'd, nor longer there he stood, 
 
 But turn'd in silence to his castle-gate, 
 
 Such scene his soul no more could contemplate : 
 
 Such scene reminded him of other days, 
 
 Of skies more cloudless, moons of purer blaze, 
 
 Of nights more soft and frequent, hearts that now — 
 
 No — no — the storm may beat upon his brow 
 
 Unfclt — unsparing — but a night like this, 
 
 A night of beauty, mock'd such breast as his, 
 
 XI. 
 He tum'd within his solitary hall. 
 And his high shadow shot along the wall : 
 There were the painted forms of other times, 
 'Twas aU they left of virtues or of crimes, 
 Save vague tradition ; and the gloomy vaults 
 That hid their dust, their foibles, and their faults : 
 .\nd half a column of the pompous page, 
 Tliat speeds the specious tale from age to age ; 
 ■\Vlicre history's pen its praise or blame supplies, 
 And lies like truth, and still most truly lies. 
 He wandering mused, and as the moonbeam shone 
 Through the dim lattice o'er the floor of stone, 
 And the high fretted roof, and saints, that there 
 O'er Gothic windows knelt in pictured prayer, 
 Reflected in fantastic figures grew, 
 Like life, but not like mortal life, to view; 
 His bristling locks of sable, brow of gloom, 
 .\nd the wide waving of his shaken plume. 
 Glanced like a sjiectre's attributes, and gave 
 His aspe^-t all tliat terror gives the grave. 
 
 xn. 
 
 'Twas midnight — all was slumber ; the lone light 
 Dimm'd in the lamp, .as loth to break the nighl 
 Hark ! there be murmurs heard in Lara's hall — 
 A sound — a voice — a shriek — a fearful call ! 
 A long, loud shriek — and silence — did they hear 
 That frantic echo burst the sleeping car ? 
 They heard and rose, and tremulously brave, 
 Rush where the sound invoked their aid to save ; 
 They come with half-lit tapers in their hands. 
 And snatch''!' in startled haste unbelted brands. 
 
 xm. 
 
 Cold as the marble where his length was 'aid, 
 
 Pale as the beam that o'er his features play'd. 
 
 Was Lara stretch'd ; his half-drawn sabre near, 
 
 Dropp'd it should seem in more than nature's fear ; 
 
 Yet he was firm, or had been firm till now, 
 
 And still defiance Ivnit his gather'd brow ; 
 
 Though mix'd with terror, senseless as he lay, 
 
 There lived upon his lij} the wish to slay ; 
 
 Some half-form'd threat in utterance there had ditd. 
 
 Some imj)recation of despairing pride ; 
 
 His eye was almost seal'd, but not forsook 
 
 Even in its trance the gladiator's look, 
 
 That oft awake his aspect could disclose. 
 
 And now was fix'd in horrible repose. [speaks, 
 
 They raise him — bear him ; — hush ! he breathes, ha 
 
 The swarthy blush recolors in his cheeks. 
 
 His lip resumes its red. his eye, though dim. 
 
 Rolls wide and wild, each slowly quivering limb 
 
 Recalls its function, Init his words are strung 
 
 In terms that seem not of his native tongue ; 
 
 Distinct but strange, enough thoy understand 
 
 To deem them accents of another land ; 
 
 And such they were, and meant to meet an ear 
 
 That hears him not — alas ! that cannot hear ! 
 
 XIV. 
 His page approach'd, and he alone appcar'd 
 To know the import of the words they heard ; 
 And, by the changes of his cheek and brow, 
 They were not such as Lara should avow, 
 Nor he interpret, — yet with less surjjrise 
 Than those around their chieftain's state he eyes. 
 But Lara's prostrate form he bent beside. 
 And in that tongue which secm'd his own replied, 
 And Lara heeds those tones which gently seem 
 To soothe away the horrors of his dream — 
 If dream it were, that thus could overthrow 
 A breast that needed not ideal wo. 
 
 XV. 
 Whate'er his phrensy dream'd or eye beheld. 
 If yet remember'd ne'er to be reveal'd. 
 Rests at his heart : the custom'd morning came. 
 And breathed new vigor in his shaken frame ; 
 And solace sought he none from priest nor leech. 
 And soon the same in movement and in speech 
 
Canto i. 
 
 LARA. 
 
 113 
 
 &.S heretofore he flU'd the passing hours, — 
 Nor le>:s he smiles, nor more his forehead lo-n-ers, 
 Than these were wont ; and if the coming night, 
 Appear'd less welcome now to Lara's sight, 
 He to his marvelling vassals show'd it not, 
 Wliose shuddering proved tfifir fear was less forgot. 
 In trembling pairs (alone they dared not) crawl 
 The astonish'd slaves, and shun the fated hall ; 
 The waving banner, and the clapping door, 
 The rustUng tapestry, and the echoing floor ; 
 The long dim shadows of surrounding trees. 
 The flapping bat, the night-song of the breeze ; 
 Aught they behold or hear their thought appals, 
 As evening saddens o'er the dark gray walls. 
 
 XVI. 
 Vain thought ! that hour of ne'er unravell'd gloom 
 Came not again, or Lara could assume 
 A seeming of forgetfuhiess, that made 
 His vassals more amazed nor less afraid — 
 Had memory vanish'd then ■n-ith sense restored ? 
 Since word, nor look, nor gesture of their lord 
 Betray'd a feeling that recaU'd to these 
 That fever'd moment of his mind's disease. 
 Was it a dream ? was his the voice that spoke 
 Those strange wild accents ; his the cry that broke 
 Their slumber ? his the oppress'd, o'erlaljor'd heart 
 That ceased to beat, the look that made them start ? 
 Could he who thus had suffer'd so forget, 
 Wlitn such as saw that suflcring shudder yet ? 
 Or did that silence prove his memory fis'd 
 Too deep for words, indelible, unmix'd 
 In that corroding secrecy which gnaws 
 The heart to show the effect, but not the cause ? 
 Not so in him ; his breast had buried both. 
 Nor common gazers could discern the growth 
 Of thoughts that mortal lips must leave half told ; 
 They choke the feeble words that would unfold. 
 
 XVII. 
 In him inexplicably mix'd apjjear'd 
 Much to be loved and hated, sought and fear'd ; 
 Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot, 
 In praise or raihng ne'er his name forgot : 
 His silence form'd a theme for others' prate — 
 They guess'd — they gazed — they fain would know 
 
 his fate. 
 What had he been ? what was he, thus unknown, 
 '5V1io walk'd their world, his lineage only known ? 
 A hater of his kind ? yet some would say, 
 With them he could seem gay amidst the gay ; 
 But own'd that smile, if oft observed and near, 
 Waned in its mirth, and wither'd to a sneer ; 
 That smile might reach his lip. but pass'd not by, 
 None e'er could trace its laughter to his eye : 
 Yet there was softness too in his regard, 
 At times, a heart as not by nature hard. 
 But once perceived, his spirit seem'd to chide 
 15 
 
 Such v.-eakness, as unworthy of its pride, 
 
 And steel'd itself, as scorning to redeem 
 
 One doubt from others' half-withheld esteem ; 
 
 In self-inflicted penance of a breast 
 
 "V^Tiich tenderness might once have wrung from rest 
 
 In vigilance of grief that would comijel 
 
 The soul to hate for having loved too well. 
 
 XVIII. 
 There was in him a vital scorn of all : 
 As if the worst had fallen which could befall, 
 He stood a stranger in this breathing world, 
 An erring spirit from another hurl'd ; 
 A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped 
 By choice the perils he by chance escaped ; 
 But 'scaped In vain, for in their memory yet 
 His mind would hah" exult and half regret : 
 With more capacity for love than earth 
 Bestows on. most of mortal mould and birth, 
 His early dreams of good outstripp'd the truth. 
 And troubled manhood foUow'd baflied youth ; 
 With thought of years in phantom chase misspeni, 
 And wasted powers for better purpose lent ; 
 And fiery passions that had pour'd their wrath 
 In huj-ried desolation o'er his path, 
 And left the better feelings aU at strife 
 In wild reflection o'er his stormy Ufe ; 
 But haughty still, and loth himself to blame, 
 He caird on Nature's self to share the shame, 
 And charged iiD faults upon the fleshy for;n 
 She gave to clog the soul, and feast the worm , 
 Tin he at last confounded good and ill, 
 And hau mistook for fate the acts of will : 
 Too high for common selfishness, he could 
 At times resign his own for others' good. 
 But not in pity, not because he ought, 
 But in some strange perversity of thought. 
 That sway'd him onward with a secret pride 
 To do what few or none would do beeide ; 
 And this same impulse would, in tempting time, 
 Mislead his spirit equally to crime ; 
 So much he soar'd beyond, or sunk beneath. 
 The men with whom he felt condemn'd to breathe, 
 And long'd by good or iU to separate 
 Himself from all who shared his mortal state ; 
 His mind abhorring this had fis'd her throne 
 Far from the world, in regions of her own : 
 Thus coldly passing all that pass'd below. 
 His blood in temperate seeming now would flow : 
 Ah ! happier if it ne'er with guilt had glow'd. 
 But ever in that icy smoothness flow'd ! 
 'Tis true, with other men their path he walk'd, 
 And like the rest in seeming did and talk'd. 
 Nor outraged Reason's rules by flaw nor start ; 
 His madness v,-as not of the head, but heart, 
 And rarely wandor'd in his speech, or drew 
 His thoughts, so forth as to oflend the view. 
 
114 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto i. 
 
 XIX. 
 Witb al! tliat chilling mystery of mien, 
 A.nd seuming gladness to remain unseen, 
 He had (if 'twere not nature's boon) an art 
 Of fixing memory on another's heart. : 
 It was not love perchance — nor hate — nor aught 
 That words can image to exjiress the thought ; 
 But they who saw him did not see in vain, 
 A.nd once beheld, would ask of him again : 
 Xnd those to whom he spake remcmber'd well. 
 And on the words, however light, would dwell : 
 None knew, nor how, nor why, but he entwined 
 nimself perforce around the hearer's mind ; 
 There he was stamp'd, in liking, or in hate, 
 If greeted onee ; however brief the date 
 That friendship, pity, or aversion knew, 
 StiU there within the inmost thought he grew. 
 You could not penetrate his soul, but found. 
 Despite your wonder, to your own he wound ; 
 His presence haunted still ; and from the breast 
 He forced an all unwilling interest : 
 Vain was the struggle in that mental net. 
 His or.iVjt seem'd to dare you to forget ! 
 
 XX. 
 
 There is a festival, -vvhcre knights and dames. 
 And aught that wealth or lofty lineage claims 
 Appear — a highborn and a welcome guest 
 To Otho's hall came I/ara with the rest. 
 The long carousal shakes the illumined hall, 
 Well speeds alike the banquet and the baU ; 
 And the gay dance of bounding Beauty's train 
 Links grace and harmony in happiest chain : 
 Blest are the early hearts and gentle hands 
 That mingle there in well-according bands ; 
 It is a sight the careful brow might smooth. 
 And make Age smile, and dream itself to youth. 
 And Youth forget such hour was pass'd on earth. 
 So springs the exulting bosom to that mirth ! 
 
 XXI. 
 
 And Lara gazed on these, sedately glad, 
 
 ifis brow belied him if his soul was sad ; 
 
 And his glance follow'd fast each fluttering fair. 
 
 Whose steps of lightness woke no eclio there : 
 
 He lean'd against the lofty pillar nigh. 
 
 With folded arms and long attentive eye. 
 
 Nor marlv'd a glance so sternly fix'd on his — 
 
 ni brook'd high Lara scrutiny like this : 
 
 At length he caught it — 'tis a face unknown, 
 
 But seems as searching his, and his alone ; 
 
 Prying and dark, a stranger's by his mien. 
 
 Who still till now had gazed on him unseen : 
 
 At length encountering meets the mutual gaze 
 
 Of keen inquiry, and of mute amaze ; 
 
 On Lara's glance emotion gathering grew, 
 
 As if distrusting that the stranger threw ; 
 
 Along the stranger's aspect, tix'd and stern, 
 
 Flash'd more than thence the vulgar eye could jem. 
 
 XXII. 
 " 'Tis he !" the stranger cried, and those that b«ard 
 Re-echo'd fast and far the whisjier'd word. 
 " 'Tis he I" — " 'Tis who ?"' they question far and nea* 
 Till louder accents rung on Lara's ear ; 
 So vi-idely spread, few besoms well cculd brook 
 The general marvel, or that single look : 
 But Lara stirr'd not, changed not, the surprise 
 That sprung at first to his arrested eyes 
 Seem'd now subsided, neither sunk nor raised, 
 Glanced his eye round, though still the stranger 
 
 gazed ; 
 And drawing nigh, exclaim'd, with haughty sneer, 
 " 'Tis he ! — how came he thence ? — what doth be 
 
 here ?" 
 
 XXIII. 
 It were too much for Lara to pass by 
 Such questions, so rejieated fierce and high ; 
 With look collected, but vrith accent cold. 
 More mildly firm than petulantly bold. 
 He tum'd, and met the inquisitorial tone— 
 " My name is Lara ! — when thine own is known, 
 Doubt not my fitting answer to requite 
 The unlook'd for courtesy of such a knight. 
 'Tis Lara ! — further wouldst thou mark or ask ? 
 I shun no question, and I wear no mask." 
 
 " Thou shunn'st no question ! Ponder — is there none 
 Thy heart must answer, though thine ear would shmi i 
 And decm'st thou me unknown too ? Gaze again I 
 At least thy memory was not given in vain. 
 Oh ! never canst thou cancel half her debt. 
 Eternity forbids thee to forget." 
 With slow and searching glance upon his face 
 Grew Lara's eyes, but nothing there could trace 
 They knew, or chose to know — with dubious look 
 He deign'd no answer, but his head he shook, 
 .iVnd half contemptuous tum'd to pass away ; 
 But the stern stranger motion'd him to stay. 
 "A word ! — I charge thee stay, and answer here 
 To one, who, wert thou noble, were thy peer ; 
 But as thou wast and art — nay, frown not, lord, 
 If false, 'tis easy to disprove the word — 
 But as thou wast and art, on thee looks dovrn, 
 Distrusts thy smiles, but shakes not at thy frown. 
 
 Art thou not he 1 whose deeds " 
 
 " Wliate'er I be, 
 Words wild as these, accusers like to thee, 
 I list no further ; those with whom they weigh 
 May hear the rest, nor venture to gainsay 
 The wondrous tale no doubt thy tongue can tell, 
 Which thus begins so courteously and well. 
 I/Ct Otho cherish here his polish'd guest, 
 To him my thanks and thoughts shall Iie express'd." 
 And here their wondering host hath intcr])osed — 
 " Wliate'er there be between you undisclosed. 
 This is no time nor fitting place to mar 
 The mirthful meeting with a wordy war. 
 
Canto i. 
 
 LARA. 
 
 115 
 
 If thou, Sir Ezzelin, haat aught to show 
 Which it befits Count Lara's car to know, 
 To-morrow, here, or elsewhere, as may best 
 Beseem your mutual judgment, speak the rest ; 
 I pledge myself for thee, as not unknown. 
 Though, like Count Lara, now return'd alone 
 From other lands, almost a stranger grown ; 
 And if from Lara's blood and gentle birth 
 I augur right of courage and of worth, 
 He ^vill not that untainted line belie. 
 Nor aught that knighthood may accord, deny." 
 
 " To-morrow be it," Ezzelin replied, 
 
 " And here our several worth and truth be tried ; 
 
 I gage my life, my falchion to attest 
 
 My words, so may I mingle with the bless'd !" 
 
 Wliat answers Lara ? to its centre shrunk 
 
 His soul, in deep abstraction sudden sunk ; 
 
 The words of many, and the eyes of all 
 
 That there were gather'd, seem'd on him to fall ; 
 
 But his were silent, his appear'd to stray 
 
 In far forgetfulness away — away — 
 
 Alas ! that heedlessness of all around 
 
 Bespoke remembrance only too profound. 
 
 XXIV. 
 " To-morrow ! — ay, to-morrow !" further word 
 Tlian tliose repeated none from Lara Iieard ; 
 Upon his brow no outward passion spoke ; 
 From his large eye no flashing anger broke ; 
 Yet there was something fix'd in that low tone. 
 Which show'd resolve, determined, though unknown. 
 He seized his cloak— -liis head he slightly bow'd, 
 And passing Ezzelin, he left the crowd ; 
 And, as he pass'd him, smiling met the fro'mi 
 With which that chieftain's brow would bear him 
 
 down : 
 It was nor smile of mirth, nor struggling pride 
 Tliat curbs to scorn the wrath it cannot hide ; 
 But that of one in his own heart secure 
 Of all that he would do or could endure. 
 Could this mean peace ? the calmness of the good ? 
 Or guilt grown old in desperate hardihood ? 
 Alas ! too like in confidence are each, 
 For man to trust to mortal look or speech ; 
 From deeds, and deeds alone, may he discern 
 Truth which it wrings the unpractised heart to learn. 
 
 XXV. 
 And Lara call'd his page, and went his way — 
 Well could that stripling word or sign obey : 
 His only follower from those climes afar. 
 Where the soul glows beneath a brighter star ; 
 For ]>ara left the shore from whfuee he sprung 
 In duty patient, and sedate tliough young ; 
 Silent as him he served, his faith appears 
 \bo^-e his station, and beyond his years. 
 Though not unknown the tongue of Lara's land, 
 
 In such from him he rarely heard command ; 
 But fleet his step, and clear his tones would come, 
 Wlien Lara's lip breathed forth tlie words of home . 
 Those accents, as his native mountains dear, 
 Awake their absent echoes in his car. 
 Friends', kindred's, parents', wonted voice recall, 
 Now lost, abjured, for one — his friend, his all : 
 For liim earth now disclosed no other guide ; 
 What marvel then he rarely left his side ? 
 
 XXVI. 
 Light was his form, and darkly delicate 
 That brow whereon his native sun had sate. 
 But luid not marr'd, though in his beams he grew, 
 The cheek where oft the unbidden blush shona 
 
 through ; 
 Yet not such blush as mounts when health would 
 AU the heart's hue in that deliglited glow ; [show 
 But 'twas a hectic tint of secret care 
 That for a burning moment fever'd there ; 
 And the wild sparkle of his eye seem'd caught 
 From high, and lighteu'd with electric thought, 
 Though its black orb those long low lashes' fiinge 
 Had temper'd with a melancholy tinge ; 
 Yet less of sorrow than of pride was there. 
 Or, if 'twere grief, a grief that none should share : 
 And pleased not him the sports that please his agis, 
 The tricks of youth, the froHcs'of the page; 
 For hours on Lara he would fix his glance, 
 As all-forgotten in that watchful trance ; 
 And from his chief withdraT\Ti, he wander'd lone, 
 Brief were his answers, and his questions none ; 
 His walk the wood, his sport some foreign book ; 
 His resting-place the bank that curbs the brook : 
 He seem'd, like him he served, to live apart 
 From all that lures the eye, and fills the heart ; 
 To know no brotherhood, and take from earth 
 No gift beyond that bitter boon — our birth. 
 
 XXVII 
 If aught he loved, 'twas Lara ; but was shown. 
 His faith in reverence and in deeds alone ; 
 In mute attention ; and his care, which guess'd 
 Each wsh, fulfiU'd it ere the tongue express'd. 
 Still there was haughtiness in all he did, 
 A spirit deep that brook'd not to be chid ; 
 His zeal, thougli more than that of servile hands, 
 In act alone obeys, his air commands ; 
 As if 'twas Lara's less than his desire 
 That thus he served, but surely not for hire. 
 Slight were the tasks enjoin'd him by his lord. 
 To hold the stirrup, or to bear the sword ; 
 To tune his lute, or, if he will'd it more. 
 On tomes of other times and tongues to pore; 
 But ne'er to mingle vnt\\ the menial train. 
 To whom he show'd nor deference nor disdain, 
 But that well-worn reserve which proved he kncff 
 No sympathy with that familiar crew : 
 
116 
 
 BYRON'S "WORKS. 
 
 KjASTO il 
 
 His soul, wbate'cr his 8toti">n or his stem, 
 
 Could bow to Lara, not descend to them. 
 
 Of higher birth he seem'd, and better days, 
 
 Nor mark of vulgar toil that hand betrays, 
 
 Bo femininely wliite it might bespeak 
 
 Another ses, when matched with that smooth cheek. 
 
 But for his garb, and something in his gaze. 
 
 More wild and high than woman's eye betrays ; 
 
 A latent iierceness that far more became 
 
 His fiery climate than his tender frame : 
 
 True, in his words it broke not from his breast. 
 
 Cut irom his aspect might he more than guess'd. 
 
 Kaled liis name, though rumor said lie bore 
 
 Another ere he left his mountain-shore ; 
 
 For sometimes he would hear, however nigh, 
 
 That name repeated loud without reply, 
 
 As unfamiliar, or, if roused again, 
 
 Start to the sound, as but remember'd then ; 
 
 Unless 'twas Lara's wonted voice that spake, 
 
 For then, car, eyes, and heart would all awake. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 He had look'd down upon the festive hall. 
 And mark'd that sudden strife so mark'd of all ; 
 And when the crowd around and near him told 
 Their wonder at the calmness of the bold. 
 Their marvel how tljc high-born Lara bore 
 Such insult from a stranger, doubly sore. 
 The color of young Kaled went and came. 
 The lip of ashes, and the cheek of flame ; 
 And o'er his brow the dampening heart-drops threw 
 The sickening iciuess of that cold dew. 
 That rises as the busy bosom sinks 
 With heavy thoughts from which reflection shrinks. 
 Tes — there be things which we must dream and 
 And execute ere thought be half aware : [dare, 
 
 Wliate'cr might Kaled's be, it was enow 
 To seal his lip, tnit agonize his brow. 
 He gazed on Ezzelin till Lara cast 
 That sidelong smile upon the knight he jiass'd : 
 When Kaled saw that smile his visage fell. 
 As if on something recognized right well ; 
 His memory read in such a moaning more 
 Than Lara's aspect unto others wore : 
 Forward he sprung — a moment, both were gone, 
 And all within that haU seem'd left alone ; 
 Each liad so fix'd his eye on Lara's mien. 
 All had so mix'd their feelings with that scene. 
 That when his long dark shadow through the porch 
 No more relieves the glare of you high torch. 
 Each pulse beats quicker, and all bosoms seem 
 To bound as doubting from too black a dream, 
 Buch as we know is false, yet dread in sooth. 
 Because the worst is ever nearest truth. 
 And they are gone — but Ezzelin is there. 
 With thoughtfiil visage and imperious air ; 
 Bu* long romain'd not ; ere an hour exjiired 
 Re waved his hantl to Otho, and retirw 1. 
 
 XXIX. 
 The crowd are gone, the revellers at rest ; 
 The courteous host, and all-approving guest, 
 Again to that accustom'd couch must creep 
 Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep. 
 And man, o'erlal)or'd with his being's strife, 
 Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life : 
 There lie love's feverish hope, and cunning's guile, 
 Hate's working brain, and luU'd ambition's wile ; 
 O'er each vain eye oblivion's pinions wave. 
 And quench'd existence crouches in a grave. 
 What better name may slumber's lied become ? 
 Night's sepulchre, the universal home, 
 Wliere weakness, strength, vice, virtue, sunk supiuQ 
 Alike in naked helplessness recline ; 
 Glad for a while to heave unconscious breath. 
 Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death. 
 And shun, though day but dawn on ills increased, 
 Tliat sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the least. 
 
 LARA. 
 
 CANTO THE SECOND. 
 
 Night wanes — the vapors round the mountains curl'd 
 Melt into morn, and Light awakes the world. 
 Man has another day to swell the past. 
 And h'ad liim near to little but his last ; 
 But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth. 
 The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth ; 
 Flowers in the valley, splendor in the beam. 
 Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream. 
 Immortal man 1 behold her glories shine. 
 And cry, exulting inly, " They are thine !" 
 Gaze on, while yet thy gladden'd eye may see ; 
 A morrow comes when they are not for thee : 
 And grieve what may above thy senseless bier, 
 Nor earth nor sky will yield a single tear ; 
 Nor cloud shall gather more, nor leaf shall fall, 
 Nor gale bri'athe forth one sigh for thee, for all ; 
 But creeping things shall revel in their spoil. 
 And fit thy clay to fertilize the soil. 
 
 IL 
 'Tis morn — 'tis noon — assembled in the hall, 
 The gathcr'd chieftains come to Otho's call ; 
 'Tis now the promised liour, that must proclaim 
 The life or death of Lara's future fame ; 
 Wlien Ezzelin his charge may here unfold, 
 And whatsoe'er the tale, it must be told. 
 His faith was pledged, and Lara's promise given, 
 To meet it in the eye of man and heaven. 
 Why comes he not ? Sucli truths to be divulged, 
 Methiuks the accuser's rest is long indulged. 
 
Canto ii. 
 
 LARA. 
 
 117 
 
 HI. 
 
 The hour is past, and Lara too is there, 
 With self-confiding, coldly patient air ; 
 Why comes not Ezzelin ? The hour is past, 
 And murmurs rise, and Otho's brow 's o'ercast. 
 " I know my friend ! liis faith I cannot fear, 
 If vet he be on earth, expect him here ; 
 The roof that held him in the valley stands 
 Between my own and noble Lara's lands ; 
 My halls from such a guest had honor gain'd, 
 Nor had Sir Ezzelin his host disdain'd. 
 But that some previous proof forbade his stay, 
 And urged him to prepare against to-day ; 
 The word I pledged for his I pledge again. 
 Or will myself redeem his knighthood's stain." 
 
 He ceased — and Lara answcr'd, " I am here 
 
 To lend at thy demand a listening ear 
 
 To tales of evil fi-om a stranger's tongue, 
 
 ^\'hose words already might my heart have wrimg. 
 
 But that I deem'd him scarcely less than mad. 
 
 Or, at the worst, a foe ignobly bad. 
 
 I know him not — but me it seems he knew 
 
 In lands where — but I must not trifle too. 
 
 Produce this babbler — or redeem the jjledge ; 
 
 Here in thy hold, and with thy falchion's edge." 
 
 Proud Otho on the instant, reddening, threw 
 His glove on earth, and forth Ids sabre flew. 
 " The last alternative befits me best. 
 And thus I answer for mine absent guest." 
 
 With cheek unchanging from its saUow gloom, 
 
 However near his own or other's tomb ; 
 
 With hand, whose almost careless coolness spoke 
 
 Its grasp well-used to deal the sabre-stroke ; 
 
 With eye though calm, determined not to spare, 
 
 Did Lara too Ids vriUing weapon bare. 
 
 In vain the circling cliieftains round them closed, 
 
 For Otho's phrenzy would not be opposed ; 
 
 And from his lip those words of insult fell— 
 
 His sword is good who can maintain them well. 
 
 IV. 
 Short was the conflict ; furious, blindly rash, 
 Vain Otho gave his bosom to the gash : 
 He bled, and fell ; but not ^vith deadly wound, 
 Staetch'd by a dextrous sleight along the ground. 
 " Demand thy Ufe !" He answcr'd not : and then 
 From that red floor he ne'er had risen again. 
 For Lara's lirow upon the moment grew 
 Almost to l-ilackness in its demon hue ; 
 And fiercer shook his angry falchion now 
 Than when his foe's was Icvell'd at his brow ; 
 Then aU was stem coUectedness and art. 
 Now rose the unleaven'd hatred of his heart ; 
 So little sparing to the foe he feU'd, 
 That when the approaching crowd his arm withheld, 
 
 He almost tum'd the thirsty point on those, 
 Who thus for mercy dared to interpose ; 
 But to a moment's thought that purpose bent 
 Yet look'd he on him still with eye intent, 
 Ag if he loathed the ineffectual strife 
 That left a foe, howe'er o'erthrown, with life ; 
 As if to search how far the wound he gave 
 Had sent its victim onward to his grave. 
 
 They raised the bleeding Otho, and the leecl 
 Forbade all present question, sign, and speech ; 
 The others met within a neighboring hall. 
 And he, incensed, and heedless of them all, 
 The cause and conqueror in this sudden fray, 
 In haughty silence slowly strode away : 
 He back'd his steed, his homeward path he took, 
 Nor cast on Otho's towers a single look. 
 
 VL 
 
 But where was he ? that meteor of a night, 
 Who menaced but to disappear with light. 
 Where was this Ezzelin ? who came and we/it 
 To leave no other trace of his intent. 
 He left the dome of Otho long ere morn, 
 In darkness, yet so well the path was worn 
 He could not miss it : near his dwelling lay ; 
 But there he was not, and with coming day 
 Came fast inquiry, which unfolded naught 
 Except the absence of the chief it sought. 
 A chamber tenantless, a steed at rest, 
 His host alarm'd, his murmuring squires distress'd 
 Their search extends along, around the path. 
 In dread to meet the marks of prowlers' wrath : 
 But none are there, and not a brake hath borne 
 Nor gout of Ijlood, nor shred of mantle torn ; 
 Nor fall nor struggle hath defaced the grass, 
 Which still retains a mark where murder was ; 
 Nor dabbling fingers left to teU the tale, 
 The bitter print of each convulsive nail, 
 When agonized hands that cease to guard. 
 Wound in that pang the smoothness of the swivri 
 Some such had been, if here a life was reft. 
 But these were not ; and doubting hope is left ; 
 And strange suspicion, whispering Lara's name. 
 Now daily mutters o'er his blacken'd fame ; 
 Then sudden silent when his form appear'd, 
 Awaits the absence of the thing it fear'd 
 Again its wonted wondering to renew, 
 And dye conjecture with a darker hue. 
 
 VII. 
 Days roll along, and Otho's wounds are heal'd. 
 But not his pride ; and hate no more conceal'd : 
 He was a man of power, and Lara's foe. 
 The friend of aU who sought to work him woe. 
 And from his country's jusriee now demands 
 Account of Ezzelin at Lara's hands. 
 
118 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Oa}.to n. 
 
 Who else tlian Lara could have cause to fear 
 His presfnce ? who had made bim disappear, 
 If not tlie man on whom his menaced charge 
 Had sate too deeply were he left at large ? 
 The general rumor ignorant!}' loud, 
 The mystery dearest to the curious crowd ; 
 The seeming friendlessncss of him who strove 
 To win no confidence, and wake no love ; 
 The sweeping fierceness wliicli his soul betray'd. 
 The skill witli which he melded his keen blade ; 
 Where had his arm unwarlike caught that art ? 
 Where had tliat fierceness grown upon his heart 2 
 For it was not the blind capricious rage 
 A word can kindle and a word assuage ; 
 Rut the deep working of a soul unmix'd 
 With aught of pity where its wrath had fis'd ; 
 Such as long power and ovorgorged success 
 Concentrates into all that's merciless : 
 These, link'd with that desire which ever sways 
 Slankiud, the rather to condemn than praise, 
 'Gainst Lara gathering raised at length a storm. 
 Such as himself might fear, and foes would form, 
 And he must answer for the absent head 
 Of one that haunts him still, alive or dead. 
 
 VIII. 
 Within that land was many a malecontent, 
 Who cursed the tyranny to which he bent ; 
 That soil full many a wringing despot saw, 
 Who work'd his wantonness in form of law ; 
 Long war without and frequent broil within 
 Had made a path for blood and giant sin. 
 That waited but a signal to begin 
 New havoc, such as civil discord blends, 
 Wliich knows no neuter, owns but foes or friends ; 
 Fix'd in his feudal fortress each was lord, 
 In v.ijrd and deed oliey'd, in soul abhorr'd. 
 Thus Lara had inherited his lands, 
 And with them pining hearts and sluggish hands ; 
 But that long absence from his native clime 
 5ad left him stainless of oppression's crime, 
 And now, diverted by his milder sway. 
 All dread by slow degrees had worn away. 
 The menials felt their usual awe alone, 
 But more for him than them that fear was grown ; 
 They deem'd him now unhappy, though at first 
 Their evil judgment augur'd of the worst. 
 And each long restless night, and silent mood, 
 Was traced to sickness, fed by solitude : 
 And though his lonely habits threw of late 
 31oom o'c.T his chamber, cheerful was his gate ; 
 For thence the wretched ne'er unsoothed withdrew. 
 For them, at least, his soul compassion knew. 
 Cold to ths great, contemptuous to the high, 
 The humble pass'd not his imhceding eye ; 
 Much he would speak not, but beneath his roof 
 They found asylum oft and ne'er rejiroof. 
 ii.nd they who watch'd night mark that, day by day, 
 
 Some new retainers gather'd to his sway : 
 But most of late, since EzzeUn was lost, 
 He play'd the courteous lord and bounteous host . 
 Perchance his strife \N-ith Otho made him dread 
 Some snare prepared for his obnoxious head : 
 Whate'er his view, his favor more obtains 
 With these, the people, than his fellow thanes. 
 If this were policy, so far 'twas sound, 
 The million judged but of him as they found ; 
 From him by sterner chiefs to exile driven 
 They but required a shelter, and 'twas given. 
 By him no peasant mourn'd his rifled cot, 
 And scarce the Serf could murmur o'er his lot ; 
 AVith him old avarice found its lioard secure. 
 With him contempt forbore to mock the poor ; 
 Youth, jjrcsent cheer, and promised recompense 
 Detain'd till all too late to part from thence ; 
 To hate he oft'er'd, with the coming change, 
 The deep reversion of delay "d revenge ; 
 To love, long baffled Ijy the unequal match, 
 The well-worn charms success was sure to snatch. 
 All now was ripe, he waits but to proclaim 
 That slavery nothing which was still a name. 
 The moment came, the hour when Otho thought 
 Secure at last the vengeance which he sought : 
 His summons found the destined criminal 
 Begirt by thousands in his swarming hall. 
 Fresh from their feudal fetters newly riven. 
 Defying earth, and confident of heaven. 
 That morning he hud freed the soil-bound slaves 
 Wlio dig no land for tyrants but their graves I 
 Such is their cry — some watchword for the fight 
 Must vindicate the wrong, and warp the right : 
 Religion — freedom — vengeance — what you wiU, 
 A word's enough to raise mankind to kill ; 
 Some factious phrase by cunning caught and spreid 
 That guilt may reign, and wolves and worms be fed 
 
 tx. 
 Throughout that clime the feudal chiefs had gain'<'. 
 Such sway, their infant monarch hardly reign'd ; 
 Now was the hour for fiiction's rebel growth. 
 The Serfs contcmn'd the one and hated both : 
 They waited but a leader, and they found 
 One to their cause inseparably bound ; 
 By circumstance compcU'd to plunge again, 
 In self-defence, amidst the strife of men. 
 Cut off by some mysterious fate from those 
 Whom birth and nature meant not for his foes, 
 Had Lara from that night, to him accursed, 
 Prepared to meet, but not alone, the worst : 
 Some reason urged, whate'er it was, to shun 
 Inquiry into deeds at distance done ; 
 By mingling with his own the cause of all, 
 E'en if he fail'd, he still delay'd his fall. 
 The sullen calm that long his bosom kept. 
 The storm that once had spent itself and slept. 
 Housed by events that seem'd foredoom'd to urge 
 
Canto ii. 
 
 LARA. 
 
 lis 
 
 His gloomy fortanes to their utmost verge 
 Burst fortli, and made him all he once had been, 
 And Is again ; he only changed the scene. 
 Light care had he for life, and less for fame. 
 But not less fitted for the desperate game : 
 He deem'd himself mark'd out for others' hate. 
 And mock'd at ruin so they shared his fate. 
 What cared he for the freedom of the crowd ? 
 He raised the humble but to bend the proud. 
 He had hoped quiet in his sullen lair, 
 But man and destiny beset him there : 
 Inured to hunters, he was found at bay ; 
 And they must kiU, they cannot snare the prey. 
 Stem, imambitious, sUent, he had been 
 Henceforth a calm spectator of life's scene ; 
 But dragg'd again upon the arena, stood 
 A leader not unequal to the feud ; • 
 In voice — mien — gesture — savage nature spoke, 
 And from his eye the gladiator broke. 
 
 X. 
 What boots the oft-repeated tale of strife. 
 The feast of vultures, and the waste of life ? 
 The varying fortune of each separate field. 
 The fierce that vanquish, and the faint that yield ? 
 The smoking ruin, and the crumbled wall ? 
 In this the struggle was the same •nith all ; 
 Save that distemper'd passions lent their force 
 In bitterness that banish'd all remorse. 
 None sued, for Mercy knew her cry was vain, 
 The captive died upon the battle-plain : 
 In either cause, one rage alone possess'd 
 The empire of the alternate victor's breast ; 
 And they that smote for freedom or for sway, 
 Deem'd few were slain, while more remain'd to slay. 
 It was too late to check the wasting brand, 
 xVnd Desolation reap'd the famish'd land ; 
 The torch was lighted, and the flame was spread, 
 Ar.d Carnage smiled upon her daily dead. 
 
 XI. 
 Fresh with the nerve the new-bom impulse strung, 
 The first success to Lara's numbers clung • 
 But that vain victory hath ruin'd all : 
 They form no longer to their leader's call : 
 In blind confusion on the foe they press, 
 And think to snatch is to secure success. 
 The lust of booty, and the thirst of hate. 
 Lure on the broken brigands to their fate : 
 In vain he doth whate'er a chief may do. 
 To check the headlong fiiry of that crew ; 
 In vain their stubborn ardor he would tame. 
 The hand that kindles cannot quench the flame ; 
 The wary foe alone hath tum'd their mood, 
 And shown their rashness to that erring brood : 
 The feign'd retreat, the nightly ambuscade, 
 The daily harass, and the fight delay'd, 
 The long privation of th? hoped supply, 
 
 The tentless rest beneath the humid sky. 
 The stul)bom wall that mocks the leaguer's art, 
 And jjalls the jjatience of his baffled heart. 
 Of these they had not deem'd ; the battle-day 
 They could encounter as a veteran may ; 
 But more preferr'd the fury of the strife. 
 And present death, to hourly suffering life : 
 And famine wrings, and fever sweeps away 
 His numbers melting fest from their array ; 
 Intemperate triumph fades to discontent. 
 And Lara's soul alone seems still unbent : 
 But few remain to aid his voice and hand. 
 And thousands dwindle to a scanty band : 
 Desperate, though few, the last and best remain'd 
 To mourn the discipline they late disdain'd. 
 One hope survives, the frontier is not far. 
 And thence they may escape from native war ; 
 And bear within them to the neighboring state 
 An exile's sorrows, or an outlaw's hate : 
 Hard is the task their father-land to quit, 
 But harder still to perish or submit. 
 
 XII. 
 It is resolved — they march — consenting Night 
 Guides with her star their dim and torchless flight 
 Already they perceive its tranquil beam 
 Sleep on the surface of the barrier stream ; 
 Already they descry — is yon the bank ? 
 Away ! 'tis lined with many a hostile ranJc 
 Return or fly ! — Wliat glitters in the rear ? 
 'Tis Otho's banner — the pursuer's spear ! 
 Are those the shepherds' fires upon the height i 
 Alas ! they blaze too widely for the flight : 
 Cut oflf from hope, and compass'd in the toil, 
 Less blood perchance hath bought a richer spoil I 
 
 XIII. 
 A moment's pause — 'tis but to breathe their band, 
 Or shaU they onward press, or here withstand ? 
 It matters little — if they charge the foes 
 'Wlio by their border-stream their march oppose, 
 Some few, jDerchance, may break and pass the line. 
 However link'd to baflle such design. 
 " The charge be ours ! to wait for their assault 
 Were fate well worthy of a coward's halt." 
 Forth flies each sabre, rein'd is every steed, 
 And the nest word shall scarce outstrip the deed : 
 In the next tone of Lara's gathering breath 
 How many shall but hear the voice of death ! 
 
 XIV. 
 His blade is bared, — in him there is an air 
 As deep, but far too tranquil for despair ; 
 A something of indift'ercncc more tlian then 
 Becomes the bravest, if they feel for men. 
 He turn'd his eye on Kaled, ever near. 
 And still too faithful to betray one fear ; 
 Perchance 'twas but the moon's dim twilight thre« 
 Along his aspect an unwonted hue 
 
120 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Cajtio n. 
 
 Ot mournful paleness, whose deep tint express'd 
 The truth, and not the terror of his breast. 
 This Lara mark'd, ind hiid his hand on his : 
 It trembled not in su>.n an nour as this ; 
 His lii3 was silent, scarcely beat his heart, 
 His eye alone proclaim'd, " We wiU not part 1 
 Thy band may perish, or thy friends may flee, 
 Farewell to life, but not adieu to thee !" 
 
 The word hath pass'd his lips and onward driven, 
 Pours the link'd band through ranks asunder riven ; 
 "Well has eacli steed obey'd the armed heel. 
 And flash the scimitars, and rings the steel ; 
 Outnumber'd, not outbraved, they still oppose 
 Despair to daring, and a ijont to foes ; 
 And blood is mingled with the dashing stream, 
 Which runs all redly tiU the morning beam. 
 
 XV. 
 Commanding, aiding, animating aU, 
 Where foe appear'd to press, or Mend to fall. 
 Cheers Lara's voice, and waves or strikes his steel. 
 Inspiring hope himself had ceased to feel. 
 None fled, for well they knew that flight were vain ; 
 But those that waver turn to smite again. 
 While yet they find the firmest of the foe 
 Recoil before their leader's look and blow : 
 Now girt with numbers, now almost alone. 
 He foils their ranks, or reunites his own ; 
 Himself he spared not — once they seem'd to fly^ 
 Now was the time, he waved his hand on high. 
 And shook — Why sudden droops that plumed crest ? 
 The shaft ig sped — the arrow's in his breast I 
 That fatal gesture left the unguarded side. 
 And Death hath stricken down yon arm of pride. 
 The word of triumph fainted from his tongue ; 
 That hand, so raised, how droopingly it hung ! 
 But yet the sword instiucSvely retains. 
 Though from its fellow shrink the falling reins ; 
 These Kaled snatches : di/.zy with the blow. 
 And senseless bending o'er his saddle-bow, 
 Perceives not Lara that his anxious page 
 Beguiles his charger from the comlsat's rage : 
 Meantime his followers charge, and charge again ; 
 Too mix'd the slayers now to heed the slain I 
 
 .XVI. 
 Day glimmers on the dying and the dead, 
 The cloven cuirass, and the hehnless head ; 
 The war-horse mastcrlcss is on the earth, 
 And that last gasp hath burst his bloody girth ; 
 And near, yet quivering with what life remain'd. 
 The heel that urged him and the hand that rein'd ; 
 And some, too, near that rolling torrent lie. 
 Whose waters mock the lip of those that die ; 
 That panting thirst which scorches in the breath 
 Of those tlmt die the soldier's fiery death. 
 In vain impels the burning mouth to crave 
 One drop — the last — to cool it for the grave ; 
 
 With feeble and convulsive eflbrt swept. 
 Their limbs along the crimson'd turf have ciept; 
 The faint remains of life such struggles waste, 
 But yet they reach the stream, and bend to taste : 
 They feel its freshness, and almost partake — 
 Why pause ? No further thirst have they to slake — 
 It is unquench'd, and yet they feel it not • 
 It was an agony — but now forgot ! 
 
 XVII. 
 Beneath a lime, remoter from the scene. 
 Where but for him that stiife had never been, 
 A breathing but devoted warrior lay : 
 'Twas Lara bleeding fast from life away. 
 His follower once, and now his only guide. 
 Kneels Kaled watchful o'er his welling side. 
 And with his scarf would stanch the tides that rush, 
 With each convulsion, in a blacker gush ; 
 And then, as his faint breathing waxes low, 
 In feebler, not less fatal trieklings flow : 
 He scarce can speak, but motions him 'tis vain. 
 And merely adds another throb to pain. 
 He clasps the hand that pang which would assuage, 
 And sadly smiles his thanks to that dark page. 
 Who nothing fears, nor feels, nor heeds, nor sees. 
 Save that damp brow which rests ujion his knees ; 
 Save that pale aspect, where the eye, though dim, 
 Held all the light that shone on earth for him. 
 
 XVIII. 
 The foe arrives, who long had seareh'd the field. 
 Their triumph naught till Lara too should yield ; 
 They would remove him, but they see 'twere vain, 
 And he regards them with a calm disdain. 
 That rose to reconcile him with his fate. 
 And that escape to death from li%-ing hate : 
 And Otho comes, and leaping from his steed, 
 Looks on the bleeding foe that made him bleed, 
 And questions of his state ; he answers not. 
 Scarce glances on him as on one forgot, 
 And turns to Kaled : — each remaining word 
 They understood not, if distinctly heard ; 
 His dying tones are in that other tongue. 
 To which some strange remembrance wildly clung. 
 They spake of other scenes, but what — is known 
 To Kaled, whom their meaning reach'd alone ; 
 And he replied, though faintly, to their sound. 
 While gazed the rest in dumb amazement round : 
 They seem'd even then — that twain — unto the las 
 To half forget the present in the past ; 
 To share between themselves some separate fate. 
 Whose darkness none beside should penetrate. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Their words though faint were many — from the tone 
 Thefr import those who heard could judge alone ; 
 From this, you might liave ueem'd young Kalcd's 
 
 death 
 More near than Lara's by his voice and breath, 
 
Oaxto n. 
 
 LAll A. 
 
 121 
 
 So sad, so deej), and hesitating broke 
 
 The accents liis scarcc-mo\-ing pale lips spoke ; 
 
 But Lara's voice, though low, at first was clear 
 
 And calm, till murmuring death gasp'd hoarsely near : 
 
 But from his visage little could we guess, 
 
 Bo unrepentant, dark, and passionless. 
 
 Save that when struggling nearer to his last. 
 
 Upon that page his eye was kindly cast ; 
 
 And once, as Kaled's answering accents ceased, 
 
 Rose Lara's hand, and pointed to the East : 
 
 Whether (as then the breaking sun from high 
 
 Roll'd back the cloudsj the morrow caught his eye, 
 
 Or that 'twae chance, or some remember'd scene. 
 
 That raised his arm to point where such had been, 
 
 Scarce Kaled seem'd to know, but tum'd away, 
 
 As if his heart abhorr'd that coming day, 
 
 And shrunk his glance before that morning light, 
 
 To look on Lara's brow — where all grew night. 
 
 Yet sense seem'd left, though better were its loss ; 
 
 For when one near display'd the absohdng cross. 
 
 And proffer'd to his touch the holy bead, 
 
 Of which his parting soul might own the need. 
 
 He look'd upon it with an eye profane, 
 
 And smiled — Heaven pardon ! if 'twere with disdain : 
 
 And Kalod, though he spoke not, nor withdrew 
 
 From Lara's face his fix'd despairing view. 
 
 With brow repulsive, and with gesture swift. 
 
 Flung back the hand which held the sacred gift. 
 
 As if such but disturb'd the expiring man, 
 
 Nor seem'd to know his life but then began. 
 
 That life of Immortality, secure 
 
 To none, save them whose faith in Christ is sure. 
 
 XX. 
 
 But gasping heaved the breath that Lara drew, 
 And dull the film along his dim eye grew ; 
 His limbs stretch'd fluttering, and his head droop'd 
 The weak yet still untiring knee that bore ; [o'er 
 He press'd the hand he held upon his hearts- 
 It beats no more, but Kaled will not part 
 With the cold grasp, but feels, and feels in vain, 
 For that faint throb which answers not again. 
 " It beats !" — Away, thou dreamer ! he is gone — 
 It once was Lara which thou look'st upon. 
 
 XXI. 
 He gazed, as if not yet had pass'd away 
 The haughty spirit of tliat bumble clay ; 
 And those around have roused him from his trance, 
 But cannot tear from thence his fixed glance ; 
 And when, in raising him from where he bore 
 Within his arms the form that felt no more, 
 He saw the head his breast would still sustain, 
 Roll down like earth to earth upon the plain ; 
 He did not dash himself thereby, nor tear 
 The glossy tendrils of his raven hair. 
 But strove to stand and gaze, but reel'd and fell, 
 Scarce breathing more than that he loved so well. 
 IG 
 
 Than that he loved I Oh ! never yet beneath 
 The breast of man such trusty love may breathe 1 
 That trying moment hath at once revcal'd 
 The secret long and yet but half conceal'd ; 
 In baring to revive that lifeless breast, 
 Its grief seem'd ended, but the sex confess'd ; 
 And life return'd, and Kaled felt no shame — 
 What now to her was Womanhood or Fame ? 
 
 XXII. 
 And Lara sleeps not where his fathers sleep, 
 But where he died his grave was dug as deep ; 
 Nor is his mortal slumber less profound. 
 Though priest nor bless'd, nor marble deck'd the 
 
 mound ; 
 And he was mourn'd by one whose quiet grief, 
 Less loud, outlasts a peojile's for their chief. 
 Vain was all question ask'd her of the past, 
 And vain even menace — silent to the last ; 
 She told nor whence, nor why she left behind 
 Her all for one who seem'd but little kind. 
 Why did she love him ? Curious fool ! — be still — 
 Is human love the growth of hiunan will ? 
 To her he might be gentleness ; the stern 
 Have deeper thoughts than your dull eyes discern, 
 And when they love, your smilers guess not how 
 Beats the strong heart, though less the lips avow. 
 They were not common links that form'd the chain 
 That bound to Lara Kaled's heart and brain ; 
 But that wild tale she brook'd not to unfold, 
 And seal'd is now each lip that could have told. 
 
 XXIII. 
 They laid him in the earth, and on his breast, 
 Besides the wound that sent his soul to rest, 
 They found the scatter'd dints of many a scar, 
 Which were not planted there in recent war ; 
 Where'er had pass'd his summer years of life, 
 It seems they vanish'd in a land of strife ; 
 But all unknown his glory or his guilt. 
 These only told that somewhere blood was spilt, 
 And Ezzelin, who might have spoke the past, 
 Return'd no more — that night ajjpear'd his last. 
 
 XXIT. 
 Upon that night (a peasant's is the talc) 
 A Serf that cross'd the intervening vale, ' 
 
 > The event in this section was suggested by the description oi 
 the death, or rather burial, of the duke of Gandia. The most 
 interesting and particular account of it is given by Burchard, and 
 is in substance as follows ; — " On the eigblh day of June, the Car- 
 dinal of Valenza and the Duke of Gandia, sous of the Pope, 
 supped with their mother, Vanozza, ne.ir the church of S. Pietro 
 ad vincula ; several other persons being present at the cntertain- 
 ment. A late hour approaching, and Ihc cardinal having reminded 
 his brother that it was time to return to the apostolic palace, they 
 mounted their horses or mules, with only a few attendants, an'J 
 proceeded tog''"acr as far as the palace of Cardinal Ascanio Sforzi , 
 when the duke informed the cardinal that, before he returned 
 home, he had to pay a visit of pleasure. Dismissing, therefore, 
 all his attendants, excepting his sta^tJi^ro, or for)tman, and a pcreon 
 in a mask, who had paid him a visit whilst at supper, and wha 
 
122 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto il 
 
 lATien Cynthia's light almost gave way to mom, 
 And nearly veil'd in mist her waning horn ; 
 A. Serf, that rose betimes to thread the wood, 
 And hew the bough that bought Ms children's food, 
 Pass'd by the river that divides the plain 
 Of Otlio's lands and Lara's broad domain : 
 lie heard a tramp — -a horse aud horseman broke 
 From out the wood — before lum was a cloak 
 Wrapjj'd round some burden at his saddle-bow. 
 Bent was his head, and hidden was his brow. 
 Roused by the sudden sight at such a time. 
 And some foreboding that it might be crime. 
 Himself unheeded watch'd the stranger's course. 
 Who reach'd the river, bounded from his horse. 
 And lifting thence the burden which he bore. 
 Heaved up tlie bank, and dash'd it from the shore. 
 Thin paused, and look'd, and turn'd, aud seem'd to 
 
 watch, 
 And still another humed glance would snatch, 
 And foUow vnth his step the stream that flow'd. 
 As if even yet too much its surface show'd : 
 At once he started, stoop'd, aroimd him strown 
 Tlie winter floods had scatterd heaps of stoue ; 
 Of these the heaviest thence he gather'd there, 
 And shmg them with a more than common care. 
 Meantime the Serf had cre^rt to where unseen 
 Himself might safely mark what this might mean ; 
 He caught a glimpse, as of a floating breast. 
 And something glitter'd starlike on the vest ; 
 But ere he well could mark the buoyant trunk, 
 A massy fragment smote it, and it sunk : 
 It rose again, but indistinct to view, 
 And left the waters of a purple hue. 
 Then deeply disappear'd : the horseman gazed 
 Till ebb'd the latest eddy it had raised ; 
 Then turning, vaulted on his pawing steed. 
 And instant spurr'd him into panting speed. 
 His face was mask'd — the features of the dead. 
 If dead it were, escaped the observer's dread ; 
 
 But if in sooth a star its bosom bore, 
 
 ^ — 
 
 iluring the space (if a montli or thereabouts, previous to this time, 
 had aiUed upon him aimost daily, at tlie apcetolic palace, he took 
 thi* per:*on behind him on his mule, and proceeded to the street of 
 the Jcwi", where he quitted bis Fcrvaut.jdircctiug him to remain 
 there until a certain hour ; when, if he did not return, he mii»hl 
 repair to the palace. The duke then Bcaled the person in the 
 mask behind him, and rode, 1 know not whither ; but in that 
 nij^ht he was assassinated, and thrown into the river. The ser- 
 vant, after having' been dismissed, was also assaulted and mor- 
 tally wounded: yet such was his situation, that be cnuld give no 
 intelli^'ible account of what had befallen his master. In the morn- 
 ing, the duke not having returned to the palace, bis servants began 
 to be alarmed : and one of them informed the pontitT of the even- 
 ing excursion of h'.s eons, and that the duke bad not yet made his 
 fcppearance. This gave the pope no small anxiety ; but be con- 
 jectured that the duke had been attracted by some courtesan to 
 pass the night with her. When, however, the evening arrived, 
 and be found himself disappointed in his expectations, he became 
 deeply afllicted, and began to make inquiries tnnn ditfercnt per- 
 tons. Amongst these was a man named Giorgio Schiavoni. who, 
 having discharged some timber lYoiu a bark in the river, had re- 
 mained on board the vessel to watch it ; and being interrogated 
 whether he had seen any one thro\vn into the river on the night 
 
 Such is the badge that knighthood ever wore. 
 And such 'tis known Sir Ezzelin had worn 
 Upon the night that led to such a morn. 
 If thus he perish'd. Heaven receive his soul 1 
 His lindiscover'd Umbs to ocean roll ; 
 And charity upon the hope would dwell 
 It was not Lara's hand by which he fell. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 And Kaled — Lara — -Ezzelin, are gone. 
 
 Alike without their monumental stone 1 
 
 The first, all eftbrts vainly strove to wean 
 
 From lingering where her chieftain's lilood had been ; 
 
 Grief had so tamed a spirit once too proud. 
 
 Her tears were few, her wailing never loud ; 
 
 But i'urious would you tear her from the spot 
 
 Where yet she scarce believed that he was not, 
 
 Her eye shot forth wth all the li\-ing fire 
 
 That haunts tlie tigress in her whelpless ire , 
 
 But left to waste her weary moments there, 
 
 She talk'd all idlj' unto shapes of air, 
 
 Such as the busy brain of Sorrow paints, 
 
 And woos to listen to her fond complaints : 
 
 And she would sit beneath the very tree 
 
 Where lay his drooping head upon her Imee ; 
 
 And in that postiu-e where she saw him fall, 
 
 His words, his looks, his dying grasp recall ; 
 
 And she had shorn, but saved her raven hair, 
 
 And oft would snatch it from her bosom there, 
 
 And fold, and press it gently to the ground. 
 
 As if she stanch'd anew some phantom's wound. 
 
 Herself would question, and for him reply ; 
 
 Then rising, start, and beckon him to fly 
 
 From some imagined spectre in pursuit ; 
 
 Then seat her down upon some linden's root, 
 
 And hide her visage with a meager hand. 
 
 Or trace strange ch.aractcrs along the sand — 
 
 This could not last — she lies by him she loved ; 
 
 Her tale untold — her truth too dearly proved. 
 
 preceding, he replied, that he saw two men on foot, who eamo 
 down the street, and looked diligently about. That seeing no one, 
 they returned, aud a short time afterwards two others came, and 
 looked around in the same manner, no person still appearing, 
 they gave a sign to ffceir companions, when a man came, mounted 
 on a white horse, having behind him a dead body, the bead and 
 anus of which bung on one side, and the feet on the other side of 
 the horse ; the two persons on foot supporting the bc<]y, to pre- 
 vent its falling. They thus proceeded towards that part where the 
 fllth of the city is usually discharged into the river, and turning 
 the horse, with his tail towards tlie water, the two persons took 
 the dead body by the arms and feet, and with all their strength 
 flung it into the river. The person on horseback then asked II 
 tbcy bad thrown it in ; to which they replied Sir/nor, si (yes. Sir). 
 He then looked towards the river, and seeing a mantle floating on 
 the stream, he inquired what it was that appeared black, to which 
 they answered, 11 was a mantle ; and one of them threw stones 
 upon it, in consequence of which it sunk. The attendants of the 
 pontift' tlien Inquired from Giorgio, why he had not revealed thia 
 to the governor of the city ; ".o which he replied, that lie had seen 
 in his time a luindn'd dead bodies thrown into the river at thfl 
 same place, wilbnut auy inquiry being made respecting them; 
 and that he had not, therefore, considered it as a matter of any 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 123 
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 TO 
 
 JOHN HOBHOUSE.EsQ., 
 
 January 22, 1816. 
 
 THIS POEM IS ESrSCEIBED 
 
 BY HIS 
 
 FRIEND. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 'Thb ^and army of the Turks (in 1715), under tlie 
 Prime Vizier, to open to themselves a way into the 
 heart of the Morea, and to form the siege of Napoli di 
 Romania, the most considerable place in all that coun- 
 try,' thought it best m the first place to attack Corinth, 
 upon which they made several storms. The garrison 
 being weakened, and the governor seeing it was im- 
 possible to hold out against so mighty a force, thought 
 it fit to beat a parley : but while they were treating 
 about the articles, one of the magazines in the Turkish 
 camp, wherein they had six hundred barrels of powder, 
 blew up by accident, whereby sis or seven hundred men 
 were killed ; which so enraged the infidels, that they 
 would not grant any capitulation, but stormed the 
 place with so much fury, that they took it, and put 
 most of the garrison, with Signer Minotti, the gover- 
 nor, to the sword. The rest, with Antonio Bembo, 
 proveditor extraordinary, were made prisoners of war." 
 — History of the Turks, vol. iii., p. 151. 
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 In the year since Jesus died for men, 
 
 Eighteen hundred years and ten, 
 
 We were a gallant comijany, 
 
 Riding o'er land, and sailing o'er sea. 
 
 Oh, but we went merrily ! 
 
 We forded the river, and clomb the high hiU, 
 
 Never our steeds for a day stood still ; 
 
 Whether we lay in the cave or the shed, 
 
 Our sleep fell soft on the hardest bed ; 
 
 Importance. The fishermen and seamen were then collected, and 
 ordered to search the river, where, on the following eveninj;, they 
 found the body of the duke, with his habit entire, and thirty 
 ducate in his purse. He was pierced with nine wounds, one of 
 which was in his throat, the others in his head, body, and limbs. 
 No sooner was the pontitT infonned of the death of his son, and 
 that he had been thrown, like filth, into the river, than, giving way 
 to his grief, he shut himself up in a chamber, and wept bitterly. 
 From the evening of Wednesday till the following Saturday, the 
 pope took no food ; nor did he sleep from Thursday morning tiH 
 the same hour on the ensuing day. At length, however, giving 
 way to the entreaties of his attendants, he began to restrain his 
 KOrrow. and to consider the injury which his own health might 
 BUBtain. by the further indulgence of his grief.' — Hosco*' jto the 
 7V7i(/i, vol. i., p. 2(15. 
 ■ iVaooli di Romania Is not now the most cone' jcrnDle place in 
 
 Whether we couch'd in our rough capote. 
 On the rougher plank of our gliding boat, 
 Or stretch'd on the beach, or our saddles spiead 
 As a pillow beneath the resting head, 
 Fresh we woke upon the morrow : 
 
 All our thoughts and words had scope. 
 
 We liad health, and we had hope. 
 Toil and travel, Ijut no sorrow. 
 We were of all tongues and creeds ; — 
 Some were those who counted beads. 
 Some of mosque, and some of church. 
 
 And some, or I mis-say, of neither ; 
 Yet through the wide world might ye search, 
 
 Nor find a mother crew nor lilither. 
 
 But some are dead, and some are gone, 
 And some are scatter'd and alone. 
 And some are rebels on the hills= 
 
 That look along Epirus' valleys, 
 
 Where freedom still at moments rallies, 
 And pays in blood oppression's iUs ; 
 
 And some are in a fair countree. 
 And some all restlessly at home ; 
 
 But never more, oh, never, we 
 Shall meet to revel and to roam. 
 
 But those hardy days flew cheerily. 
 
 And when they now fall cb-earily. 
 
 My thoughts, like swallows, skim the main, 
 
 And bear my spirit back again 
 
 Over the earth, and through the air, 
 
 A wild bird and a wanderer. 
 
 the Morea, but Tripolitza, where the Pacha resides, and mainta'mti 
 his government. Napoli is near Argos. I visited all three in ISIO- 
 11 ; and, in the course of joiu-neying through the country from my 
 first arrival in 1800. 1 crossed the Isthmus eight times in my way 
 from Attica to the Morea, over the mountains, or in the other di- 
 rection, when passing from the Gulf of Athens to that of Lcpanto. 
 Both the routes are picturesque and beautiful, though very difler- 
 ent : that by sea has more sameness ; but the voyage being always 
 within sight of land, and often very near it. presents many attrac- 
 tive views of the islands Salamis, Jigiim, Poro, etc., and the coait 
 of the Continent. 
 
 ' The last tidings recently heard of Dervish (one of the Aniaouts 
 who followed me) state him to be in revolt upon the mountains, at 
 the head of some of the bands common in that country in times oi 
 trouble. 
 
124 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 'Tis this that ever wakes my strain, 
 
 Ajid oft, too oft, implores again 
 
 The few wlio may "ndure my lay 
 
 To follow me so lar away. 
 
 Stranger — wilt thou follow now, 
 
 And sit with me on Acro-Corinth's brow ? 
 
 I. 
 Many a vanish'd year and age. 
 And tempest's breath, and battle's rage, 
 Have swept o'er Corinth ; yet she stands, 
 A fortress form'd to Freedom's hands. 
 The whirlwind's wratli, the earthquake's shock, 
 Have left untouch'd her hoary rock, 
 The kej'stone of a land, which still, 
 Though fall'n, looks proudly on that hill, 
 The landmark to the double tide 
 That purpling rolls on either side. 
 As if their waters chafed to meet, 
 Yet pause and crouch beneath her feet. 
 But could the l)lood before her shed 
 Since first Timolcon's brother bled, 
 Or baffled Persia's despot fled, 
 Arise from out the earth which drank 
 The stream of slaughter as it sank. 
 That sanguine ocean would o'erflow 
 Her isthmus idly spread below : 
 Or could the bones of all the slain. 
 Who pi-rish'd there, be piled again. 
 That rival pyramid would rise 
 More mountain-like, through those clear skies. 
 Than yon tower-capp'd Acropolis, 
 Which seems the very clouds to kiss. 
 
 II. 
 On dun Cithreron's ridge appears 
 The gleam of twice ten thousand spears ; 
 And downward to the Isthmian plain. 
 From shore to shore of either main, 
 The tent is pitch'd, the crescent shines 
 Along the Moslem's leaguering lines ; 
 And the dusk Spahi's bands advance 
 Beneath each bearded pacha's glance ; 
 And far aud wide as eye can reach 
 The turban'd cohorts throng the beach ; 
 And there the Arab's camel kneels, 
 And there his steed the Tartar wheels ; 
 The Turcoman hath left his herd,' 
 The sabre round his loins to gird ; 
 And there the volleying thunders pour. 
 Till waves grow smoother to the roar. 
 The trench is dug, the cannon's breath 
 Wings the far hissing globe of death : 
 Fast whirl the fragments from the wall. 
 Which crumbles with the ponderous ball; 
 And from that wall the foe replies. 
 O'er dusty plain and smoky sides. 
 
 ' The life of the Turcoman? is wandering and patriarchal : they 
 lifeU iu teu'.«. 
 
 With fires that answer fast and weU 
 The summons of the Infidel. 
 
 III. 
 But near and nearest to the wall 
 Of those who wish and work its fall, 
 With deeper skill in war's black art. 
 Than Othman's sons, and high of heart 
 As any chief that ever stood 
 Triumjihant in the fields of blood ; 
 From post to post, smd deed to deed, 
 Fast spurring on his reeking steed. 
 Where sallying ranks the trench assail. 
 And make the foremost Moslem quail ; 
 Or where the battery guarded well. 
 Remains as yet impregnable. 
 Alighting cheerly to insjjire 
 The soldier slackening in his fire ; 
 The first and freshest of the host 
 Which Stamboul's sultan there can beast, 
 To guide the follower o'er the field, 
 To point the tube, the lance to wield, 
 Or whirl around the bickering blade, — 
 Was Alp, the Adrian renegade 1 
 
 IV. 
 From Venice — once a race of worth 
 His gentle sires — he drew his birth ; 
 But late an exile from her shore. 
 Against his countrymen he bore 
 The arms they taught to bear ; and now 
 The turban girt his shaven brow. 
 Through many a change hath Corinth pass'd 
 With Greece to Venice' rule at last ; 
 And here, before her walls, with those 
 To Greece and Venice equal foes. 
 He stood a foe, with all the zeal 
 Wliich young and fiery converts feel. 
 Within whose heated bosom throngs 
 The memory of a thousand wrongs. 
 To him had Venice ceased to be 
 Her ancient civic boast — " the Free ;" 
 And in the palace of St. Mark 
 Unnamed accusers in the dark 
 Within the "Lion's mouth " had placed 
 A charge against him uuefiaced : 
 He fled in time, and saved his life. 
 To waste his future years in strife, 
 That taught his land how great her loss 
 Iu him who triumph'd o'er the Cross, 
 'Gainst which he rear'd the Crescent high, 
 And battled to avenge or die. 
 
 Coumourgi' — he whose closing scene 
 Adom'd the triumiDh of Eugene, 
 
 ' All Coumoiiri;!, the favorite of three Bultans, and Grand Viziei 
 to Achmet III., after rccovorin;; Peloponnesus from the Venctiant 
 in one campaign, was mortally wounded in the next, ajiainst tb< 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 325 
 
 When on Carlowitz' bloody plain, 
 
 The last and mightiest of the slain, 
 He sank, regretting not-to die, 
 But cursed the Christian's victory — 
 Coumourgi — can his glory cease. 
 That latest conqueror of Greece, 
 Till Christian hands to Greece restore 
 The freedom Venice gave of yore ? 
 A hundred years have roll'd away 
 Since he refix'd the Moslem's sway, 
 And now he led the Mussulman, 
 And gave the guidance of the van 
 To Aljj, who well repaid the trust 
 By cities levell'd with the dust ; 
 And proved, by many a deed of death, 
 How firm his heart in novel faith. 
 
 VI. 
 The walls grew weak ; and fast and hot 
 Against them pour'd the ceaseless shot, 
 With unabating furj' sent 
 From battery to battlement ; 
 And thunder-like the pealing din 
 Rose fi-om eaeli heated culverin : 
 And here and there some crackhng dome 
 Was tired before the exjjloding bomb : 
 And as the fabric sank beneath 
 The shattering shell's volcanic breath, 
 In red and wreathing columns flash'd 
 The flame, as loud the ruin crash'd. 
 Or into countless meteors driven. 
 Its earth-stars melted into heaven ; 
 Whose clouds tliat day grew doubly dun, 
 Impervious to the hidden sun. 
 With volumed smoke that slowly grew 
 To one wide sky of sulphurous hue. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But not for vengeance, long delay'd. 
 
 Alone, did W\), tlie renegade. 
 
 The Moslem warriors sternly teach 
 
 His skill to pierce the promised breach : 
 
 Within these walls a msiid was pent 
 
 His hope would win, without consent 
 
 Of that inexorable sire, 
 
 Wliose heart refused him in its ire. 
 
 When Alp, beneath his Christian name, 
 
 Her virgin hand aspired to claim. 
 
 In happier mood, and earlier time, 
 
 While uninipeach'd for traitorous crime. 
 
 Gayest in gondola or hall. 
 
 He glitter'd through the Carnival ; 
 
 And tuned the softest serenade 
 
 .3ormana. at the battle of Peterwaradin (in the plain of Carlowitz), 
 In HuiiL^ary, endeavoring to rally his giiarda. lie died of his wounds 
 next day. His last order was the decapitation of General Ereuner, 
 and some other German prisoners ; and his last words : " Oh, that 
 t coold thus eerve all the Christian dogs I" a speech and act Dot 
 
 That e'er on Adria's waters play'd 
 At midnight to Itahan maid. 
 
 VIII. 
 And many deem'd her heart was won ; 
 For sought by numbers, given to none, 
 Had young Francesca's hand remain'd 
 Still by the church's bonds unchain'd ; 
 And when the Adriatic bore 
 Lanciotto to the Paynim shore. 
 Her wonted smiles were seen to fail, 
 And pensive wax'd the maid and pale ; 
 More constant at confessional, 
 More rare at masque and festival ; 
 Or seen at such, with downcast eyes. 
 Which conquer'd hearts they ceased to prize : 
 With listless look she seems to gaze ; 
 With humbler care her form arrays ; 
 Her voice less lively in the song ; 
 Her step, though light, less fleet amoug 
 The pairs, on whom the IMorning's glance 
 Breaks, yet unsated with the dance. 
 
 IX. • 
 Sent by the state to guard the land, 
 (Wliich, wrested from the Moslem's hand, 
 While Sobieski tamed his pride 
 By Buda's wall and Danube's side. 
 The chiefs of Venice wrung away 
 From Patra to Euboea's bay), 
 Minotti held in Corinth's towers 
 The Doge's delegated powers, 
 WTiile yet the pitj'ing eye of Peace 
 Smiled o'er her long forgotten Greece : 
 And ere that faithless truce was broke 
 Which freed her from the unchristian yoke 
 With him his gentle daughter came ; 
 Nor there, since Menelaus' dame 
 Forsook her lord and land, to prove 
 Wliat woes await on lawless love. 
 Had fairer form adorn'd the shore 
 Than she, the matchless stranger, bore. 
 
 X. 
 The wall is rent, the ruins yawn ; 
 And, with to-morrow's earliest dawn, 
 O'er the disjointed mass shaU vault 
 The foremost of the fierce assault. 
 The bands are rank'd ; the chosen van 
 Of Tartar and of Mussulman, 
 The full of hope, misnamed " forlorn," 
 Who hold the thought of death in scorn, 
 And win their way with falchion's force. 
 Or pave the path with many a corse, 
 O'er which the following brave may risf , 
 Their stepping-stone — the last who dies I 
 
 unlike one of Calijnia. nc was a young man of great ambliloB 
 and nnhonnded presumption : on being told that Prince Eugene, 
 then opposed to him, " was a great general." he said : " 1 shall ho 
 ?ome a greater, and at his expense." 
 
12(1 
 
 BYRON'S WOliKS. 
 
 XI. 
 "Tia midnight : on the mountains brown 
 The cold, round moon shines deeply down ; 
 Blue roll the waters, blue the sky 
 Spreads like an ocean hung on high, 
 Bcspanj^led with those isles of light, 
 So wildly, spiritually bright ; 
 Who ever gazed upon them shining 
 And turn'd to earth witliout repining, 
 Nor wish'd for wings to flee away. 
 And mix with their eternal ray ? 
 The waves on either shore lay there 
 Calm, clear, and azure as the air ; 
 And scarce their foam the pebble shook 
 But miirmur'd meekly as the brook. 
 The winds were pillow'd on the waves ; 
 The banners droojj'd along their staves, 
 And as they fell around them furling. 
 Above them shone the crescent curling ; 
 And that deep silence was unljroke. 
 Save where the watch his signal spoke, 
 Save where the steed neigh'd oft and shnll, 
 And echo answer'd from the hill. 
 And the wide hum of that wild host 
 Rustled like leaves from coast to coast. 
 As rose the Muezzin's voice in air 
 In midnight call to wonted prayer ; 
 It rose, that chanted mournful strain, 
 Like some lone spirit o'er the plain : 
 'Twas musical, but sadly sweet. 
 Such as when wduds and harp-strings meet. 
 And take a long unmeasured tone. 
 To mortal minstrelsy uukno^\Ti. 
 It secm'd to those within the wall 
 A cry prophetic of their fall ; 
 It struck even the besieger's ear 
 With something ominous and drear, 
 An undefined and sudden thriH, 
 Which makes the heart a moment still. 
 Then beat mth quicker pulse, ashamed 
 ' Of that strange sense its silence framed ; 
 Such as a sudden passing-bell 
 Wakes, though but for a stranger's knell. 
 
 XII. 
 The tent of Alp was on the shore ; 
 The sound was hush'd, the prayer was o'er ; 
 The watch was set, the night-round made. 
 All mandates issued and obey'd : 
 'Tis l)Ut another anxious night, 
 Ilis pains the morrow may requite 
 With all revenge and love can pay. 
 In guerdon for their long delay. 
 Few hours he remain, and hath need 
 Of rest, to nerve for many a deed 
 Of slaughter : but within his soul 
 The thoughts like trouble waters ro''. 
 He stood alone among the host ; 
 
 Not his the loud fanatic boast 
 
 To plant the Crescent o'er the Cross, 
 
 Or risk a life with little loss, 
 
 Secure in paradise to be 
 
 By Houris loved immortally : 
 
 Nor his, what burning patriots feel. 
 
 The stern cxaltedness of zeal. 
 
 Profuse of blood, untired in toil. 
 
 When battling on the parent soil. 
 
 He stood alone — a renegade 
 
 Against the country he Iictray'd ; 
 
 He stood alone amidst his band, 
 
 Without a trusted heart or hand : 
 
 They foUow'd him, for he was brave, 
 
 And great the spoil he got and gave ; 
 
 They crouch'd to him, for he had skill 
 
 To warp and wield the vulgar will : 
 
 But still his Christian origin 
 
 With them was little less than sin. 
 
 They envied even the faithless fame 
 
 He eam'd beneath a Moslem name ; 
 
 Since he, their mightiest chief, had been 
 
 In youth a bitter Nazarene. 
 
 They did not know how pride can stoop, 
 
 When baffled feelings withering droop; 
 
 They did not know how hate can burn 
 
 In hearts once changed from soft to stem ; 
 
 Nor all the false and fatal zeal 
 
 The convert of revenge can feel. 
 
 He ruled them — man may rule the worst. 
 
 By ever daring to be first ; 
 
 So lions o'er th.e jackal sway ; 
 
 The jackal points, he fells the prey, 
 
 Then on the vulgar yelling press, 
 
 To gorge the relics of success. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 His head grows fever'd and his pulse 
 The quick successive throbs convulse. 
 In vain from side to side he throws 
 His form, in courtship of repose ; 
 Or if he dozed, a sound, a start 
 Awoke him with a sunken heart. 
 The turban on his hot brow press'd. 
 The mail weigh'd lead-like on his breast, 
 Though oft and long beneath its weight 
 Upon his eyes had slumber sate. 
 Without a couch or canopy. 
 Except a rougher field and sky 
 Than now might j'ield a warrior's bed. 
 Than now along the heaven was spread. 
 He could not rest, he could not stay 
 Within his tent to wait for day, 
 But walk'd him forth along the sand. 
 Where thousand sleepers strew'd the strand 
 What pillow'd them ? and why should he 
 More wakeful than the humblest be ? 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 121 
 
 Since more their peril, worse their toil, 
 And yet they fearless dream of spoil ; 
 While he alone, where thousands pass'd 
 A night of sleeji, perchance their last, 
 In sickly vigil wauder'd on, 
 And envied all he gazed upon. 
 
 XIV. 
 He felt his soul become more light 
 Beneath the freshness of the night. 
 Cool was the silent sky, though calm, 
 And bathed his brow with airy balm : 
 Behind, the camp — before him lay. 
 In many a winding creek and bay. 
 Legauto's gulf; and, on the brow 
 Of Delphi's hill, unshaken snow. 
 High and eternal, such as shone 
 Through thousand summers brightly gone. 
 Along the gulf, the mount, the cUme ; 
 It will not melt, like man, to time : 
 Tyrant and slave are swept away, 
 Less form'd to wear before the ray ; 
 But that white veil, the lightest, frailest, 
 Wlilch on the mighty mount thou hailest. 
 While tower and tree are torn and rent. 
 Shines o'er its craggy battlement ; 
 la form a peak, in height a cloud, 
 In texture Uke a hovering shroud. 
 Thus high by parting Freedom spread, 
 As from her fond abode she fled. 
 And linger'd on the spot, where long 
 Her prophet spirit spake in song. 
 Oh ! still her step at moments falters 
 O'er wither'd fields, and ruin'd altars, 
 And fain would wake, in souls too broken. 
 By pointing to each glorious token ; 
 But vain her voice, tiU better days 
 Dawn in those yet remember'd rays. 
 Which shone upon the Persian flying, 
 And saw the Spartan smile in dying. 
 
 XV. 
 Not mindless of these mighty times 
 Was Alp, despite his flight and crimes ; 
 And through this night, as on he wander'd. 
 And o'er the past and present ponder'd, 
 And thought upon the glorious dead 
 Who there in better cause had bled, 
 He felt how faint and feebly dim 
 The fame that could accrue to him, 
 Wlio cheer'd the band, and waved the sword, 
 A traitor in a turl an'd horde ; 
 And led them to the lawless siege, 
 Wliose best success were sacrilege. 
 Not so had those his fancy number'd. 
 The chiefs whose dust around him siumber'd ; 
 Their phalanx marshall'd on the plain. 
 Whose bulwarks were not then in vain. 
 Thej fell devoted, but undying ; 
 
 The very gale their names seem'd sighing : 
 The waters murmur'd of their name; 
 The woods were peopled with their fame ; 
 The silent jiillar, lone and gray, 
 Claim'd kindred with their sacred clay ; 
 Their spirits wrapp'd the dusky mountain, 
 Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain ; 
 The meanest rill, the mightiest river 
 Eoll'd mingling with their fame forever. 
 Despite of every joke she bears. 
 That land is glory's still and theirs ! 
 'Tis still a watchword to the earth : 
 When man would do a deed of worth 
 He points to Greece, and turns to tread. 
 So sanction'd, on the tyrant's head : 
 He looks to her, and rushes on 
 Where life is lost, or freedom won. 
 
 XVI. 
 Still by the shore Alp mutely mused, 
 And woo'd the freshness Night diflrised. 
 There shrinks no ebb in that tideless sea,' 
 Which changeless roUs eternally ; 
 So that wildest of waves, in their angriest mood, 
 Scarce break on the bounds of the land for a rood 
 And the powerless moon beholds them flow. 
 Heedless if she come or go : 
 Calm or high, in main or bay, 
 On their course she hath no sway. 
 The rock unworn its base doth bare. 
 And looks o'er the surf, but it comes not there : 
 And the fringe of the foam may be seen below, 
 On the line that it left long ages ago : 
 A smooth short space of yellow sand 
 Between it and the greener laud. 
 
 He wander'd on, along the beach, 
 
 Till within the range of a carbine's reach 
 
 Of the leaguer'd wall ; but they saw hira not. 
 
 Or how could he 'scape from the hostile shot ? 
 
 Did traitors lurk in the Christians' hold ? [cold ! 
 
 Were their hands grown stifl", or their hearts wax'd 
 
 I know not, in sooth ; but from yonder wall 
 
 There flash'd no fire, and there hiss'd no ball. 
 
 Though he stood beneath the bastion's frown. 
 
 That flank'd the seaward gate of the town ; 
 
 Though he heard the sound, and could almost tell 
 
 The sullen words of the sentinel, 
 
 As his measured step on the stone below 
 
 Clank'd, as he paced it to and fro ; 
 
 And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall 
 
 Hold o'er the dead their carnival. 
 
 Gorging and growling o'er carcass and liml) ; 
 
 They were too busy to bark at hira I 
 
 From a Tartar's skull they had stripp'd the flesh, 
 
 ' The reader need hardly be reminded that there are no percept/ 
 We tides in the Mediterranean. 
 
128 
 
 BIRON'S WORKS. 
 
 &.S ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh ; 
 
 And their white tusks craunch'd o'er the whiter skull,' 
 
 As it slipp'd through their jaws, w'hen their edge grew 
 
 As they lazily mumljlod the bones of the dead, [dull. 
 
 When they scarce could rise from the spot where they 
 
 So well had they broken a lingering fast [fed ; 
 
 Witli those who had fallen for that night's repast. 
 
 And Alp knew, by the turbans that roU'd on the sand, 
 
 The foremost of these were the best of his band : 
 
 Crimson and green were the shawls of their wear, 
 
 And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair," 
 
 All the rest was shaven and bare. 
 
 The scalps were in the wild dog's maw, 
 
 The hair was tangled round his jaw. 
 
 But close by the shore, on the edge of the gulf. 
 
 There sat a vulture flapping a wolf. 
 
 Who had stolen from the hills, but kept away, 
 
 Scared by the do,i;3, from the human prey ; 
 
 Bui he seized on his share of a steed that lay, 
 
 Pick'd by the birds, on the sands of the bay. 
 
 XVII. 
 Alp turn'd him from the sickening sight : 
 Never had shaken his nerves in flght ; 
 But he better could Isrook to behold the dying. 
 Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying, 
 Scorch'd with the death-thirst, and writhing in vain 
 Than the perishing dead wlio are past all pain. 
 There is something of pride in the perilous hour, 
 Whate'er be the sliape in which death may lower ; 
 For Fame is there to say who bleeds, 
 And Honor's, eye on daring deeds ! 
 But when aU is past, it is humbling to tread 
 O'er the weltering field of the tombless dead. 
 And see worms of the earth, and fowls of the air, 
 Beasts of the forest, all gathering there ; 
 All regarding man as their prey. 
 All rejoicing in his decay. 
 
 XVIII. 
 There is a temple in ruin stands, 
 FaShion'd liy long forgotten liands : 
 Two or tliree columns, and many a stone, 
 Marble and granite, with grass o'ergrown I 
 Out upon Time ! it will leave no more 
 Of the things to come than the things before ! 
 Out upon Time ! who forever yn]\ leave 
 But enough of the past for the future to grieve 
 O'er that wliich hath been, and o'er that which must 
 What we have seen, our sons shall see ; [be : 
 
 Remnants of things that have pass'd away. 
 Fragments of stone, reared by creatures of clay 1 
 
 ■ This spectacle I have seen, each as described, beneath the wall 
 of the Scraixlio at Con>*tantinople. in the little cavities won; by the 
 Bosphorus in the ruck, a narrow terrace of which projects between 
 the wall and tlie water. I think the fact is also mentioned in Uob- 
 honse's Travels. The bodies were probably those of some relVac- 
 tory Janizaries. 
 
 ^ This tuft, or lon^^ lock, is left, from a superstition that Maho- 
 IDet will draw them into Paradise by it. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 He sate him .own at a pillar's base, 
 
 And pass'd his hand atliwart his face ; 
 
 Like one in c'ireary musing mood. 
 
 Declining was his attitude ; 
 
 His head was drooping on his breast, 
 
 Fever'd, throbbing, and oppress'd : 
 
 And o'er his brow, so downward bent, 
 
 Oft his beating fingers went, 
 
 Hurriedl}', as you may see 
 
 Your own run over the ivory key, 
 
 Ere the measured tone is taken 
 
 By the chords you would awaken. 
 
 There he sate all heavily, 
 
 As he heard the night-wind sigh. 
 
 Was it the wind through some hoUow stone, 
 
 Sent that soft and tender moan V 
 
 He lifted his head, and he look'd on the sea. 
 
 But it was unrippled as glass may be ; 
 
 He look'd on the long grass — it waved not a blade ; 
 
 How was that gentle sound convey'd ? 
 
 He look'd to the banners — each flag lay still, 
 
 So did the leaves on Citha^ron's hill. 
 
 And he felt not a breath come over his cheek ; 
 
 What did that sudden soimd l)espeak ? 
 
 He turn'd to the left — is he sure of sight ? 
 
 There sate a lady, youthful and bright I 
 
 XX. 
 
 He started up with more of fear 
 Than if an armed foe were near. 
 " God of my fathers ! wluit is here ? 
 Who art thou, and wherefore sent 
 So near a hostile armament ?" 
 His trembling hands refused to sign 
 The ftoss he deem'd no more divine : 
 He had resumed it in that hour. 
 But conscience wrung away the jjower. 
 
 ■ I must here acknowledge a close, thongh unintentional, resem- 
 blance in these twelve lines to a passage in an nnpublished poem 
 of Mr. Colcridf^e, called " Christable." It was not till after these 
 lines were written that I heard that wild and sinirnlarly original 
 and beautiful poem recited ; and the MS. of that production I never 
 saw till very recently, by the kindness of Mr. Colerid<re himself, 
 who, I hope, is convinced that I have not been a willful pla^^arist. 
 The orii^inal idea undoubtedly i>ertains to Mr. Colcridj^e, whose 
 poem has been composed above fourteen years. Let me conclude 
 by a hope that he will not lonqier delay the publication of a produc- 
 tion, of which I can only add my mite of approbation to the ap- 
 plause of far more competent judges. — [The following are the 
 lines in " Christable " which Lord BjTon had unintentionally imi- 
 tated :— 
 
 " The night is chill, the forest bare, 
 
 Is it the wind that moancth bleak ? 
 
 There !>•. not wind enough in the air 
 
 To move a^vay the ringlet curl 
 
 From the lovely lady's cheek — 
 
 There is not wind enough to twirl 
 
 The one red leaf, the last of its clan, 
 
 That dances as often as dance it can. 
 
 Hanging so light, and hanging so high, 
 
 On the topmost twitj that looks at the skj 1"1 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 !2g 
 
 He gazed, he saw : hp knew the face 
 
 Of beauty, and tb« f( rm of grace ; 
 
 It was Francesoa by his side 
 
 The maid who might have been Ills bride ! 
 
 The rose was yet upon her cheek, 
 But mcllow'd with a tenderer streak : 
 WTiere was the play of her soft lips fled ? 
 jone was the smile that enUven'd their red. 
 The ocean's calm within their view, 
 Beside her eye had less of Ijlue ; 
 But like that cold wave it stood still. 
 And its glance, though clear, was chill. 
 Around her form a thin robe twining, 
 Naught conceai'd her bosom shining ; 
 Through the parting of her hair, 
 Floating darkly downward there. 
 Her rounded arm show'd white and bare : 
 And ere yet she made rejjly, 
 Once she raised her hand on high. 
 It was so wan, and transparent of hue, 
 You might haye seen the moon shine througll. 
 
 XXI. 
 " I come from my rest to him I love best. 
 That I may be happy, and ho may be bless'd. 
 I have pass'd the guards, the gate, the wall ; 
 Sought thee in safety through foes and aU. 
 'Tis said the lion wiU turn and flee 
 From a maid in the pride of her purity ; 
 And the Power on high, that can shield the good 
 Thus from the tyrant of the wood. 
 Hath extended its mercy to guard me as well 
 From the hands of the leaguering infidel. 
 I come — and if I come in vain, 
 Never, oh never, we meet again 1 
 Thou hast done a fearful deed 
 In falling away from thy father's creed : 
 But dash that turban to earth, and sign 
 The sign of the cross, and forever be mine ; 
 Wring the black drop from thy heart, 
 And to-morrow unites us no more to part." 
 
 " And where should our bridal couch be spread ? 
 In the midst of the dying and the dead ? 
 For to-morrow we give to the slaughter and flame 
 The sons and the shrines of the Christian name. 
 None, save thou and thine, I've sworn, 
 Shall be left upon the morn : 
 But thee will I bear to a lovely spot, 
 Where our hands shall be join'd, and our sorrow forgot. 
 There thou yet shalt be my bride, 
 When once again I've quell'd the pride 
 Of Venice ; and her hated-race 
 Have felt the arm they would debase,^ 
 Scourge, with ^ whip of scorpions, those 
 Whom vice and envy made my foes." 
 17 
 
 Upon his hand she laid her own — 
 
 Light was the touch, but it thrill'd to the bone. 
 
 And shot a chilhiess to his heart. 
 
 Which flx'd him beyond the power to start. 
 
 Though shght was that grasp so mortal cold, 
 
 He could not loose him from its hold ; 
 
 But never did clasp of one so dear 
 
 Strike on the pulse with such feeling of fear, 
 
 As those thin fingers, long and white. 
 
 Froze through his blood liy their touch that night. 
 
 The feverish glow of his brow was gone, 
 
 And his heart sank so stiU that it felt like stone, 
 
 As he look'd on the face, and beheld its hue, 
 
 So deeply changed from what he knew : 
 
 Fair but fiiint — without the ray 
 
 Of mind, that made each feature play 
 
 Like sparkling waves on a sunny day ; 
 
 And her motionless lips lay still as death. 
 
 And her words came forth without her breath, 
 
 And there rose not a heave o'er her bosom's swell. 
 
 And there seem'd not a pulse in her veins to dweU. 
 
 Though her eye shone out, yet the lids were fix'd, 
 
 And the glance that it gave was wild and immix'd 
 
 With aught of change, as the eyes may seem 
 
 Of the restless who walk in a troubled dream ; 
 
 Like the figures on arras, that gloomily glare, 
 
 Stirr'd by the breath of the wintry air. 
 
 So seen by the dying lamp's fitful Ught, 
 
 Lifeless, but life-Uke, and awful to sight ; [down 
 
 As they seem, through the dimness, about to come 
 
 From the shadowy wafl where their images frown ; 
 
 Fearfully flitting to and fro. 
 
 As the gusts on the tapestry come and go. 
 
 " If not for love of me be given 
 Thus much, then, for the love of heaven, — 
 Again I say — that turban tear 
 From off thy faithless brow, and swear 
 Thine injured country's sons to spare, 
 Or thou art lost ; and never shalt see — 
 Not earth — that's past — liut heaven or me. 
 If this thou dost accord, albeit 
 A heavy doom 'tis thine to meet. 
 That doom shall half absolve thy sin. 
 And mercy's gate may receive thee within : 
 But pause one moment more, and take 
 The curse of Him thou didst forsake.; 
 And look once more to heaven, and see 
 Its love forever shut from thee. 
 There is a light cloud by the moon — ' 
 
 * I have been told that the idea expressed in this and the five 
 follomng: liuee have been admired by those ^hose approbation ia 
 valuable. I am glad of it : but it is not original— at least not mine : 
 it may be found much better expressed in pages 182-3-4, of the 
 EngH^h version of " Vatbek," (I forget the precise page of the 
 French.) a work to which I have before referred ; and never re- 
 cnr to, or read, without a renewal of gratification.— [The follow- 
 ing is the passage : " ' Deluded prince !' said the Geniue, addros&- 
 Ing the Caliph, 'to whom Providence hath confided the care of 
 
180 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 'Tis passing, and will pass full soon — 
 If, by the time its vapory sail 
 Hath ceased her shaded orb to veil, 
 Thy heart within tliee is not changed, 
 Then God and man are both avenged ; 
 Dark will thy doom be, darker still 
 Thine immortality of ill." 
 
 Alp look'd to heaven, and saw on high 
 
 The sign she spake of in the sky ; 
 
 But his heart was swoUen, and turn'd aside, 
 
 By deep interminable pride. 
 
 This first false passion of his breast 
 
 Roll'd like a torrent o'er the rest. 
 
 He sue for mercy ! He dismay'd 
 
 By wild words of a timid maid ! 
 
 lie, wrong'd by Venice, vow to save 
 
 Her sons, devoted to the grave ! 
 
 No — though that cloud were thunder's worst. 
 
 And charged to crush him — let it burst ! 
 
 He look'd upon it earnestly 
 
 Without an accent of reply ; 
 
 He watch'd it passing ; it is flown : 
 . Full on his eye the clear moon shone. 
 
 And thus he spake — " Whate'er my fate, 
 
 I am no changeling — 'tis too late : 
 
 The reed in storms may bow and quiver, 
 
 Then rise again ; the tree must shiver. 
 
 "Wliat Venice made me, I must be. 
 
 Her foe in all, save love to thee : 
 
 But thou art safe : oh, fly with me !" 
 He tum'd, but she is gone ! 
 Nothing is there but the column stone. 
 Hath she sunk in the earth, or melted in air ? 
 He saw not — he knew not — but nothing is there. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 The night is past, and shines the sun 
 
 As if that morn were a jocund one. 
 
 Lightly and l)rightly breaks away 
 
 The Morning from her mantle gray. 
 
 And the Noon will look on a sultry day. 
 
 Hark to the trump, and the drum. 
 And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn, 
 And the flap of the banners, that flit as they're borne, 
 
 Innumerable eubjects ; is it thus that thou Mflllest thy mission f 
 Thy crimes are already completed ; and art thoa now hastening 
 to thy punishment ? Thou knowest that beyond those mountains 
 Kblis and his accursed dives hold their infernal empire ; and. se- 
 diiccd by a malirrnant pliantom, thou art proceedin-^ to surrender 
 thyself to them 1 Tliis moiueut is the last of grace allowed thee : 
 give back Nouron:i})ai- to licr father, who still retains a few sparks 
 of life: destroy thy tower with all its abominations: drive Cara- 
 thia from tliy councils : bo just to thy subjects : respect the minis- 
 ters of the prophet : compensate for thy impieties by an exemplary 
 I'fe ; and, instead of squandering thy days in voluptuous indul- 
 goice. lament thy crimes on tlie sepulchres of thy ancestors. Thou 
 behiddest tlie clouds that obscure the sun : at the instant he re- 
 covers his splendor, if thy heart be not changed, the time of mercy 
 issigned thoe will be past forpver.' "] 
 
 And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hum, 
 And the clash, and the shout, " They come ! they 
 
 come I" [sword 
 
 The horsetails are pluck'd from the ground, and the 
 From its sheath ; and they form, and but wait for 
 Tartar, and Spahi, and Turcoman, [the word. 
 
 Strike your tents, and throng to the van ; 
 Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain. 
 That the fugitive may flee in vain, 
 When he breaks from the town ; and none escape, 
 Aged or young, in the Christian shape ; 
 While your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass. 
 Bloodstain the breach through which they pass. 
 The steeds are all bridled, and snort to the rein ; 
 Curved is each neck, and flowing each mane ; 
 White is the foam of their champ on the bit : 
 The spears are uplifted ; the matches are Ut ; 
 The caimon are pointed, and ready to roar. 
 And crush the waU they have crumbled before : 
 Forms in his phalanx each Janizar ; 
 Alp at their head ; his right arm is bare, 
 So is the blade of his scimitar ; 
 The khan and the pachas are all at their post ; 
 The vizier himself at the head of the host. 
 When the culverin's signal is fired, then on ; 
 Leave not in Corinth a living one — 
 A priest at her altars, a chief in her haUs, 
 A hearth in her mansions, a stone on her walls. 
 God and the prophet — Alia Hu ! 
 Up to the skies with that wild halloo I [scale 
 
 "There the breach lies for passage, the ladder to 
 And your hands on your sabres, and how should ye 
 
 fail ? . 
 He who first downs with the red cross may crave 
 His heart's dearest wish ; let him ask it, and have 1" 
 Thus utter'd Coumourgi, the dauntless vizier ; 
 The reply was the brandish of sabre and spear. 
 And the shout of fierce thousands in joyous ire : — 
 Silence — hark to the signal — fire 1 
 
 xxin. 
 
 As the wolves, that headlong go 
 
 On the stately buffalo. 
 
 Though with fiery eyes, and angry roar, 
 
 And hoofs that stamp, and horns that gore, 
 
 He tramples on earth, or tosses on high 
 
 The foremost, who rusli on his strength but to die : 
 
 Thus against the wall they went, 
 
 Thus the first were backward bent; 
 
 Many a bosom, sheathed in brass, 
 
 Strew'd the earth like broken glass, 
 
 Shivcr'd by the shot, that tore 
 
 The ground whereon they moved no more : 
 
 Even as they fell, in files they lay. 
 
 Like the mower's grass at tlie close of day, 
 
 When his work is done on the levelfd plain ; 
 
 Such was the fall of the foremost elain. 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 131 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 As the spring-tides, with heavy plash, 
 
 From the cliffs invading dash 
 
 Huge fragments, sapp'd by the ceaseless flow. 
 
 Till white and thundering down they go. 
 
 Like the avalanche's snow 
 
 On the Alpine vales below ; 
 
 Thus at length, outbreathed and worn, 
 
 Corinth's sons were downward borne 
 
 By the long and oft renew'd 
 
 Charge of the Moslem multitude. 
 
 In tirmness they stood, and in masses they fell, 
 
 Heap'd, by the host of the infidel, 
 
 Hand to hand, and foot to foot : 
 
 Nothing there, save death, was mute ; 
 
 Stroke, and thrust, and flash, and cry 
 
 For quarter, or for victory. 
 
 Mingle there with the volleying thunder, 
 
 "NVliich make the distant cities wonder 
 
 How the sounding battle goes. 
 
 If with them, or for their foes ; 
 
 If they must mourn, or may rejoice 
 
 In that annihilating voice. 
 
 Which pierces the deep hills through and through 
 
 With an echo dread and new : 
 
 You might have heard it, on that day. 
 
 O'er Salamis and Megara ; 
 
 (We have heard the hearers say,) 
 
 Even unto Piraeus' bay. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 From the point of encountering blades to the hilt. 
 
 Sabres and swords with blood were gilt ; 
 
 But the rampart is won, and the sjioil begun. 
 
 And all but the after carnage done. 
 
 Shriller shrieks now mingling come 
 
 From within the plunder'd dome : 
 
 Hark to the haste of flying feet, 
 
 That splash in the blood of the slijjpery street ; 
 
 But here and there, where 'vantage ground 
 
 Against the foe may still be found. 
 
 Desperate groups, of twelve or ten. 
 
 Make a paase, and turn again — 
 
 With banded backs against the wall, 
 
 Fiercely stand, or fighting fall. 
 
 There stood an old man — ^his hairs were white, 
 
 But his veteran arm was full of might : 
 
 So gallantly bore he the brunt of the fray, 
 
 The dead before him, on that day. 
 
 In a semicircle lay ; 
 
 Still he combated unwounded. 
 
 Though retreating, unsurrounded. 
 
 Many a scar of former fight 
 
 Lurk'd beneath his corslet bright ; 
 
 But of every wound his body bore. 
 
 Each and all had been ta'en before : 
 
 Though aged, he was so iron of limb, 
 
 Few of our youth could cope with him ; 
 
 And the foes, whom he singly kept at bay, 
 
 Outnumber'd his thin hairs of silver gray. 
 
 From right to left his sabre swept : 
 
 Many an Othman mother wept 
 
 Sons that were unborn, when dipp'd 
 
 His weapon first in Moslem gore, 
 
 Ere his years could count a score. 
 
 Of all he might have been the sire 
 
 Wlio fell that day beneath his ire : 
 
 For, sonless left long years ago. 
 
 His wrath made many a childless foe ; 
 
 And since the day, when in the strait' 
 
 His only boy had met his fate. 
 
 His parent's iron hand did doom 
 
 More than a human hecatomb. 
 
 If shades by carnage be appeased, 
 
 Patroclus' spirit less was pleased 
 
 Than his, Minotti's son, who died 
 
 Where Asia's bounds and ours divide. 
 
 Buried he lay, where thousands before 
 
 For thousands of years were inhumed on the shore j 
 
 What of them is left, to tell 
 
 Where they lie, and how they fell ? 
 Not a stone on their tiu-f, nor a bone in their graves 
 But they live in the verse that immortally saves. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Hark to the Allah shout ! a band 
 
 Of the Mussulman bravest and best is at hand : 
 
 Their leader's ner^'ous arm is bare. 
 
 Swifter to smite, and never to spare — 
 
 Unclothed to the shoulder it waves them on ; 
 
 Thus in the fight is he ever known : 
 
 Others a gaudier garb may show, 
 
 To tempt the spoil of the greedy foe ; 
 
 Many a hand's on a richer hilt. 
 
 But none on a steel more ruddily gilt ; 
 
 Many a loftier turban may wear, — 
 
 Alp is but known by the white arm bare ; 
 
 Look through the thick of the fight, 'tis there I 
 
 There is not a standard on that shore 
 
 So well advanced the ranks before ; 
 
 There is not a banner in Moslem war 
 
 Will lure the Dclhis half so far ; 
 
 It glances like a falling star ! 
 
 Wliere'er that mighty arm is seen. 
 
 The bravest be, or late have been ; 
 
 There the craven cries for quarter 
 
 Vainly to the vengeful Tartar ; 
 
 Or the hero, silent lying. 
 
 Scorns to yield a groan in dying ; 
 
 Mustering his last feeble blow 
 
 'Gainst the nearest leveU'd foe. 
 
 ' In the naval battle at the mouth of the Dardanelles, betwoef 
 the Venetians and the Tniks. 
 
130 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Though faint beneath the mutual wound. 
 Grappling on the gory ground. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Still the old man stood erect, 
 And Alp's career a moment check'd. 
 " Yield thee, Minotti ; quarter take. 
 For thine own, thy daughter's sake." 
 
 " Never, renegado, never ! 
 
 Though the life of thy gift would last forever." 
 
 " Francesca ! — Oh, my promised bride ! 
 Must she too perish by thy pride V 
 
 " She is safe."—" Where ? where ?"— " In heaven ; 
 
 From whence thy traitor soul is driven — 
 
 Far from thee, and undefiled." 
 
 Grimly then Miuotti smiled. 
 
 As he saw Alp staggering bow 
 
 Before his words, as with a blow. 
 
 " Oh God 1 when died she ?"— " Yesternight— 
 
 Nor weep I for her spirit's flight : 
 
 None of my pure race shall be 
 
 Slaves to Mahomet and thee — 
 
 Come on !" — That challenge is in vain — 
 
 Alp's already with the slain ! 
 
 While Minotti's words were WTcaking 
 
 More revenge in bitter speaking 
 
 Than his falchion's point had found. 
 
 Had the time allow'd to wound, 
 
 From within the neighboring porch 
 
 Of a long-defended church. 
 
 Where the last and desiderate few 
 
 Would the failing fight renew, 
 
 The sharp shot dash'd Alj) to the grotmd ; 
 
 Ere an eye could ^-iew the wound 
 
 That crash'd through the brain of the infidel, 
 
 Round he spun, and down he fell ; 
 
 A flash like fire •ndthin his eyes 
 
 Blazed, as he bent no more to rise. 
 
 And then eternal darkuess sunk 
 
 Through all the palpitating trunk ; 
 
 Naught of life left, save a quivering 
 
 Wliere his limbs were slightly shivering : 
 
 They turn'd him on his back ; his breast 
 
 And brow were stain'd vnth gore and dust, 
 
 And through his lips the Ufe-blood oozed, 
 
 From its deep veins lately loosed ; 
 
 But in his pulse there was no throb. 
 
 Nor on his lips one dying sob ; 
 
 Sigh, nor word, nor struggling breath 
 
 Heralded his way to death ; 
 
 Ere his very thought could pray, 
 
 Unaneled he pass'd away. 
 
 Without a hope from mercy's aid, — 
 
 To the last — a Ilenegade. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Fearfully the yell arose 
 
 Of his followers, and his foes ; 
 
 These in joy, in fury those : 
 
 Then again in conflict mixing. 
 
 Clashing swords, and spears transfixing, 
 
 Interchanged the blow and thrust, 
 
 IlurUng warriors in the dust. 
 
 Street by street, and foot by foot. 
 
 Still Jlinotti dares dispute 
 
 The latest portion of the land 
 
 Left beneath his high command ; 
 
 With him, aiding heart and hand, 
 
 The remnant of his gallaut band. 
 
 Still the church is tenable. 
 Whence issued late the fated ball 
 That half avenged the city's fall, 
 
 Wlicn Alp, her fierce assailant, fell : 
 
 Thither bending sternly back. 
 
 They leave before a bloody track ; 
 
 And, with their faces to the foe. 
 
 Dealing wounds with every blow. 
 
 The chief, and his retreating train, 
 
 Join to those within the fane ; 
 
 There they yet may breathe awhile, 
 
 Shelter'd by the massy pile. 
 
 XXIX. 
 Brief breathing-time ! the turban'd oost, 
 With adding ranks and raging boaot. 
 Press onwards with such strength and heat, 
 Their numbers balk their own retreat ; 
 For narrow the way that led to the spot 
 Where still the Christians yielded not ; 
 And the foremost, if fearful, may vainly try 
 Through the massy column to turn and fly ; 
 They perforce must do or die. 
 They die ; but ere their eyes could close, 
 Avengers o'er their bodies rose ; 
 Fresh and furious, fast they fill 
 The ranks uuthinn'd, though slaughter'd still j 
 And faint the weary Christians wax 
 Before the still renew'd attacks , 
 
 And now the Othmans gain the gate ; 
 Still resists its iron weight. 
 And still, all deadly aim'd and hot. 
 From every crevice ccmes the shot; 
 From every shatter'd window pour 
 The volleys of the sulphurous shower ; 
 But the portal wavering grows and weak — 
 The iron yields, the hinges creak — 
 It bends — it falls — and all is o'er ; 
 Lost Corinth may resist no more I 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Darkly, sternly and all alone, 
 Minotti stood o'er the altar stone : 
 Madonna's act ujjon him shone, 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 13? 
 
 Painted in heavenly hues above, 
 
 With eyes of light and looks of love ; 
 
 And placed upon that holy shrine 
 
 To fix our thoughts on things divine, 
 
 When pictured there, we kneeling see 
 
 Her, and the boy-God on her knee, 
 
 Smiling sweetly on each prayer 
 
 To heaven, as if to waft it there. 
 
 Still she smiled ; even now she smiles. 
 
 Though slaughter streams along her aisles : 
 
 Minotti Ufted his aged eye, 
 
 Aad made the sign of a cross with a sigh, 
 
 Then seized a torch which blazed thereby ; 
 
 And still he stood, while, with steel and flame. 
 
 Inward and onward the Mussulman came. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 The vaults beneath the mosaic stone 
 
 Contain'd the dead of ages gone ; 
 
 Their names were on the graven floor. 
 
 But now illegible with gore ; 
 
 The carved crests, and curious hues 
 
 The varied marble's veins difi'use. 
 
 Were smear'd, and slippery — stain'd, and strown 
 
 With broken swords, and hehns o'erthrown : 
 
 There were dead above, and the dead below 
 
 Lay cold in many a coftin'd row ; 
 
 You might see them piled in sabled state, 
 
 By a pale light through a gloomy grate ; 
 
 But War had enter'd their dark caves. 
 
 And stored along the vaulted graves 
 
 Her sulphurous treasures, thickly spread 
 
 In masses by the fleshless dead : 
 
 Here, throughout the siege, had been 
 The Christians' chiefest magazine ; 
 
 To these a late-form'd train now led, 
 
 Minotti's last and stern resource 
 
 Agiiinst the foe's o'erwhelming force. 
 
 XXXII. 
 The foe came on, and few remain 
 To strive, and those must strive In vain : 
 For lack of further lives, to slake 
 The thirst of vengeance now awake. 
 With barbarous blows they gash the dead. 
 And lop the already lifeless head. 
 And fell the statues from their niche. 
 And spoil the shrines of oiferings rich, 
 And from each other's rude hands wrest 
 The silver vessels saints had bless'd. 
 To the high altar on they go ; 
 Oh, but it made a glorious show 1 
 On its table still behold 
 The cup of consecrated gold ; 
 Massy and deep, a gUttering prize, 
 Brightly it sparkles to plunderers' eyes : 
 That morn it heli the holy wine, 
 
 Converted by Christ to his blood so divine. 
 
 Which his worshippers drank at the break of day, 
 
 To shrive their souls ere they join'd in tha fray. 
 
 Still a few drops within it lay ; 
 
 And round the sacred table glow 
 
 Twelve lofty lamps, in splendid row, 
 
 From the purest metal cast ; 
 
 A spoil — the richest, and the last. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 So near they came, the nearest stretch'd 
 To grasp the spoil he almost reach'd, 
 
 When old Minotti's hand 
 Touch'd with the torch the train^ 
 
 'Tis fired 1 
 Spire, vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the slain, 
 The turljan'd victors, the Christian band, 
 AU that of living or dead remain, 
 Hui-l'd on high with the shiver'd fane. 
 
 In one wild roar expired 1 
 The shatter'd town — the walls thrown down — , 
 The waves a moment backward bent — 
 The hills that shake, although unrent. 
 
 As if an earthquake pass'd — 
 The thousand sliapeless things all driven 
 In cloud and flame athwart the heaven, 
 
 By that tremendous blast — 
 Proclaim'd the desperate conflict o'er 
 On that too long afllicted shore : 
 Up to the sky like rockets go 
 AU that mingled there below : 
 Many a taU and goodly man, 
 Scorch'd and shrivell'd to a span. 
 When he fell to earth again 
 Like a cinder strew'd the plain : 
 Down the ashes shower like rain ; 
 Some fell in the gulf, which received the spj inkle* 
 With a thousand circUng wrinkles ; 
 Some fell on the shore, but, far away, 
 Scatter'd o'er the isthmus lay ; 
 Christian or Moslem, which be they ? 
 Let their mothers see and say I 
 When in cradled rest they lay, 
 And each nursing mother smiled 
 On the sweet sleep of her child. 
 Little deem'd she such a day 
 Would rend those tender limbs away. 
 Not the matrons that them bore 
 Could discern their ofl'sijring more ; 
 That one moment left no trace 
 More of human form or face 
 Save a scatter'd scalp or bone : 
 And doT\'n came blazing rafters, strown 
 Around, and many a falHng stone, 
 Deeply dinted in the clay. 
 All blacken'd there and reeking lay. 
 All the living things that heard 
 That deadly earth-shock disappear'd ' 
 
134 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS, 
 
 The wild birds flew ; the wild dogs fled, 
 And howling left the unburied dead ; 
 The camels from their keepers broke ; 
 The distant steer forsook the yoke — 
 The nearer steed plunged o'er the plain, 
 And burst his girth, and tore his rein ; 
 The bull-frog's note, from out the marsh, 
 Deep-mouth'd arose, and doubly harsh ; 
 The wolves yell'd on the cavern'd hill 
 Where echo roll'd in thunder stiU ; 
 The jackal's troop, in gather'd cry,' 
 
 ' I believe I have taken a poetical liccoBe to traneplaot the jackal 
 
 Bay'd from afar complainingly, 
 With a mix'd and mournful sound. 
 Like crying babe, and beaten hound : 
 With sudden wing, and rufHed breast, 
 The eagle left his rocky nest, 
 And mounted nearer to the sun, 
 The clouds beneath him seem'd so dun , 
 Their smoke assail'd his startled beak, 
 And made him higher soar and shriek- 
 Thus was Corinth lost and won ! 
 
 from Asia. In Greece I never eaw nor heard these animals ; bot 
 among the ruins of tphe^us I have heard them by bimdredi. 
 They i^nnt ruins and follow armies. 
 
 PAPvISINA 
 
 TO 
 
 SCROPE BERDMORE DAVIES, ESQ. 
 
 THE rOLLOWINa POEM IS INSCKIBED. 
 
 BT ONE TVnO HAS LONG AcailKED HIS TALENTS ANU VALUED HIS PBIENDSHIP. 
 
 January 22, 1816. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The following poem is grounded on a circumstance 
 mentioned in Gibbon's " Antiquities of the House of 
 Bnmswick." I am aware, that in modern times the 
 delicacy or fastidiousness of the reader may deem such 
 subjects unfit for the purposes of poetry. The Greek 
 dramatists, and some of the best of oiu: old English 
 writers, were of a different opinion : as Alfieri and 
 SchUler have also been, more recently, upon the Con- 
 tinent. The following extract will explain the facts 
 on which the story is founded. The name of Azo is 
 substituted for Nicholas, as more metrical. 
 
 " Under the reign of Nicholas III., Ferrara was pol- 
 luted with a domestic tragedy. By the testimony of 
 an attendant, and his own observation, the Marquis of 
 Este discovered the incestuous loves of his wife Paris- 
 ina, and Hugo his bastard son, a beautiful and valiant 
 youth. They were beheaded in the castle by the sen- 
 tence of a father and husband, who published his 
 shame, and survived their execution. He was imfor- 
 tunate, if they were guilty : if tliey were innocent, he 
 was still more unfortunate ; nor is there any possible 
 situation in which I can sincerely approve tlie last act 
 of the justice of a parent." — Gibbon's Miscellaneous 
 Works, vol. iii., p. 470. 
 
 PARISINA. 
 I. 
 
 It is the hour when from the boughs 
 The nightingale's high note is heard ; 
 
 It is the hour when lovers' vows 
 
 Seem sweet in every whisper'd word ; 
 
 And gentle winds, and waters near. 
 
 Make music to the lonely ear. 
 
 Each flower the dews have lightly wet, 
 
 And in the sky the stars are met. 
 
 And on the wave is deeper blue. 
 
 And on the leaf a browner hue. 
 
 And in the heaven that clear obscure, 
 
 So softly dark, and darkly pure. 
 
 Which follows the decline of day. 
 
 As twilight melts beneath the moon iway.' 
 
 II. 
 But it is not to list to the waterfall 
 That Parisina leaves her hall, 
 
 ' The lines contained in this section were printed as set t< 
 music some time since, but belonged to the poem where tiiey 
 now appear ; the greater part of which was composed prior to 
 " Lara." 
 
^7. 
 
 atca^Tzai 
 
 
PARISINA. 
 
 13tir 
 
 Aad it is not to gaze on the heavenly light 
 
 That the lady walks in the shadow of night ; 
 
 And if she sits in Este's bower, 
 
 'Tis not for the sake of its full-blown flower — 
 
 She listens — ^but not for the nightingale — 
 
 Though her ear expects as soft a tale. 
 
 There glides a step through the foliage thick, 
 
 And her cheek grows jjale — and her heart beats 
 
 quick. 
 There whispers a voice through the rustling leaves, 
 And her blush returns, and her bosom heaves : 
 A moment more — and they shall meet — 
 'Tis past — her lover's at her feet. 
 
 III. 
 And what unto them is the world beside, 
 With all its change of time and tide ? 
 Its linug things — its earth and sky — 
 Are nothing to their mind and eye. 
 And heedless as the dead are they 
 
 Of aught around, above, beneath ; 
 As if all else had pass'd away. 
 
 They only for each other breathe ; 
 Their very sighs are full of joy 
 
 So deep, that, did it not decay, 
 That happy madness would destroy 
 
 The hearts which feel its fiery sway : 
 Of guilt, of peril, do they deem 
 In that tumultuous tender dream ? 
 Who that have felt that passion's power, 
 Or paused, or fear'd in such an hour ? 
 Or thought how brief such moments last ? 
 But yet — they are already pass'd ! 
 Alas ! we must awake before 
 We know such vision conies no more. 
 
 IV. 
 With many a lingering look they leave 
 
 The spot of guilty gladness pass'd ; 
 And though they hope, and vow, they grieve 
 
 As if that parting were the last. 
 The frequent sigh — the long embrace — 
 
 The lip that there would cling forever, 
 While gleams on Parisina's face 
 
 The Heaven she fears will not forgive her, 
 As if each calmly conscious star 
 Beheld her frailty from afar — 
 The frequent sigh, the long embrace. 
 Yet binds them to their trysting-place. 
 But it must come, and they must part 
 In fearful heaviness of heart. 
 With all the deep and shuddering chiU 
 ^VTiich follows fast the deeds of ill. 
 
 • V. 
 
 A„d Hugo is gone to his lonely bed, 
 
 To covet there another's bride ; 
 But she must lay her conscious head 
 
 A husband's trusting heart beside. 
 
 But fever'd in her sleep she seems. 
 
 And red her check with troubled dreams. 
 
 And mutters she in her unrest 
 A name she dares not breathe by day, 
 
 And clasps her lord unto the breast 
 Wliich pants for one away : 
 And he to that embrace awakes. 
 And, happy in the thought, mistakes 
 That dreaming sigh, and warm caress, 
 For such as he was wont to bless ; 
 Aad could in very fondness weep 
 O'er her who loves him even in sleep. 
 
 VI. 
 He clasp'd her sleeping to his heart. 
 
 And listen'd to each broken word : 
 He hears — Why doth Prince Azo start, 
 
 As if the Archangel's voice he heard ? 
 And weD he may — a deeper doom 
 Could scarcely thunder o'er his tomb. 
 When he shall wake to sleep no more. 
 And stand the eternal throne before. 
 And weU he may — his earthly peace 
 Upon that soimd is doom'd to cease. 
 That sleeping whisper of a name 
 Bespeaks her guilt and Azo's shame. 
 And whose that name ? that o'er his pillow 
 Sounds fearful as the breaking billow, 
 Wliich rolls the plank upon the shore. 
 
 And dashes on the pointed rock 
 The vpretch who sinks to rise uo more, — 
 
 So came upon his soul the shock. 
 And whose that name ? 'tis Hugo's, — his — 
 In sooth he had not decm'd of this ! — 
 'Tis Hugo's, — he, the child of one 
 He loved — his own aU-evil son — 
 The ofispring of his wayward youth. 
 When he betray'd Bianca's truth. 
 The maid whose folly could confide 
 In him who made her not his bride. 
 
 VII. 
 He pluck'd his poniard in its sheath. 
 
 But sheathed it ere the point was bare — 
 Howe'er unworthy now to breathe, 
 He could not slay a thing so fair — 
 At least, not smiling — sleeping — there — 
 Nay more : — he did not wake her then. 
 But gazed upon her with a glance 
 Which, had she roused her from her trance. 
 Had frozen her sense to sleep again — 
 And o'er his brow the burning lamp 
 Qleam'd on the dew-drops big and damp. 
 She spake no more — but still she slumber" d — 
 WhDe, in his thought, her days arc number'd. 
 
 VIII. 
 And with the morn he sought, and found, 
 In manv a tale from lliose around. 
 
1S6 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 The proof of all lie fear'd to know, 
 
 Their present guilt, his future wo ; 
 
 The long-conniring damsels seek 
 To save themselves, and would transfer 
 The guilt — the shame — the doom — to her : 
 
 Concealment is no more — they speak 
 
 All circumstance which may compel 
 
 FuU credence to the tale they tell : 
 
 And A^o's tortured heart and ear 
 
 Have nothing more to feel or hear. 
 
 IX. 
 He was not one who brook'd delay : 
 
 Within the chamber of his state, 
 The chief of Este's ancient sway 
 
 Upon his throne of judgment sate ; 
 His nobles and his guards are there, — 
 Before him is the sinful pair ; 
 Both young, — and one how passing fair 1 
 "With swordless belt, and fetter'd hand. 
 Oh, Christ ! that thus a son should stand 
 
 Before a father's face 1 
 Yet thus must Hugo meet his sire, 
 And hear the sentence of his ire, 
 
 The tale of his disgrace I 
 And yet he seems not overcome, 
 Although, as yet, his voice be dumb. 
 
 X. 
 
 And still, and pale, and silently 
 
 Did Parisina wait her doom ; 
 How changed since last her speaking eye 
 
 Glanced gladness round the glittering room, 
 Where high-born men were proud to wait — 
 Where Beauty watch'd to imitate 
 
 Her gentle voice — her lovely mien — 
 And gather from her air and gait 
 
 The graces of its queen : 
 Then, — had her eye in sorrow wept, 
 A thousand warriors forth had leajit, 
 A thousand swords had sheathless shone. 
 And made her quarrel all their own. 
 Now, — what is she ? and what are they ? 
 Can she command, or these obey? 
 All silent and unheeding now, 
 With downcast eyes and knitting brow. 
 And folded arms, and freezing air. 
 And lips that scarce their scorn forbear. 
 Her laiights and dames, her court — is there : 
 And he, the chosen one, whose lance 
 Had yet been couch'd before her glance, 
 Wlio — were his arm a moment free — 
 Had died or gain'd her liberty ; 
 The minion of his father's liride,^ 
 He, too, is fetter'd by her side ; 
 Nor sees her swoln and full eye swim 
 Ijees fcr her own despair than hin? • 
 
 Those lids — o'er which the violet vein 
 Wandering, leaves a tender ''tain. 
 Shining through the smoothest white 
 That e'er did softest kiss invite — 
 Now seem'd \vith hot and livid glow 
 To press, not shade, the orbs below ; 
 Wliich glance so heavily, and lill, 
 As tear on tear grows gathering still. 
 
 XI. 
 
 And he for her had also wept, 
 
 But for the eyes that on him gazed : 
 His sorrow, if he felt it, slept ; 
 
 Stem and erect his brow was raised. 
 Whate'er the grief his soul avow'd. 
 He would not shrink before the crowd ; 
 But yet he dared not look on her : 
 Remembrance of the hours that were — 
 His guilt — his love — his present state — 
 His father's wrath — all good men's hate 
 His earthly, his eternal fate — 
 And hers, — oh, hers ! — he dared not throw 
 One look upon that deathlike brow ! 
 Else had his rising heart betray'd 
 Remorse for all the wreck it made. 
 
 XII. 
 And Azo spake : — " But yesterday 
 
 I gloried in a wife and son ; 
 That dream this morning pass'd away , 
 
 Ere day declines, I shall have none. 
 My life must linger on alone ; 
 Well.— let that pass, — there breathes not one 
 Who would not do as I have done : 
 Those ties are broken — not by me ; 
 
 Let that too pass ; — the doom's prepared 1 
 Hugo, the priest awaits on thee. 
 
 And then — thy crime's reward ! 
 Away ! address thy prayers to Heaven, 
 
 Before its evening stars are met — 
 Learn if thou there canst be forgiven ; 
 
 Its mercy may absolve thee yet. 
 But here, upon the earth beneath. 
 
 There is no spot where thou and I 
 Together, for an hour, could lireathe : 
 
 Farewell 1 I will not see thee die — 
 But thou, frail thing 1 shalt view his head- 
 Away ! I cannot speak the rest : 
 
 Go ! woman of the wanton breast ; 
 Not I, but thou his blood dost shed : 
 Go 1 if that sight thou canst outlive, 
 And joy thee in the life I give." 
 
 XIII. 
 And here stem Azo hid his face— 
 For on his brow the swelling vein 
 Throbb'd as if b.ack upon his brain 
 The hot blood ebb'd and ilow'd agair • 
 
PARISINA. 
 
 137 
 
 And therefore bow'd he for a space, 
 And pass"d his shaking hand along 
 His eye, to veil it from the throng ; 
 'ttTiile Hugo raised his chained hands, 
 And for a brief delay demands 
 His father's ear : the silent sire 
 Forbids not what his words require. 
 
 " It is not that I dread the death — 
 For thou hast seen me by thy side 
 All redly through the battle ride, 
 And that not once a useless brand 
 Thy slaves have wrested from my hand, 
 Hath shed more blood in cause of thine, 
 Than e'er can stain the axe of mine : 
 Thou gav'st, and mayst resume my breath, 
 
 A gift for which I thank thee not ; 
 Nor are my mother's wrongs forgot, 
 
 Her slighted love and ruin'd name, 
 
 Her ofl'spring's heritage of shame ; 
 
 But she is in the grave, where he. 
 
 Her son, thy rival, soon shall be. 
 
 Her broken heart — my sever'd head — 
 
 Shall witness for thee from the dead 
 
 How trusty and how tender were 
 
 Thy youthful love — paternal care. 
 
 'Tis true that I have done thee wrong — 
 But wrong for wrong :— this deem'd thy bride, 
 The other victim of thy pride. 
 
 Thou know'st for me was destin'd long. 
 
 Thou saw'st, and covetedst her charms^ 
 And with thy very crime — my birth, 
 Thou tauntedst me — as little worth ; 
 
 A match ignoble for her arms, 
 
 Because, forsooth, I could not claim 
 
 The lawful heirship of thy name, 
 
 Nor sit on Este's hneal throne : 
 
 Yet, were a few short summers mine. 
 My name should more than Este's shine 
 
 With honors all my own. 
 
 I had a sword — and have a breast 
 
 That should have won as haught a crest 
 
 As ever waved along the line 
 
 Of all these sovereign sires of thine. 
 
 Not always knightly spurs are worn 
 
 The brightest by the better born ; 
 
 And mine have lanced my courser's flank 
 
 Before proud chiefs of princely rank, 
 
 When charging to the cheering cry 
 
 Of ' Este and of Victory ?' 
 
 I will not plead the cause of crime, 
 
 Nor sue thee to redeem from time 
 
 A few brief hours or days that must 
 
 At length roll o'er my reckless dust ; — 
 
 Such maddening moments as my past, 
 
 They could not, and they did not, last — 
 
 Albeit my birth and name be base, 
 18 
 
 And thy nobility of race 
 Disdain'd to deck a thing Uke me — 
 Yet in my lineaments they trace 
 Some features of my father's face, 
 And in my spirit — all of thee. 
 From thee — this tamelessness of heart — 
 From thee — nay, wherefore dost thou start t 
 From thee in all their vigor came 
 My arm of strength, my soul of flame— 
 Thou didst not give me life alone. 
 But all that made me all thine own. 
 See what thy guilty love hath done 1 
 Repaid thee with too like a son ! 
 I am no bastard in my soul, 
 For that, hke thine, abhorr'd control : 
 And for my breath, that hasty boon 
 Thou gav'st and wilt resume so soon, 
 I valued it no more than thou, 
 When rose thy casque above thy brow, 
 And we, all side by side, have striven. 
 And o'er the dead our coursers driven : 
 The past is nothing — and at last 
 The future can but be the past ; 
 Yet would I that I then had died ; 
 
 For though thou work'dst my mother's ill, 
 And made thy own my destined bride, 
 
 I feel thou art my fiither still ; 
 And, harsh as sounds thy hard decree, 
 'Tis not unjust, although from thee. 
 Begot in sin, to die in shame. 
 My life begun and ends the same : 
 As err'd the sire, so err'd the son. 
 And thou must punish both in one. 
 My crime seems worse to human view- 
 But God must judge between us two !" 
 
 XIV. 
 He ceased — and stood with folded arms. 
 On which the circling fetters sounded ; 
 And not an ear but felt as wounded. 
 Of all the chiefs that there were rank'd, 
 Wlien those dull chains in meeting clank'd : 
 Till Parisina's fatal charms 
 Again attracted every eye — • 
 Would she thus hear him doom'd to die! 
 She stood, I said, all pale and still. 
 The Hving cause of Hugo's ill : 
 Her eyes unmoved, but full and wide, 
 Not once had turn'd to either side — 
 Nor once did those sweet eyelids close. 
 Or shade the glance o'er which they rose. 
 But round their orbs of deepest blue 
 The circling white dilated grew — 
 And there with glassy gaze she stood 
 As ice were in her curdled Ijlood ; 
 But every now and then a tear 
 So large and slowly gather'd slid 
 From the long dark fringe of that fair lid. 
 
138 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 It was a thing to see, not hear I » 
 
 For a departing being's soul 
 
 And those who saw, it did surprise. 
 
 The death-hymn peals and the hollow bells knoU 
 
 Such drops could fall from human eyes. 
 
 He is near his mortal goal ; 
 
 To speak slie thought — the imperfect note 
 
 Kneeling at the friar's knee ; 
 
 Was choked within her swelling throat, 
 
 Sad to hear — and jjiteous to see ; 
 
 Yel scem'd in that low hollow groan 
 
 Kneeling on the bare cold ground. 
 
 Uer whole heart gushing in the tone. 
 
 With the block before and the guards around — 
 
 It ceased — again she thought to speak. 
 
 And the headman with his bare arm ready. 
 
 Then burst her voice in one long shriek, 
 
 That the blow may be both swift and steady, 
 
 And to the earth she fell like stone 
 
 Feels if the axe be sharp and true — 
 
 Or statue from its base o'erthrown, 
 
 Since he set its edge anew : 
 
 More like a thing that ne'er had Ufc — 
 
 While the crowd in a speechless circle gather 
 
 A monument of Azo's wife, — 
 
 To see the Son fall by the doom of the Father 
 
 Than her, that living guilty thing, 
 
 
 Whose every passion was a sting. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 WHuch urged to guilt, but could not bear 
 
 It is a lovely hour as yet 
 
 That guilt's detection and despair. 
 
 Before the summer sun shall set, 
 
 But yet she Uved — and aU too soon 
 
 Which rose upon that heavy day, 
 
 Kecover'd from that death-like swoon — 
 
 And mock'd it with his steadiest raj 
 
 But scarce to reason — every sense 
 
 And his evening beams are shed 
 
 Had been o'erstrung by pangs intense ; 
 
 Full on Hugo's fated head. 
 
 And each frail fibre of her brain 
 
 As his last confession pouring 
 
 (As bowstrings, when relas'd by rain. 
 
 To the monk, his doom deploring 
 
 The erring arrow launch aside) 
 
 In penitential holiness. 
 
 Sent forth her thoughts all wild and wide — 
 
 He bends to hear his accents bless 
 
 The past a blank, the future black, 
 
 With absolution such as may 
 
 With glimpses of a dreary track, 
 
 Wipe our mortal stains away. 
 
 Like lightning on the desert path. 
 
 That high sun on his head did glister. 
 
 When midnight storms are mustering wrath. 
 
 As he there did bow and Ustcn — 
 
 She fear'd — she felt that something ill 
 
 And the rings of chcsnut hair 
 
 Lay on her soul, so deep and chill — 
 
 Curl'd half down his neck so bare ; 
 
 That there was sin and shame she knew ; 
 
 But brighter still the beam was thrown 
 
 That some one was to die — but who ? 
 
 Upon the axe which near him shone 
 
 She had forgotten : — did she breathe ? 
 
 With a clear and ghastly glitter 
 
 Could this be still the earth beneath. 
 
 Oh ! that parting hour was bitter ! 
 
 The sky above, and men around ; 
 
 Even the stern stood chill'd with awe : 
 
 Or were they fiends who now so frown'd 
 
 Dark the crime, and just the law — 
 
 On one, before whose eyes each eye 
 
 Yet they shudder'd as they saw. 
 
 Till then had smiled in sympathy ? 
 
 
 All was confused and undefined 
 
 XVIL 
 
 To her all-jarr'd and wandering mind ; 
 
 The parting prayers are said and over 
 
 A chaos of -wild hopes and fears : 
 
 Of that fiilse son — and daring lover 1 
 
 And now in laughter, now in tears, 
 
 His beads and sins are all recounted 
 
 But madly still in each extreme, 
 
 His hours to their last minute mounted — 
 
 She strove with that convulsive dream : 
 
 His mantling cloak before was stripp'd. 
 
 For so it scem'd on her to break : 
 
 His bright l)rown locks must now be clipp'd | 
 
 Oh ! vainly must she strive to wake 1 
 
 'Tis done — all closely are they shorn — 
 
 
 The vest which till this mimient worn — 
 
 
 The scarf which Parisina gave — 
 
 XV. 
 
 Must not adorn him to the grave. 
 
 The Convent bells are ringing. 
 
 Even that must now be thrown aside, 
 
 But mournfully and slow ; 
 
 And o'er his eyes the kerchief tied ; 
 
 In tlie gray square turret swinging, 
 
 But no — that last indignity 
 
 With a deep sound, to and &o. 
 
 Shall ne'er approach his haughty eye. 
 
 Heavily to the heart they go 1 
 
 All feelings seemingly subdued. 
 
 Hark ! the hymn is singing — 
 
 In deep disdain were half renew'd, 
 
 The song for the dead below. 
 
 When headman's hands prepared to bind 
 
 Or the living who shortly shall be so 1 
 
 Those eyes which would not brook such blind ■ 
 
PARISINA. 
 
 139 
 
 As if tbey dared not look on death. 
 " No — yours my forfeit blood and breatb — 
 These bands are cbain'd — but let me die 
 At least with an unshackled eye — 
 Strike !" — and as the word he said, 
 Upon the block he bow'd his head ; 
 These the last accents Hugo spoke : 
 " Strike !" — and flashiug fell the stroke — 
 RoU'd the head — and, gusliing, sunk 
 Back the stain'd and heaving trunk, 
 In the dust, with each deep vein 
 Slaked with its ensanguined rain ; 
 His eyes and lips a moment quiver. 
 Convulsed and quick — then fix forever. 
 He died, as erring man should die, 
 
 Without display, without parade ; 
 
 Meekly had he bow'd and pray'd, 
 
 As not disdaining priestly aid, 
 Nor desperate of all hope on high. 
 And while before the jn-ior kneeling. 
 His heart was wean'd from earthly feeling ; 
 His wrathful sire — his paramour — ■ 
 WTiat were they in such an hour ? 
 No more reproach— no more despair ; 
 No thought but heaven — no word but prayer- 
 Save the few which from him broke. 
 When, bared to meet the headman's stroke, 
 He claim'd to die with eyes unbound, 
 His sole adieu to those around. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Still as the lips that closed in death, 
 Each gazer's bosom held his breath : 
 But yet, afar, from man to man, 
 A cold electric shiver ran. 
 As down the deadly blow descended 
 On him whose life and love thus ended ; 
 And, with a hushing sound compress'd, 
 A sigh shrunk back on every breast ; 
 But no more thrilling noise rose there. 
 
 Beyond the blow that to the block 
 
 Pierced through with forced and sullen shock. 
 Save one : — what cleaves the silent air 
 So madly shrill — so passing wild ? 
 That, as a mother's o'er her child, 
 Done to death by sudden blow. 
 To the sky these accents go. 
 Like a soul's in endless wo. 
 Through Azo's palace-lattice driven, 
 That horrid voice ascends to heaven, 
 And every eye is turn'd thereon ; 
 But sound and sight alike are gone I 
 It was a woman's shriek — and ne'er 
 In madUcr accents rose despair ; 
 And those who heard it, as it pass'd, 
 In mercy wish'd it were the last. 
 
 XIX. 
 Hugo is fallen ; and, from that hour, 
 No more in palace, hall, or bower, 
 Was Parisina heard or seen : 
 Her name — as if she ne'er had been — 
 Was banish'd from each lip and ear, 
 Like words of wantonness or fear ; 
 And from Prince Azo's voice, by none 
 Was mention heard of wife or son ; 
 No tomb — no memory had they ; 
 Theirs was unconsecrated clay ; 
 At least the knight's who died that day 
 But Parisina's fate lies hid 
 Like dust beneath the cofiin lid : 
 Whether in convent she abode. 
 And won to heaven her dreary road, 
 By blighted and remorseful years 
 Of scourge, and fast, and sleepless tears ; 
 Or if she feU by Ijowl or steel, 
 For that dark love she dared to feel ; 
 Or if, upon the moment smote. 
 She died by tortures less remote ; 
 Like him she saw upon the block. 
 With heart that shared the headman's shock, 
 In quicken'd brokenness that came. 
 In pity, o'er her shattcr'd frame. 
 None knew — and none can ever know : 
 But whatsoe'er its end below. 
 Her life began and closed in wo I 
 
 XX. 
 And Azo found another bride. 
 And goodly sons grew by his side ; 
 But none so lovely and so brave 
 As him who wither'd in the grave ; 
 Or if they were — on his cold eye 
 Their growth but glanced unheeded by, 
 Or noticed with a smother'd sigh. 
 But never tear his cheek descended. 
 And never smile his brow imbended ; 
 And o'er that fiiir broad brow were wrought 
 The intersected lines of thought ; 
 Those furrows which the burning share 
 Of Sorrow ploughs untimely there ; 
 Scars of the lacerating mind 
 Which the Soul's war doth leave behind. 
 He was past all mirth or wo : 
 Nothing more remain'd below 
 But sleepless nights and heavy days, 
 A mind aU dead to scorn or praise, 
 A heart which shunn'd itself — and yet 
 That would not yield — nor could forget, 
 Which, when it least ajjpear'd to melt, * 
 
 Intently thought — intensely felt : 
 The deepest ice which ever froze 
 Can only o'er the surface close — 
 The living stream lies quick below. 
 And flows — and cannot cease to flovr 
 
140 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Still was M 3eal'd-up bosom haunted 
 By thoughts which Natiire hath implanted ; 
 Too deeply rooted thence to vanish, 
 Howe'er our stifled fears we banish ; 
 When, struggUng as they rise to start. 
 We check those waters of the heart. 
 They are not dried — those tears unshed 
 But flow back to the fountain head, 
 And resting in their spring more pure, 
 Forever in its depth endure. 
 Unseen, unwept, but uncongeal'd, 
 And cherish'd most where least reveal'd 
 With inward starts of fecUng left. 
 To throb o'er those of life bereft ; 
 Without the power to fill again 
 
 The desert gap which made his pain ; 
 
 Without the hope to meet them where 
 
 United souls shall gladness share, 
 
 With all the consciousness that he 
 
 Had only pass'd a just decree ; 
 
 That they had wrought their doom of 11] ; 
 
 Yet Azo's age was wretched still. 
 
 The tainted branches of the tree. 
 
 If lopp'd with care, a strength may give, 
 By which the rest shall bloom and live 
 
 All greenly fresh and wildly free : 
 
 But if the lightning, in its wrath, 
 
 The waving boughs with fury scathe, 
 
 The massy trunk the ruin feels, 
 
 And never more a leaf reveals. 
 
 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 SONNET ON CHILLON. 
 
 Eteunax Spirit of the chainless >Iind I 
 Brightest in dungeons, Liberty ! thou art. 
 For there thy habitation is the heart — 
 
 The heart which love of thee alone can bind ; 
 
 And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd — 
 To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, 
 Their country conquers with their martyrdom. 
 
 And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 
 
 Chillon 1 thy prison is a holy place, 
 And thy sad floor an altar — for 'twas trod. 
 
 Until his very steps have left a trace 
 
 Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod. 
 
 By Bonnivard ! — Slay none those marks efl'ace 1 
 For they appeal from tyranny to God. 
 
 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 Mt hair is gray, but not with years, 
 Nor grew it white 
 In a single night,' 
 As men's have grown from sudden fears : 
 
 * Ladovico Sforza. and withers. The same is asserted of Marie 
 iXitoinette's, tlie wile of Louis XVI., iliougb not quite so sliort a 
 period. Grief is said to have the sarao eft'ect ; to such, and not to 
 '"ir, this change in /ur» was to be atlTibutcd. 
 
 My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil, 
 
 But rusted with a vile repose, 
 For they have been a dungeon's spoil. 
 
 And mine has been the fate of those 
 To whom the goodly earth and air 
 Are bann'd, and barr'd — forbidden fare ; 
 But this was for my father's faith ; 
 I sufltr'd chains and courted death ; 
 That father perish'd at the stake 
 For tenets he would not forsake ; 
 jVnd for the same his lineal race 
 In darkness found a dwelUng-place ; 
 We were seven — who now arc one, 
 
 Six in youth, and one in age, 
 Finish'd as they had begun, 
 
 Proud of persecution's rage ; 
 One in fire, and two in field. 
 Their belief with blood have seal'd ; 
 Dying as their fiither died, 
 For the God their foes denied ; 
 Three were in a dungeon cast. 
 Of whom this wreck is left the last. 
 
 II. 
 There are seven pillars of Gothic mould. 
 In Chillon's dungeons deep and old. 
 There are seven columns, massy and gray 
 Dim with a dull imprison'd ray, 
 A simbeam which hath lost its way. 
 And through the crevice am', the cleft 
 Of the thick wall is fallen aii d left ; 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON, 
 
 141 
 
 Creeping o'er the floor so damp, 
 Like a marsh's meteor lamp : 
 And in each pillar there is a ring, 
 
 And in each ring there is a chain ; 
 That iron is a cankering thing, 
 
 For in these limbs its teeth remain, 
 With marks that will not wear away, 
 Till I have done with this new day, 
 Which now is painful to these eyes, 
 Wliich have not seen the sun to rise 
 For years — I cannot count them o'er, 
 I lost their long and heavy score. 
 When my last brother droop'd and died, 
 And I lay living by his side. 
 
 III. 
 They chain'd us each to a column stone. 
 And we were three — yet, each alone ; 
 We could not move a single pace. 
 We could not see each other's face. 
 But with that pale and livid light 
 That made us strangers in our sight ; 
 And thus together — yet apart, 
 Fetter'd in hand, but pined in heart ; 
 'Twas still some solace, in the dearth 
 Of the pure elements of earth, 
 To hearken to each other's speech, 
 And each turn comforter to each 
 With some new hope or legend old, 
 Or song heroically bold ; 
 But even these at length grew cold. 
 Our voices took a dreary tone. 
 An echo of the dungeon stone, 
 A grating sound — not full and free 
 As they of yore were wont to be : 
 It might be fancy — but to me 
 They never sounded Uke our own. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I was the eldest of the three. 
 And to uphold and cheer the rest 
 I ought to do — and did my best — 
 
 Ajid each did well in his degree. 
 The youngest, whom my lather loved, 
 
 Because our mo':her's brow was given 
 
 To him — with eyes as blue as heaven, 
 For him my soul was sorely moved : 
 
 And truly might it be distress'd 
 
 To see such bird in such a nest ; 
 
 For he was beautiful as day — 
 (When day was beautiful to me 
 As to young eagles being free) — 
 A polar day, which will not see 
 
 A sunset till its summer's gone. 
 Its sleepless summer of long light. 
 
 The snow-clad offspring of the sun : 
 And thus he was as pure and bright, 
 
 ^^nd in his natural spirit gay, 
 
 With tears for naught but others' ills. 
 And thou they flow'd like mountain rills. 
 Unless he could assuage the wo 
 Which he abhorr'd to view below. 
 
 V. 
 The other was as pure of mind. 
 But form'd to combat with his kind ; 
 Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
 Which 'gainst the world in war had st(*^1 
 And perish'd in the foremost rank 
 
 With joy : — but not in chains to pin<; ■ 
 His spirit wither'd with their clonk, 
 
 I saw it silently decMue — 
 
 And so perchance in sooth did mine : 
 But yet I forced it on to cheer 
 Those relics of a home so dear. 
 He was a hunter of the hills. 
 
 Had foUow'd there the deer and wolf; 
 
 To him this dungeon was a gulf, 
 And fetter'd feet the worst of ills. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Lake Leman lies by ChUlon's wails : 
 A thousand feet in depth below 
 Its massy waters meet and flow'; 
 Thus much the fiithom-line was sent 
 From Chillon's snow-white battlement," 
 
 Which round about the wave inthrals . 
 A double dimgeon waU and wave 
 Have made — and like a Uving grave. 
 Below the surface of the lake 
 The dark vault Ues wherein we lay, 
 We heard it ripple night and day ; 
 
 Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd ; 
 And I have felt the winter's spray 
 Wash through the bars when winds were high 
 And wanton in the happy sky ; 
 
 And then the very rock hath rock'd. 
 
 And I have felt it shake, unshock'd, 
 Because I could have smiled to see 
 The death tl'.at would have set me free. 
 
 ' The Ch.ateaa de Chillon is situated between Clarens and Villo- 
 nenve, wbich last is at one extremity of the Lalvc of Geneva. On 
 its left are the entrances of the Rhone, and opposite are the heights 
 of the Meillerie and the range of Alps above Boveret and St. Giu- 
 go. Near it. on a bill behind, is a torrent : below it, washing its 
 walls, the lake has been fathomed to the depth of 800 feet, French 
 measure : within it are a range of dungeons, in which the early 
 reformers, and siriisequently prisoners of state, were confined. 
 Across one of the vaults is a beam black with age, on wbich we 
 were informed that the condemned were formerly executed. In 
 the cells are seven pillars, or, rather, eight, one being half merged 
 in the wall ; in some of tliese are rings for the fetters and the fc^ 
 tered : in the pavement the steps of Bonnivard have left their 
 traces. He was confined here several years. Tt is by this castle 
 that Rousseau has fixed the catastrophe of his Heloise, in the rc^e- 
 cue of one of her children by Julie from the water ; the shock of 
 which, and the illness produced by the immersitm. is the cause ol 
 her death. The chateau is large, and seen along the lake for a 
 great distance. The walls are white. 
 
142 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 VII. 
 
 I said my nearer brother pined, 
 I said his mighty heart declined, 
 He loathed and put away his food ; 
 It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, 
 For we were used to hunter's fare, 
 And for the like had little care : 
 The milk drawn from the mountain goat 
 Was changed for water from the moat, 
 Our bread was such as captive's tears 
 Have moisten'd many a thousand years, 
 Since man first pent his feUow-men 
 Like brutes within an iron den ; 
 But what were these to us or him ? 
 These wasted not his heart or limb ; 
 My brother's soul was of that mould 
 W^hich in a palace had grown cold. 
 Had his free breathing been denied 
 The range of the steep mountain's side ; 
 But why delay the truth ? — he died. 
 I saw, and could not hold his head, 
 Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead, — 
 Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, 
 To rend and gnash ray bonds in twain 
 He died — and they unlock'd Ida chain, 
 And scoop'd for him a shallow grave 
 Even from the cold earth of our cave. 
 I begg'd them as a boon, to lay 
 His corse in dust whereon the day 
 Might shine — it was a foolish thought, 
 But then within my brain it wrought, 
 That even in death his freebom breast 
 In such a dungeon could not rest. 
 I might have spared my idle ])rayer — 
 They coldly l.iugh'd — and laid him there: 
 The flat and turfless earth above 
 The being we so much did love ; 
 His empty chain above it leant, 
 Such murder's fitting monument ! 
 
 VIII. 
 But he, the favorite and the flower. 
 Most cherish'd since his natal hour. 
 His mother's image in fair face, 
 The infont love of all his race. 
 His mart_\T'd father's dearest though , 
 My latest care, for whom I sought 
 To hoard my life, that his might be 
 Less wretched now, and one day free ; 
 He, too, who yet had hold untired 
 A spirit natural or inspired — 
 He, too, was struck, and d.ay by day 
 Was wither'd on the stalk away. 
 Oh, God ! it is a fearful thing 
 To see the human soul take wing 
 In any shape, in any mood : — 
 I've seen it rushing forth in blood, 
 I've seeD it on the breaking ocean 
 
 Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, 
 
 I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 
 
 Of Sin delirious with its dread : 
 
 But these were horrors — this was wo 
 
 Unmix'd with such — but sure and slow : 
 
 He faded, and so calm and meek, 
 
 So softly worn, so sweetly weak. 
 
 So tearless, yet so tender — kind, 
 
 And grieved for those he left behind ; 
 
 With all the while a cheek whose bloom 
 
 Was as a mockery of the tomb. 
 
 Whose tints as gently sunk away 
 
 As a departing rainbow's ray — 
 
 An eye of most transparent light. 
 
 That almost made the dungeon bright, 
 
 And not a word of murmur — not 
 
 A groan o'er his untimely lot, — 
 
 A little t.alk of better days, 
 
 A little hope my own to raise, 
 
 For I was sunk in silence — lost 
 
 In this last loss, of all the most ; 
 
 And then the sighs he would suppress 
 
 Of fainting nature's feebleness, 
 
 More slowly drawn, grew less and less : 
 
 I listen'd, but I could not hear — 
 
 I call'd, for I was wild with fear ; 
 
 I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread 
 
 Would not be thus admonished : 
 
 I call'd, and thought I heard a sound — 
 
 I burst my chain with one strong bound, 
 
 And rusli'd to him : — I found him not, 
 
 /only stirr'd in this black spot, 
 
 / only lived — / only drew 
 
 The accursed breath of dungeon-dew ; 
 
 The last — the sole — the dearest link 
 
 Between me and the eternal brink, 
 
 Wliich bound me to my failing race, 
 
 Was broken in this fatal place. 
 
 One on the earth, and one beneath — 
 
 My brothers — both had ceased to brcatae : 
 
 I took that hand which lay so stiU, 
 
 Alas ! my own was full as chill ; 
 
 I had not strength to stir, or thrive, 
 
 But felt that I was still alive — 
 
 A frantic feeling, when we know 
 
 That what we love shall ne'er be sa 
 
 I know not why 
 
 I couhl not die, 
 I had no earthly hope — but faith, 
 And that forbade a selfish death. 
 
 IX. 
 What next befell me then and there 
 
 I know not well — I never knew — 
 First came the loss of light, and air, 
 
 And then of darkness too : 
 I had no thought, no feeling — none — 
 Among the stones I stood a stone. 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON". 
 
 149 
 
 And was scarce conscious what I wist, 
 
 A.S shrublcss crags within the mist ; 
 
 For all was blank, and bleak, and gray, 
 
 It was not night — it was not clay. 
 
 It was not even the dungeon-light. 
 
 So hateful to my heavy sight. 
 
 But vacancy absorbing sjjace, 
 
 And fixedness — without a place ; 
 
 There were no stars — no earth — no time — 
 
 No check — no change — no good — no crime — 
 
 But silence, and a stirlcss breath 
 
 Which neither was of life nor death ; 
 
 A sea of stagnant idleness. 
 
 Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless I 
 
 X. 
 A light broke in upon my brain, — 
 
 It was the carol of a bird ; 
 It ceased, and then it came again, 
 
 The sweetest song ear ever heard. 
 And mine was thankful till my eyes 
 Ran over wth the glad surprise. 
 And they that moment could not see 
 I was the mate of misery ; 
 But then by dull degrees came back 
 My senses to their wonted track, 
 I saw the dungeon walls and floor 
 Close slowly round me as before, 
 I saw the gUmmer of the sun 
 Creeping as it before had done. 
 But through the crevice where it came 
 That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame. 
 
 And tamer than upon the tree ; 
 A lovely bird, with azure wings. 
 And song that said a thousand things, 
 
 And seem'd to say them all for me 1 
 I never saw its like before, 
 I ne'er shall see its likeness more : 
 It seem'd like me to want a mate, 
 But was not half so desolate, 
 And it was come to love me when 
 None lived to love me so again, 
 And cheering from my dungeon's brink. 
 Had brought me back to feel and think. 
 I know not if it late were free. 
 
 Or broke its cage to perch on mine, 
 But knowing well captivity, 
 
 Sweet bird ! I could not wish for thine I 
 Or if it were, in winged guise, 
 A visitant from Paradise ; 
 For — Heaven forgive that thought ! the while 
 Which made me both to weep and smile ; 
 I sometimes deem'd that it might be 
 My brother's soul come down to me ; 
 But th?n at last away it flew. 
 And then 'twas mortal — well I knew, 
 For he would never thus have flown, 
 
 And left me twice so doubly lone, — 
 Lone — as the corse within its shroud. 
 Lone — as a solitary cloud, 
 
 A single cloud on a sunny day, 
 While all the rest of heaven is clear. 
 A frown upon the atmosphere, 
 That hath no business to appear 
 
 When skies are blue, and earth is gay 
 
 XI. 
 A kind of change came in my fate, 
 My keepers grew compassionate ; 
 I know not what had made them so, 
 They were inured to sights of wo. 
 But so it was : — my broken chain 
 With links unfasten'd did remain, 
 And it was liberty to stride 
 Along my cell from side to side. 
 And up and down, and then athwart. 
 And tread it over every part ; 
 And round the pillars one by one, 
 Returning where my walk begun. 
 Avoiding only, as I trod, 
 My brothers' graves without a sod ; 
 For if I thought with heedless tread 
 My step profaned their lowly bed. 
 My breath came gaspingly and thick, 
 And my crush'd heart fell blind and sick 
 
 XII. 
 I made a footing in the wall, 
 
 It was not therefrom to escape. 
 For I had buried one and aU, 
 
 Who loved me in a human shape ; 
 And the whole earth would henceforth be 
 A wider prison unto me ; 
 No child — no sire — no Idn had I, 
 No partner in my misery ; 
 I thought of this, and I was glad. 
 For thought of them had made me mad ; 
 But I was curious to ascend 
 To my barr'd windows, and to bend 
 Once more, upon the mountains b.'^h. 
 The quiet of a loving eye. 
 
 XIII. 
 I saw them — and they were the same, 
 They were not changed like me in frame 
 I saw their thousand years of snow 
 On high — their wide long lake below. 
 And the blue Rhone in fullest flow ; 
 I heard the torrents leap and gush 
 O'er channeird rock and broken bush ; 
 I saw the white-waU'd distant tovra, 
 And whiter sails go skimming down ; 
 And then there was a little i^ie," 
 
 ' Between the entrances of the Rhone and Villenerve, not fhf 
 from Chillon, is a very small inland ; the OT^f one I could perceive 
 
144 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Wiicli in my very face did smile, 
 
 The only one in view ; 
 A small green isle, it seem'd no more, 
 Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, 
 But in it there were three tall trees. 
 And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, 
 And by it there were waters flowing. 
 And on it there were young flowers growing. 
 
 Of gentle breath and hue. 
 The fish swam by the castle wall. 
 And they seem'd joyous each and all ; 
 The eagle rode the rising blast, 
 Methought he never flew so fast 
 As then to me he seem'd to fly. 
 And then new tears came in my eye, 
 And I felt troubled — and would fain 
 I had not loft my recent chain ; 
 And when I did descend again. 
 The darkness of my dim abode 
 Fell on me as a heavy load ; 
 It was as is a new-dug grave. 
 Closing o'er one we sought to save, — 
 And yet my glance, too much oppress'd. 
 Had almost need of such a rest. 
 
 in my voyage round and over the lake, within its circumference. 
 It contains a few trees (I think not above three), and from its 
 singleness and diminutive size has a peculiar effect upon the 
 rlew. 
 
 XIV. 
 It might be months, or years, or days, 
 
 I kept no count — I took no note, 
 I had no hope my eyes to raise. 
 
 And clear them of their dreary mote ; 
 At last men came to set me free, 
 
 I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where, 
 It was at length the same to me, 
 Fetter'd or fetterless to be, 
 
 I leam'd to love despair 
 And thus when they appear'd at last, 
 And all my bonds aside were cast, 
 These heavy walls to me had grown 
 A hermitage — and all my ovm ! 
 And half I felt as they were come 
 To tear me from a second home : 
 With spiders I had friendship made. 
 And watch'd them in their sullen trade, 
 Had seen the mice by moonlight play. 
 And why should I feel less than they ? 
 We were all inmates of one place. 
 And I, the monarch of each race, 
 Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell 1 
 In quiet we had leam'd to dwell — 
 My very chains .and I grew friends. 
 So much a long communion tends 
 To make us what we are : — even I 
 Regain'd my freedom with a sigh. 
 
 BEPPO 
 
 A VENETIAN STORY. 
 
 Bmalind. Farewell. Monsieur Traveller: Loolt, you lisp, and wear 8tran;;e suits: disahle all the benefits of your own country . 
 be out of love with your own Nativity, and almost chide God lor making you that countenance you arc ; or I will scane think thai 
 you have swam in a Gondola. -i« J'o" i**« H, Act IV. Scene 1. 
 
 , Annotation of the Commentators. 
 
 That is, been at Venice, which was much visited by the young Englisli gentlemen of those times, and was then what Paris is runt 
 — the seat of all diaeohitcnes* S. A. 
 
 BEPPO. 
 I. 
 
 'Tis known, at least it should be, that throughout 
 All countries of the Catholic persuasion. 
 
 Some weeks before Shrove Tuesday comes about, 
 The people take their fill of recreation. 
 
 And buy repentance, ere they grow devout. 
 However high their rank, or low their station. 
 
 With fiddling, feasting, dancing, drinking, masquing. 
 
 And other things which may be had for asking. 
 
 II. 
 
 The nion ent night with dusky mantle covers 
 The skies (and the more duskily the better), 
 
 The time less liked by husbands than by lovers 
 Begins, and prudery flings aside her fetter ; 
 
 And gayety on restless tiptoe hovers, 
 
 Giggling with all the gallants who beset her, 
 
 And there ars songs and quavers, roaring, humming 
 
 Guitars, and every oti x sort of strumming. 
 
 III. 
 And there are dresses splendid, but fantastical. 
 
 Masks of all times and nations, Turks and Jews, 
 And harlequins and clowns, with feats g_\nnnastical, 
 Greeks, Konians, Yankee-doodles, and Hindoos ; 
 All kinds of dress, except the ecclesiastical. 
 
 All people, as their fancies hit, may choose, 
 
 But no one in these parts may quiz the clergy, — 
 
 I Therefore take hoed, ye Freethinkers 1 I charge ye 
 
REPPO. 
 
 145 
 
 IV. 
 Tou'd better walk about begirt with briers, 
 
 Instead of coat and smallcloths, than put on 
 A single stitch reflecting upon friars, 
 
 Although you swore it only was in fun ; 
 They'd haul you o'er the coals, and stir the fires 
 
 Of Phlegethon with every mother's son, 
 Nop say one mass to cool the caldron's bubble 
 That boil'd your bones, unless you paid them double. 
 
 V. 
 But saving this, you may put on whate'er 
 
 You like by way of doublet, cape, or cloak. 
 Such as in Monmouth-strect, or in Rag Fair, 
 
 ^yould rig you out in seriousness or joke ; 
 And even in Italy such places are. 
 
 With prettier name in softer accents spoke, 
 For, bating Covent Garden, I can hit on 
 No place that's call'd " Piazza " in Great Britain. 
 
 VI. 
 This feast is named the Carnival, which being 
 
 Interpreted, implies " forewell to flesh ;" 
 So call'd, because the name and thing agreeing. 
 
 Through Lent they Uve on fish both salt and fresh. 
 But why they usher Lent with so much glee in, 
 
 Is more than I can tell, although I guess 
 'Tis as we take a glass with friends at parting, 
 In the stage-coach or packet, just at starting. 
 
 VII. 
 And thus they bid farewell to carnal dishes, 
 
 And solid meats, and highly spiced ragouts. 
 To live for forty days on ill-dress'd fishes, 
 
 Because they have no sauces to their stews, 
 A thing which causes many " poohs " and " pishes," 
 
 And several oaths (which would not suit the Muse), 
 From travellers accustom'd from a boy 
 To eat their salmon, at the least, \\ith soy ; 
 
 VIII. 
 And therefore humbly I woald recommend 
 
 " The curious in fish-sauce," before they cross 
 The sea, to bid their cook, or wife, or friend. 
 
 Walk or ride to the Strand, and buy in gross. 
 (Or if set out beforehand, these may send 
 
 By any means less liable to loss,) 
 Ketchup, Soy, Chili-vinegar, and Harvey, 
 Or, by the Lord ! a Lent will well-nigh starve ye ; 
 
 IX. 
 That is to say, if your religion's Roman, 
 
 And you at Rome would do as Romans do. 
 According to the proverb, — although no man. 
 
 If foreign, is obliged to fast ; and you, 
 [f Protestant, or sickly, or a woman. 
 
 Would rather dine in sin on a ragout — 
 Dine and be d^d 1 I don't mean to be coarse. 
 But that's the jienulty, to say no worse. 
 IS 
 
 Of all the places where the Carnival 
 Was most facetious in the days of yore. 
 
 For dance, and song, and serenade, and baU, 
 And masque, and mime, and mystery, and more 
 
 Than I have time to tell now, or at all, 
 Venice the bell from every city bore, — 
 
 And at the moment when I fix my story. 
 
 That sea-born city was in all her glory. 
 
 XI. 
 They've pretty faces yet, those same Venetians, 
 
 Black eyes, arch'd throws, and sweet expressions 
 Such as of old were copied from the Grecians, [still 
 
 In ancient arts by moderns mimick'd ill ; 
 And like so many Venuses of Titian's, 
 
 (The best's at Florence — see it, if ye will,) 
 They look when leaning over the balcony. 
 Or stepp'd from out a jjicture by Giorgione, 
 
 XII. 
 
 Wliose tints are truth and beauty at their best ; 
 
 And when you to Manfrini's palace go. 
 That picture (Iiowsoever fine the rest) 
 
 Is loveliest to my mind of all the show ; 
 It may perhaps be also to your zest. 
 
 And that's the cause I rhyme upon it so ; 
 'Tis but a portrait of his son, and wife. 
 And self; but such a woman ! love in life I 
 
 XIII. 
 Love in fiill life and length, not love ideal, 
 
 No, nor ideal beauty, that fine name. 
 But something better still, so very real. 
 
 That the sweet model must have been the same ; 
 A thing that you would purchase, beg, or steal, 
 
 Wer't not impossible, besides a shame : 
 The face recalls some face, as 'twere with pain, 
 You once have seen, but ne'er will see again ; 
 
 XIV. 
 One of those forms which flit by us, when we 
 
 Are young, and fix our eyes on every face ; 
 And, oh, the loveliness at times we see 
 
 In momentary gliding, the soft grace, 
 The youth, the bloom, the beauty which agree. 
 
 In many a nameless being we retrace. 
 Whose course and home we knew not, nor shall 
 Like the lost Pleiad ^een no more below. [know, 
 
 XV. 
 
 I said that hke a picture by Giorgione 
 Venetian women were, and so they are, 
 
 Particularly seen from a balcony, 
 
 (For beauty's sometimes best set ofi' afar,) 
 
 And there, just like a heroine of Goldoni, 
 
 They peep from out the blind, or o'er the bar ; 
 
 And, truth to say, they're mostly very pretty, 
 
 And rather like to show it, more's the pity I 
 
140 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 XVI. 
 For glances beget ogles, ogles sighs, 
 
 Sighs \vi8hes, wshes words, and words a letter, 
 Wliich flies on wings of light-hccl'd Mercuries, 
 
 ■Who do such things because they know no better ; 
 And then, God knows, what mischief may arise, 
 
 Wlien love links two young people in one fetter, 
 Vile assignations, and adulterous beds. 
 Elopements, broken vows, and hearts, and heads. 
 
 XVII. 
 Shakspeare described the sex in Desdemona 
 
 As very fair, but yet suspect in fame, 
 And to this day from Venice to Verona 
 
 Such matters may be probably the same, 
 Except that since those times was never known a 
 
 Husband whom mere suspicion could inflame 
 To suflbcate a wife no more than twenty, 
 Because she had a " cavalier servente." 
 
 XVIII. 
 Their jealousy (if they are ever jealous) 
 
 Is of a fair complexion altogether, 
 Not like that sooty devil of Othello's 
 
 Which smothers women in a bed of feather, 
 But worthier of these much more jolly fellows, 
 
 Wlicn weary of the matrimonial tether 
 His head for such a wife no mortal bothers. 
 But takes at once another, or another's. 
 
 XIX. 
 Didst ever see a Gondola ? For fear 
 
 You should not, I'll describe it you exactly : 
 'Tis a long cover'd boat that's common here. 
 
 Carved at the prow, built lightly, but compactly, 
 Kow'd by two rowers, each call'd " Gondolier," 
 
 It glides along the water looking blackly, 
 Just like a coftin clapp'd in a canoe, 
 Where none can make out what you say or do. 
 
 XX. 
 'And up and down the long canals they go. 
 
 And under tlie liialto shoot along, 
 By night and thiy, all paces, swift or slow. 
 And round tlie theatres, a sable throng. 
 They wait in their dusk livery of wo, — 
 
 But not to them do woful things belong. 
 For sometimes they contain a deal of fun. 
 Like mourning coaches when the funeral's done. 
 
 XXI. 
 But to my story. — 'Twas some years ago. 
 
 It may be thirty, forty, more or less, 
 The carnival was at its height, and so 
 
 Were all kinds of buflboncry and dress ; 
 A certain lady went to see the show, 
 
 Her real name I know not, nor can guess. 
 And BO we'll call her Laura, if you please, 
 Because it slips into my verse with ease. 
 
 XXII. 
 She was not old, nor young, nor at the years 
 
 Which certain people call a " crrtnin n^e" 
 Which yet the most uncertain age appears, 
 
 Because I never heard, nor could engage 
 A person yet by prayers, or bribes, or tears, 
 
 To name, define by speech, or write on page, 
 The period meant precisely by that word, — 
 Wliich surely is exceedingly absurd, 
 
 XXIII. 
 Laura was blooming still, had made the best 
 
 Of time, and time retum'd the compliment. 
 And treated her genteelly, so tliat, dress'd. 
 
 She look'd extremely well where'er she went ; 
 A pretty woman is a welcome guest. 
 
 And Laura's brow a Irown had rarely bent ; 
 Indeed she shone all smiles, and secm'd to flatter 
 Mankind with her black eyes for looking at her. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 She was a married woman ; 'tis convenient, 
 Because in Christian countries 'tis a rule 
 
 To view their little slips with eyes more lenient ;. 
 Whereas, if single ladies play the fool, 
 
 (Unless within the period intervenient 
 A well-timed wedding makes the scandal cool), 
 
 I don't know how they ever can get over it, 
 
 Except they manage never to discover it. 
 
 XXV. 
 Her husband sail'd upon the Adriatic, 
 
 And made some voyages, too, in other seas, 
 And when he lay in quarantine for pratique, 
 
 (A forty days' precaution 'gainst disease). 
 His wife would mount, at times, her highest attic, 
 
 For thence she could discern the ship with ease . 
 He was a merchant trading to Aleppo, 
 His name Giuseppe, call'd more briefly, Beppo 
 
 XXVI. 
 He was a man as dusky as a Spaniard, 
 
 Sunburnt with travel, yet a portly figure ; 
 Though color'd, as it were, vrithin a tanyard, 
 
 He was a jx-rson both of sense and vigor — 
 A better seaman never yet did man yard : 
 
 And «/u; although her manners show'd no rigor. 
 Was deem'd a woman of the strictest principle, 
 So much as to be thought almost invincible. 
 
 XXVII. 
 But several years elapsed since they had met : 
 
 Some people thought the ship was lost, and somi 
 That he had somehow blunder'd into debt. 
 
 And did not like the thoughts of steering home , 
 And there were several oftVr'd any bet. 
 
 Or that he would, or that he would not come, 
 For most men (till by losing render'd sagcr) 
 Will back their own opinions with a wager. 
 
.^^ 
 
 X 
 
 ■ A^C'i.3j?B£i^. *■*;' 
 
BEPPO. 
 
 147 
 
 XXVIII. 
 Tis said that tlieir last parting 'svas pathetic, 
 
 As partings often are, or ought to be, 
 And their presentiment was quite prophetic 
 
 That they should never more each other see, 
 (A sort of morbid feeling, half poetic, 
 
 Which I have known occur in two or three). 
 When kneeling on the shore upon her sad knee. 
 He left this Adriatic Ariadne. 
 
 xsrx. 
 And Laura waited long, and wept a little, 
 
 ' And thought of wearing weeds, as well she might ; 
 She almost lost all appetite for victual, 
 
 And could not sleep with ease alone at night ; 
 She deem'd the window-frames and shutters brittle 
 
 Against a daring housebreaker or sprite. 
 And so she thought it prudent to connect her 
 With a vice-husband, chiefly to protect Iter. 
 
 XXX. 
 She chose (and what is there they will not choose. 
 
 If only you will but oppose their choice ?) 
 Till Beppo should return from his long cruise. 
 
 And bid once more her faithful heart rejoice, 
 A man some women like, and yet abuse — 
 
 A coxcomb was he by the public voice ; 
 A Count of wealth, they said, as well as quality, 
 And in his pleasures of great liberality. 
 
 XXXI. 
 And then he was a Count, and then he knew 
 
 Music, and dancing, fiddUng, French and Tuscan, 
 The last not easy, be it known to you, 
 
 For few Italians speak the right Etruscan. 
 He was a critic upon operas, too. 
 
 And knew aU niceties of the sock and buskin ; 
 And no Venetian audience could endure a 
 Song, scene, or air, when he cried " seccatur'a 1" 
 
 • XXXII. 
 
 His " bravo " was decisive, for that sound 
 Hush'd " Academic " sigh'd in silent awe ; 
 
 The fiddlers trembled as he look'd around. 
 For fear of some false note's detected flaw. 
 
 The " prima donna's " tuneful heart would bound. 
 Dreading the deep damnation of his " bah I" 
 
 Soprano, basso, even the contra-alto, 
 
 Wish'd him five fathom under the Kialto. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 He patronised the Improvisatori, 
 
 Nay, could himself extemporize some stanzas. 
 Wrote rhymes, sang songs, could also tell a story. 
 
 Sold pictures, and was skillful in the dance as 
 Italian- can be, though in this their glory [has ; 
 
 Must sarely yield the palm to that which France 
 In short, he was a perfect cavaliero. 
 And to his very valet seem'd a hero. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Then he was faithful, too, as well as amorous ; 
 
 So that no sort of female could complain. 
 Although they're now and then a little clamorous, 
 
 He never put the pretty souls in pain ; 
 His heart was one of those which most enamor v.s. 
 
 Wax to receive, and marble to retain. 
 He was a lover of the good old school. 
 Who stiU become more constant as they cooL 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Ko wonder such accomplishments should turn 
 A female head, however sage and steady — 
 
 With scarce a hope that Beppo could return. 
 In law he was almost as good as dead, he 
 
 Nor sent, nor wrote, nor show'd the least concern, 
 And she had waited several years' already ; 
 
 And really if a man won't let us know 
 
 That he's alive, he's dead, or should be so. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 Besides, within the Alps, to every woman, 
 
 (Although, God knows, it is a grievous sin), 
 'Tis, I may say, permitted to have tico men ; 
 
 I can't tell who first brought the custom in. 
 But " Cavaher Serventes " are quite common. 
 
 And no one notices, nor cares a pin ; 
 And we may call this (not to say the worst) 
 A second marriage which corrupts Vae first, 
 
 XXXVII. 
 The word was formerly a " Cicisbeo," 
 
 But thxit is now grown vulgar and indecent ; 
 The Spaniards call the person a " Cortejo,'"^ 
 
 For the same mode subsists in Spain, thougli 
 In short it reaches from the Po to Teio, [recent 
 
 And may perhaps at last be o'er the sea sent. 
 But Heaven preserve Old England from such courses 
 Or what becomes of damage and divorces ? 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 However, I still think, with all due deference 
 
 To the fair single part of the Creation, 
 That married ladies should preserve the preference 
 
 In tete-a-iefc or general conversation — 
 And this I say without peculiar reference 
 
 To England, France, or any other nation — 
 Because they know the world, and are at ease, 
 And being natural, naturally please. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 'Tis true, your budding Miss is very channing. 
 
 But shy and awkward at tirst coming out. 
 So much alarm'd, that she is quite alarming. 
 
 All Giggle, Blush ; half Pertness, and half Pout ; 
 
 ■ Cortejo 19 pronounced Corte'io, with at aspirate, according to 
 the Arabesqne guttural. It means that there is as yet no preciM 
 name for it in England, though the practice is as com-non as in 
 any tramontane country wtiatever. 
 
148 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Ajid glancing at Mamma, for fear there's harm in 
 
 What you, she, it, or they, may be about, 
 The Nursery still Usps out in all they utter — 
 Besides, they always smell of bread and butter. 
 
 XL. 
 But " Cavalier Servente " is the phrase 
 
 Used in politest circles to express 
 This snpernumery slave, who stays 
 
 Close to the lady as a part of dress, 
 Her word the only law which he obeys. 
 
 His is no sinecure, as you may guess ; 
 Coach, servants, gondola, he goes to call, 
 Ajid carries fan and tippet, gloves and shawL 
 
 XLI. 
 
 With all its sinful doings, I must say. 
 
 That Italy's a pleasant place to me, 
 Wlio love to see the Sun shine every day, 
 
 And vines (not naiFd to walls) from tree to tree 
 Festoon'd, much like the back scene of a play, 
 
 Or melodrame, which people flock to see, 
 When the first act is ended by a dance 
 In vineyards copied from the south of Prance. 
 
 XLII. 
 I like on Autumn evenings to ride out. 
 
 Without being forced to bid my groom be sure 
 My cloak is round his middle strapp'd about. 
 
 Because the skies are not the most secure ; 
 I know too that, if stojjp'd upon my route, 
 
 Where the green alleys windingly allure, 
 ReoUng with gnipe* red wagons choke the way, — 
 In England 'twould be dung, dust, or a dray. 
 
 XLIII. 
 I also Uke to dine on becaficas. 
 
 To see the Sun set, sure he'U rise to-morrow. 
 Not through a misty morning twinkUng weak as 
 
 A drunken man's dead eye in maudlin sorrow, 
 But with all Heaven t'hiniaelf ; that day will break as 
 
 Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to borrow 
 That sort of farthing candlelight which glimmers 
 Where reeking London's smoky caldron simmers. 
 
 LIV; 
 I love the language, that soft bastard Latin, 
 
 Which melts like kisses from a female mouth, 
 And sounds as if it should be writ on satin, 
 
 With syllables which breathe of the sweet South, 
 And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in, 
 
 That not a single accent seems uncouth. 
 Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural. 
 Which we're obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter alL 
 
 XI.V. 
 t like the women, too (forgive my folly). 
 
 From the rich peasant-cheek of ruddy bronze, 
 knA large black eyes that flash on you a volley 
 
 Of rays that say a thousand things at once, 
 
 To the high dama's brow, more melancholy. 
 
 But clear, and with a wild and liquid glance, 
 Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes. 
 Soft as her cUme, and sunny as her skies. 
 
 XLVI. 
 Eve of the land which still is Paradise ! 
 
 Italian beauty ! didst thou not inspire 
 Raphael,' who died in thy embrace, and vies 
 
 With all we know of Heaven, or can desire, 
 In what he hath bequeath'd us ? — in what guise, 
 
 Though flashing from the fervor of the lyre. 
 Would words describe thy past and pleasant glo^f 
 While yet Canova can create below V 
 
 XLVII. 
 " England ! with all thy faults I love thee still." 
 
 I said at Calais, and have not forgot it ; 
 I Uke to speak and lucubrate my fill ; 
 
 I like the government, (but that is not it ;) 
 I like the freedom of the press and quill ; 
 
 I like the Habeas Corpus, (when we've got it ;) 
 I like a parliamentary debate. 
 Particularly when 'tis not too late ; 
 
 XLVIII. 
 I Uke the taxes, when they're not too many ; 
 
 I Uke a scacoal fire, when not too dear ; 
 I Uke a beefsteak, too, as well as any ; 
 
 Have no objection to a pot of beer ; 
 I like the weather, when it is not rainy, 
 
 That is, I like two months of every year. 
 And so God save the Regent, Church, and King 
 Which means that I Uke aU and every thing. 
 
 XLI.V. 
 Our standing army, and disbanded seamen, 
 
 Poor's rate, Reform, my own, the nation's debt, 
 Our Uttle riots just to show we're free men. 
 
 Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette, 
 Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women, , 
 
 AU these I can forgive, and those forget, 
 And greatly venerate our recent glories. 
 And wish they were not owing to the Tories 
 
 L. 
 But to my tale of Laura, — for I find 
 
 Digression is a sin, that by degrees 
 Becomes exceeding tedious to my mind, 
 
 And, therefore, may the reader too displeasb — 
 
 1 For the received accounts of the cause of Raphaers death, s«* 
 his lives. 
 
 ' Note — (In talking thns, the writer, more especially 
 Of women, would be understood to say, 
 He i^peaks as a spectator, not ofHcially, 
 And always, reader, in a modest way ; 
 Perhaps, too, in no very <?reat dec^ree shall hr 
 
 Appear to have offended in this lay. 
 Since, as all know, without the sex, our sonnets 
 Would sei'r^i unflnish'd, like their UDtrimm'd bonnets.) 
 (Signed) Pkintbb's P«vii 
 
BEPPO. 
 
 149 
 
 The gentle reader, wbo may wax unkind, 
 And caring little for the author's ease, 
 Insist on knomng what he means, a hard 
 And hapless situation for a bard. 
 
 LI. 
 Oh that I had the art of easy writing 
 
 What should be easy reading ! could I scale 
 Parnassus, where the Muses sit inditing 
 
 Those pretty poems never known to fail, 
 How quickly would I jjrint (the world delighting) 
 
 A Grecian, Syrian, or Assyrian tale : 
 And sell }"ou, mix'd with western sentimentalism, 
 Some samjjles of the finest Orientalism. 
 
 LII. 
 But I am but a nameless sort of person, 
 
 (A broken Dandy lately on my travels,) 
 And take for rhyme, to hook my rambling verse on, 
 
 The first that AValker's Lexicon unravels, 
 And when I can't find that, I put a worse on, 
 
 Not caring as I ought for critics' cavils ; 
 I've half a mind to tumble down to prose, 
 But verse is more in fashion — so here goes. 
 
 LIII. 
 The Count and Laura made their new arrangement. 
 
 Which lasted, as arrangements sometimes do, 
 For half a dozen years without estrangement ; 
 
 They had their little differences, too ; 
 Those jealous whifl's, which never any change meant: 
 
 In such affairs there i:>robably are few 
 Wlio have not had this pouting sort of squabble, 
 From sinners of high station to the rabble. 
 
 LIV. 
 But, on the whole, they were a happy pair. 
 
 As happy as unlawful love could make them ; 
 The gentleman was fond, the lady fair. 
 
 Their chains so slight, 'twas not worth while to 
 break t'nem ; 
 The world Ijehcid them with indulgent air ; 
 
 The pious only wish'd " the devil take them !" 
 He took them not ; he very often waits. 
 And leaves old sinners to be yoimg ones' baits. 
 
 LV. 
 But they were young : Oh ! what without our youth 
 
 Would love be ! Wliat would youth be without love. 
 Youth lends it joy, and sweetness, vigor, truth. 
 
 Heart, soul, and all that seems as from above ; 
 But, languishing with years, it grows uncouth — 
 
 One of few tilings experience don't improve. 
 Which is, perhaps, the reason why old fellows 
 Are always so preposterously jealous. 
 
 LVI. 
 It was the Carnival, as I have said 
 Some six and thirty stanzas back, and so 
 
 Laura the usual preparations made, 
 
 Which you do when your mind's made up to go 
 To-night to Mrs. Boehm's masquerade, 
 
 Spectator, or partaker in the show ; 
 The only difference known between the cases 
 Is — here, we have six weeks of " varnish'd faces." 
 
 LVII. 
 Laura, when dress'd, was (as I sang before) 
 
 A pretty woman as was ever seea. 
 Fresh as the Angel o'er a new iim door, 
 
 Or frontispiece of a new Magazine, 
 With all the fashions which the last month wore, 
 
 Color'd, and silver paper leaved between 
 That and the title-page, for fear the press 
 Should soil with parts of speech the parts of dresa 
 
 LVIII. 
 They went to the Ridotto ; — 'tis a hall 
 
 Where people dance, and sup, and dance again ; 
 Its proper name, perhaps, were a masqued ball. 
 
 But that's of no importance to my strain ; 
 'Tis (on a smaller scale) like our Vauxhall, 
 
 Excepting that it can't be spoilt by rain : 
 The company is " mix'd," (the phrase I quote is 
 As much as saying, they're below your notice ;) 
 
 LIX. 
 For a " mix'd company " implies that, save 
 
 Yourself and friends, and half a hundred more, 
 Whom you may bow to without looking grave, 
 
 The rest are but a vulgar set, the bore 
 Of public places, where they basely brave 
 
 The fasliionable stare of twenty score 
 Of well-bred persons, call'd " the World ;" but I, 
 Although I know them, really don't know why. 
 
 LX. 
 
 This is the case in England ; at least was 
 During the dynasty of Dandies, now 
 
 Perchance succeeded by some other class 
 Of Imitated imitators : — how 
 
 Irreparably soon decline, alas ! 
 
 The demagogues of fashion : all below 
 
 Is frail ; how easily the world is lost 
 
 By love, or war, and now and then by frost 1 
 
 LXI. 
 Crush'd was Napoleon by the northern Thor, 
 
 Wlio knock'd his army down with icy hammer, 
 Stopp'd by the elfmfnt.i, like a whaler, or 
 
 A blundering novice in his new French gramniw 
 Good cause had he to doubt the chance of war, 
 
 And as for Fortune— but I dare not d — n her, 
 Because, were I to ponder to infinity. 
 The more I should believe in her divinity. 
 
150 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 LXII. 
 She rules the present, past, and all to be yet, 
 
 She give? us luck in lotteries, love, and marriage ; 
 [ cannot say she's done much for me yet ; 
 
 Not that I mean her bounties to disparage, 
 We've not yet closed accounts, and we shaU see yet 
 
 How much she'll make amends for past miscarriage ; 
 Meantime the goddess I'll no more imjiortime, 
 Unless to tliank her when she's made my fortune. 
 
 LXIII. 
 To turn, — and to return ; — the devil take it ! 
 
 This stoiy slips forever through my fingers. 
 Because, just as the stanza likes to make it, 
 
 It needs must be — and so it rather lingers ; 
 This form of verse began, I can't well break it. 
 
 But must keej) time and tune like public singers, 
 But if I once get through my present measure, 
 I'll take another when I'm next at leisure. 
 
 LXIV. 
 They went to the Ridotto, ('tis a place 
 
 To which I mean to go myself to-morrow, 
 Tust to divert my thoughts a little sjjace, 
 
 Because I'm ratlier hiijjjish, and may borrow 
 Some spirits, guessing at what kind of face 
 
 May lurk beneath each mask ; and as my sorrow 
 Slackens its pace sometimes, I'U make, or find, 
 Something shall leave it half an hour behind.) 
 
 LXV. 
 Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd, 
 
 Smiles in her eyes, and simpers on lier lijjs ; 
 To some she whispers, others speaks aloud ; 
 
 To some she courtsics, and to some she dips, 
 I!omj)lain9 of warmth, and this complaint avow'd. 
 
 Her lover brings the lemonade, she sips ; 
 She tlien surveys, condemns, but pities stiU 
 Her dearest friends for being dress'd so ill. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 One has false curls, another too much paint, 
 A third — where did she buy that frightful turban ? 
 
 A fourth's so pale she fears she's going faint, 
 A fifth's look's vulgar, dowdyish, and suburban, 
 
 A sixth's white silk has got a yellow taint, 
 A seventh's thin muslin surely will be her bane. 
 
 And lo ! an eighth ajjijears, — " I'll see no more !" 
 
 For fear, like Banquo's king, they reach a score. 
 
 LXVII. 
 Meantime, while she was thus at others gazing, 
 
 Others were levelling their looks at her ; 
 She heard the men's lialf-whisper'd mode of praising, 
 
 And, till 'twas done, determined not to stir : 
 The women only thought it quite amazing 
 
 That, at her time of life, so many were 
 A-dmirers still, — but men are so debased, 
 Thmri braz(m creatures always suit their taste. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 For my part, now, I ne'er could understand 
 
 Why naughty women — but I won't discuss 
 A thing which is a scandal to the land, 
 
 I only don't see why it should be thus ; 
 And if I were but in a gown and band, 
 
 Just to entitle me to make a fuss, 
 I'd preach on this till Wilberforce and Romilly 
 Should quote in their next speeches from my homily 
 
 LXIX. 
 While Laura thus was seen and seeing, smiling. 
 
 Talking, she knew not why and cared not what. 
 So that her female friends, with envy broiUng, 
 
 Beheld her airs and triumph, and all that ; 
 And well-dress'd males still kept before her filing, 
 
 And passing bow'd and mingled with her chat : 
 Slore than the rest one person seem'd to stare 
 With pertinacity that's rather rare. 
 
 LXX, 
 He was a Turk, the color of mahogany , 
 
 And Laura saw him, and at fii-st was glad, 
 Because the Turks so much admire philogjmy, 
 
 Although their usage of their -naves is sad ; 
 'Tis said they use no better than a dog any 
 
 Poor woman, whom they purchase like a pad : 
 They have a number, though they ne'er exhibit 'em, 
 Four wives by law, and concubines " ad libitum." 
 
 LXXL 
 They lock them up, and veil, and guard them daily 
 
 They scarcely can behold their male relations. 
 So that their moments do not pass so gayly 
 
 As is supjjosed the case with northern nations ; 
 Confinement, too, must make tlicm look quite palely 
 
 And as the Turks abhor long conversations, 
 Their days are cither pass'd in doing nothing. 
 Or bathing, nursing, making love, and clothing. 
 
 LXXII. 
 They cannot read, and so don't lisp in criticism ; 
 
 Nor write, and so they don't affect the muse ; 
 Were never caught in epigram or witticism, 
 
 Have no romances, sermons, plays, reriews, — 
 In harems learning soon would make a pretty schism 
 
 But luckily these beauties are no " Blues," 
 No bustling Botherbys have they to show 'em 
 "That charming passage in the last new poem." 
 
 LXXIII. 
 No solemn, antique gentleman of rhyme, 
 
 Who having angled all his life for fame, 
 And getting but a nibble at a time, 
 
 StiU fussily keeps fishing on, the same 
 Small "Triton of the minnows," the sublime 
 
 Of mediocrity, the furious tame. 
 The echo's echo, usher of the school 
 Of female wits, boy-bards — in short, a fool ! 
 
BEPPO. 
 
 151 
 
 LXXIV. 
 A stalking oracle of awful phrase, 
 
 Tlie approving " Good ."' (by no means good in 
 Humming like flies around the newest blaze, [law) 
 
 The bluest of bluebottles you e'er saw, 
 Teasing with blame, excruciating with praise, 
 
 Gorging the little fame he gets all raw. 
 Translating tongues he knows not even by letter, 
 And sweating plays so middling, bad were better. 
 
 LXXV. 
 One hates an author that's all author, fellows 
 
 In foolscap uniforms turn'd up with ink. 
 So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous. 
 
 One don't know what to say to them, or think, 
 Unless to pufl' them with a pair of bellows ; 
 
 Of coxcombry's worst coxcombs e'en the pink 
 Are preferable to these shreds of paper. 
 These unquench'd snutlings of the midnight taper. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 Of these same we see several, and of others, 
 
 Jlen of the world, who know the world like men, 
 Scott, Rogers, Jloore, and all the better brothers. 
 
 Who think of something else besides the pen ; 
 But for the children of the " mighty mother's," 
 
 The would-be wits and can't-be gentlemen, 
 I leave them to their daily " tea is ready," 
 Smug coterie, and literary lady. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 The poor dear Mussulwomen whom I mention 
 
 Have none of tliese instructive pleasant people, 
 Alid om would seem to them a new invention, 
 
 TJnknowTD as bells within a Turkish steejjle ; 
 I think 'twould almost be worth while to pension 
 
 (Though best-sown projects very often reap iU) 
 A missionary author, just to preach 
 Our Christian usage of the parts of speech. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 No chemistry for them unfolds her gases. 
 
 No metaphysics are let loose in lectures. 
 No circulating library amasses 
 
 ReHgious novels, moral tales, and strictures 
 Upon the liWng manners, as they pass us ; 
 
 No exhibition glares with annual jjictures ; 
 They stare not on the stars from out their attics, 
 Nor deal (thank God for that 1) in mathematics. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 Why I thank God for that is no great matter, 
 
 I have my reasons, you no doubt suppose. 
 And as, perhaps, they would not highly flatter, 
 
 I'll keep them for my life (to come) in prose ; 
 I fear I have a little turn for satire. 
 
 And yet methinks the older that one grows 
 Inclines us more to laugh than scold, though laugh- 
 Leaves us so doubly s ;riou3 shortly after. [ter 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Oh, Mirth and Innocence ! Oh, Milk and Water I 
 Ye hajspy mixtures of more happy days ! 
 
 In these sad centui'ies of sin and slaughter, 
 Abominable Man no more allays 
 
 His thirst with such pure beverage. No matter, 
 I love you both, and both shall have my praise. 
 
 Oh, for old Saturn's reign of sugar-candy ! — 
 
 Meantime I drink to your return in brandy. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 Our Laura's Turk still kept his eyes upon her, 
 
 Less in the Mussulman than Christian way, 
 Which seems to say, " Madam, I do you honor, 
 
 And while I please to stare, you'll please to stay 1" 
 Could staring win a woman, this had won lier, 
 
 But Lam'a could not thus be led astray ; 
 She had stood fire too well and long, to boggle 
 Even at this stranger's most outlandish ogle. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 The morning now was on the point of breaking, 
 
 A turn of time at which I would advise 
 Ladies who have been dancing, or partaking 
 
 In any other kind of exercise. 
 To make their preparations for forsaking 
 
 The ballroom ere the sun begins to rise. 
 Because when once the lamps and candles fail, 
 His blushes make them look a little pale. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 I've seen some balls and revels in my time, 
 
 And stay'd them over for some silly reason. 
 And then I look'd (I hope it was no crime) 
 
 To see what lady best stood out the season ; 
 And thoug'a I've seen some thousands in their prime, 
 
 Lovely and pleasing, and who still may please on, 
 I never saw but one (the stars withdrawn) 
 Whose bloom could after dancing dare the dawn. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 The name of this Aurora I'll not mention. 
 
 Although I might, for slie was naught to me 
 More than that patent work of God's invention, 
 
 A charming woman, whom we like to see ; 
 But writing names would merit reprehension, 
 
 Yet if you like to find out this fair she, 
 At the next London or Parisian ball 
 You still may mark her cheek, out-blooming aU. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 Laura, who knew it would not do at all 
 
 To meet t!ie daylight after seven hours' sitting 
 
 Among three thousand people at a ball, 
 
 To make her courtsy thought it right t-.ad fitting : 
 
 The Count was at her elbow with her shawl, 
 
 And they the room were on the point of quitting^ 
 
 When lo ! those cursed gondoliers had ^>ot 
 
 Just in the very place where they should not 
 
162 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 LXXXVL 
 
 In this they're like our coachmen, and the cause 
 la much the same — the crowd, and pulling, haul- 
 
 With blasphemies enough to break their jaws, [ing. 
 They make a never intermitting bawUng. 
 
 At home, our Bow-street gemmen keep the laws, 
 And here a sentry stands within your calling ; 
 
 But for all that, there is a deal of swearing, 
 
 And nauseous words past mentioning or bearing. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 The Count and Laura found their boat at last, 
 
 And homeward floated o'er the silent tide, 
 Discussing all the dances gone and past ; 
 
 The dancers and their dresses, too, beside ; 
 Some little scandals eke : but all aghast 
 
 (As to their palace stairs the rowers glide) 
 Sate Laura by the side of her Adorer, 
 When lo 1 the Mussulman was there before her. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 " Sir," said the Count, mth brow exceeding grave, 
 
 " Your unexpected presence here will make 
 It necessary for myself to crave 
 
 Its import ? But perhaps 'tis a mistake ; 
 I hope it is so ; and, at once to wave 
 
 All compliment I hope so for ynir sake : 
 You understand my meaning, or you shall." 
 " Sir,'^ (quoth the Turk,) " 'tis no mistake at all. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 " That lady is my wife .'" Much wonder paints 
 
 The lady's changing cheek, as well it might ; 
 But where an Englishwoman sometimes faints, 
 
 Italian females don't do so outright ; 
 They only call a little on their saints. 
 
 And then come to themselves, almost or quite ; 
 Which saves much hartshorn, salts, and sprinkling 
 And cutting stays, as usual in such cases. [faces, 
 
 XC. 
 She said, — what could she say ? Wliy, not a word : 
 
 But the Count courteously invited in 
 The stranger, much appeased by what he heard : 
 
 " Such things, perhaps, we'd best discuss within," 
 Said he ; " don't let us make ourselves absurd 
 
 In public, by a scene, nor raise a din. 
 For then the chief and only satisfaction 
 Will bo much quizzing on the whole transaction." 
 
 XCI. 
 They enter'd, and for coffee call'd — ^it came, 
 
 A beverage for Turks and Christians both. 
 Although the way they make it's not the same. 
 
 Now Laura, much rccover'd, or less loth 
 To speak, cries " Beppo 1 what's your pagan name ? 
 
 Bless me I your beard is of amazing growth ! 
 And how came you to keep away so long ? 
 Are you not sensiWc 'twas very wrong ? 
 
 XCII. 
 " And are you renlhj^ truh/, now a Turk ? 
 
 With any other woman did you wive ? 
 Is't true they use their fingers for a fork ? 
 
 Well, that's the prettiest shawl — as I'm alive I 
 You'll give it me ? They say you eat no pork. 
 
 And how so many years did you contrive 
 To — bless me ! did I ever ! No, I never 
 Saw a man grown so yellow ! How's your liver ? 
 
 XCIII. 
 " Beppo ! that beard of yours becomes you not ; 
 
 It shall be shaved before you're a day older : 
 Wliy do you wear it ? Oh, I had forgot — 
 
 Pray don't you think the weather here is colder ? 
 How do I look ? You sha'n't stir from this spot 
 
 In that queer dress, for fear that some beholder 
 Should find you out, and make the story known. 
 How short your hair is ! Lord, how gray its grown !' 
 
 XCIV. 
 Wliat answer Beppo made to these demands 
 
 Is more than I know. He was cast away 
 About where Troy stood once, and nothing stands • 
 
 Became a slave of course, and for his pay 
 Had bread and bastinadoes, till some bands 
 
 Of pirates landing in a neighboring bay. 
 He join'd the rogues and prosper'd, and became 
 A renegado of indifferent lame. 
 
 XCV. 
 But he grew rich, and with his riches grew so 
 
 Keen the desire to see his home again, 
 He thought himself in duty bound to do so, 
 
 And not be always thieving on the main ; 
 Lonely he felt, at times, as Hobin Crusoe, 
 
 And so he hired a vessel come from Spain, 
 Bound for Corfu : she was a fine polacca, 
 Mann'd with twelve hands, and laden with tobacco 
 
 XCVI. 
 Himself, and much (lieaven knows how gotten !) cash 
 
 He then embark'd with risk of life and limb, 
 And got clear off, although the attempt was rash ; 
 
 Hr said that Prondenrc protected him — 
 For my part, I say nothing, lest we clash 
 
 In our opinions : — well, tlie ship was trim, 
 Set sail, and kept her reckoning fairly 6n, 
 Except three days of calm when off Cape Bonn. 
 
 XCVII. 
 They reach'd the island, he transferr'd his lading, 
 
 And self and live-stock, to another bottom. 
 And pass'd for a true Turkey-merchant, trading 
 
 With goods of various names, but I forgot 'em. 
 However, he got off by this evading. 
 
 Or else the people would j)erluip3 have shot him ; 
 And thus at Venice landed to reclaim 
 His wife, religion, house, an 1 Christian name. 
 
MAZEPPA. 
 
 153 
 
 XCVIII. 
 His wife received, the patriarch rebaptized him, 
 
 (He made the church a present, by the way ;) 
 He then threw off the garments which disguised him. 
 
 And borrow'd the Count's smallclothes for a day : 
 His friends the more for his long absence prized him, 
 
 Finding he'd wherewithal to make them gay, 
 "With dinners,whereheoft became the laugh of them, 
 For stories — but I don't believe the half of them. 
 
 XCIX. 
 Whate'er hia youth had suffer'd, his old age 
 
 With wealth and talking make him some amei ds j 
 Though Laura sometimes put him in a rage, 
 
 I've heard the Count and he were always friends. 
 My pen is at the bottom of a page, 
 
 Which being finish'd, here the story ends ; 
 'Tis to be wish'd it had been sooner done. 
 But stories somehow lengthen when begun. 
 
 MAZEPPA 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 " Cblui qui remplissait alors cette place etait un 
 gentilhomme Polonais, nomme Mazeppa, nu dans le 
 palatinat tie Podolie : 11 avail lite eleve page de Jean 
 Casimir, et avait pris a sa cour quelque teinture des 
 belles-lettres. Une intrigue qu'D cut dans sa jeunesse 
 avec la femme d'un gentilhomme Polonais ayant 6td 
 decouverte, le mari le fit lier tout nu sur un cheval 
 farouche, et le laissa aller en cet etat. Le cheval, qui 
 6tait du pays de 1' Ukraine, y retourna, et y porta Ma- 
 zeppa, demi-mort de fatigue et de faim. Quelques pay- 
 Bons le secounirent : il resta long-tems parmi eux, et 
 Be signala dans plusieurs courses centre les Tartares. 
 La superiorite de ses lumitres lui donna une grande 
 considt-ration parmi les Cosaques : sa rt'putation s'aug- 
 meutant de jour en jour, obligea le Czar a le faire 
 Prince de rUkralue."— Voltaire, Hist, de Charles 
 XII.. p. 196. 
 
 " Le roi fuyant, et poursuivi, eut son cheval tue sous 
 lui ; le Colonel Gieta, blessi', et perdant tout son sang, 
 lui donna la sein. Ainsi on remit deux fois a cheval, 
 dans la fuite, ce conqutrant qui n'avait pu y monter 
 pendant la bataille." — p. 216. 
 
 " Le roi alia par un autre chemin avec quelques 
 cavaliers. Le carrosse ou il etait rompit dans la 
 marche ; on le remit a cheval. Pour comble de dis- 
 grace, il s'egara pendant la nuit dans un bois ; la, son 
 courage ne pouvant plus suppliier a ses forces epuisi'es, 
 les douleurs de sa blessure devenues ])lus insupporta- 
 bles par la fatigue, son cheval etant tombe de lassi- 
 tude, il se concha quelques heures au pied d'un arbre, 
 en danger d'etre surpris a tout moment par les vain- 
 queurs, qui le cherchaient de tons cOtes." — p. 318. 
 
 MAZEPPA. 
 I. 
 
 'TwAS after dread Pultowa's day, 
 Wlien fortune left the royal Swede 
 
 \roimd a siaughter'd army lay, 
 ■^o more to combat and to bleed. 
 20 
 
 The power and glory of the war, 
 
 Faithle.ss as their vain votaries, men, 
 Had pass'd to the triumphant Czar, 
 
 And Moscow's walls were safe again. 
 Until a day more dark and drear, 
 And a more memorable year. 
 Should give to slaughter and to shame 
 A mightier host and haughtier name ; 
 A greater wreck, a deeper faU, 
 A shock to one — a thunderbolt to all 
 
 11. 
 
 Such was the hazard of the die ; 
 
 The wounded Charles was taugh* to fly 
 
 By day and night through iield and fl( od. 
 
 Stain'd with his own and subjects' bijod 
 
 For thousands fell that flight to aid : 
 
 And not a voice was heard t' upbraid 
 
 Ambition in his humbled hour, 
 
 When truth had naught to dread from power. 
 
 His horse was slain, and Gieta gave 
 
 His own — and died the Russians' slave. 
 
 This too sinks after many a league 
 
 Of well-sustain'd, but vain fatigue ; 
 
 And in the depth of forests, darkling 
 
 The watch-fires in the distance sparkUng- 
 
 The beacons of siurounding foes — 
 A king must lay his limbs at length. 
 
 Are these the laurels and repose 
 For which the nations strain their strength t 
 They laid him by a savage tree, 
 In outworn nature's agony ; 
 His wounds were stiff — his Umbs were stark— 
 The heavy hour was chill and dark ; 
 The fever in his blood forbade 
 A transient slumber's fitful aid : 
 And thus it was : but yet through all, 
 Kinglike the monarch bore his fall. 
 And made, in this extreme of ill, 
 His pangs the vassals of his will : 
 
im 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 All silent and subdued were they, 
 
 And then he said — " Of all our band, 
 
 As once the nations round him lay. 
 
 Though firm of heart and strong of hand, 
 
 
 In skirmish, march, or forage, none 
 
 III. 
 
 Can less have said or more have done 
 
 A band of chiefa ! — alas ! how fe,v, 
 
 Than thee, Mazeppa ! On the earth 
 
 Since but the fleeting of a day 
 
 So fit a pair had never birth. 
 
 Had thinn'd it ; but tnis wreck was true 
 
 Since Alexander's days till now. 
 
 And chivalrous : upon the clay 
 
 As thy Bucephalus and thou : 
 
 Each sate him down, all sad and mute, 
 
 AU Scythia's fame to thine should yield 
 
 Beside his monarch and his steed, 
 
 For pricking on o'er flood and field." 
 
 For danger levels man and brute, 
 
 Mazeppa answer'd — " I'll betide 
 
 And all are fellows in their need. 
 
 The school wherein I learn'd to ride !" 
 
 Among the rest, Mazeppa made 
 
 Quoth Charles—" Old Hetman, wherefore so^ 
 
 His pillow in an old oak's shade — 
 
 Since thou hast learn'd the art so well ?" 
 
 Himself as rough, and scarce less old, 
 
 Mazeppa said—" 'Twere long to tell ; 
 
 The Ukraine's hetman, calm and bold : 
 
 And we have many a league to go, 
 
 But first, outspent with this long course. 
 
 With every now and then a blow, 
 
 The Cossack prince rubb'd down his horse. 
 
 And ten to one at least the foe, 
 
 And made for him a leafy bed. 
 
 Before our steeds may graze at ease, 
 
 And smooth'd his fetlocks and his mane, 
 
 Beyond the swift Borysthenes : 
 
 And slack'd his girth, and stripp'd his rein, 
 
 And, sire, your limbs have need of rest, 
 
 And joy'd to see how well he fed ; 
 
 And I will be the sentinel 
 
 For until now he had the dread 
 
 Of this your troop." " But I request," 
 
 His wearied courser might refuse 
 
 Said Sweden's mon.arch, "thou wilt teU 
 
 To browse beneath the midnight dews : 
 
 This tale of thine, and I may reap. 
 
 But he was h.ardy as his lord, 
 
 Perchance, from this the boon of sleep , 
 
 And little cared for bed and board ; 
 
 For at this moment from my eyes 
 
 But spirited and docile too. 
 
 The hope of present slumber flies." 
 
 AVhate'er was to be done, would do. 
 
 
 Shaggy and swift, and strong of limb, 
 
 
 All Tartar-like he carried him ; 
 
 " Well, sire, with such a hope I'll tracK 
 
 Obcy'd his voice, and came to call, 
 
 My seventy years of memory back : 
 
 And knew him in the midst of aU : 
 
 I think 'twas in my twentieth spring, — 
 
 Though tliousands were around, — and Night, 
 
 Ay, 'twas, — when Casimir was king — 
 
 Without a star, pursued her flight, — 
 
 John Casimir, — I was his page 
 
 That steed from sunset until dawn 
 
 Six summers, in my earlier age : 
 
 His chief would follow like a fawn. 
 
 A learned monarch, faith ! was he. 
 
 
 And most unlike your majesty : 
 
 IV. 
 
 He made no wars, and did not gain 
 
 This done, Mazeppa spread his cloak, 
 
 New realms to lose them l)ack again ; 
 
 And laid his lance beneath his oak, 
 
 And (save debates in Warsaw's diet) 
 
 Felt if his arms in order good 
 
 He reign'd in most unseemly quiet ; 
 
 The long day's march had well -withstood — 
 
 Not that he had no cares to vex, 
 
 If still the powder fill'd the pan, 
 
 He loved the muses and the sex ; 
 
 And flints unloosen'd kept their lock — 
 
 And sometimes these so froward are. 
 
 His sabre's hilt and scabbard felt, 
 
 They made him wish himself at war ; 
 
 And whether they had chafed his belt — 
 
 But soon his wrath being o'er, he took 
 
 And next the venerable man. 
 
 Another mistress, or new book ; 
 
 From out his haversack and can. 
 
 And then he gave prodigious fetes — 
 
 Prepared and spread his slender stock ; 
 
 All Warsaw gather'd round his gates 
 
 And to the monarch and his men 
 
 To gaze upon his splendid court. 
 
 The whole or portion offer'd then 
 
 And dames, and chiefs, of princely port • 
 
 With far less of iuquietude 
 
 He was the Polish Solomon, 
 
 Than courtiers at a banquet would. 
 
 So sung his poets, all l)ut one, 
 
 And Charles of this his slender share 
 
 Who, being unpension'd, made a satire, 
 
 With sraiUs partook a moment there, 
 
 And boasted that he could not flatter. 
 
 To force of cheer a greater show. 
 
 It was a court of jousts and mimes. 
 
 And seem above both wounds and wo ;— 
 
 Where ever/ courtier tried at rhymes ; 
 
MAZEPPA. 
 
 155 
 
 Even I for once produced some verses, 
 And sign'd my odes ' Despairing Thyrsis,' 
 There was a certain Palatine, 
 
 A coimt of far and Ugh descent, 
 Rich as a salt or silver mine ; ' 
 And he was proud, ye may divine, 
 
 As if from heaven he had been sent : 
 He had such wealth in blood and ore 
 
 As few could match beneath the throne ; 
 ^Vnd he would gaze ujjon his store. 
 And o'er his pedigree would pore. 
 Until by some confusion led, 
 Wldch almost look'd like want of head, 
 
 He thought their merits were his own. 
 His wife was not of his opinion — 
 
 His junior she by thirty years — 
 Grew daily tired of his dominion ; 
 
 And, after Irishes, hopes, and fears, 
 
 To virtue a few farewell tears, 
 A restless dream or two, some glances 
 At Warsaw's youth, some songs, and dances. 
 Awaited but the usual chances. 
 Those happy accidents which render 
 The coldest dames so very tender. 
 To deck her Count with titles given, 
 'Tis said, as jjassports into heaven ; 
 But, strange to say, they rarely boast 
 Of these, who have deserved them most. 
 
 V. 
 " I was a goodly stripling then ; 
 
 At seventy years I so may say. 
 That there were few, or boys or men, 
 
 AVho, in my daT\'ning time of day, 
 Of vassal or of knight's degree. 
 Could vie in vanities with me ; 
 For I had strength, youth, gayety, 
 A port, not like to this ye see. 
 But smooth, as all is rugged now ; 
 
 For time, and care, and war, have plough'd 
 Jly very soul from out my brow ; 
 
 iVnd thus I should be disavow'd 
 By all my kind and kin, could they 
 Compare my day and yesterday ; 
 This change was wrought, too, long ere age 
 Had ta'en my features for his page : 
 With years, ye know, have not declined 
 My strength, my courage, or my mind, 
 Or at this hour I should not be 
 Telling old tales beneath a tree, 
 With starless skies my canopy. 
 But let me on : Theresa's form — 
 Jlethinks it glides before me now, 
 Between me and yon chestnut's bough, 
 
 ' This omparison of a "talt mine" may, perhaps, be permitted 
 !o a Pole a? the wealth of the country co«'=i8ta greatly in the salt 
 mines. 
 
 The memory is so quick and warm ; 
 And yet I find no words to tell 
 The shape of her I loved so well : 
 She had the Asiatic eye, 
 
 Sucb as our Turkish neighborhood. 
 
 Hath mingled with our Polish blood. 
 Dark as above us is the sky ; 
 But through it stole a tender light, 
 Like the first moonrise of midnight ; 
 Large, dark, and swimming in the stream, 
 Which seem'd to melt to its own beam : 
 All love, half languor, and half fire, 
 Like saints that at the stake expire. 
 And lift their raptured looks on high. 
 As though it were a joy to die, 
 A brow Uke a midsummer lake, 
 
 TransjDarent with the sun therein. 
 When waves no murmur dare to make, 
 
 And heaven beholds her face within 
 A cheek and lip — but why proceed ? 
 
 I loved her then — I love her still ; 
 And such as I am, love indeed 
 
 In fierce extremes — in good p.nd ilL 
 But still we love even in our rage. 
 And haunted to our veiy age 
 With the vain shadow of the past, 
 As is Mazeppa to the last. 
 
 VI. 
 " We met — we gazed — I saw, and sigh'd, 
 She did not speak, and yet replied ; 
 There are ten thousand tones and signs 
 We hear and see, but none defines — 
 Involuntary sparks of thought, 
 WTiich strike from out the heart o'erwrought 
 jVnd form a strange intelligence, 
 Ahke mysterious and intense, 
 Which link the burning diain that binds, 
 Without their will, young hearts and minds ; 
 Conveying, as the electric wire. 
 We know not how, the absorbing fire. 
 I saw, and sigh'd — in silence wept. 
 And still reluctant distance kejjt, 
 Until I was made known to her. 
 And we might then and there confer 
 Without suspicion — then, even then, 
 
 I long'd, and was resolved to speak ; 
 But on my lips they died again, 
 
 The accLUts tremulous and weak. 
 Until one hour. There is a game, 
 
 A frivolous and foolish play, 
 
 Wherewith we while away the day ; 
 It is — I have forgot the name — 
 And we to this, it seems were set. 
 By some strange chance, which I forget. 
 I reck'd not if I won or lost, 
 
 It was enough for me to be 
 
 So near to hear, and oh, to »ee 
 
156 
 
 IJYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 The being ■whom I loved the moat. 
 
 I watch'd her aa a sentinel, 
 
 (May ours this dark night watch as well 1) 
 
 Until I saw, and tlius it was, 
 That she was pensive, nor perceived 
 Her occujjation, nor was grieved 
 Nor glad to lose or gain ; but still 
 Play'd on for hours, as if her wiU 
 Yet bound her to the place, though not 
 That hers might be the winning lot. 
 
 Then through my brain the thought did pass 
 Even as a flash of Uglitning there, 
 That there was something in her air 
 Which would not doom me to despair ; 
 And on the thought my words broke forth, 
 
 All incoherent as they were — 
 Their eloquence was little worth. 
 But yet she listen'd — 'tis enough — 
 
 Who listens once will listen twice ; 
 
 Her heart, be sure, is not of ice, 
 And one refusal no rebuff. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " I loved, and was beloved again — 
 They tell me, sire, you never knew 
 
 Those gentle frailties ; if 'tis true, 
 I shorten all my joy or pain ; 
 To you 'twould seem absurd as vain ; 
 But all men are not born to reign, 
 Or o'er their passions, or as you 
 Thus o'er themselves and nations too. 
 I am — or rather was — a prince, 
 
 A chief of thousands, and could lead 
 
 Them on where each would foremost bleed ; 
 But could not o'er myself evince 
 The like control. But to resume : 
 
 I loved, and was beloved again ; 
 In sooth, it is a happy doom. 
 
 But yet where happiest ends in pain. 
 We met in secret, and the hour 
 Which led me to that lady's bower 
 Was fiery Expectation's dower. 
 My days and nights were nothing — all 
 Except that hour which doth recall 
 In the long lapse from youth to age 
 
 No other like itself — I'd give 
 
 The Ukraine l:>ack again to live 
 It o'er once more — and be a page. 
 The hapi^y page, who was the lord 
 Of one soft heart, and his own sword. 
 And had no other gem nor wealth 
 Save nature's gift of youth and health. 
 We met in secret — doubly sweet, 
 Some say, they find it so to meet ; 
 I know not that — I would have given 
 
 My life but to have call'd her mine 
 In the full view of earth and heaven ; 
 
 For I did oft and long repine 
 That we could only meet by stealth. 
 
 VIII. 
 " For lovers there are many eyes. 
 
 And such there were on us ; — the devil 
 
 On such occasions should be civil — 
 The devil 1 — I'm loth to do him wrong. 
 
 It might be some untoward saint, 
 Wlio would not be at rest too long. 
 
 But to his pious bile gave vent — 
 But one fair night, some lurking spies 
 Surjjrised and seized us both. 
 The Count was something more than wroth— 
 I was unarm'd ; but if in steel, 
 All cap-a-pie from head to heel, 
 What 'gainst their numbers could I do ? 
 'Twas near his castle, far away 
 
 From city or from succor near. 
 And almost on the break of day ; 
 I did not think to see another, 
 
 My moments seem'd reduced to few ; 
 And with one prayer to Mary Mother, 
 
 And, it may be, a saint or two, 
 As I resign'd me to my fate. 
 They led me to the castle gate : 
 
 Theresa's doom I never knew. 
 Our lot was henceforth sejjarate — 
 An angry man, ye may opine, 
 Was he, the proud Count Palatine ; 
 And he had reason good to be, 
 
 But he was most enraged lest such 
 
 An accident should chance to touch 
 Upon his future pedigree ; 
 Nor less amazed, that such a blot 
 His noble 'scutcheon should have got, 
 Wliile he was highest of his line ; 
 
 Because unto himself he seem'd 
 
 The first of men, nor less he deem'd 
 In others' eyes, and most in mine. 
 'Sdeath ! with a pagt — perchance a king 
 Had reconciled him to the thing ; 
 But with a stripling of a page — 
 I felt — but cannot paint his rage. 
 
 IX. 
 
 " ' Bring forth the horse !' — the horse was broughl 
 
 In truth, he was a noble steed, 
 
 A Tartar of the Ukraine breed. 
 Who look'd as though the speed of thought 
 Were in his limbs ; but he was wild. 
 
 Wild as the wild deer, and untaught. 
 With spur and bridle undcfilcd — 
 
 'Twas but a day he had been caught ; 
 And snorting, with erected mane. 
 And struggling fiercely, but in vain. 
 In the full foam of wrath and dread 
 To me the desert-born was led : 
 
MAZEPPA. 
 
 15-? 
 
 They bound me on, that menial throng, 
 Upon his back with many a thong ; 
 They loosed him with a sudden lash — 
 Away I— away I — and on we dash I — 
 Torrents less rapid and less rash. 
 
 X. 
 " Away ! — away ! — My breath was gone — 
 I saw not where he hurried on : 
 'Twas scarcely yet the break of day. 
 And on he foam'd— away ! — away ! — 
 The last of human sounds which rose, 
 As I was darted from my foes, 
 Was the wild shout of savage laughter, 
 Which on the wind came roaring after 
 A moment from that rabble rout : 
 With sudden wrath I wrench'd my head. 
 
 And snapp'd the cord, which to the mane 
 
 Had bound my neck in lieu of rein. 
 And writhing half my form about, 
 Howl'd back my curse ; but 'midst the tread, 
 The thunder of my courser's speed, 
 Perchance they did not hear nor heed : 
 It vexes me — for I would fain 
 Have paid their insult back again. 
 I paid it well in after days : 
 There is not of that castle gate. 
 Its drawbridge and portcullis' weight, 
 Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left ; 
 Nor of its fields a blade of grass, 
 
 Save what grows on a ridge of wall. 
 
 Where stood the hearth-stone of the hall ; 
 And many a time ye there might pass. 
 Nor dream that e'er that fortress was : 
 I saw its turrets in a blaze. 
 Their crackling battlements all cleft. 
 
 And the hot lead pour down like rain, 
 From off the scorch'd and blackening roof. 
 Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof. 
 
 They little thought that day of pain. 
 When launch'd, as on the lightning's flash, 
 They bade me to destruction dash. 
 
 That one day I should come again. 
 With twice five thousand horse, to thank 
 
 The Count for his uncourtcous ride. 
 They play'd me then a bitter prank, 
 
 When, with the wild horse for my guide. 
 They bound me to his foaming flank : 
 At length I play'd them one as frank — 
 For time at last sets all things even — 
 
 And if we do but watch the hour. 
 
 There never yet was human power 
 Wliich could evade, if unforgiven. 
 The patient search and vigil long 
 Of him who treasures vip a wrong. 
 
 XI. 
 " Away, away, my steed and I, 
 
 Upon the pinions of the wind. 
 
 All human dwellings left behind ; 
 We sped like meteors through the sky. 
 When with its crackling sound the night 
 Is checker'd with the northern light : 
 Town — village — none were on our track 
 
 But a wild plain of far extent, 
 And bounded by a forest black ; 
 
 And, save the scarce seen battlement 
 On distant heights of some strong hold 
 Against the Tartars built of old. 
 No trace of man. The year before 
 A Turkish army had march'd o'er ; 
 And where the Spahi's hoof hath trod, 
 The verdure flies the bloody sod : — 
 The sky was dull, and dim, and gray, 
 
 And a low breeze crept moaning by — 
 
 I could have answer'd with a sigh — 
 But fast we fled, away, away — 
 And I could neither sigh nor pray ; 
 And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain 
 Upon the courser's bristling mane ; 
 But, snorting still with rage and fear, 
 He flew upon his far career ; 
 At times I almost thought, indeed. 
 He must have slacken'd in his speed ; 
 But no — my bound and slender frame 
 
 Was nothing to his angry might, 
 And merely like a spur became : 
 Each motion which I made to free 
 My swoln limbs from their agony 
 
 Increased his fury and afinght : 
 I tried my voice, — 'twas faint and low, 
 But yet he swerved as from a blow ; 
 And, starting to each accent, sprang 
 As from a sudden trumpet's clang : 
 Meantime my cords were wet with gore, 
 Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er ; 
 And in my tongue the thirst became 
 A something fierier far than flame, 
 
 XII, 
 " We near'd the wild wood — 'twas so wide, 
 I saw no bounds on either side ; 
 'Twas studded with old sturdy trees, 
 That bent not to the roughest breeze 
 Which howls down from Siberia's waste, 
 And strips the forest in its haste, — 
 But these were few, and far between. 
 Set thick with shrubs more young and green. 
 Luxuriant with their annual leaves. 
 Ere strown by those autumnal eves 
 That nip the forest's foliage dead, 
 Discolor'd wih a lifeless red. 
 Which stands thereon like stiffen'd gore 
 Upon the slain when battle's o'er. 
 And some long winter's night hath shed 
 Its frost o'er every tombless head. 
 So cold and stark the raven's beak 
 
158 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 May peck uiipierced each frozen cheek : 
 
 'Twas a wild waste of underwood. 
 And here and there a chestnut stood, 
 The strong oak, and the hardy pine ; 
 
 But far apart — and weh it were. 
 Or else a different lot were mine — 
 
 The boughs gave way, and did not tear 
 My Umbs ; and I found strength to bear 
 My wounds, ahcady soarr'd with cold — 
 My bonds forbade to loose my hold. 
 We rustled through the leaves Uke wind. 
 Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind ; 
 By night I heard them on the track, 
 Their troop came hard upon our back. 
 With their long gallop, which can tire 
 The hound's deep hate, and hunter's fire ; 
 Wlicre'er we flew they follow'd on, 
 Nor left us with the morning sun ; 
 Behind I saw them, scarce a rood. 
 At daybreak winding through the wood. 
 And through the night had heard their feet 
 Their steaUng, rustling step repeat. 
 Oh ! how I wish'd for spear or sword, 
 At least to die amidst the horde. 
 And perish — if it must be so — 
 At bay, destroying many a foe. 
 When first my courser's race begun, 
 I wish'd the goal already won ; 
 But now I douljted strength and speed. 
 Vain doubt ! his swift and savage breed 
 Had nerved him Uke the mountain-roe ; 
 Nor faster falls the blinding snow 
 Which whelms the peasant near the door 
 Whose threshold he shall cross no more, 
 Bewilder'd with the dazzling blast. 
 Than through the forcst^paths he pass'd — 
 Untired, untamed, and worse than wild ; 
 All furious as a favor'd child 
 Balk'd of its wish ; or fiercer still — 
 A woman piqued — who has her will 
 
 xni. 
 
 " The wood was pass'd ; 'twas more than noon, 
 
 But chill the air, although in June ; 
 
 Or it might be my veins ran cold — 
 
 Prolong'd endiu-ancc tames the bold; 
 
 And I was then not what I seem. 
 
 But headlong as a wintry stream, 
 
 And wore my feelings out before 
 
 I well could count their causes o'er : 
 
 And what with fury, fear, and wrath, 
 
 The tortures which beset my path. 
 
 Cold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress, 
 
 Thus bound :n nature's nakedness ; 
 
 Sprung from a race whose rising blood 
 
 When stirr'd beyond its calmer mood, 
 
 And trodden hard upon, is like 
 
 The rattlesnake i, in act to strike, 
 
 What marvel if this worn-out trunk 
 
 Beneath its woes a moment sunk ? 
 
 The earth gave way, the skies roll'd round, 
 
 I seem'd to sink upon the ground ; 
 
 But err'd, for I was faslly liound. 
 
 My heart tum'd sick, my brain grew sore, 
 
 And throbb'd awhile, then beat no more : 
 
 The skies spun like a mighty wheel ; 
 
 I saw the trees like drunkards reel. 
 
 And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes. 
 
 Which saw no further : he who dies 
 
 Can die no more than then I died. 
 
 O'ertortured by that ghastly ride, 
 
 I felt the blackness come and go. 
 And strove to wake ; but could not make 
 
 My senses climb up from below : 
 
 I felt as on a plank at sea, 
 
 Wlien all t'tie waves that dash o'er thee, 
 
 At the same time upheave and whelm. 
 
 And hurl thee towards a desert realm. 
 
 3Iy undulating life was as 
 
 The fancied Ughts that iiitting pass 
 
 Our shut eyes in deep midnight, when 
 
 Fever begins upon the brain ; 
 
 But soon it pass'd, with little pain. 
 But a confusion worse than such : 
 I own that I should deem it much. 
 
 Dying, to feel the same again ; 
 
 And yet I do suppose we must 
 
 Feel far more ere we turn to dust : 
 
 No matter ; I have bared my brow 
 
 Full in Death's face — before — and now. 
 
 XIV. 
 " My thoughts came back ; where was I Cold; 
 And numb, and giddy : pulse by pulse 
 Life rcassumed its lingering hold. 
 And throb by throb : till grown a pang 
 
 Which for a moment would convulse. 
 
 My blood rcflow'd, though thick and chill ; 
 My car with uncouth noises rang, 
 
 My heart began once more to thrill ; 
 My sight return'd, though dim ; alas I 
 And thicken'd, as it were, with gl.ass. 
 Methought the dash of waves was nigh ; 
 There was a gleam too of the sky. 
 Studded with stars ; — it is no dream ; 
 The wild horse swims the wilder stream 1 
 The bright broad river's gushing tide 
 Sweeps, winding onward, far and wide, 
 And we are lialf-way, struggling o'er 
 To yon unknown and silent shore. 
 The waters broke my hollow trance. 
 And with a temporary strength 
 
 My stiiTen'd Umbs were rebaptized. 
 My courser's broad breast proudly brav(e, 
 And dashes off" the ascending waves. 
 And onward we advance I 
 
MAZEPPA. 
 
 153 
 
 We reach the slippery shore at length, 
 
 A haven I but little prized, 
 For aU behind was dark and drear, 
 And all before was night and fear. 
 How many hours of night or day 
 In those suspended pangs I lay, 
 I could not tell ; I scarcely knew 
 If this were human breath I drew. 
 
 XV. 
 
 " With glossy skin, and dripping mane, 
 
 And reeling limbs, and reeking flank, 
 The wild steed's sinewy nerves still strain 
 
 Up the repelling bank. 
 We gain the top : a boundless plain 
 Spreads through the shadow of the night, 
 
 And onward, onward, onward, seems. 
 
 Like precipices in our dreams. 
 To stretch beyond the sight ; 
 And here and there a speck of white. 
 
 Or scatter'd spot of dusky green, 
 In masses broke into the light. 
 As rose the moon upon my right. 
 
 But naught distinctly seen 
 In the dim waste would indicate 
 The omen of a cottage gate ; 
 No twinkling taper trom afar 
 Stood like a hospitable star ; 
 Xot even an iguis-fatuus rose 
 To make him merry with my woes : 
 
 That very cheat had cheer'd me then I 
 Although detected, welcome still. 
 Reminding me, through every iU, 
 
 Of the abodes of men. 
 
 XTI. 
 
 '' Onward we went — but slack and slow ; 
 
 His savage force at length o'erspent. 
 The drooping courser, faint and low. 
 
 All feebly foaming went. 
 A sickly infant had had power 
 To guide him forward in that hour ; 
 
 But useless all to me. 
 His new-bom tameness naught avail'd — 
 My limbs were bound ; my force had fail'd, 
 
 Perchance, had they been free. 
 With feeble eff'orts still I tried 
 To rend the bonds so starkly tied — 
 
 But srill it was in vain ; 
 My limbs were only wrung the more, 
 And soon the idle strife gave o'er. 
 
 Which but prolonged their pain : 
 The dizzy race seem'd almost done. 
 Although no goal was nearly won : 
 Some streaks announced the coming sun — 
 
 How slow, alas 1 he came ! 
 Methought that mist of dawning gray 
 Would never dapple into day ; 
 
 How heavily it roU'd away — 
 
 Before the eastern flame 
 Rose crimson, and deposed the stars, 
 And call'd the radiance from their cars, 
 And fill'd the earth, from his deep throne, 
 With lonely lustre, all his own. 
 
 xvir. 
 " Up rose the sun ; the mists were curl'd 
 Back from the solitary world 
 Which lay around — behind — before ; 
 WTiat booted it to traverse o'er 
 
 Plain, forest, river ? Man nor brute. 
 Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot, 
 Lay in the wild luxuriant soil ; 
 No sign of travel — none of toil ; 
 
 The very air was mute ; 
 And not an insect's shrill small horn, 
 Nor matin bird's new voice was borne 
 From herb nor thicket. Many a werst. 
 Panting as if his heart would burst. 
 The weary brute still stagger'd on ; 
 And still we were — or seem'd — alone : 
 At length, whOe reeling on our way, 
 Methought I heard a courser neigh. 
 From out yon tuft of blackening firs. 
 Is it the wind those branches stirs ? 
 No, no ! from out the forest prance 
 
 A tramphng troop ; I see them come ! 
 In one vast squadron they advance 1 
 
 I strove to cry — my lips were dumb. 
 The steeds rush on in plunging pride ; 
 But where are they the reins to guide ? 
 A thousand horse — and none to ride I 
 With flowing tail, and flying mane. 
 Wide nostrils — never stretch'd by pain. 
 Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein. 
 And feet that fron never shod. 
 And flanks unscarr'd by spur or rod, 
 A thousand horse, the wild, the free, 
 Like waves that follow o'er the sea. 
 
 Came thickly thundering on, 
 As if our faint approach to meet ; 
 The sight renerved my courser's feet, 
 A moment staggering, feebly fleet, 
 A moment, with a faint low neigh. 
 
 He answcr'd, and then fell ; 
 With gasps and glazing eyes he lay. 
 
 And reeking Umbs immovable, 
 
 His first and last career is done ! 
 On came the troop — they saw him stoop, 
 
 They saw me strangely bound along 
 
 His back with many a bloody thong : 
 They stop — they start — they snuflT the air. 
 Gallop a moment here and there. 
 Approach, retire, wheel round and round, 
 Then plunging back with sudden bound, 
 Headed by one black mighty steed. 
 
160 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Who secra'd the patriarch of his breed, 
 
 Without a single speck or hair 
 Of wliite upon liis sliaggy hide ; 
 They snort — they foam — neigh — swerve aside, 
 And backward to the forest fly. 
 By instinct, from a human eye. — 
 
 Tliey left me there to my despair, 
 Link'd to tlie dead and stiffening wretch, 
 Wliose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch, 
 Relieved from tliat unwonted weight. 
 From whence I could not extricate 
 Nor him nor me^and there we lay 
 
 The dying on the dead 1 
 I little deem'd another day 
 
 Would see my houseless, helpless head. 
 
 " And there from morn till twilight bound, 
 
 I felt the heavy hours toil round, 
 
 With just enough of life to see 
 
 My last of suns go down on me, 
 
 In hopeless certainty of mind. 
 
 That makes us feel at length resign'd 
 
 To that which our foreboding years 
 
 Presents the worst and last of fears 
 
 IncAatable — even a boon, 
 
 Nor more unkind for coming soon ; 
 
 Yet shunn'd and dreaded with such care, 
 
 A? if it only were a snare 
 
 That prudence might escape : 
 At times both wish'd for and implored. 
 At times sought with self-pointed sword. 
 Yet still a dark and hideous close 
 To even intolerable woes, 
 
 And welcome in no shape. 
 And, strange to say, the sons of pleasure, 
 They who have revell'd beyond measure 
 In beauty, wassail, wine, and treasure. 
 Die calm, or calmer, oft than he 
 Whose heritage was misery : 
 For he who hatli in turn run through 
 -All that was beautiful and new. 
 
 Hath naught to hope, and naught to leave ; 
 And, save the future, (which is vicw'd 
 Not quite as men are base or good, 
 But as their nerves may be endued,) 
 
 With naught perhaps to grieve : — 
 The wretch still hopes his woes must end, 
 And Death, whom he should deem hia Mend, 
 Appears, to his distemper'd eyes. 
 Arrived to rob him of his prize. 
 The tree of his new Paradise, 
 To-morrow would have given him all, 
 Piopaid his pangs, repair'd his fall ; 
 To-morrow would have been the first 
 Of days no more deplored or cursed, 
 But l)right, and long, and beckoning years, 
 6een iazzliug tl -ough the mist of tears, 
 
 Guerdon of many a painful hour ; 
 To-morrow would have given Mm power 
 To rule, to shine, to smite, to save — 
 And must it dawn upon his grave ? 
 
 .Win. 
 " The sun was sinking — stiU I lay 
 
 Chain'd to the chill and stiffening steed, 
 I thought to mingle there our clay ; 
 
 And my dim eyes of death hath need. 
 
 No hope arose of being freed : 
 I cast my last looks up the sky. 
 
 And there between me and the sun 
 I saw the expecting raven fiy. 
 Who scarce would wait tiU both should die, 
 
 Ere his repast begun ; 
 He flew, and perch'd, then flew once more, 
 And each time nearer than before ; 
 I saw his wing through twilight fiit. 
 And once so near me he alit 
 
 I could have smote, but lack'd the strength ; 
 But the slight motion of my hand. 
 And feeble scratching of the sand, 
 The exerted throat's faint struggling noise, 
 Which scarcely could be call'd a voice. 
 
 Together scared him off at length. — 
 I know no more — my latest dream 
 
 Is something of a lovely star 
 
 Wliich fix'd my dull eyes from afar. 
 And went and came with wandering beam. 
 And of the cold, dull, swimming, dense 
 Sensation of recurring sense, 
 
 And then subsiding back to death. 
 
 And then again a little breath, 
 A little thrill, a short suspense, 
 
 An icy siclcness curdling o'er 
 My heart, and sparks that cross'd my brain— 
 A gasp, a throb, a start of pain, 
 
 A sigh, and nothing more. 
 
 XIX. 
 " I woke — Where was I ? — Do I see 
 A human face look down on mo ? 
 And doth a roof above me close ? 
 Do these limbs on a couch repose ? 
 Is this a chamber where I lie ? 
 And is it mortal yon bright eye. 
 That watches me with gentle glance ? 
 
 I closed my own again once more. 
 As doubtful that the former trance 
 
 Could not as yet be o'er. 
 A slender girl, long-hair'd, and tall. 
 Sate watching by the cottage waU ; 
 The sparkle of her eye I caught. 
 Even with my first return of thought ; 
 For ever and anon she threw 
 
 A prying, pitjing glance on me 
 
 With her black eyes so wild and free : 
 
CANTO I. 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 101 
 
 ] gazed, and g.i?:ed, until I knew 
 
 No vision it could be, — 
 But tbat I lived, and was released 
 From adding to the vulture's feast : 
 And when the Cossack maid beheld 
 My heavy eyes at length unseard. 
 She smiled — and I essay'd to speak, 
 
 But fail'd — and she approach'd, and made 
 
 With lip and finger signs that said, 
 I must not strive as yet to break 
 The silence, till my strength should be 
 Enough to leave my accents free ; 
 And then her hand on mine she laid. 
 And smooth'd the pillow for my head. 
 And stole along on tiptoe tread, 
 
 And gently oped the door, and spake 
 In whispers — ne'er was voice so sweet I 
 Even music follow'd her light feet ; 
 
 But those she call'd were not awake, 
 And she went forth ; but, ere she pass'd, 
 Another look on me she cast. 
 
 Another sign she made, to say. 
 That I had naught to fear, that all 
 AVere near, at my command or call, 
 
 And she would not delay 
 Her due return : — while she was gone, 
 Methought I felt too much alone. 
 
 XX. 
 " She came with mother and with sire- 
 AVbat need of more ? — I will not tire 
 
 With long recital of the rest. 
 
 Since I became the Cossack's guest : 
 
 They found me senseless on the plain— 
 
 They bore me to the nearest hut — 
 They brought me into life again — 
 Jle — one day o'er their realm to reign ! 
 
 Thus the vain fool who strove to glut 
 His rage, refining on my pain. 
 
 Sent me forth to the wilderness. 
 Bound, naked, bleeding, and alone, 
 To pass the desert to a throne, — 
 
 What mortal his own doom may guess ? — 
 
 Let none despond, let none despair I 
 To-morrow the Borysthenea 
 May see ou«r coursers graze at ease 
 Upon his Turkish bank, — and never 
 Had I such welcome for a river 
 
 As I shall yield when safely there. 
 
 " Comrades, good night !" The Hetman threw 
 
 His length beneath the oak-tree shade, 
 
 With leafy couch already made, 
 A bed nor comfortless nor new 
 To him, who took his rest whene'er 
 The hour arrived, no matter where : 
 
 His eyes the hastening slumbers steep. 
 And if ye marvel Charles forgot 
 To thank his tale, he wonder'd not, — 
 
 The king had been an hour asleep. 
 
 THE ISLAND 
 
 OR, 
 
 CHRISTIAN AND HIS COMRADES. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The foundation of the following story will be found 
 partly in Lieutenant Bligh's " Narrative of the Mutiny 
 and Seizure of the Bounty, in the South Seas, in 1789 ;" 
 and partly in " Mariner's Account of the Tonga Islands." 
 
 Genoa, 1823 
 
 ♦ 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 CANTO THE FIRST. 
 
 The morning watch was come ; the vessel lay 
 Oei course, and gently made her liquid way ; 
 The cloven billow flash'd from off her prow 
 In furrows form'd by that majestic plough ; 
 The waters with their world were all before ; 
 Behind, the South Sea's many an islet shore. 
 21 
 
 The quiet night, now dappling, 'gan to wane, 
 Dividing darkness from the dawning main ; 
 The dolphinp ^ot unconscious of the day, 
 Swam high, as eager of the coming ray ; 
 The stars from broader beams began to creep, 
 And lift their shining eyelids from the deep ; 
 The sail resumed its lately shadow'd white, 
 And the wind flutter'd with a freshening flight ; 
 The purpling ocean owns the coming sun. 
 But ere he break — a deed is to be done. 
 
 The gallant chief within his cabin slept. 
 
 Secure in those by whom the watch was kept : 
 
 His dreams were of Old England's welcome shore, 
 
 Of toils rewarded, and of dangers o'er ; 
 
 His name was added to the glorious roll 
 
 Of those who search the storm-surrounded Pole. 
 
162 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CAXTO I. 
 
 Tlio \v.i:-st was over, and the rest seemVl sure, 
 
 And wliy should not his slumber be secure ? 
 
 Alas ! his deck was trod by unwilling feet, 
 
 A ad wilder hands would hold the vessel's sheet ; 
 
 ■i oung hearts, which languish'd for some sunny isle, 
 
 Wliere summer years and summer women smile ; 
 
 Men without country, who, too long estranged, 
 
 Had found no native home, or found it changed, 
 
 And, half uncivilized, preferr'd the cave 
 
 Of some soft savage to the uncertain wave — 
 
 The gushing fruits that nature gave untill'd ; 
 
 The wood without a path but where they will'd 
 
 The field o'er which promiscuous Plenty pour'd 
 
 Her horn ; the equal land without a lord ; 
 
 The vrish — which ages have not yet subdued 
 
 In man — to have no master save his mood ; 
 
 The earth, whose mine was on its fece, unsold. 
 
 The glowing s\ni and produce all its gold ; 
 
 The freedom which can call each grot a home ; 
 
 The general garden, where all steps may roam, 
 
 Where Nature owns a nation as her child, 
 
 Exulting in the enjoyment of the wild ; 
 
 Their shells, their iruits, the only wealth they know. 
 
 Their unexploring navy, the canoe ; 
 
 Their sport, the dashing breakers and the chase ; 
 
 Their strangest sight, a Euro])ean face : — 
 
 Such was the country which these strangers yeam'd 
 
 To see again ; a sight they dearly eam'd. 
 
 III. 
 Awake, bold Bligh ! tlie foe is at the gate ! 
 
 Awake 1 awake ! Alas ! it is too late ! 
 
 Fiercely beside thy cot the mutineer 
 Stands, and proclaims the reign of rage and fear. 
 Thy limbs are liound, the bayonet at thy breast; 
 The hands, which trembled at thy voice, arrest ; 
 Dragg'd o'er the deck, no more at thy command 
 The obedient helm shall veer, the sail expand ; 
 That savage spirit, which would lull by wrath 
 Its desperate escape irom duty's path, 
 ' Glares round thee, in the scarce beUeving eyes 
 Of those who fear the chief they sacrifice : 
 For ne'er can man his conscience all assuage, 
 Unless he drain the wine of passion — rage. 
 
 IV. 
 In vain, not silenced by the hand of death, 
 Thou call'st the loyal with thy menaced breath : — 
 They come not ; they are few, and, overawed. 
 Must acquiesce, while sterner hearts applaud. 
 In vain thou dost demand the cause : a curse 
 Is all the answer, with the threat of worse. 
 FuU in thine eyes is waved the glittering blade, 
 Close to thy throat the pointed bayonet laid. 
 The levcU'd muskets circle round thy breast 
 In hands as steel'd to do the deadly rest. 
 Thou darest them to their worst, exclaiming — "Fire !" 
 But they who pitied not could yet admire ; 
 
 Some lurking remnant of their former awe 
 Restrain'd them longer than their broken law ; 
 They would not dip their souls at once in blood. 
 But left thee to the mercies of the flood. 
 
 " Hoist out the boat !" was now the leads: 's cry : 
 
 i^d who dare answer " No !" to Mutiny, 
 
 In the first dawning of the drunken hour, 
 
 The Saturnaha of unhoj)ed-for power ? 
 
 The boat is lowcr'd with all the haste of hate. 
 
 With its slight pl-Mik between thee and thy fate ; 
 
 Her only cargo such a scant supply 
 
 As promises the death their hands deny ; 
 
 And just enough of water and of bread 
 
 To keep, some days, the dying from the dead : 
 
 Some cordage, canvass, sails, and lines, and twine, 
 
 But treasures all to hermits of the brine. 
 
 Were added after, to the earnest prayer 
 
 Of those who saw no hope, save sea and air ; 
 
 And last, that trembhng vassal of the Pole — 
 
 The feeling compass — Navigation's soul. 
 
 VI. 
 And now the self-elected chief finds time 
 To stuu the first sensation of his crime. 
 And raise it in his followers — " Ho ! the bowl !" 
 Lest passion should return to reason's shoal. 
 " Brandy for heroes !" Burke could once exclaim — 
 No doubt a liquid path to epic fame ; 
 And such the new-bom heroes found it here, 
 And drain'd the draught with an applauding cheer 
 " Huzza ! for Otaheite !" was the cry. 
 How strange such shouts from sons of Mutiny ! 
 The gentle island, and the genial soil, 
 The friendly hearts, the feasts without a toil. 
 The cointeous manners but from nature caught. 
 The wealth unhoarded, and the love unbought ; 
 Could these have charms for rudest sea-boys, drivf.'i; 
 Before the mast by every wind of heaven ? 
 And now, even now prepared with others' woes 
 To earn mild virtue's vain desire, repose ? 
 Alas ! such is our nature I all but aim 
 At the same end by pathways not the same ; 
 Oar means, our birth, our nation, and our name, 
 Our fortune, temper, even our outward frame, 
 Are far more potent o'er our yielding clay 
 Than aught we know beyond our little day. 
 Yet still there whispers the small voice within. 
 Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's din . 
 Wliatever creed be taught or land be trod, 
 Man's conscience is the oracle of God. 
 
 VII. 
 The launch is crowded with the faithful few 
 Wlio wait their chief, a melancholy crew : 
 But some remain'd reluctant on the deck 
 Of that proud vessel — now a moral wreck — 
 
rATJTO I. 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 16? 
 
 And vJew'd their captain's fate with piteous eyes ; 
 While others scoff'd his augur'd miseries, 
 Sneer'd at the prospect of his jngmy sail, 
 And the slight bark so laden and so fi-ail. 
 The tender nautilus, who steers his prow, 
 The sea-born sailor of his shell canoe, 
 The ocean Mab, the fairy of tlie sea. 
 Seems far less fragile, and, alas ! more free. 
 He, when the lightning-wing'd tornadoes sweep 
 The surge, is safe — his port is in the deep — - 
 And triumphs o'er the armadas of mankind, 
 Which shake the world, yet crumble in the wind. 
 
 VIII. 
 When all was now prepared, the vessel clear, 
 Wliich hail'd her master in the mutineer — 
 A seaman, less obdurate than his mates, 
 Sliow'd tlie vain pity which but irritates ; 
 Watch'd his late chieftain with exploring eye, 
 And told, in signs, repentant sympathy ; 
 Held the moist shaddock to his parched mouth. 
 Which felt exhaustion's deep and bitter drouth : 
 But soon observed, this guardian was withdrawn. 
 No further mercy clouds rebellion's da^-n. 
 Then forward stepp'd the bold and fro ward boy 
 His chief had cherish'd only to destroy, 
 And, pointing to the helpless prow beneath, 
 Exclaim'd, " Depart at once ! delay is death !" 
 Yet then, even then, his feelings ceased not all : 
 In that last moment could a word recall 
 Remorse for the black deed as yet half done, 
 And what he hid from many show'd to one : 
 When BUgh in stern rejiroach demanded where 
 Was now his grateful sense of former care ? 
 Where all his hopes to see his name aspire. 
 And blazon Britain's thousand glories higher ? 
 His feverish lips thus broke their gloomy spell, 
 " 'Tis that ! 'tis that ! I am in hell ! in heU !" 
 No more he said ; but urging to the bark 
 His chief, commits him to his fragile ark ; 
 These the sole accents from his tongue that fell, 
 But volumes lurk'd below his fierce farewell. 
 
 IX. 
 The arctic sun rose broad above the wave ; 
 The breeze now sank, now whisper'd from his cave ; 
 As on the ^olian harp, his fitful wings 
 Now swell'd, now flutter'd o'er his ocean strings. 
 With slow, despairing oar, the abandon'd skiff 
 Ploughs its drear progress to the scarce-seen cliff. 
 Which lifts its peak a cloud above the main : 
 Tlint boat and ship shall never meet again ! 
 But 'tis not mine to tell their tale of grief, 
 Their constant peril, and their scant relief; 
 Their days of danger, and their nights of pain ; 
 Their manly courage even when deem'd in vain ; 
 The sapping famine, rendering scarce a son 
 Known to his mother in the skeleton ; 
 
 The ills that lessen'd still their little store, 
 
 And starved even Hunger till he wrung no more ; 
 
 The varying froi\'ns aud favors of the deep. 
 
 That now almost ingulfs, then leaves to creep 
 
 With crazy oar and shatter'd strength along 
 
 The tide that yields reluctant to the strong ; 
 
 The incessant fever of that arid thirst 
 
 Wliich welcomes, as a well, the clouds that burst 
 
 Above their naked bones, and feels delight 
 
 In the cold drenching of the stormy night. 
 
 And from the outspread canvass gladly wrings 
 
 A drop to moisten life's all-gaspiug sjjrings ; 
 
 The savage foe escaped, to seek again 
 
 More hospitable shelter from the main ; 
 
 The ghastly spectres which were doom'd at last 
 
 To tell as true a tale of dangers pass'd. 
 
 As ever the dark annals of the deep 
 
 Disclosed for man to dread or weep. 
 
 X. 
 
 We leave them to their fate, but not unknown 
 
 Nor unredress'd. Revenge may have her own : 
 
 Roused discipline aloud proclaims their cause, 
 
 And injured navies urge their broken laws. 
 
 Pursue we on his track the mutineer. 
 
 Whom distant vengeance had not taught to fear. 
 
 Wide o'er the wave — away ! away ! away ! 
 
 Once more his eyes shall hail the welcome bay ; 
 
 Once more the happy shores without a law 
 
 Receive the outlaws whom they lately saw ; 
 
 Nature, and Nature's goddess — woman — woos 
 
 To lands where, save t'aeir conscience, none accuse ; 
 
 Wliere all partake the earth Vi'ithout dispute, 
 
 And bread itself is gathcr'd as a fruit ;' 
 
 Wliere none contest the fields, the woods, the streams : 
 
 The goldless age, where gold disturbs no dreams, 
 
 Inhabits or inhabited the shore. 
 
 Till Europe taught them better than before : 
 
 Bestow'd her customs, and amended theirs. 
 
 But left her \-ices also to their lieii-s. 
 
 Away with this ! behold them as they were, 
 
 Do good with Nature, or with Nature err. 
 
 " Huzza ! for Otaheite !" was the cry, 
 
 As stately swept the gallant vessel by. 
 
 The breeze springs up ; the lately flapping sail 
 
 Extends its arch before the growing gale : 
 
 In smfter ripjiles stream aside the seas, 
 
 Wliich her bold Ijow flings oft' with dashing ease. 
 
 Thus Argo plough'd the Euxine's virgin foam ; 
 
 But those she wafted still look'd back to home — 
 
 These spurn their country with their rebel bark. 
 
 And fly her as the raven fled the ark : 
 
 And yet they seek to nestle with the dove. 
 
 And tame their fiery spirits do^ni to love. 
 
 ' The nnw celebrated bread-frait, to transplant wliich Capmlj 
 Bligh's expedition waa undertaken. 
 
Ifl4 
 
 BYROX'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO U. 
 
 THE ISLAND, 
 
 CANTO THB SRCOND. 
 
 I. 
 
 How pleasant were the songs of Toobonai,' 
 
 WTien summer's sun went down the coral bay ! 
 
 Come, let ua to the islet's softest shade, 
 
 And hear the warbling birds ! the damsels said : 
 
 The wood-dove from the forest depth shall coo, 
 
 Like voices of the gods from Bolotoo ; 
 
 We'll cull the flowers that grow above the dead, 
 
 For these most bloom where rests the warrior's head; 
 
 And we will sit in twilight's face, and see 
 
 The sweet moon glancing through the tooa tree, 
 
 The lofty accents of whose sighing bough 
 
 Shall sadly please us as we lean below ; 
 
 Or climb the steep, and view the surf in vain 
 
 Wn.'stle with rocky giants o'er the main, 
 
 Which spurn in columns back the baffled spray. 
 
 How beautiful are these ! how happy they, 
 
 Who, from the toil and tumult of their lives, 
 
 Steal to look down where naught but ocean strives 1 
 
 Even he too loves at times the blue lagoon, 
 
 And smooths his ruffled mane beneath the moon. 
 
 II. 
 Yes — from the sepulchre we'll gather flowers. 
 Then feast like spirits in their promised bowers, 
 Then plunge and revel in the rolUng surf, 
 'J'lien lay our limbs along the tender turf. 
 And, wet and shining from the sportive toil. 
 Anoint our bodies with the fragrant oil. 
 And plait our garlands gathcr'd from the grave. 
 And wear the wreaths that sprung from out the brave. 
 But lo ! night comes, the Jlooa woos us back, 
 The sound of mats are heard along our track : 
 Anon the torchlight dance shall fling its sheen 
 Jn flashing mazes o'er the Marly's green ; 
 And we too will be there ; we too recall 
 The memory bright with many a festival, 
 Ere Fiji blew the shell of war, when foes 
 For the first time were wafted in canoes. 
 Alas ! for them the flower of mankind bleeds ; 
 Alas ! for them our fields are rank with weeds : 
 Forgotten is the rapture, or unknown. 
 Of wandering with the moon and love alone. 
 But be it so : — '/wj taught us how to ^-ield 
 The club, and rain our arrows o'er the field : 
 Now let them reap the harvest of their art ! 
 But feast to-night ! to-morrow we depart. 
 
 ' The first three sections are taken from an actual song of the 
 Tonjra Lsbnders, of which a prose translation is driven in ''Mari- 
 ner's .\.\,oiint of the Tontra Islands." Toobonai is net however 
 one of them ; but was one of those where Chiistian and the mu- 
 tineer^ took refuge. I have altered and added, but have retained 
 18 much \a possible of the orii;inal. 
 
 Strike up the dance ! the cava bowl fill high 1 
 Drain every drop ! — to-morrow we may die. 
 In summer garments be our Umbs array'd ; 
 Around our waists the ttippa's white disjjlay'd ; 
 Thick wreaths shall form our coronal, hke spring's, 
 And round our necks shall glance the hooni strings 
 So shall their brighter hues contrast the glow 
 Of the dusk bosoms that beat high below. 
 
 III. 
 But now the dance is o'er — yet stay awhile ; 
 Ah, pause I nor j*et put out the social smile. 
 To-morrow for the Mooa we depart, 
 But not to-night — to-night is for the heart. 
 Again bestow the wreaths we gently woo, 
 Te young enchantresses of gay Licoo ! 
 How lovely are your forms I how every sense 
 Bows to your beauties, soften'd, but intense, 
 Like to the flowers on Mataloeo's stcej), 
 "Wliich fling their fragrance far athwart the deep !— 
 We too vd]\ see Licoo ; but — oh 1 my heart ! — 
 Wliat do I say ? — to-morrow we depart 1 
 
 IV. 
 Thus rose a song — the harmony of times 
 Before the winds blew Europe o'er these climes. 
 True, they had vices — such are Nature's growth- 
 But only the barbarian's — we have both : 
 The sordor of civilization, mix'd 
 With all the savage which man's fiiU hath fix'd. 
 AVlio hath not seen Dissimulation's reign. 
 The prayers of Abel link'd to deeds of Cain ? 
 "WTjo such would see may from his lattice view 
 The Old World more degraded than the New,— 
 Now new no more, save where Columbia rears 
 Twin giants, born by Freedom to her spheres, 
 AVhere Chimborazo, over air, earth, wave. 
 Glares with his Titan eye, and sees no slave. 
 
 Such was this ditty of Tradition's days. 
 Which to the dead a lingering fame conveys 
 In song, where fame as yet hath kft no sign 
 Beyond the sound whose charm is half divine 
 "Wljich leaves no record to the skeptic eye 
 Cut yields young history all to harmony ; 
 A boy Achilles with the centaur's lyre 
 In hand, to teach him to surpass his sire. 
 For one long-cherish'd ballad's simple stave, 
 Rung from the rock, or mingled with the wave, 
 Or from the bubbling streamlet's grassy side, 
 Or gathering mountain echos as they glide, 
 Hath greater power o'er each true heart and ear, 
 Than all the columns Conquest's minions rear ; 
 Invites, when hieroglyphics are a theme 
 For sages, labors or the student's dream ; 
 Attracts, when History's volumes are a toil, — 
 The first, the freshest bud of Feeling's soil 
 
CANTO II. 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 165 
 
 Such was this rude rlivme — rhyme is of the rude — 
 
 But such inspired the Norseman's solitude, 
 
 Wlio came and couquer'd ; siich, wherever rise 
 
 Lands which no foes destroy or civilize, 
 
 Exist : and what can our accomplish'd art, 
 
 Of verse do more than reach the awaken'd heart i 
 
 V[. 
 And sweetly now those untaught melodies 
 Broke the luxurious silence of the skies. 
 The sweet siesta of a summer day. 
 The tropic afternoon of Toobonai, 
 When every flower was bloom, and air was bahn, 
 And the first breath began to stir the palm, 
 The first yet voiceless wind to urge the wave 
 All gently to refresh the thirsty cave, 
 VThere sat the songstress with the stranger lioy, 
 Who taught her passion's desolating joy. 
 Too powerful over every heart, but most 
 O'er those who know not how it may be lost ; 
 O'er those who, burning in the new-born fire, 
 Like martyrs revel in their funeral pyre, 
 With such devotion to their ecstasy, 
 That life knows no such rajrture as to die : 
 And die they do ; for earthly life has naught 
 Match'd with that hurst of nature, even in thought, 
 And all our dreams of better life above 
 But close in one eternal gush of love. 
 
 VII. 
 There sat the gentle savage of the wild. 
 In growth a woman, though in years a child. 
 As childhood dates within our colder clime, 
 Where naught is ripen'd rapidly save crime ; 
 The infont of an infant world, as pure 
 From nature — lovely, warm, and premature ; 
 Dusky like night, but night with all her stars ; 
 Or cavern sparkling with its native spars ; 
 With eyes that were a language and a speU, 
 A form like Aphrodite's in her shell, 
 With all her loves around her on the deep. 
 Voluptuous as the first approach of sleep ; 
 Yet fall of life — for through her tropic cheek 
 The blush would make its way, and all but speak ; 
 The sun-born Ijlood sufiused her neck, and threw 
 O'er her clear nut-brown skin a lucid hue, 
 Like coral reddening through the darken'd wave. 
 Which draws the diver to the crimson cave. 
 Such was this daughter of the southern seas, 
 Herself a billow in her energies, 
 To bear the bark of others' hajjpiness. 
 Nor feel a i orrow till their joy grew less : 
 Her wild and warm yet faithful bosom knew 
 No joy like what it gave ; her hopes ne'er drew 
 Aught from experience, that chill touchstone, whose 
 Bad proof reduces all things from their hues : 
 She fear'd no ill, because she knew it not, 
 Or what she knew was soon — too soon— forgot : 
 
 Her smiles and tears had pass'd, as light winds pass 
 
 O'er lakes to ruflle, not destroy, their glass. 
 
 Whose depths imsearch'd, and fountains from the 1 ill 
 
 Restore their surface, in itself so still. 
 
 Until the earthquake tear the naiad's cave. 
 
 Root up the spriug, and trample on the wave. 
 
 And crush the living waters to a mass, 
 
 The amphibious desert of the dank morass I 
 
 And must their fate be hers ? The eternal change 
 
 But grasps humanity with quicker range ; 
 
 And they who fall but fall as worlds will fall. 
 
 To rise, if just, a spirit o'er them all. 
 
 VIII. 
 And who is he ? the blue-eyed northern child 
 Of isles more known to man, but scarce less wild ; 
 The fair-hair'd oflspring of the Hebrides. 
 Where roars the Pentland with its whirling seas ; 
 Rock'd in bis cradle by the roaring wind, 
 The tempest-born in body and in mind, 
 His young eyes opening on the ocean-foam, 
 Had from that moment deem'd trie deep his home, 
 The giant comrade of his pensive moods, 
 The sharer of his craggy solitudes. 
 The only Mentor of his youth, where'er, 
 His bark was borne ; the sport of wave and air ; 
 A careless thing, who placed his choice in chance. 
 Nursed by the legends of his land's romance ; 
 Eager to hope, but not less firm to bear. 
 Acquainted with aU feelings save desjjalr. 
 Placed in the Arab's clime, he would have been 
 Aa bold a rover as the sands have seen. 
 And braved their thirst with an enduring lip 
 As Ishmacl, wafted on his desert-ship ;' 
 Fis'd upon Chili's shore, a proud cacique ; 
 On Hellas' mountains, a rebellious Greek ; 
 Born in a tent, perhaps a Tamerlane ; 
 Bred to a throne, perhaps unfit to reign. 
 For the same soul that rends its path to sway, 
 If rear'd to such, can find no further prey 
 Beyond itself, and must retrace its way,-' 
 Plunging for pleasure into pain : the same 
 Spirit which made a Nero, Rome's worst shame, 
 An humble state and discipline of heart. 
 Had form'd his glorious namesake's counterpart ;' 
 
 > The " ship of the desert " ie the Oriental flgiire for the came; 
 or dromedary : and they deserve the metaphor well,— the formei 
 for his endurance, the latter for his swiftness. 
 
 ' " Lucullus, when frugality could charm. 
 
 Had roasted turnips in the Sabine farm." — Pope, 
 
 ' The Consul Nero, who made the unequalled march which de- 
 ceived Hannibal, and defeated .\sdrubal ; thereby accomplishing 
 an achievement almost unrivalled in military annals. The first 
 intelligence of his return, to Hannibal, was the si^lu of -Vsdrubarg 
 head thrown into his camp. When Hannibal saw this, he escia Hi- 
 ed with a sigh, " Rome would now be the mistress of the wor.d," 
 And yet to this victory of Nero's it might be owing that his im- 
 perial namesake reigned at all. But the infamy of the one has 
 eclipsed the glorj- of the other. When the name of " Nero" i« 
 heard, who thinks of the consul ?— But such are human things ' 
 
]6d 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CAirro n. 
 
 But grant his vices, grant them all his own, 
 How small their theatre mthout a throne ! 
 
 IX. 
 Thou smilest ;— these comparisons seem high 
 To those who scan aU things with dazzled eye ; 
 LiukVl witli tlie unknown name of one whose doom 
 Has naught to do with glory or with Home, 
 With Chili, Uellas, or with Araby ; — 
 Thou smilest ?— Smile ; 'tis better thus than sigh ; 
 Yet such ho might have been ; he was a man, 
 A soaring spirit, ever in the van, 
 A patriot hero or des230tic chief. 
 To form a nation's glory or its grief. 
 Born under avispices which make us more 
 Or less than we delight to ponder o'er. 
 But these are visions ; say, what was he here ? 
 A blooming boy, a truant mutineer : 
 The fair-hair'd Torquil, free as ocean's spray, 
 The husband of the bride of Toobonai. 
 
 By Neuha's side he sate, and watch'd the waters, — 
 Ncuha, the sun-flower of the island daugliters, 
 Highljorn, (a Ijirth at which the herald smiles, 
 Without a scutcheon for these secret isles,) 
 Of a long race, the valiant and the free. 
 The naked knights of savage chivalry, 
 Whose grassy cairns ascend along the shore ; 
 And thine — I've seen — Achilles ! do no more. 
 She, when the thunder-bearing strangers came, 
 lu vast canoes, begirt with Ijolts of flame, 
 Topp'd with tall trees, which, loftier than the palm, 
 Seem'd rooted in the deep amidst its calm : 
 But when the winds awakcn'd, shot forth wings 
 Broad as the cloud along the horizon flings. 
 And sway'd the waves, like cities of the sea, 
 Making the very billows look less free ; — 
 She, with her paddling oar and dancing prow. 
 Shot through the surf, like reindeer through the snow, 
 Swift-gliding o'er the breaker's whitening edge. 
 Light as a nercid in her ocean sledge. 
 And gazed and wonder'd at the giant hulk. 
 Which heaved from wave to wave its trampling bulk : 
 The anchor dropji'd ; it lay along the deep, 
 Like a hugi\ lion in the sun asleep, 
 While round it swarm'd tlie proas' flitting chain. 
 Like summer bees that hum around his mane. 
 
 XI. 
 Tlie white man landed I— need the rest be told ? 
 The New World stretch'd its dusk hand to the Old; 
 Each was to each a marvel, and the tie 
 Of wonder warm'd to better sympathy. 
 Kind was the welcome of the sun-born sires, 
 And kinder still tlieir daughters' gentler tires. 
 Their union gri^w : the children of the storm 
 Fo.'.ud beauty link'd with many a dusky form ; 
 
 Wliile these in turn admired the paler glow, 
 Which seem'd so white in climes that knew no snow 
 The chase, the race, the liberty to roam. 
 The soil where every cottage show"d a home ; 
 The sea-spread net, the lightly-launch'd canoe, 
 Which stemm'd the studded archiijelago. 
 O'er whose blue bosom rose the starry isles ; 
 The healthy slumber, earn'd by sportive toils ; 
 The palm, the loftiest dryad of the woods. 
 Within whose bosom infant Bacchus broods, 
 Wtile eagles scarce build higher than the crest 
 Which shadows o'er the ^-ineynrd in her breast ; 
 The cava feast, the yam, the cocoa's root. 
 Which bears at once the cup, and milk, and fruit; 
 The bread-tree, which, without theploughshare, yields 
 The unreap'd harvest of unftirrow'd iields. 
 And bakes its unadulterated loaves 
 Without a furnace in unpurchased groves. 
 And flings off famine from its fertile breast, 
 A priceless market for the gathering guest ; — 
 These, with the luxuries of seas and woods. 
 The airy joys of social solitudes. 
 Tamed each rude wanderer to the sympathies 
 Of those who were more happy, if less wise. 
 Did more than Europe's discipline had done. 
 And civilized Civilization's sou ! 
 
 XIT. 
 Of these, and there were many a willing p.iir, 
 Neuha and Torquil were not the least fair : 
 Both children of the isles, though distant far ; 
 Both bom beneath a sea-presiding star; 
 Both nourish'd amidst nature's native scenes, 
 Loved to the last, whatever intervenes 
 Between us and our childhood's symijathy, 
 ■Wliich still reverts to what first caught the eye. 
 He who iirst met the Highlands' swelling blue 
 WiU love each peak that shows a kindred hue, 
 Hail in each crag a friend's familiar face. 
 And clasp the mountain in his mind's embrace. 
 Long have I roam'd through lands which are not mine, 
 Adored the Alp, and loved the Apenuine, 
 Revered Parnassus, and beheld the steep 
 .Jove's Ida and Olympus crown the deep : 
 But 'twas not all long ages' lore, nor all 
 Tlieir nature held me in their thrilling thrall ; 
 The infant rapture still survived the boy. 
 And Looh-na-gar vn.\\\ Ida look'd o'er Troy' 
 >Iix'd Celtic memories with the Phrygian mount. 
 And Highland Hmis witli Castalie's clear fount. 
 
 1 Wben very young, about eight years of age, after an attack of 
 the scarlet fever at Al>erdeen. I was removed by medical advice 
 into the Highlands. Here I passed occasionally some wuinmers, 
 and from this period I date my love of mountainous countries. I 
 can never forget the etlect, a few years afterwards, in England, of 
 the only thing I had long seen, even in miniature, of a mounlair. 
 in the Malveni liillH. After I relurned to Cheltenham. I U-'^ed to 
 watch ttiem every afternoon, at sunset, with a sensation which I 
 cannot describe. This was boyish enough ; but I was then onlj 
 thirteen years of age, and it was in the holidays. 
 
CASTO II 
 
 THE ISLAXD. 
 
 1«7 
 
 Forgive me, Homer's universal shade ! 
 Forgive me, Phoebus ! that my fancy stray'd ; 
 The north and nature taught me to adore 
 Your scenes subUme, from those beloved before. 
 
 XIII. 
 The love which maketh all things fond and fair, 
 Tlie youth which makes one rainbow of the air. 
 The dangers pass'd, that makes even man enjoy 
 The pause in •n'tiich he ceases to destroy, 
 The mutual beauty, which the sternest feel 
 Strike to their hearts like lightning to the steel, 
 United the half savage and the whole. 
 The maid and boy, in one absorbing soul. 
 No more the thundering memory of the fight 
 Wrapp'd his wean'd bosom in its dark delight ; 
 No more the irksome restlessness of rest 
 Disturb'd him like the eagle in her nest, 
 Whose whetted beak and far-pervading eye 
 Darts for a victim over aU the sky : 
 His heart was tamed to that voluptuous state, 
 At once Elysian and effeminate, 
 Which leaves no laurels o'er the hero's urn ; — 
 These wither when for aught save blood they bum ; 
 Yet when their ashes in their nook are laid. 
 Doth not the myrtle leave as sweet a shade ? 
 Had Ca?sar known but Cleopatra's kiss, 
 Rome had been free, the world had not been his. 
 And wliat have Caesar's deeds and Caesar's fame 
 Done for the earth ? We feel them in our shame : 
 The gory sanction of his glory stains 
 The rust which tyrants cherish on our chains. 
 Though Glory, Nature, Reason, Freedom, bid 
 Roused millions do what single Brutus did — 
 Sweep these mere mock-birds of the desjjot's song 
 From the tall bough where they have perch'd so long, 
 StiU are we hawk'd at by such mousing owls, 
 And take for falcons those ignoble fowls. 
 When but a word of freedom would dispel 
 These bugbears, as their terrors show too well. 
 
 XIV. 
 Rapt in the fond forgetfulness of life, 
 Nc'uha, the South Sea girl, was all a wife, 
 With no distracting world to call her off 
 From love ; with no society to scoff 
 At the new transient flame : no babbling crowd 
 Of coxcombry in admiration loud. 
 Or with adulterous whisper to alloy 
 Her duty, and her glory, and her joy : 
 With faith and feelings naked as her form, 
 She stood as stands a rainbow in a storm, 
 Changing its hues with bright variety, 
 Dut still expanding lovelier o'er the sky, 
 Howe'er its arch may swell, its colors move, 
 The cloudK;onipeUing liarbinger of love. 
 
 XV. 
 Here, in this grotto of the wave-worn shore. 
 They pass'd the tropic's red meridian o'er ; 
 Nor long the hom-s — they never paused o'er time, 
 Unbroken by the clock's funereal chime, 
 Which deals the daily pittance of our span. 
 And points and mocks with iron laugh at man. 
 What deem'd they of the future or the past ? 
 The present, like a tyrant, held them fast : 
 Their hom'-glass was the sea-sand, and the tide, 
 Like her smooth biUow, saw their moments glide ; 
 Their clock the sun, in his unbounded tower ; 
 They reckon'd not, whose day was but an hour ; 
 The nightingale, their only vesper-bell. 
 Sung sweetly to the rose the day's farewell ;> 
 The broad sun set, but not with lingering sweep, 
 As in the north he mellows o'er the deep ; 
 But fiery, full, and fierce, as if he left 
 The world forever, earth of light bereft. 
 Plunged with red forehead down along the wave. 
 As dives a hero headlong to his grave. 
 Then rose they, looking first along the skies, 
 And then for light into each other's eyes. 
 Wondering that summer show'd so brief a sun, 
 And asking if indeed the day were done. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 And let not this seem strange : the devotee 
 
 Lives not in earth, but in his ecstasy ; 
 
 Around him days and worlds are heedless driven. 
 
 His soul is gone before his dust to heaven. 
 
 Is love less potent ? No — his path is trod, 
 
 Alike uplifted gloriously to God ; 
 
 Or link'd to all we know of heaven below. 
 
 The other better self, whose joy or wo 
 
 Is more than ours ; the aU-absorbing flame 
 
 Which, kindled by another, grows the same, 
 
 Wrapp'd in one blaze ; the pure, yet funeral pile, 
 
 Where gentle hearts, like Bramins, sit and smile 
 
 How often we forgei all time, when lone, 
 
 Admiring Nature's universal throne. 
 
 Her woods, her wilds, her waters, the intense 
 
 Reply of hers to our intelligence ! 
 
 Live not the stars and mountains ? Are the waves 
 
 Without a spirit ? Are the dropjnng caves 
 
 Without a feeling in their silent tears ? 
 
 No, no ! — they woo and clasp us to their spheres, 
 
 Dissolve this clog and clod of clay before 
 
 Its hour, and merge our soul in the great shore 
 
 Strip off this fond and false identity ! — 
 
 Who thinks of self, when gazing on the sky ? 
 
 And who, though gaang lower, ever thought. 
 
 In the young moments ere the heart is tauglit 
 
 Time's lesson, of man's baseness or his own ? 
 
 All nature is his realm, and love his throne. 
 
 ' The now well-known story of the loves of the niL'htingale and 
 rose need not be more than alluded to, being sufllcienlly familial 
 to the Western ae to the Eastern reader. 
 
.1(8 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO It 
 
 XVII. 
 Neulia arose, and Torquil : twilight's hour 
 Came sad and softly to their rocky bower, 
 Which, kindling by degrees its dewy spars, 
 Echo'd their dim light to the mustering stars. 
 Slowly the pair, partaking nature's calm. 
 Sought out their cottage, built beneath the palm ; 
 Now smiling and now silent, as the scene ; 
 Lovely is Love — the spirit ! — when serene. 
 The Ocean scarce spoke louder with his swell, 
 Than breathes his mimic murmurer in the shell,' 
 As, far divided from his parent deep. 
 The sea-bom infant cries, and will not sleep, 
 Kaising his little jjlaint in vain, to rave 
 For the broad bosom of his nursing wave: 
 The woods droop'd darkly, as inclined to rest, 
 The tropic bird wheel'd rockward to his nest. 
 And the blue sky spread round them like a lake 
 Of peace, where Piety her thirst might slake. 
 
 XVIII. 
 But through the palm and plantain, hark, a voice 1 
 Not such as \voukl have been a lover's choice. 
 In such an hour, to break the air so still ; 
 No dying night-breeze, harping o'er the hill, 
 Striking the strings of nature, rock, and tree. 
 Those best and earliest lyres of harmony, 
 With Echo for their choi-us ; nor the alarm 
 Of the loud war-whoop to dispel the charm ; 
 Nor the soliloquy of the hermit owl, 
 Exhaling all his solitary soul. 
 The dim though large-eyed winged anchorite, 
 Wlio peals his dreary pa^an o'er the night ; — - 
 But a loud, long, and naval whistle, shrill 
 As ever startled through a sea-bird's bill ; 
 And then a pause, and then a hoarse " Hillo ! 
 Torquil ! my boy 1 what cheer ? Ho 1 brother, ho 1" 
 " AVho hails ?" cried Torquil, following with his eye 
 The sound. " Uere's one," was all the brief reply. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 But here the herald of the self-same mouth 
 
 Came breathing o'er the aromatic south, 
 
 Not like a " bed of violets " on the gale, 
 
 ]5ut such as wafts its cloud o'er -grog or ale. 
 
 Borne from a short frail pipe, which yet had blown 
 
 Its gentle odors over either zone. 
 
 And, puff'd where'er winds rise or waters roll. 
 
 Had wafted smoke from Portsmouth to the Pole, 
 
 Opposed its vajjor as the lightning flash 'd. 
 
 And reek'd, 'midst mountain-billows unabash'd, 
 
 To .iEolus a constant sacrifice. 
 
 Through every change of all the varying skies. 
 
 1- If the reader will apply to his ear the pea-shell on Ms chimney- 
 piece, lie will be nware of what i;^ alluded to. If tlio text should 
 Bppejif obscure, he will find in *^Gpbir" the same idea better ex- 
 prus.-id in two lines. 
 
 t Hobbee, the father of Locke's and other philosophy, was an 
 Inveterate smoker, — even to pipes beyond computation. 
 
 And what was he who bore it ? — I may err. 
 But deem him s.ailor or philosopher.' 
 Sublime tobacco ! which from cast to west 
 Cheers the tar's labor or the Turkman's rest • 
 Which on the Moslem's ottoman di^-ides 
 His hours, and rivals ojjium and his brides ; 
 Magnificent in Stamboul, but less grand. 
 Though not less loved, in Wapping or the Strand 
 Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe. 
 When tipp'd wth amber, mellow, rich, and ripe ; 
 Like other charmers, wooing the caress 
 More dazzlingly when daring in full dress ; 
 Yet thy true lovers more admire by far 
 Thy naked beauties — give me a cigar ! 
 
 XX. 
 
 Through the approaching darkness of the wood 
 A human figure broke the solitude. 
 Fantastically, it may be, array'd, 
 A seaman in a savage masquerade • 
 Such as appears to rise out from the deep 
 When o'er the line the merry vessels sweep, 
 And the rough saturnalia of the tar 
 Flock o'er the deck, in Neptune's borrow'd car ;• 
 And, jjlcased, the god of ocean sees his name 
 Revive once more, though but in mimic game 
 Of his true sons, who riot in the breeze 
 Undreamt of in his native Cyclades. 
 Still the old god delights, from out the main. 
 To snatch some glimpses of his ancient reign. 
 Our sailor's jacket, though in ragged trim. 
 His constant pipe, which never yet bum'd dim, 
 His foremast air, and somewhat rolling gait. 
 Like his dear vessel, spoke his former state ; 
 But then a sort of kerchief round his head, 
 Not over-tightly bound, nor nicely spread ; 
 And, 'stead of trousers, (ah, too early torn ! 
 For even the mildest woods will have their thorn,) 
 A curious sort of somewhat scanty mat 
 Now served for inexpressibles and h.at ; 
 His naked feet .and neck, and sunburnt face. 
 Perchance might suit alike with either race. 
 His arms were all his own, our Europe's growth, 
 Which two worlds bless for civilizing both ; 
 The musket swung behind his shoulders broad, 
 And somewhat stoop'd by his marine abode. 
 But brawny as the boar's ; and hung beneath. 
 His cutlass droop'd, unconscious of a sheath, 
 Or lost or worn away ; his pistols were 
 Link'd to his belt, a matrimonial ])air — 
 (Let not this metaphor apjiear a scoff, 
 Though one miss'd fire, the other would go off;) 
 These, with a bayonet, not so free from rust 
 As when the arm-chest held its brighter trust, 
 Completed his accoutrements, as Night 
 Survey'd him in his garb heteroclite. 
 
 ' This rouffh but jovial ceremony, used in cross*n£f the line, hni 
 been so often described, tiiat it need not be more ttian alluded to 
 
tAMTO III. 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 169 
 
 XXI. 
 
 'What cheer, Ben Bunting ?" cried (when in full view 
 Our new acquaintance) Torquil. "Aught of new ?" 
 " Ey, ey !" quoth Ben, " not new, but news enow ; 
 A strange sail in the otfing." " Sail ! and how ? 
 What ! could you make her out ? It cannot be ; 
 I've seen no rag of convass on the sea." 
 '• Belike," said Ben, " you might not from the bay. 
 But from the bluff-head, where I watch'd to-day, 
 I saw her in the doldrums ; for the wind 
 Was light and bafHing." " When the sun decUned 
 Where lay she ? had she anchor'd ?" " No, but still 
 She bore down on us, till the wind grew stiU." 
 " Her flag ?" " I had no glass : but fore and aft, 
 Egad ! she seem'd a wicked-looking craft." 
 '■ Arm'd V " I expect so ; — sent on the look-out : 
 'Tis time, belike, to put our helm about." 
 " About 'i Whate'er may have us now in chase, 
 We'U make no running fight, for that were base ; 
 We wiU die at our quarters, like true men." 
 " Ey, ey ? for that 'tis aU the same to Ben." 
 " Does Christian know this ?" — "Ay ; he has piped 
 
 aU hands 
 To quarters. They are furbishing the stands 
 Of arms ; and we have got some guns to bear, 
 And scaled them. Tou are wanted." — " That's but 
 And if it were not, mine is not the soul [fair ; 
 
 To leave my comrades helpless on the shoaL 
 My Nouha ! ah ! and must my fate pursue 
 Not me alone, but one so sweet and true ? 
 But whatsoe'er betide, ah, Neulia 1 now 
 Unman me not ; the hour will not allow 
 A tear ; I am thine whatever intervenes !" 
 " Right," quoth Ben, " that will do for the marines.'" 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 CANTO THE THIRD. 
 
 TiLE fight was o'er ; the flashing through the gloom, 
 Which robes the cannon as he wings a tomb. 
 Had ceased ; and sulphury vapors upward driven 
 Had left the earth, and but polluted heaven : 
 The rattling roar which rung in every volley, 
 Had left the echoes to their melancholy ; 
 No more they shriek'd their horror, boom for boom ; 
 The strife was done, the vanquish'd had their doom ; 
 The mutineers were crush'd, dispersed, or ta'en, 
 Or Uved to deem the happiest were the slain. 
 Few, few escaped, and these were hunted o'er 
 The isle they loved beyond their native shore. 
 
 ' " That will do for thvj marines, bat the sailors won't believo 
 "?," it an old t^aying ; and one of the few fragments of formor 
 •^^cusies which still survive (in jest oaly) between these gallant 
 serricee. 
 
 £2 
 
 No further home was theirs, it seem'd, on earth, 
 Once renegades to that which gave them birth ; 
 Track'd like wild beasts, like them they sought the 
 As to a mother's bosom flies the child ; [wild. 
 
 But vainly wolves and hons seek their den, 
 And still more vainly men escape from men. 
 
 II. 
 Beneath a rock whose jutting base jarotrudes 
 Far over ocean in his fiercest moods. 
 When scaling his enormous crag the wave 
 Is hurl'd down headlong, like the foremost brave, 
 And faUs back on the foaming crowd behind, 
 Wliich fight beneath the banners of the wind, 
 But now at rest, a little remnant drew 
 Together, bleeding, thirsty, faint, and few ; 
 But still their weapons in their bauds, and still 
 With something of the pride of former wiU, 
 As men not all unused to meditate. 
 And strive much more than wonder at their fate. 
 Their present lot was what they had foreseen, 
 And dared as what was likely to have been ; 
 Yet StiU the lingering hope, which deem'd their lot 
 Not pardon'd, but unsought for or forgot. 
 Or trusted that, if sought, their distant caves 
 Might stiU be miss'd amidst the world of waves. 
 Had wean'd their thoughts in part from what they 
 And felt, the vengeance of their country's law. [saw 
 Their sea-green isle, their guilt-won paradise. 
 No more could shield their virtue or their vice : 
 Their better feelings, if such were, were thrown 
 Back on themselves, — their sins remain'd alone. 
 Proscribed even in their second country, they 
 Were lost ; in vain the world before them lay ; 
 All outlets seem'd secured. Their new allies 
 Had fought and bled in mutual sacrifice ; 
 But what avail'd the club and spear, and arm 
 Of Hercules, against the sulphury charm. 
 The magic of the thunder, which destroy'd 
 The warrior ere his strengtli, could be employ'd ? 
 Dug, hke a spreading pestilence, the grave 
 No less of human bravery than tlie brave !" 
 Their owti scant numbers acted aU the few 
 Against the many oft wiU dare and do : 
 But though the choice seems native to die free. 
 Even Greece can boast but one Thermopylse, 
 Till notn, when she has forged her broken chain 
 Back to a sword, and dies and lives again 1 
 
 IIL 
 
 Beside the jutting rock the few appear'd. 
 Like the last remnant of the red-deer's herd ; 
 Their eyes were feverish, and their aspect worn, 
 But stiU the himter's blood was on their horn ; 
 
 ' Archidamns, king of Sparta, and son of Agesilans, when ht 
 saw a machine invented for the casting of stones and darts, ex- 
 claimed, that it was the " grave of valor."* The .-ame storj- liaa 
 been told of some knights on the first application of gunpowder 
 ■ ^t the original anecdote ie in Plutarch. 
 
170 
 
 KYRON'S WORK a. 
 
 CANTO m 
 
 A little stream came tmnbling from the height, 
 
 A.ud straggliug into ocean as it might, 
 
 Its bounrling crystal frolick'd in the ray, 
 
 Ajid giish'd from oliff to crag with saltless spray ; 
 
 Close on the wild, wide ocean, yet as ijure 
 
 And fresh as innocence, and more secure. 
 
 Its silver torrent glitter'd o'er the deep. 
 
 As the shy chamois' eye o'erlooks the steep, 
 
 While far below the vast and suUen swell 
 
 Of ocean's alpine azure rose and fell. 
 
 To this young sjiring they rush'd, — all feeUugs first 
 
 Absorh'd in passion's and in nature's thirst,— 
 
 Drank as tlicy do who drink their last, and threw 
 
 Their arms aside to revel in its dew ; 
 
 Cool'd their scorch'd throats, and wash'd the gory 
 
 stains 
 From wounds whose only bandage might be chains ; 
 Then, when their drought was quench'd, look'd 
 
 sadly round. 
 As wondering how so many still were found 
 Alive and fetterless : — but silent all. 
 Each sought his fellow's eyes, as if to caU 
 On him for language which his lips denied. 
 As though their voices with their cause had died. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Stern, and aloof a little from the rest. 
 Stood Christian, with his arms across his chest. 
 The ruddy, reckless, dauntless hue once spread 
 Along his cheek was livid now as lead ; 
 His light-brown locks, so graceful in their flow. 
 Now rose like startled vijjers o'er his Iirow. 
 Still as a statue, with his lips compress'd 
 To stifle even the breath within his Ijreast, 
 Fast by the rock, aU menacing, but mute, 
 He stood ; and, save a slight beat of his foot. 
 Which deepen'd now and then the sandy dint 
 Beneath his heel, his form seem'd turn'd to flint. 
 Some paces further Torquil lean'd his head 
 Against a bank, and spoke not, but he bled, — 
 Not mortally ; — his worst wound was -n-ithin : 
 His brow was pale, his blue eyes sunken in. 
 And blood-drops, sprinkled o'er his yellow hair, 
 Show'd that his faintness came not from despair, 
 But nature's ebb. Beside him was another. 
 Rough as a bear, but mlling as a brother, — 
 Ben Bunting, who cssay'd to wash, and wipe. 
 And bind his wound — then calmly lit his pipe, 
 A trophy which survived a hundred fights, 
 A beacon which had cheer'd ten thousand nights. 
 The fourth and last of this deserted group 
 Walk'd up and down — at times would stand, then 
 To pick a pebble up — then let it drop [stoop 
 
 Then hurry as in haste — then quickly stop — 
 Then cast his eyes on his companions — then 
 Half whistle half a tune, and pause again — 
 And then his former movements would redouble. 
 With something between carelessness and trouble. 
 
 This IS a long description, but applies 
 To scarce five minutes pass'd before the eyes ; 
 But yet what minutes ! Moments like to these 
 Rend men's lives into immortalities. 
 
 V. 
 At length Jack Skyscrape, s. mercurial man, 
 Wlio flutter'd over all things like a fan. 
 More brave than firm, and more disposed to dare 
 And die at once than wrestle with despair, 
 Exclaim'd, " G — d damn !" — those syllables intenso, — 
 Nucleus of England's native eloquence, 
 As the Turk's " Allah !" or the Roman's more 
 Pagan " Proh Jupiter !" was wont of yore 
 To give their first impressions such a vent, 
 By way of echo to embarrassment. 
 Jack was embarrass'd, — never hero more. 
 And as he knew not what to say, he swore : 
 Nor swore in vain ; the long congenial sound 
 Revived Ben Bunting from his pipe profound ; 
 He drew it from his mouth, and look'd full wise, 
 But merely added to the oath his eyes ; 
 Thus rendering tlie imperfect phrase complete, 
 A peroration I need not repeat. 
 
 VI. 
 
 But Christian, of a higher order, stood 
 
 Like an extinct volcano in his mood ; 
 
 Silent, and sad, and savage, — with tlio trace 
 
 Of passion reeking from his clouded fiicc ; 
 
 Till lifting up again his sombre eye. 
 
 It glanced on Torquil, who lean'd faintly by. 
 
 " And is it thus ?" he cried, " unhajipy boy ! 
 
 And thee, too, thee — my madness must destroy !" 
 
 He said, and strode to where young Torquil stood, 
 
 Yet dabbled with his lately flowing blood ; 
 
 Seized his hand wistfully, but did not press. 
 
 And shrunk as fearful of his own caress ; 
 
 Inquired into his state ; and when he heard 
 
 The wound was slighter than he deem'd or fear'd, 
 
 A moment's brightness i)ass'd along his brow, 
 
 As much as such a moment would allow. 
 
 " Yes," he exclaim'd, " we are taken in the toil, 
 
 But not a coward or a common spoil ; 
 
 Dearly they have bought us — dearly still may buy ;- • 
 
 And I must fall ; but have you strength to fly ? 
 
 'Twould be some comfort still, could you siu-vive. 
 
 Our dwindled band is now too few to strive. 
 
 Oh I for a sole canoe 1 though but a shell. 
 
 To bear you hence to where a hope may dwell 1 
 
 For me, my lot is what I sought ; to be. 
 
 In life or death, the fearless and the free." 
 
 Vll. 
 Even as he spoke, around the promontory. 
 Which nodded o'er the billows high and hoary, 
 A dark speck dotted ocean : on it flew 
 Like to the shadow of a roused sea-mew 
 
CAjjro IV. 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 Kl 
 
 Onward it came — and, lo ! a second follow'd — 
 Now seen — now Md — where ocean's vale was hol- 
 And near, and nearer, till their dusky crew [low'd ; 
 Presented well-kno^YU aspects to the view, 
 Till on the surf their skimming paddles play. 
 Buoyant as wings, and flitting through the spray ; — 
 Now ])crching on the wave's high curl, and now 
 Dash'd downward in the thundering foam below, 
 AMiieh flings it broad and boiling sheet on sheet. 
 And stings its high flakes, shiver'd into sleet : 
 But floating still through surf and swell, drew nigh 
 The barks, like small birds through a lowering sky. 
 Their art seem'd nature — such the skill to sweep 
 The wave of these born playmates of the deep. 
 
 VIII. 
 And who the first that, springing on the strand, 
 Loap'd like a nereid from her shell to land, 
 With dark but brilliant skin, and dewy eye 
 Shining with love, and hope, and constancy ? 
 Neuha — the fond, the faithful, the adored — • 
 Her heart on Torquil's like a torrent pour'd : 
 And smiled, and wept, and near, and nearer clasp'd, 
 As if to be assured 'twas him she grasp'd ; 
 Shudder'd to see his yet warm wound, and then. 
 To find it trivial, smiled and wejat again. 
 She was a warrior's daughter, and could bear 
 Such sights, and feel, and mourn, but not despair. 
 Her lover lived, — nor foes nor fears could blight 
 That full-blo^vn moment in its all delight : 
 Joy trickled in her tears, joy fill'd the sob 
 That rock'd her heart till almost heard to throb ; 
 And paradise was breathing in the sigh 
 Of nature's child in nature's ecstasy. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The sterner sjjirits who beheld that meeting 
 Were not unmoved : who are, when hearts are greet- 
 Even Christian gazed upon the maid and boy [ing ? 
 «>^th tearless eye, but yet a gloomy joy, 
 Mix'd with those bitter thoughts the soul arrays 
 In hopeless visions of our better days, 
 When all's gone — to the rainbow's latest ray. 
 " And but for me !" he said, and tiu:n'd away ; 
 Then gazed upon the pair, as in his den 
 A lion looks upon his cubs again ; 
 And then relapsed into his sullen guise. 
 As heedless of his further destinies. 
 
 X. 
 
 J/Ut brief their time for good or evil thought ; 
 The billows round the promontory brought 
 The plash of hostile oars. Alas ! who made 
 That sound .1 dread ? All around them seem'd ar- 
 Against them, save the bride of Toobonai : [rayed 
 She, as she caught the first glimpse o'er the bay 
 Of the arm'd boats, which hurried to complete 
 The remnant's ruin with their flying feet, 
 
 Beckon'd the natives round her to their prows, 
 Embark'd their guests and laimch'd their light ca 
 
 noes ; 
 In one placed Christian and his comrades twain 
 But she and Torquil must not part again. 
 She fis'd him in her own. Away ! away 1 
 They clear the breakers, dart along the bay. 
 And towards a group of islets, such as bear 
 The sea-bird's nest and seal's surf-hoUow'd lair, 
 They skim the blue tops of the billows ; fast 
 They flew, and fast their fierce pursuers chased, 
 Tbey gain upon them — now they lose again, — 
 Again make way and menace o'er the main ; 
 And now the two canoes in chase di^■ide, 
 And follow diflcrent courses o'er the tide. 
 To batHe the pursuit. Away ! away ! 
 As life is on each paddle's flight to-day. 
 And more than life or lives to Neuha : Love 
 Freights the frail bark and urges to the cove- • 
 And now the refuge and the foe are nigh — 
 Yet, yet a moment ! — Fly, thou Ught ark, fly ! 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 CANTO THt: FOURTH. 
 
 I. 
 
 White as a white sail on a dusky sea. 
 When half the horizon's clouded and half free, 
 Fluttering between the dun wave and the sky, 
 Is hope's last gleam in man's extremity. 
 Her anchor parts ; but still her snowy sail 
 Attracts our eye amidst the rudest gale : 
 Though every wave she climbs divides us more 
 The heart still follows from the loneliest shore. 
 
 Not distant from the isle of Toobonai, 
 A black rock rears its bosom o'er the spray, 
 The haunt of birds, a desert to mankind. 
 Where the rough seal reposes from the wind 
 And sleeps unwieldly in his cavern dun. 
 Or gambols with huge frolic in the sun : 
 There shrilly to the passing oar is heard 
 The startled echo of the ocean bird. 
 Who rears on its bare breast her callow brood. 
 The feather'd fishers of the solitude. 
 A narrow segment of the yellow sand 
 On one side forms the outUne of a strand ; 
 Here the young turtle, crawling from his shell. 
 Steals to the deep wherein his parents dwell ; 
 Cliipp'd by the beam, a nursling of the day. 
 But hatch'd for ocean by the fostering ray 
 The rest was one bleak precipice, as e er 
 Gave mariners a shelter and despair • 
 
172 
 
 BYRON a \VORKS. 
 
 CANTO IV 
 
 A. spot to make the saved regret the deck 
 VVTiich late went down, and envy lost the wreck 
 Bucb was the stem asylum Neuha chose 
 l"o shield her lover from his following foes ; 
 But all its secret was not tokl ; she loiew 
 In this a treasure hidden from the view. 
 
 III. 
 
 Ere the canoes divided, near the spot, 
 
 The men that mann'd what held her Torquil's lot 
 
 By her command removed, to strengthen more 
 
 The skiif which wafted Christian ffom the shore 
 
 This he would have opposed ; but with a smile 
 
 She pointed cahnly to the craggy isle. 
 
 And bade him "speed and prosper." She would 
 
 The rest upon herself for Torquil's sake [take 
 
 They parted with this added aid ; afar 
 
 The proa darted like a shooting star. 
 
 And gain'd on the jjursuers, who now steer'd 
 
 Right on the rock which she and Torquil near'd 
 
 They pull'd ; her arm, though delicate, was free 
 
 And firm as ever grappled with the sea, 
 
 And yielded scarce to Torquil's manlier strength. 
 
 The prow now almost lay within its length 
 
 Of the crag's steep, inexorable face. 
 
 With naught but soundless waters for its base ; 
 
 Within a hundred boats' length was the foe, 
 
 And now what refuge but their frail canoe ? 
 
 This Torquil ask'd -i^ith half uj^braidiug eye, 
 
 Which said — " Has Neuha brought me here to die ! 
 
 Is this a place of safety, or a grave. 
 
 And yon huge rock the tombstone of the wave ?" 
 
 IV. 
 They rested on their paddles, and uprose 
 Neuha, and pointing to the approaching foes. 
 Cried — '■' Torquil, follow me, and fearless foUow !" 
 Then plunged at once into the ocean's hoUow. 
 There was no time to pause — the foes were near — 
 Chains in his eye, and menace in his ear ; 
 With vigor they pull'd ou, and as they came, 
 Hail'd him to yield, and by his forfeit name. 
 Headlong he Icapt^to him the swimmer's skill 
 Was native, and now all his hope from ill : 
 But how, or where ? He dived, and rose no more 
 The boat's crew look'd amazed o'er sea and shore 
 There was no landing on that precipice, 
 Steep, harsli, and slippery as a berg of ice. 
 They watch'd awhile to see him float again, 
 But not a trace rebubbled from tlie main. 
 Tlie wave roll'd on, no rii)ple on its face, 
 Since their first plunge recall'd a single trace ; 
 The little whirl which eddied, and slight foam. 
 That whiten'd o'er what seem'd their latest home. 
 White as a sepulchre above the pair 
 Who left no marble (mournful as an heir) 
 The quiet proa wavering o'er the tide 
 tV»s all that told of Torquil and hia bride; 
 
 And but for this alone the whole might seem 
 The vanish'd phantom of a seaman's dream. 
 They paused and search'd in vain, then puU'd away 
 Even superstition now forbade their stay. 
 Some said he had not plunged into the wave, 
 But vanish'd like a corpse-light from a grave ; 
 Others, that something supematuial 
 Glared in his figure, more than mortal tall ; 
 While all agreed that in his cheek and eye 
 There was a dead hue of eternity. 
 Still as their oars receded from the crag, 
 Round every weed a moment would they lag, 
 Expectant of some token of their prey ; 
 But no — ^he had melted from them like the spray. 
 
 V. 
 And where was he, the pilgrim of the deep. 
 Following the nereid ? Had they ceased to weep 
 Forever ? or, received in coral caves. 
 Wrung life and pity from the softening waves ? 
 Did they with ocean's hidden sovereigns dwell, 
 And sound with mermen the fantastic shell ? 
 Did Neuha with the mermaids comb her hair 
 Flowing o'er ocean as it stream'd in air ? 
 Or had they perish'd, and in silence slept 
 Beneath the gulf wherein they boldly leapt » 
 
 VI. 
 Young Neuha plunged into the deep, and he 
 FoUow'd : her track beneath her native sea 
 Was as a native's of the element. 
 So smoothly, bravely, brilliantly she went. 
 Leaving a streak of light behind her heel, 
 AVlnch struck and flash'd like an amphibious steeL 
 Closely, and scarcely less expert to trace 
 The depths where divers hold tlie pearl in chase, 
 Torquil, the nursling of the northern seas. 
 Pursued her liquid steps mth heart and ease. 
 Deep — deeper for an instant Neuha led 
 The way — then upward soar'd — and as she spread 
 Her arms, and flung the foam from off" her locks, 
 Laugh'd, and the smind was answer'd l)y the rocks 
 They had gain'd a central realm of earth again. 
 But look'd for tree, and field, and sky, in vain. 
 Around she pointed to a spacious cave. 
 Whose only portal was the keyless wave,' 
 (\ hollow archway by the sun unseen. 
 Save through the billows' glassy veil of green. 
 In some transparent ocean holiday, 
 Wlicn all the finny people are at JJlay,) 
 Wiped with her hair the brine from Torquil's eyes, 
 And elapp'd her liamls with joy at his suqirise ; 
 Led him to where the rock appear'd to jur. 
 And form a sometliing like a Triton's hut ; 
 
 ' Of this cave (which is no Action) the orif.iTial will be found in 
 the ninth chapter of " Mutiner's Account of the Toiil'u IslandB.' 
 I have talicii the poetical lilierty to transi)'ant it to Toolmuai, the 
 last island where any distiLct accoont is I ft of Christian and hl« 
 rtomrades. 
 
CAXTO rv. 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 173 
 
 For all was darkness for a space, till day, 
 Through clefts above let in a sober'd ray ; 
 As in some old cathedral's glimmering aisle 
 The dusty monuments from light recoil, 
 Thus sadly in their refuge submarine 
 The vault diew half her shadow from the scene. 
 
 VII. 
 Forth from her bosom the young savage drew 
 A pine torch, strongly girded with gnatoo ; 
 A plantain leaf o'er all, the more to keep 
 Its latent sparkle from the sapping deep. 
 This mantle kept it dry ; then from a nook 
 Of the same plantain leaf a flint she took, 
 A few shrunk wither'd twigs, and from the blade 
 Of Torquifs knife stmck fire, and thus array'd 
 The grot with torchlight. Wide it was and high, 
 And sliow'd a self-bom Gothic canopy ; 
 The arch uprear'd by nature's architect, 
 The architrave some earthquake might erect ; 
 The buttress from some mountain's bosom hurl'd. 
 When the Poles crash'd, and water was the world ; 
 Or harden'd from some earth-absorbing fire, 
 While yet the globe reek'd from its funeral pyr'^ ; 
 The fretted pinnacle, the aisle, the nave,' 
 Were there, all scoop'd by Darkness from her cave. 
 There, with a little tinge of phantasy, 
 Fantastic faces moped and mow'd on high, 
 And then a mitre or a shrine would fix. 
 The eye upon its seeming crucifix. 
 Thus Nature play'd with the stalactites, 
 And built herself a chapel of the seas. 
 
 VIII. 
 And Neuha took her Torquil by the hand, 
 And waved along the vault her kindled brand. 
 And led him into each recess, and show'd 
 The secret places of their new abode. 
 Nor these alone, for all had been prepared 
 Before, to soothe the lover's lot she shared : 
 The mat for rest ; for dress the fresh gnatoo, 
 And sandal oil to fence against the dew 
 P'or food the cocoa-nut, the yam, the larcad 
 Bom of the fruit ; for board the plantain spread 
 With its broad leaf, or turtle-shcU which bore 
 A banquet in the flesh it cover'd o'er ; 
 The gourd with water recent from the rill, 
 The ripe banana from the mellow hill ; 
 A pine-torch pile to keep undying light, 
 And she herself, as beautiful as night, 
 To fling her shadowy spirit o'er the scene, 
 And make their subterranean world serene. 
 
 ' Tliia may seem too minute for the general ontlines (in Mari- 
 Ber's Account) from which it is taken. But few men have trav- 
 eUed without seeing something of the kind— on land, that is. 
 ff^Uhout adverting to Ellora. in Mungo Park's last journal, he 
 mentions having met ivith a rock or mountain so exactly resemh- 
 ling a Gothic cathedral, that only minute inspection could con- 
 rinc« him that it was a work of nature. 
 
 She had foreseen, since first the strangers' sail 
 Drew to their isle, that force or flight might fail, 
 iind form'd a refuge of the rocky den 
 For Torquil's safety from his countrymen. 
 Each dawn had wafted there her light canoe, 
 Laden with all the golden fruits that grew ; 
 Each eve had seen her gliding through the hour 
 With all could cheer or deck their sparry bower ; 
 -\jid now she spread her little store with smiles. 
 The happiest daughter of the loving isles. 
 
 IX. 
 She, as he gazed with grateful wonder, press'd 
 Her shelter'd love to her impassion'd breast ; 
 And suited to her soft caresses, told 
 An olden tale of love, — for love is old. 
 Old as eternity, but not outworn. 
 With each new being bom or to be born .< 
 How a yoimg chief, a thousand moons ago, 
 Diving for turtle in the depths below. 
 Had risen, in tracking fast his ocean prey, 
 Into the cave which round and o'er them lay ; 
 How in some desperate feud of after-time 
 He shelter'd there a daughter of the clime, 
 A foe beloved, and olfspring of a foe. 
 Saved by his tribe but for a captive's wo ; 
 How, when the storm of war was still'd, he led 
 His island clan to where the waters spread 
 Their deep-green shadow o'er the rocky door, 
 Then dived — it seem'd as if to rise no more : 
 His wondering mates, amazed within their bark, 
 Or deem'd him mad, or prey to the blue shark ; 
 Row'd round in sorrow the sea-girded rock, 
 Then paused upon their paddles from the shock ; 
 Wiien, fresh and springing from the deep, they saw 
 A goddess rise — so deem'd they in their awe ; 
 And their companion, glorious by her side. 
 Proud and exulting in his mermaid bride ; 
 And how, when tmdeceived, the pair they bore 
 With sounding conchs and joyous shouts to shore ; 
 How they had gladly lived and calmly died,— 
 And why not also Torquil and his bride ? 
 Xot mine to tell the rapturous caress 
 Wliich foUow'd wildly in that wild recess 
 This tale ; enough that all within that cave 
 Was love, though buried strong as in the grave 
 Where Abclard, through twenty years of death, 
 Wlien Eloisa's form was lower'd beneath 
 Their nuptial vault, his arms outstretch'd, and press'd 
 Tlie kindling ashes to his kindled breast.' 
 The waves without sang round their couch, their roai 
 As much unheeded as if life were o'er ; 
 
 = The reader will recollect the epigram of the Greek antbMogy, 
 or its translation into most of the modem languages : 
 " Wlioe'er thon art, thy master see 
 He was, or is, or is to he." 
 » The tradition is attatched to the story of Eloisa. thai when her 
 body was lowered into the grave of Abelard, (who had hecn baric* 
 twenty years,) he opened his arms to receive her 
 
174 
 
 BYROX'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO IT 
 
 Within, tlieir hearts made all the harmony, 
 Love's broken murmur and more broken sigh. 
 
 X. 
 
 And they, the cause and sharers of the shock 
 Which left tliem c.viles of the hollow rock, 
 Where -svctc they ? O'cj tlu! sea for life they plied, 
 To seek from Heaven the shelter men denied. 
 Another course had been their choice — but where ? 
 The wave which bore them still tl;eir foes would bear. 
 Who, disappointed in their former chase. 
 In search of Christian now renew'd their race. 
 Eager with anger, their strong arms made way, 
 Like vultures Ijatlled of tlicir previous prey. 
 They gain'd upon them, all whose safety lav 
 In some bleak crag or deeply-hidden Itay : 
 No further chance or choice remain'd ; and right 
 For the first further rock which met their sight 
 They steer'd, to take their latest view of land, 
 And yield as victims, or die sword in hand ; 
 Dismiss'd the natives and their shallop, who 
 Would still have battled for that scanty crew ; 
 But Christian bade them seek their shore again, 
 Nor add a sacrifice which were in vain ; 
 Vot what were simple bow and savage spear 
 Against the arms which must be wielded here ? 
 
 XL 
 They landed on a wild but narrow scene. 
 Where few but Nature's footsteps yet had been ; 
 Prepared their arms, and with that gloomy eye, 
 Stem and sustain'd, of man's extremity, 
 Wlien hope is gone, nor glory's self remains 
 To cheer resistance against death or chains, — 
 They stood, the three, as the three hundred stood 
 Who dyed Thermopyla; with holy blood. 
 But, ah, how difierent 1 'tis the cause makes all. 
 Degrades or hallows courage in its fall. 
 O'er them no fame, eternal and intense, [hence ; 
 
 Blazed through the clouds of death and beckon'd 
 No grateful country, smiling througli lier tears. 
 Begun the praises of a thousand years ; 
 No nation's eyes would ou their tomb be bent. 
 No heroes envy them their monument ; 
 However boldly their warm blood was spilt; 
 Their life was shame, their epitaph was guilt. 
 And this they knew and felt, at least the one, 
 The leader of the band he had undone ; 
 Wlio, born perchance for better things, had set 
 His life upon a cast which lingcr'd yet : 
 But now the die was to be thrown, and all 
 The chances were in favor of his fall : 
 And such a fall I But still he faced the shock. 
 Obdurate as a portion of the roc'ic 
 Whereon he stood, and fix'd his levell'd gun, 
 Oark as a sullen cloud before the sun. 
 
 * In ThibaiUt'a account of Frederic the Second of PrnB(.ia, there 
 B « singular relation of a j mo^ Frenchman, who. with his mis- 
 
 XII. 
 
 The boat drew nigh, well arm'd, and firm the ciew 
 
 To .act whatever duty bade them do ; 
 
 Careless >)f danger, as the onward wind 
 
 Is of the leaves it strews, nor looks behind 
 
 And yet perhaps they rather -^nsli'd to go 
 
 Against s nation's than a native foe. 
 
 And felt that this poor victim of self-will, 
 
 Briton no more, had once been Britain's still. 
 
 They hail'd him to surrender — no reply ; — 
 
 Their arms were poised, and glitter'd in the sky. 
 
 They hail'd again — no answer ; yet once more 
 
 They ofter'd quarter louder than before. 
 
 The echoes only, from the rocks rebound. 
 
 Took their last farewell of the dying sound. 
 
 Then flash'd the flint, and blazed the volleying flame, 
 
 And the smoke rose between them and their aim, 
 
 While the rock rattled with the bullets' kneU, 
 
 Yv'hich peal'd in vain, and flatten'd as they fell ; 
 
 Then flew the only answer to be given 
 
 By those who had lost all hope in earth or heaven. 
 
 After the first fierce peal, as they pull'd nighcr, 
 
 They heard the voice of Christian shout, "Now fire!" 
 
 And ere the word upon the echo died, 
 
 Two fell ; the rest assail'd the rock's rough sidt, 
 
 And, furious at the madness of their foes, 
 
 Disdain'd all further eflbrts, save to close. 
 
 But steep the crag, and all without a path. 
 
 Each step opposed a bastion to their wrath, 
 
 ^VhiIe, placed amidst clefts the least accessible. 
 
 Which Christian's eye was train'd to mark fiill well, 
 
 The three maintain'd a strife which must not yield, 
 
 In spots where eagles might have chosen to build. 
 
 Their every shot told ; while the assailant fell, 
 
 Dash'd on the shingles like the limpet shell ; 
 
 But still enough survived, and mounted still, 
 
 Scattering their numbers here and there, until 
 
 Surrounded and commanded, though not nigh 
 
 Enough for seizure, near enough to die. 
 
 The desperate trio held aloof their fate 
 
 But by a thread, like sharks who have gorged the bait ; 
 
 Yet to the very last they battled well. 
 
 And not a groan inform'd their foes wJio fell. 
 
 Christian died last — twice wounded ; and once mors 
 
 Mercy was otTer'd when they saw his gore ; 
 
 Too late for life, but not too late to die. 
 
 With, tliough a hostile hand, to close his eye. 
 
 A limb was broken, and he droop'd along 
 
 The crag, as doth a falcon reft of young. 
 
 The sound revived him, or apjiear'd to wake 
 
 Some passion which a weakly gesture spake 
 
 He beckon'd to the foremost, who drew nigh. 
 
 But, as they near'd, he rear'd his weapon high — 
 
 His last ball had been aim'd, but from his breast. 
 
 He tore the topmost button from his vest,' 
 
 tre??, appeared to be of some rank. Ho enlisted and deserted at 
 Schweidnitz ; and after a desperate resistance was retalsen, hav 
 
3AJrro IV. 
 
 THE ISLAXD. 
 
 Down the tube dash'd it, levell'd, fired, and smiled 
 As his foe fell ; then, like a serpent, coil'd 
 His wounded, weary form, to where the steep 
 Look'd desperate as himself along the deep ; 
 'Jast one glance back, and clench'd his hand, and 
 
 shook 
 His last rage 'gainst the earth which he forsook ; 
 Then phmged : the rock below received Uke glass 
 His body crush'd into one gory mass. 
 With scarce a shred to tell of human form, 
 Or fragment for the sea-bird ov' the worm ; 
 A foir-hair'd scalp, besmear'd with blood and weeds, 
 Yet reek'd, the remnant of himself and deeds ; 
 Some splinters of his weajjons (to the last, 
 As long as hand could hold, he held them fast) 
 Yet glittcr'd, but at distance — hurl'd away 
 To rust beneath the dew and dashing spray. 
 The rest was nothing — save a life misspent. 
 And soul — but who shall answer where it went 2 
 'Tis ours to bear, not judge the dead ; and they 
 Who doom to hell, tliemselves are on the way. 
 Unless these bullies of eternal pains 
 Are pardon'd their bad hearts for their worse brains. 
 
 XIII. 
 The aeed was over ! AU were gone or ta'en, 
 The fugitive, the captive, or the slain. 
 Ohain'd on the deck, where once, a gallant crew. 
 They stood with honor, were the wretched few 
 Survivors of the skirmish on the isle ; 
 But the last rock left no surviving spoil. 
 Cold lay they were they fell, and weltering, 
 While o'er tliem flapp'd the sea-birds' dewy wing. 
 Now wheeling nearer from the neighboring surge. 
 And screaming high their harsh and hungry dirge : 
 But calm and careless heaved the wave below, 
 Eternal with unsympathetic flow ; 
 Far o'er its face the dolphins sported on. 
 And sprung the flying fish against the sun, 
 Till its dried wing relapsed from its brief height, 
 To gather moisture for another flight. 
 
 XIV. 
 "Twas morn ; and Neuha, who by dawn of day 
 Bwam smoothly forth to catch the rising ray, 
 And watch if aught approach'd the amphibious lair 
 Where lay her lover, saw a sail in air : 
 
 ing killed an officer, who attempted to seize him after he was 
 wounded, by the discharge of his musket loaded with a buWyn of 
 bis uniform. Some circumstances on his court-martial raised a 
 great interest amongst his judges, who wished to discover his real 
 •'•tniition in life, which he offered to disclose, but to the Hug only, 
 
 It flapp'd, it fill'd, and to the growing gale 
 Bent its broad arch : her breath liegan to fail 
 With fluttering fear, her heart beat thick and high, 
 While yet a doubt sprung where its course might he. 
 But no ! it came not ; fast and far away 
 The shadow iessen'd as it clear'd the bay. 
 She gazed, and flung the sea-foam from her eyes. 
 To watch as for a rainliow in the skies. 
 On the horizon verged the distant deck, 
 Diminish'd, dwindkd to a very speck — 
 Then vanish'd. All was ocean, all was joy ! 
 Down phmged she through the cave to rouse her boy , 
 Told all she liad seen, and all she hoped, and all 
 That happy love could augur or recall ; 
 Sprung forth again, with Torquil following free 
 His bounding nereid over the broad sea ; 
 Swam round the rock, to where a shallow cleft 
 Hid the canoe that Neuha there had left 
 Drifting along the tide, without an oar. 
 That eve the strangers chased them from the shore ; 
 But when these vanish'd, she pursued her prow, 
 Regain'd,,and urged to where they found it now : 
 Nor ever did more love and joy embark, 
 Than now were wafted in that slender ark. 
 
 XV 
 
 Again their own shore rise? on the view, 
 
 No more polluted with a hostile hue ; 
 
 No sullen ship lay bristling o'er the foam, 
 
 A floating dungeon : — all was hope and liome . 
 
 A thousand proas darted o'er the bay. 
 
 With sounding shells, and heralded their way ; 
 
 The chiefs came down, around the people pour'd, 
 
 And welcomed Torquil as a son restored ," 
 
 The women throng\l, embracing and embraced 
 
 By Neuha, asking where they had been chased. 
 
 And how escaped ! The tale was told ; and then 
 
 One acclamation rent the sky again ; 
 
 And from that hour a new tradition gave 
 
 Their sanctuary the name of " Neuha's Cave." 
 
 A hundred Arcs, far flickering from the height, 
 
 Blazed o'er the general revel of the night. 
 
 The feast in honor of the guest, return'd 
 
 To peace and pleasure, perilously eam'd ; 
 
 A night succeeded by such happy days 
 
 As only the yet infant world displays. 
 
 to whom he requested permission to write. This was refused, 
 and Frederic was filled with the greatest indignation, from balflw] 
 cariosity or some other motive, wheu he understood that tab r» 
 quest had been denied. 
 
176 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT 1 
 
 MANFRED : 
 
 A DRAMATIC POEM. 
 
 " There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, 
 Than are dreamt of in your phUoeophy." 
 
 DRAilATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Manfred. 
 
 Chamois Htinter. 
 
 Abbot of St, Maukick. 
 
 Manuel. 
 
 Herman. 
 
 "Witch of the Alps. 
 
 Arimanes. 
 
 Nemesis. 
 
 The Destinies. 
 
 Spirits, etc. 
 
 ITie scene of the Drama is amongst the Higher Alps — 
 parthj in the Castle of Manfred, and partly in the 
 Mountains. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Manfred alone.- 
 
 -Scene, a Oothie Oallery. — Time, 
 Midnight. 
 
 Man. The lamp must be replenish'd,but even then 
 It will not burn so long as I must -watch : 
 My slumbers— if I slumber — are not sleep, 
 But a continuance of enduring thought, 
 Wliich then I can resist not : in my heart 
 There is a vigil, and these eyes but close 
 To look -svithin ; and yet I live, and bear 
 The aspect and the form of breathing men. 
 But grief should be the instructor of the wise ; 
 Sorrow is knowledge ; they who know the most 
 Must mourn the deepest o'er the fatal truth, 
 The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life, 
 Philosophy and science, and the springs 
 Of wonder, and the wisdom of the world, 
 I have essay'd, and in my mind there is 
 A power to make these subjects to itself— 
 But thay avail not : I have done men good, 
 
 And I have met with good even among men-— 
 
 But this avail'd not : I have had my foes. 
 
 And none have baffled, miiny fillen before mc — 
 
 But this avail'd not : — Good, or evil, life, 
 
 Powers, passions, all I see in other beings, 
 
 Have been to me as rain unto the sands, 
 
 Since that all-nameless hour. I have no dread, 
 
 And feel the curse to have no natiiral fear. 
 
 Nor fluttering throb, that beats with hopes or wishes, 
 
 Or lurking love of scmething on the earth. 
 
 Now to my task. 
 
 Mysterious Agency I 
 Te spirits of the unbounded Universe I 
 Whom I have sought in darkness and in light — 
 Ye, who do compass earth about, and dweU 
 In subtler essence — ye, to whom the tops 
 Of mountains inaccessible are haimts, 
 And earth's and ocean's caves familiar things— 
 I call upon ye by the written charm 
 Which gives me power upon you Rise ! appear I 
 
 [.'1 pause. 
 They come not yet. Now by the voice of him 
 Wlio is the first among you — by this sign. 
 Which makes you tremble — by the claims of him 
 Who is undying, — Rise ! appear 1 Appear 1 
 
 [A pause. 
 If it be so. Spirits of earth and air. 
 Ye shall not thus elude me : by a power. 
 Deeper than all yet urged, a tyrant-spell. 
 Which had its birthplace in a star condemn'd, 
 Tlie burning wreck of a demolish'd world, 
 A wandering hell in the eternal space ; 
 By the strong curse which is upon my soul, 
 The thought which is within me and around me, 
 I do compel ye to my will. Appear ! 
 
 A star is seen at the darl-er end of the gallery : % 
 is stationary ; and a voice is heard singing. 
 
 First Spirit. 
 
 Mortal 1 to thy bidding bow'd. 
 From my m.insion in the cloud, 
 Wliieh the breath of twilight builds, 
 And the summer's sunset gilds 
 
SCENE I 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 177 
 
 Witli the azure and vermilion, 
 Which is mix'd for my pavilion ; 
 Though thy quest may be forbidden, 
 On a star-beam I have ridden ; 
 To thine adjuration bow'd, 
 Mortal — be thy wish avow'd 1 
 
 Voice of the Second Spibit. 
 Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountain3 
 
 They crown'd him long ago 
 On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds. 
 
 With a diadem of snovr. 
 Around his waist are forests braced, 
 
 The Avalauch in his hand ; 
 But ere it fall, that thundering ball 
 
 Must pause for my command. 
 The C41acier's cold and restless mass 
 
 Moves onward day by day ; 
 But I am he who bids it pass. 
 
 Or with its ice delay. 
 I am the spirit of the place, 
 
 Could make the mountain bow 
 And quiver to his cavem'd base — 
 
 And what with me wouldst Thou ! 
 
 Voice of the Third Spirit. 
 In the blue depth of the waters. 
 
 Where the wave hath no strife, 
 Where the wind is a stranger. 
 
 And the sea-snake hath life. 
 Where the Mermaid is decking 
 
 Her green hair with shells ; 
 Like the storm on the surface 
 
 Came the sound of thy spells ; 
 O'er my calm Hall of Coral 
 
 The deep echo roU'd — 
 To the Spirit of Ocean 
 
 Thy wishes unfold 1 
 
 Fourth Spirit. 
 Where the slumbering earthquake 
 
 Lies pillow'd on fire. 
 And the lakes of bitumen 
 
 Rise boilingly higher ; 
 Where the roots of the Andes 
 
 Strike deep in the earth, 
 As their summits to heaven 
 
 Shoot soaringly forth ; 
 I have quitted my birthplace. 
 
 Thy bidding to bide — 
 Thy spell hath subdued me. 
 
 Thy will be my guide ! 
 
 Fifth Spnirr. 
 I am the Rider of the wind, 
 The Stirrer of the stonn ; 
 The hurricane I left Ijeliind 
 Is yet with lightning warm ; 
 23 " 
 
 To speed to thee, o'er shore and sea 
 
 I swept upon the blast : 
 The fleet I met sail'd well, and yet 
 
 'Twill sink ere night bo jjast 
 
 Sixth Spirit. 
 My dwelling is the shadow of the night. 
 Why doth thy magic torture me with light 1 
 
 Seventh Spirit. 
 Thy star which rules thy destiny 
 Was ruled, ere earth began, by me : 
 It was a world as fresh and fair 
 As e'er revolved round sun in air ; 
 Its course was free and regular. 
 Space bosom'd not a lovelier star. 
 The hour arrived — and it became 
 A wandering mass of shapeless flame, 
 A pathless comet, and a curse. 
 The menace of the universe ; 
 Still rolling on with innate force. 
 Without a sphere, without a course, 
 A bright deformity on high. 
 The monster of the upper sky ! 
 And thou ! beneath its influence boru — 
 Thou worm I whom I obey and scorn — 
 Forced by a power (which is not thine, 
 And lent thee but to make thee mine) 
 For this brief moment to descend. 
 Where these weak spirits round thee bend 
 And parley with a thing like thee — 
 What wouldst thou, Child of Clay ! with me ? 
 
 The Seven Spirits. 
 Earth, ocean, air, night, mountains, winds, thy star. 
 
 Are at thy beck and bidding, Child of Clay I 
 Before thee at thy quest their spirits are — 
 
 What wouldst thou with us, son of mortals — say 1 
 
 Man. Forgetfiihiess 
 
 Fint Spirit. Of what — of whom — and why f 
 
 Man. Of that which is within me; read it there — 
 Te know it, and I cannot utter it. 
 
 Spirit. We can but give thee that which we pos- 
 Ask of us subjects, sovereignty, the power [sess : 
 O'er earth, the whole, or portion, or a sign 
 Which shall control the elements, whereof 
 We are the dominators, each and all, 
 These shall be thine. 
 
 Man. Oblivion, self-oblivion — 
 
 Can ye not wring from out the hidden realms 
 Ye ofier so profusely what I ask ? 
 
 Spirit. It is not in our essence, in our skiU ; 
 But — thou maytt die. 
 
 Man. Will death bestow it on me 1 
 
 Spirit. We are immortal, and do not forget ; 
 We are eternal ; and to us the past 
 
!78 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACI I 
 
 fs, aa the future, present. Art thou answer'd ? 
 
 M'tii. Ye mock me — but the power which brought 
 ye here 
 Ilath made you mine. Slaves, scoff not at my will I 
 The mind, the spirit, the Promethean spark, 
 The lightning of my being, is as bright, 
 Pervading, and far-darting as your own. 
 And shall not j-ield to yours, though coop'd in clay 1 
 Answer, or will I teach you what I am. 
 
 Spirit. We answer as we answer'd ; our reply 
 Is even in thine own words. 
 
 Man. Why say ye so ? 
 
 Spirit. If, as thou say'st, thine essence be as ours, 
 We have replied in telling thee, the thing 
 Mortals call death hath naught to do with us. 
 
 Man. I then have call'd ye from your realms in 
 Ye cannot, or ye will not, aid me. [vain ; 
 
 Spirit. Say ; 
 
 WTiat we possess we offer ; it is thine : 
 Bethink ere thou dismiss us, ask again — [days — 
 Kingdom, and sway, and strength, and length of 
 
 Man. Accursed I what have I to do with days ? 
 They are too long already. Hence — begone ! 
 
 Spirit. Yet pause : being here, our will would do 
 thee service ; 
 Bethink thee, is there then no other gift 
 Which we can make not worthless in thine eyes ? 
 
 Man. No, none : yet stay — one moment, ere we 
 I would behold ye face to face. I hear [part — 
 
 Your voices, sweet and melancholy sounds, 
 As music on the waters ; and I see 
 The steady aspect of a clear large star ; 
 But nothing more. Approach me as ye are, 
 Or one, or all, in your accustom'd forms. 
 
 Spirit. We have no forms beyond the elements 
 Of which we are the mind and principle : 
 But choose a form — in that we vpill appear. 
 
 Miiv. I have no choice ; there is no form on earth 
 Hideous or beautiful to me. Let him, 
 Wlio is most powerful of ye, take such aspect 
 As unto him may seem most fitting — come. 
 ' Seventh Spirit. {.\ppeariJig in the shnpe of a Ijeaw- 
 tif III female fgure^ Behold ! 
 
 Man Oh, God 1 if it be thus, and thou 
 Art not a madness and a mockery, 
 I yet might be most happy. I will clasp thee. 
 
 And we again wiU be [TTiefifure vanvihes. 
 
 My heart is crush'd 1 
 
 MjlSFRVX) falU senseless. 
 
 (A Voice is heard in the Incantation tchich follows.) 
 When the moon is on the wave. 
 
 And the glow-worm in the grass. 
 And the meteor on the grave, 
 
 And the wisp on the morass ; 
 Wlicn the falling stars are shooting. 
 And the answer'd owls are li^oting. 
 
 And the silent leaves are still 
 In the shadow of the hill. 
 Shall my soul be upon thine. 
 With a power and with a sign. 
 
 Though thy slumber may be deep. 
 
 Yet thy spirit shall not sleep ; 
 
 There are shades which will not vanish, 
 
 There are thoughts thou canst not baniat 
 
 By a power to thee unknown. 
 
 Thou canst never be alone ; 
 
 Thou art wrapt as with a shroud, 
 
 Thou art gather'd in a cloud ; 
 
 And forever shalt thou dwell 
 
 In the s])irit of this spell. 
 
 Though thou secst me not pass by, 
 
 Thou shalt feel me with thine eye 
 
 As a thing that, though unseen. 
 
 Must be near thee, and hath been ; 
 
 And when in that secret dread 
 
 Thou hast tum'd around thy head. 
 
 Thou shalt marvel I am not 
 
 As thy shadow on the spot. 
 
 And the power which thou dost feel 
 
 Shall be what thou must conceal. 
 
 And a magic voice and verse 
 
 Hath baptized thee with a curse ; 
 
 And a spirit of the air 
 
 Ilath begirt thee with a snare ; 
 
 In the wind there is a voice 
 
 Shall forbid thee to rejoice ; 
 
 And to thee shall Night deny 
 
 All the quiet of her sky ; 
 
 And the day shall have a sun. 
 
 Wliich shall make thee wish it done. 
 
 From thy false tears I did distill 
 
 An essence which hath strength to kill , 
 
 From thy own heart I then did wring 
 
 The black blood in its blackest spring ; 
 
 From thy own smile I snatchVl the snako 
 
 For there it coil'd as in a brake ; 
 
 From thy own lip I drew the charm 
 
 Which gave all these their chiefest haitn ; 
 
 In proving every poison known, 
 
 I found the strongest was thine own 
 
 By thy cold breast aud serpent smile, 
 
 By thy unfathomM gulfs of guile, 
 
 By that most seeming virtuous eye, 
 
 By thy shut soul's hypocrisy ; 
 
 By the perfection of thine art 
 
 Which pass'd for human thine own heart; 
 
 By thy delight in others' ])ain. 
 
 And by thy brotherhood of Cain, 
 
 I call ujion thee 1 and com|)el 
 
 Thyself to be thy projjcr IL 11 1 
 
SCENE 11. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 IT9 
 
 And on thy licid I pour the vial 
 
 Which doth devote thee to this trial ; 
 
 Nor to slumber, nor to die, 
 
 Shall be in thy destiny ; 
 
 Though thy death shall still seem near 
 
 To thy wish, but as a fear ; 
 
 Lo I the spell now works around thee, 
 
 And the clankless chain hath bound thee ; 
 
 0"er thy heart and brain together 
 
 Hath the word been pass'd — now wither ! 
 
 The Mimntnin of the Jungfrau. — Time, iforning. — 
 ilANFRED alone upon the Cliffs. 
 Man. The spirits I have raised abandon me — 
 The sjjells which I have studied baffle me — 
 The remedy I reck'd of tortured me ; 
 I lean no more on superhuman aid, 
 It hath no power upon the past, and for 
 The future, tiU the past be gulf'd in darkness, 
 It is not of my search.^My mother Earth ! 
 And thou fresh breaking Day, and you, ye Moun- 
 Whj are ye beautiful ? I cannot love ye. [tains. 
 And thou, the bright eye of the universe, 
 That openest over all. and unto all 
 .\rt a dtUght — thou shinest not on my heart. 
 And you, ye crags, upon whose extreme edge 
 I stand, and on the torrent's brink beneath 
 Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs 
 In dizziness of distance ; when a leap, 
 A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring 
 My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed 
 To rest forever — wherefore do I pause ? 
 I feel the impulse — yet I do not plunge ; 
 I see the peril — yet do not recede ; 
 And my brain reels — and yet my foot is firm ; 
 There is a power upon me which withholds, 
 And makes it my fatality to live ; 
 If it be life to wear within myself 
 This barrenness of spirit, and to be 
 My own soul's sepulchre, for I have ceased 
 To justify my deeds unto myself — 
 The last infirmity of evil. Ay, 
 Thou winged and cloud-cleaving minister, 
 
 [An eagle passes. 
 Whose happy flight is highest into heaven, 
 Well mayst thou swoop so near me — I should be 
 Thy piey, and gorge thine eaglets ; thou art gone 
 Where the eye cannot follow thee ; but thine 
 Yet pierces downward, onward, or above, 
 With a pervading vision. — Beautiful 1 
 How beautiful is all this visible world ! 
 How glorious in its action and itself! 
 But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we. 
 Half dust, half deity, alike unfit 
 To sink or soar, with our mix'd essence make 
 A conflict of its elements, and breathe 
 
 The breath of degradation and of pride. 
 Contending \vith low wants and lofty ^-ill, 
 TiU our mortality predominates, 
 And men are — what they name not to themselves. 
 And trust not to each other. Hark ! the note, 
 
 [The ShephenVs pipe in the distance is heard. 
 The natural music of the mountain reed — 
 For here the patriarchal days are not 
 A pastoral fable — jjipes in the liberal air, 
 Mis'd with the sweet bells of the sauntering herd ; 
 My soul would drink those echoes. — Oh, that I were 
 The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, 
 A living voice, a breathing harmony, 
 A bodiless enjoyment — bom and dying 
 With the bless'd tone which made me ! 
 
 Enter from, helow a Chamois Hitnter. 
 
 Chamois Hunter. Even so 
 
 This way the chamois leapt : her nimble feet 
 Have baffled me ; my gains to-day vrill scarce 
 Repay my break-neck travail. — "WTiat is here ? 
 Who seems not of my trade, and yet hath reach'd 
 A height which none even of our mountaineers, 
 Save our best himters, may attain : his garb 
 Is goodly, his mien manly, and his air 
 Proud as a freeborn peasant's, at this distance— 
 I will approach him nearer. 
 
 Man. (not perceiring the other). To be thus — 
 Gray-hair'd with anguish, like these blasted pines, 
 Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branchles.«, 
 A blighted trunk upon a cursed root. 
 Which but sujiplies a feeling to decay — 
 And to be thus, eternally but thus, 
 Having been otherwise ! Xow furrow'd o'er 
 With wrinkles, plough'd by moments, not by years 
 And hours — all tortured into ages — hours 
 Which I outlive ! — Ye toppling crags of ice ! 
 Ye avalanches, whom a breatli draws down 
 In mountainous o'erwhelming, come and crush me 1 
 I hear ye momently above, beneath. 
 Crash with a frequent conflict ; but ye pass, 
 And only fall on things that still would live ; 
 On the young flourishing forest, or the hut 
 And hamlet of the harmless villager. 
 
 C. Hun. The mists begin to rise from up the valley 
 I'll warn him to descend, or he may chance 
 To lose at once his way and life together. 
 
 Man. The mists boil uja around the glaciers ; clouds 
 Rise curling fast beneath me, white and sulphury, 
 Like foam from the roused ocean of deep Hell, 
 Whose every wave breaks on a living shore, 
 Heap'd with the damn'd like pebbles. — I am giddy 
 
 C Hun. I must approach him cautiously ; if neai 
 A sudden step will startle him, and he 
 Seems tottering already. 
 
 Man. Jlountains have faller.. 
 
 Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the shock 
 Rocking their Alpine brethren ; filling up 
 
180 
 
 BYKOX'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT IX 
 
 The ripe green Talleys with destruction's splinters ; 
 Daiumiug the rivers with a sudden dash, 
 Which crush'd the waters into mist, and made 
 Their fountains find another channel — thus, 
 Thus, in its old age, did Mount Rosenberg — 
 Why stood I not beneath it ? 
 
 C. Ilun. Friend I have a care, 
 
 Your next step may be fatal ! — for the love 
 Of him who made you, stand not on that brink I 
 Man. {not liciriiig him). Such would have been 
 
 for me a litting tomb ; 
 My bones liad then been quiet in their depth ; 
 They had not then been strewn upon the rocks 
 For the wind's pastime — as thus — thus they shall 
 
 be— 
 In this one plunge. — Farewell, ye opening heavens ! 
 Look not upon me thus reproachfully — 
 You were not meant for me — Earth ! take these atoms ! 
 [-Is ^Manfred is in art to sprinrj from the 
 
 cliff, the Chamois HmrrEB seizes and retains 
 
 1dm with a swhlen /jnisp. 
 0. Hun. Hold, madman ! — though aweary of thy 
 
 hfe, 
 Stain not our pure vales with thy guilty blood — 
 
 Away with me 1 will not quit my hold. 
 
 .Man. I am most sick at heart — nay, grasp me not — 
 I am all feebleness — the mountains whirl 
 Spinning around me 1 grow bUnd What art 
 
 thou? 
 C. Ilun. I'U answer tliat anon. — ^Away with me — 
 
 The clouds grow thicker there — now lean on me — 
 
 Place your foot here — here, take this stall' and cling 
 A moment to that shrub — now give me your hand, 
 And hold fast by my girdle — softly — well — 
 Tlie Clialet will be gainVl within an hour — 
 Come on, we'll quickly And a surer footing. 
 And something like a pathway, which the torrent 
 Hatli wash'd since winter. — Come, 'tis bravely done — 
 You should have been a hunter. — Follow me. 
 
 [As they descend the rocks with difflculty, 
 the scene closes. 
 
 ACT n. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A Cottage amnngit the Bernese Alps. 
 Manfred and the CmvMois Hunter. 
 
 C. Hun. No, no — yet pause — thou must not yet go 
 forth: 
 Tliy mind and body are aUke unfit 
 To trust each other, for some hours, at least ; 
 Wlien tliou art better, I will be thy guide — 
 But wnither ? 
 
 Man. It imports not : I do know 
 
 My route fuU well, and need no further guidance. 
 
 0. JTun. Thy garb and gait bespeak thee of high 
 lineage — 
 
 One of the many chiefs, whose castled crags 
 Look o'er the lower valleys — which of these 
 May call thee lord i I only know their portals ; 
 My way of life leads me but rarely down 
 To bask by the huge hearths of those old halls, 
 Carousing with the vassals ; but the jiaths. 
 Which step from out our mountains to their doora, 
 I know from childhood — which of these is thine ? 
 Man. No matter. 
 
 C. Hun. Well, sir, pardon me the qaestion, 
 
 And be of better cheer. Come, taste my wine ; 
 'Tis of an ancient vintage : many a day 
 'T has thaw'd my veins among our glaciers, now 
 Let it do thus for thine — Come, pledge me fairly. 
 
 Man. Away, away ! there's blood upon the brim ! 
 Will it then never — never sink in the earth ? 
 
 C. Hun. Wliat dost thou mean ? thy senses wan- 
 der from thee. 
 Man. I say "tis blood — my blood ! the pure warm 
 stream 
 Which ran in the veins of my fathers, and in ours 
 Wlien we were in our youth, and had one heart, 
 And loved each other as we should not love. 
 And this was shed ; but still it rises up. 
 Coloring the clouds, that shut me out from heaven, 
 Where thou art not — and I shall never be. 
 
 C. JI'Di. Man of strange words, and some half- 
 maddening sin. 
 Which makes thee people vacancy, whate'or 
 Thy dread and sufl'erance be, there's comfort yet — 
 
 The aid of holy men, and heavenly patience 
 
 Man. Patience, and patience I Hence — that word 
 was made 
 For brutes of burden, not for birds of prey ; 
 Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine, — 
 I am not of thine order. 
 
 C. Hun. Thanks to heaven ! 
 
 I would not be of thine for the free fame 
 Of William Tell ; but whatsoe'er thine ill, 
 It must be borne, and these wild starts are useless. 
 Man. Do I not bear it ? — Look on me — I live. 
 C. Hun. This is convulsion, and no healthful lift. 
 Man. I tell thee, man ! I have lived many years, 
 Many long years, but they are nothing now 
 To those which I must number : ages — ages- - 
 Space and eternity — and consciousness, 
 With the tierce thirst of death — and still unskikcd ! 
 ('. Hun. Why, on thy brow the seal of middle a'jo 
 Hath scarce been set ; I am thine elder far. 
 
 ^fan. Think'st thou existence doth depend or tim» ' 
 It doth ; but actions are our epochs : mine 
 Have made my days and nights imperishalile. 
 Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore. 
 Innumerable atoms ; and one desert, 
 Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break. 
 But nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks. 
 Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness, [iiim. 
 C. Hun. Alas ! he's mad — but yet I must n>'t }eive 
 
BEAUTiruL spinri' m tht calm cleah brow 
 
 WHEHEIN IS GlASSn SEFlEMITV OF SOUL. 
 WHICH OF ITSELF SHOWS IMMORTAUTY 
 
SCENE IL 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 ]8i 
 
 Man. I would I Tvere — for then the things I see 
 Would be but a distemper'd dream. 
 
 C. Uiin. Wliat is it 
 
 That thou dost see, or think thou look'st upon ? 
 
 Man. Myself, and thee — a peasant of the Alps — 
 Thy humble virtues, hospitable home, 
 And si^irit patient, pious, proud and free ; 
 Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts ; 
 Thy days of health, and nights of sleep ; thy toils, 
 By danger diguiiied, yet guiltless ; hopes 
 Of cheerful old age and a quiet grave, 
 With cross and garland over its green turf, 
 And thy grandchildren's love for epitaph ; 
 This do I see — and then I look within — 
 It matters not — my soul was scorch'd already ! 
 
 C. Uaii. And wouldst thou then exchange thy lot 
 for mine ? 
 
 Man. No, friend ! I would not wrong thee nor 
 My lot with living being : I can bear—: [exchange 
 However wretchedly, 'tis still to bear — 
 In life what others could not brook to dream. 
 But jjerish in their slumber. 
 
 P. Hun. And with this — 
 
 This cautious feeling for another's pain. 
 Canst thou be black with evil ? — say not so. 
 Can one of gentle thoughts have wTeak'd revenge 
 Upon his enemies ? 
 
 Man. Oh ! no, no, no ! 
 
 My injuries came down on those who loved me — 
 On those whom I best loved : I never queD'd 
 An enemy, save in my just defence — 
 But my embrace was fatal. 
 
 C. Ilnn. Heaven give thee rest I 
 
 And penitence restore thee to thyself; 
 My prayers shall be for thee. 
 
 Man. I need them not 
 
 But can endure thy pity. I depart — 
 'Tis time— farewell !— Here's gold, and thanks for 
 No words — it is thy due. — Follow me not — [thee — 
 I know my path— the mountain peril 's pass'd : — 
 And once again, I charge thee, follow not ! 
 
 [Exit Masfred. 
 
 SCENE n. 
 
 A loicer Valley in the Alps. — A Cataract. 
 
 Enter Mampked. 
 It is not noon — the sunbow's rays still arch 
 The torrent with the many hues of heaven, 
 And roll the sheeted silver's waving column 
 O'er tlie crag's headlong perpendicular. 
 And fling its lines of foaming light along, 
 And to and fro, like the pale courser's tail. 
 The Giant steed, to be bestrode by Death, 
 As told in the Apocalvjjse. No eyes 
 But mine no^ drink this sight of loveliness ; 
 I should be sole in this sweet solitude, 
 
 And with the Spirit of the place divide 
 The homage of these waters. — I will call her. 
 
 [Manfred talces some of tJie water into the palm 
 of Mi hand, and flings it in the- air, mutter- 
 ing the adjuration. After a pause, the Witch 
 OP THE Alps rises beneath the arch of the 
 sunboic of the torrent. 
 
 Beautiftil Spirit ! with thy hair of light. 
 
 And dazzling eyes of glory, in whose form 
 
 The charms of earth's least mortal daughters i,-row 
 
 To an unearthly stature, in an essence 
 
 Of purer elements ; while the hues of youth. — 
 
 Carnation'd like a sleeping infant's cheek, 
 
 Rock'd by the beating of her mother's heart. 
 
 Or the rose tints, which summer's twilight leaTCS 
 
 Upon the lofty glacier's virgin snow. 
 
 The blush of earth, embracing with her heaven, — 
 
 Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make tame 
 
 The beauties of the sunbow which bends o'er thee. 
 
 Beautiful Spirit ! in thy calm clear brow, 
 
 Wherein is glass'd serenity of soul. 
 
 Which of itself shows immortality, 
 
 I read that thou wilt pardon to a son 
 
 Of Earth, whom the abstruser powers permit 
 
 At times to commune with them — if that he 
 
 Avail him of his spells — to call thee thus, 
 
 And gaze on thee a moment. 
 
 Witch. Son of Earth ! 
 
 I know thee, and the powers which give thee power ; 
 I I know thee for a man of many thoughts. 
 And deeds of good and iU, extreme in both. 
 Fatal and fated in thy sufl'erings. 
 I have expected this— what wouldst thou with me 1 
 
 Man. To look upon thy beauty — nothing further 
 The face of the earth hath madden'd me, and I 
 Take refuge in her mysteries, and pierce 
 To the abodes of those who govern her — 
 But they can nothing aid me. I have sought 
 From them what they could not bestow, and now 
 I search no further. 
 
 Witch. What could be the quest 
 
 Wliich is not in the power of the most powerful, 
 The rulers of the invisible ? 
 
 ^an. A boon; 
 
 But why should I repeat it ? 'twere in vain. 
 
 Witch. I know not that ; let thy lips utter it. 
 
 Man. Well, though it torture me, 'tis but the same 
 My pang shall find a voice. From my youth upwards 
 My spirit walk'd not with the souls of men. 
 Nor look'd upon the earth with human eyes ; 
 The thirst of their ambition was not mine, 
 The aim of their existence was not mine ; 
 My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powers, 
 Made me a stranger ; though I wore the form, 
 I had no sympathy with breathing fiesh. 
 Nor midst the creatures of clay that girded ma 
 Was there but one who but of her anoa 
 
182 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT H 
 
 I said, with men, and with the thoughts of men, 
 
 I held but sliglit communion ; but instead, 
 
 My joy was in the wilderness, to breathe 
 
 Tlie difficult air of the iced mountain's top, 
 
 WTierc the birds dare not build, nor insect's wing 
 
 Flit o'er the herbless granite ; or to plunge 
 
 Into the torrent, and to roll along 
 
 Ou the swift whirl of the new-breaking wave 
 
 Of river-stream, or ocean, in their flow. 
 
 In these my early strength exulted ; or 
 
 To follow through the night the moving moon, 
 
 The stars and their development ; or catch 
 
 The dazzling liglitnings till my eyes grew dim ; 
 
 Or to look, list'ning, on the scattcr'd leaves, 
 
 While Autumn winds were at their evening song. 
 
 These were my pastimes, and to be alone ; 
 
 For if the beings, of whom I was one, — 
 
 Hating to be so, — cross'd me in my path, 
 
 I felt myself degraded back to them, 
 
 And was all clay again. And then I dived. 
 
 In my lone wanderings, to the caves of death. 
 
 Searching its cause in its effect ; and drew 
 
 From wither'd bones, and skulls, and heap'd uj) dust. 
 
 Conclusions most forbidden. Then I pass'd 
 
 The night of years in sciences untaught. 
 
 Save in the old time ; and with time and toil, 
 
 And terrible ordeal, and such penance 
 
 As in itself hath power upon the air. 
 
 And spirits that do comjiass air and earth. 
 
 Space, and the peopled infinite, I made 
 
 Mine eyes familiar -n-ith Eternity, 
 
 Such as, before me, did the Magi, and 
 
 He who from out the fountain dwellings raised 
 
 Eros and Anteros, at Gadara,' 
 
 As I do thee ; — -and with my knowledge grew 
 
 The thirst of knowledge, and the power and joy 
 
 Of this most bright intelligence, until, 
 
 Witch. Proceed. 
 
 Mail. Oh 1 I but thus prolong'd my words. 
 Boasting these idle attributes, because 
 As I approach the core of my heart's grief — 
 But to my task. I have not named to thee 
 Father or mother, mistress, friend, or being. 
 With whom I wore the chain of human ties ; 
 If I had such, they seem'd not such to me — 
 Yet there was one 
 
 Witch. Spare not thyself — proceed 
 
 Mini. She was like me in lineaments — her e_,es. 
 Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone 
 Even of her voice, they said were like to mine ; 
 But soften'd all, and tempcr'd into beauty : 
 She had the same lone thoughts and wanderinss. 
 The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind 
 To comprehend the universe : nor these 
 Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine, 
 
 ' The philosopher Jambliciis. The Btory of the raising of Eros 
 ind i^teron may bo found In his life by Eunapius. It is well told. 
 
 Pity, and smiles, and tears — which I had not ; 
 And tenderness — but that I had for her ; 
 HumiUty — and that I never had. 
 Her faults were mine — Ler virtues were her own — 
 1 loved her, and destroy'd her ! 
 
 }Yitch. With thy hand ? 
 
 Man. Not with my hand, but heait — which broke 
 her heart — 
 It gazed on mine, and wither'd. I have shed 
 Blood, but not hers — and yet her blood was shed — 
 I saw — and could not stanch it. 
 
 Witch. And for this — 
 
 A Ijeing of the race thou dost despise. 
 The order which thine own would rise above. 
 Mingling with us and ours, thou dost forego 
 The gifts of our great knowledge, and shriuk'stback 
 To recreant mortality Away ! 
 
 Man. Daughter of Air ! I tell thee, since that hour — 
 But words are breath. — look on me in my sleep. 
 Or watch my watchings — come and sit by me 1 
 My solitude is soUtude no more, 
 But peopled with the Furies ; — 1 have gnash'd 
 My teeth in darkness till returning morn. 
 Then cursed myself till sunset ; — I have pray'd 
 For madness as a blessing — 'tis denied me. 
 I have aflronted death — but in the war 
 Of elements the waters shnmk from me, 
 And fatal things jiass'd harmless — the cold hand 
 Of an all-pitiless demon held me back. 
 Back by a single hair, which would not break. 
 In fantasy, imagination, all 
 The affluence of my soul — which one day was 
 A Croesus in creation — I plunged deep. 
 But, like an ebbing wave, it dash'd me back 
 Into the gulf of my unfathom'd thought. 
 I plunged amidst mankind — Forgetfuluesa 
 I sought in all, save where 'tis to be found. 
 And that I have to learn — my sciences. 
 My long-])ursued and superhuman art. 
 Is mortal here — I dwell in my despair — 
 And live — and live forever. 
 
 Witch. It may be 
 
 That I can aid thee. 
 
 Man. To do this thy power 
 
 Must wake the dead, or lay me low with them. 
 Do so— in any shape — in any hour — 
 With any torture — so it be the last. 
 
 Wih-h. That is not in my province ; but if thou 
 Wilt swear obedience to my will, and do 
 My bidding, it may help thee to thy wishes. 
 
 Mini. I will not swear^obey I and whom ? the spirit! 
 Whose presence I command, and be the slave 
 Of those who ser\ed me — Never ! 
 
 Witch. Is this all ? 
 
 Hast thou no gentler answer ? Yet bethink thee, 
 And pause ere thou rijeetest. 
 
 M(tn. I have said it. 
 
 Witch. Enough !— I may retire then — say I 
 
rtCENE III. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 18.S 
 
 Man. Retire 1 
 
 [ The Witch disnjtpenrs. 
 
 Ma7i. (alone.) "We are the fools of time and terror: 
 Steal on us and steal from us ; yet ive live, [days 
 Loathing our life, and dreading still to die. 
 in aU the days of this detested yoke^ 
 This vital weight upon the struggling heart, 
 Which sinks \dih sorrow, or beats quick with pain, 
 Or joy that ends in agony or faintuess — 
 In all the days of past and future, for 
 In life there is no present, we can number 
 How few — how less than few — wherein the soul 
 Forbears to pant for death, and yet draws back 
 As from a stream in winter, though the chill 
 Be but a moment's. I have one resource 
 Still in my science — I can call the dead, 
 And ask them what it is we dread to be : 
 The sternest answer can but be the Grave, 
 And that is nothing — if they answer not — 
 The buried ProjAet answer'd to the Hag 
 Of Endor ; and the Spartan Monarch drew 
 From the Byzantine maid's unsleeping spirit 
 An answer and his destiny — he slew 
 That which he loved, unknowing what he slew, 
 And died unpardon'd — though he caU'd in aid 
 The Phyxian Jove, and in Phigalia roused 
 The Arcadian Evocators to compel 
 The indignant shadow to depose her wrath, 
 Or tix her term of vengeance — she replied 
 In words of dubious import, but fulfill'd. 
 If I had never lived, that which I love 
 Had stiU been living ; had I never loved. 
 That which I love would still be beautifid — • 
 Happy and g" ving happiness. What is she ? 
 Wliat is she now ? — a sufferer for my sins — 
 A thing I dare not think upon — or nothing. 
 Within few hours I shall not call in vain — 
 Yet in this hour I dread the thing I dare, 
 Until this hour I never shrunk to gaze 
 On spirit, good or evil — now I tremble. 
 And feel a strange cold thaw upon my heart. 
 But I can act even what I most abhor, 
 Ani champion human fears. The night approaches. 
 
 \_Exlt. 
 
 SCENE m. 
 TTie Summit of the Jungfrau Mountain. 
 Enter FmsT Destint. 
 rhe moon is rising broad, and round, and bright ; 
 .\nd here on snows, where never human foot 
 Of common mortal trod, we nightly tread. 
 And leave no traces ; o'er the savage sea, 
 The gla?sy ocean of the mountain ice. 
 We skjj I its rugged breakers, which put on 
 The asi)ect of a tumbling tempest's foam, 
 Frozen in a moment — a dead whirlpool's image : 
 A.nd this most steep fantastic pinnacle, 
 
 The tretwork of some earthquake — where the clouds 
 
 Pause to repose themselves in passing by — 
 
 Is sacred to our revels, or our vigils ; 
 
 Here do I wait my sisters, on our way 
 
 To the Hall of Arimanes, for to-night 
 
 Is our great festival — 'tis strange they come not 
 
 A Voice without, singing. 
 The Captive Usurper, 
 
 Hurl'd down from the throne. 
 Lay buried in torpor. 
 
 Forgotten and lone ; 
 I broke through his slumbers, 
 
 I shivcr'd his chain, 
 I leagued him with numbers — 
 He's Tyrant again 1 
 With the blood of a million he'll ausn-er my care. 
 With a nation's destruction — his flight and despair 
 
 Second Voice, without. 
 The ship sail'd on, the ship saU'd fast. 
 But I left not a sail, and I left not a mast ; 
 There is not a plank of the hull or the deck. 
 And there is not a wretch to lament o'er his wreck 
 Save one, whom I held, as he swam, by the hair, 
 Antl he was a subject well worthy my care ; 
 A traitor on land, and a pirate at sea — 
 But I saved Mm to wreak further havoc for me I 
 
 First Destint, answering. 
 The city lies sleeping ; 
 
 The morn, to deplore it. 
 May dawn on it weeping : 
 
 SuUenly, slowly. 
 The black plague flew o'er it — 
 
 Thousands lie lowly ; 
 Tens of thousands shall perish — 
 
 The living shall fly trom 
 The sick they shall cherish ; 
 
 But nothing can vanquish 
 The touch that they die from. 
 
 Sorrow and anguish 
 And evil and dread 
 
 Envelop a nation — 
 The bless'd are the dead, 
 Wlio see not the sight 
 
 Of their own desolation — 
 This work of a night — 
 This wreck of a realm — this deed of my doing — 
 For ages I've done, and shall still be renewing I 
 
 Enter the Second and Thikd Destinieb. 
 
 The Three. 
 
 Our hands contain the hearts of men, 
 
 Oiu' footsteps are their graves ; 
 We only give to take again 
 The spirits of our slaves I 
 
1?4 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT n. 
 
 Fird Des. Welcome ! Where's Nemesis ? 
 Second Des. At some great work ; 
 
 Bat what I know not, for my hands were full. 
 Third Dcs. Behold she cometh. 
 
 £nter Nemesis. 
 
 First Des. Say, where hast thou been ? 
 
 My sisters and thyself are slow to-niglit. 
 
 ]\'fw. I was detain'd repairing shatter'd thrones, 
 Marrying fools, restoring dynasties. 
 Avenging men upon their enemies. 
 And making them repent their own revenge ; 
 Goading the mse to madness ; from the dull 
 Shaping out oracles to rule the world 
 Afresh, for they were waxing out of date, 
 And mortals dared to ponder for themselves, 
 To weigh kings in the balance, and to speak 
 Of freedom, the forbidden fruit. Away I 
 We have outstay'd the hour — mount we our clouds I 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 The Hall of Arimanes — Arimanes on his Throne, a 
 Olobe of Fire, surrounded by the. Spirits. 
 
 Hymn of the Spirits. 
 Hail to our Master ! — Prince of Earth and Air ! 
 
 Wlio walks the clouds and waters — in his hand 
 The sceptre of the elements, which tear 
 
 Themselves to chaos at his high command 1 
 He breatheth — and a tempest shakes the sea ; 
 
 He speaketh — and the clouds reply in thunder ; 
 He gazeth — from his glance the sunbeams flee ; 
 
 He moveth — earthquakes rend the world asunder. 
 Beneath his footsteps the volcanoes rise ; 
 
 His shadow is the Pestilence ; his path 
 The comets herald through the crackling skies ; 
 
 And planets turn to ashes at his wrath. 
 To him War offers daily sacrifice ; 
 
 To him Death pays his trilxite ; Life is his, 
 With all its infinite of agonies — 
 
 And his the spirit of whatever is I 
 
 Enter the Destiotes and Nemesis. 
 
 First De,i. Glory to Arimanes ! on the earth 
 His power increascth — both my sisters did 
 His bidding, nor did I neglect my duty ! 
 
 Second Des. Glory to Arimanes ! we who bow 
 The necks of men, bow down before his throne ! 
 
 Tliird Des. Glory to Arimanes 1 we await 
 His nod 1 
 
 Nem. Sovereign of Sovereigns ! we are thine, 
 And all that liveth, more or less, is ours. 
 And most things wholly so ; still to increase 
 Our power, increasing thine, demands our care. 
 And we are vigilant — Thy late commands 
 Have been fulfill'd to the utmost. 
 
 Enter Makfked. 
 
 A Spirit. Wliat is here 5 
 
 A mortal I — Thou most rash and fatal wretch. 
 Bow down and worship ! 
 
 Second Spirit. I do know the man — 
 
 A Magian of great power, and fearful skiU ! 
 
 Third Spirit. Bow down and worship, slave !— 
 What, know'st thou not 
 Thine and our Sovereign ? — Tremble, and obey ! 
 
 All the Spirits. Prostrate thyself, and thy con 
 demned clay, 
 Child of the Earth 1 or dread the worst. 
 
 Mii7i. I know it ; 
 
 And yet ye see I kneel not. 
 
 Fourth Spirit. 'Twill be taught thee. 
 
 Man. 'Tis taught already ; — many a night on the 
 earth, 
 On the bare ground, have I bow'd down my face, 
 And strew'd my head with ashes ; I have knovra 
 The fulness of humiUation, for 
 I sunk before my v.iin despair, and knelt 
 To my own desolation. 
 
 Fifth Spirit. Dost thou dare 
 
 Refuse to Arimanes on his throne 
 What the whole earth accords, beholding not 
 The terror of his Glory ? — Crouch I I say. 
 
 Mitn. Bid him bow down to that which is abovo 
 him. 
 The overruling Infinite — the Maker 
 Who made him not for worship — let him kneel, 
 And we will kneel together. 
 
 The S/>irits. Crush the worm I 
 
 Tear him in pieces 1 — 
 
 First Den. Hence ! Avaunt ! — he's mine. 
 
 Prince of the Powers invisible ! This man 
 Is of no common order, as his port 
 And presence here denote ; his sufferings 
 Have been of an immortal nature, like 
 Our o^vn ; his knowledge and his powers and will, 
 As far as is compatible with clay. 
 Which clogs the ethereal essence, have been such 
 As clay hath seldom borne ; his aspirations 
 Have been beyond the dwellers of the earth. 
 And they have only taught him what we know — 
 That knowledge is not hapi^iness, and science 
 But an exchange of ignorance for that 
 Which is another kind of ignorance. 
 This is not all — the p.assions, attributes 
 Of earth and heaven, from which no power, not 
 
 being. 
 Nor breath from the worm upwards is exempt. 
 Have pierced his heart ; and in their consequence 
 Made him a thing which I, who pity not, 
 Tet pardon those who pity. He is mine, 
 And thine, it may be — be it so or not 
 No other Spirit in this region hath 
 A Boul like his — or power upon his souL 
 
 Mm. What doth he here then ! 
 
^X^ ///.-;-' 
 
BCEXE IV. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 183 
 
 First Des. Let bin; answer that. 
 
 Man. Ye know that I have known ; and without 
 power 
 I could not be amongst ye : but there are 
 Powers deeper still beyond — I come in quest 
 Of such, to answer unto what I seek. 
 
 Nem. What wouldst thou ? 
 
 Man. Thou canst not reply to me. 
 
 Call up the dead^my question is for them. 
 
 Nem. Great Arimanes, doth thy will avouch 
 The wishes of this mortal ? 
 
 Ari. Yea. 
 
 Kon. "WTiom wouldst thou 
 
 Unchamel ? 
 
 Man. One without a tomb — call up 
 
 Astarte. 
 
 Nemesis. 
 
 Shadow ! or Spirit 1 
 
 TVTaatever thou art, 
 Wliich still doth inherit 
 
 The whole or a part 
 Of the form of thy birth. 
 
 Of the mould of thy clay, 
 Wliich retuni'd to the earth, 
 
 Reappear to the day ! 
 Bear what thou borest. 
 
 The heart and the form, 
 And the aspect thou worest 
 
 Redeem from the worm. 
 Appear ! — Appear !^- Appear ! 
 Who sent thee there requires thee here 1 
 
 [ The Phantom of Astabte rises and stands 
 in the midst. 
 
 .Van. Can this be death ? there's bloom upon her 
 
 cheek ; 
 But now I see it is no living hue, 
 But a strange hectic — like the unnatural red 
 Which Autumn plants upon the perisli'd leaf. 
 It is the same ! Oh, God ! that I should dread 
 To look upon the same — Astarte ! — No, 
 I cannot speak to her — but bid her speak — 
 Forgive me or condemn me. 
 
 Nemesis. 
 
 By the power which hath broken 
 The grave which enthraU'd thee, 
 
 Speak to him who hath spoken. 
 Or those who have call'd thee ! 
 
 Man. She is silent, 
 
 And in that silence I am more than answer'd. 
 
 Nem. My power extends no further. Priuce of air ! 
 It rests wilh thee alone — command her voice. 
 
 Ari. Spirit — obey this sceptre ! 
 
 -Vcm. Silent still ! 
 
 She is not of oiu- order, but belongs 
 24 
 
 To the other powers. Mortal ! thy quest is vain, 
 And we are baffled also. 
 
 Man. Hear me, hear me — 
 
 Astarte ! my beloved I speak to me : 
 I have so much endured — so much endure — • 
 Look on me ! the grave hath not changed thee moia 
 Than I am changed for thee. Thou lovedst me 
 Too much, as I loved thee : we were not made 
 To torture thus each other, though it were 
 The deadliest sin to love as we have loved. 
 Say that thou loath'st me not — that I do bear 
 This pvmishmeut for both — that thou wilt be 
 One of the blessed — and that I shall die ; 
 For hitherto all hateful things conspire 
 To bind me in existence — in a life 
 Which makes me shrink from immortality — 
 A future like the past. I cannot rest. 
 I know not what I ask, nor what I seek : 
 I feel but what thou art — and what I am : 
 And I would hear yet once before I perish 
 The voice which was my music — Speak to me ! 
 For I have call'd on thee in the still night, 
 Startled the slumbering birds from the hush'd boughs, 
 And woke the mountain wolves, and made tlie caves 
 Acquainted with thy vainly ccho'd name, 
 Wliich answer'd me — many things answer'd me— 
 Spirits and men — but thou wert silent all. 
 Yet speak to me ! I have outwatch'd the stars, 
 And gazed o'er heaven in vain in search of thee. 
 Speak to me ! I have wander'd o'er the earth, 
 And never found thy likeness — Si^eak to me 1 
 Look on the fiends around — they feel for me : 
 I fear them not, and feel for thee alone — 
 Speak to me ! though it be in wrath ; — but say — 
 I reck not what — but let me hear thee once — 
 This once — once more I 
 
 Phantom of Astarte. Manfred! 
 
 Man. Say on, say on — 
 
 I live but in the sound — it is thy voice ! — 
 
 Phan. Manfred I To-morrow ends thine earthly 
 ills. 
 Farewell ! 
 
 Man. Yet one word more — am I forgiven ? 
 
 Phan. FarewcU ! 
 
 Man. Say, shall we meet again ? 
 
 Phan. Farewell ! 
 
 Man. One word of mercy I Say, thou lovcst me, 
 
 Phan. Manfred ! 
 
 [The Spirit of Ast.\ete disappears. 
 
 Nem. She's gone, and will not be recall'd ; 
 
 Her words wiU be fulfill'd. Return to the earth. 
 
 A Spirit. He is convulsed — This is to be a mortal, 
 And seek the things beyond mortality. 
 
 Another Spirit. Yet, see, he mastereth himself^ imd 
 makes 
 His torture tributary to his will. 
 Had he been oue of us, he would have made 
 An awful spirit. 
 
IM 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT in. 
 
 Nem. Hast thou further question 
 
 of our great sovereign, or his worshijipers ? 
 M'lii. None. 
 
 Xnn. Then for a time farewell. 
 
 -lAm. We meet then! Where? On the earth ?— 
 Even as thou wilt : and for the grace accorded 
 ' now depart a debtor. Fare ye well ! 
 
 [Exit Mahtkkd. 
 {Scene closes.) 
 
 ACT m. 
 
 SCENE L 
 
 A Sail in the Castle of Manfred. 
 Manfred and, Hermak. 
 
 Man. What is the hour ? 
 
 Her. It wants but one till sunset, 
 
 And promises a lovely twilight. 
 
 Mitii. Say, 
 
 ire all things so disposed of in the tower 
 As I directed ? 
 
 Her. All, my lord, are ready : 
 
 Here is the key and casket. 
 
 Miin. It is well : 
 
 Thou mayst retire. [Exit Herman. 
 
 Man. {ainnf?) There is a cahn upon me — 
 Inexplicable stillness I which till now 
 Did not belong to what I knew of Ufe 
 If that I did not know philosophy 
 To be of all our vanities the motliest, 
 The merest word that ever fool'd the ear 
 Fr'un out the schoolman's jargon, I should deem 
 The golden secret, the sought " Kalon," found, 
 .\nd seated in my soul. It will not last. 
 But it is well to have known it, though but once : 
 It hath enlarged my thoughts with a new sense, 
 And I within my tablets would note down 
 That there is such a feeling. Who is there ? 
 
 Re-enter Herman. 
 ITer. My lord, the abbot of St. Maurice craves 
 To greet your presence. 
 
 Entir the Abbot op St. Maurice. 
 Ahhot. Peace be with Count Manfred ! 
 
 Man. Thanks.holy father! welcome to these walls; 
 Thy presence honors them, and blesseth those 
 Who dwell within them. 
 
 Ahhot. Would it were so. Count ! — 
 
 But I would fain confer with thee alone. 
 3Ian. Herman, retire. — \\1iat would my reverend 
 
 guest ? 
 Ahhot. Thus, ■without prelude : — Age and zeal, my 
 office. 
 And good intent, must plead my privilege ; 
 Our near, though not acquainted neiglil)orhood. 
 May also be my herald. limuors strange, 
 
 And of unholy nature, are abroad, 
 And busy with thy name ; a noble name 
 For centuries : m-fy he who bears it now 
 Transmit it unimpair'd ! 
 
 Man. Procecc;, — I listen. 
 
 Ahhot. 'Tis said thou holdest converse with the 
 Which are forbidden to the search of man ; rthingg 
 That with the dwellers of the dark aljodes 
 The many evii and unheavenly spirits 
 Which walk the valley of the shade of death. 
 Thou communest. I know tliat with mankind, 
 Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rarely 
 Exchange t'ly thoughts, and that thy solitude 
 Is as an anchorite's, were it but holy. [things ? 
 
 Man. And what are they who do avouch these 
 
 Ahhot. My jjioiis brethren — the scared peasantry- 
 Even thy own vassals — who do look on thee 
 With most unquiet eyes. Thy life's in peril. 
 
 Man. Take it. 
 
 Ahhot. I come to save, and not destroy — 
 
 I would not pry into thy secret soul ; 
 But if theje things be soooh, there still is time 
 For penitence and pity : reconcile thee [heaven. 
 With the true church, and through the clrjrch ta 
 
 Man. I hear thee. This is my reply : whate'er 
 I may liave been, or am, doth rest between 
 Heaven and myself T shall not choose a mortal 
 To be my mediatir. Have I sinn'd 
 Against your ordinances ? prove and punish ! 
 
 Ahhot. My son ! I did not speak of punishment, 
 But penitence and pardon ; — with thyself 
 The choice of such remains — and for the last, 
 Our institutions and our strong belief 
 Have given me power to smooth the path from sin 
 To higher hope .nd better thoughts ; the first 
 I leave to heaven, — "Vengeance is mine alone !" 
 So saith the Lord, and with all humbleness 
 His servant echoes back the awful word. 
 
 Man. Old man ! there is no power in holy men, 
 Nor charm in prayer — nor purifying form 
 Of penitence — nor outward look — nor fast — 
 Nor agony — nor, greater than all these. 
 The innate tortures of that deep despair. 
 Which is remorse without the fe.ar of hell, 
 But aU in all sufficient to it-self 
 Would make a hell of liLdven — can exorcise 
 From out the unbounded spirit, the quick sense 
 Of its own sins, wrongs, suflFerance, and revenge 
 Upon itself; there is no future pang 
 Can deal that justice on the self-condemn'd 
 He deals on his own soul. 
 
 Ahhot. All this is well ; 
 
 For this will pass away, and be succeeded 
 By an auspicious hope, which shall look up 
 With cahn assurance to that blessed place. 
 Which all wlio seek mav win, whatever be 
 Tlieir earthly errors, s they be atoned •- 
 
iCEXE IL 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 187 
 
 Ajid tlie commencement of atonement is 
 
 The sense of its necessity. Say on — 
 
 And all our church can teach thee shall be taught ; 
 
 And all we can absolve thee shall be pardon'd. 
 
 Mnn. Wlien Rome's sixth emiJeror' was near his 
 The victim of a self-inflicted wound, . [last, 
 
 To shun the torments of a jiublic death 
 From senates once his slaves, a certain soldier. 
 With show of loyal pity, would have stanch'd 
 The gushing throat with his officious robe ; 
 The dying Roman thrust him back, and said — 
 Some empire still in his expiring glance, 
 " It is too late — is this fidelity ?" 
 
 Ahhul. And what of this ? 
 
 Man. I answer with the Roman — 
 
 " It is too late !" 
 
 Ahhot. It never can be so, 
 
 To reconcile thyself vrith thy own soul. 
 And thy own soul with heaven. Hast thou no hope ? 
 Tis strange— even those who do despair above. 
 Yet shajje themselves some fantasy on earth. 
 To which frail twig they cling, like drowning men. 
 
 ^f(ln. Ay — father ! I have had those earthly vis- 
 .'V.nd noble asjjirations in my youth, [ions 
 
 To make my own the mind of other men, 
 The enlightener of nations ; and to rise 
 I knew not whither — it might be to fall ; 
 But fall, even as the mountain-cataract, 
 Wliich having leapt from its more dazzling height. 
 Even in the foaming strength of its abyss, 
 (Which casts up misty columns that become 
 Clouds raining from the reascending skies,) 
 Lies low but mighty stiH But this is past, 
 My thoughts mistook themselves. 
 
 Ahhot. And wherefore so ? 
 
 iliin. I could not tame my nature down ; for he 
 Must serve who fain would sway — and soothe — and 
 And watch all time — and pry iuto all place — [sue 
 And be a living lie — who would become 
 A mighty thing amongst the mean, and such 
 The mass are ; I disdain'd to mingle with 
 A herd, though to be leader — and of wolves. 
 The lion is alone, and so am I. 
 
 Ahljot. And why not live and act with other men ? 
 
 Mnn. Because my nature was averse from life ; 
 And yet not cruel ; for I would not make. 
 But find a desolation : — like the wind. 
 The red-hot breath of the most lone simoom. 
 Which dwells but in the desert, and sweeps o'er 
 . The barren sands which bear no shrubs to blast, 
 And revels o'er their wild and arid waves. 
 And seekcth not, so that it is not sought. 
 But being met is deadly ; such hath been 
 
 ' Otho, being defeated in a general engagement near Brixel- 
 lum, stabbed himself. Plutarch eays, that, though he lived full 
 fts badly as Nero, his last moments were those of a philosopher. 
 Uc comforted his soldiers who lamented his fo*tune, and ex- 
 
 The course of my existence ; but there lame 
 Things in my path which are no more. 
 
 Ahhot. Alas ! 
 
 I 'gin to fear that thou art past all aid 
 From me and from my calling ; yet so young, 
 I stiU would 
 
 Mtni. Look on me ! there is an order 
 
 Of mortals on the earth, who do become 
 Old in their youth, and die ere middle ige, 
 Without the violence of warlike death , 
 Some jierishing of pleasure — some of studs — • 
 Some worn with toil — some of mere weariness — 
 Some of disease — and some insanity — 
 And some of wither'd, or of broken hearts ; 
 For this last is a malady which slays 
 More than are number'd in the lists of Fate, 
 Taking all shapes, and bearing many names. 
 Look upon me ! for even of all these things 
 Have I partaken ; and of aU these things, 
 One were enough ; then wonder not that I 
 Am what I am, but that I ever was. 
 Or having been, that I am still on earth. 
 
 Ahhot. Yet, hear me still 
 
 Man. Old man 1 1 do respect 
 
 Thine Order, and revere thine years ; I deem 
 Thy purpose pious, but it is in vain : 
 Think me not churlish ; I would spare thyself, 
 Far more than me, in shunning at this time 
 All further colloquy — and so — farewell. 
 
 [Exit Manfred. 
 
 Ahhot. This should have been a noble creature: he 
 Hath all the energy which would have made 
 A goodly frame of glorious elements. 
 Had they been wisely mingled ; as it is. 
 It is an awful chaos — light and darkness — 
 And mind and dust — and passions and pure thoughts, 
 Slix'd, and contending without end or order. 
 All dormant or destructive : he will perish. 
 And yet he must not ; I wiU try once more, 
 For such are worth redemption ; and my duty 
 Is to dare aU things for a righteous end. 
 I'U foUow him — but cautiously, though surely. 
 
 [Exit iVbbot. 
 
 SCENE n. 
 Another Chamher. 
 Manfred and Herman. 
 ITer. My lord, you bade me wait en you at stmset: 
 He sinks beyond the mountain. 
 
 Man Doth he so ? 
 
 I win look on him. 
 
 [Manfred advances to the Tfindow of the Hall. 
 
 pressed his concern for their safety, when they solicited to paj 
 him the last friendly offices. Martial says : 
 
 " Sit Cato, dum vivit, sane vel C.-esare major, 
 Iram moritur, numquid major Othoce 'uit V 
 
168 
 
 BYUOX'S WORKS 
 
 ACT I a 
 
 Glorious Orb ! the idol 
 Of early nature, and the vigorous race 
 Of undiseased mankind, the giant sonsi 
 Of the embrace of angels, with a sex 
 More beautiful than they, which did draw down 
 The erring spirits who can ne'er return. — 
 Most glorious orb ! that wert a worship, ere 
 The mystery of thy making was revcal'd 1 
 Thoa earliest minister of the Almighty, 
 VThich gladden'd, on their mountain tops, the hearts 
 Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they pour'd 
 Themselves in orisons ! Thou material God 1 
 And representative of the Unknown — 
 Who chose thee for his shadow ! Thou chief staT I 
 Centre of many stars I which mak'st oiu- earth 
 Endurable, and temperest the hues 
 And hearts of all who walk within thy rays ! 
 Sire of the seasons ! Monarch of the climes, 
 And those who dwell in them ! for near or far, 
 Our unborn spirits have a tint of thee. 
 Even as our outward aspects ; — thou dost rise, 
 And shine, and set iu glory. Fare thee well ! 
 I ne'er shall see thee more. As my first glance 
 Of love and wonder was for thee, then take 
 My latest look : thou wit not beam on one 
 To whom the gifts of life and warmth have been 
 Of a more fatal natmre. He is gone : 
 I follow. [Exit Mantked. 
 
 SCENE m. 
 
 TTie ^fountains — The Castle of Ifanfred at some dis- 
 tance — A Terrace be/ore a Tower — Time, Twilight. 
 
 Herman, Manuel, and other Dependants of 
 jVLmwised. 
 
 //(??•. 'Tis strange enough ; night after Tiight, for 
 years. 
 He hath pursued long vigils in this tower. 
 Without a witness. ' I have been within it, — 
 So have we all been ofttimes : but from it, 
 Ob its contents, it were impossible 
 To draw conclusions absolute, of aught 
 His studies tend to. To be sure, there is 
 One chamber where none enter :. I would give 
 The fee of what I have to come these three years, 
 To pore upon its mysteries. 
 
 Mamie!. 'Twere dangerous ; 
 
 Content thyself with what thou know'st already. 
 
 Jler. Ah 1 Manuel I thou art elderly and wise, 
 And couldst say much ; thou hast dwelt within the 
 
 castle — 
 How many years is't ? 
 
 Manuel. Ere Count Manfred's biri;h, 
 
 I served his father, whom he naught resembles. 
 
 ' " Aucl it (tami! to pass, that the Sons of Ood »aw the danghters 
 or men. that they were fair," &o. — '' There were giants in the 
 uirih t Ihoue days: and also-after (hat, when the Sonsqf Ood 
 
 Ilrr. There be more sons in like predicament. 
 But wherein do they differ ? 
 
 Manuel. I speak not 
 
 Of features or of form, but mind and habits ; 
 Count Sigismund was proud, — but gay and free, — 
 A warrior and a reveller ; he dwelt not 
 With books and soUtude, nor made the night 
 A gloomy vigil, but a festal time, 
 Merrier than day ; he did not walk the rocks 
 And forests like a wolf, nor turn aside 
 From men and their delights. 
 
 Ilcr. Beshrew the hour, 
 
 But those were jocund times ! I would that such 
 Would visit the old walls again ; they look 
 As if they had forgotten them. 
 
 Maiivel. These walls 
 
 Must change their chieftain first. Oh ! I have seen 
 Some strange things in them, Herman. 
 
 Ilcr. Come, be friendly ; 
 
 Relate me some to while away our watch : 
 I've heard thee darkly speak of an event 
 Which happen'd hereabouts, by this same tower. 
 
 Manuel. That was a night indeed ! I do remembei 
 'Twas twilight, as it may be now, and such 
 Another evening ; — yon red cloud, which rests 
 On Eigher's pinnacle, so rested then, — 
 So like that it might be the same ; the wind 
 Was faint and gusty, and the mountain snows 
 Began to glitter with the climbing moon ; 
 Count Manfred was, as now, ^-itbin his tower, — 
 How occupied, we know not, but with him 
 The sole comjjaiiion of his wanderings 
 And watchings — her, whom of all earthly things 
 That lived, the only thing he seem'd to love, — 
 As he, indeed, by blood was bovmd to do. 
 
 The Lady Astarte, his 
 
 Hush 1 who comes here 1 
 
 Enter the Abbot. 
 
 Abbot. Where is-your master 2 
 
 Jler. Yonder, in the toTter. 
 
 Abbot. I must speak ■nith him. 
 
 Manuel. 'Tis impossible ; 
 
 He is mout private, and must not be thus 
 Intruded on. 
 
 Alibot. Upon myself I take 
 The forfeit of my fault, if fault there be — 
 But I must see him. 
 
 Jler. Thou hast seen him once 
 
 This eve already. 
 
 Abbot. Herman ! I command thee, 
 
 Ejiock, and apprize the Count of my approach. 
 
 Her. We dare not. 
 
 Abbot. Then it seems I must be herald 
 
 Of my own purpose. 
 
 came in unto the daughters of men, and tliey bare children to 
 them, the same hecame mighty men which were of old, men of 
 renown."— (7CT«rf'. ch vi. verses S and i. 
 
SCENE IV. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 ISO 
 
 M.diuiJ. Reverend father, stop — 
 
 [ pray jou pause. 
 
 Allot. Why so ? 
 
 MaitueL But step this way. 
 
 And I will tell ou further. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE rv. 
 Interior of the Tower. 
 Manfred filnne. 
 The stars are fonh, the moon above the tops 
 Of the snow-shining mountains — Beautiful 1 
 I linger yet with Nature, for the night 
 Hath been to me a more familiar face 
 Than that of man ; and in her starry shade 
 Of dim and solitary lorehness, 
 I learn'd the language of another world. 
 I do remember me, that in my youth, 
 When I was wandering, — upon such a night 
 I stood within the Coliseum's wall, 
 Mdst the chief reUcs of almighty Rome ; 
 The trees which grew along the bvoken arches 
 Waved dark in the blue midnigjt, and fhe stars 
 Shone through the rents of ruin ; from afar 
 The watch-dog bay'd beyond the Tiber ; and 
 Hlore near from out the Cajsars' palace came 
 The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly. 
 Of distant sentinels the fitful song 
 Begun and died upon the gentle wind. 
 Some cyi^resses beyond the time-worn breach 
 A])pear'd to skirt the horizon, yet they stood 
 Within a bowshot — where the Caesars dwelt. 
 And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst 
 A grove which springs through levell'd battlements. 
 And twines its roots with the imperial hearths, 
 Ivy usuqjs the laurel's place of growth ; — 
 But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands, 
 A noble wreck in ruinous perfection 1 
 While Ca?sar's chambers, .and the Augustan halls. 
 Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. — 
 And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon 
 All this, .and cast a wide and tender light. 
 Which soften'd down the hoar austerity 
 Of rugged desolation, and fill'd up. 
 As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries ; 
 Leaving that beautiful which still was so, 
 And making that which was not, till the place 
 Became religion, and the heart ran o'er 
 With silent worship of the great of old ! — 
 The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule 
 Our spirits from their urns. — • 
 
 'Twas such a night ! 
 'Tis strange that I recall it at this time ; 
 But I have found our thoughts take wildest flight 
 Even at the moment when they should array 
 Themselves in pensive order. 
 
 Enter t^u: Abbot. 
 Ahbot. My good lord ! 
 
 I crave a second grace for this approach ; 
 
 But yet let not my humble zeal ofl'end 
 
 By its abruptness — all it hath of ill 
 
 Recoils on me ; its good in the eflect 
 
 May light upon your head — could I say heart — 
 
 Could I touch thiit, with words or prayers, I should 
 
 Recall a noble spirit which hath wander'd ; 
 
 But is not yet all lost. 
 
 J]/r(n. _ Thou know'st me not ; 
 
 My days are number'd, and my deeds recorded : 
 Retire, or 'twiU be dangerous — Away ! 
 
 Allot. Thou dost not mean to menace me ? 
 
 Mfin. Not I 
 
 I simply tell thee peril is at hand, 
 And would preserve thee. 
 
 Allot. What dost mean ? 
 
 ^f(ln. Look there 
 
 What dost thou see ? 
 
 Allot. Nothing. 
 
 Miin. Look there, I say, 
 
 And steadfastly ; — now tell me what thou seest. 
 
 Allot. That which should shake me, — but I fear 
 I see a dusk and awful figure rise, [it not — 
 
 Like an infernal god, from out of the earth ; 
 His face wrapp'd in a m.antle, and his form 
 Robed as with angry clouds : he stands between 
 Thyself and me — but I do fear him not. 
 
 Man. Thou hast no cause — he shall not harm 
 thee — but 
 His sight may shock thine old limbs into palsy. 
 I say to thee — Retire I 
 
 Allot. And I reply — 
 
 Never — till I have battled with tliis fiend : — 
 What doth he here ? 
 
 j\titn. Why — ay — what doth he here ? — 
 
 I did not send for him, — he is unbidden. [these 
 
 Allot. Alas ! lost mortal ! what with guests like 
 Hast thou to do ? I tremble for thy sake : 
 Why doth he gaze on thee, and thou on him f 
 Ah ! he unveils his asijcct : on his brow 
 The thunder-scars are graven ; from his eye 
 Glares forth the immortahty of hell — 
 Avaunt 1 
 
 Man. Pronounce — what is thy mission ? 
 
 Spirit. Come 1 
 
 Allot. What art thou, unknown being ? answei ! — 
 speak 1 
 
 Sjiirit. The genius of this mortal. — Come ! 'tis time. 
 
 3ran. I am prepared for all tilings, but deny 
 The power which summons me. "Wlio sent thee here ? 
 
 Spirit. Thou'lt know anon — Come ! come ! 
 
 Man. I have comma jded 
 
 Things of an essence greater far than thine, 
 And striven with thy masters. Get th< e hence I 
 
 Spirit. Jlortal ! thine hour is come— .Vwsy ! i say, 
 
 Mon. I knew, and know my hour h uomc. b it no* 
 To render up my soul to such :i'« thee 
 Awav ! I'll die as I have Uved — alone 
 
190 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT in. 
 
 Spirit. Th ;n I must summon up my brethren. — 
 Rise 1 [Other .Sj/irils rise up. 
 
 Ahhot. Avaunt I ye evil ones 1 — A vaunt ! I say, — 
 Ye have no power where piety hath power, 
 And I do charge ye in the name 
 
 Spirit. Old man ! 
 
 We know ourselves, our mission, and thine order ; 
 Waste not thy holy words on idle uses, 
 It were in vain : this man is forfeited. 
 Once more I summon him — Away ! away ! 
 
 M((n. I do defy ye, — though I feel my soul 
 Is ebbing from me, yet I do defy ye ; 
 Nor will I hence, while I have earthly breath 
 To breathe ray scorn upon ye — earthly strength 
 To wrestle, though with spirits ; what ye take 
 Shall be ta'en limb by limb. 
 
 Spirit. Reluctant mortal I 
 
 Is this the magian who would so pervade 
 The world invisible, and make himself 
 Almost our equal ? — Can it be that thou 
 Art thus in love with life ? the very life 
 Wljich made thee wretched ! 
 
 Men. Thou false fiend, thou liest ! 
 
 My life is in its last hour^ — that I know. 
 Nor would redeem a moment of that hour ; 
 I do not combat against death, but thee 
 And thy surrounding angels ; my past power 
 Was purchased by no compact with thy crew, 
 But liy superior science — penance — daring — 
 And length of watching — strength of mind — and skill 
 In knowledge of our fathers — when the earth 
 Saw men and spirits walking side by side, 
 And gave ye no supremacy : I stand 
 Upon my strength — I do defy — deny — 
 Spurn back, and scorn ye I — 
 
 Spirit. But thy many crimes 
 
 Have made thee 
 
 Jfan. Wliat are they to such as thee • 
 
 Must crimes be punish'd hut by other crimes, 
 And greater criminals ? — Back to thy hell I 
 Thou hast no power upon me, that I feel ; 
 Thou never shalt possess me, t'lat I know : 
 What I have done is done ; I bear within 
 A torture which could notldng gain from thine • 
 The mind which is immortal makes itself 
 Requital for its good or evil thoughts- 
 Is its own origin of ill and end — 
 And its own place and time — its innate sense, 
 When stripp'd of this mortality, derives 
 No color from the fleeting things without ; 
 But is absorb'd in sufferance or in joy, 
 Born from the knowledge of its own desert. [me ; 
 l'/i(i'.i didst not tempt me, and thou couldst not ttmpt 
 I have not been thy dupe, nor am thy prey — 
 But was my ovm destroyer, and will be 
 My own hereafter. — Back, ye baffled fiends ! 
 The hand of death is on me — but not yours ! 
 
 [ The demons disappear. 
 
 Ahhot. Alas I how pale thou art — thy lips ara 
 wliite — 
 And thy breast heaves — and in thy gasping throat 
 The accents rattle — Give thy prayers to Heaven — 
 Pray— albeit but in thought, — but die nnt thus. 
 
 Ara7i. 'Tis over — my dull eyes can fix thee not ; 
 But all things swim around me, and the earth 
 Heaves as if it were beneath me. Fare thee well — 
 Give me thy hand. 
 
 Ahhot. Cold— cold — even to the heart — 
 
 But yet one prayer — Alas ! how f^ires it with thee ? 
 
 Man. Old nan ! "tis not so difficult to die. 
 
 [JIanpred expires. 
 
 Ahhot. He's gone — his soul hath ta'en his earthlesa 
 flight- 
 Whither ? I dread to think — but he is gone. 
 
MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 101 
 
 MARINO FALIEBO, DOGE OF VENICE. 
 
 AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY, 
 
 IN FIVE ACTS. 
 
 "Dm inquieti tnrbidus Adriae/'— Horace. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The conspiracy of the Dng-e Marino Paliero is one of 
 the most remarkable events in the annals of the most 
 BingTilar government, city, and people of modern his- 
 tory. It occurred in the year 1.355. Every thing about 
 Venice is, or was, extraordinary — her aspect is like a 
 dream, and her history is like a romance. The story 
 of this Doge is to be found in all her Chronicles, and 
 particularly detailed in the " Lives of the Doges," by 
 Marin Sanuto, which is given in the Appendix. It is 
 simply and clearly related, and is perhaps more dra- 
 matic in itself than any scenes which can be founded 
 jpon the subject. 
 
 Marino Faliero appears to have been a man of tal- 
 ents and of courage. I find him commander-in-chief 
 of the land forces at the siege of Zara, where he beat 
 the King of Hungary and his army of eighty thou- 
 sand men, killing eight thousand men, and keeping 
 the besieged at the same time in check ; an exploit to 
 which I know none similar in history, except that of 
 Caesar at Alesia, and of Prince Eugene at Belgrade. 
 He was afterwards commander of the fleet in the same 
 war. He took Capo d'Istria. He was ambassador at 
 Genoa and Rome, — at which last he received the news 
 of his election to the dukedom ; his absence being a 
 proof that he sought it by no intrigue, since he was 
 apprized of his predecessor's death and his own suc- 
 cession at the same moment. But he appears to have 
 been of an ungovernable temper. A story is told by 
 Sanuto, of his having, many years before, when podesta 
 and captain at Treviso, boxed the years of the bishop, 
 who was somewhat tardy in bringing the Host. For 
 ihis, honest Sanuto "saddles him with a judgment," 
 as Thwackum did Square ; but he does not tell us 
 whether he was punislied or rebuked by the Senate 
 for this outrage at the time of its commission. He 
 seems. Indeed, to have been afterwards at peace with 
 the church, for we find him ambassador at Rome, and 
 Invested with the fief of Val di Marino, in the march 
 •if Treviso, and with the title of Count, by Lorenzo 
 Count-bishop of Ceneda. For these facts my authori- . 
 lies are Sanuto, Vettor Sandi, Andrea Xavagero, and 
 ihe account of the siege of Zara, first published by the 
 Indefatigable Abate Morelli, in his " Mouumenti Vene- 
 ziani di varia Letteratura," printed in 1796, all of which 
 I have looked over in the original language. The mod- 
 
 ems, Dam, Sismondi, and Laugier, nearly agree with 
 the ancient chroniclers. Sismondi attributes the con- 
 spiracy to \As jealousy ; but I find this nowhere as- 
 serted by the national historians. Vettor ^andi, indeed, 
 says, that " Altri scrissero che .... dalla gelosa sus- 
 pizion di esso Doge siasi fatto (Michel Steno) staccar 
 con violenza," etc., etc. ; but this appears to have been 
 by no means the general opinion, nor is it alluded to 
 by Sanuto or by Navagero ; and Sandi liimself adds, a 
 moment after, that " per altre Veneziane memorie tras- 
 piri, che non il solo desiderio di vendetta lo dispose aUa 
 congiura ma anche la innata abituale ambizion sua, 
 per cui anelava a farsi principe iudependente." The 
 first motive appears to have been excited by the gross 
 affront of the words written by Jlichel Steno on the 
 ducal chair, and by the light and inadequate sentence 
 of the Forty on the offender, who was one of their " tre 
 Capi." The attentions of Steno himself appear to have 
 been directed towards one of her damsels, and not to 
 the " Dogaressa " herself, against whose fame not the 
 slightest insinuation appears, while she is praised for 
 her beauty, and remarked for her youth. Neither do 
 I find it asserted (unless the hint of Saudi be an asser- 
 tion) that the Doge was actuated by jealousy of his 
 ■wife ; but rather by respect for her, and for his own 
 honor, warranted by his past services and present 
 dignity. 
 
 I know not that the historical facts are alluded to in 
 English, unless by Dr. Moore in his "View of Italy." 
 His account is false and flippant, full of stale jests 
 about old men and young ■nives, and wondering at so 
 great an efiect from so slight a cause. How so acnto 
 and severe an observer of mankind as the author of 
 Zeluco could wonder at this is inconceivable. He knew 
 that a basin of water spilt on Jlrs. Masham's gown de- 
 prived the Duke of Marlborough of liis command, and 
 led to the inglorious peace of Utrecht — that Louis XIV. 
 was plunged into the most desolating wars, because hia 
 :ninister was nettled at his finding fault with a win- 
 dow, and wished to give him an.jther occupation — that 
 Helen lost Troy — that Lucretia expelled the Tarquins 
 from Rome — and that Cava brought the Moors to 
 Spain — that an insulted husband led the Gauls to 
 Clusium, and thence to Bome — that a single verse of 
 Frederick II. of Prussia on the Abbe de Bernis, and a 
 jest on Sladame de Pompadour, led to the battle of 
 Rosbach — that the elopement of Dearhorgil with Mac 
 
1<)9. 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Murctail conducted the Englisli to the slavery of Ire- 
 land — tliat a personal pique between Maria Antoim^ttc 
 and the Duke of Orleans, precijiitatcd the first exjjul- 
 rion of tlie Bourbons — and, not to multiply instances, 
 that Commodus, Domitian and Caligula fell victims, 
 not to their public tyranny, but to private vengeance 
 — and that an order to makt; Cromwell disembark from 
 the ship in which he would have sailed to America, de- 
 stroyed both king and commonwealth. After these in- 
 stances, on the least reflection, it is indeed extraordin- 
 ary in Dr. Moore to seem surprised that a man used to 
 command, who had served and swayed in the most im- 
 portant offices, should fiercely resent, in a fierce age, 
 an unpunished affront, the grossest that can be oiTered 
 to a man, be he prince or peasant. The age of Faliero 
 is little to the purpose, unless to favor it — 
 
 " The young man'a wrath is like straw on fire, 
 But like red-hot steel is the old man's ire." 
 
 " Y0U115 men soon ^vo and soon forget affrontB, 
 Old age is slow at both." 
 
 Laugior'.s reflections are more philosophical : — " Tale 
 fii il fino iguoniimoso di un' uonio, che la sua nascitfi, 
 la sua eta. il suo carattere dovevano tener lontano dalle 
 passioni producttrici di grandi delitti. I saoi tnlenti 
 per lungo tempo esercitati ne' maggiori impieghi, la 
 sua capncita sperimentata ne' governi e nelle ambas- 
 ciate, gli avevano acquistato la stiraa la fiducia de' 
 cittadini, ed avevano uniti i suflragi per collocarlo alia 
 testa dclla republica. Innalzato ad un grado che tei^ 
 minava gloriosamente la sua vita, il risentimento di 
 un' iugiuria leggiera insinuo nel suo cuore tal veleno 
 che bast" a corrompere le antiche sue qualita, e a con- 
 durlo al termine del scellerati ; serio esempio, che prova 
 non esseni etd, in cut la prudenza umana sin sicura, e 
 che neW uomo rcstano sempre pnsfnoni capnci a disonor- 
 arlo, quando non inviyili snpra se Stesso."^ 
 
 Wliere did Dr. Moore find tliat Marino Faliero begged 
 his life ?, I have searched the chroniclers, and find noth- 
 ing of the kind ; it is true that he avowed all. He was 
 conducted to the place of torture, but there is no men- 
 tion made of any apiilication for mercy on his part ; 
 and the very circumstance of their having taken him 
 ifi the r»ck seems to argue any thing but his having 
 shown a want of firmness, which would doubtless have 
 been also mentioned by those minute liistorians who 
 by no. means favor him : such, indeed, would be con- 
 trary to his character as a soldier, to the age in which 
 he lived, and at which he died, as it is to the truth of 
 history. I know no justification, at any distance of 
 time, for calumniating an historical character : surely 
 truth belongs to the dead, and to the unfortunate ; and 
 they who have died u])on a scaffold have generally had 
 faults enough of their own, without attributing to them 
 that which the very incurring of the perils which con- 
 ducted them to their violent death renders, of all oth- 
 ers, the most improbable. The black veil which is 
 painted over the place of Marino Faliero amongst the 
 
 ' L«ug)»r, Hi?t. de la Kepub. de Venise, Italian translation, vol. 
 ,7., p SO. 
 
 Doges, and the Giant's Staircase where he was crowned, 
 and discrowned, and decapitated, struck forcibly ujion 
 my imagination, as did his fiery character and strange 
 story. I went, in 1819, in search of his tomb more 
 than once to the church of Saa Giovanni e San Paolo : 
 and, as I was standing before the monument of anothei 
 family, a priest came up to me and said : " I can show 
 you finer monuments than that." I told him that I 
 was in search of that of the Faliero family, and par- 
 ticularly of the Doge Marino's. " Oh I" said he, " I 
 will show it you :" and conducting me to the outside, 
 pointed out a sarcophagus in the wall with an illegible 
 inscription. He said that it liad been in a convent ad- 
 joining, but was removed after the French came, and 
 placed in its present situation ; that he had seen the 
 tomb opened at its removal ; there were still some 
 bones remaining, but no positive vestige of the decapi- 
 tation. The equestrian statue of which I have made 
 mention in the Tliird Act as before that church is not, 
 however, of a Faliero, but of some other now obsolete 
 warrior, although of a later date. There were two 
 other Doges of this family prior to Marino ; Ordelafo, 
 who fell in battle at Zara in 1117, (where his descend- 
 ant afterwards conquered the Huns,) and Vital Faliero. 
 who reigned in 1082. The family, originally from p'auo, 
 was of the most illustrious in blood and wealth in the 
 city of once the most wealthy and stUl the most an- 
 cient families in Europe. The length I have gone into 
 on this subject will show the interest I have taken in 
 it. Whether I have succeeded or not in the tragedy, 
 I have at least transferred into our language an his- 
 torical fact worthy of commemoration. 
 
 It is now four years that I have meditated this work 
 and before I had sufficiently examined the records, 1 
 was rather disposed to have made it turn on a jealousy 
 in Faliero. But, perceiving no foundation for this in 
 historical truth, and aware that jealousy is an exhausted 
 passion in the drama, I have given it a more historical 
 form. I was, besides, well advised by the late Matthew 
 Lewis on that point, in talking with him of my inten 
 tion at Venice in 1817. "If you make him jealous,' 
 said he, " recollect that you have to contend with es- 
 tablished writers, to say nothing of Shakspeare, and 
 an exhausted subject ; — stick to the old fiery Doge's 
 natural character, which will bear you out, if prop- 
 erly drawn ; and make your plot as regular as you 
 can." Sir William Drummond gave me nearly the 
 same counsel. How far I have followed these instruc- 
 tions, or whether they have availed me, is not for me 
 to decide. I have had no view to the stage ; in its 
 present state it is, perhaps, not a very exalted object 
 of ambition ; besides, I have been too much behind 
 the scenes to have thought it so at any time. And I 
 cannot conceive any man of irritable feeling putting 
 himself at the mercies of an audience. The sneering 
 reader, and the loud critic, and the tart review, are scat- 
 tered and distant calamities ; but the trampling of an 
 intelligent or of an ignorant audience on a production 
 which, be it good or bad, has been a mental labor to 
 the writer, is a paljiable and immediate gritn-anco, 
 heightened by a man's doubt of their competencv iii 
 
fiOEXE I. 
 
 JM A R I X O F A L I E R . 
 
 193 
 
 judge, and his certnintv of his own imprudence in 
 electing them his judges. Were I capable of initing 
 a play wliich could be deemed stage-worthy, success 
 would give me uo pleasure, and failure great pain. It 
 is for this reason that, even during the time of being 
 one of the Ounmittee of one of the theatres, I never 
 made the attempt, and never will.' But surely there 
 is a dramatic power somewhere, where Joanna Baillie, 
 and Millmau. and John Vt'ilson exist. The " City of 
 the Phigue," and the " Fall of Jerusalem " are full of 
 the best matfrial for tragedy that has been seen since 
 Horace V'S'alpole, except passages of Ethwald and De 
 Montfort. It is the fashion to imderrate Horace Wal- 
 pole ; firstly, because he was a nobleman, and secondly, 
 because he was a gentleman ; but, to say nothing of 
 the composition of his incomparable letters, and of the 
 Castle of Otranto, he is the " Ultimtis Romanorum," 
 the author of the Mysterious Mother, a tragedy of the 
 jighest order, and not a pulling love-play. He is the 
 father of the first romance and of the last tragedy in 
 our lauguage, and surely worthy of a higher place 
 than any living writer, be he who he may. 
 
 In speaking of the drama of Marino FaUero, I forgot 
 to mention, that the desire of preserving, though still 
 too remote, a nearer approach to unity than the irregu- 
 larity which is the reproach of the English theatrical 
 compositions permits, has induced me to represent 
 the conspiracy as already formed, and the Doge acced- 
 ing to it : ivhereas, in fact, it was of his own prepara- 
 tion and that of Israel Bertjiccio. The other charac- 
 ters, (except that of the Duchess,) incidents, and almost 
 the time, which was wonderfully short for such a de- 
 sign in real life, are strictly historical, except that all 
 the consultations took place in the palace. Had I fol- 
 lowed this, the unity would have been better pre- 
 served ; but I wished to produce the Doge in the full 
 assembly of the conspirators, instead of monotonously 
 placing him always in dialogue with the same indi- 
 viduals. For the real facts, I refer to the Appendix. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 MKN. 
 
 Conspirators. 
 
 LiONi, a Patrician and Senafnr. 
 Benintexde, C/iief nf the Council of Ten. 
 Michel Steno, One nf the Three Capi of the Forty. 
 Israel, Bektuccio, Chief of 
 
 the Arsenal, 
 Phtlip Calendaeo, 
 Dagoldio, 
 Bertram, 
 Signor of the Right, (" Signore di Notte,^^) one of tlu 
 
 Officers belonging to the Republic. 
 First Citizen. 
 Second Citizen. 
 Third Citizen, 
 VrscENZo, •\ 
 
 PiETRO, > Officei-s belonging to the Ducal Palace. 
 Battista, ) 
 
 Secretary of the Council of Ten. 
 Guards, Conspirators, Citizens, The Council of Ten, 
 The Oiunta, &c. i-c. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 
 Angiolina, Wife to the Doge. 
 M-\KiAirNA, her Friend. 
 
 Female Attendants, £e. 
 Scene Venice — in the year 1355. 
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Makino FAiiiERo, Voge of Venice. 
 Bektuccio Faliebo, Nej^hcw of Doge, 
 
 ' While I was in the Snb-commitree of Dnxry Lane Theatre, I 
 can vouch for my collea^es. and I hope for myself, that we did | 
 onr best to brinj back the legitimate drama. I tried whiU I could i 
 to get "De Montfort" revived, but in vain, and equally in vain in , 
 f^vor of Southey's "Ivan," which was thought an acting^ play; ■ 
 and I endeavored also to wake Mr. Coleridge to write a tragedy. ' 
 Tho?e who are not in the secret will hardly believe that the | 
 " School for Scandal " is the play which has brought least Tfumey, 
 averaging the number of times it has been acted since its produc- 
 tion ; so Ma,nager Dibden assured me. Of what has occurred since 
 Matnrin's "■Bertram'" I am cot aware ; so that I may be traduc- 
 lug. through ignorance, some excellent new writers: if so, I beg 
 their pardon. I have been absent from England neany five years, 
 and, till last year, I never read an English newspaper since my 
 departure, and am now only aware of theatrical matters through 
 the medium of the Parisian Gazette of Galignani. and only for 
 the last twelve months. Let me then deprecate all oOence to 
 tragic or comic writers, to whom I wish well, and of whom T know ■ 
 2d 
 
 SCENE I . 
 
 A71 AntecTiuTTiber in the Ducal Palace. 
 PiETRO spealsy in entering, to Battista. 
 
 Pie. Is not the messenger returned ! 
 
 Bat. Not yet \ 
 
 I have sent frequently, as you commanded, 
 But still the Si^ory is deep in council 
 And long debate on Steno's accusation. 
 
 Pie. Too long — at least so thinks the Doge. 
 
 Bat. How bears he 
 
 These moment of suspense i 
 
 Pie. With struggling patience. 
 
 nothing. The long complaints of the actual state of the drama 
 arise, however, from no fault of the performers. I cfln conceive 
 nothing better than Kemble. Cook and Kean in their very differ- 
 ent manners, or than Elliston in gentleman's comedy, nnd in some 
 parts of tragedy. Miss O'Neill I never saw. having made and kept 
 a determination to see nothing which should flivide or disturb my 
 recollections of Siddons. Siddons and Kemble were the ideal of 
 tragic action : I never saw any thing at all resembling them even 
 in person: for this reason, we shall never see again Coiiolaims or 
 Macbeth. When Kean is blamed for want of dignity we should 
 remember that it is a grace, and not an an, and not to be attained 
 by study. In all. not suPEK-natural parts, he is perfect ; even his 
 very defects belong, or seem to belong, to the parts themselves, 
 and appear truer lo nature. But of Kemble we may say. wiih refer 
 ence to his acting, what the Cardinal je Retz said of the Marquis 
 of Montrose, "that he was the only man he ever saw wno re- 
 minded him of the heroes of Pluiarcli." 
 
X94 
 
 BYROX'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT Z 
 
 Placed at the ducal table, cover'd o'er 
 
 Witli all the apparel of the state ; petitions, 
 
 Dispatclies, judgments, acts, reprieves, reports, 
 
 He sita as rapt iu duty ; but whene'er 
 
 He hears the jarring of a distant door, 
 
 Or aught that intimates a coming step. 
 
 Or murmur of a voice, his quick eye wanders, 
 
 \nd he will start up from his chair, then pause, 
 
 And scat himself again, and fix his gaze 
 
 Upon some edict ; but I have observed 
 
 For the last hour he has not turn'd a leaf. ['twas 
 
 Jliit. 'Tis said he is much moved, — and doubtless 
 Foul scorn in Steno to otfcnd so grossly. 
 
 Pie. Ay, if a poor man : Steno's a patrician. 
 Young, galliard, gay, and haughty. 
 
 Ba!. Then you think 
 
 He will not be judged hardly ? 
 
 Pie. 'Twere enough 
 
 He be judged justly ; but 'tis not for us 
 To anticipate the sentence of the Forty. 
 
 Bat. And here it comes — What news, Vincenzo ? 
 
 Eater Vincenzo. 
 Vin. 'Tis 
 
 Decided ; but as yet his doom's unknown : 
 I saw the jiresident in act to seal 
 The parchment which will bear the Forty's judgment 
 Unto the Doge, and hasten to inform him. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE n. 
 
 The Ducal Chamber. 
 
 AIakino Faliero, Doge ; and his Nephew, 
 Bertuccio Faliero. 
 
 Ber. F. It cannot be but they will do you justice. 
 
 Doge. Ay, such as the Avogadori did. 
 Who sent up my appeal unto the Forty 
 To try him by his peers, his own tribunal. 
 
 Ber. F. His peers will scarce protect him : such an 
 act 
 Would bring contempt on all authority. [Forty ? 
 
 Doge, Know you not Venice ? Know you not the 
 But we shall see anon. 
 
 Ber. F. {addreming Vincenzo, then entering,) 
 How now — -what tidings ? 
 
 Vin. I am charged to tell his highness thatthecourt 
 Has pass'd its resolution, and that, soon 
 As the due forms of judgment are gone through. 
 The sentence wiU be sent up to the Doge ; 
 In the meantime the Forty doth salute 
 The Prince of the Republic, and entreat 
 His acceptation of their duty. 
 
 Doge. Tes — 
 
 They are wond'rous dutiful, and ever humble. 
 Sentence is pass'd, you say ? 
 
 Vin. It is, your highness : 
 
 The president was sealing it, when I 
 
 Was call'd in, that no moment might be lost 
 
 In forwarding the intimation due 
 
 Not only to the Chief of the Hepublic, 
 
 But the complainant, both in one united. [ceived, 
 
 Ber. F. Are you aware, from aught you have per- 
 Of their decision ? 
 
 Vin. No, my lord : you know 
 
 The secret custom of the courts in Venice. 
 
 Ber. F. True : but there still is something given 
 to guess, 
 Which a shrewd gleaner and quick eye would catch at; 
 A whisper, or a murmur, or an air 
 More or less solemn spread o'er the tribunal. 
 The Forty are but men — most worthy men, 
 And wise, and just, and cautious — this I grant — 
 And secret as the grave to which they doom 
 The guilty ; but with all this, in their aspects — 
 At least in some, the juniors of the number — 
 A searching eye, an eye like yours, Vincenzo, 
 Would read the sentence ere it was pronounced. 
 
 Vin. My lord, I came away upon the moment. 
 And had no leisure to take note of that 
 Wliich passed among the Judges, even iu seeming ; 
 My station near the accused too, Michel Steno, 
 Made me 
 
 Doge, (alnipll;/.) And how look'd he ? deliver thai, 
 
 Vin. Calm, but not overcast, he stood resign'd 
 To the decree, whate'er it were ; — but lo ! 
 It comes, for the perusal of his highness. 
 
 Enter the Secretary of the Forty. 
 
 See. The high tribunal of the Forty sends 
 Health and respect to the Doge Faliero, 
 Chief magistrate of Venice, and requests 
 His highness to peruse and to approve 
 The sentence pass'd on Michel Steno, bom 
 Patrician, and arraign'd upon the charge 
 Contain'd, together with its penalty. 
 Within the rescript which I now present. 
 
 Doge. Retire, and wait without. 
 
 [Exeu?it Secretary and Vincenzo. 
 Take thou this paper : 
 The misty letters vanish from my eyes : 
 I cannot fix them. 
 
 Ber. F. Patience, my dear uncle : 
 
 Why do you tremble thus ?--nay, doubt not, all 
 Will be as could be wish'd. 
 
 Doge. Say on. 
 
 Ber. F. (reading.) "Decreea 
 
 In council, without one dissenting voice. 
 That Michel Steno, by his own confession, 
 Guilty on the last night of Carnival 
 Of having graven on the ducal throne 
 The following words " 
 
 Doge. Wouldst thou repeat them ) 
 
 Wouldst thou repeat them — thou, a Faliero, 
 Harp on the deep dishonor of our house, 
 
BCENE II. 
 
 MARIXO FALIERO. 
 
 195 
 
 Dishonor'd in its chief— that chief the prince 
 Of Venice, first of cities ? To the sentence. 
 
 Ber. F. Forgive me, my good lord ; I will obey — 
 (h'ea'ls) " That Michel Steno be detain'd a month 
 In close arrest." 
 
 Do e. Proceed. 
 
 Ber. F. My lord, 'tis finish'd. 
 
 Do e. How, say you ? — finish'd ! Do I dream ? — 
 'tis false — 
 Give me the pajjer — {Snatches the paper nnd rends) — 
 
 " 'Tis decreed in council 
 That Michel Steno " Nephew, thine arm ! 
 
 Ber. F. Nay, 
 
 Cheer up, be calm ; this transport is uncall'd for — 
 Let me seek some assistance. 
 
 Dotji\ Stop, Sir — Stir not — 
 
 'Tis past. 
 
 Ber. F. I cannot but agree with you 
 The sentence is too slight for the oflence — ■ 
 It is not honorable in the Forty 
 To affix so slight a penalty to that 
 "Wliich was a foul affront to you, and even 
 To them, as being your subjects ; but 'tis not 
 Yet without remedy : you can appeal 
 To them once more, or to the Avogadori, 
 AVlio, seeing that true justice is withheld, 
 Will now take up the cause they once declined, 
 And do you right upon the bold delinquent. 
 Think you not thus, good uncle ? why do you stand 
 So fix'd ? You heed me not ; — I pray you, hear me ! 
 
 Dofjc (dashing down the dvcnl bonnet, and offering 
 to trample upon it, exclaims, as he is withheld 
 ht/ his nepheio) 
 Oh, that the Saracen were in Saint Mark's 1 
 Thus would I do him homage. 
 
 Ber. F. For the sake 
 Of Heaven and all its saints, my lord 
 
 Doge. Away 1 
 
 Oh, that the Genoese were in the port ! 
 Oh, that the Huns whom I o'erthrew at Zara 
 Were ranged around the palace ! 
 
 Ber. F. 'Tis not weU 
 
 In Venice' Duke to say so. 
 
 Doge. Venice' Duke ! 
 
 Who now is Duke in Venice ? let me see him. 
 That he may do me right. 
 
 Ber. F. If you forget 
 
 Your office, and its dignity and duty. 
 Remember that of man, and curb this passion. 
 ' The Duke of Venice 
 
 Doge, (inierriij^ting him.) There is no such thing — 
 It is a word — nay, worse — a worthless by- word : 
 The most despised, wrong'd, outraged, helpless 
 Who begs his bread, if 'tis refused by one, [wretch, 
 Jlay win it from another kinder heart ; 
 Rut he, who is denied his right by those 
 Wliose place it is to do no wrong, is poorer 
 
 Than the rejected beggar — he's a slave — 
 And that am I, and thou, and all our house, 
 Even from this hour ; tlie meanest artisan 
 Will point the finger, and the haughty noble 
 May spit upon us : — where is our redress ? 
 
 Ber. F. The law, my prince 
 
 Doge, {interrupting him.) You see what it has 
 I ask'd no remedy but from the law — [done — 
 
 I sought no vengeance but redress by law — 
 I call'd no judges but those named by law — 
 As sovereign, I ajipeal'd unto my subjects. 
 The very subjects who had made me sovereign. 
 And gave me thus a double right to be so. 
 The rights of place and choice, of birth and service 
 Honors and years, these scars, these hoary hairs, 
 The travel, toil, the perils, the fatigues. 
 The blood and sweat of almost eighty years. 
 Were weigh'd i' the balance, 'gainst the foulest stain, 
 The grossest insult, most contemptuous crime 
 Of a rauk, rash patrician — and found wanting ! 
 And this is to be borne ! 
 
 Ber. F. I say not that : — 
 
 In case your fresh appeal should be rejected. 
 We will find other means to make all even. 
 
 Dog&. Appeal again ! art thou my brother's son ? 
 A scion of the house of FaUero ? 
 The nephew of a Doge ? and of that blood 
 Wliich hath already given three dukes to Venice ? 
 But thou say'st well — we must be humble now. 
 
 Ber. F. My princely uncle ! you are too much 
 I grant it was a gross offence, and grossly [moved : 
 Left without fitting punishment : but still 
 This fury doth exceed the provocation. 
 Or any provocation : if we are wrong'd, 
 We will ask justice ; if it be denied, 
 We'U take it ; but may do all this in calmness — 
 Deep Vengeance is the daughter of deep Silence. 
 I have yet scarce a third part of your years, 
 I love our house, I honor you, its chief. 
 The guardian of my youth, and its instructor — 
 But though I understand your grief, and enter 
 In part of your disdain, it doth appal me 
 To see your anger, Uke our Adrian waves, 
 O'ersweep all bounds, and foam itself to air. 
 
 Doge. I teU thee — must I tell thee — what thy fathei 
 Would have required no words to comprehend ? 
 Hast thou no feeling save the external sense 
 Of torture from the touch ? hast thou no soul- 
 No pride — no passion — no deep sense of honor ? 
 
 Ber. F. 'Tis the first time that honor has been 
 And were the last, from any other skeptic, [doubted, 
 
 Doge. You know the full offence of this bom vil- 
 This creeping, coward, rank, acquitted felon, [lain, 
 Who threw his sting into a poisonous libel, 
 And on the honor of — oh, God ! — my wife, 
 The nearest, dearest part of all men's honor, 
 Left a base slur to pass from mouth to mouth 
 
19G 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT 1 
 
 Of loose mechanics, 'with all coarse foul comments, 
 
 And villanous jests, and blasphemies obscene ; 
 While sneering nobles, in more polish'd giiise, 
 Whisijcr'd the tale, and smiled upon the lie 
 VTliich made me look like them — a courteous wittol, 
 Patient — ay, proud, it may be, of dishonor. 
 
 Ber. F. But stiU it was a lie — you knew it false, 
 And so did all men. 
 
 Diiije. Nephew, the high Roman 
 
 Said, " Cesar's wife must not even be suspected," 
 And put her from him. 
 
 Her. P. True — but in those days 
 
 Doge. What is it that a Roman would not suffer. 
 That a Venetian prince must bear ? Old Dandolo 
 Refused the diadem of all the Cssars, 
 And wore the ducal cap I trample on, 
 Because 'tis now degraded. 
 
 Ber. F. 'Tis even so. 
 
 Doge. It is — it is : I did not visit on 
 The innocent creature thus most vilely slander'd 
 Because she took an old man for her lord. 
 For that he had been long her father's friend 
 And patron of her house, as if there were 
 No love in woman's heart l)Ut lust of youth 
 And beardless faces ; — I did not for this 
 Visit the villain's infamy on her. 
 But craved my country's justice on his head. 
 The justice due unto the humblest being 
 Who hath a wife whose faith is sweet to him, 
 Wlio hath a home whose hearth is dear to him, 
 Wlio hath a name whose honor's all to him, 
 When these are tainted by the accursing breath 
 Of calumny and scorn. 
 
 Ber. F. And what redress 
 
 Did you expect as his fit punishment ? 
 
 Doge. Death 1 Was I not the sovereign of the 
 Insulted on his very throne, and made [state, 
 
 A mockery to the men who should obey me ? 
 Was I not injured as a husband ? scorn'd 
 As man ? reviled, degraded, as a prince ? 
 Was not offence like his a complication 
 Of insult and of treason ? — and he lives ! 
 Had he instead of on the Doge's throne 
 Stamjj'd the same brand upon a peasant's stool, 
 His blood had gilt the threshold ; for the carle 
 Had stabb'd him on the instant. 
 
 Ber. F. Do not doubt it, 
 
 He shall not Uve till sunset — leave to me 
 The means, and calm yourself 
 
 Doge. Hold, nephew : this 
 
 Would have s\]fiiced but yesterday ; at present 
 I have no further wrath against this man. [doubled 
 
 Ber. F. What mean you ? is not the offence re- 
 By this most rank — I will not say — acquittal ; 
 For it is worse, being full acknowledgment 
 Of the offence, and leaving it unpunish'd ? 
 
 Doge. It is redouhhd, but not now by him ; 
 
 The Forty hath decreed a month's arrest — 
 We must obey the Forty. 
 
 Ber. F. Obey them ! 
 
 Who have forgot their duty to the sovereign ? 
 
 Doge. Why, yea ; — hoy, you perceive it then at last ; 
 Whether as feUow-citizen who sues 
 For justice, or as sovereign who commands it, 
 They have defrauded me of both my rights, 
 (For here the sovereign is a citizen ;) 
 But, notwithstanding, harm not thou a hair 
 Of Steno's head — he shall not wear it long. 
 
 Ber. F. Not twelve hours longer, had you left to m» 
 The mode and means : if you had calmly heard mo 
 I never meant this miscreant should escape. 
 But wish'd you to repress such gusts of passion, 
 That we more surely might devise together 
 His taking oft'. 
 
 Doge. No, nephew, he must live ; 
 
 At least, just now — a life so vile as his 
 Were nothing at this hour ; in th' olden time 
 Some sacrifices ask'd a single victim. 
 Great expiations had a hecatomb. 
 
 Ber. F. Tour wishes are my law ; and yet I fain 
 Would prove to you how near imto my heart 
 The honor of ( ur house must ever be. 
 
 Doge. Fear n 't ; you shall have time and place ol 
 But be not thou too rash, as I have been. [proof 
 I am ashamed ot my own anger now ; 
 I pray you, pardon me. 
 
 Ber. F. Why that's my uncle ! 
 
 The leader, and the statesman, and the chief 
 Of commonwealths, and sovereign of himself ! 
 I wondcr'd to perceive you so forget 
 All prudence in your fury at these years, 
 Although the cause 
 
 Doge. Ay, think upon the cause — 
 
 Forget it not : — Wlien you lie down to rest. 
 Let it be black among your dreams ; arid when 
 The morn returns, so let it stand between 
 The sun and you, as an ill-omen'd cloud 
 Upon a summer-day of festival : 
 So will it stand to me ; — Init speak not, stir not, — 
 Leave all to me ; — we shall have much to do, 
 And you shall have a part. But now retire, 
 'Tis fit I were alone. 
 
 Ber. F. (Jnhing i/p and plncing the diieal hnnnet on 
 the table.) Ere I depart, 
 
 I pray you to resume what you have spum'd, 
 Till you can change it haply for a crown. 
 And now I take my leave, imploring you ' 
 
 In all things to rely upon my duty 
 As doth become your near and faithful kinsman. 
 And not less loyal citizen and suliject. 
 
 [E.fit Bertcccio F.\lieko. 
 
 Doge, (.«()''/.'(.) Adieu, my worthy nephew. 
 
 Hollow bauble ! [Taling up the ducal cap 
 Beset with all the thorns that line a crown, 
 
SCEXE II. 
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 197 
 
 Without inresting tlie insulted brow 
 
 With the all-swaying majesty of kings ; 
 
 Thou idle, gilded, and degraded toy, 
 
 Let me resume thee as I would a vizor. [Puts it on. 
 
 How my l)rain aclies beneath thee ! and my temples 
 
 Throb feverish under thy dishonest weight. 
 
 Could T not turn thee to a diadem ? 
 
 Could I not shatter the Briarean sceptre 
 
 Which in this hundred-handed senate rules, 
 
 Making the people nothing, and the prince, 
 
 A pageant ? In my life I have achieved 
 
 Tasks not less difficult — achieved for them. 
 
 Who thus rejiay me ! — Can I net requite them ? 
 
 Oh for one year ! Oh ! but for even a day 
 
 Of my full youth, while yet my body served 
 
 Jly soul as serves the generous steed his lord, 
 
 I would have dash'd amongst them, asking few 
 
 In aid to overthrow these sworn jiatiicians ; 
 
 But now I must look round for other hands 
 
 To serve this hoary head : — but it shall plan 
 
 In such a sort as will not leave the task 
 
 Herculean, though as yet 'tis but a chaos 
 
 Of darkly brooding thoughts : my fancy is 
 
 In her first work, more nearly to the light 
 
 Holding the sleeping images of things 
 
 For the selection of the pausing judgment. — 
 
 The troops are few in 
 
 Enter Vincenzo. 
 
 Vin. There is one without 
 
 Craves audience of your highness. 
 
 Boye. I'm unwell — 
 
 I can see no one, not even a patrician — 
 Let him refer his business to the council. 
 
 Vin. My lord, I will deliver your reply ; 
 It cannot much import — he's a plebeian. 
 The master of a galley, I believe. 
 
 D'ige. How ! did you say the patron of a galley ? 
 That is — I mean — a servant of the state : 
 Admit him, he may be on public service. 
 
 f Exit VmcENzo. 
 
 Dor/e, (solus.) This patron may be sounded ; I will 
 try him. 
 I know the people to be discontented : 
 They have cause, since Sapienza's adverse day, 
 Wlien Genoa conqucr'd : they have further cause, 
 Since they are nothing in the state, and in 
 Tlie city worse than nothing — mere machines, 
 To serve the nobles' most patrician pleasure. 
 The troops have long anx-ars of pay oft i^romised, 
 And murmur deeply — any hope of change 
 Will draw them forward : they shall pay themselves 
 With plunder : — but the priests — I doubt the priest- 
 hood 
 Will not be with us ; — they have hated me 
 Bince that rash hour, when, madden'd with the drone, 
 
 I smote the tardy bishop at Treviso, 
 
 Quickening his holy march ; yet, ne'ertheless. 
 
 They may be won, at least their chief at Rome, 
 
 By some well-timed concessions ; but, above 
 
 All things, I must be speedy : at my hour 
 
 Of twilight little light of life remains. 
 
 Could I free Venice, and avenge my wrongs, 
 
 I had lived too long, and willingly would sleep 
 
 Next moment with my sires ; and, wanting this, 
 
 Better that sixty of my fom'score years 
 
 Had been already where — how soon, I care not — 
 
 The whole must be extinguish'd ; — better that 
 
 They ne'er had been, than di-ag me on to be 
 
 The thing these arch oppressors fain would make me. 
 
 Let me consider — of efHeient troops 
 
 There are three thousand posted at 
 
 Enter Vincenzo and Israel Bertuccio. 
 
 Vin. May it please 
 
 Tour highness, the same patron which I spake of 
 Is here to crave your patience. 
 
 Boge. Leave the chamber, 
 
 Vincenzo. — [Erit Vencexzo 
 
 Sir, you may advance — what would you 1 
 
 /. Ber. Redress. 
 
 Boc/e. Of whom ? 
 
 /. Ber. Of God and of the Dot e. 
 
 Boffe. Alas ! my friend, you seek it of the twain 
 Of least respect and interest in Venice. 
 You must address the council. 
 
 /. Btr. 'Twere in vain ; 
 
 For he who injured me is one of them. 
 
 Boge. There's blood upon thy face — how came it 
 there ? 
 
 1. Ber. 'Tis mine, and not the first I've shed for 
 
 Venice, 
 But the fii-st shed by a Venetian hand : 
 A noble smote me. 
 
 Boge. Doth he live ? 
 
 2. Ber. Kot long — 
 But for the hope I had and have, that you. 
 My prince, yourself a soldier, wiU redress 
 Him, whom the laws of discipline and Venice 
 Permit not to protect himself ; —if not — 
 
 I say no more. 
 
 Boge. But something you would do — 
 
 Is it not so ? 
 
 /. Ber. I am a man, my lord. 
 
 Boge. Why, so is he who smote you. 
 
 /. Ber. He is caU'd so 
 
 Nay, more, a noble one — at least, in Venice : 
 But since he hath forgotten that I am one- 
 And treats me like a brute, the brute may turn — 
 'Tis said the worm will. 
 
 Boge. Say — his name and Unenge ' 
 
 /. Ber. Barbaro. 
 
1P8 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT i 
 
 Doge. What was the cause, or the pretext ? 
 
 I. Ber. I am the chief of the arsenal, employ'fl 
 At present in repairing certain galleys 
 ■Rut roughly used by the Genoese last year. 
 This moruiug comes the noble Barbaro 
 Full of reproof, because our artisans 
 Had left some frivolous order of his house, 
 To execute the state's decree : I dared 
 To justify the men — he raised his hand ; — 
 R'^liold my blood ! the first time it e'er flow'd 
 Dishonorably. 
 
 Diifje. Have you long time served ? 
 
 /. liir. So long as to remember Zara's siege, 
 Ajid fight beneath tlie chief who beat the Huns there 
 Sometime my general, now the Doge Faliero. — 
 
 Doge. How ! are we comrades ? — the state's ducal 
 robes 
 Sit newly on me, and you were appointed 
 Chief of the arsenal ere I came from Rome ; 
 So that I recognised you not. Who placed you ? 
 
 /. Iki: The late Doge ; keeping still my old com- 
 mand 
 As patron of a galley : my new office 
 Was given as the reward of certain scars, 
 (So was your predecessor pleased to say :) 
 I little thought his bounty would conduct me 
 To his successor as a helpless plaintifl'; 
 At least, in such a cause. 
 
 Doije. Are you much hurt ? 
 
 /. Ber. Irreparably in my self-esteem. 
 
 Doge. Speak out ; fear nothing : being stimg at 
 heart, 
 What would you do to be revenged on this man ? 
 
 I. Ber. That which I dare not name, and yet will 
 do. 
 
 Doge. Then wherefore came you here ? 
 
 /. Ber. I come for justice. 
 
 Because my general is Doge, and will not 
 See his old soldier trampled on. Had any. 
 Save Faliero, fiU'd the ducal throne, 
 'This blood had been wash'd out in other blood. 
 
 Doge. You come to me for justice — unto me ! 
 The Doge of Venice, and I cannot give it ; 
 I cannot even obtain it — 'twas denied 
 To me most solemnly an hour ago ! 
 
 /. Ber. How says your highness ? 
 
 T>oge. Steno is condcmn'd 
 
 Tc a month's confinement. 
 
 /. Ber. What ! the same who dared 
 
 To stain the ducal throne with those foul words, 
 That have cried shame to every ear in Venice ? 
 
 Doge. Ay, doubtless they have echo'd o'er the 
 arsenal. 
 Keeping due time with every hammer's clink, 
 As a good jest to jolly artisans ; 
 Or making chorus to the creaking oar, 
 In the ^-ile tun(> of every galley-slave, 
 Whoi as he sung the merry stave, exulted 
 
 He \\as not a shamed dotard like the Doge. 
 
 /. Ber. Is't possible ? a month's imprisonment I 
 No more for Steno ? 
 
 Doge. You have heard the offence, 
 
 And now you know his punishment ; and then 
 You ask redress of me ! Go to the Forty, 
 Wlio pass'd the sentence upon Michel Steno ; 
 They'll do as much by Barbaro, no doubt. 
 
 /. /)'( )■. Ah ! dared I speak my feelings ! 
 
 Doge. Give them breath. 
 
 Mine have no further outrage to endiire. 
 
 /. Ber. Then, in a word, it rests but on your word 
 To punish and avenge — I nail not s.iy 
 My jjetty wrong, for what is a mere blow. 
 However vile, to such a thing as I am ? 
 But the base insult done your state and jjerson. 
 
 Doge. You overrate my power, which is a pageaut 
 This cap is not the monarch's crown ; these robes 
 Might move compassion, like a beggar's rags ; 
 Nay, more, a beggar's are his own, and these 
 But lent to the poor pupjiet, who must play 
 Its part with all its empire in this ermine. 
 
 /. Ber. Wouldst thou be king ? 
 
 Doge. Yes — of a hapjjy people. 
 
 /. Ber. Wouldst thou be sovereign lord of Venice ? 
 
 Doge. Ay, 
 
 If that the people shared that sovereignty. 
 So that nor tliey nor I were further slaves 
 To this o'ergrown aristocratic Hydra, 
 The jjoisonous heads of whose envenom'd body 
 Have breathed a pestilence npon us all. 
 
 /. Ber. Yet, thou wast bora, and still luist Uved, 
 patrician. 
 
 Doge. In evil hour was I so born ; my birth 
 Hath made me Doge to be insulted : but 
 I lived and toil'd a soldier and a servant 
 Of Venice and her pcojile, not the senatf ; 
 Their good and my own honor were my guerdon. 
 I have fought and bled ; commanded, ay, and con 
 
 quer'd ; 
 Have made and marr'd jieaee oft in embassies. 
 As it might chance to be our country's 'vantage ; 
 Have traversed land and sea in constant duty, 
 Tlirough almost sixty years, and still for Venice, 
 My fathers' and my birthplace, whose dear si^ires, 
 Rising at distance o'er the blue Lagoon, 
 It was reward enough for me to view 
 Once more ; but not for any knot of men. 
 Nor sect, nor faction, did I bleed or sweat 1 
 But would you know why I have done all this ? 
 Ask of the bleeding pelican why she 
 Hath ripp'd her bosom ? Had the bird a voice, 
 She'd tell thee 'twas for all her little ones. 
 
 /, Ber. And yet they made thee duke. 
 
 Doge. 'I'liey made me at 
 
 I sought it not, the flattering fetters met me 
 Returning from my Roman embassy, 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 MARIXO FALIERO. 
 
 199 
 
 And never having hitherto refused 
 
 Toil, charge, or duty for the state, I did not, 
 
 At these late years, decline what was ine highest 
 
 Of all iu seeming, but of all most base 
 
 In what we have to do and to endure : 
 
 Hear witness for me thou, my injured subject, 
 
 When I can neither right myself nor thee. 
 
 /. Bei: You shall do both if you possess the will ; 
 And many thousands more not less oppress'd, 
 Who wait but for a signal — will you give it ? 
 
 Doge. You speak in riddles. 
 
 /. Ber. AYhich shall soon be read 
 
 At peril of my Ufe, if you disdain not 
 To lend a patient ear. 
 
 Doge. Say on. 
 
 /. Eer. Not thou. 
 
 Nor I alone, are injured and abused, 
 Contemn'd and trampled on ; but the whole people 
 Groan with the strong conception of their wrongs : 
 The foreign soldiers in the senate's jjay 
 Are discontented for their long arrears ; 
 The native mariners, and civic troojjs, [them 
 
 Feel with their friends ; for who is he amongst 
 Whose brethren, parents, children, wives, or sisters, 
 Have not partook oppression, or pollution, 
 From the patricians ? And the hopeless war 
 Against the Genoese, which is still maintain'd 
 With the plebeian blood, and treasure wrung [ther : 
 From their hard earnings, has inflamed them fur- 
 Even now — but, I forget that speaking thus. 
 Perhaps I pass the sentence of my death ! 
 
 ])ofi<\ And sufitring what thou hast done — fear'st 
 Be silent then, and live on, to be beaten [thou death ? 
 By those for whom thou hast bled. 
 
 /. Ber. No, I will speak 
 
 At every hazard ; and if Venice' Doge 
 Should turn delator, be the shame on him. 
 And sorrow too ; for he wiR lose far more 
 Than I. 
 
 Doge. From me fear nothing ; out with it ! 
 
 /. Ber. Know then, that there are met and sworn in 
 A band of brethren, valiant hearts and true ; [secret 
 Men who have proved all fortunes, and have long 
 Grieved over that of Venice, and have right 
 To do so ; having served her in all cUmes, 
 And having rescued her from foreign foes, 
 Would do the same from those ■5\-ithin her walls. 
 They are not numerous, nor yet too few 
 For their great purpose ; they have arms, and means, 
 And hearts, and hopes, and faith, and patient cour- 
 Ijoge. For what then do they pause ? [age. 
 
 /. Ber. An hour to strike. 
 
 Doge, {aside.) Saint Mark's shall strike that hour !i 
 
 ' Tbe bells of San Marco were never rung but by order of the 
 Do^e. One of the pr<;texts for rinLrini^ Ibis alarm was to have 
 been an auuouucement of tae appearance of a Genoese fleet off 
 tbe Lagune. 
 
 /. Ber. I now have pla;e<i 
 
 My life, my honor, all my earthly hopes 
 Within thy power, but in the firm belief 
 That injuries Uke ours, sprimg from one cause, 
 WiU generate one vengeance : should it be so, 
 Be our chief now — our sovereign hereafter. 
 
 Doge. How many are ye ? 
 
 /. Ber. I'll not answer that 
 
 Till I am answer'd. 
 
 Doge. How, sir ! do you menace ? 
 
 /. Ber. No ; I affirm. I have betray'd myself; 
 But there's no torture in the mystic wells 
 Which undermine your palace, nor in those 
 Not less appalUng cells, the " leaden roofs," 
 To force a single name from me of others. 
 The Pozzi and the Piombi were in vain ; [never. 
 They might wring blood from me, but treaolierj 
 And I would pass the fearful " Bridge of Sighs," 
 Joyous that mine must be the last that e'er 
 Would echo o'er the Stygian wave which flows 
 Between the murderers and the murder'd, washing 
 The prison and the palace walls : there are 
 Those who would live to think on't, and £Venj.'e tne. 
 
 Doge. If such your power and purpose, wny come 
 To sue for justice, being in the course [here 
 
 To do yourself due right 1 
 
 I. Ber. Because tb& man 
 
 Who claims protection from authority, 
 Sho\^■ing his confidence and his submission 
 To that authority, can hardly be 
 Suspected of combining to destroy it. 
 Had I sate down too humbly with this blow, 
 A moody brow and mutter'd threats had made me 
 A mark'd man to the Forty's inquisition ; 
 But loud comjjlaint, however angrily 
 It shapes its phrase, is little to be fcar'd. 
 And less distrusted. But, besides all this, 
 I had another reason. 
 
 Doge. What was that ? 
 
 /. Ber. Some rumors that tiie Doge was greatly 
 By the reference of the Avogadori [moved 
 
 Of ^Michel Steno's sentence to the Forty 
 Had rcach'd me. I had served you, honor'd you. 
 And felt that you were dangerously insulted, 
 Being of an order of such spirits, as 
 Requite tenfold both good and evil : 'twas 
 My wish to prove and urge you to redress. 
 Now you know all ; and that I speak the truth, 
 My peril be the proof. 
 
 Doge. You have deeply ventured ; 
 
 But all must do so who would greatly ^\\n : 
 Thus far I'U answer you — your secret's safe. 
 
 /. Ber. And is this all ? 
 
 Doge. Unless ^-ith all intrusted. 
 
 What would you have me answer ? 
 
 /. Ber. I would have you 
 
 Trust him who leaves his life iu trust with you. 
 
200 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Doge. But I must know j'our plau, your names, 
 and numbers ; 
 The last may then be doubled, and the former 
 Matured and strcngthen'd. 
 
 /. Ber. We're enough already : 
 
 You are the sole ally we covet now. 
 
 Doije. But bring me to the kiu>wk'dge of your chiefs. 
 
 /. Bcr. That shall Ijo done upon your formal pledge 
 To keep the faith that we will pledge to you. 
 
 Doge, When ? where ? 
 
 /. Ber. This night I'll bring to your apartment 
 Two of the principals ; a greater number 
 Were hazardous. 
 
 DiHje. Stay, I must think of this. 
 
 WTiat if I were to trust myself amongst you, 
 And leave the palace ? 
 
 I. Ber. You must come alone. 
 
 Doge. With but my nephew. 
 
 I. Ber. Not were he your son. 
 
 Doge. Wretch 1 darest thou name my son ? He 
 At Sajiienza for this faithless state. [dietl in arms 
 Oh, that he were alive, and I in ashes I 
 Or that he were alive ere I be ashes ! 
 I should not need the dubious aid of strangers. 
 
 /. Bi r. Not one of all those strangers whom thou 
 But will regard thee with a filial feeling, [doubtest, 
 So that thou keep'at a father's faith with them. 
 
 Doge. The die is cast. Where is the place of 
 meeting 2 
 
 /. Ber. At midnight I wiU be alone and mask'd 
 Where'er your highness pleases to direct mo. 
 To wait your coming, and conduct you where 
 You shall receive our homage, and pronounce 
 Upon our project. 
 
 Doge. At what hour arises 
 
 The moon ? 
 
 I. Ber. Late, but the atmosphere is thick and 
 'Tia a sirocca. [dusky ; 
 
 Doge. At the midnight hour, then, 
 
 Near to the church where sleep my sires ; the same 
 Twin-named from the apostles John and Paul ; 
 A gondola," vdth one oar only, will 
 Lurk in the narrow channel which gUdes by : 
 Be there. 
 
 /. B,r. I will not fail. 
 
 Doije. And now retire 
 
 /. Ber. In the full hope your highness vnW not fal- 
 
 In your great purpose. Prince, I take my leave, [ter 
 
 [Exit Israel Beutuccio. 
 
 Doge, {solus.) At midnight, by the church Saints 
 John and Paul, 
 Where sleep my noble f ithers, I repair — 
 Tn what ? to hold a council in the dark 
 
 A gondola is not like o common boat, but is ns easily rowud 
 wilii one oar as witli two (tiionirli. of course, not eo swiftly), and 
 often iH BO from motives of privacy ; and. siuce the decay of 
 ''enloj, of economy 
 
 With common ruffians leagued to ruin static : 
 
 And will not my great sires leap from the v;iiiU, 
 
 Where lie two Doges who preceded me. 
 
 And pluck me down amongst them ? Would thej 
 
 For I should rest in honor with the honor'd. [could i 
 
 Alas ! I must not think of them, but those 
 
 Who have made me thus unworthy of a name, 
 
 Noble and brave as auglit of consular 
 
 On Roman marbles ; but I will redeem it 
 
 Back to its antique lustre in our annals. 
 
 By sweet revenge on all that's base in Venict, 
 
 And freedom to the rest, or leave it black 
 
 To aU the growing calumnies of time, 
 
 'Wliich never spare the fame of him who fails, 
 
 But try the C'ssar, or the Catihne, 
 
 By the true touchstone of desert — success. 
 
 ACT n. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 An Apartment in the Ducal Palace. 
 ANQTOLrNA {xoife of the Doqb and Mahianna. 
 
 Aug. What was the Doge's answer ? 
 
 Mar. That he wai 
 
 That moment summon'd to a conference ; 
 But 'tis by this time ended. I perceived 
 Not long ago the senators embarking ; 
 And the last gondola may now be seen 
 Gliding into the throng of barks which stud 
 The glittering waters. 
 
 Aug. Would he were retum'd I 
 
 He has been much disquieted of late ; 
 And Time which has not tamed his fiery spirit, 
 Nor yet enfeebled even his mortal frame 
 AVhich seems to be nourish'd by a soul 
 So quick and restless that it would consume 
 Less hardy clay — Time has but little power 
 On his resentments or his griefs. Unlike 
 To other spirits of his order, who. 
 In the first burst of jjassion, pour away 
 Their wrath or sorrow, all things wear in him 
 An aspect of eternity : his tltouglits. 
 His feelings, passions, good or evil, all 
 Have nothing of old age ; and his bold brow 
 Bears but the scars of mind, the thoughts of yeata 
 Not their decrepitude : and he of late 
 Has been more agitated than his wont. 
 Would he were come 1 for I alone have power 
 Upon his troubled spirit. 
 
 Mnr. It is true, 
 
 Ilis liighni'ss has of late been greatly moved 
 Bj' the afi'rout of Steno, and with cause : 
 But the offender doubtless even now 
 Is dooni'd to expiate his rash insult with 
 Such chastisement as will enforce respect 
 To female virtue, and to noble blood. 
 
Si::::;ro i. 
 
 MARIXO FxVLIERO. 
 
 201 
 
 -Ui'j. 'Twas a gross insult ; but I heed it not 
 For the rash scorner's falsehood in itself, 
 But for the effect, the deadly deep impression 
 VThich it has made upon Faliero's soul, 
 The proud, the iiery, the austere — austere 
 To all save me : I tremble when I think 
 fo what it may conduct. 
 
 Mar. Assuredly 
 
 The Doge can not suspect you ? 
 
 AiKj. Suspect 7116 ! 
 
 Why Steno dared not : when he scrawl'd his lie. 
 Grovelling by stealth in the moon's glimmering light, 
 nis own still conscience smote him for the act, 
 And every shadow on the walls ti:o\\-n'd shame 
 Upon his coward calumny. 
 
 Mar. 'Twere fit 
 
 He should be punish'd grievously. 
 
 Ang. He is so. 
 
 Mar. What ! is the sentence pass'd ? is he con- 
 demn'd ? 
 
 Aiuj. I know not that, but he has been detected. 
 
 Mar. And deem you this enough for such foul 
 scorn ? 
 
 Anri. I would not be a judge in my own cause, 
 Nor do I know what sense of punishment 
 May reach the soul of ribalds such as Steno ; 
 But if his insults sink no deeper in 
 The mimls of the inquisitors than they 
 Have ruflied mine, he will, for all acquittance, 
 Be left to his own shamclcssncss or shame. 
 
 Mar. Some sacrifice is due to slander'd virtue. 
 
 Aug. Why, what is virtue if it needs a victim ? 
 Or if it must depend upon men's words 2 
 The dying Roman said, " 'twas but a name :" 
 It were indeed no more, if human breath 
 Could make or mar it. 
 
 Mar. Yet full many a dame. 
 
 Stainless and faithful, would feel all the wrong 
 Of such a slander ; and less rigid ladies. 
 Such as abound in Venice, would be loud 
 And all-inexorable in their cry 
 For justice. 
 
 Ang. This but proves it is the name 
 
 And not the quality they prize : the first 
 Have found it a hard task to hold their honor, 
 If they require it to be blazon'd forth ; 
 And those who have not kept it, seek its seeming 
 As they would look out for an ornament 
 Of which they feel the want, but not because 
 Tliey think it so ; they live in others' thoughts, 
 Aiid would seem honest, as they must seem fair 
 
 Mirr. Tou have strange thoughts for a patrician 
 dame. 
 
 Arig. And yet they were my father's ; with his 
 name. 
 The sole inheritance he left. 
 
 Mar. You want none ; 
 
 26 
 
 Wife to a prince, the chief of the RepubUc. 
 
 Aug. I should have sought none though a peasant's 
 But feel not less the love and gratitude [bride, 
 
 Bue to my father, who bestow'd my hand 
 Upon his early, tried, and trusted Mend, 
 The Count Val di Marino, now our Doge. 'heart ? 
 
 Mar. And with that hand did he bestow your 
 
 Ang. He did so, or it had not been bestow'd. 
 
 Mar. Yet this strange disproportion in yom- years, 
 And, let me add, disparity of tempers. 
 Might make the world doubt whether such a imion 
 Could make you wisely, permanently happy. 
 
 Ang. The world will think with worldUngs ; but 
 my heart 
 Has still been in my duties, which are many. 
 But never difficult. 
 
 Mar. And do you love him ? 
 
 Any. I love all noble qualities which merit 
 Love, and I loved my father, who first taught me 
 To single out what we should love in others, 
 x\jid to subdue all tendency to lend 
 The best and purest feelings of our nature 
 To baser passions. He bestow'd my hand 
 Upon Faliero : he had known him noble. 
 Brave, generous ; rich in all the quaUties 
 Of soldier, citizen, and fi-iend ; in all 
 Such have I found him as my father said, 
 His faults are those that dwell in the high bosoms 
 Of men who have commanded ; too much pride, 
 And the deep passions fiercely foster'd by 
 The uses of ijatricians, and a Ufe 
 Spent in the storms of state and war ; and also 
 From the quick sense of honor, which becomes 
 A duty to a certain sign, a vice 
 When overstrain'd, and this I fear in him. 
 And then he has been rash from his youth upwards, 
 Yet tempcr'd by redeeming nolileuess 
 In such sort, that the wariest of republics 
 Has lavish'd all its chief employs upon him. 
 From his first fight to his last embassy. 
 From which on his return the Dukedom met him. 
 
 Mar. But previous to this marriage, had your heart 
 Ne'er beat for any of the noble youth. 
 Such as in years had been more meet to match 
 Beauty like yours ? or since have you ne'er seen 
 One, who, if your fair hand were stiU to give, 
 Might now pretend to Loredano's daughter ? 
 
 Ang. I answer'd your first question when I said 
 I married. 
 
 Mar. And the second ? 
 
 Ang. Needs no answer. 
 
 Mar. I pray you pardon, if I have ofl'cnded. 
 
 Ang. I feel no wrath, but some surprise : I knew 
 That wedded bosoms could permit themselves [not 
 To ponder upon what they now might choose. 
 Or aught save their past choice. 
 
 Mar. 'Tis their past choice 
 
202 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT n. 
 
 Tliat far too often makes them deem tbey would 
 Xow choose more wiscl}', could they cancel it. 
 
 -Inf/. It may be so. I knew not of such thoughts. 
 
 Mar. Here comes the Doge — shall I retire ? 
 
 Aiifj. It may 
 
 Be better you should quit me ; he seems wrapp'd 
 In tliought. IIow pensively he takes his way I 
 
 {Exit Mabiaxna. 
 
 Enter the Doge and Pietro. 
 
 Dnrte, Qnushif/.) There is a certain Philip Calen- 
 Now in the Arsenal, who holds command [dare 
 
 Of eighty men, and has great influence 
 Besides on all the S])irit3 of his comrades : 
 This man, I hear, is bold and popular. 
 Sudden and daring, and yet secret ; 'twould 
 Be well that he were won : I needs must hope 
 That Israel Bertuccio has secured him, 
 But fain would be 
 
 Pie. My lord, pray pardon me 
 
 For breaking in upon your meditation ; 
 The Senator Bertuccio, your kinsman. 
 Charged me to follow and inquire your pleasure 
 To fix an hour when he may speak with you. 
 
 Diuje. At sunset. Stay a moment— let me see- 
 Say in the second hour of night. Kxi/ Pietro. 
 
 Anff. My lord ! 
 
 IJn/;c. My dearest child, forgive me — why delay 
 So long approaching me ? — I saw you not. [now 
 
 Aii;i. You were absorb'd in thought, and lie who 
 Has parted from you might have words of weight 
 To bear you from the senate. 
 
 Doije. From the senate ? 
 
 A)i>/. I would not inten'upt him in his dutj' 
 And theirs. 
 
 Do(ie. The senate's duty ! you mistake ; 
 
 'Tis we who owe all service to the senate. 
 
 -iiiij. I thought the Duke had held command in 
 Venice. [jooimd. 
 
 Diir/e. He shall. But let that pass. We wiU be 
 'How fares it with you ? have you been abroad ? 
 The day is overcast, but the calm wave 
 Favors the gondolier's light skimming oar ; 
 Or have you held a levee of your friends ? 
 Or has your music made you solitary ? 
 Say — is there aught that you would will within 
 The little sway now left the Duke ? or aught 
 Of fitting splendor, or of honest pleasure. 
 Social or lonely, that would glad your heart. 
 To compensate for many a dull hour, wasted 
 On an old man oft moved with many cares ? 
 Speak and 'tis done. 
 
 Avff. You're ever kind to me — 
 
 I have nothing to desire, or to request, 
 E.xcept to see you oftener and calmer. 
 
 DiKjc. Calmer ? 
 
 An;/. Ay, calmer, my good lord. Ah, why 
 
 Do you stiU keep apart, and walk alone. 
 And let such strong emotions stamp your br;w, 
 As not betraying their fuU import, yet 
 Disclose too much ? 
 
 Voye. Disclose too much ! — of what t 
 
 What is there to disclose ? 
 
 Aug. A heart so ill 
 
 At ease. 
 
 Doge. 'Tis nothing, child. But in the state 
 You know what daily cares oppress all those 
 Who govern this precarious commonwealth ; 
 Now suft'ering from the Genoese without. 
 And malcontents within — 'tis this which makes me 
 More pensive and less tranquil than uiy wont. 
 
 A7xg. Yet this existed long before, and never 
 Till in these late days did I see you thus. 
 Forgive me ; there is something at your heart 
 More than the mere discharge of pubhc duties, 
 Which long use and a talent like to yours 
 Have render'd light, nay, a necessity. 
 To keep your mind from stagnating. 'Tis not 
 In hostile states, nor perils, thus to shake you ; 
 You, who have stood all storms and never sunk, 
 And climb'd up to the pinnacle of power 
 And never fainted by the way, and stand 
 Upon it, and can look down steadily 
 Along the depth beneath, and ne'er feel dizzy. 
 Were Genoa's galleys riding in tlie jjort, 
 Were civil fury raging in Saint Mark's, 
 You are not to be wrought on, but would fall, 
 As you have risen, with an unalter'd brow — 
 Your feelings now are of a different kind ; 
 Something has stung your pride, not patriotism. 
 
 Do/je. Pride ! Angiolina ? Alas ! none is left me. 
 
 Ang. Yes— the same sin that overthrew the angels, 
 And of all sins most easily besets 
 Mortals the nearest to the angelic nature : 
 The vilo are only vain ; the great are proud. 
 
 Doge. I /lail the pride of honor, of i/our honor, 
 Deep at my heart But let us change the theme. 
 
 Aug. Ah, no ! — As I have ever shared yoiu- kind- 
 In all things else, let me not be shut out [ness 
 
 From your distress : were it of public import, 
 You know I never sought, would never seek 
 To win a word from you ; but feeling now 
 Your griel 1? private, it belongs to me 
 To lighten or divide it. Since the day 
 When foolish Steno's ribaldry detected 
 Unflx'd your quiet, you are greatly changed. 
 And I would soothe you back to what you were. 
 
 Doge. To what I w.is ! — Have you heard Steno'« 
 
 A7)g. No. [sentence 1 
 
 Doge. A month's arrest. 
 
 Aug. Is it not enough ? 
 
 Doge. Enough 1 — yes, for a drunken galley-slave, 
 Who, stung by stripes, may murmur at his master ; 
 But not for a deliberate, false, cool villain. 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 MARi:SO FALIEKO. 
 
 203 
 
 WTio stains a lady's and a j>rince's honor, 
 Even on the throne of liis authority. 
 
 Aiiff. There seems to me enough in the conviction 
 Of a patrician guilty of a falsehood : 
 All other punishment were light unto 
 His loss of honor. 
 
 Doge. Such men have no honor, 
 
 They have but their vile lives — and these arc spared. 
 
 An/;. You would not have him die for this oflence ? 
 
 I)u(/e. Not now : — being still alive, I'd have him 
 Long as he can ; he has ceased to merit death ; [Uve 
 The guilty saved hath damn'd his hundred judges, 
 And he is pure, for now his crime is theirs. 
 
 Aioj. Oh, had this false and flippant libeller 
 Shed his young blood for his absurd lampoon. 
 Ne'er from that moment could this breast have 
 A joyous hour, or dreamless slumber more, [known 
 
 Doge. Does not the law of Heaven say blood for 
 blood ? 
 And he who tinnts kills more than he who sheds it. 
 Is it the p'lin of blows, or shame of blows. 
 That make such deadly to the sense of man ? 
 Do not the laws of man say blood for honor ? 
 And, less than honor, for a little gold ? 
 Say not the laws of nations lilood for treason ? 
 [s't nothing to have fill'd these veins with poison 
 For their once healthful current ? is it nothing — 
 To have staiu'd your name and mine — the noblest 
 Is 't nothing to have brought into contemjit [names ? 
 A prince before his jseople ? to have fiiil'd 
 In the respect accorded by mankind 
 To youth in woman, and old age in man ? 
 To virtue in your sex, and dignity 
 In ours ? But let them look to it who have saved 
 
 Ang. Heaven bids us to forgive our enemies, [him. 
 
 Doge. Doth Heaven forgive her own 3 Is Satan 
 From wrath eternal ? [saved 
 
 Ang. Do not speak thus wildly — 
 
 Heaven wiU alike forgive you and your foes. 
 
 Doge. Amen ! May Heaven forgive them ! 
 
 Ang. And will you ? 
 
 Doge. Yes, when they are in heaven ! 
 
 Ang. And not till then ? 
 
 Doge. Wliat matters my forgiveness ? an old man's. 
 Worn out, scorn'd, spurn'd, abused ; what matters 
 5Iy pardon more than my resentment, both [then 
 Being weak and worthless ? I have lived too long. — 
 But let us change the ar.gument. — 3Iy child ! 
 My injured ^-ife, the child of Loredano, 
 The brave, the chivalrous, how little deem'd 
 Thy father, wedding thee unto his friend, 
 That he was hnking thee to shame I — Alas ! 
 Shame without sin, for thou art faultless. Hadst 
 
 thou 
 But had a ditferent husband, rtui/ husband 
 In Venice save the Doge, this blight, this brand, 
 Tbi? b'isphemy, had never fallen upon thee, 
 
 So young, so beautil il, so good, so pure, 
 To suffer this, and yet be unavenged ! 
 
 Ang. I am too well avenged, for you still \u\e me\ 
 And trust, and honor me ; and all men know 
 That you are just, and I am true : what more 
 Could I require, or you command ? 
 
 Doge. 'Tis well 
 
 And may be better ; but whate'er betide. 
 Be thou at least kind to my memory. 
 
 Ang. Why speak you thus ? 
 
 Doge. It is no matter why 
 
 But I would stiU, whatever others think. 
 Have your resjject both now and in my grave. 
 
 Aug. Wh\ should you doubt it ? has it ever fail'dl 
 
 Doge. Come hither, child ; I would a word with 
 Your father was my friend ; unequal fortune, [you. 
 Made him my debtor for some courtesies 
 Which bind the good more firmly : when, oppress'd 
 With his last malady, he wilfd our union. 
 It was not to repay me, long repaid 
 Before by his great loyalty to friendship ; 
 His object was to place your orphan beauty 
 In honorable safety from the perils. 
 Which, in this scorpion nest of vice, assail 
 A lonely and undowered maid. I did not 
 Think with him, but would not oppose the thought 
 Which soothed his death-bed. 
 
 Ang. I have not forgotten 
 
 The nobleness with which you bade me speak, 
 If my yoimg heart held any preference 
 AYhich would have made me happier ; nor your cffel 
 To make my dowry equal to the rank 
 Of aught in Venice, and forego all claim 
 My father's last injunction gave you. 
 
 Doge. Thus, 
 
 'Twas not a foolish dotard's vile caprice, 
 Nor the false edge of aged appetite, 
 Wliich made me covetous of girlish beauty, 
 And a young bride : for in nn- fieriest youth 
 I sway'd such passions ; nor was this my age 
 Infected with that le]irosy of lust 
 Wliich taints the hoariest years of vicious men, 
 Making them ransack to the very last 
 The dregs of pleasure for their vanish'd joys ; 
 Or buy in selfish marriage some young victim, 
 Too helpless to refuse a state that's honest. 
 Too feeling not to know herself a wretch. 
 Our wedlock was not of this sort ; you had 
 Freedom from me to choose, and urged in ans-wei 
 Your father's choice. 
 
 Ang. I did so ; I would do so 
 
 In face of earth and heaven ; for I have never 
 Repented for my sake ; sometimes for yours. 
 In pondering o'er your late disquietudes. 
 
 Doge. I knew my heart would never treit jou 
 harshly ; 
 I knew my days could not ("isturb you long ; 
 
204 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 \(n 
 
 And then the daughter of my earliest friend, 
 Eis worthy daughter, free to choose again. 
 Wealthier and wiser, in the ripest bloom 
 Of womanhood, more skillful to select 
 By passing these probationary years ; 
 lulieriting a prince's name and riches, 
 Secured, l)y the short penance of enduring 
 An old man for some summers, against all 
 That law's chicane or envious kinsmen might 
 Have urged against her right ; my best friend's child 
 Would choose more fitly in respect of years. 
 And not less truly in a faithful heart. 
 
 A»f/. Jly lord, I look'd but to my ftither's wishes, 
 Hallow'd by his last words, and to my heart 
 For doing all its duties, and replying 
 With faith to him viith whom I was affianced. 
 AmI>itious hopes ne'er cross'd my dreams; and should 
 The hour you speak of come, it will be seen so. 
 
 Doge. I do believe you ; and I know you true : 
 For love, romantic love, which in my youth 
 I knew to be illusion, and ne'er saw 
 Lasting, liut often fotal, it had been 
 No lure for me, in my most passionate days. 
 And could not l)e so now, did such exist, 
 But such respect, and mildly paid regard 
 As a true feeling for your welfare, and 
 A free comi)liance with all honest wishes; 
 A kindness to your virtues, watchfulness 
 Not shown, but shadowing o'er such little failings 
 As youth is apt in, so as not to check 
 Itashly, but win you from them ere you knew 
 You had been won, but thought the change your 
 
 choice ; 
 A pride not in your beauty, but your conduct, — 
 A trust in you — a patriarchal love. 
 And not a doting homage — friendship, — faith — 
 Such estimation in your eyes as these 
 Might claim, I hoped for. 
 
 A)if/. And have ever had. 
 
 lhi)e. I think so. For the difference in our years 
 Y6u knew it, choosing me, and choso ; I trusted 
 Not to my qualities, nor would have faith 
 In such, nor outward ornaments of nature. 
 Were I still in my five and twentieth spring ; 
 I trusted to the blood of Loredano 
 Pure in your veins : I trusted to the soul 
 God gave you — to the truths yom- father taught 
 
 you— 
 To your belief in heaven — to your mild virtues — 
 To your own faith and honor, for my own. 
 Any. You have done well. — I thank you for that 
 trust. 
 Will ".h I have never for one moment ceased 
 To h nior you the more for. 
 
 l>o(/p. Wliere is honor. 
 
 Innate and proce]it-strengthcn'd, 'tis the rock 
 Of faith connulnal : where it is not — where 
 
 Light thoughts are lurking, or the vanities 
 Of worldly pleasure rankle in the heart. 
 Or sensual throbs convulse it, well I know 
 'Twere hopeless for humanity to dream 
 Of honesty in such infected blood. 
 Although 'twere wed to him it covets most- 
 An incarnation of the poet's god 
 In all his marble-chisell'd beauty, or 
 The demi-dcity, Alcides, in 
 His majesty of suj)erhuman manhood, 
 Would not suffice to bind where virtue is not ; 
 It is consistency which forms and proves it : 
 Vice cannot fi.x, and virtue cannot change 
 The once fall'n woman must forever fall ; 
 For vice must have variety, while virtue 
 Stands like the sun, and all which rolls around 
 Drinks Ufe, and light, and glory from her aspect. 
 
 Aii{/. And seeing, feeling thus this truth in others 
 (I pray you pardon me ;) but wherefore jicld you 
 To the most fierce of fatal jjassions, and 
 Disquiet your great thoughts -nith restless hate 
 Of such a thing as Steno ? 
 
 Doije. You mistake me. 
 
 It is not Steno who could move me thus ; 
 Had it been so, he should — but let that pass. 
 Anff. What is't you feel so deeply, then, even 
 
 now ? 
 Do{/e. The violated majesty of Venice, 
 At once insulted in her lord and laws. 
 Ang. Alas ! why will you thus consider it ? 
 
 Boffe. I have thought on't till but let me lead 
 
 you back 
 To what I urged ; all these things being noted, 
 I wedded you ; the world then did me justice 
 Upon the motive, and my conduct proved 
 They did me right, while yours was all to praise : 
 You had all freedom — all respect — all trust 
 From me and mine ; and, born of those who made 
 Princes at home, and swept kings from their thronea 
 On foreign shores, in all things you appear'd 
 Worthy to be our first of native dames. 
 Ai'ff. To what does this conduct ? 
 l)i'i/e. To this much — that 
 
 A miscreant's angry breath may Ijlast it all — 
 A villain, whom for his unbridled bearing, 
 Even in the midst of our great festival, 
 I caused to be conducted forth, and taught 
 How to demean himself in ducal chambers ; 
 A wretch like this may leave upon the wall 
 The blighting venom of his sweltering heart, 
 And this shall sjn-ead itself in general poison ; 
 And woman's innocence, man's honor, pass 
 Into a by-wird ; and the doubly felon 
 (Wlio first insulted virgin modesty 
 By a gross affront to your attendant damsels 
 Amidst the nobl.'st of our dames in public) 
 Requite himself for liis iiiost just exijulsiou 
 
SCE.VI 
 
 MARIXO FALIERO. 
 
 209 
 
 By blackening pnblicly liis sovereign's consort, 
 .Vnd be alssolved by his upright compeers. 
 
 Aiif/. But he has been condemn'd into captivity. 
 
 Dtifjr. For such as him a dungeon were acquittal ; 
 .\nd his brief term of mock-arrest will pass 
 Within a palace. But I've done with him ; 
 The rest must be with you. 
 
 Aug. With me my lord ? 
 
 I)oi/e. Yes, Angiolina. Do you not marvel : I 
 Have let this prey upon me till I feel 
 My life cannot be long ; and fain would have you 
 Regard tlie injunctions you will find ^vithin 
 
 This scroll {Giving lier n p /per) Fear not; they 
 
 are for your advantage : 
 Read them hereafter at the fitting hour. 
 
 Ang. My lord, in life, mid after life, you shall 
 Be honor'd still by me : but may your days 
 
 Be many yet and happier than the present ! 
 
 This passion will give way, and you will be 
 Serene, and what you should be — what you were. 
 
 Doge. I will be what I should be, or be nothing ! 
 But never more — oh ! never, never more. 
 O'er the few days or hours which yet await 
 The blighted old age of Faliero, shall 
 Sweet Quiet shed her simset ! Never more 
 Those summer shadows rising from the past 
 Of a not ill-spent nor inglorious life, 
 Mellowing the last hours as the night approaches, 
 Shall sootlie me to my moment of long rest. 
 I had l)ut little more to ask, or hope, 
 Save the regards due to the blood and sweat. 
 And the soul's labor through which I had toil'd 
 To make my country honor'd. As her servant — 
 Hit servant, though her chief — I would have gone 
 Doivn to my fathers with a name serene 
 And pure as theirs ; but this has been denied me. — 
 Would I had died at Zara ! 
 
 Ang. There you saved 
 
 The state ; then live to save her still. A day, 
 Another day Uke that would be the best 
 Reproof to them, and sole revenge for you. 
 
 Dagc. But one such day occurs within an age, 
 My life is little less than one, and 'tis 
 Enough for Fortune to have granted once, 
 That which scarce one more favor'd citizen 
 May win in many states and years. But why 
 Thus speak I ? Venice has forgot that day — 
 Then why should I remember it ? — Farewell, 
 Sweet Angiolina ! I must to my cabinet ; 
 There's much for me to do — and the hour hastens. 
 
 Ang. Rcmemljer what you were. 
 
 Doge. It were in vain. 
 
 Joy's recollection is no longer joy. 
 While Sorrow's memory is a sorrow still. 
 
 Ang. At least, whate'cr may urge, let nte implore 
 That you will take some little pause of rest : 
 Your sleep for many nights has been so turljid. 
 
 That it had been relief to have awaked you. 
 Had I not hoped that Nature would o'erpowcr 
 At length the thoughts which shook your slumbers 
 An hour of rest v.-iU give you to your toils [thus 
 With fitter thoughts and frcshen'd strength. 
 
 Doge. I carmot^ — 
 
 I must not, if I could ; for never was 
 Such reason to be watchful : yet a few — 
 Yet a few days and dream-perturbed nights. 
 And I shall slumber well — but where ? — no matter. 
 Adieu, my Angiolina. 
 
 Ang. Let me be 
 
 An instant — yet an instant your companion ! 
 I cannot bear to leave you thus. 
 
 Doge. Come then, 
 
 My gentle child — forgive me ; thou wert made 
 For better fortunes than to share in mine. 
 Now darkling in their close toward the deep vale 
 Were Death sits robed in his all-sweei^ing shadow. 
 When I am gone — it may be sooner than 
 Even these years warrant, for there is that stirring 
 Within — above — around, that in this city 
 Will make the cemeteries populous 
 As e'er they were by jjestilonce or war, — 
 When I am nothing, let that which I was 
 Be still sometimes a name on thy sweet lips, 
 A shadow in thy fancy, of a thing 
 Which would not have thee mourn it but remember ;— 
 Let us begone, my child — the time is pressing. 
 
 \Exeunl 
 
 A retired Spot near the Arsenal. 
 Israel Bertuccio and Phtlip Calendaro. 
 
 Cal. How sped you, Israel, in your late complaint t 
 
 /. Ber. Why, well. 
 
 Cal. Is't possible ! will he be punish'd ? 
 
 Cal. Yes. 
 
 Cal. With what ? a mulct or an arrest ? 
 
 /. Der. With death !— 
 
 Cal. Now you rave, or must intend revenge, 
 Such as I counsell'd you, with your own hand. 
 
 /. Ber. Yes ; and for one sole draught of hate 
 forego 
 The gieat redress we meditate for Venice, 
 And change a life of hope for one of exile ; 
 Leaving one scorpion crush'd, and thousands sting- 
 My friends, my family, my countrymen ! [ing 
 
 No, Calendaro ; these same drops of blood, 
 Shed shamefully, shall have the whole of his 
 
 For theii' requital But not only his ; 
 
 We will not strike for private wrongs alone ; 
 Such are for selfish passions and rash men, 
 But are unworthv a tyrannicide. 
 
 Cnl. You hn.i more patience than I care to boa . 
 Had I been present when you bore this insult. 
 
20G 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT U 
 
 I must have slain h;in, or expired myself 
 In tlie rain otrort to repress my Avrath. 
 
 /. Bei: Tliank Heaven, you were not — all had else 
 Afl 'tis, our cause looks prosperous still, [been marr'd : 
 
 C'lh You saw 
 
 The Doge — what answer gave he ? 
 
 /. Ber. That there was 
 
 No punishment for such as Barbaro. 
 
 Cat. I told you so before, and that 'twas idle 
 To think of justice from such hands. 
 
 !■ }li r. At least 
 
 It luU'd suspicion, showing confidence. 
 Had I been silent, not a sbirro l)ut 
 Had kept me in his eye, as meditating 
 A. silent, solitary, deep revenge. 
 
 Ciil. But wlierefore not address you to the Coun- 
 Thc Doge is a mere puppet, who can scarce [oil ? 
 Obtain right for himself. Wliy speak to him f 
 
 I. Ber. You shall know thpt hereafter. 
 
 C(d. Why not now ? 
 
 /. Ber. Be patient but till midnight. Get your mus- 
 And bid our friends prepare their companies : fters, 
 Set all in readiness to strike the blow. 
 Perhaps in a few hours ; we have long waited 
 For a fit time — that hour is on the dial, 
 It may be, of to-morrow's sun : delay 
 Beyond may breed us double danger. See 
 That all be punctual at our place of meeting. 
 And arm'd, excepting those of the Sixteen, 
 Who -ndll remain among the troops to wait 
 The signal. 
 
 Cal. Tliese brave words have breathed new life 
 Into my veins ; I am sick of these protracted 
 And hesitating councils : day on day 
 Crawl'd on, and added but another link 
 To our long fetters, and some fresher wrong 
 Inflicted on our brethren or ourselves. 
 Helping to swell our tyrant's l)loated strength. 
 Let us but deal upon them, and I care not 
 For the result, which must be death or freedom I 
 Pm weary to the heart of finding neither. , 
 
 7. Ber. We will be free in life or death ! the grave 
 Is chainless. Have you all the musters ready ? 
 And are the sixteen corapanie* completed 
 To sixty ? 
 
 Cal. All save two, in which there are 
 
 Twenty-five wanting to make up the number, [they ? 
 /. Ber. No matter ; we can do without. Whose are 
 
 Cal. Bertram's and old Soranzo's, both of whom 
 Appear less forward in the cause than we are. 
 
 I. Ber. Your fiery nature makes you deem all those 
 Wlio are not restless, cold ; but there exists 
 Oft in concentred spirits not less daring 
 Than in more loud avengers. Do not doubt them. 
 
 Cal. I do not doubt the elder ; but in Bertram 
 There is a hesitating softness, fatal 
 to enterprise like ours : I've seen that man 
 
 Weep like an infant o'er the miserv 
 
 Of othiTs, heedless of his own, though greater ; 
 
 And in a recent quarrel I beheld him 
 
 Turn sick at sight of blood, although a \dllain'3. 
 
 /. Her. The truly brave are soft of heart and cji^ 
 And fee] for what their duty bids them do 
 I have known Bertram long ; there doth notbreatha 
 A soul more full of honor. 
 
 Cal. It may be so : 
 
 I apprehend less treachery than weakness ; 
 Yet as he has no mistress, and no wife, 
 To work upon his milkincss of spirit. 
 He may go through the ordeal ; it is well 
 He is an orphan, friendless save in us : 
 A woman or a child had made him less 
 Than either in resolve. 
 
 /. Ber. Such ties are not 
 
 For those who are call'd to the high destinies 
 Which purify corrupted commonwealths ; 
 We must forget all feelings save the one — 
 We must resign all passions save our purpose — 
 We must behold no object save our country — 
 And only look on death as beautiful, 
 So that the sacrifice ascend to heaven 
 And draw down freedom on her evermore. » 
 
 Cal. But if we fail 
 
 /. Ikr, They never fail who die 
 
 In a great cause : the block may soak their gore ; 
 Their heads may sodden in the sun ; their limbs 
 Be strung to city gates and castle walls — 
 But still their spirit walks abroad. Though years 
 Elapse, and others share as dark a doom. 
 They but augment the deCp and sweeping thought* 
 Which overpower all others, and conduct 
 The world at last to freedom : What were we 
 If Brutus hail not lived ? He died in giving 
 P.ome liberty, but left a deathless lesson — 
 A name which is a virtue, and a soul 
 TVliich multiplies itself throughout all time, 
 ^Vlien wicked men wax mighty, and a state 
 Turns servile : he and his high friend were styled 
 " The last of Romans !" Let us be the first 
 Of true Venetians, sprung from Roman sires. 
 
 Cal. Our fathers did not fly from Attila 
 Into these isles, where palaces liave sjirung 
 On banks redeem'd from the rude ocean's ooze, 
 To own a thousand despots in his place. 
 Better bow down before the Hun, and call 
 A Tartar lord, than these swoln silkworms znasler? 
 The first at least was man, and used his sword 
 As sceptre : these unmanly creeping things 
 Command our swords, and rule us with a word 
 As with a spell. 
 
 I. Ber. It shall be broken soon 
 
 You say yiat all things are in readiness ; 
 To-day I have not been the usual round, 
 And why thou knowest ; but thy ^-igilance 
 
6( KXE i:. 
 
 MARINO FALIERO, 
 
 207 
 
 'Will better Lave supplied my cj_-3 : these orders 
 
 In recent council to redouble now 
 
 Our efforts to repair the galleys, have 
 
 Lent a fair color to the introduction 
 
 Of many of our cause into the arsenal, 
 
 As new artificers for their equipment, 
 
 Or fresh recruits obtain'd in haste to man 
 
 The hoped-for fleet. Are all supplied with arms ? 
 
 CiiL All who were deem'd trustworthy : there are 
 Wliom it were well to keep in ignorance [some 
 
 Till it be time to strike, and then supply them ; 
 When in the heat and hurry of the hour 
 They have no opjjortunity to pause, rthem. 
 
 But needs must on with those who will surround 
 
 /. Ber. Tou have said well. Have you remark'd 
 all such ? 
 
 Cal. I've noted most ; and caused the other chiefs 
 To use like caution in their companies. 
 As far as I have seen, we are enough 
 To make the enterprise secure, if 'tis 
 Commenced to-morrow ; but, till 'tis begen, 
 Each hour is pregnant -vdth a thousand perils. 
 
 /. r,ei: Let the Sixteen meet at the wonted hour, 
 Except Soranzo, Nicoletto Blondo, 
 And Marco Giuda, who will keep their watch 
 Within the arsenal, and hold all ready 
 Expectant of the signal we will fix on. 
 
 Cal. We will not fail. 
 
 I. Ber. Let all the rest be there ; 
 
 I have a stranger to present to them. 
 
 Cal. A stranger ! doth he know the secret ? 
 
 1. Ber. Yes. 
 
 Cal. And have you dared to peril your friends' 
 On a rash confidence in one we know not ? [lives 
 
 /. Ber. I have risk'd no man's life except my own — 
 Of that be certain : he is one who may 
 Make our assurance doubly sure, according 
 His aid ; and if reluctant, he no less 
 Is in our power ; he comes alone with me. 
 And cannot 'scape us ; but he will not swerve. 
 
 Cal. I cannot judge of this until I know him : 
 Is he one of our order ? 
 
 /. Ber. Ay, in spirit. 
 
 Although a child of greatness ; he is one 
 Who would become a throne, or overthrow one — 
 One who has done great deeds, and seen great 
 No tyrant, though bred up to tyranny ; [changes ;• 
 Valiant in war, and sage in council ; noble 
 In nature, although haughty ; quick, yet wary : 
 Yet for all this, so full of certain passions, 
 That if once stirr'd and bafiled, as he has been 
 Upon the tendcrest points, there is no Fury 
 In Grecian story like to that which wrings 
 His \itals with her burning hands, till he 
 Grows capable r f aU things for revenge ; 
 And add too, that his mind is liberal ; 
 He sees and feels the people are oppress'd, 
 
 And shares their sufitrings. Take him all in all. 
 We have need of such, and such have need of us. 
 
 Cnl. And what part would you have him take 
 
 I. Ber. It may be, that of chief. ■ [with u» ? 
 
 Cal. What! and resign 
 
 Your own command as leader ? 
 
 /. Ber. Even so. 
 
 My object is to make your cause end well, 
 And not to push myself to power. Experience, 
 Some skill, and your own choice, had mark'd me out 
 To act in trust as your commander, till 
 Some worthier should appear : if I have found such 
 As you yourselves shall own more worthy, think you 
 That I would hesitate from selfishness, 
 And, covetous of brief authority, 
 Stake our deep interest on my single thoughts, 
 Ratli"r than yield to one above me in 
 AU leading qualities ? No, Calendar©, 
 Know your friend better ; but you all shall judge. 
 Away ! and let us meet at the fix'd hour. 
 Be vigilant, and all will yet go well. 
 
 Cil. Worthy Bertuccio, I have known you ever 
 Trusty and brave, with head and heart to plan 
 What I have stiU lieen jirompt to execute. 
 For my own part, I seek no other chief; 
 Wliat the rest wiU decide I know not, but 
 I am with tou, as I have ever been. 
 In all our undertakings. Now farewell. 
 Until the hour of midnight sees us meet. [E.reunX 
 
 ACT in. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Scene, tlie Space between the Canal and the Churc) 
 of San CHovanni e San Paolo. An eqvestrian Sta- 
 tue lie/ore it. A Gondola lies in the Canal at sonu 
 dintance. 
 
 Enter the Doge alone, disgimed. 
 Dnge, (snhis.) I am before the hour, the hour whose 
 Pealing into the arch of night, might strike [voice. 
 These palaces with ominous tottering. 
 And rock their marbles to the comer-stone. 
 Waking the sleepers from some hideous dream 
 Of indistinct but awful augury 
 Of that which wiU befall them. Yes, proud city ! 
 Thou must be cleansed of the black blood which 
 A lazar-house of tyranny : the task [makes thet 
 Is forced upon me, I have sought it not ; 
 And therefore was I punish'd, seeing this 
 Patrician jjestilence spread on and on. 
 Until at length it smote me in my slumbers, 
 And I am tainted, and must wash away 
 The plague spots in the healing wave. Till fane ! 
 Where sleep my fathers, whose dim statues shadow 
 The floor which doth divide us from the dead, 
 Where all the pregnant hearts of our bold blood. 
 Moulder'd into a mite of ashes, hold 
 
208 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT in. 
 
 In one shrunk heap what once made many lieroes, 
 When what 18 now a handful shook the earth — 
 Fane of the tutelar saints who guard our house ! 
 Vault where two Doges rest— my sires ! who died 
 The one of toil, the other in tlie fic)d, 
 With a long race of other lineal chiefs 
 And sages, whose great labors, wounds, and state 
 [ have inherited, — let the graves gape. 
 Till all thine aisles be peopled with the dead, 
 And pour them from thy portals to gaze on me ! 
 I call them up, and them and thee to witness 
 What it hath been which put me to this task — 
 Their pure high blood, their blazon-roll of glories, 
 Their mighty name dishonor'd all in me, 
 Not 1)1/ me, but by the ungrateful nobles 
 We fought to make our equals, not our lords : — 
 And chiefly thou, Ordelafo the brave. 
 Who perish'd in the field, where I since conquer'd. 
 Battling at Zara, did the hecatombs 
 Of thine and Venice' foes, there ofler'd up 
 By thy descendant, merit such acquittance ? 
 Spirits ! smile down upon me ; for my cause 
 ts yours, in all life now can be of yours, — 
 Your fame, your name, all ming'ed uj) in mine, 
 And in the future fortunes of our race. 
 '^iCt me but prosper, and I make this city 
 ••"ree and immortal, and our house's name 
 Vorthicr of what you were, now and hereafter ! 
 
 Enter Israel Bert0CCIO. 
 
 /. Bti: Who goes there ? 
 
 Boge. A friend to Venice 
 
 I. Bo: 'Tis he. 
 
 Welcome, my lord — you are before the time. 
 
 Dofjc. I am ready to proceed to your assembly. 
 
 /. Ber. Have with you. — I am proud and pleased 
 Such confident alacrity. Your doubts [to see 
 
 Since our last meeting, then, are all dispell'd ? 
 
 Doge. Not so — but I have set my little left 
 Of life upon this cast : the die was thrown 
 When I first listen'd to your treason — Start not I 
 TTint is the word : I cannot shape my tongue 
 To syllable black deeds into smooth names. 
 Though I be wi'ought on to commit them. When 
 I heard you tempt your sovereign, and forbore 
 To have you dragg'd to prison, I became 
 Your guiltiest accomplice : now you may, 
 If it so j)le.ase you, do as much by mc. 
 
 /. Ber. Strange words, my lord, and most unmerited ; 
 I am no spy, and neither are we traitors. 
 
 Doge. We ! — We ! — no matter — you have earn'd 
 To talk of n.i. — But to the point. — If this [the right 
 Attemi>t succeeds, and Venice, rcndcr'd free 
 And flourishing, when we are in our graves. 
 Conducts her generations to our tombs. 
 And makes her children with their little hands 
 Strew flowers o'er her deliverers' ashes, then 
 
 The consequence will sanctify the dcsed, 
 And we shall be like the two Bruti in 
 The annals of hereafter ; but if not. 
 If we should fail, employing bloody means 
 And secret plot, although to a good end. 
 Still we are traitors, honest Israel ; — thou 
 No less than he who was thy sovereign 
 Six hours ago, and now thy brother rebel. 
 
 /. Ber. 'Tis not the moment to consider thus. 
 Else I could answer. — Let us to the meeting, 
 Or we may be observed in lingering here. 
 Bnrje. We are observed, and have been. 
 /. Ber. We observed ! 
 
 Let me discover — and this steel 
 
 Jhige. Put up ; 
 
 Here are no human witnesses : look there- 
 What see you ? 
 
 /. Ber. Only a tall wariiv^rs statue 
 
 Bestriding a proud steed, in the dim light 
 Of the full moon. 
 
 Doge. That warrior was the sire 
 
 Of my sire's fathers, and that statue was 
 Decreed to him by the twice rescued city : — 
 Think you that he looks down on us, or no ? 
 
 /• Ber. My lord, these are mere fantasies ; there 
 No eyes in marble. [iire 
 
 Doge. But tliere are in Death. 
 
 I tell thee, mati, there is a spirit in 
 Such things that acts and sees, unseen, though felt ; 
 And, if there be a spell to stir the dead, 
 'Tis in such deeds as we are now upon. 
 Deem'st thou the souls of such a race as mine 
 Can rest, when he, their last descendant chief, 
 Stands plotting on the brink of their pure graves 
 With stung plebeians ? 
 
 /. Ber. It had been as well 
 
 To have pondcr'd this before, — ere you cmbark'd, 
 In our great enterprise. — Do you reiicnt ? 
 
 Doge. No — but Ifiel, and shall do to the last. 
 I cannot quench a glorious life at once. 
 Nor dwindle to the thing I now must be. 
 And take men's lives by stealth, without some pause 
 Yet doubt me not ; it is this very feeling. 
 And knowing what has wrung me to be thus, 
 Wliich is your best security. There's not 
 A roused mechanic in your busy plot 
 So \vrong'd as I, so fall'n, so loudly call'd 
 To his redress : the very means I am forced 
 By these fell tyrants to adopt is such 
 That I abhor them doubly for the deeds 
 Which I must do to pay them back for theirs. 
 /. Ber. Let us away — hark — the hour strikes. 
 Doge. On — on-- 
 
 It is our knell, or that of Venice — On ! 
 
 /. Ber. Say rather, 'tis her freedom's rising peal 
 
 Of triumph This way — we are near the place. 
 
 [Exeunt 
 
SCEXK II. 
 
 MARTXO FALIERO. 
 
 209 
 
 ■ SCENE n. 
 
 The liouM irhere the Conspinilors meet. 
 
 Daooleno, Dobo, Bertram, Fedele Trevisano, 
 Calendaro, Antonio delle Bende, etc., etc. 
 Cat. {entering) Are all here ? 
 
 Dnri. All with you ; except the three 
 
 On duty, and our leader Israel, 
 Who is expected momently. 
 
 C<il. Where's Bertram ? 
 
 Ber. Here ! 
 
 Cat. Have you not been able to complete 
 
 The number wanting in your company ? 
 
 ^6'/-. I had mark'd out some : but I have not dared 
 To trust them with the secret, till assured 
 That they were worthy faith. 
 
 Cat. There is no need 
 
 Of trusting to their faith : %oho, save ourselves 
 And our more chosen comrades, is aware 
 Fully of our intent ? They think themselves 
 Engaged in secret to the Signory, 
 To punish some more dissolute young nobler 
 Wlio have defied the Law in their excesses ; 
 But once drawn up, and their new swords well-flesh'd 
 In the rank hearts of the more odious senators, 
 They will not hesitate to follow up 
 Their blow upon the others, when they see 
 The example of their chiefs, and I for one 
 Will set them such, that they for very shame 
 ind safety wiU not pause till all have perish'd. 
 
 Ber. How say you ? alt ! 
 
 Cat Whom wouldst thou spare ? 
 
 Ber. I spare f 
 
 I have no power to spare. I only question'd. 
 Thinking that even amongst these wicked men 
 There might be some, whose age and qualities 
 Jlight mark them out for pity. 
 
 Cal. Yes, such pity 
 
 As when the \rpex hath been cut to pieces, 
 The separate fragments quivering in the sun. 
 In the last energy of venomous life. 
 Deserve and have. Why, I should think as soon 
 Of pitying some particular fang which made 
 One in the jaw of tlie swoln serpent, as 
 Of saving one of these ; they form but links 
 Of one long chain ; one mass, one breath, one body ; 
 They eat, and drink, and live, and breed together. 
 Revel, and lie, oppress, and kill in concert, — 
 So let them die as o)ie! 
 
 Daij. Should one survive. 
 
 Ho would be dangerous as the whole ; it is not 
 Their number, be it tens or thousands, but 
 The spirit of this aristocracy 
 Which must be rooted out ; and if there were 
 A single stioot of the old tree in life, 
 Twould fasten in the soil, and spring again 
 To gloomy verdure and to bitter fruit. 
 Bertram, we must be firm ! 
 
 CM. Look to \i well, 
 
 Bertram ; I have an eye upon thee. 
 
 Ber. Wlio 
 
 Distrusts me ? 
 
 Cal. Not I ; for if I did so. 
 
 Thou wouldst not now be there to talk of trust : 
 It is thy softness, not thy want of faith. 
 Which makes you to be doubted. 
 
 Ber. You should know 
 
 Who hear me, who and what I am ; a man 
 Roused like yourselves to overthrow oppression ; 
 A kind man, I am apt to think, as some 
 Of you have found me ; and if brave or no. 
 You, Calendaro, can pronounce, who have seen me 
 Put to the proof; or, if you should have doubts, 
 I'U clear them on your person ! 
 
 Cal. You are welcome, 
 
 When once our enterprise is o'er, which must not 
 Be interrupted by a private brawl. 
 
 Ber. I am no brawler ; but can bear myself 
 As far among the foe as any he 
 Who hears me ; else why have I been selected 
 To be of your chief comrades ? but no less 
 I own my natural weakness ; I have not 
 Yet learn'd to think of indiscriminate murder 
 Without some sense of shuddering ; and the sight 
 Of blood which spouts through hoary scalps is not 
 To me a thing of triumph, nor the death 
 Of men surprised a glory. Well — too well 
 I know that we must do such things on those 
 Whose acts have raised ujj such avengers ; but 
 If there were some of these who could be saved 
 From out this sweeping fate, for our own sakes 
 And for our honor, to take off some stain 
 Of massacre, which else pollutes it wholly, 
 I had been glad ; and see no cause in this 
 For sneer, nor for suspicion ! 
 
 Bag. Calm thee, Bertram ; 
 
 For we suspect thee not, and take good heart. 
 It is the cause, and not our will, which asks 
 Such actions from our hands : we'U wash away 
 AU stains in Freedom's fountain ! 
 
 Enter Israel Bektuccio, anA the Doge, disguised. 
 
 Dag. Welcome, Israel. 
 
 Consp. Most welcome. Brave Bertuccio, thou art 
 Who is this stranger ? [lato — 
 
 Cal. It is time to name him. 
 
 Our comrades are even now prepared to greet him 
 In brotherhood, as I have made it known 
 That thou wouldst add a brother to our cause, 
 Approved by thee, and thus approved by all, 
 Such is our trust in all thine actions. Now 
 Let him unfold himself. 
 
 /. Ber. Stranger, step forth ! 
 
 [77/c Doge disrotcrs himself, 
 
 Connp. To arms ! — we are betray'd — itis the Doge I 
 
210 
 
 BYROV'S WORKS. 
 
 \i7T in. 
 
 Down ■with them both ! our traitorous captain, and 
 The tyrant he hath sold us to ! 
 
 Cell. {iJrairing his mrord.) Hold ! Hold ! 
 Who moves a step against tliem dies. Hold ! hear 
 Bertuccio — What ! are you all appall'd to see 
 A lone, unguarded, weaponless old man [mystery ? 
 Amongst you ? — Israel, speak ! what means this 
 
 I. Ber. Let them advance and strike at their own 
 [Jngrateful suicides ! for on our lives [bosoms, 
 
 Dejiend their own, their fortunes, and their hopes. 
 
 Doge. Strike ! — If I dreaded death, a death more 
 Than any your rash weapons can inflict, [fearful 
 I should not now be here : — Oh ! noble Courage 1 
 The eldest born of Fear, which makes you brave 
 Against this solitary hoary head ! 
 See the bold chiefs, wlio would reform a state 
 And shako down senates, mad with wrath and dread 
 At sight of one patrician I Butcher me, 
 You can ; I care not. Israel, are these men 
 The mighty hearts you spoke of ? look upon them ! 
 
 Cal. Faith 1 he hath sliamed us, and deservedly. 
 Was this your trust in your true chief Bertuccio, 
 To turn your swords against him and his guest ? 
 Sheath them, and hear him. 
 
 /. Bcr. I disdain to speak. 
 
 They might and must have known a heart Uke mine 
 Incapalile of treachery ; and the power 
 They gave me to adopt aU fitting means 
 To further their design was ne'er abused. 
 They might be certain that whoe'er was brought 
 By me into this council had been led 
 To take his choice — as brother, or as victim. 
 
 Doge. And which am I to be ? your actions leave 
 Some cause to doubt the freedom of the choice. 
 
 /. Ber. My lord, we would have perish'd here togeth- 
 Had these rash men proceeded ; but, behold, [er, 
 They are ashamed of that mad moment's impulse. 
 And droop their heads ; believe me, they are such 
 As I described them — Speak to them. 
 
 Cal. Ay, speak ; 
 
 We are all listening in wonder. 
 
 /. Ber. {iidilrcudng the Coiispirator!i.) You are safe. 
 Nay, more, almost triumphant — listen then, 
 And know my words for truth. 
 
 Doge. You see me here. 
 
 As one of you hath said, an old, unarm'd, 
 Defenceli'ss man ; and yesterday you saw me 
 Presiding in the hall of ducal state. 
 Apparent sovereign of our hundred isles. 
 Robed in ollicial purple, dealing out 
 The edicts of a power which is not mine. 
 Not yours, but of our masters — the patricians. 
 Wliy I was there you know, or think you know ; 
 Wliy I am here, he who hath been most wrong'd. 
 He who among you hath been most insulted. 
 Outraged and trodden on, until he doubt 
 H he be worm or no. nuiy answer for me. 
 
 Asking of his own heart, what brought him here ? 
 
 You know my recent story, all men know it, 
 
 And judge of it far differently from those 
 
 Wlio sate in judgment to heap scorn on scorn 
 
 But spare me the recital — it is here. 
 
 Here at my heart the outrage — but my words, 
 
 Already spent in unavailing plaints. 
 
 Would only show my feebleness the more. 
 
 And I come here to strengthen even the strong, 
 
 And urge them on to deeds, and not to war 
 
 With woman's weapons ; but I need not urge you. 
 
 Our private wrongs have sprung from public vices, 
 
 In this — I cannot call it commonwealth 
 
 Nor kingdom, which hath neither prince norpeop' 
 
 But all the sins of the old Spartan state 
 
 Without its virtues — temperance and valor. 
 
 The lords of Laceda'mon were true soldiers. 
 
 But ours are Sybarites, while we are Helots, 
 
 Of whom I am the lowest, most enslaved ; 
 
 Although dress'd out to head a pageant, as 
 
 The Greeks of yore made drunk their slaves to forn 
 
 A pastime for their children. You are met 
 
 To overthrow this monster of a state. 
 
 This mockery of a government, this spectre. 
 
 Which must be exorcised with blood, — and then 
 
 We will renew the times of truth and justice. 
 
 Condensing in a fair free commonwealth 
 
 Not rash equality but equal rights, 
 
 Proportion'd Uke the columns to the temple. 
 
 Giving and taking strength reciprocal. 
 
 And making firm the whole with grace and beauty 
 
 So that no part could be removed without 
 
 Infringement of the general symmetry. 
 
 In operating this great change, I claim 
 
 To be one of you — if you trust in me ; 
 
 If not, strike home, — my life is comijromised. 
 
 And I would rather fall by freemen's hands 
 
 Than live another day to act the tyrant 
 
 As delegate of tyrants : such I am not, 
 
 And never have Ijcen — read it in our annals ; 
 
 I can appeal to my past government 
 
 In many lands and cities ; they can tell you 
 
 If I were an oppressor, or a man 
 
 Feeling and thinking for my fellow-men. 
 
 Haply had I been what the senate sought, 
 
 A thing of robes and trinkets, dizen'd out 
 
 To sit in state as for a sovereign's picture ; 
 
 A popular scourge, a ready sentence-signer, 
 
 A stickler for the Senate and " the Forty," 
 
 A skeptic of all measures which had not 
 
 The sanction of " the Ten," a council-fawner, 
 
 A tool, a fool, a puppet, — they had ne'er 
 
 Foster'd the wretch who stung me. What I suflcl 
 
 Has reach'd me through my pity for the jjeople ; 
 
 That many know, and they who know not yet 
 
 Will one day learn : meantime, I ch) devote, 
 
 Whate'er the issue, mv last davs of life — 
 
SCEXE TI. 
 
 MAEINO FALIERO. 
 
 LMl 
 
 My present power such as it is — not that 
 
 Of Doge, but of a man who lias been great 
 
 Before he was degraded to a Doge, 
 
 And still has individual means and mind ; 
 
 I Make my fame (and I had fame) — my breatn — 
 
 (The least of all, for its last hours are nigh) — 
 
 My heart — ray hope — my soul — upon this cast ! 
 
 Such as I am, I offer me to you 
 
 And to your chiefs : accept me or reject me, 
 
 A Prince who fiiin would be a citizen 
 
 Or nothing, and who has left his throne to be so. 
 
 Cid. Long live Faliero ! — Venice shall be free ! 
 
 Consp. Long live Faliero ! 
 
 /. ner. Comrades ! did I well ? 
 
 Is not this man a host in such a cause ? 
 
 l)i"ji\ This is no time for eulogies, nor place 
 For exultation. Am I one of you ? 
 
 Cal. Ay, and the first amongst us, as thou hast 
 Of Venice — be our general and chief. [been 
 
 Doge. Chief ! — general ! — I was general at Zara, 
 And chief in Rhodes and Cj-jsrus, prince in Venice : 
 
 I cannot stoop that is, I am not fit 
 
 To lead a band of patriots : when I lay 
 
 Aside the dignities which I have borne, 
 'Tis not to put on others, but to be 
 Mate to my fellows — but now to the point : 
 Israel has stated to me your whole plan — 
 'Tis bold, but feasible if I assist it. 
 And must be set in motion instantly. 
 
 C'tl. E'en when thou wilt. Is it not so, my friends ? 
 I have disposed all for a sudden blow ; 
 When shaU it be then ? 
 
 Doge. At sunrise. 
 
 Ber. So soon ? 
 
 Do(je. So soon ! — so late — each hour accumulates 
 Peril on peril, and the more so now 
 Since I have mingled with you ; — know you not 
 The Council and "the Ten ?" the spies, the eyes 
 Of the patricians dubious of their slaves, 
 And now more dubious of the prince they have made 
 I tell you, you must strike, and suddenly, [one ? 
 
 Full to the Hydra's heart — its heads will follow. 
 
 <.'iil. With all my soul and sword, I yield assent; 
 Our companies are ready, sixty each, 
 And all now under arms by Israel's order ; 
 Each at their dift'erent place of rendezvous, 
 And vigilant, expectant of some blow ; 
 Let each repair for action to his post ! 
 And now, my lord, tlie signal ? 
 
 Oiigi'. When you bear 
 
 The great bell of St. Mark's, which may not be 
 Struck without special or ler of the Doge, 
 (The last poor jirivilege they leave their prince,) 
 Marcn on Saint Mark's ! 
 
 L Ber. And there ?— 
 
 /'""' . By different routes 
 
 Let your march be directed, every sixty 
 
 Entering a separate avenue, and still 
 
 Upon the way let your cry be of war 
 
 And of the Genoese fleet, by the first dawn 
 
 Discern'd before the port ; from round the palace, 
 
 Within whose court will be drawn out in arms 
 
 My nephew and the clients of our house. 
 
 Many and martial ; while the bell tolls on, 
 
 Shout ye, " Saint Mark ! — the foe is on our waters !" 
 
 Cut. I see it no-n-.-but on, my noble lord. 
 
 Doge. All the patricians flocking to the Council, 
 (Which they dare not refuse, at the dread signal 
 Pealing from out their patron saint's proud tower,) 
 Will then be gather'd in unto the harvest. 
 And we will reap them with the sword for sickle. 
 If some few should be tardy or absent them, 
 'TwiU be but to be taken faint and single, 
 When the majority are put to rest. 
 
 Cal. Would that the hour were come ! we wil. not 
 But kiU. [scotch, 
 
 Ber. Once more, sir, with your pardon, I 
 Would now rejoeat the question which I ask'd 
 Before Bertuccio added to our cause 
 This great ally who renders it more sure. 
 And therefore safer, and as such admits 
 Some dawn of mercy to a portion of 
 Our victims — must aU perish in this slaughter ? 
 
 CiiL All who encounter me and mine, be sure, 
 The mercy they have shown, I show. 
 
 Consp. AU! All! 
 
 Is this a time to talk of pity ? when 
 Have they e'er shown, or felt, or feign'd it ? 
 
 /. Ber. Bertram, 
 
 This false compassion is a folly, and 
 Injustice to thy comrades and thy cause ! 
 Dost thou not see, that if we single out 
 Some for escape, they live but to avenge 
 The fallen ? and how distinguish now the innocent 
 From out the guilty ? all their acts are o?ie — ■ 
 A single emanation from one body. 
 Together knit for our opjjression ! 'Tis 
 Much that we let their children live ; I doubt 
 If all of these even should be set apart : 
 The hunter may reserve some single cub 
 From out the tiger's Utter, but whoe'er 
 Would seek to save the spotted sire or dam. 
 Unless to perish by their fangs ? however, 
 I will abide by Doge Faliero's counsel : 
 Let him decide if any should be saved. 
 
 Doge. Ask me not — tempt me not with such a 
 Decide yourselves. [question — 
 
 /. Ber. You know their private virtues 
 
 Far better than we can, to whom alone 
 Their public vices, and most foul oppression, 
 Have made them deadly ; if there be amongst them 
 One who deserves to be repeal'd, pronounce. 
 
 Doge. Doltino's father was my friend, and Lando 
 Fought by my side, and Marco Cornaro shartid 
 
1:12 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT IIL 
 
 My Genoese embassy : I saved the life 
 Of Veniero — shall I save it twice ? 
 Would tliat I could save them and Venice also ! 
 All these men, or their fathers, were my frii-nds 
 Till they became my subjects ; then foil from me 
 As faithless leaves drop from the o'erblown flower, 
 And left me a lone blighted thorny stalk. 
 Which, in its solitude, can shelter nothing ; 
 So, as they let me wither, let them perish ! 
 
 Cal. They cannot coexist with Venice' freedom ! 
 
 Doge. Ye, though you know and feel our mutual 
 Of many wrongs, even ye are ignorant [mass 
 
 What fatal poison to the springs of life, 
 To human ties, and aU that's good and dear. 
 Lurks in the present institutes of Venice : 
 All these men were my friends ; I loved them, they 
 Requited honorably my regards ; 
 We served and fought ; we smiled and wept in con- 
 We revell'd or we sorrow'd side by side ; [cert; 
 
 We made alliances of blood and marriage ; 
 We grew in years and honors fairly, — till 
 Their own desire, not my ambition, made 
 Them choose me for their prince, and then farewell ! 
 Farewell all social menioiy ! all thoughts 
 In common ! and sweet bonds which link old friend- 
 Wlien the survivors of long years and actions, [ships, 
 Winch now belong to history, soothe the days 
 Wliich yet remain by treasuring each other. 
 And never meet, but each beholds the mirror 
 Of half a century on his brother's brow, 
 And sees a hundred beings, now in earth. 
 Flit round them whispering of the days gone by, 
 And seeming not all dead, as long as two 
 Of the brave, joyous, reckless, glorious band, 
 Wliich once were one and many, still retain 
 A breath to sigh for them, a tongue to speak 
 
 Of deeds that else were silent, save on marble 
 
 Oinie ! Oime ! — -and must I do this deed ? 
 
 /. y.Vr. My lord, you are much moved : it is not 
 That such things must be dwelt upon. [now 
 
 Doge. Your patience 
 
 A moment — I recede not : mark with me 
 The gloomy vices of this government, [^rnade me — 
 From the hour they made me Doge, the I)o<je they 
 Farewell the past ! I died to all that had been. 
 Or rather they to me : no friends, no kindness, 
 No privacy of life — all were cut off: 
 They came not near me, such approach gave umbrage; 
 They could not love me, such was not the law ; 
 They thwarted me, 'twas the state's policy ; 
 They baffled me, 'twas a patrician's duty ; 
 They wrong'd me, for such was to right the state ; 
 They could not right me, that would give suspicion; 
 So that I was a slav*^ to my own subjects ; 
 80 that I was a foe to my own friends ; 
 Begirt vnth. spies for guards — with robes for power — 
 With pomp for freedom — jailers for a council — 
 
 Inquisitors for friends — and hell for life ! 
 
 I had one only fount of quiet left, 
 
 And thitt they poison'd ! My pure household gods 
 
 Were shiver'd on my hearth, and o'er their shrine 
 
 Sate grinning Ribaldry and sneering Scorn. 
 
 /. Bcr. You have been deeply wrong'd, and ndw 
 Nobly avenged before another night. [shall b« 
 
 Doge. I had borne all — it hurt mfe, but I bore it- 
 Till this last running over of the cup 
 Of bitterness — until this last loud insult. 
 Not only unredress'd, but sanction'd ; then, 
 And thus, I cast all further feeUngs from me — 
 The feelings which they crush'd for me, long, long 
 Before, even in their oath of false allegiance ! 
 Even in that very hour and vow, they abjured 
 Their friend and made a sovereign, as boys make 
 Playthings, to do their pleasure —and be broken ! 
 I from that hour have seen but senators 
 In dark suspicious conflict ^vitli the Doge, 
 Brooding with him in mutual hate and fear ; 
 They dreading he should snatch the t\Tanny 
 From out their grasp, and he abhorring tyrants. 
 To me, then, these men have no private life. 
 Nor claim to ties they have cut ofi' from others' 
 As senators for arbitrary acts 
 Amenable, I look on them — as such 
 Let them be dealt upon. 
 
 Cat. And now to action ! 
 
 Hence, brethren, to our posts, and may this Ije 
 The last night of mere words : I"d fain be doing ! 
 Saint ?ilark's great bell at da^m shall find me wakeful I 
 
 /. B(i: Disperse then to your posts : be firm and 
 vigilant ; 
 Think on the wrongs we bear, the rights we claim. 
 This day and night shall be the last of peril ! 
 Watch for the signal, and then march. I go 
 To join my band ; let each he prompt to marshal 
 nis separate charge : the Doge will now return 
 To the palace to prepare all for the blow. 
 We part to meet in freedom and in glory ! 
 
 Cal. Doge, wlien I greet you nest, my homage tc 
 Shall be the head of Steno on this sword ! [you 
 
 Doge. No; let him be reserved unto the last, 
 Nor turn aside to strike at such a prey. 
 Till noliler game is quarried : his ofl'ence 
 Was a mere ebullition of the vice, 
 The general corruption generated 
 By the foul aristocracy : he could not — 
 He dared not — in more honorable days 
 Have risk'd it. I have merged all private wrath 
 Against him, in the thought of our great purpose. 
 A slave insults me — I require his punishment 
 From his proud master's hands ; if he refuse it, 
 The offence grows his, and let him answer it. 
 
 Cul. Yet, as the immediate cause of the alliance 
 Which consecrates our undertaking more 
 I owe him such deep gratitude, that fair 
 
SCENE 11. 
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 213 
 
 I would repay him as he merits ; may I ? 
 
 Dmji'. You would but lop the hand, and I the head! 
 You would but smite the scholar, I the master ; 
 You would but punish Steno, I the Senate. 
 I cannot pause on individual hate, 
 In the absorbing, sweeping, whole revenge, 
 Which, like the sheeted tire from heaven, must blast 
 Without distinction, as it fell of yore. 
 Where the Dead Sea hath qucnch'd two cities' ashes. 
 
 /. Ber. Away, then, to your posts ! I but remain 
 A moment to accompany the Doge 
 To our late place of tryst, to see no spies 
 Have been upon the scout, and thence I hasten 
 To where my allotted band is under arms. 
 
 Cat. Farewell, then, — until dawn ! 
 
 /. Btr. Success go with you ! 
 
 Conap. We will not fail — Away ! My lord, farewell. 
 
 [The Conxpiralors salute the Doge and Israel 
 
 Bektuccio, and retire, headed hi/ Phllip CAliEN- 
 
 D.WRO. The Doge and IsRiVEL Bertuccio remain. 
 
 I. B?r. We have them in the toil — it cannot fail ! 
 Now thou'rt indeed a sovereign, and wilt make 
 .V name immortal greater than the greatest : 
 Free citizens have struck at kings ere now ; 
 Ca>sars have fallen, and even patrician hands 
 Have crush'd dictators, as the jjopular steel 
 Has reach'd patricians : but, until this hour, 
 What Prince has plotted for his jDcople's freedom ? 
 Or risked a life to liberate his subjects ? 
 Forever, and forever, they conspire 
 Against the people, to abuse their hands 
 To chains, liut laid aside to carry weapons 
 Against the fellow nations, so that yoke 
 On yoke, and slavery and death may whet, 
 Xot ijlut^ the never-gorged Leviathan ! 
 Now, my lord, to our enterprise ; — 'tis great, 
 .\nd greater the reward ; why stand you rapt ? 
 A moment back, and you were all impatience ! 
 
 Done. And is it then decided ? must they die ? 
 
 /. Ber. Wlio ? 
 
 Diiije. My own Iriends by blood and courtesy, 
 
 And many deeds and days — the senators ? 
 
 1. Ber. Youpass'dtheirsentence,anditisajustone. 
 
 D"ge. Ay, so it seems, and so it is to yov ; 
 You are a patriot, plebeian Gracchus — • 
 The rebel's oracle, the people's tribune — 
 I lilamt you not — you act in your vocation ; 
 They smote you, and oppress'd you, and despised you ; 
 So they have me : but yuu ne'er spake with them ; 
 You never broke their bread, nor shared their salt ; 
 You never had their wine-cup at your lips : 
 You grew not up with them, nor laugh'd, nor wept. 
 Nor held a revel in their company ; 
 Ne'er smiled to see them smile, nor claim'd their smile 
 In social interchange for yours, nor trusted 
 Nor wore them in .our heart of hearts, as I have : 
 These hairs of mine are gray, and so are theirs. 
 
 The elders of the council : I remember 
 When all our locks were like the raven's ^ving, 
 As we went forth to take our jjrey around 
 The isles wrung from the false Mahometan ; 
 And can I see them dalibled o'er with blood ? 
 Each stab to them will seem my suicide. 
 
 /. Ber. Doge ! Doge ! this vacillation is unworthy 
 A child ; if you are not in second childhood. 
 Call back your nerves to your own purpose, nor 
 Thus shame yourself and me. By heavens ! I'd rather 
 Forego even now, or fail in our intent. 
 Than see the man I venerate subside 
 From high resolves into such shallow weakness ! 
 You have seen blood in battle, shed it, both 
 Your own and that of others ; can you shrink then 
 From a few drops from veins of hoary vampires. 
 Who but give back what they have ch'aiu'd from mil- 
 lions ? 
 
 Dnrfe. Bear with me ! Step by step, and blow on 
 I will divide with you ; think not I waver. [blow. 
 Ah ! no ; it is the certainty of all 
 Wliich I must do doth make me tremble thus. 
 But let these last and lingering thoughts have way, 
 To which you only and the night are conscious. 
 And both regardless ; when the hour arrives, 
 'Tis mine to sound the kuell, and strike the blow. 
 Which shall unpeople many palaces. 
 And hew the highest genealogic trees 
 Down to the earth, strew'd with their bleeding fruit 
 And crush their blossoms into barrenness : 
 Thix will I — must I — have I sworn to do. 
 Nor aught can turn me from my destiny ; 
 But still I quiver to behold what I 
 Must be, and think what I have been ! Bear with me 
 
 /. Ber. Re-man your breast; I feel no such remorse, 
 I understand it not : why should you change 2 
 You acted, and you act, on your free will. 
 
 Do(ie. Ay, there it is — ymi feel not, nor do I, 
 Else I should stab thee on the spot, to save 
 A thousand lives, and, killing, do no murder ; 
 YoM. feel not — you go to this butcher-work 
 As if these high-bom men were steers for shamn « 
 When all is over, you'll be free and merry. 
 And calmly wash those hands incarnadine ; 
 But I, outgoing thee and all thv fellows 
 In this surijassing massacre, shall be, 
 Shall see and feel — oh God ! oh God ! 'tis true, 
 And thou dost well to answer that it was 
 " My own free will and act," and yet you err, 
 For I will do this ! Doubt not — fear noL ; I 
 WiU be your most unmerciful accomplice 1 
 And yet I act no more on my free will. 
 Nor my own feelings — both comjiel me back ; 
 But there is hell within me and around, 
 And like the demon who believes and trembles 
 JIust I abhor and do. Away ! away ! 
 Get thee unto thy fellows, I wiU hie me 
 
.14 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT IT, 
 
 To gather the retainers of our boiue. 
 
 Doubt not, Saint Mark's great bell shall wake all 
 
 Except her shiughter'd senate ; ere the sun [Venice, 
 
 Be broad upon the Adriatic, there 
 
 Shall be a voice of weeping, wlucli shall drown 
 
 The roar of waters in the cry of blood 1 
 
 [ am resolved — come on. 
 
 /. Btr. With all my soul ! 
 
 Keep a firm rein upon these bursts of passion ; 
 Remember what these men have dealt to thee, 
 A.ud that this sacrifice will be succeeded 
 By ages of prosperity and freedom 
 To this unshackled city : a true tyrant 
 Would have depopulated empires, nor 
 Have felt the strange compunction which hath vrrung 
 To punish a few traitors to the people. [you 
 
 Trust me, such were a pity more misplaced 
 Than the late mercy of the state to Steno. 
 
 Duge. Man, thou hast struck upon the chord wliich 
 AlU nature from my heart. Hence to our task ! (jars 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Palazzo of the Patrician LlONl. LlONi laying aside 
 
 the mask and cloak which the Venetian Nobles wore 
 
 in jmlilic, attended hy a Domestic. 
 
 Lioni. I will to rest, right weary of this revel, 
 The gayest we have held for many moons, 
 And yet, I know not why, it cheer''! me not ; 
 There came a heaviness across my heart, 
 Which, in the lightest movement of the dance, 
 Though eye to eye, and hand in hand united 
 Even with the lady of my love, oppress'd me, 
 And through my spirit chill'd my blood, until 
 A damp like death rose o'er my brow ; I strove 
 To laugh the thought away, but 'twould not be : 
 Through all the music ringing in my ears 
 A knell was sounding as distinct and clear, 
 Though low and far, as e'er the Adrian wave 
 Rose o'er the city's murmur in the night, 
 Dashing against the outward Lido's bulwark : 
 So that I left the festival before 
 It reach'd its zenith, and will woo my pillow 
 For thoughts more tranquil, or forgetfulness. 
 .Vntonio, take my mask and cloak, and light 
 The lamp witnin my chamber. 
 
 AhI. Yes, my lord: 
 
 Command you no refreshment 2 
 
 Lioni. Naught, save sleep. 
 
 Which will not be commanded. Let me hope it, 
 
 {Exit Antonio. 
 Though my breast feels too anxious ; I will try 
 Whether the air will calm my spirits ; 'tis 
 A goodly night ; the cloudy wind wliieli lilew 
 From llie Levant hath crept into its cave, 
 
 And the broad moon has brighten'd. What a stillness I 
 
 [ Goes to an open lallice. 
 And what a contrast with the scene I left. 
 Where the tall torches' glare, and silver lamps' 
 More pallid gleam along the tapestried walls, 
 Spread over the reluctant gloom which haunts 
 Those vast and dimly-latticed galleries 
 A dazzling mass of artificial light, 
 AVIiich show'd all things, but nothing as they were. 
 There Age essaying to recall the past, 
 After long striving for the hues of youth 
 At the sad labor of the toilet, and 
 Pull many a glance at the too faithful mirror, 
 Prank'd forth in all the pride of ornament, 
 Forgot itself, and trusting to the falsehood 
 Of the indulgent beams, which show, yet hide, 
 Believed itself forgotten, and was fool'd. 
 There Youth, which iieeded not, nor thought of such 
 Vain adjuncts, lavisli'd its true bloom, and health, 
 And bridal beauty, in the unwholesome press 
 Of flush'd and crowded wassailcrs, and wasted 
 Its hours of rest in dreaming this was pleasure, 
 And so shall waste them till the sunrise streams 
 On sallow cheeks and sunken eyes, which should not 
 Have worn this aspect yet for many a year. 
 The music, and the banquet, and tlie wine — 
 The garlands, the rose odors, and the flowers — 
 The sparkling eyes, and flashing ornaments — 
 The white arms and the raven hair — the braids 
 And bracelets ; swanlike bosoms, and the necklace. 
 An India in itself, yet dazzling not 
 The eye like wh.it it circled ; the thin robes, [enj 
 Floating Uke light clouds 'twixt our gaze and heav. 
 The many-twinkling feet so small and syliihlike, 
 Suggesting the more secret symmetry 
 Of the fair forms which terminate so well — 
 All the delusion of the dizzy scene. 
 Its false and true enchantments — art and nature, 
 Which swam l)efore my giddy eyes, that ilrank 
 The sight of beauty as the parch'd pilgrim's 
 On Arab sands the false mirage, which ofiers 
 A lucid lake to his eluded thirst, 
 Are gone. Around me are the stars and waters — 
 Worlds mirror'd in the ocean, goodlier sight 
 Than torches glared back by a gaudy glass ; 
 And the great element, which is to space 
 What ocean is to earth, sj)reads its blue depths, 
 Soften'd with the first breathings of the spring; 
 The high moon sails upon her beauteous way, 
 Serenelj' smoothing o'er the lofty walls 
 Of those tall piles and sea-girt palaces. 
 Whose porphyry pillare, and whose costly fronts, 
 Fraught with the orient spoil o\ .nany mai bles, 
 Like altars ranged along the broad canal, 
 Seem each a trophy of some mighty deed 
 Hear'd up from out the waters, scarce le=!s strangelj 
 Than those more massy and mysterioue giants 
 
BCEXE I. 
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 213 
 
 Of arcliitecture, those Titanian fabrics, 
 
 Wliich point in Egypt's plains to times that liave 
 
 No other record. Al\ is gentle : naught 
 
 Stirs rudely ; but, congenial with the night, 
 
 Whatever walks is gliding like a spirit. 
 
 The tinklings of some vigilant guitars 
 
 Of sleepless lover to a wakeful mistress. 
 
 And cautious opening of the casement, showing 
 
 That he is not unheard ; while her young hand. 
 
 Fair as the moonUght of which it seems a part, 
 
 So deUcately white, it trembles in 
 
 The act of opening the forbidden lattice, 
 
 To let in love through music, makes his heart 
 
 Thrill like his lyre-strings at the sight ; — the dash 
 
 Phosphoric of the oar, or rapid twinkle 
 
 Of the far lights of skimming gondolas. 
 
 And the responsive voices of tlie choir 
 
 Of boatmen answering back with verse for verse ; 
 
 Some dusky shadow checkering the Kialto ; 
 
 Some glimmering palace roof, or tapering spire. 
 
 Are all the sights and sounds which here pervade 
 
 The ocean-born and earth-commanding cit\- — 
 
 now sweet and soothing is this hour of calm ! 
 
 I thank thee, Night ! for thou hast chased away 
 
 Those horrid bodements which, amidst the throng, 
 
 I could not dissipate ; and with the blessing 
 
 Of thy benign and quiet influence, — 
 
 Now will I to my couch, although to rest 
 
 Is almost wronging such a night as this 
 
 [^-1 Inockiug i.i heard jroni without. 
 Hark ! what is that ? or who at such a moment ? 
 
 Enter Antokio. 
 
 Ant. My lord, a man without, on urgent business, 
 Inrplores to be admitted. 
 
 Liuni. Is he a stranger ? 
 
 Ant. His face is muffled in his cloak, but both 
 His voice and gestures seem familiar to me ; 
 I craved his name, but this he seem'd reluctant 
 To trust, save to yourself; most earnestly 
 He sues to be permitted to approach you. 
 
 Liuni. 'Tis a strange hour, and a suspicious bear- 
 And yet there is slight peril : 'tis not in [ing 1 
 
 Their houses noble men are struck at ; still, 
 Although I know not that I have a foe 
 In Venice, 'twill be wise to use some caution. 
 Admit him, and retire ; but call up quickly 
 Some of thy fellows, who may wait without. 
 Who can this man be ? 
 Exit Antoxio, and returns with Bertram muffled. 
 
 Brr. My good lord Lioni, 
 
 I have no time to lose, nor thou — dismiss 
 This menial hence ; I would be private with you. 
 
 Lioni It seems the voice of Be-tram — go, Antonio. 
 
 {Exit Antonio. 
 Now, stranger, what would you at such an hour ? 
 
 Ber. (dltcorering himself.) A boon, my noble pa- 
 tron ; yoi have granted 
 
 Many to your poor client, Bertram ; add 
 This one, and make him happy. 
 
 Lioni. Thou hast known me 
 
 From boyhood, ever ready to assist thee 
 In all fiiir objects of advancement, which 
 Beseem one of thy station ; I would promise 
 Ere thy request was heard, but that the hour, 
 Thy bearing, and this strange and hurried mode 
 Of suing, gives me to suspect this visit 
 Hath some mysterious import — but say on — 
 What has occurred, some rash and sudden broil ? 
 A cup too much, a scuffle, and a stab ? — 
 Mere things of every day ; so that thou hast not 
 Spilt noble blood, I guarantee thy safety ; 
 But then thou must withdraw, for angry fr^^-nds 
 And relatives, in the first burst of vengeance, 
 Are things in Venice deadUer than the laws. 
 
 Ber. My lord, I thank you ; but 
 
 Lioni. But what 2 You have no* 
 Raised a rash hand against one of our order ? 
 If so, withdraw and fly, and own it not ; 
 I would not slay — but then I must not save thee 1 
 He who has shed patrician blood 
 
 Ber. I come 
 
 To save patrician blood, and not to shed it I 
 And thereunto I must be speedy, for 
 Each minute lost may lose a life ; since Time 
 Has changed his slow scythe for the two-edged 
 And is about to take, instead of sand, [sword, 
 
 The dust fi-om sepulchres to fill his hour-glass ! — 
 Go not thou forth to-morrow ! 
 
 Lion i. WTierefore not ? — 
 
 What means this menace ? 
 
 Ber. Do not seek its meaning 
 
 But do as I implore thee ; — stir not forth, 
 Whate'er 'ue stirring ; though the roar of crowds — 
 The cry of women, and the shrieks of babes — 
 The groans of men — the clash of arms — the sound 
 Of rolling drum, shrill trump, and hollow bell, 
 Peal in one wide alarum ! Go not forth 
 Until the tocsin's silent, nor even then 
 Till I return 1 
 
 Lioni. Again, what does this mean ? 
 
 Ber. Again, I tell thee, ask not ; but by all 
 Thou boldest dear on earth or heaven — by all 
 The souls of thy great fathers, and thy hope 
 To emulate them, and to leave behind 
 Descendants worthy both of them and thee — 
 By all thou hast of bless'd in hope or memory — 
 By all thou hast to fear here or hereafter — 
 By all the good deeds thou hast done to me, 
 Good I would now repay with greater good, 
 Remain within — trust to thy household gods, 
 And to my word for safety, if thou dost 
 As I now counsel — but if not, thou art lost I 
 
 Lioni. I am indeed ah'cady lost in wonder' 
 Surely thou ravest ! what have 1 to dread ? 
 
zie 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT JT. 
 
 Who arc my foes ? or ii Mierc be such, ithy 
 
 A rt Ihou loayued witli thi m ? — Ihov. ! or if so leagued, 
 
 "Why comest thou to tell me at this hour, 
 
 And not before ? 
 
 Bcr. I cannot answer this. 
 
 Wilt thou go forth despite of tliis true warning ? 
 
 Lioni. I was not bom to shrink from idle threats, 
 The cause of which I know not : at the hour 
 Of council, be it soon or late, I shall not 
 Be found among the absent. 
 
 Ber. Say not so ! 
 
 Once more, art thou determined to go forth ? 
 
 Lioni. I am. Nor is there aught which shall im- 
 pede me I 
 
 Bei: Then Heaven have mercy on thy soul 1 — 
 
 Farewell I [ Going. 
 
 Lioni. Stay — there is more in this than my own 
 safety 
 iVhich makes me call thee back ; we must not part 
 Rertram, I have known thee long. [thus : 
 
 Ber. From childhood, signor. 
 
 You have been my piotector : in the days 
 Of reckless infancy, when rank forg{'ts. 
 Or, rather, is not yet taught to remember 
 Its cold prerogative, wc play'd together ; 
 ">iu' sports, our smiles, our tears, were mingled oft ; 
 .My father was your father's client, I 
 Hia son's scarce less than foster-brother ; years 
 Saw us together — hapjjy, heart-full hours ! 
 Oh, God ! the diflercnce 'twixt those hours aud this! 
 
 Lioni. Bertram, 'tis thou who hast forgotten them. 
 
 Btr. Nor now, nor ever ; whatsoe'er betide, 
 I would have saved you : when to manhood's growth 
 We sprung, and you, devoted to the state. 
 As suits your station, the more humble Bertram 
 Was left unto the labors of the humble. 
 Still you forsook me not ; and if my fortunes 
 Have not been towering, 'twas no fault of him 
 Who ofttimes rescued and supjiorted me 
 When struggling with the tides of circumstance 
 Which Ijear away the weaker : noble blood 
 Ne'er mantled in a nobler heart than thine 
 /las proved to me, the poor plebeian Bertram. 
 Would that thy fellow-senators were like thee 1 
 
 Lioni. Why, what hast thou to say against the 
 
 Ber. Ncthitg. [senate ? 
 
 Lioni. I know that there are angry spirits 
 
 A.nd turbulent mutterers of stifled treason. 
 Who lurk in narrow places, and walk out 
 Muffled to whisper curses to the night ; 
 Disl anded soldiers, discontented ruffians, 
 A-nd desperate libertines who brawl in taverns ; 
 Thou hcrdcst not with such : 'tis true, of late 
 I have lost sight of thee, but thou wert wont 
 To lead a temperate hie, and break thy bread 
 With honest mates, and bear a cheerful aspect. 
 VVTiat hath come to thee ? in thy hollow eye 
 
 And hueless cheek, and thine unquiet motions, 
 Sorrow and shame and conscience seem at war 
 To waste thee. 
 
 Ber. Rather shame and sorrow light 
 
 On the accursed tyranny which rides 
 The very air in Venice, and makes men 
 Madden as in the last hours of the plague 
 Which sweeps the soul deliriously from life ! 
 
 Lioni. Some villains have been tampering with 
 thee, Bertram ; 
 This is not thy old language, nor own thoughts ; 
 Some wretch has made thee drunk with disallection 
 But thou must not be lost so ; thou ircrt good 
 And kind, and art not fit for such Ijase acts 
 As vice and villany would put thee to : 
 Confess — confide in me — thou know'st my nature — 
 Wliat is it thou and thine are bound to do. 
 Which should prevent thy friend, the only son 
 Of him who was a friend imto thy father. 
 So that our good-will is a heritage 
 We should bequeath to our posterity 
 Such as ourselves received it, or augmented ; 
 I say, what is it thou must do, that I 
 Should deem thee dangerous, and keep the house 
 Like a sick girl ? 
 
 Ber. Nay, question me no further : 
 
 I must be gone 
 
 Lioni. And I be murder'd ! — say. 
 
 Was it not thus thou said'st, my gentle Bertram ? 
 
 Ber. Wlio talks of murder ? what said I of mur- 
 'Tis false ! I did not utter such a word. [der ? — 
 
 Lioni. Thou didst not ; but from out thy wolfish 
 eye. 
 So changed from what I knew it, there glares forth 
 The gladiator. If m;/ life's thine object, 
 Take it — I am unarra'd, — and then away ! 
 I would not hold my breath on such a tenure 
 As the capricious mercy of such things [work. 
 
 As thou and those who have set thee to thy task 
 
 Ber. Sooner than spill thy blood, I peril mine ; 
 Sooner than harm a hair of thine, I place 
 In jeopardy a thousand heads, and some 
 As noble, nay, even nobler than thine own. 
 
 Lioni. Ay, is it even so ? Excuse me, Bertram 
 I am not worthy to be singled out 
 From such exalted hecatombs- -who aie they 
 That are in danger, and that m/de the danger ? 
 
 Ber. Venice, and aU that she inherits, are 
 Divided like a house against itself, 
 And so will perish ere to-morrow's twilight I 
 
 Liiini. More mysteries, and awful ones ! But now. 
 Or thou, or I, or both, it may be, are 
 Upon the verge of ruin ; speak once out. 
 And thou art safe and glorious ; for 'tis more 
 Glorious to save than slay, and slay i' the dark too- • 
 Fie, Bertram ! that was not a craft for thee 1 
 How would it look to see upon a s]iear 
 
HOENE II, 
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 211 
 
 The head of him whose heart was open to thee, 
 
 Borne by thy hand before the shuddering peojjle ? 
 
 And such may be my doom ; for here I swear, 
 
 Wliate'er the peril or the penalty 
 
 Of thy denunciation, I go forth, 
 
 Unless thou dost detail the cause, and show 
 
 The consequence of all which led thee here ! 
 
 £ci: Is there no way to save thee ? minutes fly. 
 And thou art lost ! — tfiou ! my sole benefactor. 
 The only being who was constant to me 
 Through every change. Yet, make me not a trai- 
 Lct me save thee — but spare my honor I [tor ! 
 
 Llohi. Where 
 
 Can lie the honor in a league of murder ? 
 And who are traitors save unto the state ? 
 
 Ber. A league is still a compact, and more binding 
 In honest hearts when words must stand for law ; 
 And in my mind, there is no traitor like 
 He whose domestic treason plants the poinard 
 Within the breast which trusted to his truth. 
 
 Lioni. And loho wiU strike the steel to mine ? 
 
 Ber. Not I ; 
 
 I could have wound my soul up to aU things 
 Save this. 77iim must not die ! and think how dear 
 Thy life is, when I risk so many lives. 
 Nay, more, the life of lives, the liberty 
 Of future generations, not to be 
 The assassin thou miscall'st me ; — once, once more 
 I do adjure thee, pass not o'er thy threshold ! 
 
 Lioni. It is in vain — this moment I go forth. 
 
 Ber. Then perish Venice rather than my friend ! 
 I will disclose — ensnare — betray — destroy — 
 Oh, what a villain I become for thee ! [state's ! — 
 
 Lioni. Say, rather thy friend's saviour and the 
 Speak — pause not — all rewards, all pledges for 
 Thy safety and thy welfare ; wealth such as 
 Tlie state accords her worthiest servants ; nay. 
 Nobility itself I guarantee thee. 
 So that thou art sincere and penitent, [love thee — 
 
 Ber. I have thought again : it must not be — ^I 
 Thou knowest it — that I stand here is the proof, 
 Not least though last ; but ha^dng done my duty 
 By thee, I now must do it to my country ! 
 Farewell — we meet no more in life ! — farewell ! 
 
 Lioni. What, ho ! — Antonio — Pedro — to the door ! 
 See that none pass — arrest this man ! 
 
 Enter Antonio and other armed Domestici, who seize 
 Bertram. 
 Lioni. {continues.) Take care 
 
 He hath no harm ; bring me my sword and cloak ; 
 And man the gondola with four oars — quick. 
 
 [Exit Antonio. 
 We ■ndll unto Giovanni Gradenigo's, 
 Aud send for Marc Cornaro ;■ — fear not Bertram ; 
 This needful violence is for thy safety. 
 No less than for the general weal. 
 28 
 
 Ber. Where wouldst thou 
 
 Bear me a prisoner ? 
 
 Lioni. Firstly to " the Ten ;" 
 
 Next to the Doge. 
 
 Ber. To the Doge 2 
 
 Lioni. Assuredly: 
 
 Is he not chief of the state ? 
 
 Ber, Perhaps at sunrise — 
 
 Lioni. What mean you ? — but we'll know anon. 
 
 Ber. Art sure ? 
 
 Lioni. Sure as all gentle means can make ; and if 
 They fail, you know " the Ten " and their tribunal, 
 And that St. Mark's has dungeons, and the dungeons 
 A rack. 
 
 Ber. Apply it then before the dawn 
 Now hastening into heaven. One more such word, 
 And you shall perish j)iecemeal, by the death 
 You think to doom to me. 
 
 Re-enter A_ntonio. 
 
 Ant. The bark is ready, 
 
 Jly lord, and aU prepared. 
 
 Lioni. Look to the prisoner. 
 
 Bertram, I'll reason with thee as we go 
 To the Magnifico's, sage Gradenigo. \_E.xeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Tlie Ducal Palace. — The Do'je^s Apartment. 
 
 The Doge and his nephew Bertuccio Faliero. 
 
 Do(/e. Are all the people of our house in muster ? 
 
 Ber. F. They are array'd, and eager for the signal, 
 Within our palace precincts at San Polo.' 
 I come for your last orders. 
 
 Dot/e. It had been 
 
 As well had there been time to have got together. 
 From my own fief, Val di Marino, more 
 Of our retainers — but it is too late. 
 
 Ber. F. Methinks, my lord, 'tis Ijettcr as it is : 
 A sudden swelling of our retinue 
 Had waked suspicion ; and, though fierce and trusty, 
 The vassals of that district are too rude 
 And quick in quarrel to have long maintain'd 
 The secret discipline we need for such 
 A service, till our foes are dealt upon. 
 
 Doge. True ; but when once the signal has been 
 These are the men for such an enterprise ; [given, 
 These city slaves have all their jirivate bias. 
 Their prejudice ariainst or fur this nolile, 
 Wliich may induce them to o'crdo or sfjare 
 Where mercy may be madness ; the fierce peasants, 
 Serfs of my country of Val di Marino, 
 Would do the bidding of their lord without 
 Distinguishing for love or hate his foes ; 
 
 • The Doge's family pal.ice. 
 
2J8 
 
 CTllOX'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT 11 
 
 Alike to them JIarcello or Comaro, 
 
 A Gradenigo or a Foscari ; 
 
 They are not used to start at those raiu names 
 
 Nor l)Ow the kupc lieforc a civic senate ; 
 
 A chief in armor is their Suzerain, 
 
 And not a thing in robes. 
 
 Bcr, F. We are enough ; 
 
 And for the dispositions of our clients 
 Against the senate I will answer. 
 
 Doge. Well, 
 
 The die is thrown ; but for a warlike service, 
 Done in the field, commend me to my peasants : 
 They made the sun shine through the host of Etuns 
 When sallow burghers slunk back to their tents, 
 And cower'd to hear their own victorious trumpet. 
 If there be small resistance, you will find 
 These citizens all lions, like their standard ; 
 But if there's much to do, you'll wish, with me, 
 A band of iron rustics at our backs. 
 
 Ilir. F. Thus thinkius;, I must marvel you resolve 
 To strike the blow so suddenly. 
 
 Doge. Such blows 
 
 Must be struck suddenly or never. When 
 I had o'ermaster'd the weak false remorse 
 Which yearn'd about my heart, too fondly yielding 
 A moment to the fceUngs of old days, 
 I was most fuin to strike ; and, firstly, that 
 I might not yield again to such emotions ; 
 And, secondly, because of all these men, 
 Save Israel and Philip Calcndaro, 
 I know not well the courage or the faith : 
 To-day might find 'mongst them a traitor to us. 
 As yesterday a thousand to the senate ; 
 But once in with their hilts hot in their hands, 
 They must on for their own sakes ; one stroke struck. 
 And the mere instinct of the first-born Cain, 
 Wliieh ever lurks somewhere in human hearts, 
 Though circumstance may keep it in abeyance. 
 Will urge the rest on like to wolves ; the sight 
 Of blood to crowds begets the thirst of more, 
 'As the first wine-cup leads to the long revel ; 
 And you will find a harder task to quell 
 Than urge them when they lutvc commenced, but till 
 That moment, a mere voice, a.straw, a shadow, 
 Are capable of turning them aside. 
 How goes the night ? 
 
 Ber. F. Almost upon the dawn. 
 
 Doge. Then it is time to strike upon the beU. 
 \.re the men posted ? 
 
 Ber. F. By this time they are, 
 
 But they have orders not to strike, until 
 They have command from you through me in person. 
 
 Dogt: 'Tis well. Will the mom never put to rest 
 These stars wliich twinkle yet o'er all the heavens ? 
 I am settled and bound up, and l)eing so, 
 The very ell'ort which it cost me to 
 Resolve to cleanse this commonwealth witli fire. 
 
 Now leaves my mind more steady. I have wept, 
 
 And trembled at the thought of this dread duty ; 
 
 But now I have put down all idle passion, 
 
 ^Vnd look the growing tempest in the face, 
 
 As doth the pilot of an admiral galley : 
 
 Yet (wouldst thou think it, kinsman ?) it liath been 
 
 A greater struggle to me, than when nations 
 
 Beheld their fate merged in the approaching fight, 
 
 Where I was leader of a phalanx, where 
 
 Thousands were sure to perish. Yes, to spill 
 
 The rank polluted current from the veins 
 
 Of a few bloated despots needed more 
 
 To steel me to a purpose such as made 
 
 Timoleon immortal, than to face 
 
 The toils and dangers of a life of war. 
 
 Bcr. F. It gladdens me to see your former wisdom 
 Subdue the furies which so wrung you ero 
 You were decided. 
 
 Doge. It was ever thus 
 
 With me ; the hour of agitation came 
 In the first glimmerings of a purpose, when 
 Passion had too much room to sway ; but in 
 The hour of action I have stood as calm 
 As were the dead who lay around me : this 
 They knew who made me what I am, and trusted 
 To the subduing power which I preserved 
 Over my mood, when its first burst was spent. 
 But they were not aware that there are things 
 Which make revenge a virtue hy refiection. 
 And not an impulse of mere anger : though 
 The laws sleep, justice wakes, and injured souls 
 Oft do a public right with private wrong, 
 And justify their deeds unto themselves. — 
 Methinks the day breaks — is it not so ? look. 
 Thine eyes are clear with youth ; — the air puts on 
 A morning freshness, and, at least to me, 
 The sea looks grayer through the lattice. 
 
 Bcr. F. ' True, 
 
 The morn is dappling in the sky. 
 
 Doge. Away then I 
 
 See that they strike M-ithout delay, and with 
 The first toll from St. Mark's, march on the palace 
 With all our house's strength : lure I will meet you — 
 The Sixteen and their companies will move 
 In separate columns at the self-same moment — 
 Be sure you post yourself at the great gate : 
 I would not trust " the Ten " except to us— 
 The rest, the rabble of patricians, may [with us. 
 Glut the more careless swords of those leagued 
 Remember that the cry is still " Saint Mark I 
 The Genoese are come — ho ! to the rescue I 
 Saint Mark and Lilicrty !"— Now — now to action I 
 
 Ber. F. Farewell then, noble uncle ! we will meet 
 In freedom and true sovereignty, or never ! 
 
 Doge. Come hither, my Bertuccio — one embrace- 
 Speed, for the day grows broader— Send me soon 
 A messenger to tell me how all goes 
 
3CKNE 11. 
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 2.9 
 
 When you rejoin our troops, and then sound — sound 
 The storm-beU from St. Mark's ! 
 
 [Exit Bertuccio Faliero. 
 Doge, (siihis.) He is gone, 
 
 And on each footstep moves a hfe. — 'Tis done. 
 Xow the destroying angel hovers o'er 
 Venice, and pauses ere he pours the vial, 
 Even as the eagle overlooks his prey, 
 And for a moment, poised in middle air. 
 Suspends the motion of his mighty wings. 
 Then swoops with his unerring beak. — Thou day I 
 That slowl)' walk'st the waters ! march — march on — 
 [ would not smite i' the dark, but rather see 
 That no stroke errs. And you, ye blue sea-waves ! 
 I have seen you dyed ere now, and deeply too, 
 With Genoese, Saracen, and Hunnish gore. 
 While that of Venice flow'd too, but victorious ; 
 Now thou must wear an uumix'd crimson ; no 
 Barbaric Ijlood can reconcile us now 
 Unto that honible incarnadine. 
 But friend or foe will roU in civic slaughter. 
 And have I lived to fourscore years for this ? 
 I, who was named Preserver of the City ? 
 I, at whose name the million's caps were flung 
 Into the air, and cries from tens of thousands 
 Kose up, imploring Heaven to send me blessings. 
 And fume, and length of days — to see this day ? 
 But tliis day, black within the calendar. 
 Shall be succeeded by a bright millennium. 
 Doge Dandolo survived to ninety summers 
 To vanquish empires, and refuse their crown ; 
 I will resign a crown, and make the state 
 Renew its fi-eedom — but oh ! by what means ? 
 The noble end must justify them — What 
 Are a few drops of human blood ? "tis false. 
 The lilood of tyrants is not human ; they, 
 Like to incarnate Molochs, feed on ours. 
 Until 'tis time to give them to the tombs 
 Which they have made so populous. — Oh world ! 
 Oh men I what are ye, and our best designs. 
 That we must work by crime to punish crime ? 
 And slay as if Death had but this one gate. 
 When a few years would make the sword sujierfluous ? 
 And I, upon the verge of th' unknown realm, 
 Yet send so many hefalds on before me ? — 
 I must not ponder this. 
 
 [A pause. 
 Hark 1 was there not 
 A murmur as of distant voices, and 
 The tramp of feet in martial unison ? 
 WHiat phantoms even of sound our wishes raise I 
 It cannot be — the signal hath not rung — 
 Why pauses it ? My nephew's messenger 
 Should be upon his way to me, and he 
 Himself perhaps even now draws grating back 
 Upon its ponderous hinge the steep tower portal. 
 Where swings the suUen huge oracular liell, 
 
 "Which never knells but for a princely death, 
 Or for a state in peril, pealing forth 
 Tremendous bodements ; let it do its office. 
 And be this peal its awfulest and last. 
 Sound till the strong tower rock ! — Wliat ! silent 
 I would go forth, but that my post is here, [still ' 
 To be the centre of reunion to 
 The oft discordant elements which form 
 Leagues of this nature, and to keep compact 
 The wavering of the weak, in case of confiict ; 
 For if they should do battle, 'twill be here, 
 Within the palace, that the strife will thicken : 
 Then here must be my station, as becomes 
 
 The master-mover. Hark ! he comes — he comes, 
 
 My nei^hew, brave Bcrtuccio's messenger. — 
 WTiat tidings ? Is he marching ? hath he sped ? — 
 Tliey here I — all's lost — yet will I make an eftbrt. 
 
 Enter a Signob op tee Night icith Guards, 
 etr., etc. 
 
 Sig. Doge, I arrest thee of high treason ! 
 
 Doge. Me ! 
 
 Thy prince, of treason ? — Who are thej- that dare 
 Cloak their own treason under such an order ? 
 
 Sig. {slwwiiig hia order.) Behold my order from 
 the assembled Ten. 
 
 Doge. And where are they, and -why assembled ? no 
 Such council can be lawful, till the prince 
 Preside there, and that duty's mine : on thine 
 I charge thee, give me way, or marshal me 
 To the council chamlier. 
 
 Sig. Duke ! it may not be : 
 
 Nor are they in the wonted Hall of Council, 
 But sitting in the convent of Saint Saviour's. 
 
 Doge. You dare to disobey me, then ? 
 
 Sig. I serve 
 
 The state, and needs must serve it faithfully ; 
 My warrant is the will of thos*; who rule it. 
 
 Doge. And tiU that warrant has my signature 
 It is illegiil, and, as now appUcd, 
 Rebellious — Hast thou weigli'd well thy life's worth, 
 That thus you dare assume a lawless function ? 
 
 Sig. 'Tis not my office to reply, but act — ■ 
 I am placed here as guard upon thy person. 
 And not as judge to hear or to decide. 
 
 Doge, (onde.) I must gain time — So thiit the 
 storm-bell sound 
 AU may be well yet. — Kinsman, speed — speed — 
 Our fate is trembling in the balance, and [speed !— 
 Wo to the vanquish'd ! be they jarince and people. 
 Or slaves and senate — 
 
 [ T/ie great hell of Saint MarJv'.t tolls 
 Lo 1 it souji-ds — ^it tolls ! 
 (Aloud.) Hark, Signor of the Night ! and you, ye 
 Who wield your mercenary staves in fear, [hiriliugs, 
 It is your knell — Swell on, thou lusty peal I 
 Now, knaves, what ransom for your lives ? 
 
?.co 
 
 BYRON'S WOKKS. 
 
 ACTT V. 
 
 Strj. Confusion ! 
 
 litand to Tour arras, and guard the door — all's lost 
 Unless that fearful bell be silenced soon. 
 The ofBcer hath miss'd his path or purpose, 
 Or met some unforeseen and hideous obstacle. 
 .\nselmo, wilh thy company proceed 
 Straight to the Tower ; the rest remain with me. 
 
 \_Erit part of the Guard. 
 
 Ih'ije.. Wretch ! if thou wouldst have thy vile life, 
 implore it ; 
 It is not now a lease of sixty seconds. 
 Ay, send thy miserable ruffians forth ; 
 They never shall return. 
 
 Sitj. So let it be ! 
 
 They die then in their duty, as will I. 
 
 D<i(jr. Voo\ \ the high eagle flies at nobler game 
 Than thou and thy base myrmidons, — Kve on, 
 So thou provok'st not peril by resistance. 
 And learn (if souls so much obscured can bear 
 To gaze upon the sunbeams) to be free. 
 
 SUj. And learn thou to be captive — It hath ceased, 
 [ The hell ceases to toll. 
 The traitorous signal, which was to have set 
 The bloodhound mob on their patrician prey — 
 The knell hath rung, but it is not the senate's ! 
 
 Doge, (after a pause.) All's silent, and all's lost ! 
 
 Sig. Now, Doge, denounce me ! 
 
 As rebel slave of a revolted council ! 
 Have I not done my duty ? 
 
 Doge. Peace ! thou thing ! 
 
 Thou liast done a wortliy deed, and caru'd the price 
 Of blood, and they who use thee will reward thee. 
 But thou wcrt sent to watch and not to prate. 
 As thou saidst even now — then do thine office, 
 But let it be in silence, as behooves thee. 
 Since, though thy prisoner, I am thy prince. 
 
 Sig. I did not mean to fail in the respect 
 Due to your ran'K : in this I shall obey you. 
 
 Doge, (iisiile.) There now is nothing left me save to 
 And yet how near success 1 I would liuve fallen [die ; 
 And proudly, iu the hour of triumph, but 
 To miss it thus 1 
 
 Enter other Signors op the Night, with Bertuocio 
 Faleero prisoner. ' 
 
 2d Sig. We took him in the act 
 
 Of issuing from the tower, where, at his order. 
 As delegated from the Doge, the signal 
 Had thus begun to sound. 
 
 \st Sig. Are all the passes 
 
 Wliich lead up to the palace well secured ? 
 
 2il Sig. They are — besides, it matters not ; the chiefs 
 Are all in chains, and some even now on trial — 
 Their followers are dispersed, and many taken. 
 
 Her. F. Uncle! 
 
 Doge. It is in vain to war with Fortune ; 
 
 Vhe Glory hath departed from our house. 
 
 Ber. F. Wlio would have dccm'd it ? — Ah ! one 
 moment sooner ! 
 
 Doge. That moment would have changed the face 
 Thin gives us to eternity — We'll meet it [of ages 
 As men whose triumph is not in success, 
 But who can make their own minds all in all. 
 Equal to every fortune. Droop not, 'tis 
 But a brief passage — I would go alone, 
 Yet if they send us, as 'tis like, together,' 
 Let us go wortliy of our sires and selves, 
 
 Ber. F. I shall not shame you, uncle. 
 
 \st Sig. Lords, our orders 
 
 Are to keep guard on both in separate chamV)er8, 
 Until the council call ye to your trial. 
 
 Doge. Our trial ! will they keep their mockery up 
 Even to the last 2 l)ut let them deal upon us. 
 As we had dealt on them, but with less pomp. 
 'Tis but a game of mutual liomicidcs, 
 Who have cast lots for the first death, and they 
 Havewon with false dice. — Who hath i)eeu our Judas 1 
 
 Isi Sig. I am not warranted to answer that. 
 
 Ber. F. I'll answer for thee — 'tis a certain Bertram, 
 Even now deposing to the secret giunta. 
 
 Doge. Bertram the Bergamask ! With what vile tools 
 We operate to slay or save ! This creature. 
 Black with a double treason, now will earn 
 Rewards and honors, and be stamp'd in story 
 With the geese in the Capitol, which g.abbled 
 Till Rome awoke, and had an annual triumph. 
 While Manlius, who hurl'd down the Gauls, was cast 
 From the Tarpeian. 
 
 Ut Sig. He aspired to treason, 
 
 And sought to rule the state. 
 
 Doge. lie saved the state. 
 
 And sought but to reform what he revived 
 But this is idle 'Come, sirs, do your work. 
 
 1st Sig. Noble Bertuccio, we must now remove yon 
 Into an inner chamber. 
 
 Ber. F. Farewell, uncle ! 
 
 If we shall meet again in life I know not, 
 But they perhaps will let our ashes mingle. 
 
 Dcge. Yes, and our spirits, which shall yet go forth. 
 And do what our frail clay, thus clogg'd, hath fail'd in I 
 They cannot quench the memory of those 
 Wlio would have hurl'd them from their guilty thrones. 
 And such examples will find heirs, though distant. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The ITall of the Council of Ten assembled with tht 
 additional Senators, who, on the Trials of the Con- 
 spirators for the Treason of Marino Faleero, 
 composed what was called the Giunta. — Guards, 
 Ojlicerx, etc., etc. — Israel Bertuccio apd Philip 
 Calendaro (IS Pri.ioners.- -Bertram, Lioni, and 
 Witnesses, etc 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 MARIlsrO FALIERO. 
 
 221 
 
 The Chief of the Trn, Bexistende. 
 
 Ben. There now rests, after sucli conviction of 
 Their manifold and manifest offences, 
 But to pronounce on these obdurate men 
 The sentence of the law : — a grievous task 
 To those who hear, and those who speak. AJas ! 
 That it should fall to me ! and that my days 
 Of office should be stigmatized through all 
 The years of coming time, as bearing record 
 To this most foul and complicated treason 
 Against a just and free state, known to aU 
 The earth as being the Christian bulwark 'gainst 
 The Saracen and the schismatic Greek, 
 The savage Hun, and not less barbarous Frank ; 
 A city which has open'd India's wealth 
 To Eurojje ; the last Roman refuge from 
 O'erwhelming Attila ; the ocean's queen ; 
 Proud Genoa's prouder rival ! 'Tis to sap 
 The throne of such a city, these lost men 
 Have risk'd and forfeited their worthless lives — ■ 
 So let them die the death. 
 
 /. Ber. "We are prepared ; 
 
 Tour racks have done that for us. Let us die. 
 
 Ben. If ye have that to say which would obtain 
 Abatement of your punishment, the Giunta 
 WiU hear you ; if you have aught to confess, 
 Now is your time, perhaps it may avail ye. 
 
 /. Ber. We stand to hear, and not to speak. 
 
 Ben. Your crimes 
 
 Are fully proved by your accomplices. 
 And all which circumstance can add to aid them ; 
 Yet we would hear from your own lips complete 
 Avowal of your treason : on the verge 
 Of that dread gulf which none repass, the truth 
 Alone can profit you on earth or heaven — 
 Say, then, what was your motive ? 
 
 /. Ber. Justice 1 
 
 Ben. AVhat 
 
 Your object ? 
 
 /. Ber. Freedom ! 
 
 Ben. You are brief, sir. 
 
 /. Ber. So my life grows : I 
 Was bred a soldier, not a senator. 
 
 Ben. Perhaps you think by this blunt brevity 
 To brave your judges to postpone the sentence ? 
 
 /. Ber. Do you be brief as I am, and believe me, 
 [ shaU prefer that mercy to your pardon. 
 
 Ben. Is this your sole reply to the tribunal ? 
 
 /. Ber. Go, ask your racks what they have wrung 
 from us, [left, 
 
 Or place us there again ; we have still some blood 
 And some slight sense of pain in these wrench'd limbs : 
 But this ye dare not do ; for if we die there — 
 And you have left us little life to spend 
 Upon your engines, gorged with pangs already — 
 i'e lose the public spectacle, with which 
 you would appal your slaves to furtlier slavery I 
 
 Groans are not words, nor agony assent, 
 Nor affirmation truth, if nature's sense 
 Should overcome the soul into a lie, 
 For a short respite — must we bear or die ? 
 
 Ben. Say, who were your accomplices ? 
 
 /. Ber. The Senate I 
 
 Ben. What do you mean ? 
 
 /. Ber. Ask of the suffering people, 
 
 Wliom your patrician crimes have driven to crime. 
 
 Ben. You know the Doge ? 
 
 /. Ber. I served with him at Zara 
 
 In the field, when you were pleading here your way 
 To present office ; we exposed our lives, 
 Wliile you but hazarded the lives of others. 
 Alike by accusation or defence ; 
 And, for the rest, all Venice knows her Doge, 
 Through his great actions, and the Senate's insults. 
 
 Ben. You have held conference with him ? 
 
 /. Ber. I am weary — 
 
 Even wearier of your questions than your tortures : 
 I pray you pass to judgment. 
 
 Ben. It is coming. — • 
 
 And you, too, Phihp Calendaro, what 
 Have you to say why you should not be doom'd ? 
 
 Cat. I never was a man of many words, 
 And now have few left worth the utterance. 
 
 Ben. A further application of yon engine 
 May change your tone. 
 
 Cal. Most true, it loill do so ; 
 
 A former application did so ; but 
 It -will not change my words, or, if it did — 
 
 Ben. What then 2 
 
 Cal. Will my avowal on yon rack 
 
 Stand good in law ? 
 
 Ben. Assuredly. 
 
 Cal Whoe'er 
 
 The culprit be whom I accuse of treason ? 
 
 Ben. Without doubt, he will be brought up to trial 
 
 Ca!. And on this testimony would he pcriiih ? 
 
 Ben. So your confession be detail'd and full, 
 He wiU stand here in peril of his life. 
 
 Cal. Then look well to thy proud self. President 
 For by the eternity which yawns before me, 
 I swear that thou, and only thou, shalt be 
 The traitor I denounce upon that rack. 
 If I be stretch'd there for the second time. 
 
 One of the Oi'inta. Lord President, 'twere bes( 
 proceed to judgment ; 
 Thei.< is no more to be drawn from these men. 
 
 Ben. Unhappy men ! prepare for instant death. 
 The nature of your crime — our law — and pei il 
 The state now stands in, leave not an hour's respite- - 
 Guards ! lead them forth, and upon the balcony 
 Of the red columns, where, on festal Thursday,' 
 
 J " Giovedi grasso " — " fat, or greasy Thursday,* 
 not literally traiK^laJe in the teit. wa;- tbe dav. 
 
 -■w\ fD I "5n 
 
222 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT T. 
 
 The Di)ge stands to beliokl the chase of bulls, 
 Let them be justified : and leave exposed 
 Their waverinQ; relics, in the place of judgment, 
 To tilt full view of thi; assembled people 1 — 
 And heaven have mercy on their souls ! 
 
 Tlie Ghiiiti. Amen 1 
 
 /. Bcr. Signors, farewell ! we shall not all again 
 Meet in one place. 
 
 Ben. And lest they should essay 
 
 To stir up the districted multitude — 
 Guards ! let theii- mouths be gagg'd, even in the act 
 Of execution. — Lead them hence ! 
 
 Cal. What! must we 
 
 Not even say farewell to some fond friend, 
 Nor leave a last word with our confessor ? 
 
 Den. A priest is waiting in the antechamber ; 
 But, f(5r your friends, such interN-iew would be 
 Painful to them, and useless all to you. 
 
 Cal. I knew that we were gagg'd in life ; at least 
 All those who had not heart to risk their lives 
 Upon their open thoughts ; but still I deem'd 
 That in the last few moments, the same idle 
 Freedom of speech accorded to the dying, 
 SVould not now be denied to us ; but since 
 
 /. Ber. Even let them have their way, brave 
 Wliat matter a few syllables ? let's die [Calendaro I 
 Without the slightest show of fiivor from them ; 
 So shall our blood more readily arise 
 To Heaven against them, and more testify 
 To their atrocities, tlian could a volume 
 Spoken or written of our dying words ! 
 They tremliU- at our voices — nay, they dread 
 Our very silence — let them live in fear I — 
 Leave them unto their thoughts, and let us now 
 Address our own above ! — Lead on ; we are ready. 
 
 C^l. Israel, hadst thou but harkcn'd unto me 
 It had not now been thus ; and yon pale villain, 
 The coward Bertram, would 
 
 /. /,'(.;•. Peace, Calendaro ! 
 
 VThat brooks it now to ponder u])on this. 
 
 Berl. Alas 1 I fain you died in peace with me ; 
 I did not seek this task ; 'twas forced upon me : 
 Say, you forgive me, though I never can 
 Retrieve my own forgiveness — frown not thus ! 
 
 /. Ber. I die and pardon thee ! 
 
 Cal. {spitting nt him). I die and scorn thee I 
 
 \_Excunt Israel Bertuccio and Phtlip 
 Calendaro, dutirds, etc. 
 
 Ben. Now that these criminals have been disposed 
 'Tis time that we proceed to pass our sentence 
 Upon the greatest traitor upon record 
 In any annals, the Doge Faliero ! 
 The proofs and i)roccss are complete ; the time 
 And crime require a quick procedure : shall 
 lie now be call'd in to receive the award ? 
 The Giuiita. Ay, ay. 
 Ben Avogadori, order that the Doge 
 
 Be brought before the council. 
 
 (hit; of the Giuntri. And the rest, 
 
 Wlien shaU they be brought up ? 
 
 Ben. When all the chieta 
 
 Have been disposed of Some have fled to Cluozza; 
 But tliere are thousands in pursuit of them. 
 And such precaution ta'cn on terra firma. 
 As well as in the islands, that we hope 
 None will escape to utter in strange lands 
 His libellous tale of treasons 'gainst the senate. 
 
 Enter the Doge a» Prisoner, with Guards, etc., etc. 
 
 Ben. Doge — for such still you are, and by the law 
 Must be consider'd till the hour shall come 
 When you must doff the ducal bonnet from 
 That licad, which could not wear a crown more noblo 
 Than empires can confer, in quiet honor. 
 But it must plot to overthrow your peers, 
 Wlio made you what you are, and quench in blood 
 A city's glory — we have laid already 
 Before you in your chamber at full length, 
 By the Avogadori, all the proofs 
 AVliich have appeared against you ; and more ample 
 Ne'er rear'd tlieir sanguinary shadows to 
 Confront a traitor. Wliat have you to say 
 In your defence ? 
 
 Boge. What shall I say to ye, 
 
 Since my defence must be your condemnation ? 
 Tou are at once offenders and accusers, 
 Judges and executioners I — Proceed 
 Upon your power. 
 
 Ben. Tour chief accomplices 
 
 Having confess'd, there is no hope for you. 
 
 Bo'je. And who be they ? 
 
 Ben. In number many ; bi.t 
 
 The first now stands before you and the court, 
 Bertram, of Hergamo, — would you question him ? 
 
 Barje, {looking at him eonlemptnouxly.) No. 
 
 Ben. And two others, Israel Bertuccio 
 
 And Philip Oalcnd.aro, have admitted 
 Their fellowship in treason with the Doge ! 
 
 Doge. And where are they ? 
 
 Ben. Gone to their place, and now 
 
 Answering to Heaven for what they did on earth. 
 
 Doge. Ah ! the plebeian Brutus, is he gone ? 
 And the quick Cassius of the arsenal ? — 
 How did they meet their doom ? 
 
 Ben. Think of your own : 
 
 It is approaching. Tou decline to plead, then ? 
 
 Doge. I cannot plead to my inferiors, nor 
 Can recognize your legal power to try me. 
 Show me the law 1 
 
 Ben. On great em'rgencies, 
 
 The law must lie remodcll'd or ..mended : 
 Our fathers had not fix'd the punishment 
 Of such a crime, as on the old Homan tables 
 The sentence against parricide was left 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 MARIXO FALIEKO. 
 
 223 
 
 In pure forgetf Jlness ; tliey could not render 
 That penal, wliich bad neither name nor thought 
 In their great bosoms : who would have foreseen 
 That nature could be filed to such a crime 
 As sons 'gainst sires, and princes 'gainst their realms ? 
 Your sin hath made us make a law which will 
 Become a precedent 'gainst such haught traitors, 
 As would with treason moimt to tyranny ; 
 Not even contented with a sceptre, till 
 They can convert it to a two-edged sword ! 
 Was not the place of Doge sutBcient for ye ? 
 ^That's nobler than the signory of Venice ? 
 
 Doge. The signory of Venice 1 You betray'd me — 
 Yon. — ymt^ who sit there, traitors as ye are ! 
 From my equality with you in birth. 
 And my superiority in action, 
 You drew me from my honorable toils 
 In distant lands — on tiood — in field — in cities — 
 Yn>i singled me out like a victim to 
 Stand cro'mi'd, but boimd and helpless, at the altar 
 SVliere you alone could minister. I knew not — 
 I sought not — wish'd not — dreamed not the election 
 "Which reacli'd me first at Rome, and I obey'd ; 
 But found on my arrival, that, besides 
 The jealous vigilance which always led you 
 To mock and mar your sovereign's best intents, 
 You had, even in the interregnum of 
 My journey to the capital, curtail'd 
 And mutilated the few privileges 
 Yet left tlie duke : all this I bore, and would 
 Have borne, until my very hearth was stain'd 
 By the pollution of your ribaldry. 
 And he, the riliakl, whom I see amongst yo" — 
 Fit judge in such tribunal ! 
 
 B n. {inUrrvpting ?iim.) 3Iichel Steno 
 
 Is here in virtue of his office, as 
 One of the Forty ; " the Ten " having craved 
 A Giunta of patricians irom the senate 
 To aid our judgment in a trial arduous 
 And novel as the present : he was set 
 Free from the penalty pronounced upon him, 
 Because the Boge, who should protect the law, 
 Seeking to abrogate all law, can claim 
 No punishment of others by the statutes 
 "Wliich he himself denies and violates ! 
 
 T)ogi'. His pirsiSHirENT ! I rather see him tJiere, 
 Wliere he now sits, to glut him with my death, 
 Than in the mockery of castigation, 
 ^^ich j-our foul, outward, juggling show of justice 
 Decreed as sentence. Base as was his crime, 
 'Twas purity compared with your protection. 
 
 Bi;ri. And can it be, that the great Dogo of Ven- 
 With three parts of a century of years [ice, 
 
 And honors on his head, could thus allow 
 His fury, like an angry boy's, to master 
 All feeling, wisdom, faith, and fear, on such 
 A. provocation as a young man's petulance ? 
 
 Bix/e. A spark creates the flame — 'tis the last droi) 
 Which makes the cup run o'er, and mine was full 
 Already ; you oppress'd the prince and people ; 
 I would have freed both, and have fail'd in both : 
 The price of such success would have been glory, 
 Vengeance, and victory, and such a name 
 As would have made Venetian history 
 Rival to that of Greece and Syracuse 
 Wlicn they were freed, and flourish'd ages after, 
 And mine to Gelon and to Thrasybulus : — 
 Failing, I know the penalty of failure 
 Is present infamy and death — the future 
 WiU judge, when Venice is no more, or free ; 
 Till then, the truth is in abeyance. Pause not ; 
 I would have shown no mercy, and I seek none ; 
 My life was staked upon a mighty hazard. 
 And being lost, take what I would have taken ! 
 I would have stood alone amidst your tomlis : 
 Now you may flock round mine, and trample on it, 
 As you have done upon my heart while li-\'ing. 
 
 Ben. You do confess then, and admit the justice 
 Of our tribunal ? 
 
 Boge. I confess to have fail'd ; 
 
 Fortune is female : from my youth her favors 
 Were not withheld, the fault was mine to hope 
 Her former smiles again at this late hour. 
 
 Ben. You do not then in aught arraign our equity \ 
 
 Boge. Noble Venetians ! stir me not with ques- 
 I am resign'd to the worst ; but in me still [tions. 
 Have something of the blood of brighter days. 
 And am not over-patient. Pray you, spare me 
 Further interrogation, which boots notliing. 
 Except to turn a trial to debate. 
 I shall but answer that which will oflend you. 
 And please your enemies — a host already ; 
 'Tis true, these sullen waUs should yield no echo : 
 But walls have ears — nay, more, they have tongues ; 
 
 and if 
 There were no other way for truth to o'crleap thcni. 
 You who condemn me, you who fear and slay me, 
 Yet could not bear in silence to your graves 
 What you would hear from me of good or evil ; 
 The secret were too mighty for your souls : 
 Then let it sleep in mine, unless you court 
 A danger which would double that you escape. 
 Such my defence would be, had I full scope 
 To make it famous ; for true tcotuJs are t/iii.gs. 
 And dying men's are things which long outlive. 
 And oftentimes avenge them ; bury mine, 
 If ye would fain survive me : take this counsel, 
 And though too oft ye made me live in wrath, 
 Let me die calmly ; you may grant me this ;- - 
 I deny nothing — defend nothing — nothing 
 I ask of you, but silence for myself, 
 An d sentence from the court ! 
 
 Ben. This full admission 
 
 Spares us the harsh necessity of ordering 
 
224 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT V 
 
 The torture to elicit the -whole truth. 
 
 Doge. The torture ! you have put mc there already, 
 Daily since I was Doge ; but if you will 
 A<U1 the corporeal ra-ck, you may : these limbs 
 Will yield with age to crushing iron ; but [gines. 
 There's that within my heart shall strain your en- 
 
 Enter an Officer. 
 
 Officer. Noble Venetians ! Duchess Faliero 
 Requests admission to the Giunta's presence, [ted ? 
 
 Ben. Say, conscript fathers,' shall she be admit- 
 
 One of the Giunln. She may have revelations of 
 Unto the state, to justify compliance [importance 
 With' her request. 
 
 Ben. Is this the general will ? 
 
 All. It is. 
 
 Boge. Oh, admirable laws of Venice I 
 
 Which would admit the wife, in the fuU hope 
 That she might testify against the husband. 
 Wliat glory to the chaste Venetian dames 1 
 But such blasphemers 'gainst all honor, as 
 Sit here, do well to act in their vocation. 
 Now, villain Steno ! if this woman fail, 
 I'll pardon thee thy lie, and thy escape. 
 And my own violent death, and thy vile life. 
 
 The Duchess enters. 
 
 Ben. Lady ! this just tribun.al has resolved. 
 Though the request be strange, to grant it, and 
 \V'hatever be its purport, to accord 
 A patient hearing with the due respect 
 Which tits your ancestry, your rank, and virtues : 
 But you turn pale — ho, there 1 look to the lady 1 
 Place a chair instantly. 
 
 Ang. A moment's faintness — 
 
 'Tis past ; I pray you pardon me, — I sit not 
 In presence of my prince, and of my husband, 
 Wliile he is on his feet. 
 
 /)</(. Your i^leasure, lady ? 
 
 Aug. Str.ange rumors, but most true, if all I hear 
 4.nd sec be sooth, have rcach'd me, and I come 
 ■To know the worst, even at the worst ; forgive 
 The abruptness of my entrance and my bearing. 
 
 Is it 1 cannot speak — I cannot shape 
 
 The question — but you answer it ere spoken. 
 With eyes averted, and with gloomy brows — 
 Oh, God ! this is the silence of the grave I 
 
 Brii. (iij'ter (I jinuae.) Spare us, and spare thyself 
 Of our most awful, l)ut inexorable [the repetition 
 Duty to heaven and man I 
 
 Aug. Yet speak ; I cannot — 
 
 I cannot — no — even now believe these things, 
 [s he condcmn'd ? 
 
 Ben. Alas ! 
 
 Ang. Ana was he guilty ? 
 
 < The Venetian eenate took the same title as the Komnn, of 
 
 ' coTif^rrlpt fathers." 
 
 Ben. Lady ! the natural distraction of 
 Thy thoughts at such a moment makes the question 
 Merit forgiveness ; else a doubt like this 
 Against a just and paramount tribunal 
 Were deep offence. But question even the Doge, 
 And if he can deny the proofs, believe him 
 Guiltless as thy own bosom. 
 
 Aug. Is it so? 
 
 My lord — my sovereign — my poor father's friend — 
 The mighty in the field, the sage in council ; 
 Unsay the words of this man ! Thou art silent 1 
 Ben. He hath already own'd to his own guilt. 
 Nor, as thou see'st, doth he deny it now. 
 
 Ahg. Ay, but he must not die ! Spare his few years, 
 Wliich grief and shame will soon cut down to days 1 
 One day of baffled crime must not efface 
 Near sixteen lustres crowded with brave acts. 
 
 Ben. Ilis doom must be fulflU'd without remission 
 Of time or penalty — 'tis a decree. 
 Ang. He hath been guilty, but there may be mercy. 
 Ben. Not in this case with justice. 
 Ang. Alas ! signor, 
 
 He who is only just is cruel ; who 
 Upon the earth would live were all judged justly ? 
 Ben. His punishment is safety to the state. 
 Ang. He was a subject, and hath served the state; 
 He was your general, and hath saved the state ; 
 He is your sovereign, and hath ruled the state. 
 One of the Council. He is a traitor, and betray'd 
 
 the state. 
 Aug. And, but for him, there now had been no 
 To save or to destroy ; and j'oii, who sit [state 
 
 There to pronounce the death of your deliverer, 
 Had now been groaning at a Moslem oar. 
 Or digging in the Hunnish mines in fetters ! 
 
 One of the OouncU. No, lady, there are others who 
 Rather than breathe in slavery ! [would die 
 
 Ang. If there are so 
 
 Within these wall, thou art not of the number: 
 The truly brave are generous to the fallen I — 
 Is there no hope ? 
 
 />'<«. Lady, it cannot be. 
 
 Ang. (turning to the Boge.) Tlien die, Faliero I 
 since it must be so ; 
 But with tlie spirit of my father's friend. 
 Thou hast been guilty of a great offence, 
 Ilalf-canceU'd by the harshness of these men. 
 I would have sued to them — have pray'd to them — 
 Have begg'd as famish'd mendicants for bread — 
 Have wept as they will cry unto their God 
 For mercy, and be answer'd as they answer — 
 Had it been fitting for thy name or mine. 
 And if the enelty in their cold eyes 
 Had not announced the heartless wr.ath within. 
 Then, as a prince, address thee to thy doom ! 
 
 Boge. I have lived too long not to know how to die I 
 Thy .suing to these men were but the bU afiug 
 
r?t^^4ii>^: 
 
 9t<7^ 
 
SCENE r. 
 
 .■MAi;iX<: I'ALlEIiO. 
 
 2'23 
 
 Of tlie lamb to the butcher, or the cry 
 Of seamen to the surge : I would not take 
 A life eternal, granted at the hands 
 Of wretches, from whose monstrous villanies 
 I sought to free the groaning nations ! 
 
 Michi-l Steno. Doge, 
 
 A word with thee, and with this noble lady, 
 Whom I have grievously oflended. Would 
 Sorrow, or shame, or penance on my part. 
 Could cancel the inexorable past ! 
 But since that cannot be, as Christians let us 
 Say farewell, and in peace : with full contrition 
 I crave, not pardon, but compassion from you. 
 And give, however weak, my prayers for both. 
 
 A ng. Sage Benintende, now chief judge of Venice, 
 I speak to thee in answer to yon signer. 
 Inform the ribald Steno, that his words 
 Ne'er weigh'd in mind with Loredano's daughter 
 Further than to create a moment's pity 
 For such as he is : would that others had 
 Despised him as I pity ! I prefer 
 My honor to a thousand lives, could such 
 Be multiplied in mine, but would not have 
 A single life of others lost for that 
 Which nothing human can impugn — the sense 
 Of virtue, looking not to what is caU'd 
 A good name for reward, but to itself. 
 To me (he scorner's words were as the wind 
 Unto the rock : but as there are — alas ! 
 Spirits more sensitive, on which such things 
 Light as the whirl^dnd on the waters ; souls 
 To whom dishonor's shadow is a substance 
 More terrible than death, here and hereafter ; 
 Men whose vice is to start at vice's scoffing. 
 And who, though proof against all blandishments 
 Of pleasure, and aU pangs of pain, are feeble 
 When the proud name on which they pinnacled 
 Their hopes is breathed on, jealous as the eagle 
 Of her high aiery ; let what wc -now 
 Behold, and feel, and suffer, be a lesson 
 To wretches how they tamper in their spleen 
 With lieings of a higher order. Insects 
 Ha\ e made the lion mad ere now ; a shaft 
 I' the heel o'crthrcw the bravest of the brave ; 
 A wife's dishonor was the bane of Troy ; 
 A wife's dishonor unking'd Rome forever ; 
 An injured husband brought the Gauls to Clusium, 
 And thence to Rome, which perish'd for a time ; 
 An obscene gesture cost Caligula 
 His life, while earth yet bore his cruelties ; 
 A virgin's wrong made Spain a Jloorish provinre ; 
 And Steno's lie, couch'd in two worthless lines. 
 Hath decimated Venice, put in peril 
 A senate which hath stood eight hundred years, 
 Discrown'd a prince, cut off his crownless head. 
 And forged new fetters for a groaning people I 
 Let the poor wretch, like to the courtesan 
 29 
 
 Who fired Persepolis, be proud of this. 
 If it so please him — -'twere a piide fit for him 1 
 But let him not insult the last hours of 
 Him, who, whate'er he now is, ic:is a hero. 
 By the intrusion of his ver_y prayers : 
 Nothing of good can come from such a source. 
 Nor would we aught with him, nor now, nor ever; 
 We leave him to himself, that lowest depth 
 Of human baseness. Pardon is for men. 
 And not for reptiles — we have none for Steno, 
 And no resentment : things like him must sting, 
 And higher beings suffer ; 'tis the charter 
 Of life. The man who dies by the adder's fang 
 May have the crawler crush'd, but feels no anger : 
 'Twas the worm's nature ; and some men are worms 
 In soul, more than the living things of tombs. 
 Doye, {to Beit.) Signor ! comj^lete that which you 
 
 deem your duty. 
 Ben. Before we can proceed upon that duty. 
 We would request the princess to withdraw ; 
 'Twill move her too much to be witness to it. 
 
 A>i:7- I know it will, and yet I must endure it 
 For 'tis a part of mine — I will not quit. 
 Except by force, my husband's side — Proceed ! 
 Nay, fear not either shriek, or sigh, or tear ; 
 Though my heart burst, it shall be silent. — Speak 1 
 I have that ■ndthin which shall o'er master aU. 
 
 Ben. Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice, 
 Count of Val di Marino, Senator, 
 And some time General of the Fleet and Army, 
 Noble Venetian, many times and oft 
 Intrusted by the state with high employments, 
 Even to the highest, listen to the sentence. 
 Convict by many witnesses and proofs. 
 And by thine own confession, of the guilt 
 Of treachery and treason, yet unheard of 
 Until this trial — the decree is death. 
 Thy goods are confiscate 'unto the state. 
 Thy name is razed from out her records, save 
 Upon a public day of thanksgiving 
 For this our most miraculous deliverance, 
 When thou art noted in our calendars 
 With earthquakes, pestilence, and foreign foes. 
 And the great enemy of man, as subject 
 Of grateful masses for Heaven's grace in snatching 
 Our lives and country from thy wickedness. 
 The place wherein as Doge thou shouldst be painted 
 With thine illustrious predecessors, is 
 To be left vacant, with a death black veil 
 Flung over these dim words engraved beneath, — 
 " This place is of Marino Faliero, 
 Decapitated for his crimes." 
 
 Boge. " His crimes !" 
 
 But let it be so : it will be in vain. 
 The veil which blackens o'er this blighted name, 
 And hides, or seems to hide these lineaments, 
 i Shall draw more gazers than the thousand portraits 
 
220 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT V 
 
 Wliicli glitter rouml it in tlicir ijioturcd trappings — 
 V'lur delegated slaves— the people's tjTants I 
 " Decapitated for his crimes !" — What crimes ? 
 Were it not better to record the facts, 
 So that the contemplator might approve, 
 Or at the least learn irhenee the crimes arose ? 
 When the beholder knows a Doge conspired, 
 Let him be told the cause — it is your liistory. 
 
 Ik-n. Time must reply to that ; our sons will judge 
 Their fathers' judgment, -which I now pronounce. 
 As Doge, clad in the ducal robes and cap, 
 Thou shalt l)e led hence to the Giants' Staircase, 
 Where thou and all our princes are invested ; 
 And there, the ducal crown being first resumed 
 Upon the sj)ot where it was first assumed. 
 Thy head shall be struck off; and Heaven have mercy 
 Upon thy soul ! 
 
 Doye. Is this the Giunta's sentence ? 
 
 Ben. It is. 
 
 Doge. I can endure it. — And the time ? 
 
 Ben. Must be immediate, make thy peace with God: 
 Within an hour thou must be in His presence. - 
 
 BoriP-. I am already ; and my blood will rise 
 To Heaven l)efore the souls of those who shed it. — 
 Are all my lands confiscated ? 
 
 Den. They are ; 
 
 And goods, and jewels, and all kind of treasure. 
 Except two thousand ducats — these dispose of 
 
 Boge. That's harsh. — I would have fain reserved 
 the lands 
 Near to Treviso, which I hold by investment 
 From Laurence the Count-bishop of Ceneda, 
 In fief perpetual to myself and heirs. 
 To portion them (leaving my city spoil. 
 My palace and my treasures, to your forfeit) 
 Between my consort and my kinsmen. 
 
 Ben. These 
 
 Lie under the state's ban ; their chief, thy nephew, 
 In peril of his own life ; but the council 
 Postpones his trial for the present. If 
 Thou will'st a state unto thy widow'd princess. 
 Tear not, for we will do her justice. 
 
 Ang. Signors, 
 
 I share not in your spoil ! From henceforth, know 
 I am devoted unto God alone. 
 And take my refuge in the cloister. 
 
 Doge. Come ! 
 
 The hour may be a hard one, but 'twill end. 
 Have I aught else to undergo save death ? 
 
 Ben. You have naught to do, except confess and die, 
 The priest is robed, the cimeter is bare. 
 And lioth await without. — But, above all 
 Think not to speak unto the people ; they 
 Are now l)y thousands swarming at the gates, 
 But these are closed : the Ten, the Avogadori, 
 The Ginnta, and the chief men of the Forty, 
 Alone -vnW be beholders of thy doom. 
 
 And they are ready to attend the Doge. 
 
 Dngc. The Doge ! 
 
 Ben. Yes, Doge, thou hast lived and tlioii shalt die 
 A sovereign ; till the moment which precedes 
 The separation of that head and trunk. 
 The ducal crown and head shall be united. 
 Thou hast forgot thy dignity in deigning 
 To plot with petty traitors ; not so we. 
 Who in the very punishment acknowledge 
 The prince. Thy vile accomplices have died 
 The dog's death, and the wolf's ; but thou shalt fall 
 As falls the lion by the hunters, girt 
 By those who feel a proud compassion for thee, 
 And mourn even the ineWtable death 
 Provoked by thy wild T\Tath, and regal tiercenesB. 
 Now we remit thee to thy preparation : 
 Lot it 1)0 brief, and we ourselves will be 
 Thy guides unto the place where first we were 
 United to thee as thy subjects, and 
 Thy senate ; and must now be parted from thee 
 As such forever, on the self-same spot. — 
 Guards 1 form the Doge's escort to his chamber. 
 
 \Exevnt 
 
 SCENE n. 
 The Doge's Apartment. 
 
 Tfie Doge as Prisoner, find the Duchess attending 
 
 him. 
 
 Doge. Now, that the priest is gone, 'twere useless 
 To linger out the miserable minutes ; [all 
 
 But one pang more, the pang of parting from thee. 
 And I will leave the few last grains of sand 
 Which yet remain of the accorded hour. 
 Still falling — I have done with time. 
 
 Ang. Alas I 
 
 And I have been the cause, the unconscious cause ; 
 And for this funeral marriage, this black union, 
 Wliich thou compliant with my father's wish, [own. 
 Didst promise at hin death, thou hast seal'd thine 
 
 Doge. Not so : there was that in my spirit ever 
 Which shaped out for itself some great reverse ; 
 The marvel is, it came not until now — 
 And yet it was foretold me. 
 
 Ang. How foretold you ? 
 
 Doge. Long years ago — so long, they are a doubt 
 In memory, and yet they live in annals : 
 When I was in my youth, and served the senate 
 And signory as podesta and captain 
 Of the town of Treviso, on a day 
 Of festival, the sluggish bishop who 
 Convey'd the Host aroused my rash young anger, 
 By strange delay, and arrogant reply 
 To my reproof; I raised my hand and smote h-'m 
 Until he reel'd beneath his holy burden ; 
 And as he rose from earth again, he raised 
 His tremulous hands in pious wrath toward Heavai* 
 
6CEXE III. 
 
 MARIXO FALIERO 
 
 227 
 
 Thence pointing to the Host, which had fallen from 
 
 He turn'd to me, and said, "The hour will come [him 
 
 When he thou hast o'erthrown shall overthrow thee : 
 
 The glory shall depart f-:ru out thy house, 
 
 The wisdom shall be shaken from thy soul. 
 
 And in thy best maturity of mind 
 
 A madness of the heart shall seize upon thee ; 
 
 Passion shall tear thee when aU passions cease 
 
 Tn other men, or mellow into virtues ; 
 
 And majesty, which decks all other heads, 
 
 Shall crown to leave thee headless ; honors shall 
 
 But prove to thee the heralds of destruction, 
 
 And hoary hairs of shame, and both'of death. 
 
 But not such death as tits an aged man," 
 
 Thus saying, he jiass'd on. — That hour is come. 
 
 Anrj. .And with this warning couldst thou not 
 To avert the fatal moment, and atone, [have striven 
 By penitence for that which thou hadst done ? 
 
 Doge. I own the words went to my hearty so much 
 That I remember'd them amid the maze 
 Of life, as if they form'd a spectral voice, 
 Wliich shook me in a supernatural dream ; 
 And I repented ; but 'twas not for me 
 To pull in resolution : what must be 
 I could not change, and would not fear. — Nay more. 
 Thou canst not have forgot, what all remember, 
 That on my day of landing here as Doge, 
 On my return from Rome, a mist of such 
 Unwonted density went on before 
 The Bucentaiir, like the columnar cloud 
 ^\^licll usher'd Israel out of Egypt, till 
 The pilot was misled, and disembark'd us 
 Between the piUars of Saint Mark's, where 'tis 
 The custom of the state to put to death 
 Its criminals, instead of touching at 
 The Riva deUa Paglia, as the wont is, — 
 So that all Venice shudder'd at the omen. 
 
 Ang. Ah ! little boots it now to recollect 
 Such things. 
 
 PoQe. And yet I find a comfort in 
 
 The thought that these things are the work of Fate ; 
 For I would rather yield to gods than men, 
 Or cling to any creed of destiny. 
 Rather than deem these mortals, most of whom 
 I know to be as worthless as the dust, 
 And weak as worthless, more than instruments 
 Of an o'erruling power ; they in themselves 
 Were all incapable — they could not be 
 Victors of him who oft had conquer'd for them I 
 
 An<j. Employ the minutes left in aspirations 
 Of a more healing nature, and in peace 
 Even with these wretches take thy flight to Heaven. 
 
 Tinge. I am at peace : the peace of certainty 
 That a sure hour will come, when their sons' sons. 
 Add this proud city, and these azure waters, 
 And aU which makes them eminent and bright, 
 Shall be a desolation and a curse, 
 
 A hissing and i scoff unto the nations, 
 A Carthage, and a Tyre, an Ocean Babel ' 
 
 Ang. Speak not thus now ; the surge of passion 
 Sweeps o"er thee to the last ; thou dost deceive [still 
 Thyself, and canst not injure them — be calmer. 
 
 Doge. I stand within eternity, and see 
 Into eternity, and I behold — 
 Ay, palpable as I see thy sweet face 
 For the last time — the days which I denounce 
 Unto all time against these wave-girt walls, 
 And they who are indweUers. 
 
 Guard {coming forward). Doge of Venice, 
 The Ten are in attendance on your highness. 
 
 Doge. Then farewell, Angiolina ! — one embrace — ■ 
 Forgive the old man who hath been to thee 
 A fond but fatal husband — love my memory — 
 I would not ask so much for me still living. 
 But thou canst judge of me more kindly now. 
 Seeing my evil feelings are at rest. 
 Besides, of all the fruit of these long years, 
 glory, and wealth, and power, and fame, and name 
 Which generally leave some flowers to bloom 
 Even o'er the grave, I have nothing left, not even 
 A little love, or friendship, or esteem. 
 No, not enough to extract an epitaph 
 From ostentatious kinsmen ; in one hour 
 I have uprooted aU my former Ufe, 
 And outlived every thing, except thy heart. 
 The pure, the good, the gentle, which will oft 
 With unimpair'd but not a clamorous grief 
 
 Still keep Thou tum'st so pale ! — Alas ! she faint* 
 
 She has no breath, no pulse ! — Guards ! lend youi 
 I cannot leave her thus, and yet 'tis better, [aid — 
 Since every lifeless moment spares a pang. 
 When she shakes off this temporary death, 
 I shall be with the Eternal. — Call her women — 
 One look ! — how cold her hand ! — as cold as mine 
 Shall be ere she recovers. — Gently tend her. 
 
 And take my last thanks 1 am ready now. 
 
 [The Attendants of Angiolina enter, and sur- 
 round their mistress, who has fainted. — Exeunt 
 the Doge, (hiards, etc., etc. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 TTie Court of the Ducal Palace : the ovter gates are 
 shut a/jairist the people. — The Doge enters in hit 
 ducal rohes, in procession with the Council of Ten 
 and other Patricians, attended hy the Guards, till, 
 they arrive at the top if the " Gianfs Staircase," 
 (where the Doges took the oaths) ; the Executioner 
 is stationed there with his sword. — On arriving, a 
 Chief of the Ten talces off the ducal cap from the 
 Doge's head. 
 
 Doge. So now the Doge is nothing, and at last 
 I am again Marina Faliero : 
 'Tis well to be so, though but for a moment 
 
22S 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT V 
 
 Here was I crown'd, and here, bear witness, Heaven ! 
 With liow much more contentment I resign 
 That sliining mockery, the ducal baulile, 
 Than I received the fatal ornament. 
 
 One. of the Ten. Thou trcmblest, Faliero ! 
 
 Do(ie. 'Tis with age, then.' 
 
 Ben. Faliero ! hast thou aught further to com- 
 Compatible y.-\i\i justice, to the senate ? [mend, 
 
 Doge. I would commend my nephew to their mercy, 
 My consort to their justice ; for methinks 
 My death, and such a death, might settle all 
 Between the state and me. 
 
 Beyi. They shall be cared for ; 
 
 Even notwithstanding thine unheard-of crime. 
 
 Doge. Unheard of ! ay, there's not a history 
 But shows a thousand crown'd conspirators 
 Agai;.tt the people ; but to set tliem free 
 One sovereign only died, and one is dying. 
 
 Ben. And who were they who fell in such a cause ? 
 
 Doge. The King of Sparta, and the Doge of 
 Agis and Faliero ! [Venice — 
 
 Ben. Hast thou more * 
 
 To utter or to do ? 
 
 Doge. May I speak ? 
 
 Ben. Thou mayst ; 
 
 But recollect the people are without. 
 Beyond the compass of the human voice. 
 
 Doge. I speak to Time, and to Eternity 
 Of which I grow a portion, not to man. 
 Ye elements ! in which to be resolved 
 I hasten, let my voice be as a spirit 
 Upon you 1 Ye blue waves ! which bore my Ijanner, 
 Ye winds ! which fiutter'd o'er as if you loved it. 
 And fill'd my swelling sails as they were wafted 
 To many a triumph 1 Thou, my native earth, 
 Wliich I have bled for, and thou foreign earth, 
 Winch drank this willing blood from many a wound ! 
 
 1 This was the actual reply of Baitli, maire of Paris, to a Trench- 
 man who made him the same reproach on his way to execution. 
 In the earliest part of their revolution. I find in reading over 
 (tiince the completion of this tragedy), for the first time these six 
 years, " Venice Preserved," a similar reply on a ditferent occasion 
 hy Renault, and other coincidences arising from the suhject. I 
 need hardly remind the gentlest reader, that such coincidences 
 must he accidental, from the very facility of their detection hy 
 reference to so popular a play on the stage and in the closet as 
 Otway's chef-d'a?uvre. 
 
 2 Should the dramatic picture seem harsh, let the reader look to 
 the historical, of the period proiihesied, or rather of the few years 
 preceding that period. A'oltaire calculated their " nostre hene 
 merite Meretrici " at 12,000 of regulars, without including volun- 
 teers and local militia, on what authorily I know not ; hut it Is, 
 perhaps, the only part ol the population not decreased. Venice 
 once contained two hundred thousand inhahitants : there are now 
 Rhout ninety thousand ; and these ! I — few individuals can con- 
 ceive, and none could dcscrihe. tlie actual state into wliich the 
 more than infernal tyranny of Austria has plunged this unhappy 
 city. From the present decay and degeneracy of Venice under 
 the Barljarians, there are some honoratde indivir.ual exceptions. 
 There is Pasqualigo, the last, and, alas ! posthmnmis son of the 
 marriage of the Doges with the Adriatic, who fought his frigate 
 with 'ar greater gallantry than any of his French coadjutors in 
 
 Ye stones, in which my gore will not sink, but 
 Reek up to Heaven I Y'e slues, which will receive it 
 Thou sun ! which shinest on these things, and Thou 
 Who kindlest and who quenchest suns ! — Attest I 
 I am not innocent — but are these guiltless ? 
 I perish, but not unavenged ; far ages 
 Float up from the abyss of time to be, 
 And show these eyes, before they close, the doum 
 Of this proud city, and I leave my curse 
 
 On her and hers forever ! Yes, the hours 
 
 Are silently engendering of the day. 
 
 When she, who built 'gainst Attila a bulwark, 
 
 Shall yield, and bloodlessly and basely yield, 
 
 Unto a bastard Attila, without 
 
 Shedding so much blood in her last defence 
 
 As these old veins, oft drain'd in shielding her, 
 
 Shall pour in sacrifice. — She shall be bought 
 
 And sold, and be an appanage to those 
 
 Who shall despise her !- — She shall stoop to be 
 
 A province for an empire, petty town 
 
 In lieu of capital, with slaves for senates. 
 
 Beggars for nobles, panders for a people 1 
 
 Then when the Hebrew's in thy palaces," 
 
 The Him in thy high places, and the Greek 
 
 Walks o'er thy mart, and smiles on it for his ; 
 
 When thy patricians beg their bitter bread 
 
 In narrow streets, and in their shameful need 
 
 Make their nobility a plea for pity ; 
 
 Then, when the few who still retain a wreck 
 
 Of their great fathers' heritage shall fawn 
 
 Round a barbarian Vice of Kings' Vice-gerent, 
 
 Even in the palace where they sway'd as sovereigns. 
 
 Even in the palace where they slew their sovereign, 
 
 Proud of some name they have disgraced, or sprung 
 
 From an adulteress boastful of her guilt 
 
 With some large gondolier or foreign soldier, 
 
 Shall bear aljout their bastardy in triumph 
 
 the memorahle action olf Lissa. I came home in the squadroQ 
 with the prizes in ISll, and recollect to have heard Sir William 
 Uoste, and the other officers engaged in that glorions contlict, 
 speak in the highest terms of Pasqualigo's behavior. There la 
 the .\hbate Morelli. There is Alvise Queriui, who, after a long 
 and honorable diplomatic career, finds some consolation for the 
 wrongs of his country, in the pursuits of literature with his 
 nephew, Vittor Benzou, the son of the celebrated beauty, the 
 heroine of " La Biondina in Gondoletta." There are the patrician 
 poet Moroeini, and the poet Lamberti, the author of the "* Bion- 
 dina." etc., and many other estimable productions ; and, not least 
 in an Englishman's estimation, Madame Miclielli, the translator 
 of Shak^peare. There are the young Daudolo and the improv- 
 visatore Carrer, and Giuseppe Alhrizzi, the accomplislied son of 
 an accomplished mother. There is Aglietti, and, were there 
 nothing else, there is the immortality of C'anova. Cicoguaia, 
 Mustoxithi, Bucati, etc., etc., I do not reckon, because the one ia 
 a Greek, and the others were born at least a hundred miles otT, 
 which, throughout Italy, constitutes, if not a fortigner. at leaa^ 
 a stranger (J'orestUre). 
 
 3 The cliief palaces on the Brcnta now belong to the Jews ; wh« 
 in the earlier times of the republic were only allowed to inhabit 
 Mestri, and not to enter the city of Vc:»ice. The whole commerce 
 is in the hands of the Jews and Greeks, and the nuiis form th« 
 garrison. 
 
SCENE IV. 
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 229 
 
 To the third spurious generation ; — when 
 
 Thy sons are in the lowest scale of being, 
 
 Slaves turn'd o'er to the vanquish'd by the victors, 
 
 Despised by cowards for greater cowardice, 
 
 And scorn'd even by the vicious for such vices 
 
 As in the monstrous grasp of their conception 
 
 Defy all codes to image or to name them ; 
 
 Then, when of CyiJrus, now thy subject kingdom, 
 
 All thine inheritance shall be her shame 
 
 Entail'd on thy less virtuous daughters, grown 
 
 A wider proverb for worse prostitution ; — 
 
 AVhcn all the ills of conquer'd states shall cling thee. 
 
 Vice without splendor, sin without relief 
 
 Even from the gloss of love to smooth it o'er, 
 
 But in its stead, coarse lusts of habitude, 
 
 Prurient yet passionless, cold studied lewdness, 
 
 Depraving nature's frailty to an art ; — 
 
 When these and more are heavy on thee, when 
 
 Smiles without mirth, and pastimes without pleasure, 
 
 Youth without honor, age without respect, 
 
 Meanness and weakness, and a sense of wo 
 
 'Gainst which thou wilt not strive, and dar'st not 
 
 murmur,' 
 Have made thee last and worst of peopled deserts. 
 Then, in the last gasp of thine agony. 
 Amidst thy many murders, think of mine. ! 
 Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes ! = 
 Gehenna of the waters ! thou sea Sodom ! 
 Thus I devote thee to the infernal gods ! 
 Thee and thy serpent seed ! [tinner. 
 
 [Here the Doge turns and addresses the Execn. 
 Slave, do thine office I 
 Strike as I struck the foe ! Strike as I would 
 Have struck those tyrants 1 Strike deep as my curse I 
 Strike — and but once ! 
 
 The Doge throws himself upon his l-nees, and as 
 the Executioner raises his sword the scene closes. 
 
 SCENE IT. 
 
 The Piazza and Fiazzetta of Saint Marlch. The 
 People in crowds gathered round the grated gates of 
 the Ducal Palace, which are shut. 
 First Citzen. I have gain'd the gate, and can dis- 
 cern the Ten. 
 
 ' If the Doge's prophecy seem remarkable, look to the follow- 
 ing, made by Alimauni two hundred and seventy years ago : — 
 " There is one very singular prophecy concerning Venice : ' If 
 thou dost not change,' it says to that proud republic, 'thy lib- 
 erty, which is already on the wing, will not reckon a century 
 more than the thousandth year.' If we carry back the epo- 
 cha of Venetian freedom to the establishment of the govenimeut 
 nnder which tho Republic flourished, we shall find that the date 
 ^f the election of the first Doge is 6&T ; and if we add one century 
 to a thousand, that is. eleven hundred years, we shall find the 
 seuse of the prediction to be literally this : ' Thy liberty will not 
 last till 171*7.' Recollect that Venice ceased to be free in the year 
 1796, the fifth year of the French Republic ; and you will perceive, 
 that there ne^er was prediction more pointed, or more exactly 
 followed by the event. Tea will, therefore, note, as very remark- 
 able, the three lines of Allmanni addressed to Venice ; which. 
 However, no one has pointed out : — 
 
 ' Se non cungi pcusier, nn secol solo 
 
 Robed in their gowns of state, ranged round the Doge. 
 
 Second Cif. I cannot reach thee -n-ith mine utmost 
 How is it ? let us hear at least, since sight [etfort. 
 Is thus prohibited unto the people. 
 Except the occupiers of those bars. [they strip 
 
 First Cit. One has aj^proacli'd the Doge, and now 
 The ducal bonnet from his head — and now 
 He raise? his keen eyes to Heaven ; I see 
 Them glittet, and his lips move — hush ! hush ! no, 
 'Twas but a murmur — Curse upon the distance ! 
 His words are inarticulate, but the voice 
 Swells up like mutter'd thunder ; would we could 
 But gather a sole sentence ! [sound. 
 
 Second Cit. Hush ! we perhaps may catch the 
 First Cit. 'Tis vain, 
 
 I cannot hear him. How his hoary hair 
 Streams on the wind like foam upon the wave ! 
 Now — now — he kneels — and now they form a circi") 
 Round him, and all is hidden — but I see 
 
 The lifted sword in air Ah, hark ! it falls ! 
 
 [The People murmw . 
 
 Third Cit. Then they have murder'd him who 
 
 would have freed us. [eveT. 
 
 Fourth Cit. He was a kind man to the commons 
 
 Fifth Git. Wisely they did to keep their portals 
 
 barr'd. 
 
 Would we had known the work they were prejjarino 
 
 Ere we were summon'd here — we would have brought 
 
 Weapons, and forced them ! 
 
 Sixth Cit. Are you sure he's dead ? 
 
 First Cit. I saw the sword fall. Lo ! what have 
 • we here ? 
 
 Enter on the Balcony of the Palace which front.i Saint 
 Mark's Place a Chiep op the Ten, with a hloody 
 sword. He wave^ it thrice lief ore the People, and 
 exclaims. 
 " Justice hath dealt upon the mighty Traitor !" 
 [ Tlte gates are opened ; the populace rush in towards 
 the "Oiant''s Staircase," where the execution has 
 taTccn place The foremost of them exclaims to 
 those behind. 
 The gory head roUs down the Giant's Steps I 
 
 [The Curtain falls. 
 
 Non contera sopra '1 milleslmo anno 
 
 Tua Hberta, che va fuggendo a volo.' 
 Many prophesies have passed for such, and many men have been 
 called prophets for much less." — Gisouene, t. is., p. 144. 
 
 ^ Of the first fifty Doges, ^re abdicated— .^re were banished with 
 their eyes put ont^five were massacred — and nine deposed : so 
 that nineteen, out of fifty lost the throne by violence, besides two 
 who fell in battle : this occurred long previous to the reign of 
 Marino Faliero. One of his more immediate predecessors. An- 
 drea Dandolo, died of vexation. Marino Faliero himself perished 
 as related. Amongst his successors, J^oscari. after seeing his eon 
 repeatedly tortured and banished, was deposed, and died of break- 
 ing a blood-vessel, on hearing the bell of Saint Mark's toll for the 
 election of his successor. Morosini was impeached for the loss 
 of Candia ; but this was previous to his dukedom, during which 
 he conquered the Morea. and was styled the Peloponnesian. Fa- 
 liero might truly say, 
 
 " Thou dea ->t drunkards with the blood of princes 1" 
 
230 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 I'AHT 1. 
 
 HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 " And it ame to j 
 *L which tbey chose." 
 
 A MYSTERY, 
 
 POUKBEB ON THE rOLLOWDtS PABSAGE IH GENESIS, CHAP. TI. 
 
 that the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair : and they took them wive» ol 
 
 ' Aod woman wailing for her demon lover." — Coleridge. 
 
 DRAJIATIS PERSON.^;. 
 
 Angels. — S.\MrASA. 
 
 AZAZIEL. 
 
 ' RiiPHAEL, the Archangel. 
 
 Men. — Noah and his Sons. 
 Irad. 
 Japhet. 
 
 Women. — An ah. 
 
 AnOLEBAMAH. 
 
 Clionit of Spirits of the Earth. — Chorus of Mortals. 
 
 HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 SCENE I . 
 
 A woody and mountainous district near Mount 
 Ararat. — Time, Midnight. 
 
 Enter An AH and Aholibamah. 
 
 An.ih. OuK father sleeps ; it is the hour when they 
 Whx> love us are accustom'd to descend 
 Tlirough the deep clouds o'er rocky Ararat : — 
 How my heart beats ! 
 
 Aho. Let us proceed upon 
 
 Our invoration. 
 
 Amili. But the stars are hidden. 
 
 I tremble. 
 
 Alio. So do I, but not with fear 
 
 Of aught save their delay. 
 
 Allah, My sister, though 
 
 I love Azaziel more than— — oh, too much 1 
 Wliut was I going to say 1 my heart grows impious 
 
 Alio. And where is the impiety of loving 
 Celeatial natures ? 
 
 Anah. But, Aholiliamah, 
 
 1 love our God less since his angel loved me : 
 This cannot be of g >od : smd though I know not 
 
 That I do wrong, I feel a thousand fears 
 Which are not ominous of right. 
 
 Aho. Then wed thee 
 
 Unto some son of clay, and toil and spin 1 
 There's Japhet loves thee well, hath loved thee long: 
 Marry, and bring forth dust ? 
 
 Anah. I should have loved 
 
 Azaziel not less, were he mortal ; yet 
 I am glad he is not. I cannot outlive him. 
 And when I think that his immortal wings 
 Will one day hover o'er the se])ulchre 
 Of the poor child of clay which so adored him, 
 As he adores the Highest, death becomes 
 Less terrible ; but yet I pity him : 
 His grief will be of ages, or at least 
 Mne would be such for him, were I the Seraph, 
 And he the perishable. 
 
 Aho. Rather say, 
 
 That he will single forth some other daughter 
 Of Earth, and love her as he once loved Anah. 
 
 Anah. And if it should be so, and she loved hiit, 
 Better thus than that he should weep for me. 
 
 Aho. If I thought thus of Samiasa's love, 
 All Seraph as he is, I'd sjiurn him from me. 
 But to our invocation ! — 'Tis the hour. 
 Anah. Seraph ! 
 
 From thy sphere 1 
 Wliatever star contain thy glory; 
 In the eternal depths of heaven 
 Albeit thou watchcst with " the seven," 
 Though through space infinite and hoary 
 Before thy bright wings worlds be driven. 
 Yet hear I 
 Oh ! think of her who holds thee dear I 
 
 And though she nothing is to thee, 
 Yet think that thou art all to her. 
 Thou canst not tell, — and never be 
 Such pangs decreed to aught save me, — 
 The bitterness of tears. 
 Eternity is in thine years. 
 Unborn, undying beauty in thine eyes ; 
 With me thou canst not sympathize, 
 Except in love, and there thou must 
 
«CENE I. 
 
 HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 23 i 
 
 Acknowledge that more loving dust 
 Ne'er wept beneath the skies. 
 Tbou walk'st thy many worlds, thou see'st 
 
 The face of him who made thee great, 
 As he hath made me of the least 
 0*' those cast out from Eden's gate : 
 Yet, Seraph dear I 
 Oh hear 1 
 For thou hast loved me, and I would not die 
 Until I know that I must die in knowing. 
 That thou forget'st in thine eternity 
 
 Her whose heart death could not keep from o'er- 
 Foi thee, immortal essence as thou art I [flowing 
 Great is their love who love in sin and fear ; 
 And such, I feel, ai'e waging in my heart 
 
 A war unworthy : to an Adamite 
 Forgive, my Seraph ! that such thoughts appear. 
 For sorrow is our element ; 
 
 Delight 
 An Eden kept afar from sight. 
 
 Though sometimes with our visions blent. 
 The hour is near 
 Which teUs me we are not abandon'd quite. — 
 AjJijear ! Appear ! 
 Seraph ! 
 My own Azaziel ! be but here, 
 And leave the stars to their own light. 
 A 'irt. Samiasa ! 
 
 Wheresoe'er 
 Thou rulcst in the upj^er air — 
 Or warring with the spirits who may dare 
 Dispute with Him 
 Who made all empires, empire ; or recalling 
 Some wandering star, which shoots through the 
 abyss, 
 Whose tenants dying, while their world is falling. 
 Share the dim destiny of clay in this ; 
 
 Or joining with the inferior cherubim. 
 Thou deignest to partake their hymn — 
 Samiasa ! 
 I call thee, I await thee, and I love thee. 
 
 Many may worship thee, that will I not : 
 If that thy spirit down to mine may move thee. 
 Descend and share my lot 1 
 Though I be form'd of clay. 
 
 And thou of beams 
 More bright than those of da; 
 On Eden's streams. 
 Thine immortaUty can not repay 
 
 AVith love more warm than mine 
 My love. There is a ray 
 In me, which, though forbidden yet to shine. 
 I feel was lighted at thy God's and thine. 
 It may be hidden long : death and decay 
 
 Our n'other Eve bequeath'd us — but my heart 
 Defies it : though this life must jjass away. 
 Is that a cause fur thee and me to part ? 
 
 Thou art immortal — so am I : I feel — 
 
 I feel my immortality o'erswecp 
 All pains, all tears, all time, all fears, and peal, 
 
 Like the eternal thunders of the deep, 
 Into my ears this truth — " Thou Uv'st forever 1" 
 But if it be in joy 
 
 I know not, nor would kno^» ; 
 That secret rests with the Almighty giver 
 
 Who folds in clouds the fonts of bUss and wo 
 But thue and me he never can destroy ; 
 Change us he may, but not o'erwhelm ; we are 
 Of as eternal essence, and must war 
 With him if he will war with us : with thee 
 
 I can share all things, even immortal sorrow ; 
 For thou hast ventured to share life viiib. me, 
 And shall / shrink" from thine eternity ? 
 
 No 1 though the serpent's sting should pierca 
 me through, 
 And thou thyself wert like the serpent, coil 
 Around me still ! and I T\iU smile. 
 And curse thee not ; but hold 
 Thee in as warm a fold 
 
 As but descend, and prove 
 
 A mortal's love 
 For an immortal. If the skies contain 
 More joy than thou canst give and take, remain 1 
 
 Anah. Sister ! sister ! I view them winging 
 Their bright way through the partial night. 
 
 Alio. The clouds from off their pinions flinging, 
 As though they bore to-morrow's light 
 
 Anah. But if our father see the sight ! 
 
 Aho. He would but deem it was the moon 
 Rising into some sorcerer's tune 
 An hour too soon. 
 
 Anah. They come 1 Ac comes ! — Azaziel! 
 
 Aho. Haste 
 
 To meet them ! Oh ! for wings to bear 
 My spirit, while they hover there. 
 To Samiasa's breast ! 
 
 Anah. Lo ! they have kindled all the west, 
 Like a returning sunset ; — lo ! 
 
 On Ararat's late secret crest 
 A mild and many-colcr'd bow, 
 The remnant of their flashing path. 
 Now shines ! and now, behold ! it hath 
 Return' d to night, as rippling foam. 
 
 Which the leviathan hath lash'd 
 From his unfathomable home. 
 When sporting on the foce of the calm deep. 
 
 Subsides soon after he again hath dash'd 
 Down, down, to where the ocean's fountains sleep» 
 Aho. They have touch'd earth ! Samiasa ! 
 Anah. MyAzaziill' 
 
 SCENE 11. 
 
 Enter Ir.vd aiid Japhet. 
 Irad. Despond not : wherefore wilt thouvt&n.der tl ai 
 
232 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 PART 1. 
 
 To add til}' silence to the silent night, 
 ABd lift thy tearful eye unto the stars ? 
 They cannot aid thee. 
 
 Jttph. But they soothe me — now 
 
 Perhaps she looks upon them as I look. 
 Methinks a being that is beautiful 
 llecometh more so as it looks on beauty, 
 The eternal beauty of undying things. 
 Oh, Anah ! 
 
 Irad. But she loves thee not. 
 
 Japh. Alas I 
 
 Irad. And proud Aholibamah spurns me also. 
 
 Japh. I feel for thee too. 
 
 Iriid. Let her keep her pride. 
 
 Mine hath enabled me to bear her score : 
 It may be, time too will avenge it. 
 
 Japh. Canst thou 
 
 Find joy in such a thought ? 
 
 Irad. Nor joy, nor sorrow. 
 
 I loved her weU ; I would have loved her better, 
 Had love been met with love ; as 'tis, I leave her 
 To brighter destinies, if so she deems them. 
 
 Japh. What destinies ? 
 
 Irad. I have some cause to think 
 
 She loves another. 
 
 Japh. Anah 1 
 
 Irad. No ; her sister. 
 
 Japh. What other ? 
 
 Irad. That I know that ; but her air. 
 
 If not her words, tells me she loves another. 
 
 JnpJt. Ay, but not Anah : she but loves her God. 
 
 //•(((/. Wh&te'er she loveth, so she loves thee not, 
 WTiat can it profit thee ? 
 
 Japh. True, nothing ; but 
 
 I love 
 
 Irad. And so do I. 
 
 Ja])li. And now thou lovest not, 
 
 Or think'st thou lov'st not, art thou haj^pier ? 
 
 Irad. Yes. 
 
 Japli. I pity thee. 
 
 'irad. Me 1 why ? 
 
 Japh. For being happy, 
 
 Deprived of that which makes my misery. 
 
 Irad. I take thy taunt as part of thy distemper. 
 And would not feel as thou dost for more shekels 
 Than all our father's herds would bring if weigh'd 
 Against the metal of the sons of Cain — 
 The yellow dust they try to barter with us. 
 As if such useless and discolor'd trash, 
 The refuse of the earth, could be received 
 For milk, and wool, and flesh, and fruits, and all 
 Our flocks and wilderness aflbrd. — Go, Japhet, 
 Sigh to the stars, as wolves howl to the moon — 
 I must back to my rest. 
 
 J-il'h. And 80 would I 
 
 If I could rest. 
 
 Irad. Thou wilt not to our tents then ? 
 
 Japh. No, Irad ; I will to the cavern, whose 
 Mouth they say opens from the internal world 
 To let the inner spirits of the earth 
 Forth when they walk its surface. 
 
 Irad. Wherefore so ? 
 
 What wouldst thou there ? 
 
 Jajdi. Soothe further my sad spirit 
 
 With gloom as sad : it is a hopeless spot. 
 And I am hopeless. 
 
 Irad. But 'tis dangerous ; 
 
 Strange sounds and sights have peopled it with terrors. 
 I must go with thee. 
 
 Japh. Irad, no ; believe mo 
 
 I feel no evil thought, and fear no cvW. 
 
 Irad. But evil things will be thy foe the more 
 As not being of them : turn thy steps aside, 
 Or let mine be with thine. 
 
 J(i}ih. No, neither, Irad ; 
 
 I must proceed alone. 
 
 Irad. Then peace be with thee ! 
 
 \_Ej:il Irad. 
 
 Japh. (sohis.) Peace I I have sought it where it 
 should be found, 
 In love — with love, too, which perhaps deserved it ; 
 And, in its stead, a heaviness of heart — 
 A weakness of the sjjirit — listless days. 
 And nights inexorable to sweet sleep- 
 Have come upon me. Peace ! what peace ? the 
 Of desolation, and the stillness of [calm 
 
 The untrodden forest, only broken by 
 The sweeping tempest through its groaning boughs ; 
 Such is the sullen or the fitful state 
 Of my mind overworn. The earth's grown wicked, 
 And many signs and jiortents have jiroclaim'd 
 A change at hand, and an o'crwlielming doom 
 To perishable beings. Oh, my Anah ! 
 When the dread hour denounced shall open wide 
 The fountains of the deep, how mightest thou 
 Have lain within this bosom, folded from 
 The elements ; this bosom, which in vain 
 Hath l)eat for thee, and then will beat more vainly. 
 
 While thine O God 1 at least remit to her 
 
 Thy wrath ! for she is pure amidst the failing 
 As a star in the clouds, which cannot quench. 
 Although they obscure it for an hour. My Anah ! 
 How would I have adored thee, but thou wouldst 
 And still would I redeem thee — see thee live [not ; 
 When ocean is earth's grave, and, unopposed 
 By rock or shallow, the leviathan, 
 Lord of tlie shoreless sea and wateiy world. 
 Shall wonder at his boundlessness of realm. 
 
 [Exit Japhet. 
 Fnter NoAn and Shem. 
 
 Kaah. Where is thy brother ,Taphet ? 
 
 fihcm. He went forth. 
 
 According to his wont, to meet with Irad, 
 He said ; but, as I fear, to bend his steps 
 
BCENE m. 
 
 HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 23.t 
 
 T'jwards Anali's tents, round which he hovers night- 
 Like a dove round and round its pillaged nest ; [ly, 
 Or else he walks the wild up to the cavern 
 ■Wliich opens to the heart of Ararat. 
 
 yoah. What doth he there ? It is an evil sjiot 
 Upon an earth aU evil ; for things worse 
 Than even wicked men resort there : he 
 Still loves this daughter of a fated race, 
 Although he could not wed her if she loved him. 
 And that she doth not. Oh, the unhappy hearts 
 Of men ! that one of my blood, knowing well 
 The destiny and evil of these days. 
 And that the hour approacheth, should indulge 
 In such forbidden yearnings ! Lead the way ; 
 He must be sought for ! 
 
 Shem. Go not forwarc-i, father : 
 
 t will seek Japhet. 
 
 Xoah. Do not fear for me : 
 
 AU evil things are powerless on the man 
 Selected by Jehovah. Let us on. 
 
 Shem. To the tents of the father of the sisters ? 
 
 Xuah. No; to the cavern of the Caucasus. 
 
 \^Exeunt Noah and Shem. 
 
 BCEXE m. 
 
 The mountains — A cavern, and 'he rods of Caucasus. 
 
 Japh. (sohia.) Te wilds, that look eternal ; and 
 thou cave. 
 Which seem'st imfithomable ; and ye mountains, 
 iSo varied and so terrible in beauty ; 
 Here, in your rugged majesty of rocks 
 And toppling trees that twine their roots with stone 
 In perpendicular places, w-here the foot 
 Of man would tremble, could he reach them — yes, 
 Ye look eternal ! Yet, in a few days. 
 Perhaps even hours, ye ^\i]l be changed, rent, hurl'd 
 Before the mass of waters ; and yon cave, 
 Which seems to lead into a lower world, 
 Shall have its depths seai'ch'd by the sweeping wave. 
 And dolphins gambol in the lion's den ! 
 
 And man Oh, men ! my feUow-beings ! Who 
 
 Shall weep above your uaiversal grave, 
 Save I .? Who shall be left to weep ? My kinsmen, 
 Alas ! what am I better than ye are. 
 That I must live beyond ye ? Where shall be 
 The pleasant places where I thought of Anah 
 While I had hope ? or the more savage haunts, 
 Scarce less beloved, where I despaird for her ? 
 And can it be ! Shall yon exulting peak, 
 Whose glittering top is like a distant star. 
 Lie low beneath the boiling of the deep ? 
 No more to have the morning sun break forth, 
 Aud scatter back the mists in floating folds 
 From its tremendous brow ? no more to have 
 Day"s broad orb drop behind its head at even, 
 Leaving it with a crown of many hues I 
 30 
 
 No more to be the beacon of the world. 
 
 For angels to aUght on, as the spot 
 
 Nearest the stars ? And can those words " no more" 
 
 Be meant for thee, for all things, save for us. 
 
 And the predestined creeping things reserved 
 
 By my sire to Jehovah's bidding ? May 
 
 He preserve them, and 1 7int have the power 
 
 To snatch the loveUest of earth's daughters from 
 
 A doom which even some serpent, with his mate, 
 
 Shall 'scape to save his kind to be prolong'd. 
 
 To hiss and sting through some emerging world, 
 
 Reeking and dank from out the slime whose ooze 
 
 Shall slumber o'er the wreck of this until 
 
 The salt morass subside into a sphere 
 
 Beneath the sun, and be the monument, 
 
 The sole and undistinguish'd sepulchre. 
 
 Of yet quick mvriads of all life ? How much 
 
 Breath wU be stiU'd at once ! All-l)eauteous world ! 
 
 So young, so mark'd for destruction, I 
 
 With a cleft heart look on thee day by day. 
 
 And night by night, thy number'd days and nights : 
 
 I cannot save thee, I cannot save even her 
 
 Whose love had made me love thee more ; but as 
 
 A portion of thy dust, I cannot think 
 
 Upon thy coming doom without a feeling 
 
 Such as — O God ! and canst thou — [Re pauses. 
 
 A riishinff sound from the cavern is heard, and shouts 
 of laughter — afterwards a Spirit passes. 
 
 Japh. In the name 
 
 Of the Most High, what art thou ? 
 
 Spirit, (laughs.) Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Japh. By all that earth holds hoUest, speak ! 
 
 Spirit, (laughs.) Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Japh. By the approaching deluge ! by the earth 
 Which will be strangled by the ocean ! by 
 The deep which will lay open all her fountains : 
 The heaven which will convert her clouds to seas, 
 And the Omnijjotent who makes and crushes ! 
 Thou unknown, terrible, and indistinct. 
 Yet awful Thing of Shadows, speak to me ! 
 Why dost thou laugh that horrid laugh ? 
 
 Spirit. Wliy weep'st thou 1 
 
 Jajih. For earth and aU her children. 
 
 Spirit. Ha! ha! ha! 
 
 [■Spirit vanishes. 
 
 Japh. How the fiend mocks the tortures of a world, 
 The coming desolation of an orb. 
 On which the sun shall rise and warm no life ! 
 How the earth sleeps ! and all that in it is 
 Sleep too upon the very eve of death ! 
 Wliy should they wake to meet it ? What is here. 
 Which look like death in life, and speak like things 
 Bom ere this dying world 2 They come like clouds 1 
 [ Various Sjiirils pass from the cavern, 
 
 Sjiirit. Rejoice ! 
 
 The abhorred race 
 
S34 
 
 BYROX'S WORKS. 
 
 PAKT L 
 
 Which could not keep in Eden their high place, 
 But listen'd to the voice 
 Of knowledge Tvithout power, 
 Are nigh the hour 
 Of deuth 1 
 Not slow, not single, not by sword, nor sorrow. 
 Nor years, nor heart-break, nor time's sapijing 
 motion, 
 Shall they drop off. Behold their last to-morrow ! 
 Earth shall be ocean ! 
 And no breath. 
 Save of the winds, be on the unbounded wave ! 
 
 Angels shall tire their wings, but find no spot : 
 Not even a rock from out the liquid grave 
 
 Shall Uft its point to save, 
 Or show the place where strong Despair hath died, 
 After long looking o'er the ocean wide 
 For the expected ebb which cometh not : 
 AM shall be void, 
 Destroy'd I 
 Another clement shall be the lord 
 
 Of life, and the abhorr'd 
 Children of dust be quench'd ; and of each hue 
 Of earth naught left but the unbroken blue ; 
 And of the variegated mountain 
 Shall naught remain 
 Unchanged, or of the level plain ; 
 Cedar and pine shall lift their tops in vain : 
 All merged within the universal fountain, 
 Man, earth, and fire, shall die. 
 
 And sea and sky 
 Look vast and lifeless in the eternal eye. 
 
 Upon the foam 
 "WTio shall erect a home ? 
 Juph. (coming foricard.) My sire 1 
 Earth's seed shall not expire ; 
 Only the evil shall be put away 
 
 From day. 
 Avaunt ! ye exulting demons of the waste ! 
 Who howl your hideous joy 
 WTien God destroys whom you dare not destroy ; 
 Hence 1 haste ! 
 Back to your inner caves ! 
 Until the waves 
 Shall search you in your secret place, 
 And drive your sullen race 
 Forth, to be roU'd upon the tossing winds 
 In restless wretchedness along all space I 
 Spirit. Son of the saved ! 
 
 Wlien thou and thine have braved 
 The wide and warring element ; 
 When the great barrier of the deej) is rent. 
 Shall thou and thine be good or happy ? No I 
 Thy new world and new race shall be of wo — 
 Less goodly in their aspect, in their years 
 Less than the glorious giants, who 
 Yet walk the world in pride, 
 
 The Sons of Heaven by many a mortal bride. 
 Thine shall be nothing of the past, save tears 
 And art thou not ashamed 
 
 Thus to survive. 
 And eat, and drink, and wive ? 
 With a base heart so far sulxlued and tamed. 
 As even to hear this wide destruction named. 
 Without such grief and courage, as should rather 
 
 Bid thee await the world-dissolving wave, 
 Than seek a shelter with thy favor'd father. 
 
 And build thy city o'er the drown'd Earth's grave • 
 Who would outUve their kind. 
 Except the base and blind ? 
 Mine 
 Hateth thine. 
 As of a different order in the sphere. 
 But not our own. 
 There is not one who hath not left a throne 
 
 Vacant in heaven to dwell in darkness here, 
 Rather than see his mates endure alone. 
 
 Go, wretch ! and give 
 A Ufe like thine to other wretches — live ! 
 And when the annihilating waters roar 
 Above what they have done, 
 Envy the giant patriarchs then no more. 
 And scorn thy sire as the surviving one I 
 Thyself for being his son ! 
 
 Chorus of Spirits usuing from the casern, 
 
 Rejoice ! 
 No more the human voice 
 Shall vex our joy3 in middle air 
 With prayer ; 
 No more 
 
 Shall they adore ; 
 And we, who ne'er for ages have adored 
 
 The prayer-exacting Lord, 
 To whom the omission of a sacrifice 
 Is vice ; 
 We, we shall view the deep's salt sources pour'd 
 Until one clement shall do the work 
 Of all in chaos ; until they. 
 The creatures ])roud of their poor clay. 
 Shall perish, and their bleached bones sh»U lurk 
 In caves, in dens, in clefts of mountains, where 
 The Deep shall follow to their latest lair ; 
 
 Where even the brutes, in their despair. 
 Shall .ease to prey on man and on each other. 
 And the striped tiger shall lie down to die 
 Beside the lamb, as though he were his brother 
 Till all things shall Ije as they were. 
 Silent and uncreated, save the sky : 
 While a Ijrief truce 
 Is made with Death, who shaU forbear 
 The little remnant of the jiast creation. 
 To generate new nations for his use ; 
 This remnant, floating o'er the undulation 
 
SCENE UL 
 
 HEAVEN AND EAKTH. 
 
 235 
 
 Of the subsiding deluge, from its slime, 
 When the hot sun hath baked the reeking soil 
 Into a world, shall gi\-e again to Time 
 New beings — years — diseases— sorrow — crime — 
 With all companionship of hate and toil. 
 Until— 
 Jiiph. {iiiterrnpiing them) The eternal wiD 
 ShaU deign to expound this dream 
 Of good and evil ; and redeem 
 Unto himself all times, all things ; 
 And, gathered under his almighty wings, 
 Abolish heU ! 
 And to the expiated Earth 
 Restore the beauty of her birth, 
 
 Her Eden in an endless paradise. 
 Where man no more can fall as once he fell. 
 And even the very demons shall do well ! 
 Spirits. And when shall take eflect this wondrous 
 
 spen ? 
 Japh. Wlien the Redeemer cometh ; first in pain, 
 
 And then in glory. 
 Spirit. Meantime stiU struggle in the mortal chain. 
 Till earth was hoary ; 
 War with yourselves, and hell, and heaven, in vain. 
 
 Until the clouds look gory 
 With the Ijlood reeking from each battle plain ; 
 New times, new climes, new arts, new men : but still, 
 The same old tears, old crimes, and oldest iU, 
 ShaU be amongst your race in difierent forma ; 
 
 But the same moral storms 
 Shall oversweep the future, as the waves 
 In a few hours the glorious giants' graves.' 
 
 Chorus of Spirits. 
 Brethren, rejoice ! 
 5Iortal, farewell ! 
 Hark ! hark ! already we can hear the voice 
 Of growing ocean's gloomy swell ; 
 The winds, too, plume their piercing wings ; 
 The clouds have nearly fiU'd their springs ; 
 The fountains of the great deep shall be broken. 
 
 And heaven set wide her windows f while mankind 
 View, unacknowledged, each tremendous token — 
 Still, as they were from the beginning, blind. 
 We hear the sound they cannot hear. 
 The mustering thunders of the threatening 
 sphere ; 
 Yet a few hours their coming is delay'd — 
 Their flashing banners, folded still on high. 
 
 Yet undisplay'd, 
 Save to the Sijirifs all-pervading eye. 
 Howl ; howl ! oh Earth ! 
 Thy death is nearer than thy recent birth : 
 
 ' " And there were giants in the earth in those da.v?, azi also after 
 tliat . . . mighty men, which were of old. men of renown."— Genesis. 
 
 ' ' The same day were all the fountains of the great deep broken 
 ap ; and the v^odows of heaven were opened."— iMd. 
 
 Tremble, ye mountains, soon to shrink below 
 
 The ocean's overflow ! 
 The wave shall break upon your cUffs ; and shells, 
 
 The little shells of ocean's least things be 
 Deposed where now the eagle's oflspring dweUs — 
 
 How shall he shriek o'er the remorseless sea ! 
 And call his nestlings up with fndtless yell, 
 Unanswer'd, save by the encroaching swell ; — 
 While man shall long in vain for his broad wine's, 
 
 The wings which could not save : — 
 Where could he rest them, while the whole sp'jce 
 brings 
 Naught to his eye beyond the deep, his grave ? 
 Brethren, rejoice ! 
 And loudly lift each superhuman voice — 
 
 All die. 
 Save the slight remnant of Seth's seed — 
 
 The seed of Seth, 
 Exempt for future sorrow's sake from death. 
 But of the sons of Cain 
 None shall remain ; 
 And aU his goodly daughters 
 Must He beneath the desolating waters — 
 Or, floating upward, with their long hair laid 
 Along the wave, the cruel heaven upbraid, 
 ^Vhich would not spare 
 Beings even in death so fiir. 
 It is decreed. 
 All die ! 
 And to the universal human cry 
 The universal silence shall succeed ! 
 Fly, brethren, fly ! 
 But still rejoice ! 
 We feU ! 
 They fall ! 
 So perish all 
 These petty foes of Heaven who shrink from hell ! 
 [T/ie Sjnrits disappear, soarinij vpwarda 
 
 Japh. (solus). God hath proclaim'd the destiny oi 
 My father's ark of safety hath announced it ; [earth • 
 The very demons shriek it from tlieir caves ■ 
 The scrolP of Enoch prophesied it long 
 In silent books, which, in their silence, say 
 More to the mind than thunder to the ear : 
 And yet men listen'd not, nor listen ; but 
 AValk darkling to their doom ; which, though so nigh, 
 Shakes them no more in their dim disbelief. 
 Than their last cries shall sliake the Almighty purpose 
 Or deaf obedient ocean, which fulfills it. 
 No sign yet hangs its banner in the air ; 
 The clouds are few, and of their wonted texture ; 
 The sun vill rise upon the earth's last day 
 As on the fourth day of creation, when 
 God said unto him, " Shine !" and he broke forth 
 
 5 The book of Enoch, preserved by the Ethiopians, is said by 
 them to be aEterior to the flood. 
 
236 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Into the dawn, which lighted not the yet 
 
 Uuform'd forefather of mankind — but roused 
 
 Before the human orison the earlier 
 
 Made and far sweeter voices of the birds, 
 
 Which in the open firmament of heaven 
 
 Have wings like angels, and like them salute 
 
 Heaven first each day before the Adamites ! 
 
 Their matins now draw nigh — the east is kindling— 
 
 And they will sing ! and day will lireak ! Both near, 
 
 So near the awful close 1 For these must drop 
 
 Their outworn pinions on the deep ; and daj'. 
 
 After the bright course of a few brief morrows, — 
 
 Ay, day will rise ; but upon what ? — a chaos. 
 
 Which was ere day ; and which, renew'd, makes time 
 
 Nothing ! for, 'svithout life, what are the hours ? 
 
 No more to dust than is eternity 
 
 Unto Jehovah, who created both. 
 
 Without him, even eternity would be 
 
 A void : without man, time, as made for man, 
 
 Dies with man, and is swaUow'd in that deep 
 
 Which has no fountain ; as his race will be 
 
 Devour'd by that which drovras his infant world. — 
 
 What have we here ? Shapes of both earth and air ? 
 
 No — all of heaven, they are so beautiful. 
 
 I cannot trace their features ; but their forms, 
 
 How lovelily they move along the side 
 
 Of the gray mountain, scattering its mist 1 
 
 And after the swart savage spirits, whose 
 
 Infernal immortality pour'd forth 
 
 Their impious hymn of triumph, they shall be 
 
 Welcome as Eden. It may be they come 
 
 To tell me the reprieve of our young world, 
 
 For which I have so often pray'd. — They come I 
 
 Anah I ob, God 1 and with her 
 
 Enter Samiasa, Azaziel, Anah, and AnoLrBAjHAH. 
 
 Anah. Japhet 1 
 
 Sam. Lo ! 
 
 A son of Adam. 
 
 Azii. What doth the earth-bom here, 
 
 While all his race are slumbering ? 
 
 ,/(//)/(. Angel ! what 
 
 Dost thou on earth when thou shouldst be on high ? 
 
 Aza. Know'st thou not, or forget'st thou, that a 
 Of our great function is to guard thine earth ? [part 
 
 Jii]ih. But all good angels have forsaken earth, 
 Which is condemn'd ; nay, even the evil fly 
 The approaching chaos. Anah ! Anah 1 my 
 In vain, and long, and still to be beloved ! 
 Why walk'st thou with this sjiirit, in those hours 
 When no good spirit longer lights below ? 
 
 Anah. Japhet, I cannot answer thee; yet, yet 
 Forgive me 
 
 Jiijih. May the Heaven, which soon no more 
 
 Will pardon, do so ! for thou art greatly tempted. 
 
 Alio. Back to thy tents, insulting son of Noah ! 
 We know thee no*' 
 
 Jiil}h. Tlie hour may come when thou 
 
 May'st know me letter; and thy sister know 
 Me still the same which I have ever Ijeen. 
 
 Sam. Son of tlic ))atriarch, who hath ever been 
 Upright before his God, whate'cr thy griefs, 
 And thy words seem of sorrow, mix'd with wrath, 
 How have Azaziel, or myself, brought on thee 
 Wrong ? 
 
 Juj)h. Wrong ! the greatest of all wrongs ; but thou 
 Say'st well, though she be dust, I did not, could not, 
 Deserve her. Farewell, Anah ! I have said 
 That word so often I but now say it, ne'er 
 To be repeated. Angel ! or whate'er 
 Thou art, or must be soon, hast thou the power 
 To save this beautiful — these beautiful 
 Children of Cain ? 
 
 Am. From what ? 
 
 Japh. And is it so, 
 
 That ye too know not ? Angels ! angels ! ye 
 Have shared man's sin, and, it may be, now must 
 Partake his punishment ; or, at the least. 
 My sorrow. 
 
 Sam. Sorrow! I ne'er thought till now 
 To hear an Adamite speak riddles to me. 
 
 .Taph. And hath not the Most High expounded 
 Then ye are lost, as they are lost. [them 1 
 
 Aho. So be it ! 
 
 If they love as they are loved, they will not shrink 
 More to be mortal, than I would to dare 
 Aft immortality of agonies 
 With Samiasa ! 
 
 Anah. Sister ! sister ! speak not 
 
 Thus. 
 
 Aza. Fearest thou, my Anah ? 
 
 Anah. Yes, for thee . 
 
 I would resign the greater remnant of 
 This little life of mine, before one hour 
 Of thine eternity should know a pang. 
 
 Japh. It is for him, then ! for the seraph thou 
 Hast left me ! That is nothing, if thou hast not 
 Left thy God too 1 for unions like to these, 
 Between a mortal and an immortal, cannot 
 Be happy or be hallow'd. We are sent 
 Upon the earth to toil and die ; and they 
 Are made to minister on high unto 
 The Highest : but if he can save thee, soon 
 The hour will come in which celestial aid 
 Alone can do so. 
 
 Anah. Ah ! he S2)eaks of death. 
 
 -SVim. Of death to vs .' and those who are with lu I 
 But that the man seems fuh of sorrow, I 
 Could smile. 
 
 Japh. I grieve not for myself, nor fear ; 
 
 I am safe, not for my deserts, but those 
 Of a well-doing sire, who hath been found 
 Righteous enough to save his children. Wo'ild 
 His power was greater of redemption ! or 
 
8CEXE in. 
 
 HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 237 
 
 That by escliaagiag my own life for hers, 
 Wlio could aloue ha^ e made mine haj py, she, 
 The last and loveliest of Cain's race, could share 
 The ark which shall receive a remnant of 
 The seed of Seth ! 
 
 Alio. And dost thou think that we, 
 
 With Cain's, the eldest born of Adam's, blood 
 Warm in our veins, — strong Cain ! who was begotten 
 In Paradise, — would mingle with Seth's children ? 
 Seth, the last offspring of old Adam's dotage ? 
 No, not to save all earth, were earth in peril ! 
 Our race hath always dwelt apart from thine 
 From the beginning, and shall do so ever. 
 
 Japh. I did not speak to thee Aholil>amah ! 
 Too much of the forefather whom thou vauntcst 
 Has come down in that haughty blood which springs 
 From him who shed the first, and that a brother's ! 
 But thou, my Anah ! let me call thee mine. 
 Albeit thou art not ; 'tis a word I cannot 
 Part with, although I must from thee. My Anah ! 
 Thou who dost rather make me dream that Abel 
 Had left a daughter, whose pure pious race 
 Survived in thee, so much unhke thou art 
 The rest of the stem Cainites, save in beauty. 
 For all of them are fairest in their favor 
 
 Alw. (inferrtiptind him). And wouldst thou have 
 her like our father's foe 
 In mind, in soul ? If /partook thy thought, 
 And drcam'd that aught of Abel was in fierf — 
 •''et thee hence, son of Noah ; thou makest strife. 
 
 Jiiph. Offspring of Cain, thy father did so 1 
 
 A ho. But 
 
 Se slew not Seth : and what hast thou to do 
 With other deeds between his God and him ? 
 
 J(ipJi. Thou speakest well : his God hath judged 
 I had not named his deed, but that thyself [him, and 
 Didst seem to glory in him, nor to shrink 
 From what he had done. 
 
 A/io, He was our iathers' father ; | 
 The eldest born of man, the strongest, bravest. 
 And most enduring : — Shall I blush for him 
 From whom we had our I^eing ? Look upon 
 Our race ; l^ehold their stature and their beauty, 
 Their courage, strength, and length of days 
 
 Japh. They are number'd 
 
 Aho. Be it so ! but while yet their hours endure, 
 I glory in my brethren and our fathers. 
 
 Jiiph. My sire and race but glory in their God, 
 Anah ! and thou ? • 
 
 Aiath. Whate'er our God decrees. 
 
 The God of Seth as Cain, I must obey. 
 And Tvill endeavor patiently to obey. 
 But could I dare to pray in this dread hour 
 Of universal vengeance (if such should be), 
 It would not be to live, alone exempt 
 Of all my house. My sister ! oh, my sister ! 
 What ■n-.-.re the world, or other worlds, or all 
 
 The brightest future, without the sweet past — 
 
 Thy love — my father's — all the life, and aU 
 
 The things which sprang up with me, like the stars, 
 
 3Ial\ing my dim existence radiant viith 
 
 Soft lights which were not mine ? Aholibamah I 
 
 Oh, if there should be mercy — seek it, fu\d it ; 
 
 I abhor death, because that thou must die. 
 
 Aho. What hath this dreamer with his father's 
 The bugbear he hath built to scare the world, [ark, 
 Shaken mi/ sister ? Are we not the loved 
 Of seraphs ? and if we were not, must we 
 Cling to a son of Noah for our lives ? 
 
 Eather than thus But the enthusiast dreams 
 
 The worst of dreams, the fantasies engender'd 
 By hopeless love and heated vigils. Who 
 Shall shake these solid mountains, this firm earth, 
 And bid those clouds and waters take a shape 
 Distinct from that which we and all our sires 
 Have seen them wear on their eternal way ? 
 Who shall do this ? 
 
 Jiiph. He whose one word produced them, 
 
 Aho. Who heard that word ? 
 
 Japh. The universe, which leap'd 
 
 To life before it. Ah, smilest thou still in scorn ? 
 Turn to thy seraphs : if they attest it not, 
 They are none. 
 
 Sam. Aholibamah, own thy God ! 
 
 Aho. I have ever hail'd our Maker, Samiasa, 
 As thine, and mine : a God of love, not sorrow. 
 
 J'q^h. Alas ! what else is love but sorrow ? Even 
 He who made earth in love had soon to grieve 
 Above its first and best inhabitants. 
 
 Aho. 'Tis said so. 
 
 Japh. It is even so. 
 
 Enter Noah and Shem. 
 
 Xoah. Japhet! What 
 
 Dost thou here with these children of the wicked ? 
 Dread'st thou not to partake their coming doom ? 
 
 Jiiph. Father, it cannot be a sin to seek 
 To save an earth -liorn being ; and behold, 
 These are not of the sinful, since they have 
 The fellowship of angels. 
 
 Noah. These arc they, then, 
 
 Who leave the throne of God, to take them wives 
 From out tlie race of Cain ; the sons of heaven, 
 Who seek earth's daughters for their beauty ? 
 
 Aza. Patriarch 1 
 
 Thou hast said it. 
 
 Niiah. Wo, wo, wo to sucli communion 1 
 
 Hast not God made a barrier between earth 
 And heaven, and limited each, kind to kind ? 
 
 N/i/H. AVas not man made in high Jehc vah's image i 
 Did God not love what he had made ? And what 
 Do we but imitate and emulate 
 His love uato created love 2 
 
233 
 
 BYRON'S "WORKS. 
 
 PART L 
 
 Noah. I am 
 
 But man, and was not made to judge mankind, 
 Far less the sons of God ; but as our God 
 Has dcign'd to commune with me, and reveal 
 His judgments, I reply, that the descent 
 Of seraphs from their everlasting seat 
 Unto a peiishable and jjerishing, 
 Even on the very eve o{ pcriahiny, world, 
 Cannot be good. 
 
 Am, ATIiat ! though it were to save ? 
 
 Noah. Not ye in all your glory can redeem 
 What he who made you glorious hath condemn'd. 
 Were your immortal mission safety, 'twould 
 Be general, not for two, though beautiful ; 
 And beautiful they are, but not the less 
 Condemn'd. 
 
 Japh. Oh, father ! say it not. 
 
 Nmih. Son 1 son ! 
 
 If that thou wouldst avoid their doom, forget 
 That they exist ; they soon shall cease to be, 
 While thou shalt be the sire of a new world, 
 And better. 
 
 Jiijih. Let me die with thls^ and Ihem! 
 
 Noah. Thou ■■:h)iihht for such a thought, but shalt 
 Who fa /I redeems thee. [not ; he 
 
 Sa7ii. And why him and thee, 
 
 More than what he, thy son, prefers to both ? 
 
 Noah. Ask him who made thee greater than myself 
 And mine, but not less subject to his own 
 Almightiness. And lo ! his mildest and 
 Least to be tempted messenger appears ! 
 
 Ente:- Raphael, the Archangel, 
 liaph. Spirits ! 
 
 Whose seat is near the throne. 
 What do ye here ? 
 Is thus a seraph's duty to be shown. 
 Now that the hour is near 
 When earth must be alone ? 
 Retui-n I 
 Adore and bum 
 In glorious homage with the elected " seven," 
 Your place is heaven. 
 Sam. Raphael ! 
 
 The first and fairest of the sons of God, 
 
 How long hath this been law. 
 That earth by angels must be left untrod ? 
 
 Earth ! which oft saw 
 Jehovah's footsteps not disdain her sod 1 
 The world he loved, and made 
 For love ; and oft have we obpy'd 
 His frequent minsiou with delighted pinions : 
 
 Adoring him in his least works display'd ; 
 Watching tliis youngest star of his dominions ; 
 And as the latest birth of his great word, 
 Eager to keep it worthy of our Lord. 
 ^V^ly is thy brow severe ? 
 ind wherefore speak'st thou of destruction near? 
 
 liaph. Had Samiasa and Azaziel been 
 In their true place, witli the angelic choir. 
 Written in fire 
 They would have seen 
 Jehovah's late decree. 
 And not inquir'd their Maker's breath of me : 
 But ignorance must ever be 
 A part of sin ; 
 And even the spirit's knowledge shall grow less 
 
 As they wax proud within ; 
 For Blindness is the first-born of Excess. 
 
 When all good angels left the world, ye stay'd, 
 Stung with strange passions, and debased 
 
 By mortal feelings for a mortal maid : 
 But ye are iJardon'd thus far, and rejjlaced 
 With your pure equals. Hence I away ! away 1 
 Or stay. 
 And lose eternity by that delay. 
 Asa. And thou ! if earth be thus forbidden 
 In the decree 
 To us until this moment hidden, 
 Dost thou not err as we 
 In being here ? 
 liaph. I came to call ye back to your fit sphere, 
 In the great name and at the word of God. 
 Dear, dearest in themselves, and scarce less dear 
 
 That which I came to do : till now we trod 
 Together the eternal space ; together 
 
 Let us stiU walk the stars. True, earth must dii 
 Her race, return'd into her womli, must wither, 
 And much which she inherits : but oh ! why 
 Cannot this earth be made, or be destroy'd. 
 Without involving ever some vast void 
 In the immortal ranks ? immortal stiU 
 
 In their immeasurable forfeiture. 
 Our brother Satan fell ; his burning will 
 Rather than longer worship dared endure I 
 But ye who still are pure ! 
 Seraphs I less mighty than that mightiest one. 
 
 Think how he was undone ! 
 And think If tempting man can compensate 
 For heaven desired too late ? 
 Long have I warr'd. 
 Long must I war 
 With him who deem'd it hard 
 To be created, and to acknowledge him 
 Wlio midst the cherubim 
 Made him as suns to a dependent star, 
 Leaving the archangels at his right hand dim. 
 I loved him — beautiful he was : oh heaven 1 
 Save his who made, what beauty and what power 
 Was ever like to Satan's I Would the hour 
 
 In which he fell could ever be forgiven I 
 The wish is impious : but, oh ye I 
 Yet undestroy'd, l>e warn'd 1 Eternity 
 
 With him, or with his God, is in your choice ■ 
 Ha hath not tempted you ; he cannot tempt 
 
SCENE III. 
 
 HEAVEN AND EARTH 
 
 ar^O 
 
 Tlie angels, from bis further snares exempt : 
 
 But man bath listen'd to bis voice, 
 And ye to woman's — ^beautiful she is, 
 The serpent's voice less subtle than her kiss. 
 The snake but vanquish'd dust; but she vdll dra v 
 A second host from heaven, to break heaven's law. 
 Yet, yet, oh fly I 
 Te cannot die ; 
 But they 
 Shall pass away. 
 While ye shall fill with slirieks the upper sky 
 
 For perishable clay. 
 Whose memory in your immortality 
 
 Shall long outlast the sun which gives them day. 
 Think how your essence differeth from theirs 
 In all but suffering ! why jiartake 
 The agony to which they must be heirs — 
 Born to be plough'd with years, and sown with cares ; 
 And reap'd by Death, lord of the human soil ? 
 Even had their days been left to toil their path 
 Through time to dust, unshorten'd by God's wrath, 
 Still they are Evil's prey and Sorrow's spoiL 
 
 Alio. Let them fly ! 
 
 I hear the voice which says that all must die 
 Sooner than our white-bearded patriarchs died ; 
 And that on high % 
 An ocean is prepared. 
 While from below 
 The deep shaU rise to meet heaven's overflow 
 
 Few shall be spared. 
 It seems ; and, of that few, the race of Cain 
 Must lift their eyes to Adam's God in vain. 
 Sister ! since it is so. 
 And the eternal Lord 
 In vain would be implored 
 For the remission of one hour of wo. 
 Let us resign even what we have adored, 
 And meet the wave, as we would meet the sword, 
 
 If not unmoved, yet undismay'd, 
 And wailing less for us than those who shall 
 Survive in mortal or immortal thrall. 
 
 And, when the fatal waters are aUay'd, 
 Weep for the myriads who can weep no more. 
 Fly, seraphs ! to your own eternal shore, 
 Where winds nor howl nor waters roar. 
 Our portion is to die, 
 And yours to hve forever : 
 But which is best, a dead eternity, 
 Or living, is but known to the great Giver. 
 Obey him, as we shall obey ; 
 I would not keep this life of mine of clay 
 An hour beyond his wiU ; 
 Nor see ye lose a portion of his grace, 
 For all the mercy which Seth's race 
 Find stiU. 
 Fly I 
 And as yoir pinions beai ye back to heaven, 
 
 Think that my love still mounts with thee on hia', 
 
 Samiasa ! 
 And if I look up with a tearless eye, 
 'Tis that an angel's bride disdains to weep — 
 Farewell ! Now rise, inexorable Deep I 
 Anah. And must we die ? 
 
 And must I lose thee too, 
 Azaziel ! 
 Oh my heart I my heart ! 
 
 Thy prophecies were true ! 
 And yet thou wert so happy too I 
 The blow, though not unlook'd for, falls as new : 
 But yet depart ! 
 Ah ! why ? 
 Yet let me not retain thee — fly ! 
 My pangs can be but brief; but thine would be 
 Eternal, if repulsed from heaven for me. % 
 
 Too much already hast thou deign'd 
 To one of Adam's race ! 
 Our doom is sorrow : not to us alone. 
 But to the spirits who have not disdain'd 
 To love us, Cometh anguish with disgrace. 
 The first who taught us knowledge hath been hurl'd 
 From his once archangelic throne 
 Into some unknown world : 
 And thou, Azaziel I No — 
 Thou shalt not suffer wo 
 For me. Away ! nor weep ! 
 Thou canst not weep ; but yet 
 Mayst sufler more, not weeping : then forget 
 Her, whom the surges of the all-strangling Deep 
 
 Can bring no pang like this. Fly ! fly 1 
 Being gone 'twill be less difficult to die. 
 Japh. Oh say not so ! 
 
 Father ! and thou, archangel, thou ! 
 Surely celestial Mercy lurks below 
 That pure severe serenity of brow : 
 
 Let them not meet this sea without a shore. 
 Save in our ark, or let me be no more ! 
 
 Noah. Peace, child of passion, peace ! 
 If not witliin thy heart, yet with thy tongue 
 
 Do God no wrong ! 
 Live as he wills it — die, when he ordains, 
 A righteous death, unUke the seed of Cain's. 
 
 Cease, or be sorrowful in silence ; cease 
 To weary Heaven's ear with tliy selfish plaint. 
 Wouldst thou have God commit a sin for thee \ 
 Such would it be 
 To alter his intent 
 For a mere mortal sorrow. Be a man ! 
 And bear what Adam's race must bear, and can. 
 Japh.. Ay, father I but when they are gone, 
 And we are aU alone, 
 Floating upon the azure desert, and 
 The depth beneath us hides our own dear land, 
 
 And dearer, silent friends and brethren, all 
 Buried in its immeasurable breast, 
 
240 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS 
 
 PART ; 
 
 Wio, who, our tears, our shrieks, shall then command ? 
 Can we in desolation's peace have rest ? 
 Oh God ! be thou a God, and spare 
 
 Yet while 'tis time 1 
 Renew not Adam's fall : 
 Mankind were then but twain. 
 But they are numerous now as are the waves 
 
 And the tremendous rain. 
 Whose drops shall be less thick than would their 
 Were graves permitted to the seed of Cain, [graves, 
 Noah. Silence, vain boy I each word of thine's a 
 Angel ! forgive this stripUng's fond despair, [crime. 
 Iiaj)h. Seraphs! thesemortalsspeakinpassion: Yel 
 Who are, or should be, passionless and pure, 
 May now return with me. 
 
 Sam. It may not be : 
 
 W# have chosen, and will endure. 
 Baph. Say'st thou ? 
 
 Aza. He hath said it, and I say, Amen 1 
 
 Raph. Again I 
 Then fi-om this hour. 
 Shorn as ye are of all celestial power, 
 And aliens from your God, 
 Farewell 1 
 Jiiph. Alas ! where shall they dwell ? 
 
 Hark, hark ! Deep sounds, and deeper still, 
 Are howling from the mountain's bosom : 
 There's not a breath of wind upon the hiU, 
 
 Yet quivers every leaf, and drops each blossom : 
 Earth groans as if beneath a heavy load. 
 Noah. Hark, hark ! the sea-birds cry 1 
 In clouds they overspread the lurid sky. 
 And hover round the mountain, where before 
 Never a white wing, wetted by the wave. 
 
 Yet dared to soar, 
 Even when the waters wax'd too fierce to brave. 
 Soon it shall be their only shore. 
 And then, no more 1 
 Japh. The sun ! the sim 1 
 
 He riseth, but his better light is gone. 
 And a black circle, bound 
 His glaring disk around. 
 Proclaims earth's last of summer days hath shone : 
 
 TUo clouds return into the hues of night. 
 Save where their brazen-color'd edges streak 
 The verge where brighter moms were wont to break, 
 
 Noah. And lo I yon flash of light. 
 The distant thunder's harbinger, appears ! 
 
 It cometh I hence, away I 
 Leave to the elements their evil prey 1 
 Hence to where our all-hallow'd ark uprears 
 Its safe and wrcckless sides 1 
 Japh. Oh, father, stay 1 
 Leave not my Anah to the swallowing tides 1 
 Noak. Must we not leave all life to such ? Begone 1 
 Japh. Not I. 
 
 Noah. Then die 
 
 With them 1 
 How darcst thou look on that prophetic sky, 
 And seek to save what all things now condemn, 
 In overwhelming unison 
 
 With just Jehovah's wrath I 
 
 Japh. Can rage and justice join in the same path 1 
 
 Noah. Blasphemer 1 darest thou murmur evc*i now ? 
 
 Ildph. Patriarch, be still a father! smooth thy brow: 
 
 Thy son, despite his folly, shall not sink : 
 He knows not what he says, yet shall not drink 
 
 With sobs the salt foam of the swelling waters ; 
 But be, when Passion passeth, good as thou, 
 
 Nor perish like Heaven's children with Man's 
 daughters. 
 
 Aho. The tempest cometh ; Heaven and Earth unite 
 For the annihilation of all life. 
 Unequal is the strife 
 Between our strength and the Eternal M'ght 1 
 
 Sam. But ours is with thee : we wUI bear ye far 
 
 To some untroubled star, 
 Where thou and Anah shalt partake our lot : 
 
 And if thou dost not weep for thy lost earth, 
 Our forfeit heaven shall also be forgot. [birth I 
 
 Anah. Oh! my dear father's tents, my place of 
 And mountains, land, and woods ! when ye are not. 
 Who shall dry up aay tears ? 
 
 Aza. Thy Spirit-lord. 
 
 Fear not ; though we are shut from heaven, 
 Yet much is ours, whence we can not be driven. 
 
 Raph. Rebel ! thy words are wicked as thy deeds 
 Shall henceforth be but weak : the flaming sword, 
 Which chased the first-bom out of Paradise, 
 Still flashes in the angelic hands. 
 
 Aza. It cannot slay us : threaten dust with death, 
 And taUc of weapons unto that which bleeds. 
 What are thy swords in our immortal eyes ? 
 
 Raph . The moment cometh to approve thy strength ; 
 And learn at length 
 How vain to war with what thy God commands : 
 Thy former force was in thy faith. 
 
 Enter Mortals, flijinr/ for refuge. 
 Chorus of Mortals. 
 The heavens and earth are mingling — God I oh God 
 What have we done ? Yet spare I 
 Hark ! even the forest beasts howl forth their prayei I 
 The dragon crawls from out his den. 
 To herd, in terror, innocent with men ; 
 And the birds scream their agony through air 
 Yet, yet, Jehovah I yet withdraw thy rod 
 Of wrath, and pity thine own world's despair ! 
 Hear not Man only but all Nature plead ! 
 
 AM /'/i. Farewell, thou earth ! ye wretched sons of clay, 
 I cannot, must not, aid you. 'Tis decreed 1 
 
 [Rxlt Raphael. 
 Japh. Some clouds sweep on as vultures for their 
 prey. 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 HEAVEN AND EARTH, 
 
 241 
 
 While otbers, fix'd as rocks, await tbe word 
 
 At whicli their wrathful vials shall be pour'd. 
 
 No azure more shaU robe the firmament. 
 
 Nor spangled stars be glorious : Death hath risen : 
 
 In the sun's place a pale and ghastly glare 
 
 Hath wound itself around the dying air. 
 
 Asii Come, Anah ! quit this chaos-founded prison, 
 To which the elements again repair, 
 To turn it into what it was : beneath 
 Tlie shelter of these wings thou shalt be safe, 
 As was the eagle's nestling once within 
 Its mother's — Let the coming chaos chafe, 
 Witli all its elements ! Heed not their din ! 
 A brighter world than this, where thou shalt breathe 
 Ethereal hfe, will we explore : 
 These darken'd clouds are not the only skies. 
 
 [AzAETEL and Samiasa _f!>/ ojf] and disappear 
 with Anah and AnoLiBAMAd. 
 
 Japh. They are gone ! They have disappear'd 
 amidst the roar 
 Of the forsaken world ; and never more. 
 Whether they live, or die with aU earth's life, 
 Now near its last, can aught restore 
 iVnah unto these eyes. 
 
 Chorus of Mortals. 
 
 Oh son of Noah ! mercy on thy kind ! 
 What ! wilt thou leave us all — all— n/^ behind ? 
 While safe amidst the elemental strife. 
 Thou sitt'st within thy guarded ark ? 
 
 A titntlier {nTfering her infant to Japhet.) Oh let 
 this child embark ! 
 I brought him forth in wo. 
 
 But thought it joy 
 To see him to my bosom clinging so. 
 Why was he bom ? 
 Wliat hath he done — 
 My unwean'd son — 
 To move .Jehovah's wrath or scorn ? 
 'WTiat is there in this milk of mine, that Death 
 Should stir all heaven and earth up to destroy 
 
 My boy. 
 And roll the waters o'er his placid breath ? 
 Save him, thou seed of Seth ! 
 Or cursed be — with him who made 
 Thee and thy race, for which we are betray'd ! 
 Japh. Peace ! 'tis no hour for curses, but for prayer. 
 
 Chorus of Mortals. 
 
 For prayer ! ! ! 
 
 And where 
 Shall prayer ascend, 
 'Vhen the swoln clouds imto the mountains bend 
 
 And burst. 
 And gushing oceans every barrier rend, 
 
 31 
 
 Until the very deserts know no thirst ? 
 Accursed 
 Be he who made thee and thy sire ! 
 We deem our curses vain ; we must expire ; 
 
 But as we know the worst, 
 WTiy should our hymn be raised, our knees be bent 
 Before the implacable Omnipotent, 
 Since we must fall the same ? 
 If he hath made earth, let it be his shame ? 
 
 To make a world for torture. — Lo ! they come, 
 The loathsome waters, .ip their rage ! 
 And with their roar make wholesome Nature dumb 
 
 The forest's trees, (coeval with the hour 
 When Paradise upsprung. 
 
 Ere Eve gave Adam knowledge for her dower, 
 Or Adam his first hymn of slavery sung,) 
 So massy, vast, yet green in their old age, 
 Are overtopp'd. 
 Their summer blossoms by the surges lopp'd, 
 Wliich rise, and rise, and rise. 
 Vainly we look up to the lowering skies — 
 
 They meet the seas. 
 And shut out God from our beseeching eyes. 
 Fly, son of Noah, fly I and take thine ease 
 In thine allotted ocean-tent, 
 And view, all floating o'er the element, 
 The corpses of the world of thy young days : 
 Then to Jehovah raise 
 Thy song of praise ! 
 A Mortal. Blessed are the dead 
 Wlio die in the Lord ! 
 And though the waters be o'er earth outspread. 
 Yet, as his word. 
 Be the decree adored 1 
 He gave me life — he taketh but 
 The breath which is his own : 
 And though these eyes should be forever shut, 
 Nor longer this weak voice before his throne 
 Be heard in supplicating tone, 
 
 StiU blessed be the Lord, 
 For what is past, 
 For that which is : 
 For all are his. 
 From first to last — 
 Time — space — eternity — life — death — 
 
 The vast known and immeasurable unknown. 
 He made, and can unmake ; 
 And shall /, for a little gasp of breath, 
 
 Blaspheme and groan ? 
 No ; let me die, as I have lived, in faith. 
 
 Nor quiver, though the universe may qnake ' 
 
 Chortis of Mortals. 
 
 WTiere shall we fly ? 
 Not to the mountains high , 
 For now their torrents rush, with double roar, 
 
242 
 
 BYRON'S WORKis. 
 
 ACT 1, 
 
 To meet the ocean, which, advancing still, 
 Already grasps each drowning hill. 
 Nor leaves an unsearch'd cave. 
 
 Enter a Woman. 
 
 Woman. Oh, save me, save ! 
 Our valley is no more : 
 
 My father and my father's tent. 
 My brethren and my brethren's herds, 
 
 The pleasant trees that o'er our noonday bent 
 A.nd sent forth evening songs from sweetest birds, 
 The little rivulet which freshen'd all 
 Our pastures green. 
 No more are to be seen. 
 When to the mountain cliff I climb'd this mom, 
 
 T tumVl to bless the spot, 
 
 And not a leaf appear'd about to fall ; — 
 
 And now they are not ! — 
 Why was I bom 5 
 
 Jap!i. To die ! in youth to die 1 
 
 And happier in that doom, 
 Than to behold the universal tomb 
 
 Which I 
 Am thus condemn'd to weep above in vain. 
 Why, when all perish, why must I remain ? 
 
 [The ^caters rue ; Menfy in every direction ; 
 many are overtaken by tlie inawes ; the Chorus 
 of Mortals disperses in search of safety up 
 the mountains ; Jnphet remains upon a roek 
 while the Ark floats towards him in the dis- 
 tance. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS 
 
 A TRAGEDY. 
 
 TO 
 
 THE ILLUSTRIOUS GOETHE 
 
 A STRANGBR PREStTMES TO OrFBR THE HOHAOE 
 
 OF A LTTEBABT VARflAT. TO HIS LIEQE LORD, THE FIRST OF EXISTrNQ WRITERS, 
 
 •WHO HAS CREATED THE LITERATURE OF HIB OWN COUNTRY, 
 
 AND ILLUSTRATED THAT OF EUROPE. 
 
 THB UNWORTHY PRODUCTION WHICH THE AUTHOR TSNTURE3 TO INSCRIBE TO HIM 
 
 IS ENTITLED 
 
 SAHD.\NAPALUS. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 In publishing the following Tragedies I have only 
 to repeat, that they were not composed with the most 
 remote view to the stage. On the attempt made by 
 the managers in a former instance, the public opinion 
 has been already expressed. With regard to my own 
 private feelings, as it seems that they are to stand for 
 nothing, I shall say nothing. 
 
 For the historical foundation of the following com- 
 positions the reader is referred to the Notes. 
 
 The Author has in one instance attempted to pre- 
 Berve, and in the other to approach, the " unities ;" 
 tonceivinij that with any very distant departure from 
 
 them, there may oe poetry, but can he no drama. H« 
 is aware of the unpopularity of this notion in present 
 English literature ; but it is not a system of his own, 
 being merely an opinion, which, not very long ago, 
 was the law of literature throughout the wurld, and 
 is still so in the more civilized part of it. But " nous 
 avons chango tout cela," and are reaping the advan. 
 tages of the change. The writer is far from conceiv- 
 ing that any thing ho can adduce by personal precept 
 or cxamjile can at all approach his regular, or even ir- 
 regular predecessors ; he is merely giving a reason 
 why he preferred the more regular formation of a struc- 
 ture, howover feeble, to an entire abandonment of all 
 rules wlmt.«oever. Where he has failed, the failure ia 
 in the architect, — and not in the art. 
 
Scene i. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 243 
 
 DRAMATIS PEPtSOK^.' 
 
 Baedanapaius, King of Nineveh and Assj/riri, etc. 
 
 Peaces, the Mede who aspired to the Tlirone. 
 
 Beleses, n Chaldean and Soothsat/er, 
 
 Salemenes, the Kinr/'s Brother-in-law. 
 
 Altada, an Assyrian Officer of the Palace. 
 
 Paota. 
 
 Zastes. 
 
 Pfeuo. 
 
 Ualea. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 
 Zakiwa, the Queen. 
 
 Mteuha, an Ionian female Slare, and the Favorite 
 
 of Sardanapaltjs. 
 Women composing the Harem of Sabdanapaltjs, 
 Guards, Attendants, Chaldean Priests, Medes, etc., 
 
 etc. 
 Scene — a Hall in the Royal Palace of Nineveh. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 scene I . 
 
 A Hall in the Palace. 
 SaJemenes, (solus.) He hath wrong'd his queen, but 
 stiU he is her lord ; 
 He hath wrong'd my sister, still he is my brother ; 
 He hath wrong'd his people, still he is their sovereign, 
 And I must be his friend as well as subject ; 
 He must not perish thus. I ^^-ill not see 
 The blood of Nimrod and Semiramis 
 Sink in Ihe earth, and thirteen hundred years 
 Of empire ending like a shepherd's tale : 
 He must be roused. In his effeminate heart 
 There is a careless courage which corruption 
 Has not all queuch'd, and latent energies, 
 Repress'd by circumstance, but not destroy'd — 
 Steep'd liut not drown'd, in deep voluptuousness. 
 If bom a peasant, he had been a man 
 To have reach'd an empire ; to an empire born, 
 He will bequeath none ; nothing but a name, 
 Which his sons will not prize in heritage : 
 Yet, not all lost, even yet he may redeem 
 His sloth and shame by only being that 
 Wliich he should be. as easily as the thing 
 He should not be and is. Were it less toil 
 To sway Ms nations than consume his life ? 
 
 ' In this traged; it has been my intention to follow the account 
 of DiofloraB Siciilus ; reducing it, however, to such dramatic reg- 
 ularity as I best could, and trying to approach the unities. I 
 therefore suppose the rebellion to explode and succeed in one day 
 Dy a audden conspiracy, instead of the long war of the history. 
 
 To head an army than to rule a harem ? 
 
 He sweats in palling pleasures, dulls his soul. 
 
 And saps his goodly strength, in toils which yield 
 
 Health like the chase, nor glory like the war — [not 
 
 He must be roused. Alas ! there is no sound 
 
 \_Soiind of soft music heard froyn within 
 To rouse him short of thunder. Hark ! the lute, 
 The lyre, the timbrel ; the lascivious tinklings 
 Of lulling instruments, the softening voices 
 Of women, and of beings less than women, 
 Must chime into the echo of his revel, 
 Wliile the great king of all we know of earth 
 LoUs crown'd with roses, and his diadem 
 Lies negligently by to be caught up 
 By the first manly hand which dares to snatch it. 
 Lo, where they come I already I perceive 
 The reeking odors of the perfum'd trains. 
 And see the bright gems of the glittering girls, 
 At once his chorus and his council, flash 
 Along the gallery, and amidst the damsels. 
 As femininely garb'd, and scarce less female. 
 The grandson of Semiramis, the man-queen. — 
 He comes ! Shall I await him ? yes, and front him. 
 And tell him what all good men t,ell each other. 
 Speaking of him and his. They come, the slaves. 
 Led by the monarch subject to his slaves. 
 Enter Sardanapaxus effeminately dressed, his Head 
 
 crowned with Flnicers, and his Rohe negligently 
 
 flowing, attended hy a Train of Women and young 
 
 Slaves. 
 
 Sar. {spealing to some of his attendants) Let the 
 pavilion over the Euphrates 
 Be garlanded, and lit, and furnish'd forth 
 For an especial banquet ; at the hour 
 Of midnight we will sup there : see naught wanting, 
 And liid the galley be prepared. There is 
 A cooling breeze which crisps the broad clear river; 
 We will embark anon. Fair nymphs, who deign 
 To share the soft hours of Sardanapalus, 
 We'll meet again in that the sweetest hour, 
 Wlien we shall gather like the stars above us. 
 And you will form a heaven as bright as theirs ; 
 TiU then, let each be mistress of her time, 
 And thou, my own Ionian Myrrha,^ choose. 
 Wilt thou along with them or me ? 
 
 Myr. My lord 
 
 Sar. My lord, my life ! why answerest thou so 
 It is the curse of kings to be so answer'd. [toldly ? 
 Rule thine own hours, thou rulest mine — say, wouldst 
 Accompany our guests, or charm away [thou 
 
 The moments from me ? 
 
 3fyr. The king's choice is mine. 
 
 2 " The Ionian name had still been more comprehensiv*., having 
 included the Achaians and the Bteotians, who, together with those 
 to whom it was afterwards confined, would make nearly the whole 
 of the Greek nation ; and among the orientals it was always the 
 general name for the Greeks."— Mitford's Greece, ^ol. i. p. 199. 
 
244 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT I, 
 
 Sar. I pray thee^ay not so : my chiefest joy 
 is to contribute to thine every Tvish. 
 ( do not dare to breath my own desire, 
 Lest it sliould clash Mrith thine ; for thou art still 
 Too prompt to sacrifice thy thoughts for others. 
 
 ^l/i/r. I would remain : I have no happiness 
 Save in beholding thine ; yet 
 
 Sar. Tet! what YET? 
 
 Thy own sweet will shall be the only barrier 
 Wliich ever rises betwixt thee and me. 
 
 Mi/r. I think the present is the wonted hour 
 Of council ; it were better I retire. 
 
 Sal. {wmes forward and .tnyn.) The Ionian slave 
 says well : let her retire. 
 
 Sar. Who answers ? How now, brother, 
 
 Sd. The Quee/i's brother. 
 
 And your most faithful vassal, royal lord. 
 
 Sar. (;iddrciisinr/ hU train.) As I have said let all 
 dispose their hours 
 Till midnight, when again we pray your presence. 
 
 \_The court retiring, 
 {7'o MvnnuA. who is going) Myrrha ! I thought thuri 
 wouldst remain. 
 
 3Iyr. Great king. 
 
 Thou didst not say so. 
 
 Sar. But t/iou lookedst it: 
 
 [ know each glance of those Ionic eyes, 
 Wliich said thou wouldst not leave me. 
 
 Myr. Sire 1 your brother 
 
 Sal. His cnorPs brother, minion of Ionia ! 
 How darest thou name me and not blush ? 
 
 Sar. Not blush ! 
 
 Thou hast no more eyes than heart to make her crimson 
 Like to the dying day on Caucasus, 
 Whore sunset tints the snow with rosy shadows. 
 And tlien reproach her with thine own cold blindness, 
 Which will not see it. What, in tears, my Mj-rrha ? 
 
 Sal. Let them flow on ; she weeps for more than one. 
 And is herself the cause of bitterer tears. 
 
 Sar. Cursed be he who caus'd those tears to flow I 
 ' Sfil. Curse not thyself — millions do that already. 
 
 Sar. Thou dost forget thee : make me not remember 
 I am a monarch. 
 
 Sal. Would thou couldst I 
 
 Myr. My sovereign, 
 
 I pray, and thou, too, prince, jjermit my absence. 
 
 Sar. Since it must be so, and this churl has check'd 
 Thy gentle spirit, go ; but recollect 
 That we must forthwith meet : I had rather lose 
 An empire than thy presence. \_Ent Myrkha. 
 
 Sal. It may be. 
 
 Thou wilt lose both, and Ijoth forever ! 
 
 Sar. Brother, 
 
 I can at least command myself, who listen 
 To language euch as this : yet urge me not 
 Beyond my easy nature. 
 
 Sal. 'Tis beyond 
 
 That easy, far too easy, idle nature, 
 
 Which I would urge thee. O that I could rouse thee 
 
 Though 'twere against mytself. 
 
 Sar. By the god Baal 1 
 
 The man would make me tyrant. 
 
 Sill. So thou art. 
 
 Think'st thou there is no tyranny but that 
 Of blood and chains ? The despotism of vice — 
 The weakness and the wickedness of luxury — 
 The negligence — the apathy — the evils 
 Of sensual sloth — produce ten thousand tyrants. 
 Whose delegated cruelty surpasses 
 The worst acts of one energetic master. 
 However harsh and hard in his own bearing. 
 The false and fond examples of thy lusts 
 Corrupt no less than they oppress, and sap 
 In the same moment all thy pageant power 
 And those who should sustain it ; so that whether 
 A foreign foe invade, or civil broil 
 Distract within, botu will alike prove fatal : 
 The first thy subjects have no heart to conquer ; 
 The last they rather would assist than vanquish. 
 
 Snr. Why, what makes thee the mouthpiece o( 
 the people ? 
 
 Sal. Forgiveness of the queen, my sister's wrongs; 
 A natural love unto my infant nephews ; 
 Faith to the king, a faith he may need shortly. 
 In more than words ; respect for Nimrod's Une ; 
 Also, another thing thou knowest not. 
 
 Sar. What's that? 
 
 Sal. To thee an unknown word. 
 
 Sar. Yet speak it ? 
 
 I love to learn. 
 
 Sal. "Virtue. 
 
 Sar. Not know the word ! 
 
 Never was word yet rung so in my ears — 
 Worse than the rabble's shout or splitting trumpet ; 
 I've heard thy sister talk of nothing else. 
 
 S(d. To change the irksome theme, then, hear of 
 
 Sar. From whom ? [vice. 
 
 Sal. Even from the winds, if thou couldst listen 
 Unto the echoes of the nation's voice. 
 
 Sir. Come, I'm indulgent, as thou knowest, patient, 
 As thou has often proved — speak out, what moves 
 
 Sal. Thy peril. fthee ? 
 
 Sar. Say on. 
 
 Sid. Thus, then : all the nations. 
 
 For they are many, whom thy father left 
 In heritage, are loud in wrath against thee. 
 
 Sar. 'Gainst me ! What would the slaves ? 
 
 Sal. A king. 
 
 Sar. And what 
 
 Am I then ? 
 
 Sol. In their eyes a nothing ; but 
 
 In mine a man who might be something still. 
 
 Sir. The railing drunkards 1 why, what would 
 Have they not peace and plenty ? [they have f 
 
Scene n. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 245 
 
 Sal. Of the first 
 
 More than is glorious ; of i he last, far less 
 Than the king recks of. 
 
 Sar. Whose then is the crime, 
 
 But the false satraps, who provide no better ? 
 
 ,S(i7. And somewhat in the monarch who ne'er looks 
 Beyond his palace walls, or if he stirs 
 Beyond them, 'tis but to some mountain palace, 
 TiU summer heats wear down. O glorious Baal 1 
 Who built up this vast empire, and wert made 
 A god, or at the least shinest like a god 
 Through the long centuries of thy renown, 
 Phis, thy presumed descendant, ne'er beheld 
 As king the kingdoms thou didst leave as hero. 
 Won with thy blood, and toil, and time, and peril ! 
 For what ? to furnish imposts for a revel, 
 Or multiplied extortions for a minion. 
 
 .?•/". I understand thee — thou wouldst have me go 
 Forth as a conqueror. By all the stars 
 Which the Chaldeans read ! the restless slaves' 
 Descrre that I should curse them with their wishes. 
 And lead them forth to glory. 
 
 ,5;?. Wherefore not ? 
 
 Semiraniis — a woman only — led 
 These our Assyrians to the solar shores 
 Of Ganges. 
 
 Sen: 'Tis most true. And fimc retiu-n'd ? 
 
 St/. Wliy, like a ma 71 — a hero ; baffled, but 
 Not vanquish'd. With but twenty guards, she made 
 Good her retreat to Bactria. 
 
 S-d: And how many 
 
 Left she behind in India to the vultui-cs ? 
 
 Sal. Our annals say not. 
 
 S-ir. Then I wiU say for them — 
 
 That she had better woven within her palace 
 Some twenty garments, than with twenty guards 
 Have fled to Bactria, leaving to the ravens. 
 And wolves, and men — the fiercer of the three, 
 Her mvriads of fond subjects. Is fhis glory ? 
 Then let me live in ignominy ever. 
 
 Sal. AU warlike spirits have not the same fate. 
 Scmiramis, the glorious parent of 
 A hundred kings, although she fail'd in India, 
 brought Persia, 3Iedia, Bactria, to the realm 
 Which she once sway'd — and thou might' st sway. 
 
 Sar. I SMo.v them — 
 
 She but subdued them. 
 
 Sal. It may be ere long 
 
 That they will need her sword more than your sceptre. 
 
 Sar. There was a certain Bacchus, was there not? 
 Pve heard my Greek girls speak of such — they say 
 He was a god, that is, a Grecian god. 
 At idol foreign to Assyria's worship. 
 Who conquer'd this same golden realm of Ind 
 Thou pratest of, where Semiramis was vanquish'd. 
 
 Sal. I have htard of such a man ; and thou per- 
 That he is deem'd a god for what he did. [ceivest 
 
 Sar. And in his godsMp I will honor him- 
 Not much as man. What, ho ! my cupbearer ! 
 
 Sal. What means the king ? 
 
 Sar. To worship your new g04 
 
 And ancient conqueror. Some wine, I say. 
 
 Enter Cupbearer. 
 Sar. {(iddressinfi the Cnphenrer.) Bring me the gol- 
 den goblet thick with gems. 
 Which bears the name of Nimrod's chalice. Hence, 
 Fill full, and bear it quickly. [E.rit Ciqjlearer. 
 
 Sal. Is this moment 
 
 A fitting one for the resumption of 
 Thy yet unslept-oif revels ? 
 
 He-enter Cupbearer, with wine. 
 
 Sar. {taTcing the cv2>. from hiin.) Noble kinsman 
 If these barbarian Greeks of the far horses 
 And skirts of these our realms lie not, this Bacchus 
 Conquer'd the whole of India, did he net ? 
 
 Sal. He did, and thence was deem'd a deity. 
 
 Sar. Not so : — of all his conquests a few column , 
 Which may be his, and might be mine, if I 
 Thought them worth purchase and conveyance, ar 
 The landmarks of the seas of gore he shed. 
 The realms he wasted, and the hearts he broke. 
 But here, here in this goblet is his title 
 To immortality — t'ne immortal grajje 
 From which he fii-st express'd the soul, and gave 
 To scladden that of man, as some atonement 
 For the victorious mischiefs he had done. 
 Had it not been for this, he would have been 
 A mortal stiU in name as in his grave ; 
 And, like my ancestor Semiramis, 
 A sort of semi-glorious human monster. 
 Here's that which deified him — let it now 
 Humanize thee ; my surly, chiding brother, 
 Pledge me to the Greek god ! 
 
 Sal. For aU thy realms 
 
 I would not so blaspheme our country's creed. 
 
 Sar. That is to say, thou thinkest him a hero, 
 That he shed blood by oceans ; and no god. 
 Because he turn'd a fi'uit to an enchantment. 
 Which cheers the sad, revives the old, inspires 
 The young, makes Weariness forget his toil, 
 And Fear her danger ; opens a new world 
 When this, the present, palls. Well, then / pled-,;* 
 .Vnd him as a true man, who did his utmost [thee. 
 In good or evil to surprise mankind. [Drinks 
 
 S li. Wilt thou resume a revel at this hour ? 
 
 Sar. And if I did, 'twere better than a trophy, 
 Being bought without a tear. But that is not 
 Jly present purpose : since thou wilt not pledge me, 
 Continue what thou pleasest. 
 {To Me Cupbearer.) Boy, retire. 
 
 [Exit Cupbearei 
 
 Sal. I would but have recaU'd thee from thy dream 
 Better by me awaken'd than rebellion. 
 
246 
 
 BTRO]S! o >V^ORKS. 
 
 Ad' 1 
 
 Sar. Who should rebel ? or why ? what cause ? 
 I am the lawful king, descended from [pretext ? 
 
 A. race of kings who knew no predecessors. 
 What have I done to thee, or to the people. 
 That thou sliouldst rail, or they rise up against me ? 
 
 Sal. Of wliat thou hast done to me, I speak not. 
 
 Sar. But 
 
 rhou think'st that I have wrong'd the queen : is't 
 
 Sal. Think f Thou hast wrong'd her ! [not so ? 
 
 Sar. Patience, prince, and hear me. 
 
 She has all power and splendor of her station, 
 Respect, the tutelage of Assyria's heirs, 
 The homage and the appanage of sovereignty. 
 I married her as monarchs wed — for state, 
 And loved her as most husbands love their wives ; 
 If she or thou supposedst I could link me 
 Like a Chaldean peasant to his mate, 
 Ye knew nor me, nor monarchs, nor mankind. 
 
 Sal. I pray thee change the theme : my blood dis- 
 Complaint, and Salemenes' sister seeks not [dains 
 Reluctant love even from Assyria's lord ! 
 Kor would she deign to accept divided passion 
 With foreign strumjjets and Ionian slaves. 
 The queen is silent. 
 
 Sar. And why not her brother ? 
 
 Sal. I only echo thee the voice of empires. 
 Which he who long neglects not long will govern. 
 
 Sar. The ungrateful and ungracious slaves ! they 
 murmur 
 Because I have not shed their blood, nor led them 
 To dry into the desert's dust by myriads, 
 Or whiten with their bones the banks of Ganges ; 
 Nor decimated them with savage laws. 
 Nor sweated them to build up pyramids, 
 Or Babylonian walls. 
 
 S-iL Yet these are trophies 
 
 More worthy of a people and their prince 
 Than songs, and lutes, and feasts, and concubines, 
 And lavish'd treasures, and contemned virtues. 
 
 Sar. Or for my trophies I have founded cities : 
 There's Tarsus and Anchialus, both built 
 In one day — what could that blood-loving beldame, 
 
 ' " Kor this erpeditiou he took oi^Iy a small chosen body of the 
 phalanx, but all his light troops. In the first day's march he 
 reached Anchialus, a town said to have been founded by the king 
 if Assyria, Sardanapalus. The fortifications, in their matrnitDdo 
 .ud extent, still in Arrian's time, bore the character of greatness, 
 which the Assyrians appear singularly to have affected in works 
 of the kind. A monument representing Sardanajialns was found 
 there, warranted by an inscription in Assyrian characters, of course 
 in the old Assyrian language, which the Greeks, whether well or 
 111, interpreted thus : ' Sardanapalus, son of Anacyiidarases, in 
 one day founded Anchialus and Tarsus. Eat. drink, play : all other 
 tiuman Joys are not worth a fillip.' Supposing this version near- 
 ly exact, (for Aj-rian says it was not quite so.) v.'heiher the purpose 
 bas not b len to invite to civil onler a people disposed to turbu- 
 ence. 'Tljer than to recommend immoderate luxury, may per- 
 haps .easonably be questioned. ^What, indeed, could be the ob- 
 ject of a king of Assyria in founding such towns in a countrj-so 
 distant from his capital, and so divided from it by an immense cx- 
 tAnt of sandy deserts and lofty niountains. and still more, how the 
 
 My martial grandam, chaste Semiramis, 
 Do more, except destroy them ? 
 
 S.il. 'Tis most true ; 
 
 I own thy merit in those founded cities, 
 Built for a whim, recorded with a verse 
 Which shames both them and thee to coming ages. 
 
 Sar. Shame me ! by Baal, the cities, though well 
 built, 
 Are not more goodly than the verse ! Say what 
 Thou wilt 'gainst me, my mode of Ufe or rule, 
 But notliing 'gainst the truth of that brief record. 
 Why, those few lines contain the history 
 Of all things human : hear — " Sardanapalus, 
 The king, and son of Anacyndaraxes, 
 In one day built Anchialus and Tarsus. 
 Eat, drink, and love ; the rest's not worth a fillip.'" 
 
 Sal. A worthy moral, and a wise inscription. 
 For a king to put up before his subjects ! [edicts — 
 
 S'ir. Oh, thou wouldst have me doubtless set up 
 " Obey the king — contribute to his treasure — 
 Recruit his ])halanx — spiU your blood at bidding — 
 Fall down and worshij), or get up and toil." 
 Or thus — " SardanajMlus on this spot 
 Slew fifty thousand of his enemies. 
 These are their sepulchres, and this his trophy." 
 I leave such things to conquerors ; enough 
 For me, if I can make my subjects feel 
 The weight of human misery less, and glide 
 Ungroaning to the tomb : I take no license 
 Which I deny to them. We aU are men. 
 
 Sill. Thy sires have been revered as gods — 
 <SV(;'. In dust 
 
 And death, where they are neither gods nor men. 
 Talk not of such to me ! the worms are gods ; 
 At least they Ijanqueted upon your gods. 
 And died for lack of farther nutriment. 
 Those gods were merely men : look to their issue — 
 I feel a thousand mortal things about me, 
 But nothing godlike, — unless it may be 
 The thing which you condemn, a disjiosition 
 To love and to be merciful, to pardon 
 
 inhabitants could be at once in circumstances to abandon them- 
 selves to the intemperate joys which their prince has been suppos- 
 ed to have recommended, is not obvious : but it may descn'c ob- 
 servation that, in that line of coast, the southern of Lesser Asia, 
 ruins of cities, evidently of an age after Alexander, yet barely 
 named in history, at tills day astonish the adventurous traveller 
 by their magnificence and elegance. Amid the desolation which, 
 under a singularly barbarian government, has for 60 many centu- 
 ries been daily s'preading in the finest countries of the globe, 
 whether more from soil and climate, or from opportunities foj 
 commerce, extraordinary means must have been found for com- 
 munities to rtonrish there ; whence it may seem that the measures 
 of Sardanapalus were directed by jusler views than have been com- 
 monly ascribed tr) him : but that monarch having been the last of 
 a dynasty, ended by a revolution, obloquy on his memory would 
 follow of course from the policy of his successors and their jiarfi- 
 sans. The inconsistency of traditions concerning Sardanapalug 
 is striking in Diodorus's account of him.'"— M Mtoru'b Or«MA 
 vol. X. p. 311. 
 
SCENE n. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 247 
 
 The follies of my species, and (that's human) 
 To be indulgent to my own. 
 
 Sal. Alas ! 
 
 The doom of Nineveh is seal'd. — Wo — tvo 
 To the unrivaU'd city 1 
 
 Sar. What dost dread ? 
 
 Sill. Thou art guarded by thy foes : in a few hours 
 The tempest may break out which overwhelms thee, 
 And thine and mine ; and in another day 
 What is shall be the past of Belus' race. 
 
 Sar. What must we dread ? 
 
 Sal. Ambitious treachery 
 
 Wliich has environ'd thee with snares ; but yet 
 There is resource : empower me with thy signet 
 To quell the machinations, and I lay 
 The heads of thy chief foes before thy feet. 
 
 Sar. The heads — how many ? 
 
 Sd. Must I stay to number 
 
 When even thine own's in peril ? Let me go ; 
 Give me thy signet — trust me with the rest. 
 
 Sar. I will trust no man with unlimited lives. 
 When we take those from others, we nor know 
 What we have taken, nor the thing we give. 
 
 Sul. Wouldst thou not take their lives who seek 
 for thine ? 
 
 Sar. That's a hard question — But I answer. Yes. 
 Cannot the thing be done without ? Who are they 
 Whom thou suspectest ? — Let them be arrested. 
 
 SaL I would thou woiildst not ask me ; the next 
 moment 
 WiU send my answer through thy babbling troop 
 Of paramours, and thence fly o'er the palace. 
 Even to the city, and so baffle all. — 
 Trust me. 
 
 Sar. Thou knowest I have done so ever ; 
 Take thou the signet. [Gives the signet. 
 
 Sal. I have one more request. — 
 
 Sar. Name it. 
 
 Sal. That thou this night forbear the banquet 
 In the pavilion over the Euphrates. 
 
 Sar. Forbear the banquet ! Not for all the plotters 
 That ever shook a kingdom ! Let them come. 
 And do their worst : I shall not blench for them ; 
 Nor rise the sooner ; nor forbear the goblet ; 
 Nor crown me with a single rose the less ; 
 Nor lose one joyous hour. — I fear them not, 
 
 Sal. But thou wouldst arm thee, wouldst thou not, 
 if needful ? 
 
 Snr. Perhaps. I have the goodliest armor, and 
 A sword of such a temper ; and a bow 
 And javelin, which might furnish Nimrod forth : 
 ;\. little lieavj', but yet not unwieldy. 
 And now I think on't, 'tis long since I've used them. 
 Even in the chase. Hast ever seen them, brother ? 
 
 Sal. Is this a time for such fantastic trifling ? — 
 If it need be, wilt thou wear them I 
 
 Bar. WiU I not ? 
 
 Oh ! if it must be so, and these rash slaves 
 Will not be ruled with less, I'U use the sword 
 Till they shall wish it turn'd into a distaft". 
 
 S'lh They say thy sceptre's turn'd to that already. 
 
 Siir. That's false ! but let them say so : the old 
 Of whom our captives often sing, related [Greeks, 
 The same of their chief hero, Hercules, 
 Because he loved a Lydian queen : thou seest 
 The populace of all the nations seize 
 Each calumny they can to sink their sovereigns. 
 
 Sal. They did not speak thus of thy fathers. 
 
 Sar. No : 
 
 They dared not. They were kept to toil and combat ; 
 And never changed their chains but for their armor ; 
 Now they have peace and ijastime, and the license 
 To revel and to rail ; it irks me not. 
 I would not give the smile of one fair girl 
 For ah the popular breath that e'er divided 
 A name from nothing. What are the rank tongues 
 Of this vile herd, grown insolent ^-ith feeding, 
 That I should prize their noisy praise, or dread 
 Their noisome clamor ? 
 
 Sal. You have said they are men ; 
 
 As such their hearts are something. 
 
 Sar. So my dogs' are ; 
 
 And better, as more faithful : — but, proceed ; 
 Thou hast my signet : — since they are tumultuous, 
 Let them be temper'd, yet not roughly, till 
 Necessity enforce it. I hate all pain. 
 Given or received ; we have enough within us, 
 The meanest vassal as the loftiest monarch. 
 Not to add to each other's natural burden 
 Of mortal misery, but rather lessen, 
 By mild recijirocal alleviation, 
 The fatal penalties imposed on life : 
 But this they know not, or they will not know. 
 I have, by Baal ! done aU I could to soothe them : 
 I made no wars, I added no new imposts, 
 I interfered not with their civic lives, 
 I let them pass their days as best might suit them, 
 Passing my own as suited me. 
 
 Sal. Thou stopp'st 
 
 Short of the duties of a king ; and therefore 
 They say thou art unfit to be a monarch. 
 
 Sar. They lie. — Unhappily, I am unfit 
 To be aught save a monarch ; else for me, 
 The meanest Mede might be the king instead. 
 
 Sal. There is one Mede, at least, who seeks to be so. 
 
 Sar. What mean'st thou ? — 'tis thy secret ; thou 
 desirest 
 Few questions, and I'm not of curious nature. 
 Take the fit steps ; and, since necessity 
 Requires, I sanction and sujjport thee. Ne'er 
 Was man who more desired to rule in peace 
 The peaceful only : if they rouse me, better 
 They had conjured up stern Nimrod from his ashe^ 
 " The mighty hunter." I will turn these realms 
 
248 
 
 BTRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT L 
 
 To one widt desert chase of brutes, who were, 
 
 But trouhl no more, by their own choice, be human. 
 
 Wlutt they have found me, they belie ; that which 
 
 They yet may find rae — shall defy their wish 
 
 To speak it worse ; and let tliom thank themselves. 
 
 Sal. Then thou at last canst feel ? 
 
 Bar. Feel 1 who feels not 
 
 Ingratitude ? 
 
 Sal. I will not pause to answer 
 
 With words, but deeds. Keep thou awake that energy 
 Which sleeps at times, but is not dead within thee. 
 And thou mayst yet be glorious in thy reign. 
 As powerful in thy realm. Farewell 1 
 
 {Exit Salemenes. 
 
 Sar. (sohis.) Farewell 1 
 
 He's gone ; and on his finger bears my signet, 
 Which is to him a sceptre. He is stern 
 As I am heedless ; and the slaves deserve 
 To feci a master. What may be the danger 
 I know not : he hath found it, let him quell it. 
 Must I consume my life — this little life — 
 In guarding against all may make it less; 
 It is not worth so much ! It were to die 
 Before my hour, to live in dread of death, 
 Tracing revolt ; suspecting all about me. 
 Because they are near ; and all ^vho are remote. 
 Because they are far. But if it should bo so — 
 If they should sweep me oft' from earth and empire. 
 Why, what is earth or empire of the earth ? 
 I have loved, and lived, and multiplied my image ; 
 To die is no less natural than those — 
 Acts of this clay ! 'Tis true I have not shed 
 Blood as I might have done, in oceans, till 
 My name became the sj-nonyme of death — 
 A terror and a trophy. But for this 
 I feel no penitence ; my life is love : 
 If I must shed blood, it shall be by force. 
 Till now, no drop from an Assyrian vein 
 Hath flow'd for me, nor hath the smallest coin 
 Of Nineveh's vast treasures e'er been lavish'd 
 0n objects which could cost her sons a tear. 
 If then they hate me, 'lis because I hate not ; 
 If they rebel, 'tis because I oppress not. 
 Oh, men I ye must be ruled with scythes, not sceptres. 
 And mow'd down like the grass, else all we reap 
 Is rank abundance, and a rotten harvest 
 Of discontents infecting the fair soil. 
 Making a desert of fertility. — 
 I'll think no more. Within there, ho ! 
 
 Enter an Attendant. 
 Sar. Slave, tell 
 
 The Ionian Myrrha we would crave her presence. 
 Attend. King, she is here. 
 
 Mykiiha enters. 
 Sar. {apart to Attendant.) Away 1 
 {Addressing Mtrrha.) Beautiful being 1 
 
 Thou dost almost anticipate my heart ; 
 It throbb'd for thee, and here thou comcst : let me 
 Deem that some unknown influence, some sweel 
 Communicates between us, though unseen, [oracle. 
 In absence, and attracts us to eacli other. 
 
 Mi/r. There doth. 
 
 Sar. I know there doth, but not its mime • 
 
 What is it ? 
 
 M^yr. In my native land a god. 
 
 And in my heart a feeling Uke a god's. 
 Exalted ; yet I own 'tis only mortal ; 
 For what I feel is humble, and yet happy — 
 
 That is, it would be happy ; but 
 
 [Myrrha pauses. 
 
 Sir. There cornea 
 
 Forever something between us and what 
 We deem our hajjpiness : let me remove 
 The barrier which that hesitating accent 
 Proclaims to thine, and mine is seal'd. 
 
 Mi/r. My lord !- - 
 
 Sar. My lord — my king — sire — sovereign! thus it 
 Forever thus, address'd with awe. I ne'er [if — 
 Can see a smile, unless in some broad banquet's 
 Intoxicating glare, when the buffoons 
 Have gorged themselves up to equality. 
 Or I have quaff'd me down to their al)asement. 
 Myrrha, I can hear all these things, these names. 
 Lord — king — sire — monarch — nay, time was, I prized 
 
 them ; 
 That is, I suffer'd them — from slaves and nobles ; 
 But when they falter from the lips I love, 
 The Ups which have been press'd to mine, a chill 
 Comes o'er my heart, a cold sense of the falsehood 
 Of this my station, which represses feeling 
 In those for whom I have felt most, and makes me 
 Wish that I could lay down the dull tiara. 
 And share a cottage on the Caucasus 
 With thee, and wear no crowns but those of flowers 
 
 Myr. Would that we could ! 
 
 Sar. jUid dost thou feel this ? Why I 
 
 Myr. Then thou wouldst know what thou canst 
 
 Sar. And that is [never know. 
 
 Myr. The true value of a heart ; 
 
 At least, a woman's. 
 
 S<ir. I have proved a thousand — 
 
 A thousand, and a thousand. 
 
 Myr. Hearts ? 
 
 Sar. I think so. 
 
 Myr. Not one 1 the time may come thou mayst. 
 
 Sar. It will- 
 
 Hear, Myrrha ; Salemenes has declared — 
 Or why or how he hath divined it, Belus, 
 Wlio founded our great realm, knows more than I- 
 But Salemenes hath declared my throne 
 In peril. 
 
 Myr. He did well. 
 
 iar. And say'st thou so ? 
 
BOENB II. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 249 
 
 Thou whom he spum'd so harshly, and now dared 
 Drive from our presence with his savage jeers, 
 And made thee weep and bUish ? 
 
 Myr. I should do both 
 
 More frequently, and he did well to call me 
 Back to my duty. But thou spak'st of peril- 
 Peri 1 to thee— — 
 
 Sat: Ay, from dark plots and snares 
 
 From Medes — and discontented troops and nations. 
 I know not what — a labyrinth of things — • 
 A maze of mutter'd threats and mysteries : 
 Thou know'st the man — it is usual custom. 
 But he is honest. Come, we'U think no more on't — 
 But of the midnight festival. 
 
 Myr. 'Tis time 
 
 To think of aught save festivals. Thou hast not 
 Spurn'd his sage cautions ? 
 
 Sar. What ! — and dost thou fear ? 
 
 Myr. Fear 1 I'm a Greek, and how should I fear 
 death ? 
 A slave, and wherefore should I dread my freedom ? 
 
 Sar. Then wherefore dost thou turn so pale ? 
 
 Myr. I love. 
 
 Sar. And do not I ? I love thee far — far more 
 Than either the brief life or the wide realm, 
 Which, it may be, are menaced ; — yet I blench not. 
 
 Myr. That means thou lovest not thyself nor me ; 
 For he who loves another loves himself. 
 Even for that other's sake. This is too rash : 
 Kingdoms and lives are not to be so lost. 
 
 Sar. Lost ! — why, who is the aspiring chief who 
 Assume to win them ? [dared 
 
 Myr. Who is he should dread 
 
 To try so much ? When he who is their ruler 
 Forgets himself, will they remember him ? 
 
 Sar. Myrrha! 
 
 Myr. Frown not upon me : you have smiled 
 
 Too often on me not to make those frowns 
 Bitterer to bear than any punishment 
 Which they may augur. King, I am your subject ! 
 Master, I am your slave 1 Man, I have loved you ! — 
 Loved you, I know not by what fatal weakness. 
 Although a Greek, and Iiorn a foe to monarchs — 
 A slave, and hating fetters — an Ionian, 
 And, therefore, when I love a stranger, more 
 Degraded by that passion than by chains ! 
 Still I have loved you. If tliat love were strong 
 Enough to overcome all former nature, 
 Shall it not claim the privilege to save you ? 
 
 Sar. Sure me, my beauty ! Thou art very fair, 
 And what I seek of thee is love— not safety. 
 
 Myr. And without love where dwells security ? 
 
 Siir. I speak of woman's love. 
 
 Myr. The very first 
 
 Of human life must spring from woman's breast, 
 Vour first small words are taught you from her lips, 
 your first tears quench'd by her, and your last sighs 
 33 
 
 Too often breathed out in a woman's hearing, 
 When men have shrunk from the ignoble care 
 Of watching the last hour of him who led them. 
 
 Sar. My eloquent Ionian ! thou speak'st music, 
 The very chorus of the tragic song 
 I have heard thee talk of as the favorite pastime 
 Of thy far father-land. Nay, weep not — calm thee. 
 
 Myr. I weep not. But I pray thee, do not speak 
 About my fathers or their land. 
 
 Sir. Yet oft 
 
 Thou speakest of them. 
 
 Myr. True — true : constant thought 
 
 Will overflow in words unconsciously ; 
 But when another speaks of Greece, it wounds me. 
 
 Sar. Well, then, how wouldst thou sire me, as 
 thou saidst ? 
 
 .!/(/?'. By teaching thee to save thyself, and not 
 Thyself alone, but these vast realms, from all 
 The rage of the worst war — the war of brethren ! 
 
 Sar. Why, child, I loathe all war, and warriors ; 
 I live in peace and pleasure : what can man 
 Do more ? 
 
 Myr. Alas ! my lord, with common men 
 There needs too oft the show of war to keep 
 The substance of sweet peace ; and for a king, 
 'Tis sometimes better to be fear'd than loved. 
 
 Sar. And I have never sought but for the last. 
 
 Myr. And now art neither. 
 
 Sar. Dost thou say so, Myrrha J 
 
 Myr. I speak of civic popular love, sf {/'-love. 
 Which means that men are kept in awe and law. 
 Yet not oppress'd — at least they must not think sc ; 
 Or if they think so, deem it necessary 
 To ward oft' worse oppression, their own passions. 
 A king of feasts, and flowers, and wine, and revel, 
 And love, and mirth, was never king of glory. 
 
 Sar. Glory ! what's that ? 
 
 Myr. Ask of the gods thy fathers 
 
 Sar. They cannot answer ; when the priests speak 
 for them, 
 'Tis for some small addition to the temple. [ers. 
 
 Myr. Look to the annals of thine empire's found- 
 
 Sar. They are so blotted o'er with blood, I cannot. 
 But what wouldst have ? the empire has hi-en found- 
 I cannot go on multiplyiug emijii-es. [ed. 
 
 Myr. Preserve thine own. 
 
 Sar. At least, I will enjoy it 
 Come, Myrrha, let us go on to the Euphrates : 
 The hour invites, the galley is prepared, 
 And the pavilion, deck'd for our return. 
 In fit adornment for the evening banquet. 
 Shall l)laze with beauty and with light, until 
 It seems unto the stars which are aljove us 
 Itself an opposite star ; and we will sit 
 Crown'd with fresh flowers like 
 
 Myr. ■Victims. 
 
 Sar. No. like sovereigns, 
 
250 
 
 BYROX'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 The shepherd kings of patriarchal times, 
 
 Wlio knew uo brighter gems than summer wreaths, 
 
 A.nd none but tearless triumphs. Let us on. 
 
 Enter Pania. 
 
 Pan. May the king live forever 1 
 
 Sar. Not an hour 
 
 Longer than he can love. How my soul hates 
 This language which makes life itself a lie. 
 Flattering dust with eternity. Well, Pania 1 
 Be brief 
 
 Pun. I am charged by Salemenes to 
 Reiterate his prayer mito the king, 
 That for tliis day, at least, he will not quit 
 Tlie palace : when the general returns, 
 He will atlduce such reasons as will warrant 
 His daring, and perhaps obtain the pardon 
 Of his presumption. 
 
 Sar. What ! am I then coop'd ? 
 
 Already captive ? can I not even breathe 
 The breath of heaven ? Tell Prince Salemenes, 
 Were all Assyria raging round the walls 
 Ltt mutinous myriads, I would still go forth. 
 
 Pan, I. must obey, and yet 
 
 ^fyr. Oh, monarch, listen — 
 
 How many a day and moon thou hast reclined 
 Within these palace walls in silken dalliance. 
 And never shown thee to thy people's longing ; 
 Leaving thy subjects' eyes ungratified, ' 
 The satraps uncontroird, the gods unworshipp'd. 
 And all things in the anarchy of sloth. 
 Till all, save evil, slumber'd through the realm ! 
 And wilt thou not now tarry for a day, — 
 A day which may redeem thee ? Wilt thou not 
 Yield to the few still faithful a few hours. 
 For them, for thee, for thy past fathers' race. 
 And for thy sons' inheritance ? 
 
 Pan. 'Tis true ! 
 
 From the deep urgency with which the prince 
 pispatch'd me to your sacred presence, I 
 Must dure to add my feeble voice to that 
 Which now has siDoken. 
 
 Sar. No, it must not be. 
 
 Myr. For the sake of thy realm. 
 
 Sar. Away 1 
 
 Pan. For that 
 
 Of all thy faithful subjects, who will rally 
 Round thee and thine I 
 
 Sar. These are mere fantasies ; 
 
 There is no peril : — 'tis a sullen scheme 
 Of Salemenes, to approve his zeal. 
 And show himself more necessary to us. 
 
 Myr. By all that's good and glorious take this 
 
 Sar. Business to-morrow. [counsel. 
 
 Myr. Ay, or death to-night. 
 
 Sar. Wliy let it come thm unexpectedly 
 
 'Midst joy and gentleness, and mirth and love ; 
 
 So let me fall like the pluck'd rose ! — far better 
 Thus than be wither'd. 
 
 Myr. Then thou wilt not yield. 
 
 Even for the sake of all that ever stirr'd 
 A monarch into action, to forego 
 A trifling revel ? 
 
 Sar. No. 
 
 Myr. Then yield for mine ; 
 
 For my sake I 
 
 Sar. Thine, my Myrrha 1 
 
 Myr. 'Tis the first 
 
 Boon which I ever ask'd Assyria's king, [granted. 
 
 Snr. That's true, and wer't my kingdom, must be 
 Well, for thy sake, I yield me. Pania, hence ! 
 Thou hear'st me. 
 
 Pan. And obey. [Exit Pania. 
 
 Sar. I marvel at thee. 
 
 What is thy motive, Myrrha, thus to urge me i 
 
 Myr. Thy safety ; and the certainty that naught 
 Could urge the prince thy kinsman to require 
 Thus much from thee, but some impending danger. 
 
 Sar. And if I do not dread it, why shouldst thou ? 
 
 Myr. Because thou dost not fear, I fear for thee. 
 
 Sar. To-morrow thou wilt smile at these vain fan- 
 cies, 
 
 Myr. If the worst come, I shall be where none 
 And that is better than the power to smile, [weep, 
 And thou ? 
 
 Snr. I shall be king, as heretofore. 
 
 Myr. Where? 
 
 Sar. With Baal, Nimrod, and Semiramis, 
 
 Sole in Assyria, or with them elsewhere. 
 Fate made me what I am — may make me nothing — 
 But either that or nothing must I be : 
 I will not live degraded. 
 
 Myr. Hadst thou felt 
 
 Thus always, none would ever dare degrade thee. 
 
 Sar. And who will do so now ? 
 
 Myr. Dost thou suspect none 1 
 
 Sar. Suspect ! — that's a spy's office. Oh, we lose 
 Ten thousand precious moments in vain words. 
 And vainer fears. Within there ! Ye slaves, deck 
 The hall of Nimrod for the evening revel : 
 If I must make a prison of our palace. 
 At least we'll wear our fetters jocundly : 
 If the Euphrates be forbid us, and 
 The summer dwelling on its beauteous border. 
 Here we are still unmcnaced. Ho ! w-ithin there ! 
 
 [Exit Saudanapalxjs. 
 
 Myr. (solii.) Wliy do I love this man ? My coun- 
 try's daughters 
 Love none but heroes. But I have no country ! 
 The slave hath lost all save her bonds. I love him 
 And that's the heaviest link of the long chain — 
 To love whom we esteem not. Be it so : 
 The hour is coming when hell need all love, 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 SARDAXAPALUS. 
 
 2(» 
 
 And find noue. To fall from him now were baser 
 Than to have staljb'd bim on his throne when high- 
 Would have been noble in my co\mtrj-"s creed : [est 
 [ was not made for either. Could I save him, 
 I should not love ii iin bettei', but myself ; 
 And I have need of the last, for I have fallen 
 In my own thoughts, by loving this soft stranger : 
 And yet methinks I love him more, perceiving 
 That he is hated of his own barbarians, 
 The natural foes of all the blood of Greece. 
 Could I but wake a single thought like those 
 Which even the Plirygians felt when battling long 
 'Twixt Ilion and the sea, within his heart, [triumph. 
 He would tread down the barbarous crowds, and 
 He loves me, and I love him ; the slave loves 
 Her master, and would free him from his vices. 
 If not, I have a means of freedom still. 
 And if I cannot teach him how to reign, 
 May show him how alone a king can leave 
 Hij throne. I must not lose him from my sight. 
 
 [ExU. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The Portal of the same Sail of the Palace. 
 
 BeUses, (koItm.) The sun goes down : methinks he 
 sets more slowly. 
 Taking his last look of Assyria's empire. 
 How red he glares amongst those deepening clouds. 
 Like the blood he predicts ! If not in vain. 
 Thou sun that sinkest, and ye stars which rise, 
 I have outwatch'd ye, reading ray by ray 
 The edicts of your orbs, which make Time tremble 
 For what he brings the nations, 'tis the furthest 
 Hour of Assyria's years. And yet how calm ! 
 An earthquake should announce so great a faU — 
 A summer's sun discloses it. Yon disk. 
 To the star-read Chaldean, bears upon 
 Its everlasting page the end of what 
 Seem'd everlasting ; but oh, thou true svm 1 
 The biu-ning oracle of aU that live. 
 As fountain of all life, and symbol of 
 Him who bestows it, wherefore dost thou limit 
 Thy lore unto calamity ? Why not 
 Unfold the rise of days more worthy thine 
 AU-glonous l)urst from ocean ? why not dart 
 A beam of hope athwart the future years. 
 As of wrath to its days ? Hear me ! oh, hear me I 
 I am thy worshiper, thy priest, thy servant — 
 I have gazed on thee at thy rise and fall, 
 And bow'd my head beneath thy mid-day beams, 
 When my eye dared not meet thee. I have watch'd 
 For Hiee, and after thee, and pray'd to thee. 
 And sacrificed to thee, and read, and fear'd thee, 
 Ajid ask'd of thee, and thou hast answer' d — but 
 
 Only to thus much : while I speak, he sinks — 
 
 Is gone — and leaves his beauty, not his knowli dge, 
 
 To the delighted west, which revels in 
 
 Its hues of dying glory. Yet what is 
 
 Death, so it be but glorious ? 'Tis a sunset ; 
 
 And mortals may be happy to resemble 
 
 The gods but in decay. 
 
 Eater Arbaces, hy an inner door. 
 
 Arh. Seleses, why 
 
 So rapt in thy devotion ? Dost thou stand 
 Gazing to trace thy disappearing god 
 Into some realm of undiscover'd day ? 
 Our business is with night — 'tis come. 
 
 Bel. But not 
 
 Gone. 
 
 Arh. Let it roU on — we are ready. 
 
 Bel. Yes. 
 
 Would it were over ! 
 
 Arh. Does the prophet doubt, 
 
 To whom the very stars shine victory ? 
 
 Bd. I do not douljt of victory — but the victor. 
 
 Arh. Well, let thy science settle that. Meantime 
 I have prepared as many gUttering spears 
 As will outsparkle our allies — your planets. 
 There is no more to thwart us. The she-king, 
 Tliat less than woman, is even now upon 
 The waters with his female mates. The order 
 Is issued for the feast in the pavilion. 
 The first cup which he drains will be the last 
 Quafl"'d by the line of Nimrod. 
 
 Bel. 'Twas a brave one. 
 
 Arh. And is a weak one — 'tis worn out — we'll 
 
 Bel. Art sure of that ? [mend it 
 
 Arh. Its founder was a hunter — 
 
 I am a soldier — what is there to fear ? 
 
 Bd. The soldier. 
 
 Arh. And the priest it may be : but 
 
 If you thought thus, or think, why not retain 
 Your king of concubines ? why stir me up ? 
 Why spur me to this enterprise ? your own 
 No less than mine 2 
 
 Bel. Look to the sky. 
 
 Arh. I look. 
 
 Bel. What seest thou 2 
 
 Arh. A fair summer's twilight, and 
 
 The gathering of the stars. 
 
 Bd. And midst them, mark 
 
 Yon earliest, and the brightest, which so quivers. 
 As it would quit its place in the blue ether. 
 
 .■1W-. Well? 
 
 Bel. 'Tis thy natal ruler — thy birth planet. 
 
 Arh. (fv'irhlhf/ hk scahluinl) My star is in this 
 scabbard : when it shines, 
 It shall outdazzle comets. Let us think 
 Of what is to be done to justify 
 Thy planets and their portents. When we conquer. 
 
252 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT U. 
 
 They shall have temples — ay, and priests — and thou 
 Shalt be the pontiff of — -what gods thou wilt ; 
 For I observe that they are ever just, 
 And own the bravest for the most devout. 
 
 Vet. Ay, and the most devout for brave — thou hast 
 Seen me turn back from battle. [not 
 
 AtI). No ; I own thee 
 
 As firm in fight as Babylonia's captain. 
 As skillful in Chaldea's worship : now, 
 WiU it but please thee to forget the priest. 
 And be the warrior ? 
 
 Del. Why not both ? 
 
 Arh. The better ; 
 
 And yet it almost shames me, we shall have 
 So little to effect. This woman's warfiire 
 Degrades the very conqueror. To have pluck'd 
 A bold and bloody despot from his throne. 
 And grappled with him, clashing steel with steel. 
 That were heroic or to win or fall ; 
 But to upraise my sword against this silkworm. 
 And hear him whine, it may be 
 
 Bel. Do not deem it ; 
 
 He has that in him whicli may make you strife ytt ; 
 And were he all you think, his guards are hardy, 
 And headed by the cool, stem Salemenes. 
 
 Arh. They'll not resist. 
 
 Bel. Why not ? they are soldiers. 
 
 Arh. True, 
 
 And therefore need a soldier to command them. 
 
 Bel-. That Salemenes is. 
 
 Arh. But not their king. 
 
 Besides, he hates the effeminate thing that governs, 
 For the queen's sake, his sister. Mark you not 
 He keeps aloof from all the revels ? 
 
 Bel. But 
 
 Not from the council — there he is ever constant. 
 
 Arh. And ever thwarted ; what would you have 
 To make a reliel out of ? A fool reigning, [more 
 His blood dishonor'd, and himself disdain'd : 
 Why, it is Im revenge we work for. 
 
 .Bel. Could 
 
 He but be brought to think so : this I doubt of. 
 
 Arh. What if we sound him ? 
 
 Bel. Yes— if the time served. 
 
 Enter Balea. 
 
 Bnl. Satraps 1 The king commands your pres- 
 The feast to-night. [ence at 
 
 Bel. To hear is to obey. 
 
 In the pavilion ? 
 
 Bid. No ; here in the palace. 
 
 Arh. How ! in the palace ? it was not thus order'd. 
 
 Bal. It is so order'd now. 
 
 Arh. And why ? 
 
 Bill. I know not 
 
 May I retire ? 
 
 Arh. Stay. 
 
 Bel. (to Arh. asule.) Hush ! let him go his way. 
 
 {.■ilteriiatehj to Bal.) Yes, Balea, thank the monarch, 
 
 kiss the hem 
 Of his imperial robe, and say, his slaves 
 Will take the crumbs he deigns to scatter from 
 His royal table at the hour — was't midnight ? 
 
 BaL It was: the place, the hall of Nimrod. Lords, 
 I humble me before you, and depart. 
 
 [Exit Balea. 
 
 Arh. I like not this same sudden change of place ; 
 There is some mystery : wherefore should he change 
 it? 
 
 Bel. Doth he not change a thousand times a day! 
 Sloth is of all things the most fanciful — 
 And moves more parasangs in its intents 
 Than generals in their marches, when they seek 
 To leave their foe at fault. Why dost thou muse ? 
 
 Arh. He loved that gay pavilion, — it was ever 
 His summer dotage. 
 
 Bel. And he loved his queen — 
 
 And thrice a thousand harlotry besides — 
 And he has loved all things by tmns, except 
 Wisdom and glory. 
 
 Arh. Still— I like it not. 
 If he has changed — why, so must we : the attac/i. 
 Were easy in the isolated bower. 
 Beset with drowsy guards and drunken courtiers : 
 But in the haU of Nimrod 
 
 Bel. Is it so ? 
 
 Methought the haughty soldier fear'd to mount 
 A throne too easily — does it disappoint thee 
 To find there is a sUpperier step or two 
 Than what was counted on ? 
 
 Arh. When the hour comes, 
 
 Thou shalt perceive how far I fear or no. 
 Thou hast seen my life at stake — and gaily play'd 
 But here is more upon the die — a kingdom. [for ; 
 
 Bel. I have foretold already — thou wilt win it 1 
 Then on, and prosper. 
 
 Arh. Now were I a soothsayer, 
 
 I would have boded so much to myself. 
 But be the stars obey'd — I cannot quarrel 
 With them, nor their interpreter. Who's here ? 
 
 Enter Salemenes. 
 
 Sal. Satraps 1 
 Bel. My prince ! 
 
 Sal. Well met — I sought ye both, 
 
 But elsewhere than the palace. 
 
 Arh. Wherefore so ? 
 
 Sal. 'Tis not the hour. 
 
 Arh. The hour ! — what hour ? 
 
 t^al. Of midnight 
 
 Bel. Midnight, my lord ! 
 
 Sal. Wliat, are you not invited ! 
 
 Bel. Oh, yes !- we had forg:/tten. 
 
 Sal. Is it usual 
 
SCENE 1. 
 
 bAJttOANAPALUS. 
 
 253 
 
 Thus to forget a sever jign's invitation ? 
 
 Arl). Wliy — we but now received it. 
 
 Sal. Then why here ? 
 
 Arh. On duty. 
 
 Sal On what duty J 
 
 Bel. On the state's. 
 
 We have the privilege to approach the presence ; 
 But found the monarch absent. 
 
 Sal, And I too 
 
 Am upon duty. 
 
 Arb. May we crave its purport ? 
 
 &iZ. To arrest two traitors. Guards 1 "Within there 1 
 
 Enter Guards. 
 
 Satraps, 
 
 Sal. (cimtinuing.') 
 Your swords. 
 
 Bd. (ilelh-ermg his.) My lord, behold my cimeter. 
 
 Arh. (ilrairinff his sword.) Take mine. 
 
 Sal. {advancing.) I will. 
 
 Arh. But in your heart the blade — 
 
 The hilt quits not this hand. 
 
 Sal. (drawing.) How 1 dost thou brave me ? 
 
 'Tis well — this saves a trial, and false mercy. 
 Soldiers, hew down the rebel ! 
 
 Arb. Soldiers ! Ay — 
 
 A lone you dare not. 
 
 Sal. Alone ! foolish slave — 
 
 "Wluit is there in thee thataprince should shrink from 
 Of open force ? We dread thy treason, not 
 Thy strength : thy tooth is naught without its vcn- 
 The seqjeut's, not the lion's. Cut him down, [om — 
 
 Bel. (inlerposing.) Arbaces I are you mad ? Have 
 
 I not render'd [tice. 
 
 My sword ? Then trust like me our sovereign's jus- 
 
 Arb. No — I will sooner trust the stars thou prat'st 
 And this slight arm, and die a king at least [of, 
 Of my own breath and body — so far that 
 None else shall chain them. 
 
 Sal. {to the Guards.) You hear him, and inc. 
 
 Take him not, — kiU. 
 
 [The Guards attacl; Arbaces, rcho defends him- 
 self valiantly and dexterously till they waver. 
 
 Sal. la it even so ; and must 
 
 I do the hangman's office ? Recreant 1 see 
 How you should fell a traitor ! 
 
 [Salemenes attacks Ahbaces. 
 
 Enter 8akdanapalt:s and Train. 
 
 Sar. Hold your hands — 
 
 Upon your lives, I say. What, deaf or drunken ? 
 My sword ! Oh, fool, I wear no sword I here, fellow, 
 Give me thy weapon. \_To a Onard. 
 
 Sard an AP ALUS snatches a sword from one of the 
 soldiers and rushes between the combatants — ■ 
 they separate. 
 Sar. In my very palace I 
 
 What hinders me fiom cleaving you in twain, 
 Audacious brawlers ? 
 
 Bel. Sire, your justice. 
 
 Sal. Or— 
 
 Your weakness. 
 
 Sar. {raising the siroi-d.) How ? 
 
 Sal. Strike 1 so the blow's repeated 
 
 Upon yon traitor — whom you spare a moment, 
 I trust for torture — I'm content. 
 
 Sar. What — Mm ! 
 
 Who dares assail Arbaces ? 
 
 Sal. 1 1 
 
 Sar. Indeed ! 
 
 Prince, you forget yourself. Upon what warrant ? 
 
 Sal. {shoicing the signet.) Thine. 
 
 Arh. {confused.) The king's ! 
 
 Sal. Yes ! and let the king confirm it 
 
 Sar. I parted not from this for such a purpose. 
 
 Sal. Y'ou parted with it for your safety — I 
 Employ'd it for the best. Pronounce in person. 
 Here I am but your slave — a moment past 
 I was your representative. 
 
 Sar. Then sheathe 
 
 Your swords. 
 
 [Arbaces and Salemenes return their swordi 
 to the scabbards. 
 
 Sal. Mine's sheathed : I pray you sheathe not yom-s, 
 'Tis the sole sceptre left you now ■n-ith safety. 
 
 Sar. A heavy one ; the hilt, too, hurts my hand. 
 ( To a Guard.) Here, fellow, take thy weapon back. 
 
 Well, sirs. 
 What doth this mean ? 
 
 Bel. The prince must answer that 
 
 Sill. Truth upon my part, treason upon theirs. 
 
 Sar. Treason — Arbaces I treachery and Beleses I 
 That were a union I wiU not believe. 
 
 Bel. Where is the proof? 
 
 Sal. I'll answer that, if once 
 
 The king demands your fello-w-t.aitor's sword. 
 
 Arb. {to Sal.) A swortl which has been drawn as 
 Against his foes. [oft as thine 
 
 Sal. And now agninst his brother. 
 
 And in an hoiir or so against himself. 
 
 Sar. That is not possible : he d?red not ; no — 
 No — I'll not hear of such things. These vain bick 
 
 erings 
 Are spawn'd in courts by base intrigues, and baser 
 Hirelings, who live by lies on good men's livjs. 
 You must have been deceived, my brother. 
 
 Sal. First 
 
 Let him deliver up his weapon, and 
 Proclaim himself your subject by that duty, 
 And I will answer all. 
 
 Sar. Why, if I thought so — 
 But no, it cannot be : the Mode Arbaces — 
 The trusty, rough, true soldier — the best captaio 
 Of all who (iiscipline our nations No, 
 
264 
 
 BYRON'S "WORKS. 
 
 ACT IL 
 
 I'll not insult him thus, to bid him render 
 
 The cimeter to me he never yielded 
 
 Unto our enemies. Chief, keep your weapon. 
 
 S'll. {ilelirering back the signet.) Monarch, take 
 back your signet. 
 
 Siir. No, retain it ; 
 
 But use it with more moderation. 
 
 Jal. Sire, 
 
 I used it for your hon{)r, and restore it 
 Because I cannot keep it with my own. 
 Bes-tow it on Arbaces. 
 
 Sar. So I should : 
 
 He never ask'd it. 
 
 '%?. Doubt not, he will have it, 
 
 Without that hollow semblance of respect. 
 
 Brl. I know not what hath prejudiced the prince 
 So strongly 'gainst two subjects, than whom none 
 Have been more zealous for Assyria's weal. 
 
 Jal. Pea,ce, factious priest, and faithless soldier 1 
 Unit'st in thy o\^ti person the worst vices [thou 
 
 Of the most dangerous orders of mankind. 
 Keep tliy smooth words and juggling homilies 
 For those who know thee not. Thy fellow's sin 
 Is, at the least, a bold one, and not temper'd 
 By the tricks taught thee in Chaldea. 
 
 y>t'K Hear him, 
 
 My liege — the son of Bolus 1 he blasphemes 
 The worship of the land, which bows the knee 
 Before your fathers. 
 
 Siii: Oh, for that I pray you 
 
 Let him have absolution ! I dispense with 
 The worship of dead men ; feeling that I 
 Am mortal, and believing that the race 
 From whence I sprung are — what I see them — ashes. 
 
 Bel. King ! do not deem so : they are with the stars. 
 And 
 
 Sar. You shall join them there ere they will rise, 
 If you preach farther. "VYliy, t!i is is rank treason. 
 
 Sal. My lord ! 
 
 Sar. To school me in the worship of 
 
 Assyria's idols I Let him be released — 
 Give him his sword. 
 
 Sal. My lord, and king, and brother, 
 
 I pray ye pause. 
 
 Sar. Yes, and be sermonized, 
 
 And dinn'd, and dcafcn'd with dead men and Baal, 
 And all Chaldca's starry mysteries. 
 
 Bel. Monarch ! respect them. 
 
 Sar. Oh, for that — I love them I 
 
 I love to watch them in the deep blue vault, 
 And to compare them with my Myrrha's eyes ; 
 I love to see their rays redoubled in 
 The tremulous silver of Euphrates' wave. 
 As the light breeze of niidniiiht crisps the broad 
 And rolling water, sighing through the sedges 
 ■Which fringe his banks : but whether they may be 
 fiods, as some say, or the abodes of gods, 
 
 As others hold, or simply lamps of night. 
 
 Worlds, or the lights of worlds, 1 know nor care not 
 
 There's something sweet in my uncertainty 
 
 I would not change for your Chaldean lore ; 
 
 Besides, I know of these all clay can know 
 
 Of aught above it, or below it — nothing. 
 
 I see their brilliancy and feel their beauty— 
 
 Wlien they shine on my grave I shall know neither. 
 
 Bel. For ncitlicr, sire, say better. 
 
 Sar. I will wait, 
 
 If it so please you, pontiff, for that knowledge. 
 In the mean time receive your sword, and know 
 That I prefer your service militant 
 Unto your ministry — not loving either. 
 
 8d. (a.Hih.) His lusts have made him mad. Then 
 Spite of himself. [must I save him, 
 
 Sirr. Please you to hear me. Satraps ! 
 
 And chiefly thou, my priest, because I doubt thee 
 More than the soldier ; and would doubt thee all 
 Wert thou not half a warrior : let us part 
 In peace — I'll not say pardon — which must be 
 Earn'd by the guilty : this I'll not pronounce ye, 
 Although upon this breath of mine depends 
 Your own ; and, deadlier for ye, on my fears. 
 But fear not — for that I am soft, not fearful — 
 And so hvc on. Were I the thing some think me. 
 Your heads would now be dripping the last drops 
 Of their attainted gore from the high gates 
 Of this our palace, into the dry dust. 
 Their only portion of the coveted kingdom 
 They would be crown'd to reign o'er — let that pass 
 As I have said, I will not deetn ye guilty. 
 Nor doiiin ye guiltless. Allieit better men 
 Than ye or I stand ready to arraign you ; 
 And should I leave your fate to sterner judges, 
 And proofs of all kinds, I might sacrifice 
 Two men, who, whatsoe'er they now are, were 
 Once honest. Ye are free, sirs. 
 
 Arb. Sire, this clemency 
 
 Bel. {interrupting him.') Is worthy of yourself ; and, 
 We thank [although innocent, 
 
 Sar. Priest ! keep your thanksgivings for Belus ; 
 His offspring needs none. 
 
 Bel. But being innocent — 
 
 Sar. Be silent — Guilt is loud. If ye are loyal, 
 Ye are injured men, and should be sad, not grateful 
 
 Bel. So we should be, were justice always done 
 By earthly jwwcr omnipotent ; but innocence 
 Must oft receive her right as a mere favor. 
 
 Sfir. That's a good sentence for a homily. 
 Though not for this occasion. Prithee keep it 
 To plead thy sovereign's cause before his people. 
 
 Bel. I trust there is no cause. 
 
 Snr. No canne, perhajis ; 
 
 But many causers : — if ye meet with such 
 In the exercise of your inquisitive function 
 On earth, or should you read of it in heaven 
 
SCENE 1. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 255 
 
 In some mysterious twinkle of tlie stars, 
 
 WTiicli are your chronicles, I pray you note, [en 
 
 That there are worse things betwixt earth and heav- 
 
 Than him who ruleth many and slays none ; 
 
 And, hating not himself, yet loves his fellows [him 
 
 Enough to spare even those who would not spare 
 
 Were they once masters — but that's doubtful. Sa- 
 
 Your swords and persons are at liberty [traps ! 
 
 To use them as ye will — but from this hour 
 
 [ have no call for either. Salemenes 1 
 
 Follow me. 
 
 \_Exennt Sakdanapalus, Salemenes, and the 
 Train, etc., leaving Abbacbs and Beleses. 
 
 Ari. Beleses ! 
 
 Bel. Now, what think you ? 
 
 Arb. That we are lost. 
 
 Bel. That we have won the kingdom. 
 
 Arb. What ! thus suspected — with the sword slung 
 o'er us 
 But by a single hair, and that still wavering. 
 To be blown down by his imperious breath. 
 Which spared us — why, I know not. 
 
 Bel. Seek not why ; 
 
 But let us profit by the interval. 
 The hour is s-tiU our own — our power the same — 
 The night the same we destined. He hath changed 
 Nothing except our ignorance of aU 
 Suspicion into such a certainty 
 As must make madness of delay. 
 
 Arh. And yet 
 
 Bel. Wliat, doubting stiU 1 
 
 Arl). He spared our lives, nay, more. 
 
 Saved t'lem from Salemenes. 
 
 Bel. And how long 
 
 Will he so spare ? till the first drunken minute. 
 
 Arh. Or sober, rather. Yet he did it nobly ; 
 Gave royally what we had forfeited 
 Basely 
 
 Bel. Say, bravely. 
 
 Arh. Somewhat of both, perhaps. 
 
 But it has touch'd me, and, what'er betide, 
 I will no further on. 
 
 Bel. And lose the world I 
 
 Arb. Lose anything except my own esteem. 
 
 Bel. I blush that we should owe our lives to such 
 A king of distafia ! 
 
 Arb. But no less we owe them ; 
 
 And I should blush far more to take the grantor's ! 
 
 Bel. Thou mayst endure whate'er thou wilt — the 
 Have written otherwise. [stars 
 
 A rh. Though they came down. 
 
 And marshall'd me the way in all their brightness, 
 I would not follow. 
 
 Bel. This is weakness — worse 
 
 Than a scared beldam's dreaming of the dead, 
 And tvaking in the dark. — Go to— go to. 
 
 Arb. Methoughthelook'd like Nimrod as he spoke, 
 
 Even as the proud imperial statue stands 
 Looking the monarch of the kings around it. 
 And sways, while they but ornament, the temple. 
 
 Bel. I told you that you had too much despised 
 And that there was some royalty within him. [him, 
 What then ? he is the nobler foe. 
 
 Arh. But we 
 
 The meaner : — Would he had not sparec us I 
 
 Bel. So— 
 
 Wouldst thou be sacrificed thus readily ? 
 
 Arb. No — but it had been better to have died 
 Than live ungrateful. 
 
 Bel. Oh, the souls of some men 1 
 
 Thou wouldst digest what some call treason, and 
 Fools treachery — and, behold, upon the sudden, 
 Because for something or for nothing, this 
 Rash reveller steps, ostentatiously, 
 'Twixt thee and Salemenes, thou art tum'd 
 Into — what shall I say — Sardanapalus 1 
 I know no name more ignominious. 
 
 Arb. But 
 
 An hour ago, who dared to term me such 
 Had held his life but lightly — as it is, 
 I must forgive you, even as he forgave us — 
 Semiramis herself would not have done it. 
 
 Bel. No — the queen liked no sharers of the king- 
 Not even a husband. [dom, 
 
 Arb. I must serve him truly 
 
 Bel. And humbly? 
 
 Arh. No, sir, proudly — being honest. 
 
 I shall be nearer thrones than you to heaven ; 
 And if not quite so haughty, yet more lofty. 
 You may do your own deeming — you have codes, 
 And mysteries, and corollaries of 
 Right and wrong, which I lack for my direction, 
 And must pursue but what a plain heart teaches. 
 And now you know me. 
 
 Bel. Have you finish'd ? 
 
 Arb. Yes— 
 
 With you. 
 
 Bel. And would, perhaps, betray as well 
 As quit me ? 
 
 Arb. That's a sacerdotal thought. 
 
 And not a soldier's. 
 
 Bel. Be it what you will — 
 
 Truce with these wranglings, and but hear me. 
 
 Arb. No- 
 
 There is more peril in your subtle spirit 
 Than in a phalanx. 
 
 Bel. If it must be so — 
 
 I'll on alone. 
 
 Arb. Alone 1 
 
 Bel. Thrones hold but one. 
 
 Arb. But this is fill'd. 
 
 Bel. With worse than vacancy— 
 
 A despised monarch. Look to it, Arbaces : 
 I have still aided, cherish'd, loved, and urged you ; 
 
256 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT n. 
 
 Was willing even to serve you, in the hope 
 To serve and save Assyria. Heaven itself 
 Seem'd to consent, and all events were friendly, 
 Even to the last, tiU that your spirit shrunk 
 Into a shallow softness ; but now, rather 
 Than see my country languish, I vrill be 
 Her saviour or the victim of her tyrant, 
 Or one or both, for sometimes both are one : 
 And, if I win, iVrbaces is my servant. 
 
 Arh. Your servant ! 
 
 Bel. Why not ? better than be slave. 
 
 The pardoii'd slave of she Sardanapalus ! 
 
 Enter Pania. 
 
 Pan. My lords, I bear an order from the king. 
 
 Arh. It is obey'd ere spoken. 
 
 Bel. Notwithstanding, 
 
 Let's hear it. 
 
 Pan. Forthwith, on this very night, 
 
 Repair to your respective satrajjies 
 Of Babylon and Media. 
 
 Bd. With our troops ? 
 
 P<in. My order is unto the satraps and 
 Their household train. 
 
 Arh. But — 
 
 Bel. It must be obey'd : 
 
 Say, we depart. 
 
 Pan. My order is to see you 
 
 Depart, and not to bear your answer. 
 
 Bel. {and,.) Ay 1 
 
 Well, sir, we will accompany you hence. 
 
 Pan. I will retire to marshal forth the guard 
 Of honor which befits your rank, and wait 
 your leisure, so that it the hour exceeds not. 
 
 ]_Ex.it Pania. 
 
 Bel. Nmo then obey I 
 
 Arh. Doubtless. 
 
 Bel. Yes, to the gates 
 
 That grate the palace, which is now our prison — 
 Ho further 
 
 Arh. Thou hast harp'd the truth indeed 1 
 The realm itself, in all its wide extension, 
 Yawns dungeons at each step for thee and me. 
 
 Bel. Graves ! 
 
 Arh. If I thought so, this good sword should dig 
 One more than mine. 
 
 Bel. It shall have work enough. 
 
 Let me hope better than thou augurest ; 
 At present, let us hence as best we may. 
 Thou dost agree with me in understanding 
 This order as a sentence ? 
 
 Arh. Why, what other 
 
 Interpretation should it bear ? it is 
 The very policy of orient mouarchs — 
 Pardon and poison — favors and a sword — 
 * distant voyage, and an eternal sleep. 
 
 How many satraps in his father's time — 
 For he I own is, or at least wa.'t, bloodless — 
 
 Bel. But will not, can not be so now. 
 
 Arh. I doubt it. 
 
 How many satraps have I seen set out 
 In his sire's day for mighty vice-royalties. 
 Whose tombs are on their path ! I know not how. 
 But they all sicken'd by the way, it was 
 So long and heavy. 
 
 Bel. Let us but regain 
 
 The free air of the city, and we'll shorten 
 The journey. 
 
 Arh. 'Twill be shorten'd at the gates. 
 
 It may be. 
 
 Bel. Ko ; they hardly will risk that. 
 They mean us to die privately, but not 
 Within the palace or the city walls, 
 Where we are known, and may have partisans ; 
 If they had meant to slay us here, we were 
 No longer with the living. Let us hence. 
 
 Arh. If I but thought he did not mean my life — 
 
 Bel. Fool 1 hence — what else should despotism 
 alarm'd 
 Mean ? Let us but rejoin our troops, and march. 
 
 Arh. Towards our provinces ? 
 
 Bel. No : towards your kingdom. 
 
 There's time, there's heart, and hope, and power, and 
 
 means 
 Which their half measures leave us in full scope. — 
 Away ! 
 
 Arh. And I even yet repenting must 
 Relapse to guilt 1 
 
 Bel. Self-defence is a virtue. 
 
 Sole bulwark of aD right. Away, I say ! 
 Let's leave this place, the air grows thick and choking, 
 And the walls have a scent of night-shade — hence ! 
 Let us not leave them time for further coimcil. 
 Our quick departure proves our civic zeal ; 
 Our quick departure hinders our good escort. 
 The worthy Pania, from anticipating 
 The orders of some parasangs from hence : 
 
 Nay, there's no other choice, but hence, I say. 
 
 \^Exit with Arbaces, who follows reluctantly. 
 
 Enter Sardanapalus and Salemenes. 
 
 8ar. Well, all is remedied, and without bloodshed, 
 That worst of mockeries of a remedy ; 
 We are now secure by these men's exile. 
 
 Sal. Yes, 
 
 As he who treads on flowers is from the adder 
 Twined roimd their roots. 
 
 Sar. Why, what wouldst have me do ? 
 
 Sal. Undo what you have done. 
 
 Sar. Revoke my pardon ? 
 
 Sid. Replace the crown now tottering on your 
 
 Snr. That were tyrannical. [temples. 
 
 Snl. But sure. 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 257 
 
 Sar. We are so. 
 
 What danger can tliey work upon the frontier 
 
 Sal. They are not there yet — never should they 
 Were I well listen'd to. [be so, 
 
 Sar. Nay, I fiape listen'd 
 
 (jnpartially to thee — why not to them ? 
 
 Stl. You may know that hereafter ; as it is, 
 I take my leave, to order forth the guard. 
 Snr. And you will join us at the banquet ? 
 Sal. Sire, 
 
 Dispense with me — I am no wassailer : 
 Command me in all service save the Bacchant's 
 Sar. Nay, but 'tis fit to revel now and then. 
 Sal. And fit that some should watch for those who 
 loo oft. Am I permitted to depart ? [revel 
 
 Sar. Yes Stay a moment, my good Salemenes, 
 
 My brother, my best subject, better prince 
 
 Than I am king. You should have been the monarch, 
 
 And I — I know not what, and care not ; but 
 
 Think not 1 am insensible to all 
 
 Thine honest ^visdom, and thy rough yet kind. 
 
 Though oft-reproving, sufterance of my follies. 
 
 If I have spared these men against thy counsel, 
 
 That is, their lives — it is not that I doubt 
 
 The advice was sound ; but, let them live : we wiU 
 
 Cavil about their lives — so let them mend them, [not 
 
 Their banishment will leave me still sound sleep. 
 
 Which their death had not left me. 
 
 Sfil. Thus you run 
 
 The risk to sleep forever, to save traitors — 
 A moment's pang now changed for years of crime. 
 Still let them be made quiet. 
 
 Sar. Tempt me not ; 
 
 My word is pass'd. 
 Sal. But it may be recall'd. 
 
 Sar. 'Tis royal. 
 
 Sal. And should therefore be decisive. 
 
 This half indulgence of an exile serves 
 But to provoke — a pardon should be full. 
 Or it is none. 
 
 Sar. And who persuaded me 
 
 After I had repeal'd them, or at least 
 Only dismiss'd them from our presence, who 
 Urged me to send them to their satrapies ? 
 
 Sal. True ; that I had forgotten ; that is, sire, 
 If they e'er reach'd tlieir satrapies — why, then, 
 Reprove me more for my advice ? 
 
 Sar. And if 
 
 They do not reach them — look to it ! — in safety, 
 In safety, mark me — and security — 
 Look to thine own. 
 
 S'll. Permit me to depart ; 
 
 Their safety shall be cared for. 
 
 Sar. Get thee hence, then ; 
 
 And, prithee, think more gently of thy brother. 
 S'.il. Sire, I shall ever duly serve my sovereign. 
 
 [Exit Salemenes, 
 33 
 
 Sar. (solus) That man is of a temper too severe ; 
 Hard but as lofty as the rock, and free 
 From all the taints of common earth — while I 
 Am softer clay, impregnated with flowers • 
 But as our mold is, must the produce be. 
 If I have err'd this time, 'tis on the side 
 Wliere error sits most lightly on that sense, 
 I know not what to call it ; but it reckons 
 With me ofttimes for pain, and sometimes pleasure; 
 A sjririt which seems placed about my heart 
 To count its throbs, not quicken them, and ask 
 Questions which mortal never dared to ask me, 
 Nor Baal, though an oracular deity — 
 Albeit his marble face majestical 
 Frowns as the shadows of the evening dim 
 His brows to changed expression, till at times 
 I think the statue looks in act to speak. 
 Away with these vain thoughts, I will be joyous — 
 And here comes Joy's true herald. 
 
 Enter Mtrrha, 
 
 -Vv. King 1 the sky 
 
 Is overcast, and musters muttering thunder. 
 In clouds that seem approaching fast, and show 
 In forked flashes a commanding tempest. 
 WiU j'ou then quit- the palace ? 
 
 Sar. Tempest, say'st thou ? 
 
 3Ii/r. Ay, my good lord. 
 
 Sar. For my ovm part I should be 
 
 Not ill content to vary the smooth scene. 
 And watch the warring elements ; but this 
 Would little suit the silken garments and 
 Smooth faces of our festive friends. Say, Myrrha, 
 Art thou of those who dread the xoar of clouds ? 
 
 M;/r. In my own country we respect their voices 
 As auguries of Jove. 
 
 Sar. Jove ! — ay, your Baal — • 
 
 Ours also has a property in thunder. 
 And ever and anon some faUing bolt 
 Proves his divinity, — ^and yet sometimes 
 Strikes his own altars. 
 
 ^f|/r. That were a dread omen. 
 
 Sar. Yes — for the priests. Well, we will not go 
 Beyond the palace walls to-night, but make [forth 
 Our feast within. 
 
 Afyr. Now, Jove be praised ! that he 
 
 Hath heard the prayer thou wouldst not hear. The 
 Are kinder to thee than thou to thyself, [gods 
 
 And flash this storm between thee and thy foes, 
 To shield thee from them. 
 
 Sar. Child, if there be peril 
 
 Methinks it is the same within these walls 
 As on the river's brink. 
 
 Myr. Not so ; these walls 
 
 Are high, and strong, and guarded. Treason baa 
 To penetrate through many a winding way. 
 
258 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT in. 
 
 Ajid massy portal ; but in the pavilion 
 Thei e is no bulwark. 
 
 ■'^ar. N o, nor in the palace, 
 
 Nor in the fortress, nor upon the top 
 Of cloud-fenced Caucasus, where the eagle sits 
 Nested in pathless clefts, if treachery be : 
 Even as the arrow finds the aii-y king. 
 The steel will reach the earthly. But be calm : 
 The men, or innocent or guilty, axe 
 Banish'd, and far upon their way. 
 
 Mi/r. They live, then ? 
 
 Sar. So sanguinary ? T/iou ! 
 
 Mijr. I would not shrink 
 
 From just infliction of due punishment 
 On those who seek your life : wer't otherwise, 
 I should not merit mine. Besides, you, heard 
 The princely Salemenes. 
 
 Sar. This is strange ; 
 
 The gentle and the austere are both against me, 
 A.nd urge me to revenge. 
 
 Miji: 'Tis a Greek virtue. 
 
 iStfc. But not a kingly one^I'll none on't ; or 
 If ever I indulge in't, it shall be 
 With kings — my equals. 
 
 Myr. Those men sought to be so. 
 
 Sar. Myrrha, tliis is too feminine, and springs 
 From fear 
 
 M;ir. For you. 
 
 Sar. No matter, still 'tis fear. 
 
 I have observed your sex, once roused to wrath. 
 Are timidly vindictive to a pitch 
 Of perseverance, which I could not copy. 
 1 thouglit you were exempt irom this, as from 
 Tlie childish helplessness of Asian women. 
 
 M;ir. My lord, 1 am no boaster of my love, 
 Nor of my attributes ; I have shared your splendor, 
 And 'o'ill partake your fortunes. You may live 
 To find one slave more true than subject myriads : 
 But this the gods avert I I am content 
 To be beloved on trust for what I feel, 
 Rather than prove it to you in your griefs, 
 Wliich might not yield to any cares of mine. 
 
 Sar. Grief cannot come where perfect love exists, 
 Except to heighten it, and vanish from 
 That which it could not scare away. Let's in — 
 The hour approaches, and we must prepare 
 To meet the invited guests, who grace our feast. 
 
 ACT ni. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The ITall of the Palace illuminated. — Sabdanap>lu8 
 and kin Quests at Table. — A storm without.^ and 
 Thunder occasionally heard during the Banquet. 
 Sar. Fill full 1 why this is as it should be : here 
 
 Is my true realm, amidst bright eyes and faces 
 Happy as fair ! Here sorrow cannot reach. 
 
 Zam. Nor elsewhere — ^where the king is, pleasure 
 sparkles. 
 
 Sar. Is not this better now than Nimrod's huntings, 
 Or my wild grandam's chase in search of kingdoms 
 She could not keep when conquer'd ? 
 
 Alt. Jlighty thougt) 
 
 They were, as aU thy royal line have been. 
 Yet none of those who went before have reach'd 
 The acme of Sardanapalus, who 
 Has placed his joy in peace — the sole true glory. 
 
 Sar. And pleasure, good Altada, to which glory 
 Is but the path. What is it that we seek ? 
 Enjoyment 1 We have cut the way short to it, 
 And not gone tracking it through human ashes, 
 Making a grave with every footstep. 
 
 Zam. No ; 
 
 All hearts are happy, and all voices bless 
 The king of peace, who holds a world in jubilee. 
 
 Sar. Art sure of that ? I have heard otherwise. 
 Some say that there be traitors. 
 
 Zam. Traitors they 
 
 Who dare to say so ! — 'Tis impossible. 
 What cause ? 
 
 Sar. What cause ? true, — fill the goblet up , 
 
 We will not think of them : there are none such. 
 Or if there be, they are gone. 
 
 Alt. Guests, to my pledge t 
 
 Down on your knees, and drink a measure to 
 The safety of the king — the monarch, say I ? 
 The god Sardanapalus ! 
 
 (Zames and the Quests hneel, and exclaim — 
 Mightier than 
 His father Baal, the god Sardanapalus 1 
 
 [/i thunders an they kneel ; some start up in 
 confiUiio7i. 
 
 Zam. Why do you rise, my friends ? in that strong 
 His father gods consented. [pea] 
 
 Myr. Menaced, rather. 
 
 King, wilt thou bear this mad impiety ? 
 
 Sar. Impiety ; — nay, if the sires who reign'd 
 Before me can be gods, I'U not disgrace 
 Their lineage. But arise, my pious friends ; 
 Hoard your devotion for the thundcrer there : 
 I seek but to be loved, not worship'd. 
 
 Alt. ' Both- 
 
 Both you must ever be by all true subjects. 
 
 Sar. Methink the thunders still increase : it is 
 An awful night. 
 
 Myr. Oh yes, for those who have 
 
 No palace to protect their worshipers. 
 
 Sar. That's true, my Jlyrrha ; and could I convert 
 My realm to one wide shelter for the wretched, 
 I'd do it. 
 
 Myr. Thou'rt no god, then, not to be 
 
SCENE L 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 259 
 
 Able to work a will so good and general, 
 As thy mall would imply. 
 
 .'"(;•. And your gods, then. 
 
 Who can, and dn rjot ? 
 
 .V>/?-. Do not speak of that. 
 
 Lest we provoke them. 
 
 S'lr. True, they love not censure 
 
 Better than mortals. Friends, a thought has struck 
 Were there no temples, would there, think ye, be [me ; 
 Air worshipers 3 that is, when it is angry, 
 And pelting as even now. 
 
 Jfyr. The Persian prays 
 
 Lpon his mountain. 
 
 Snr. Tes, when the sun shines. 
 
 Jfi/r. And I would ask, if this your palace were 
 L'nroof'd and desolate, how many flatterers 
 Would lick the dust in which the king lay low ? 
 
 Alt. The fair Ionian is too sarcastic 
 Upon a nation whom she knows not well ; 
 The Assyrians know no pleasure but their king's, 
 And homage is their pride. 
 
 Silr. Nay, pardon, guests. 
 
 The fair Greek's readiness of speech. 
 
 -l''- Pardon ! sire ; 
 
 We honor her of all things next to thee. 
 Hark I what was that ? 
 
 Zam. That ! nothing but the jar 
 
 Of distant portals shaken by the wind. 
 
 Alt. It sounded like the clash of— Hark again ! 
 
 Zam. The big rain pattering on the roof. 
 
 •'""■• No more. 
 
 Myrrha, my love, hast thou thy shell in order ? 
 Sing me a song of Sappho, her, thou know'st. 
 Who in thy country threw 
 
 Enter Pania, witli his sword and garments hloody, and 
 disordered. The Guests rise in confusion. 
 
 Pan. {to the Guards.) Look to the portals ; 
 
 And with your best speed to the walls ivithout. 
 Your arms 1 To arms 1 The king's in danger. Mon- 
 Excuse this haste, — 'tis faith. [arch ! 
 
 Sar. ■ Speak on. 
 
 Pun. It is 
 As Salemenes fear'd ; the faithless satraps 
 
 Sar. You are wounded — give some wine. Take 
 breath, good Pania. 
 
 Pan. 'Tis nothing — a mere flesh wound. I am worn 
 More with my speed to warn my sovereign. 
 Than hurt in his defence. 
 
 J^y. Well, sir, the rebels ? 
 
 Pan. Soon as Arbaces and Beleses reach'd 
 Their stations in the city, they refused 
 To march ; and on my attempt to use the power 
 Wliich I was delegated with, they call'd 
 Upon their truops, who rose in fierce defiance. 
 
 ifiir. AH? 
 
 Pan. Too many. 
 
 Sar. Spare not of thy free speecl 
 
 To spare mine ears the truth. 
 
 Pan. Jly own slight guard 
 
 Were faithful — and what's left of it is still so. 
 Myr. And are these all the force still faithful ?^ 
 Pan. No — 
 
 The Bactrians, now led on by Salemenes, 
 Who even then was on bis way, still urged 
 By strong suspicion of the Median chiefs, 
 Are numerous, and make strong head against 
 The rebels, fighting inch by inch, and forming 
 An orb around the jjalace, where they mean 
 To centre all their force, and save the king. 
 
 (He hesitates.) I am charged to 
 
 'Vyr. 'Tis no time for hesitation. 
 
 Pin. Prince Salemenes doth implore the king 
 To arm himself, although but for a moment, 
 And show himself unto the soldiers : his 
 Sole presence in this instant might do more 
 Than hosts can do in his behalf 
 
 Sar. What, ho ! 
 
 My arjior there. 
 
 Myr. And wilt thou ? 
 
 Sar. WiU I not ? 
 
 Ho, there ! But seek not for the buckler ; 'tis 
 Too heavy : — a light cuirass and my sword. 
 Where are the rebels ? 
 
 Pan. Scarce a furlong's length 
 
 From (he outward wall, the fiercest conflict rages. 
 
 Sar. Then I may charge on horseback. Sfero, ho ! 
 Order my horse out. There is space enough 
 Even in our courts, and by the outer gate. 
 To marshal half the horsemen of Arabia. 
 
 Exit SFERO^'ur t?ie armor. 
 Myr. How I do love thee ! 
 Sir. I ne'er doubted it. 
 
 Myr. But now I know thee. 
 
 Sar. (to his Attendant.) Bring down my spear, too, 
 Where's Salemenes ? 
 
 Pan. Wliere a soldier should be, 
 
 In the thick of the fight. 
 
 Sar. Then hasten to him la 
 
 The path still open, and communication 
 Left 'twixt the palace and the phalanx ? 
 
 ^f'"- 'Twaj 
 
 Wlien I late left him, and I have no fear : 
 Our troops were steady, and the phalanx form'd. 
 
 Sar. TeU him to spare his person for the present, 
 And that I will not spare my own — and say, 
 I come. 
 Pan. There's victory in the very word. 
 
 [Exit Pania. 
 Sar. Altada — Zamcs — forth, and arm ye ! Thert 
 Is all in readiness in the armory. 
 See that the women are bestow'd in safety 
 In the remote apartments : let a guard 
 
260 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT m. 
 
 Be set before them, with strict charge to quit 
 The post but with their lives — command it, Zames. 
 Altada, arm yourself and return here ; 
 Your post is near our person. 
 
 Ex-eunt Zames, Axtada, ani all sane Mtrrha. 
 
 Enter Spbho and others with the Kimfs Arms, etc. 
 
 Sfe. King ! your armor. 
 
 Sar. (arming himself.) Give me the cuirass — so : 
 my baldric ; now 
 My sword : I had forgot the helm — where is it ? 
 That's well — no, 'tis too heavy : you mistake, too — 
 It was not this I meant, but that which bears 
 A diadem around it. 
 
 tS/e. Sire, I dcem'd 
 
 That too conspicuous from tlic precious stones 
 To risk your sacred brow beneath- -and trust mo. 
 This is of better metal, though less rich. 
 
 Sar. You deem'd 1 Are you too turn'd a rebel ? 
 Your part is to obey : return, and — no — [Fellow ! 
 It is too late — I wiU go forth without it. 
 
 3/e. At least, wear this. 
 
 Sar. Wear Caucasus ! why, 'tis 
 
 A mountain on my temples. 
 
 Sfe. Sire, the meanest 
 
 Soldier goes not forth thus exposed to battle. 
 AU men will recognize you — for the storm 
 Has ceased, and the moon breaks forth in her l)right- 
 
 Siir. I go forth to be recognized and thus [uess. 
 Shall be so sooner. Now — my spear ! I'm arm'd. 
 
 [In going sto])g short, and t'irns to Sfero. 
 Sfcro — I had forgotten — bring the mirror. 
 
 Sfe. The mirror, sire ? 
 
 Sar. Yes, sir, of polish'd brass. 
 
 Brought from the spoils of India— but be speedy. 
 
 [Exit Sfebo. 
 
 Sar. Myrrha, retire unto a place of safety. 
 Wliy went you not forth with the other damsels ? 
 
 Myr, Because my place is here. 
 
 Sar. And when I am gone— — - 
 
 Myr. I follow. 
 
 -Sar. You ! to battle ? 
 
 Myr. If it were so, 
 
 'Twere not the first Greek girl had trod the path. 
 I will await here your return. 
 
 S'ir. The place 
 
 Is spacious, and the first to be sought out. 
 If they prevail ; and, if it be so. 
 And I return not 
 
 Myr. Still, we meet again, 
 
 Sar. How ? 
 
 .l/?/r. In the spot where aU must meet at last — 
 In Hades ! if there be, as I lielieve, 
 A shore beyond the Styx : and if there be not, 
 In ashes. 
 
 Sar. Darest thou so much ? 
 
 Mj/r. I dare all things, 
 
 Except survive what I have loved, to be 
 A rebel's booty : forth, and do your bravest. 
 
 He-enter Sfero with the mirror. 
 
 Sitr. (tooling at himself.) This cuirass fits me well, 
 the baldric better. 
 And the helm not at all. Methinks I seem 
 
 [Flings airay the helmet afttr trying it again. 
 Passing well in these toys ; and now to prove them. 
 Altada 1 Where's Ahada ? 
 
 Sfe. Waiting, sire, 
 
 Without : he has your shield in readiness. 
 
 Sat: True ; I forgot he is my shield-bearer 
 By right of blood, derived from age to age. 
 Myrrha, embrace me ; — yet once more — once more- - 
 Love me, whate'er betide. My chiefcst glory 
 Shall be to make me worthier of your love. 
 
 Myr. Go forth, and conquer ! 
 
 Exeunt SAKD^iNAPALua and Sfeko 
 Now, I am alone. 
 AU are gone forth, and of that all how few 
 Perhaps return. Let him but vanquish, and 
 Me perish ! If he vanquish not, I perish ; 
 For I wiU not outUve him. He has wound 
 About my heart, I know not how nor why. 
 Not for that he is king ; for now his kingdom 
 Kocks underneath his throne, and the earth yawns 
 To yield him no more of it than a grave ; 
 And yet I love him more. Oli, mighty Jove 1 
 Forgive this monstrous love for a barbarian, 
 Who knows not of Olympus ! yes, I love him 
 
 Now, now, fiir more than Hark — to the war shout 
 
 Methinks it nears me. If it should be so, 
 
 [She draws forlli a small vial. 
 This cunning Colchian poison, which my father [mo 
 Leam'd to compound on Eusine shores, and taught 
 How to preserve, shall free me I It had freed me 
 Long ere this hour, but that I loved, until 
 I half forgot I was a slave : — where all 
 Are slaves save one, and proud of servitude, 
 So they are served in turn by something lower 
 In the degree of bond.age, wc forget 
 That shackles worn Uke ornaments no less 
 Are chains. Again that shout I and now the clash 
 Of arms — and now — and now — 
 
 Enter Axtada. 
 
 Jit. Ho, Sfero, ho! 
 
 Myr. He is not here ! what wouldst thou vritli 
 Goes on the conflict ? [him 2 How 
 
 .1 It. Dubiously and fiercely. 
 
 Myr. And the king ? 
 
 Alt. Like a king. I mt/t find Sfercs 
 
 And bring him a new spear and his own helmet. 
 He fights till now bareheaded, and by far 
 Too much exposed. The soldiers kni;w his face, 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 SARDANAPLUS. 
 
 261 
 
 And the foe too ; and in the moon's broad light, 
 His silk tiara and his flowing hair 
 Make him a mark too royal. Every arrow 
 Is pointed at the foir hair and fair features, 
 And the broad fiUet which crowns both. 
 
 Myr. Ye gods, 
 
 Who fulminate o'er my father's land, protect him 1 
 Were you sent by the king ? 
 
 Alt. By Salemenes, 
 
 Who sent me privily upon this charge. 
 Without the knowledge of the careless sovereign, 
 The king I the king fights as he revels ! ho 1 
 What, Sfero, I wiU seek the armory — 
 He must be there. [Exit Altada. 
 
 Mi/r. 'Tis no dishonor — no — 
 
 "Tia no dishonor to have loved this man. 
 1 almost wish now, what I never wish'd 
 Before, that he were Grecian. If Alcides 
 Were shamed in wearing Lydian Omphale's 
 She-garb, and wielding her vile distaif, surely 
 He, who springs up a Hercules at once. 
 Nursed in effeminate arts from youth to manhood. 
 And rushes from the banquet to the battle, 
 As though it were a bed of love, deserves 
 That a Greek girl should be his paramour. 
 And a Greek bard his minstrel, a Greek tomb 
 His monument. How goes the strife, sir ? 
 
 Enter an Officer. 
 
 Officer. Lost, 
 
 Lost almost past recovery. Zames ! Where 
 Is Zames ? 
 
 Myr. Posted with the guard appointed 
 To watch before the apartment of the women. 
 
 [Exit Offi^r. 
 
 Myr. (sola.) He's gone ; and told no more than 
 that all's lost I 
 What need have I to know more ? In those words. 
 Those little words, a kingdom and a king, 
 A line of thirteen ages, and the lives 
 Of thousands, and the fortune of all left 
 With life, are merged ; and I, too, with the great, 
 like a small bubble breaking with the wave 
 Which bore it, shall be nothing. At the least. 
 My fate is in my keeping : no proud victor 
 Shall count me with his spoils. 
 
 Enter PAiOi. 
 
 Pan. Away with me, 
 
 Myrrha, without delay ; we must not lose 
 A moment — aU that's left us now. 
 
 Myr. The king ? 
 
 Piai. Sent m e hers to conduct you hence, beyond 
 The river, by a secret passage. 
 
 Myr. Then 
 
 He lives— — 
 
 Pan. And charged me to secure your life, 
 
 And beg you to live on for his sake, till 
 He can rejoin you. 
 
 Myr. Will he then give way ? 
 
 Pan. Not tiU the last. StiU, stiU he does whate'er 
 Despair can do ; and step by step disputes 
 The very palace. 
 
 Myr. They are here, then : — ay. 
 
 Their shouts come ringing through the ancient halls. 
 Never profaned by rebel echoes tiU 
 This fatal night. Farewell, Assyria's line ! 
 Farewell to all of Nimrod 1 Even the name 
 Is now no more. 
 
 Pan. Away with me — away i 
 
 Myr. No : I'll die here 1 Away, and tell youi 
 I loved him to the last. [king 
 
 Enter Sakdanapalus and Salemenes with 6-/hllerg. 
 
 Pania quits Mtkrha, and ranges liimscl/ t^-^th ' 
 them. 
 
 Sar. Since it is thus, 
 
 We'U die where we were born — in our own halls. 
 Serry your ranks — stand firm. I have despatch'c 
 A trusty satrap for the guard of Zames, 
 All fresh and faithful ; they'll be here anon. 
 AU is not over. — Pania, look to Myrrha. 
 
 [Pania returns toioanJs Mtrrha 
 
 Sal. We have breathing time ; yet once mor 
 charge, my friends — 
 One for Assyria I 
 
 Bar. Rather say for Bactria ! 
 
 My faithful Bactrians, I wiU henceforth be 
 King of your nation, and we'U hold together 
 This realm as province. 
 
 Sal. Hark ! they come — they come. 
 
 Enter Beleses and Ajrbaces with the Rebels. 
 
 Arh. Set on, we have them in the toil. Charge ! 
 charge I [ — On : 
 
 Bel. On 1 on ! — Heaven fights for us, and with us 
 [ They charge the King and Salemenes with their 
 Troops, who defend themselves till the arrival of 
 Zames, loith the Guard before mentioned. The 
 Eebels are then driven off, and pursued hy Sal- 
 emenes, etc. As the King is going to join tht 
 pursait, Beleses crosses him. 
 Bel. Ho ! tyrant — / will end this war. 
 Bar. Even so, 
 
 My warlike priest, and precious prophet, and 
 Grateful and trusty subject : — yield, I pray thee. 
 I would reserve thee for a fitter doom, 
 Rather than dip my hands in hoary blood. 
 Bel. Thine hour is come. 
 
 Sar. No, thine. — I've lately read 
 
 Though but a young astrologer, the stars ; 
 And ranging round the zodiac, foimd thy fate 
 
262 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT ni 
 
 In the sign of the Scorpion, which proclaims 
 That thou wilt now be crush'd. 
 
 Bet. But not by thee. 
 
 [T/iei/Jig/it; Belesbs is wounded and disarmed. 
 Sir. {ruisiag his sword to Japatcti him, exclaims) — 
 Now call upon thy planots, wiU they slioot 
 From the sky to preserve their seer and credit ? 
 
 [.-1 parti/ of Rnhets enter and rescue Belesbs. 
 They assail the king, who, in turn, is rescued 
 hy a Party of his Soldiers, who drive the lie- 
 hels off. 
 The villain was a prophet after all. 
 Upon them — ho I there — victory is ours. 
 
 \_E.rit in pursuit. 
 J/i/r. {to Pin.) Pursue ! Why stand'st thou here 
 and leav'st the ranks 
 Of fellow-soldiers conquering without thee ? 
 Pan. The king's command was not to quit thee. 
 Myr. Me ! 
 
 Think not of me — a single soldier's arm 
 Must not be wanting now. I ask no guard, 
 I need no guard : what, with a world at stake, 
 Keep watch ujjon a woman ? Hence, I say, 
 Or thou art shamed I Nay, then, /will go forth, 
 A feeble female, 'midst their desperate strife. 
 And bid thee guard me tliere — where thou shouldst 
 
 shield 
 Thy sovereign. [Exit Mtbbha. 
 
 Pan. Yet stay, damsel ! — She is gone. 
 
 If aught of ill betide her, better I 
 Had lost my life. Sardanapalus holds her 
 Far dearer than his kingdom, yet he fights 
 For that too ; and can I do less than he, 
 Who never flash'd a cimeter till now ? 
 Myrrha, return, and I obey you, though 
 In disobedience to the monarch. {Exit Pauia. 
 
 Enter Altada and Sfero hij an opposite door. 
 
 Alt. Myrrha 1 
 
 What, gone ? yet she was here when the flght raged, 
 And Pauia also. Can aught have befaUen them 2 
 
 Sfe. I saw both safe, when late the rebels fled : 
 They probably are but retired to make 
 Their way back to the harem. 
 
 AH. If the king 
 
 Prove victor, as it seems even now he must, 
 And miss his own Ionian, we are doom'd 
 To worse than captive rebels. 
 
 iife. Let us trace them ; 
 
 She cannot be fled far ; and, found, she makes 
 A richer prize to our soft sovereign 
 Than his recover'd kingdom. 
 
 .Alt. Baal himself 
 
 Ne'er fought more fiercely to win empire, than 
 His silken son to save it : he defies 
 All a\igury of foes or friends ; and like 
 The clos'' and sultry summer's day, which bodes 
 
 A twilight tempest, bursts forth in such thunder 
 As sweeps the air and deluges the earth. 
 The man's inscrutable. 
 
 S/e. Not more than others. 
 
 All are the sons of circumstance : away- 
 Let's seek the slave out, or prepare to be 
 Tortured for his infatuation, and 
 Condemn'd without a crime. [^Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Salesienes and Soldiers, etc. 
 
 Sid. The triumph is 
 
 Flattering : they are beaten backward from tlu 
 And we have open'd regular access [palace 
 
 To the troops station'd ou the other side 
 Euphrates, who may stiU be true ; nay, must be, 
 When they hear of our victory. But where 
 Is the chief victor ? where's the king ? 
 
 Enter Sardanapalus, cum suis, etc., and Myerh^v. 
 
 Sar. Here, brother 
 
 Sal. Unhurt, I hope. 
 
 Sar. Not quite ; but let it pass. 
 We've clear'd the palace 
 
 Sal. And I trust the city. 
 
 Our numbers gather ; and I've order'd onward 
 A cloud of Parthians, hitherto reserved. 
 All fresh and fiery, to be pour'd upon them 
 In their retreat, which soon -will be a flight. 
 
 Sar. It is already, or at least they march'd 
 Faster than I could follow with my Bactrians, 
 Who spared no speed. I am spent : give me a seat 
 
 Sal. There stands the throne, sire. 
 
 Sar. 'Tis no place to rest on, 
 
 For mind nor body : let me have a couch, 
 
 [They place a seat. 
 A peasant's stool, I care not what : so — now 
 I breathe more freely. 
 
 Sill. This great hour has proved 
 
 The brightest and most glorious of your life. 
 
 S'u: And the most tiresome. Where's my cup- 
 Bring me some water. [bearer 1 
 
 Sill, {smiling). 'Tis the first time he 
 
 Ever had such an order : even I, 
 Tour most austere of counsellors, would novr 
 Suggest a purpler beverage. 
 
 Siir. Blood — doubtless. 
 
 But there's enough of that shed ; as for wine, 
 I have learn'd to-night the price of the pure element : 
 Thrice have I drank of it, and thrice renew'd. 
 With greater strength than the grape ever gave me, 
 My charge upon the rebels. Where's the soldier 
 Who gave me water in his helmet ? 
 
 One of the Guards. Slain, sire 1 
 
 An arrow pierced his brain, while, scattering 
 The last drops from his helm, he stood in act 
 To place it on his brows. 
 
Scene l 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 263 
 
 Siir. Slain 1 unrewarded 1 
 
 And slain to serve my thirst : that's hard, poor slave I [ 
 Had he but lived, I would have gorged him with 
 Gold : all the gold of earth could ne'er repay 
 The pleasure of that draught ; for I was parch'd 
 As I am uow. [T/iti/ hritifj water — !ie drinks, 
 
 I live again — from henceforth 
 The goblet I reserve for hours of love, 
 But war on water. 
 
 .Sill. And that bandage, sire, 
 
 Which girds your arm ? 
 
 Sar. A scratch from brave Beleses. 
 
 Myr. Oh ! he is wounded I 
 
 Sar. Not too much of that ; 
 
 And vet it feels a little stiff and painful, 
 Now I am cooler. 
 
 Mi/r. Tou have bound it with 
 
 Sar. The fillet of my diadem : the first time 
 That ornament was ever aught to me, 
 Save an incumbrance. 
 
 Mi/r. {to the AtttndanU). Summon speedily 
 A leech of the most skillful : pray, retire : 
 I will unbind your wound and tend it. 
 
 Sar. Do so. 
 
 For now it throbs sufficiently : but what 
 Know'st thou of wounds ? yet wherefore do I ask ? 
 Know'st thou, my brother, where I lighted on 
 This minion ? 
 
 .S'«/. Herding with the other females. 
 
 Like frighten'd antelopes. 
 
 Sar. No : like the dam 
 
 Of the young lion, femininely raging, 
 (And femininely meaneth furiously, 
 Because aU passions in excess are female). 
 Against the hunter flying with her cub, 
 She urged on with her voice and gesture, and 
 Her floating hair and flashing eyes, the soldiers, 
 In the pursuit. 
 
 Sal. Indeed I 
 
 Sar. Tou see, this night 
 
 Made warriors of more than me. I paused 
 To look upon her, and her kindled cheek ; [hair 
 Her large black eyes, that flash'd through her long 
 As it streamed o'er her ; her blue veins that rose 
 Along her most transjjarent brow ; her nostril 
 Dilated from its symmetry ; her lips 
 Apart ; her voice that clove through all the din. 
 As a lute's pierccth through the cymbal's clash, 
 Jarr'd but not drown'd by the loud brattUng ; her 
 Waved arms, more dazzling with their own bom 
 
 whiteness 
 Than the steel her hand held, which she caught up 
 T'lom a dead soldier's grasp ; — all these things made 
 Her seem unto the troops a prophetess 
 Of victory, or Victory herself, 
 Come down to hail i i hers. 
 
 Sal. (aside). This is too much. 
 
 Again the love-fit's on him, and all's lost, 
 Unless we turn his thoughts. 
 
 (Aloud). But pray thee, sire, 
 Think of your wound — you said even now 'twas 
 painful. 
 
 Sar. That's true, too ; but I must not think of it. 
 
 Sal. I have look'd to all tilings needful, and will 
 Receive re23orts of progress made in such [uow 
 
 Orders as I had given, and then return 
 To hear your further pleasure. 
 
 Sar. Be it so. 
 
 Sal. (in retiring). Myrrha ! 
 
 Myr. Prince ! 
 
 Sal. You have shown a soul to-night, 
 
 WTiich, were he not my sister's lord But now 
 
 I have no time ; thou lovest the king ? 
 
 Myr. I love 
 
 Sardanapalus. 
 
 Sal. But wouldst have hiin king still ? 
 
 Myr. I would not have him lesf than what he 
 should be. 
 
 Sal. Well, then, to have him king, and yours, and <»i^ 
 He should, or should not be ; to have him ■'/m 
 Let him not sink back into luxury. 
 Tou have more power upon his spirit than 
 Wisdom within these walls, or fierce relpellion 
 Raging without : look well that he relapse nol. 
 
 Myr. There needed not the voice of SalemeD'» 
 To urge me on to this : I will not fail. 
 All that a woman's weakness can 
 
 Sal. Is power 
 
 Omnipotent o'er such a heart as his : 
 Exert it wisely. [Exit Salemknes. 
 
 Sar. Myrrha 1 what, at whispers 
 
 With my stern brother ? I shall soon be jealous. 
 
 Myr. {smiliiiq). Tou have cause, sire ; for on the 
 earth there breathes not 
 A man more worthy of woman's love — 
 A soldier's tnast — a suliject's reverence — 
 k king's esteem — the whole world's admiration 1 
 
 Sar. Praise him, but not so warmly. I must not 
 Hear those sweet lips grow eloquent in aught 
 That throws me into shade : yet you speak truth. 
 
 Myr. And now retire, to have your wound look'd to. 
 Pray, lean on me. 
 
 Sar. Yes, love 1 but not from pain. 
 
 [Exeunt omnes. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 S.uiDANAPAi.'US discovered sleeping vpon a Couch, and 
 occa.nonally disturbed in his Slumbers, with Mvubha 
 watching. 
 
 Myr. (sola, gazing.) 1 have stolen upon his rest, 
 if rest it be, 
 
£04 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 ^ich thus convulses slumber : shall I wake him ? 
 No, he seems calmer. Oh, thou God of Quiet I 
 Whose reign is o'er seal'd eyelids and soft dreams, 
 Or deep, deep sleep, so as to be unfathom'd. 
 Look Uke thy brother, Death — so still — so stirlees — 
 For then we are happiest, as it may be, we 
 Are happiest of aU within the reahn 
 Of thy stern, silent, and un wakening t^vin. 
 Again he moves — again the play of pain 
 Shoots o'er his features, as the sudden gust 
 Crisps the reluctant lake that lay so calm 
 IJincuth the mountain shadow ; or the blast 
 Uuffles the autumn leaves, that drooping cling 
 Faintly and motionless to their loved boughs. 
 I must awake him — yet not yet : who knows 
 From what I rouse him ? It seems pain ; but if 
 1 quicken him to heavier pain ? The fever 
 Of this tumultuous night, the grief too of 
 Hi3 woimd, though slight, may cause all this, and 
 Me n» >re to see than him to suffer. No : [shake 
 !/■' Nature use her own maternal means, — 
 .nd I await to second, not disturb her. [the stars, 
 Sai: (awakening.) Not so — although ye multipUed 
 And gave them to me as a realm to share 
 From you and with you I I would not so purchase 
 The empire of eternity. Hence — hence — 
 Old hunter of the earliest brutes 1 and ye, 
 AVho hunted fellow-creatures as if brutes I 
 < >nce bloody mortals — and now bloodier idols. 
 If your priests he not 1 And thou, ghastly beldame ! 
 Dripping with dusky gore, and trampUng on 
 The carcasses of Inde — away I away I [No — that 
 
 Where am I ? Where the spectres ? Where 
 
 la no false phantom : I should know it 'midst 
 All that the dead dare gloomily raise up 
 From their black gulf to daunt the living. Myrrha I 
 J/y. Alas I thou art pale, and on thy brow the 
 Gather like night-dew. My beloved, hush — [drops 
 Calm thee. Thy speech seems of another world. 
 And thou art lord of this. Be of good cheer ; 
 All will go well. 
 
 'SVrr. Thy hand — so — 'tis thy hand ; 
 
 'Tis flesh ; grasp— clasp — yet closer, till I feel 
 Myself that which I was. 
 
 J/y. At least know me 
 
 For what I am, and ever must be — thine. 
 
 Sar. I know it now. I know this life again. 
 Ah, Myrrha ! I have been where we shall be. 
 Jfi/r. My lord 1 
 Sar. I've been i' the grave — where worms are 
 
 And kings are But I did not deem it 9 ) ; [lords, 
 
 I thought 'twas nothing. 
 
 Ml/): So it is ; except 
 
 Unto the timid, who anticipate 
 That which may never be. 
 
 S'lr. Oh, Myrrha I if [close ? 
 
 Sleep shows such things, what may not death dis- 
 
 Afyr. I know no evil death can show, which life 
 Has not aheady shown to those who live 
 Embodied longest. If there be indeed 
 A shore where mind survives, 'twill be as mind, 
 All unincorporate : or if there flits 
 A shadow of this cumbrous clog of clay, 
 Which stalks, methinks, between our souls and heav- 
 And fetters us to earth — at least the phantom, [en, 
 Whate'er it have to fear, will not fear death. 
 
 Sar. I fear it not ; but I have felt — have seen- 
 A legion of the dead. 
 
 J/yc. And so have I. 
 
 The dust we tread upon was once alive. 
 And wretched. But proceed : what hast thou seen ? 
 Speak it, 'twill Ughten thy dimm'd mind. 
 Stir. Methought — 
 
 .Vi/r. Yet pause, thou art tired — in pain — ex- 
 hausted : all 
 Which can impair both strength and spirit : seek 
 Rather to sleep again. 
 
 Sar. Not now — I would not 
 
 Dream ; though I know it now to be a dream [it ? 
 What I have dreamt : — and canst thou bear to heat 
 Mi/r. I can bear all things, dreams of Ufe or death, 
 Wliich I participate with you, in semblance 
 Or full reaUty. 
 
 Sar. And this look'd real, 
 
 I tell you after that these eyes were open, 
 I saw them in their flight — for then they fled. 
 Mi/r. Say on. 
 
 S'ir. I saw, that is, I dream'd myself 
 
 Here — here — even where we are, guests as we were, 
 Myself a host that deem'd himself but guest, 
 Willing to equal all in social freedom ; 
 But, on my right hand and my left, instead 
 Of thee and Zames, and our eustom'd meeting 
 Was ranged on my left hand a haughty, dark, 
 And deadly face — I could not recognize it. 
 Yet I had seen it, though I knew not where : 
 The features were a giant's, and the eye 
 Was still, yet lighted ; his long looks ciu-l'd down 
 On his vast bust, whence a huge quiver rose 
 With shait-hcads fuathcr'd from the eagle's wing, 
 That pecp'd up bristling through his serpent hair. 
 I invited him to fill the cup which stood 
 Between us, but he answer'd not — I fiU'd it — 
 He took it not, but stared upon me, till 
 I trembled at the flx'd glare of his eye : 
 I frown'd upon him as a king should fi'owu- 
 Ile frown'd not in his turn, but look'd upon me 
 With the same aspect, which ajjpaU'd me more. 
 Because it changed not : and I turn'd for reftlge 
 To milder guests, and sought them on the right, 
 Where thou wert wont to be. But — — [//>■ pauses. 
 Myr. Wliat instead f 
 
 Sar. In thy own chair — thy own place in the ban 
 quet — 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 SARDAXAPALUS. 
 
 265 
 
 I sought thy sweet face in the circle — ^but 
 Instead — a grray-hair'd, wither'd, bloody-eyed, 
 And bloody-handed, ghastly, ghostly thing. 
 Female in garb, and cro-svn'd upon the brow, 
 Furrow'd with years, yet sneering \^-ith the passion 
 Of vengeance, leering too with that of lust, 
 Sate : — my veins curdled. 
 
 Myr. Is this all ? 
 
 &ir. Upon 
 
 Her right hand — her lank, bird-like, right hand — 
 A goblet, bubbling o'er with blood ; and on [stood 
 Her left, another, fiird with — what I saw not, 
 But turn'd from it and her. But all along 
 The table sate a range of crowned wretches, 
 Of various aspects, but of one expression. 
 
 Myr. And felt you not this a mere vision ? 
 
 &jr. No : 
 
 It was so palpable, I could have touch'd them. 
 I turn'd from one face to another, in 
 The hope to find at last one which I knew 
 Ere I saw theirs : but no — all turn'd upon me, 
 And stared, but neither ate nor drank, but stared, 
 Till I grew stone, as they seem'd half to be, 
 Yet breathing stone, for I felt Ufe in them, 
 And life in me : there was a horrid kind 
 Of sympathy between us, as if they 
 Had lost a part of death to come to me, 
 And I the half of life to sit by them. 
 We were in an existence all apart 
 
 From heaven or earth And rather let me see 
 
 Death all than such a being ! 
 
 Myr. ■ And the end ? 
 
 S(iT. At last I sate, marble, as they, when rose 
 The hunter and the crone ; and smiUng on me — 
 Yes, the enlarged but noble aspect of 
 The hunter smiled upon me — I should say. 
 His hps, for his eyes moved not — and the woman's 
 Thin Ups relax'd to something like a smile. 
 Both rose, and the crown'd figures on each hand 
 Rose also, as if aping their chief shades — 
 Mere mimics even in death — but I sate still : 
 A desperate courage crept through every limb. 
 And at the last I fear'd them not, but laugh'd 
 Full in their phantom faces. But then — then 
 The hunter laid his hand on mine : I took it. 
 And grasp'd it — but it melted from my own ; 
 While he too vanish'd, and left nothing but 
 The memory of a hero, for he look'd so. 
 
 Myr. And was : the ancestor of heroes, too. 
 And thine no less. 
 
 S(ir. Ay, Myrrha, but the woman, 
 
 The female who remain'd, she tlew upon me. 
 And burnt my Ups up with her noisome kisses ; 
 And, flinging down the goblets on each hand, 
 Methought their poisons flow'd around us, till 
 Each form'd a hideous river. Still she citing ; 
 The other phantoms, like a row of statues, 
 34 
 
 Stood dull as in our temples, but she still 
 Embraced me, while I shnmk from her, as if. 
 In lieu of her remote descendant, I 
 Hud been the son who slew her for her incest. 
 Then — then — a chaos of all loathsome tilings [ing— 
 Throng'd thick and shapeless : I was dead, yet, feel- 
 Buried and raised again — consumed by worms, 
 Piu-ged by the flames, and wither'd in the air I 
 I can fix nothing farther of my thouglits. 
 Save that I long'd for thee, and sought for thee, 
 In all these agonies, — and woke and found thee. 
 
 Myr. So shalt thou find me ever at thy side. 
 Here and hereafter, if the last may be. 
 But think not of these things — the mere creations 
 Of late events, acting upon a frame 
 Unused to toU, yet overwrought by toil 
 Such as might try the sternest. 
 
 8dr. I am better. 
 
 Now that I see thee once more, ichat teas seen 
 Seems nothing. 
 
 Enter Salemenes. 
 
 Sal. Is the king so soon awake ? , 
 
 S'lr. Yes, brother, and I would I had not slept ; 
 For all the predecessors of our line 
 Rose up, methought, to drag me dovsTi to them 
 My father was amongst them, too ; but he, 
 I know not why, kept from me, leaving me 
 Between the hunter-founder of our race, 
 And her, the homicide and husband-killer. 
 Whom you call glorious. 
 
 S'll. So I term you also. 
 
 Now you have shown a spirit hke to hers. 
 By daybreak I propose that we set forth. 
 And charge once more the rebel crew, who still 
 Keep gathering hea i, repulsed, but not quite quell'd, 
 
 Siir. How wear? the night ? 
 
 Sdl. There yet remains soir.c fcs? I 
 
 Of darkness : use them for your further res>t 
 
 Sar. No, not to-night, if 'tis not gone : methoi'.gh 
 I pass'd hours in that vision. 
 
 Myr. Scarcely one ; 
 
 I watch'd by you : it was a heavy hour. 
 But an hour only. 
 
 Sar. Let us then hold coimcil ; 
 
 To-morrow we set forth. 
 
 Sal. But ere that time, 
 
 I had a grace to seek. 
 
 Sar. 'Tis granted. 
 
 Sal. Hear it 
 
 Ere you reply too readily ; and 'tis 
 For your ear only. 
 
 Myr. Prince, I take my leave. 
 
 [Exit Mtrrha. 
 
 Sal. That slave deserves her freedom. 
 
 Sar. Freedom tmly I 
 
 That slave deserves to share a throne. 
 
266 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 8al. Your patience — 
 
 'Tis not yet vacant, and 'tis of its partner 
 I come to speak with you. 
 
 Sai: How ! of the queen ? 
 
 Sal. Even so. I judged it tkting for their safety 
 That, ere the dawn, she sets forth with her children 
 For Paphlagonia, where our kinsman Cotta 
 Governs ; and there at all events secure 
 My nephews and your sons their lives, and with them 
 Their just pretensions to the crown in case 
 
 Sar. I perish — as is probable : well thought — 
 Let them set forth with a sure escort. 
 
 8a!. That 
 
 Is all provided, and the gaUey ready 
 To drojj down the Euphrates ; but ere they 
 Depart, will you not see 
 
 Sar. My sons ? It may 
 
 Unman my heart, and the poor boys will weep ; 
 And what can I reply to comfort them. 
 Save with some hoUow hopes, and iU-worn smOes ? 
 You know I cannot feign. 
 
 Sal. But you can feel ; 
 
 At least, I trust so : in a word, the queen 
 Requests to see you ere you part — forever. 
 
 Sar. Unto what end ? what purpose ? I will grant 
 Aught — aU that she can ask — but such a meeting. 
 
 Sal. You know, or ought to know, enough of 
 women. 
 Since you have studied them so steadily. 
 That what they ask in aught that touches on 
 The heart, is dearer to their feelings or 
 Their fancy, than the whole external world. 
 I think as you do of my sister's wish ; 
 But 'twas her wish — she is my sister — you 
 Her husband — will you grant it ? 
 
 Sar. 'TwiU be useless : 
 
 But let her come. 
 
 Sal. I go. [E.rit Salemenes. 
 
 Sar. We have lived asunder 
 
 Too long to meet again — and now to meet ! 
 Have I not cares enow, and pangs enow, 
 To bear alone, that we must mingle sorrows. 
 Who have ceased to mingle love ? 
 
 Ilc-mlcr SAI.EMEKE8 and Zarina. 
 
 Sal. My sister ! Courage : 
 
 Shame not our blood with trembling, but remember 
 From whence we sjirung. The queen is ijresent, sire. 
 
 Zar. I pray thee, brother, leave me. 
 
 Sal. Since you ask it. 
 
 \_Exit Salemenes. 
 
 Zar. Alone with him 1 How many a year has pass'd. 
 Though sve are still so young, since we have met. 
 Which I have worn in widowhood of heart. 
 He loved me not : yet he seems little changed — 
 Changed to me only — would the change were mutual 1 
 He speaks not — scarce regards me — not a word — 
 
 Nor look — yet he wan soft of voice and aspect, 
 Indifferent, not austere. My lord I 
 
 Sar. Zarina I 
 
 Zar. No, not Zarina — do not say Zarina. 
 That tone — that word — annihilates long years, 
 And things which make them longer. 
 
 -Sar. 'Tis too late 
 To think of these jjast di-eams. Let's not rejaroach — 
 That is, reproach me not — for the la»t time 
 
 Zar. And first. I ne'er reproach'd you. 
 
 Sar. 'Tis most true 
 
 And that reproof comes heavier on my heart 
 Than But our hearts are not in our own power. 
 
 Zar. Nor hands ; but I gave both. 
 
 Sar. Your brother said 
 
 It was your vnW to see me, ere you went 
 From Nineveh with {lie /lesita/ts). 
 
 Zar. Our children : it is true. 
 
 I wish'd to thank you that you have not divided 
 My heart from all that's left it now to love — 
 Those who are yours and mine, who look Uke you, 
 And look upon me as you look'd upon me 
 Once But they have not changed. 
 
 Sar. Nor ever wiFi 
 
 I fain would have them dutiful. 
 
 Zar. I cherish 
 
 Those infants, not alone from the blind love 
 Of a fond mother, but as a fond woman. 
 They are now the only tie between us. 
 
 Sar. Deem not 
 
 I have not done you justice : rather make them 
 Resemble your own line, than their own sire. 
 I trust them with you — to you : fit them for 
 
 A throne, or, if that be denied You have lieard 
 
 Of this night's tumults ? 
 
 Zar. I had half forgotten, 
 
 And could have welcomed any grief, save yours. 
 Which gave me to behold your face again. 
 
 Sar. The throne — I say it not in fear — but 'tis 
 In peril ; they pcrhajjs may never mount it I 
 But let them not for this lose sight of it. 
 I will dare aU things to bequeath it them ; 
 But if I fail, then they must win it back 
 Bravely — and, won, wear it wisely, not as I 
 Have wasted down my royalty. 
 
 Zar. They ne'er 
 
 Shall know from me of aught but what may honor 
 Their father's memory. 
 
 Sar. Rather let them hear 
 
 The truth from you than from a trampling world. 
 If they be in adversity, they'll learn 
 Too soon the scorn of crowds for crowuless princes, 
 And find that all their father's sins are theirs. 
 My boys ! — I could have borne it wore I childless. 
 
 Zar. Oh ! do not say so — do not poison all 
 My peace left, by unwishing that thou wert 
 A father. If thou couquerest, they shall reign. 
 
SCENJ3 1. 
 
 SARDAXAPALUS. 
 
 267 
 
 And honor Tiim who saved the reahn for them, 
 Bo little cared for as his ovm ; and if 
 
 Sar. 'Tis lost, all earth will cry out, thank your 
 And they will swell the echo with a curse, [father ! 
 
 Zar. That they shall never do ; but rather honor 
 The name of him, who, dying like a king, 
 In his last hours did more for his own memory 
 Than many monarchs in a length of days, 
 Which date the flight of time, but make no annals. 
 
 Sar. Our annals draw perchance unto their close ; 
 But at the least, whate'er the past, their end 
 Shall be like their beginning — -memorable. 
 
 Zai . Yet, be not rash — be careful of your life. 
 Live but for those who love. 
 
 Sar. And who are they ? 
 A slave, who loves from passion — I"ll not say 
 Ambition — she has seen thrones shake, and loves ; 
 A few friends who have revell'd till we are 
 As one, for they are nothing if I fall ; 
 A brother I have injured — children whom 
 I have neglected, and a spouse 
 
 Zar. Who loves. 
 
 Sar. And pardons ? 
 
 Zar. I have never thought of this, 
 
 And cannot pardon till I have condemn'd. 
 
 Sar. My wife ! 
 
 Zar. Kow blessing on thee for that word ! 
 
 I never thought to hear it more — from thee. 
 
 Sar. Oh ! thou wilt hear it from my subjects. Yes— 
 These slaves, whom I have nurtured, pamper'd, fed. 
 And swoln with peace, and gorged with plenty, till 
 They reign themselves — all monarchs in their man- 
 sions — 
 Now swarm forth in rebellion, and demand 
 His death, who made their Uvea a jubilee ; 
 While tlie few upon whom I have no claim 
 Are faithful ! This is true, yet monstrous. 
 
 Zar. 'Tis 
 
 Perhaps too natural ; for benefits 
 Turn poison in bad minds. 
 
 Sar. And good ones make 
 
 Good out of evil Happier than the bee. 
 Which hives not but from wholesome flowers. 
 
 Zar. Then reap 
 
 The honey, nor inquire whence 'tis derived. 
 Be satisfied — you are not aU abandon'd, 
 
 Sar. My life insures me that. How long, bethink 
 Were not I yet a king, should I be mortal ; [you. 
 That is, where mortals are, not where they must be ? 
 
 Zar. I know not. But yet Uve for my — that is. 
 Your children's sake ! 
 
 Sar. My gentle, wrong'd Zarina ! 
 
 [ am the very slave of circumstance 
 And impulse — borne away with every breath ! 
 Misplaced upon the tlirone — misplaced in life. 
 I know not what I could have been, but feel 
 I am not what I should be — let it end. 
 
 But take this with thee : if I was not form'd 
 To prize a love like thine, a mind like thine. 
 Nor dote even on thy beauty — as I've doted 
 On lesser charms, for no cause save that such 
 Devotion was a duty, and I hated 
 All that look'd like a chain for me or others, 
 (This even rebellion must avouch) ; yet hear 
 These words, perhaps among my last — that none 
 E'er valued more thy Wrtues, though he knew not 
 To profit by them — as the miner lights 
 Upon a vein of virgin ore, discovering 
 That which avails him nothing : he hath found it, 
 But 'tis not his — but some superior's, who 
 Placed him to dig, but not divide the wealth 
 Which sparkles at his feet ; nor dare he lift 
 Nor poise it, but must grovel on, upturning 
 The sullen earth. 
 
 Zar. Oh ! if thou hast at length 
 
 Discover'd that my love is worth esteem, 
 I ask no more — but let us hence together. 
 And / — let me say we — shall yet be happy. 
 Assyria is not aU the earth — we'll find 
 A world out of our own — and be more bless'd 
 Than I have ever been, or thou, with all 
 An empire to induige thee. 
 
 Entei- Salemenes. 
 
 Sal. I must part ye — 
 
 The moments, which must not be lost, are passing. 
 
 Zar. Inhuman brother ! wilt thou thus weigh ou' 
 Instants so high and blest ? 
 
 Sal Blest ! 
 
 Zar. He hath been 
 
 So gentle with me, that I cannot think 
 Of quitting. 
 
 Sal. So — this feminine farewell 
 
 Ends as such partings end, in ?io departure. 
 I thought as much, and yielded against all 
 My better bodings. But it must not be. 
 
 Zar. Not be ? 
 
 Sal. Remain, and perish 
 
 Zar. With my husband^— 
 
 SaK And children. 
 
 Zar. Alas ! 
 
 Sal. Hear me, sister, like 
 My sister : — all's prepared to make your safety 
 Certain, and of the boys too, our last hopes ; 
 'Tis not a single question of mere feeling. 
 Though that were much — but 'tis a point of state : 
 The rebels would do more to seize upon 
 The offspring of their sovereign, and so crush 
 
 Zar. Ah 1 do not name it. 
 
 Sal. Well, then, mark me : when 
 
 They are safe beyond the Median's grasp, the rebels 
 Have miss'd their chi.f aim — the extinction of 
 The line of Nimrod. Though the present king 
 Fall, his sons live for victor^ and vengeance. 
 
868 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACS rv 
 
 Zar. But could not I remain, alone ? 
 
 Sal. Wliat! leave 
 
 Your chDdren, with two parents and yet orphans — 
 tn a strange land — so young, so distant ?. 
 
 Zar. ' No— 
 
 My heart will break. 
 
 Sal. Now you know all — decide. 
 
 Sar. Zarina, he hath spoken well, and we 
 Must yield awhile to this necessity. 
 Remaining here, you may lose all ; departing, 
 You save the better part of what is left. 
 To both of us, and to such loyal hearts 
 A.8 yet beat in these kingdoms. 
 
 Sal. The time presses. 
 
 Sar. Go, then. If e'er we meet again, perhaps 
 I may be worthier of you — and, if not. 
 Remember that my faults, though not atoned for, 
 Are emlel. Yet, I dread thy nature will 
 Grieve more above the bliglited name and ashes 
 
 Which once were mightiest in Assyria— than 
 
 But I grow womanish again, and must not ; 
 I must learn sternness now. My sins have all 
 Been of the softer order— ^j</« thy tears — 
 I do not bid thee not to shed them — 'twere 
 Easier to stop Euphrates at its source 
 Than one tear of a true and tender heart — 
 But let me not behold them ; they unman me 
 Here when I had remann'd myself. My brother. 
 Lead her away. 
 
 Zar. Oh, God 1 I never shaU 
 
 Behold him more ! [be obey'd. 
 
 Sal. (striviiu/ to conduct her.) Nay, sister, I mviit, 
 
 Zar. I must remain — away 1 you shall not hold 
 What, shall he die alone ? — ^I live alone ? [me. 
 
 Sal. He shall not die alone ; but lonely you 
 Have lived for years. 
 
 Zar. That's false I I knew he lived, 
 
 And lived upon his image — let me go I 
 
 Sal. {conducting her 'off the stage.) Nay, then, I 
 must use some fraternal force. 
 Which you will pardon. 
 
 Zir. Never. Help me I Oh, 
 
 Bardanapalus, wilt thou thus beliold me 
 Tom from thee ? 
 
 Sal. Nay — then all is lost again. 
 
 If that this moment is not gain'd. 
 
 Zar. My brain turns — 
 
 My eyes fail —where is he ? [She faints. 
 
 Sar. (advancing.) No — set her down — 
 
 She's dead — and you have slain her. 
 
 Sal. 'Tis the mere 
 
 Faintness of o'erwrought passion : in the air 
 She will recover. Pray, keep back. — [Aside.l I must 
 Avail myself of this sole moment to 
 Bear her to where her children are embark'd, 
 r the royal galley on the river. 
 
 [SaI/EMENES lean hei off. 
 
 Sar. (solus.) This, too — 
 
 And this too mist I suffer — I, who never 
 Inflicted purposely on human hearts 
 A voluntary pang ! But that is false — 
 She loved me, and I loved her. Fatal passion 1 
 Why dost thou not expire at once in hearts 
 Which thou hast lighted up at once ? Zarina 1 
 I must pay dearly for the desolation 
 Now brought upon thee. Had I never loved 
 But thee, I should have been an unojiposed 
 Monarch of honoring nations. To what gulfs 
 A single deviation from the track 
 Of human duties leads even those who claim 
 The homage of mankind as their born due 
 And find it, till they forfeit it themselves 1 
 
 Enter Mtkbha. 
 
 Sar. You here ! Who call'd you ? 
 
 3Igr. No one — but I heard 
 
 Far ofi' a voice of wail and lamentation, 
 And thought 
 
 Sar. It forms no portion of your duties 
 
 To enter here till sought for. 
 
 Mi/r. Though I might, 
 
 Perhaps, recall some softer words of yours, 
 (iVlthough they too were ehiding.)^\\iic\\ reproved me, 
 Because I ever dreaded to intrude ; 
 Resisting my own msh and your injunction 
 To heed no time nor presence, but approach you 
 Uncall'd for : — I retire. 
 
 Sar. Yet stay — being here. 
 
 I pray you pardon me : events have sour'd me 
 Till I wax peevish — heed it not : I shall 
 Soon be myself again. 
 
 Myr. I wait with patience, 
 
 What I shall see with pleasure. 
 
 Sar. Scarce a moment 
 
 Before your entrance in this hall, Zarina, 
 Queen of Assyria, departed hence. 
 
 Myr. Ah 1 
 
 Sar. Wherefore do you start ? 
 
 Myr. Did I do so ? 
 
 Sar. 'Twas well you enter'd by another portal, 
 Else you had met. That pang at least is spared her 1 
 
 ^[yr. I know to feel for her. 
 
 Sar. That is too much, 
 
 And beyond nature — 'tis nor mutual. 
 Nor possible. You cannot pity her. 
 Nor slie aught but 
 
 ilyr. Despise the favorite slave ? 
 
 Not more than I have ever scorn'd myself. 
 
 Sar. Scorn'd ! what, to be the envy of your sex, 
 And lord it o'er the heart Df the world's lord ? 
 
 Myr. Were you the loi 1 of twice ten thousand 
 worlds — 
 As you are like to lose the one you sway'd— 
 I did abase myself as much in being 
 
BrEJJE 1. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 269 
 
 Your paramour, as though you were a peasant — 
 Nay, more, if that the peasant were a Greek. 
 
 Sar. You talk it well 
 
 Mijr. And truly. 
 
 Sar. In the hour 
 
 Of man's adversity all things grow daring 
 Against the falling ; but as I am not 
 Quite fallen, nor now disposed to bear reproaches, 
 Perhaps because I merit them too often, 
 Let us then part while peace is still between us. 
 Jfyr. Part! 
 
 Siir. Ilave not all past human being parted, 
 
 And must not all the present one day part ? 
 ^fy|■. Why? 
 
 Sar. For your safety, which I will have look'd to, 
 /Vith a strong escort to your native land ; 
 And such gifts, as, if you had not been all 
 A queen, shall make your dowry worth a kingdom. 
 Myr. I pray you talk not thus. 
 Sar. The queen is gone : 
 
 You need not shame to follow. I would fall 
 Alone — I seek no partners but in pleasure. 
 
 Myr. And I no pleasure but in parting not. 
 You shall not force me from you. 
 
 Sar. Think weU of it- 
 
 It soon may be too late. 
 
 Mi/r. So let it be ; 
 
 For then you cannot separate me from you. 
 Snr. And will not ; but I thought you wish'd it. 
 Mi/r. I ! 
 
 Sar. You spoke of your abasement. 
 Mi/r. And I feel it 
 
 Deeply — more deeply than all things but love. 
 Sar. Then fly from it. 
 
 J/yr. 'TvriU not recall the past — 
 
 'TwiU not restore my honor, nor my heart. 
 No — here I stand or faU. If that you conquer, 
 I live to joy in your great triumph : should 
 Your lot be different, I'U not weep, but share it. 
 You did not doubt me a few hours ago. 
 
 Sa>: Your courage never — nor your love till now ; 
 And none could make me doubt it save yourself. 
 
 Those words 
 
 Mi/r. Were words. I pray you, let the proofs 
 Be in the past acts you were pleased to praise 
 This very night, and in my further beai'ing, 
 Beside, wherever you are Ijorne by fate. 
 
 Sar. I am content ; and, trusting in my cause, 
 Think we may yet be victors and return 
 To peace — the only victory I covet. 
 To me war is no glory — conquest no 
 Renown. To be forced thus to uj)hold my right 
 Sits heavier on my heart than aU the wrongs 
 Tliese men would bow me down with. Never, never 
 Can I forget this night, even should I live 
 To ,idd it to the memory of others. 
 I thought to have made mine inoffensive rule 
 
 An era of sweet peace 'midst bloody annals, 
 
 A green spot amidst desert centuries, 
 
 On which the future would tiim back and smile, 
 
 And cultivate, or sigh when it could not 
 
 Recall Sardanapalus' golden reign. 
 
 I thought to have made my realm a paradise, 
 
 And every moon an epoch of new pleasures. 
 
 I took the rabble's shouts for love — the breath 
 
 Of friends for truth — the Kps of woman for 
 
 My only guerdon — so they are, my Myrrha : 
 
 [He i'isses hrr. 
 Kiss me. Now let them take my realm and life : 
 They shall have both, but never thee ! 
 
 Myr. No, never ! 
 
 Man may desjioil his brother man of all [yields 
 That's great or glittering — kingdoms fall — hosts 
 Friends fail — slaves fly — and all betray — and, more 
 Than all, the most indebted — but a heart 
 That loves without self-love 1 'Tis here — now prove. 
 
 Enter Sai,emenE8. 
 
 Sfd. I sought you. How I she. here again ? 
 
 Snr. Return not 
 
 Now to reproof: methinks your aspect speaks 
 Of higher matter than a woman's presence. 
 
 Sal. The only woman whom it much imports me 
 At such a moment now is safe in absence — • 
 The queen's embark'd. 
 
 Sar. And well ? say chat much. 
 
 Sal Yea. 
 
 Her transient weakness has pass'd o'er ; at least, 
 It settled into tearless silence : her 
 Pale face and glittering eye, after a glance 
 Upon her sleeping children, were still fix'd 
 Upon the palace towers as the s\^'ift galley 
 Stole down the hurrying stream beneath the star- 
 But she said nothing. [light ; 
 
 Sar. Would I felt no more 
 
 Than she has said ! 
 
 Sn/. 'Tis now too late to feel I 
 
 Your feelings cannot cancel a sole pang : 
 To change them, my advices bring sure tidings 
 That the rebellious Medes and Chaldees, marshaU"d 
 By their two leaders, are already up 
 In arms again ; and, serrying their ranks, 
 Prejjare to attack : they have apparently 
 Been join"d by other satraps. 
 
 Sar. What ! more rebels 
 
 Let us be fii'st, then. 
 
 Sal. That were hardly prudent 
 
 Now, though it was our first intention. If 
 By noon to-morrow we are join'd by those 
 I've sent for by sure messengers, we shall be 
 In strength enough to venture an attack. 
 Ay, and pursuit too : but till then, my voice 
 Is to await the onset. 
 
?70 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 4CT T, 
 
 8ar. I detest 
 
 Tliat waiting : though it seems so safe to fight 
 Behind high -walls, and hurl down foes into 
 Deep fosses, or behold them sprawl on spikes 
 Strew'd to receive them, still I like it not — 
 My soul seems lukewarm ; but when I set on them, 
 Though they were piled on mountains, I would have 
 A. pluck at them, or perish in hot blood ! — 
 ! et me then charge 1 
 
 Sal. You talk like a young soldier. 
 
 Sar. I am no soldier, but a man : speak not 
 Of soldiership, I loathe the word, and those 
 Who pride themselves upon it ; but direct me 
 VTherc I may pour upon them. 
 
 SnL You must spare 
 
 To expose your life too hastily ; 'tis not 
 Like mine or any other subject's breath : 
 The whole war turns upon it — with it ; this 
 Alone creates it, kindles, and may quench it — 
 Prolong it — end it. 
 
 Sar. Then let us end both ! 
 
 'Twere better thus, perhaps, than prolong either ; 
 I'm sick of one, perchance of both. 
 
 \^A trumpet sounds without. 
 
 Sal. Hark 1 
 
 Sar. Let us 
 
 Reply, not listen. 
 
 Sal. And your wound 1 
 
 Sar. 'Tis bound — 
 
 'Tis heal'd — I had forgotten it. Away I 
 A leech's lancet would have scratch'd me deeper ; 
 The slave that gave it might be well ashamed 
 To have struck so weakly. 
 
 Sal. Now, may none this hour 
 
 Strike with a better aim 1 
 
 Snr. Ay, if we conquer ; 
 
 But if not, they wiU only leave to me [them 1 
 
 A task they might have spared their king. Upon 
 {^Trumpet sounds again. 
 
 Sal. I am with you. 
 
 Sar, Ho, my arms ! again, my arms 1 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I . 
 
 Tlie same Hall in the Palace. 
 
 Mtkrha and Balea. 
 
 Myr. (at a icindoic.) The day at last has broken. 
 Wliat a night 
 Hath usher'd it 1 How beautiful in heaven ! 
 Though varied with a transitory storm. 
 More Ijeautiful in that variety ! 
 How hideous upon earth 1 where peace and hope, 
 kad love and revel, in an hour were trampled 
 By human passions to a human chaos, 
 
 Not yet resolved to separate elements. 
 
 'Tis warring stiU I And can the sun so rise, 
 
 So bright, so rolling back the clouds into 
 
 Vapors more lovely than the unclouded sky, 
 
 "With golden pinnacles, and snowy mountains, 
 
 And billows purpler than the ocean's, making 
 
 In heaven a glorious mockery of the earth, 
 
 So like we almost deem it permanent ; 
 
 So fleeting, we can scarcely call it aught 
 
 Beyond a vision, 'tis so transiently 
 
 Scatter'd along the eternal vault : and yet 
 
 It dwells upon the soul, and soothes the soul, 
 
 And blends itself into the soul, until 
 
 Sunrise and sunset form the haunted epoch. 
 
 Of sorrow and of love ; which they who mark not. 
 
 Know not the realms where those twin genii 
 
 (Who chasten and who purify our hearts. 
 
 So that we would not change their sweet rebukes 
 
 For aD the boisterous joys that ever shook 
 
 The air with clamor) build the palaces 
 
 Where their fond votaries repose and breathe 
 
 Briefly ; but in that brief cool calm inhale 
 
 Enough of heaven to enable them to bear 
 
 The rest of common, heavy, human hours. 
 
 And dream them through in jilacid sufferance ; 
 
 Though seemingly employ'd like all the rest 
 
 Of toiling breathers in allotted tasks 
 
 Of pain or pleasure, two names for one feeling, 
 
 Which our internal, restless agony 
 
 Would vary in the sound, although the sense 
 
 Escapes our highest efforts to be hajipy. 
 
 B'll. You muse right caludy : and can you so 
 The sunrise which may be our last ? [watch 
 
 J7}/r. It is 
 
 Therefore that I so watch it, and reproach 
 Those eyes, which never m;iy behold it more. 
 For ha\-ing look'd upon it oft, too oft, 
 Without the reverence and the rapture due 
 To that which keeps all earth from being as fragile 
 As I am in this form. Come, look upon it. 
 The Chaldee's god, which, when I gaze upon, 
 I grow almost a convert to your Baal. 
 
 Bal. As now he reigns in heaven, so once on earth 
 He sway'd. 
 
 ^f|/r. He sw.ays it now for more, then ; never 
 
 Had earthly monarch half the power and glory 
 Which centres in a single ray of his. 
 
 Bal. Surely he is a god ! 
 
 Mi/r. So we Greeks deem too ; 
 
 And yet I sometimes think that gorgeous orb 
 Must rather be the abode of gods than one 
 Of the inmiortal sovereigns. Now he breaks 
 Through all the clouds, and fills my eyes with light 
 That shuts the world out. I can look no more. 
 
 Bal Hark 1 heard you r ot a sound ? 
 
 ^fl/r. No, "twas mere fancy ; 
 
 They battle it beyond the wall, and not 
 
6CKNE I. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 271 
 
 As in late midnight conflict in the very 
 Chambers : the palace has become a fortress 
 Since that insidious hour ; and here, within 
 The very centre, girded by vast courts 
 And regal haUs of pyramid proportions, 
 Which must be carried one by one before 
 They penetrate to ivhere they then arrived, 
 We are as much shut in even from the sound 
 Of peril as from glory. 
 
 Bal. But they reach'd 
 
 Thus far before. 
 
 Myr. Yes, by surprise, and were 
 
 Beat back by valor : now at once we have 
 Courage and vigilance to guard us. 
 
 Bal. May they 
 
 Prosper 1 
 
 Myr. That is the prayer of many, and 
 The dread of more : it is an anxious hour ; 
 I strive to keep it from my thoughts. Alas ! 
 How vainly ! 
 
 Bal. It is said the king's demeanor 
 
 In the late action scarcely more apjiall'd 
 The rebels than astonish'd his true subjects. 
 
 Myr. 'Tis easy to astonish or appal 
 The vulgar mass which molds a horde of slaves ; 
 But he did bravely. 
 
 Bal. Slew he not Beleses ? 
 
 I heard the soldiers say he struck him down. 
 
 Myr. The wretch was overthrown, but rescued to 
 TriumjA, perhaps, o'er one who vanquish'd him 
 In fight, as he had spared him in his peril ; 
 And by that heedless pity risk'd a crown. 
 
 Bal. Hark ! [slowly. 
 
 Myr. You are right : some steps approach, but 
 
 Enter Soldiers, hearing in Salembnes wounded, toith 
 
 a hroTceti Javelin in his Side ; they seat him upon 
 
 one of the Couches which furnish the Ajiartmerit. 
 
 3[yr. Oh, Jove I 
 
 Bah Then all his over. 
 
 Sal. That is false. 
 
 Hew down the slave who says so, if a soldier. 
 
 Myr. Spare him — ^he's none : a mere court butter- 
 That flutters in the pageant of a monarch. [fly, 
 
 Sal. Let him live on, then. 
 
 Myr. So wilt thou, I trust. 
 
 Sal. I fain would live this hour out, and the event. 
 But doubt it. Wherefore did he bear me here ? 
 
 Sol. By the king's order. When the javelin struck 
 '5o 1 fell and fainted : 'twas his strict command [you. 
 To bear you to this hall. 
 
 Sal. 'Twas not ill done : 
 
 For seeming slain in that cold dizzy trance, 
 The sight might shake our soldiers — but — 'tis vain, 
 I feel it ebbing ! 
 
 Myr. Let me see the woumd ; 
 
 I am not quite skilless : in my native land 
 
 'Tis part of our instruction. War being constant, 
 We are nerved to look on such things. 
 
 Sol. Best extract 
 
 The javelin. 
 
 Myr. Hold 1 no, no, it cannot be. 
 
 S'd. I am sped, then 1 
 
 Myr. With the blood that fast must follow 
 
 The extracted weapon, I do fear thy life. [you 
 
 Sal. And I not death. Where was the king when 
 Convey'd me from the spot where I was stricken ? 
 
 Sol. Upon the same ground, and encouraging 
 With voice and gesture the dispirited troops 
 Who had seen you fall, and falter'd back. 
 
 Sill. Whom heard ye 
 
 Named next to the command ? 
 
 Sol. I did not hear. 
 
 Sal. Fly, then, and tell him, 'twas my last request 
 That Zames take my post until the junction. 
 So hoped for, yet delay'd, of Ofrataucs, 
 Satrap of Susa. Leave me here : our troops 
 Are not so numerous as to spare your absence. 
 
 Sol. But prince ■ 
 
 Sal. Hence, I say ! Here's a courtier and 
 
 A woman, the best chamber company. 
 As you would not permit me to expire 
 Upon the field, I'll have no idle soldiers 
 About my sick couch. Hence ! and do my bidding 1 
 
 [Exeunt the Soldiers. 
 
 Mijr. Gallant and glorious spirit ! must the earth 
 So soon resign thee ? 
 
 Sal. Gentle Myrrha, 'tis 
 
 The end I would have chosen, had I saved 
 The monarch or the monarchy by this ; 
 As 'tis, I have not outlived them. 
 
 Myr. You wax paler. 
 
 Sal. Your hand ; this broken weapon but prolongs 
 My pangs, without sustaining life enough 
 To make me useful : I would draw it forth. 
 And my life with it, could I but hear how 
 The fight goes. 
 
 Enter Saedanapalijs and soldiers. 
 
 Sar. My best brother ! 
 
 Sal. And the battle 
 
 Is lost ? 
 
 Sar. (despondiuffly.) You see me here. 
 
 Sal. I'd rather see you thus I 
 
 [He draws out the weajjon from the wound, 
 and dies. 
 Sar. And tMis I will be soon ; unless the succor, 
 The last frail reed of our beleagucr'd hopes. 
 Arrive with Ofratanes. 
 
 Myr. Did you not 
 
 Receive a token from your dying brother, 
 Appointing Zames hief ? 
 
 Sar. I aid. 
 
272 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT Y 
 
 Where's Zames 1 
 
 And Altada ? 
 
 Dying. 
 
 Mi/r. 
 
 Sar. Dead, 
 
 Mt/r. 
 
 Sar. 
 
 Myr. Pania? Sfero? 
 
 Sar. Pania yet lives ; but Sfero's fled, or captive. 
 I am alone. 
 
 Myr. And is all lost ? 
 
 8ar. Our walls, 
 
 Though thinly mann'd, may still hold out against 
 Their present force, or aught save treachery : 
 But i' the field 
 
 Myr. I thought 'twas the intent 
 
 Of Salemenes not to risk a sally 
 Till ye were strcngthen'd by the expected succors. 
 
 Sar. I overruled him. 
 
 Myr. TVcll, the fault's a brave one. 
 
 Sar. But fatal. Oh, my Ijrother I I would give 
 These realms, of which thou wert the ornament. 
 The sword and shield, the sole-redeeming honor. 
 
 To call back But I will not weep for thee ; 
 
 Thoushaltbemoum'dforasthouwouldstbemourn'd. 
 It grieves mo most that thou couklst quit this life 
 Believing tliat I could survive what thou 
 Hast died for — our long royalty of race. 
 If I redeem it, I will give thee blood 
 Of tliousands, tears of millions, for atonement, 
 (The tears of all the good are mine already.) 
 If not, we meet again soon, — if the spirit 
 Within us lives beyond : — thou readest mine. 
 And dost me justice now. Let me once clasp 
 That yet warm hand, and fold that throbless heart, 
 
 \^Emhraces the body. 
 To this which beats so bitterly. Now, bear 
 The body hence. 
 
 Soldier. Where ? 
 
 Sar. To my proper chamber. 
 
 Place it beneath my canopy, as though 
 The king lay there : when this is done, we will 
 Speak further of the rites due to such ashes. 
 
 \_Exennt Soldiers with the body of Sat.emun-es. 
 
 Enter Pakia. 
 
 Sar. Well, Pania ! have you placed the guards and 
 The orders fix'd on ? [issued 
 
 Pan. Sire, I have obey'd, 
 
 Sar. And do the soldiers keep their hearts up ? 
 
 Pan. Siru ? 
 
 Sar. I'm answcr'd I When a king asks twice, and 
 &. question as an answer to /lis question, [has 
 
 It is a portent. Wliat ! they are dishearten'd ? 
 
 Pan. The death of Salemenes, and the shouts 
 Of the exulting rebels on his fall, 
 Have made them 
 
 Sar. Bade— -not droop — it should have been. 
 
 We'll find the means to rouse them. 
 
 Pan. Such a loss 
 
 Might sadden even a victory. 
 
 'Sar. Alas I 
 
 Who can so feel it as I feel ? but yet, [and we 
 
 Though coop'd within these walls, they are strong, 
 Have those without will break their way through 
 
 hosts. 
 To make their sovereign's dwelling what it was-— 
 A palace ; not a prison, nor a fortress. 
 
 Enter an Officer, hastily. 
 Sar. Thy face seems ominous. Speak 1 
 Offi. I dare not. 
 
 Sar. Dare not ? 
 
 While millions dare revolt with sword in hand 1 
 That's strange. I pray thee break that loyal silence 
 Which loathes to shock its sovereign ; we can hear 
 Worse than thou hast to tell. 
 Pan. Proceed, thou hearcst 
 
 Offi. The wall which skirted near the river's brink 
 Is thrown down by the sudden inundation 
 Of the Euplirates, which now rolling, swoln, 
 Prom the enomious mountains where it rises, 
 By the late rains of that tempestuous region, 
 O'erfloods its banks, and hath destroy'd the bulwark. 
 
 Pan. That's a black augury ! it has been said 
 For ages, " That the city ne'er should yield 
 To man, until the river grew its foe." 
 
 Sar. I can forgive the omen, not the ravage. 
 How much is swept down of the wall ? 
 
 Orfi. About 
 
 Some twenty stadii. 
 
 Sar. And all this is left 
 
 Pervious to the assailants ? 
 
 Offi. For the present 
 
 The river's fury must impede the assault ; 
 But when he shrinks into his wonted channel, 
 And may be cross'd by the accustom'd barks. 
 The palace is their own. 
 
 Sar. That shall be never. 
 
 Though men, and gods, and elements, and omens. 
 Have risen up 'gainst one who ne'er provoked them, 
 My fathers' house shall never be a cave 
 For wolves to horde and howl in. 
 
 Pan. With your sanction, 
 
 I will proceed to the spot, and take such measures 
 For the assurance of the vacant si)ace 
 As time and means permit. 
 
 Sar. About it straight ; 
 
 And bring me back, as speedily as full 
 And fair investigation may permit. 
 Report of the true state of this irruption 
 Of waters. [E.reunt P.\nia and the Officer. 
 
 Myr. Thus the very waves rise up 
 Against you. 
 
 Sar. They are not my subjects, girl. 
 
 And may bo pardon'd, since they can't be punish'd. 
 Myr. I joy to see this portent shakes you not 
 
6CENK I. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 273 
 
 Sar. I am past the fear of portents ; they ean tell me 
 Nothing I liave not told myself since midnight : 
 Despair anticipates such things. 
 
 Mi/r. Despair ! 
 
 Siir. No ; not despair precisely. \V~hen we know 
 A.11 that can come, and how to meet it, our 
 Resolves, if firm, may merit a more noble 
 Word than this is to give it utterance. 
 But what are words to us ? we have well-nigh done 
 With them and all things. 
 
 J/"./7-. Save one deed — the last 
 
 And greatest to aU mortals ; crowning act 
 Of all that was — or is — or is to be — 
 Tlie only thing common to all mankind, 
 So diflerent in their births, tongues, sexes, natures. 
 Hues, features, climes, times, feelings, intellects, 
 Without one point of union save in this. 
 To which we tend, for which we're bom, and thread 
 The labyrinth of mystery, call'd life. [cheerful. 
 
 Sar. Our clew being weU-nigh wound out, let's be 
 They who have nothing more to fear may well 
 Indulge a smile at that which once appaU'd ; 
 As children at discover'd bugbears. 
 
 He-enter Pania. 
 
 Pan. 'Tis 
 
 As was reported : I have order'd there 
 A double guard, withdrawing from the wall 
 Where it was strongest the required addition 
 To watch the breach occasion'd by the waters. 
 
 Sur. You have done your duty faithfully, and as 
 My worthy Pania ! further ties between us 
 Draw near a close. I pray you take this key : 
 
 [ Gives a I'ey. 
 [t opens to a secret chamber, placed 
 Behind the couch in my own chamber. (Now 
 Press'd by a nobler weight than e'er it bore — 
 Though a long line of sovereigns have lain down 
 Along its golden frame — as bearing for 
 A time what late was Salemenes). Search 
 The secret covert to which this will lead you ; 
 'Tis full of treasure ; take it for yourself 
 And your companions : there's enough to load ye 
 Though ye be many. Let the slaves be freed, too ; 
 And aU the inmates of the palace, of 
 Whatever sex, now quit it in an hour. [pleasure, 
 Thence launch the regal barks, once form'd for 
 And now to serve for safety, and embark. 
 The river's broad and swoln, and uncommanded 
 (Jlore potent than a king) by these besiegers. 
 Fly ! and be happy I 
 
 Pan. Under your protectior 
 
 So you accompany your faithful guard. 
 
 Sar No, Pania ! that must not be ; get thee herce, 
 And Ijave me to my fate. 
 
 Pan. 'Tis the first time 
 
 I trer disobey'd : but now 
 
 35 
 
 Sar. So a_ men 
 
 Dare beard me now, and Insolence •ndthin 
 Apes Treason from without. Question no furt!ier; 
 'Tis my command, my last command. "Wilt thou 
 Oppose it ? thoti ! 
 
 Pan. But yet — not yet. 
 
 Sar. Well, then, 
 
 Swear that you will obey when I shall give 
 The signal. 
 
 Pan. "With a heavy but true heart, 
 
 I promise. 
 
 Sar. 'Tis enough. Now order here 
 
 Fagots, pine-nuts, and wither'd leaves, and such 
 Things as catch fire and blaze with one sole spark ; 
 Bring cedar, too, and precious drugs, and spices, 
 And mighty planks, to nourish a tall jjile ; 
 Bring frankincense and myrrh, too, for it is 
 For a great sacrifice I build the pyre 1 
 And heap them roimd yon throne. 
 
 Pan. My lord ! 
 
 Sar. I have said it, 
 
 And yon have stoorn. 
 
 Pan. And could keep my faith 
 
 "Without a vow. [Exit Pajma. 
 
 A!>/r. "What mean you ? 
 
 Sar. Tou shall know 
 
 Anon — what the whole earth shall ne'er forget. 
 
 Pania returning with a Herald. 
 
 Pan. My king, in going forth upon my duty, 
 This herald has been brought before me, craving 
 An audience. 
 
 Sar. Let him speak. 
 
 Her. The King Axbaces 
 
 Sar. "What, crown'd already ? — But, proceed. 
 
 Her. Beleses, 
 
 The anointed high-priest 
 
 Sar. Of what god, or demon J 
 
 "With new kings rise new altars. But, proceed : 
 Tou are sent to prate your master's will, and not 
 Reply to mine. 
 
 Her. And Satrap Ofratanes 
 
 Sar. "Why, 7te is ours. 
 
 Her. (sJiowinff a ring). Be sure that he is now 
 In the camp of the conquerors : behold 
 His signet ring. 
 
 Sar. 'Tis his. A worthy triad 1 
 
 Poor Salemenes ! thou hast died in time 
 To see one treachery the less ; this man 
 "Was thy true friend and my most trusted subject 
 Proceed. 
 
 Her. They oflfer thee thy life, an^d freedom 
 Of choice to single out a residence 
 In any of the farther provinces, 
 Guarded and watch'd, but not confined in person, 
 "Where thou shalt pass thy days in peace ; but on 
 Condition that the three young princes are 
 
274 
 
 li^RON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT T 
 
 Givcai up as hostages. 
 
 Sar. (iroiucalli/). The generous rictors 1 
 
 Her. I wait the answer. 
 
 Snr. Answer, slave ! How long 
 
 Have slaves decided on the doom of kings ? 
 
 Her. Since they were free. 
 
 Snr. Mouthpiece of mutiny 1 
 
 Thou at the least shalt learn the penalty 
 Of treason, though its proxy only. Pania 1 
 Let his head ha thrown from our walls within 
 The rebels' lines, his carcass down the river. 
 Away with him 1 
 
 [Pania and the Guards seizing Mm. 
 
 Pan. I never yet obey'd 
 
 Your orders with more pleasure than the present. 
 Hence with him, soldiers ! do not soil this hall 
 Of royalty with treasonable gore ; 
 Put him to rest without. 
 
 II r. A single word : 
 
 My office, king, is sacred. 
 
 ,?«/•. And what's minef 
 
 That thou shouldst come and dare to ask of me 
 To lay it down ? 
 
 Her. I but obey'd my orders. 
 
 At the same peril, if refused, as now 
 Incurr'd by my obedience. 
 
 Sar. So there are 
 
 New monarchs of an hour's growth as despotic 
 As sovereigns swathed in purple, and enthroned 
 From birth to manhood 1 
 
 Her. My life waits your breath. 
 
 Yours (I sjjeak hiunbly) — but it may be — yours 
 May also be in danger scarce less imminent : 
 Would it then suit the last hours of a line 
 Such as is that of Nimrod, to destroy 
 A peaceful herald, uuarm'd, in his office I 
 And violate not only all that man 
 Holds sacred between man and man — but that 
 More holy tie which links us with the gods ? 
 
 Sin: He's right. — Let him go free. — My life's last 
 Shall not be one of wrath. Here, fellow, take [act 
 [Oives him a gohlen cup from a table near. 
 This golden goblet, let it hold your wine, 
 And think of tue ; or melt it into ingots, 
 And think of nothing but their weight and value. 
 
 Her. I thank you doubly for my life, and this 
 Most gorgeous gift, which renders it more precious. 
 But must I bear no answer ? 
 
 Sar. Yea, — I ask 
 
 An hour's truce to consider. 
 
 Her. But an hour's ? 
 
 Sar. An hour's : if at the expiration of 
 That time your masters hear no further from me, 
 They are to deem that I reject their terms. 
 And act befittingly. 
 
 Her. I shall not fail 
 
 To be a faithful legate of your pleasure. 
 
 Sar. And hark I a word more. 
 
 Her. I »hall not forgot il 
 
 Whate'er it be. 
 
 Sar. Commend me to Bcleses ; 
 
 And tell him, ere a year expire, I summon 
 Him hence to meet me. 
 
 Her. Where ? j 
 
 Sar. At Babylon. 
 
 At least from thence he will depart to meet me. 
 
 Her. I shaU obey you to the letter. \^Eiit Herald 
 
 Sar. Pania ! — 
 
 Now, my good Pania ! — quick ! with what I order'd 
 
 Pan. My lord, — the soldiers are already charged. 
 And, see ! they enter. . 
 
 {^Soldiers enter, and form a Pile about the Throne, etc 
 
 Snr. Higher, my good soldiers, 
 
 And thicker yet ; and see that the foundation 
 Be such as will not speedily exhaust 
 Its own too subtle flame ; nor yet be quench'd 
 With aught officious aid would bring to quell it. 
 Let the throne form the core of it ; I would not 
 Leave that, save fraught with fire unquenchabh 
 To the new comers. Frame the whole as if 
 'Twere to enkindle the strong tower of our 
 Inveterate enemies. Now it bears an aspect ! 
 How say you, Pania, will this pile suffice 
 For a king's obsequies ? 
 
 Pan. Ay, for a kingdom's 
 
 I understand you, now. 
 
 Sar. And blame me ? 
 
 Pan. No— 
 
 Let me but fire the pile, and share it with you 
 
 Mi/r. That duty's mine. 
 
 Pan. A woman's ! 
 
 Myr. 'Tis the solctier'i 
 
 Part to tlie for his sovereign, and why not 
 The woman's with her lover ? 
 
 Pan. 'Tis most strange ! 
 
 Mi/r. But not so rare, my Pania, as thou think'st it. 
 In the meantime, live thou. — Farewell 1 the pile 
 Is ready. 
 
 Pan. I should shame to leave my sovereign 
 With but a single female to partake 
 His death. 
 
 Sar. Too many far have lieralded 
 
 Me to the dust, already. Get thee hence ; 
 Enrich thee. 
 
 Pan. And Uve wretched ! 
 
 Sar. Think upon 
 
 Thy vow : — 'tis sacred and irrevocable. 
 
 Pan. Since it is so, farewell. 
 
 Sar. Search weU my chamber 
 
 Feel no remorse at bearing oft' the gold ; 
 Remember, what you leave you leave the slaves 
 Who slew me : and when you have borne away 
 All safe off to your boats, blow one long blast 
 Upon the trumpet as you quit the palace. 
 
4CEXE 1. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 275 
 
 The tU i- I brink is too remote, its stream 
 Too loud at present to permit the echo 
 To reach distinctly from its banks. Then fly, — 
 And as you sail, turn back ; but still keep on 
 Your way along the Euphrates : if you reach 
 The laud of Paphlagonia, where the queen 
 Is safe with my three sons in Cotta's court, 
 Say what you saic at parting, and request 
 That she remember what I saiil at one 
 Parting more mournful still. 
 
 Pan. That royal hand ! 
 
 Let me then once more press it to my lips ; 
 And these poor soldiers who throng round you, and 
 Would fain die with you ! 
 
 [T/ie Sildiers and Pauia throng round him, 
 Icifdng his hand and the hem of his rohe. 
 Sar. My best ! my last Mends I 
 
 Lette not unman each other — part at once : 
 All farewells should be sudden, when forever. 
 Else they make an eternity of moments. 
 And clog the last sad sands of life with tears. 
 Hence, and be happy : trust me, I am not 
 Koic to be pitied ; or far more for what 
 Is past than present ; — for the future, 'tis 
 In the liands of the deities, if such 
 There be : I shall know soon. Farewell — Farewell. 
 [Exuunt Pania and Soldiers. 
 Myr. These men were honest : it is comfort stiU 
 That our last looks should be on loving faces. 
 
 Sar. And lorclii ones, my beautiful ! — but hear me ! 
 If at this moment,— for we now are on 
 The brink, — thou feel'st an inward shrinking from 
 This leap through flame into the future, say it : 
 I shaU not love thee less ; nay, perhajis more, 
 For yielding to thy nature : and there's time 
 Yet for thee to escape hence. 
 
 iTyr. Shall I Hght 
 
 One of the torches which lie heap'd beacath 
 The ever-burning lamp that burns without. 
 Before Baal's shrine, in the adjoining haU ? 
 Sar. Do so. Is that thy answer ? 
 ^yr. Thou shalt see. 
 
 [Erit MthRHA. 
 
 Sar, (sohia), She's firm. My fathers ! whom I will 
 It may be, purified by death from some [rejoin. 
 
 Of the gross stains of too material being, 
 I would not leave your ancient first abode 
 To the defilement of usurping bondmen ; 
 If I have not kept your inheritance 
 As ye bequeath'd it, this bright part of it. 
 Your treasure, your abode, your sacred relics 
 Of arms, and records, monuments, and spoils, 
 fn which tliry would have revell'd, I bear with me 
 To you in that absorbing element, 
 ^Tiich most personifies the sovX as leaving 
 The least of matter unconsumed before 
 Its fiery \\orkings :— and the light of this 
 
 Most royal of funereal pyres shall be 
 
 Not a mere pillar form'd of cloud anil flame, 
 
 A beacon in the horizon for a day, 
 
 Ajid then a mount of ashes, but a light 
 
 To lesson ages, rebel nations, and 
 
 Voluptuous princes. Time shall quench full many 
 
 A people's records, and a hero's acts ; 
 
 Sweep empire after emj)ire, like this first 
 
 Of empires, into nothing ; but even then 
 
 Shall spare this deed of mine, and hold it up 
 
 A problem few dare imitate, and none 
 
 Despise — but, it may be, avoid the life 
 
 Which led to such a consummation. 
 
 Mtrkha returns with a lighted torch in one Band, 
 and a Cup in the other. 
 Myr. Lo ! 
 
 I've lit the lamp which lights us to the stars. 
 Sar. And the cup ? 
 
 Myr. ' 'Tis my country's custom to 
 
 Make a libation to the gods. 
 
 Sar. . And mine 
 
 To make libations amongst men. I've not 
 Forgot the custom ; and although alone, 
 WiU drain one draught in memory of many 
 A joyous banquet past. 
 
 [Sardanapaixjs takes the cup, and after drink- 
 ing and tinl-Iing the reversed cup, as a drop 
 falls, erdaitna — 
 
 And this libatioD 
 Is for the excellent Beleses. 
 
 Myr. Why 
 
 Dwells thy mind rather upon that man's name 
 Than on his mate's in villany ? 
 
 Sar. The one 
 
 Is a mere soldier, a mere tool, a kind 
 Of human sword in a friend's hand ; the other 
 Is master-mover of his warlike puppet : 
 But I dismiss them from my mind. — Yet pause. 
 My Myrrha I dost thou truly follow me, 
 Freely and fearlessly ? 
 
 Myr. And dost thou think 
 
 A Greek girl dare not do for love, that which 
 An Indian widow braves for custom ? 
 
 Sar. Then 
 
 We but await the signal. 
 
 Myr. It is long 
 
 In sounding. 
 
 Sar. Now, farewell ; one last embrace. 
 
 Myr. Embrace, but not the last ; there is one more. 
 Sar. True, the commingling fire will mix our ashes. 
 Myr. And pure as is my love to tlice, shall they, 
 Purged from the dross of earth, and earthly passion, 
 Mix pale with thine. A single thought yet irks me. 
 Sar. Say it. 
 
 Myr. It is that no kind hand will gather 
 
 The dust of both into one urn. 
 
276 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACTL 
 
 Sar. The better 1 
 
 Rather let them be borne abroad ujxra 
 The winds of heaven, and scatter'd into air, 
 Than be polluted more by human hands 
 Of slaves and traitors. In this blazing palace, 
 And its enormous walls of reeking ruin, 
 We leave a nobler monument than Egyj)t 
 Eath piled in her brick mountains, o'er dead kings, 
 Or line, for none know whether those proud piles 
 Bo for their monarch, or their ox-god Apis : 
 Bo much for monuments that have forgotten 
 Their very record 1 
 
 Myr. Then farewell, thou earth ! 
 
 And loveliest spot of earth ! farewell, Ionia 1 
 Be thou still free and beautiful, and far 
 Aloof from desolation 1 My last prayer 
 Was for thee, my last thoughts, save one, were of thee I 
 
 8ar. And that ? 
 
 Myr. 
 
 Sar. 
 Myr. 
 
 S.n: 
 
 Is yours, 
 [r/ifi trumjxt of Pan"A sounds without. 
 Hark I 
 
 yoir ! 
 Adieu, Assyria 
 I loved thee well, my own, my fathers' land, 
 And better as my country than my kingdom. 
 I sated thee with peace and joys ; and this 
 Is my reward ! and now I owe thee nothing, 
 Not even a grave. [//«' mounts the pile. 
 
 Now, Myrrha 1 
 Myr. Art thou ready ? 
 
 Sar. As the torch in thy grasp. 
 
 [Myrrha Jires the pile, 
 
 Myr. 'Tis fired 1 I come, 
 
 [^As Mtrrha springs forxoard to (lirow herself 
 
 into the flames, the Curtain, falls. 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI 
 
 AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY. 
 
 *T^e father softens, but the governor 'a resolved."— Critic. 
 
 DRAjyiATIS PERSONS. 
 
 MEN. 
 
 Francis Foscari, Doge of Venice. 
 Jacopo Foscari, Son of the Doge. 
 James Loredano, a Patrician. 
 Marco Memmo, a Chief of the Forty. 
 Barbariqo, a Senator. 
 
 Otiter Senators, the Council of Ten, 
 Guards, Attendants, etc., etc. . 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 ILutlNA, Wife of young Foscari. 
 
 Scene— the Ihical Palace, Venice. 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A Hall in the Ducal Palace. 
 Enter Loredano and Babbarigo, meeting. 
 Lor. Where is the prisoner ? 
 Bar. Reposing from 
 
 fhe Question. 
 
 Lor. The hour's past — fix'd yesterday 
 
 For the resumption of his trial. — Let us 
 Rejoin our colleagues in the council, and 
 Urge his recall. 
 
 Bar. Nay, let him profit by 
 
 A few brief minutes for his tortured limbs ; 
 He was o'erwrought by the Question yesterday. 
 And may die under it if now repeated. 
 
 Lor. WeU? 
 
 Bar. I yield not to you in love of justic 
 
 Or hate of the ambitious Foscari, 
 Father and son, and all their noxious race ; 
 But the poor wretch has sufier'd beyond nature's 
 Most stoical endurance. 
 
 Lor. Without owning 
 
 His crime. 
 
 Bar. Perhaps without committing any. 
 
 But he avow'd the letter to the Duke 
 Of Milan, and his sufferings half atone for 
 Such weakness. 
 
 Lor. We shall see. 
 
 Dar. You, Loredano. 
 
 Pursue hereditary hate too far. 
 
 Lor. IIow far ? 
 
 Bur. To extermination. 
 
 Lor. When they at« 
 
 Extinct, you may say this.— Let's in to council. 
 
1^£^OtX/i<ji^ 
 
BC«NE I. 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 277 
 
 Bar. Yet: pa ise — the number of our colleagues is 
 Complete yet ; two are -n-anting ere we can [not 
 
 Proceed. 
 
 Lor. And the chief judge, the Dogo 3 
 
 Bar. No — he, 
 
 With more than Roman fortitude, is ever 
 First at the board in this unhappy process 
 Against his last and only son. 
 
 L&r. True — true — 
 
 His last. 
 
 Bar. Will nothing move you ? 
 
 Lor. Feels he, think you ? 
 
 Bar. He shows it not. 
 
 L&r. I have marked that — the wretch I 
 
 Bar. But yesterday, I hear, on his return 
 To the ducal chambers, as he pass'd the threshold, 
 The old man fainted. 
 
 Lor. It begins to work, then. 
 
 Bar. The work is half your own. 
 
 Lar. jVnd should be all mine — 
 
 My father and my uncle are no more. 
 
 Bar. I have read their epitaph, which says they 
 By poison. [died 
 
 L<ir. When the Doge declared that he 
 
 Should never deem himself a sovereign till 
 The death of Peter Loredano, both 
 The brothers sicken'd shortly : — he is sovereign. 
 
 Bar. A wretched one. 
 
 Lf-r. 'What should they be who make 
 
 Orphans ? 
 
 Bar. But did the Doge make you so ? 
 
 Lor. Yes. 
 
 Bar. WTiat sohd proofs ? 
 
 Lor. When princes set themselves 
 
 To work in secret, proofs and process are 
 Alike made difficult ; but I have such 
 Of the first, as shall make the second needless. 
 
 Bar. But you will move by law ? 
 
 L'-r. By all the laws 
 
 Which he would leave us. 
 
 Bar. They are such in this 
 
 Our state as render retribution easier 
 Than 'mongst remoter nations. Is it true 
 That you have written in your books of commerce, 
 (The wealthy practice of our highest nobles), 
 " Doge Foscari, my debtor for the deaths 
 Of Marco and Pietro Loredano, 
 My sire and uncle ?" 
 
 Lor. It is written thus. 
 
 Bar. And will you leave it unerased ? 
 
 Lor. Till balanced. 
 
 Bar. And how ? 
 
 [Two iSenators pa.18 over the stage, as in their way 
 to '■ the Hall of the Council of Ten." 
 
 Lot. You see the number is complete. 
 
 Follow me. [Exit Loredano. 
 
 Bar. (.solus). FoUow thee ! I have follow'd long 
 
 Thy path of desolation, as the wave 
 
 Sweeps after that before it, alike whelming 
 
 The wreck that creaks to the wild winds, and wretcl' 
 
 Who shrieks within its riven ribs, as gush 
 
 The waters through them ; but this son and sire 
 
 Might move the elements to pause, and yet 
 
 JIust I on hardily hke them — Oh ! would 
 
 I could as bUndly and remorselessly ! — 
 
 Lo, where he comes ! — Be still, my heart ! they are 
 
 Thy foes, must be thy victims : vrilt thou beat 
 
 For those who almost broke thee ? 
 
 Enter Guards, with young Foscaei as 2)risoner, etc. 
 
 Guard. Let him rest. 
 
 Signer, take time. 
 
 Jac. Fos. I thank thee, friend, I'm feeble 
 
 But thou mayst stand reproved. 
 
 Guard. , I'll stand the hazard. 
 
 Jar. Fos. That's kind : — I meet some pity, Ijut nc 
 This is the first. [mercy 
 
 Guard. And might be last, did they 
 
 Who rule behold us. 
 
 Bar. (admnciiig to the Guard). There is one who 
 Yet fear not ; I wiU neither be thy judge [does 
 Nor thy accuser : though the hour is past. 
 
 Wait their last summons 1 am of " the Ten," 
 
 ^Vnd waiting for that summons, sanction you 
 Even by my presence : when the last call sounds. 
 We'll in together. — Look well to the prisoner ! 
 
 Jac. Fos. What voice is that ? — 'Tis Barbarigo's I 
 Our house's foe, and one of my few judges. [Ah ! 
 
 Bar. To balance such a foe, if such there be, 
 Thy father sits amongst thy judges. 
 
 Jar. Fos. True, 
 
 He judges. 
 
 L'ar. Then deem not the laws too harsh 
 Which j-ield so much indulgence to a sire 
 As to allow his voice in such high matter 
 As the state's safety 
 
 Jac. Fos. And his son's. I'm faint ; 
 
 Let me approach, I pray you, for a breath 
 Of air, yon window which o'erlooks the watem. 
 
 Enter an Officer, who whispers Baebakigo. 
 
 Bar. (to the Gvard). Let him approach. I niusl 
 not speak with him 
 Further than thus : I have transgress'd my duty 
 In this brief parley, and must now redeem it 
 Within the Council Chamber. [Exit BARBAKioa 
 
 [ Guard conducting Jacopo Foscari to the irindow. 
 
 Guard. There, sir, 'tis 
 
 Open — How feel you ? 
 
 Jac. Fos. Like a boy — Oh, Venice I 
 
 Guard. And your limbs ? 
 
 Jac. Fos, Limbs I how often have they bonie me 
 Bounding o'er yon blue tide, as I have skimmd 
 
27S 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT t 
 
 The gondola along in childish race, 
 
 Aad, mask'd as a young gondolier, amidst 
 
 My gay competitors, noble as I, 
 
 Raced for our pleasure, in the pride of strength ; 
 
 While the fair jjopulace of crowding beauties, 
 
 Plebeian as patrician, cheer'd us on 
 
 With dazzling smiles, and wishes audible, 
 
 A.nd waving kerchiefs, and applauding hands. 
 
 Even to the goal I — How many a time have I 
 
 Cloven with arm still histicr, breast more daring. 
 
 The wave all roughen'd ; with a swimmer's stroke 
 
 Flinging the billows back from my drench'd hair, 
 
 Ajid laughing from my lip the audacious brine, 
 
 Which kiss'd it like a wine-cup, rising o'er 
 
 The waves as they arose, and prouder still 
 
 The loftier they uplifted me ; and oft. 
 
 In wantonness of spirit, plunging down 
 
 Into their green and glassy gulfs, and making 
 
 My way to sheUs and sea-weed, all unseen • 
 
 By those above, till they wax'd fearful ; then 
 
 Returning with my grasp full of such tokens 
 
 A.S show'd that I had search'd the deep ; exulting. 
 
 With a far-dashing stroke, and drawing deep 
 
 The long-suspended breath, again I spurn'd 
 
 The foam which broke around mc, and pursued 
 
 My track like a sea-bird. I was a boy then. 
 
 Guard. Be a man now : there never was more need 
 Of manhood's strength. [my own, 
 
 Jitc. Fos. (Joolcingfrom the lallke ) My beautiful, 
 My only Venice — th in is breath ! The breeze. 
 Thine Adrian sea-breeze, how it fans my face ! 
 Thy very winds feel native to my veins. 
 And cool them into calmness ! How unlike 
 The hot gales of the horrid Cyclades, 
 Which howl'd about my Candiote dungeon, and 
 Made my heart sick. 
 
 Quard. I see the color comes [bear 
 
 Back to your cheek : Heaven send you strength to 
 What more may be imposed 1 — I dread to think on't. 
 
 Jiic. Fus. They will not banish me again ? — No — 
 Lot them wring on ; I am strong yet. [no. 
 
 Guard. Conftss, 
 
 And the rack will be spared you. 
 
 Jac. Fos. I confess'd 
 
 Once — twice before : both times they exiled mc. 
 
 Guard. And the third time will slay you. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Let them do so, 
 
 So I be buried in ray birthplace : better 
 Be ashes here than aught that lives elsewhere. 
 
 Guard. And can you so much love the soil which 
 hates you ? 
 
 Jac. Fos. The soil 1 — Oh, no ; it is the seed of the 
 Which persecutes me ; but my native earth [soil 
 Will take mc iis a mother to her arms. 
 I ask no more than a Venetian gr«ve, 
 A i.luugron, wiiat they will, so it be hejo. 
 
 Enter an Officer. 
 
 Offi. Bring in the prisoner I 
 
 Guard. Signor, you hear the order. 
 
 Ja(. Fos. Ay, I am used to such a summons ; 'tis 
 The third time they have tortured me : then lend ma 
 Thine arm. [ To the Guard. 
 
 Offi. Take mine, sir ; 'tis my duty to 
 
 Be nearest to your person. 
 
 Jac. Fos. You 1 — you are he 
 
 Who yesterday presided o'er my pangs — 
 Aw ay ! — I'd walk alone. 
 
 Offi. As you please, signor ; 
 
 The sentence was not of my signing, but 
 I dared not disobey the Council when 
 They [engine. 
 
 .I(tc. Fos. Bade thee stretch me on their horrid 
 I pray thee touch me not — that is, just now ; 
 The time will come tliey will renew that order. 
 But keep ofl' from me till 'tis issued. As 
 I look upon thy hands my curdling limbs 
 Quiver with the anticipated wrenching. 
 And the cold drops strain through my brow, as if— 
 But onward — I have borne it — I can bear it. 
 How looks my father ? 
 
 Olji. With his wonted asi^ect. 
 
 ./.'(■. Fos. So does the earth, and sky, the blue of 
 The brightness of our city, and her domes [ocean. 
 The mirth of her Piazza, even now 
 Its merry hum of nations pierces here, 
 Even here, into these chambers of the unknown 
 Who govern, and the unknown and the unnumber'd 
 Judged and destroy'd in silence. — all things wear 
 The self-same aspect, to my very sire ! 
 Nothing can sympathize with Foscari, 
 Not even a Foscari, — Sir, I attend you. 
 
 [Exeunt Jaoopo Foscari, Officer, etc. 
 
 Enter Memmo and anothir Senator. 
 
 Mem. He's gone — we arc too late : — think you " the 
 Will sit for any length of time to-day ? [Ten" 
 
 Sen. They say the prisoner is most obdurate, 
 Persisting in his first avowal ; but 
 More I know not. 
 
 Mem. And that is much ; the secrets 
 
 Of yon terrific chamber are as hidden 
 From us, the premier nol)los of the state, 
 As from the people. 
 
 Sin. Save the wonted rumors. 
 
 Which — like the tales of spectres, that are rife 
 Near ruin'd buildings — never have been proved, 
 Nor wholly disbelieved : men know as little 
 Of the state's real acts as of tlie grave's 
 Unfathom'd mysteries. 
 
 Mem. But with length iif time 
 
 We gain a stcjj in knowledge, and I look 
 Forward to be one day of the d; cemvirs. 
 
 Sen. Or Doge ? 
 
scE.vi; I. 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 Hi: 
 
 Mem. Why, no ; not if I can avoid it. 
 
 Sen. 'Tis the first station of the state, and may 
 Be lawfully desired, and lawfully 
 A.ttain'd by noble aspirants. 
 
 Mi'iii. To such 
 
 I leave it ; though born noble, my ambition 
 Is limited : I'd rather be an unit 
 Of an imited and imperial •' Ten," 
 Than shine a lonely, though a gilfl ed cipher. 
 Whom have we here 1 the wife of Foscari ? 
 
 Enter Maktsta, with a female Attendant. 
 
 Mar. What, no one ? — I am wrong, there stiU are 
 But they are senators. [two ; 
 
 Mem. Most noble lady. 
 
 Command us. 
 
 Mar. I command! — Alas! toy life 
 
 Has been one long entreaty, and a vain one. 
 
 Mem. I understand thee, but I must not answer. 
 
 Mar. (jiircely.) True — none dare answer here save 
 Or question save those [on the rack, 
 
 Mem. {interrupting her.) High-bom dame ! be- 
 Where thou now arti. [think thee 
 
 Mar. Where I now am 1 It was 
 
 My hus'iand's father's palace. 
 
 Mem. The Duke's palace. 
 
 Mttr. An 1 liis son's prison ! — true, I have not for- 
 And if there were no other nearer, bitterer [got it; 
 Remembrances, would Ihank the illustrious Memmo 
 For pointing out the pleasures of the place. 
 
 Mem. Be calm ! 
 
 Mar. {looling np toirards heaven.) I am ; but oh, 
 thou eternal God ! 
 Canst t?io>i continue so, with such a world ? 
 
 Mem. Thy husband yet may be absolved. 
 
 Mar. He is. 
 
 In heaven. I pray you, signor senator. 
 Speak not of that ; you are a man of otfice, 
 So is the Doge ; he has a son at stake, 
 Now, at this moment, and I have a husband. 
 Or had ; they are there within, or were at least 
 An hour since, face to face, as judge and culprit : 
 Will he condemn him ■ 
 
 Mem. I trust not. 
 
 Mar. But if 
 
 He does not, there are those will sentence both. 
 
 2lern. They can. 
 
 Mar. And with them power and will are one 
 
 In wickedness : — my husband's lost 1 
 
 Mem. Not so ; 
 
 Justice is judge in Venice. 
 
 Mar. If it were so. 
 
 There now would be no Venice. But let it 
 Live on, so the good die not, till the hour 
 Of nature's summons ; but "the Ten's" is quicker. 
 And we must wait on't. Ah, a voice of wail ! 
 
 [^A/aint cry within. 
 
 Sen. Hark! 
 
 Mem. 'Twas a cry of — 
 
 Mar. No, no ; not my husband'p — 
 
 Not Foscari's. 
 
 Mem. The voice was 
 
 Mar. ]\'ot his: no. 
 
 He shriek ! No ; that should be his father's part, 
 Not his — not his — he'll die in silence. 
 
 [A faint yroan again within, 
 
 Mem. What ! 
 
 Again ? 
 
 Mar. Bis voice ! it seem'd so : I will not 
 Believe it. Should he shrink, I cannot cease 
 To love ; but — no — no — no — it must have been 
 A fearful pang which w rung a groan from him. 
 
 Sen. And, feeling for thy husband's wrongs, wouldst 
 thou 
 Have him bear more than mortal pain, in silence ? 
 
 Mar. We all must bear our tortures. I have not 
 Left barren t'ne great house of Foscari, 
 Though they sweep both the Doge and son from 
 I have endured as much in giving life [life ; 
 
 To those Vrho will succeed them as they can 
 In leaving it : but mine were joyful pangs : 
 And yet they wnmg me tiU I could have shriek'd, 
 But did not ; for my hope was to bring forth 
 Heroes, and would not welcome them with tears. 
 
 Mem. All's silent now. 
 
 Mar. Perhaps all's o er ; but 
 
 I will not deem it : he hath nerved himself, 
 And now defies them. 
 
 Enter an Officer hastily. 
 
 Mem. How now, friend, what seek you 5 
 
 Offi. A leech. The prisoner has fainted. 
 
 [Exit Officer. 
 
 Mem. Lady, 
 
 'Twere better to retire. 
 
 Sen. {offering to assist her.) I pray thee do so. 
 
 Mar. Oft" I I will tend him. 
 
 Mem: You ! Remember, lady I 
 
 lugress is given to none within those chambers, 
 Except " the Ten," and their tamihars. 
 
 Mar. WeU, 
 
 I know that none who enter there retiirn 
 As they have enter'd — many never ; but 
 They shall not balk my entrance. 
 
 Mem. Alas ! this 
 
 Is but to expose yourself to harsh repulse. 
 And worse suspense. 
 
 Mar. Who shall oppose me ? 
 
 Mem. ' Thej 
 
 WTiose duty 'tis to do so. 
 
 Mar. 'Tis their duty 
 
 To trample on all human feelings, all 
 Ties which bind man to man, to emulate 
 The fiends, who will one day pequite them in 
 
280 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Variety of torturing ! Tet I'll pass. 
 
 Mem. It is impossible. 
 
 Mar. That shall be tried 
 
 Despair defies even despotism : there is 
 That in my heart would make its way through hosts 
 With levell'd spears ; and think you a few jailers 
 Shall put me from my path ? Give me, then, way ; 
 This is the Doge's palace ; I am wife 
 Of the Duke's son, the innoctiit Duke's son, 
 4nd they shall hear this ! 
 
 Mem. It will only serve 
 
 More to exasperate his judges. 
 
 Mar. What 
 
 Are jvdges who give way to anger ? they 
 Who do so are assassins. Give me way. 
 
 [Exit Maeina. 
 
 Sen. Poor lady ! 
 
 Mem. 'Tis mere desperation : she 
 
 Will not be admitted o'er the threshold. 
 
 Sen. And 
 
 Even if she be so, cannot save her husband. 
 But, see, the officer returns. 
 [The Officer passes over tlie stage with another person. 
 
 Mem. I hardly 
 
 Thought that " the Ten " had even this touch of pity, 
 Or would permit assistance to this sufierer. 
 
 Sen. Pity 1 Is't pity to recall to feeling 
 The wretch too happy to escape to death. 
 By the compassionate trance, poor nature's last 
 Resource against the tyranny of pain ? 
 
 Mern. I marvel they condemn him not at once. 
 
 S^n. That's not their policy : they'd have him live. 
 Because he fears not death ; and banish him, 
 Because all earth, except his native land, 
 To him is one wide prison, and each breath 
 Of foreign air he draws seems a slow poison, 
 Consuming but not killing. 
 
 Mem. Circumstance 
 
 Confirms his crimes, but he avows them not. [ten, 
 
 Sen. None, save the Letter, which he says was writ- 
 Address'd to Milan's duke, in the full knowledge 
 That it would fall into tlie senate's hands. 
 And thus he should be rcconvey'd to Venice. 
 
 Mem. But as a culprit. 
 
 Sen. Yes, but to his country ; 
 
 And that was aU he sought, — so he avouches. 
 
 Mem. The accusation of the bribes was proved. 
 
 Sen. Not clearly, and the charge of homicide 
 Has been aiinuU'd by the death-bed confession 
 Of Nicolas Erizzo, who slew the latts 
 Chief of " the Ten." 
 
 Mem. Then why not clear him ? 
 
 Sen. That 
 
 They ought to answer ; for it is well known 
 That Alnioro Donato, as I said. 
 Was sl.dn by Erizzo for private vengeance. [than 
 
 Meiii. There must bo more iu this strange process 
 
 The apparent crimes of the accused disclose — 
 But here come two of " the Ten ;" let us retire. 
 
 [Exeunt Memmo and Se.'utor. 
 
 Enter Loredano and Baiibaeigo. 
 
 Bar. {iiddressing LoK;) That were too much : De 
 lieve me, 'twas not meet 
 The trial should go further at this moment. 
 
 Lor. And so the Council must break up, and Jus- 
 Pause in her full career, because a woman [tice 
 Breaks in on our deliberations ? 
 
 Bar. No, 
 
 That's not the cause ; you saw the prisoner's state 
 
 Lor. And had he not recovcr'd ? 
 
 Bar. To relapse 
 
 Upon the least renewal. 
 
 Lor. 'Twas not tried. 
 
 Bar. 'Tis vain to murmur ; the majority 
 In council were against you. 
 
 Lor. Thanks to you, sir, 
 
 And the old ducal dotard, who combined 
 The worthy voices which o'erruled my own. 
 
 Bar. I am a judge ; but must confess that part 
 Of our stern duty, which prescribes the Question, 
 And bids us sit and see its sharp infiiction, 
 Makes me wish 
 
 Lor. What ? 
 
 Bar. That yw would sometimes feel. 
 
 As I do always. 
 
 Lor. Go to, you're a child, 
 
 Infirm of feeling as of purpose, blown 
 About by every breath, shook by a sigh, 
 And molted by a tear — a precious judge 
 For Venice ! and a worthy statesman to 
 Be partner in my policy I 
 
 Bar. He shed 
 
 No tears. 
 
 Lor. He cried out twice. 
 
 Bar. A saint had done so, 
 
 Even vrith the crown of glory in his eye. 
 At such inhuman artifice of pain 
 As was forced on him ; but he did not cry 
 For pity ; not a word nor groan escaped him. 
 And those two shrieks were not in supplication, 
 But wrung from pangs, and follow'd by no prayers. 
 
 Lor. He mutter'd many times between his teeth. 
 But inarticulately. 
 
 Bar. Tliat I heard not ; 
 
 You stood more near him. 
 
 Lor. I did so. 
 
 Bar. Jlethought, 
 
 To my surprise too, you were touch'd with mercy. 
 And were the first to call out for assistance 
 MHicn he was failing. 
 
 Lor. I believed that swoon 
 
 His last. 
 
 Bar. And have I not oft heard thee name 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE TWO FOSGARI. 
 
 281 
 
 His and his father's death your nearest wish ? 
 
 X')n If he dies innocent, that is to say, 
 With his guilt anayow'd, he'll be lamented. 
 
 Bar. What, wouldst thou slay his memory ? 
 
 Lor. Wouldst thou have 
 
 His state descend to his cyidren, as it must, 
 If he die unattainted ? 
 
 Bar. War with them too ? 
 
 Lor. With all their house, till theirs or mine are 
 nothing. 
 
 Bar. And the deep agony of his pale wife, 
 And the repress'd convulsion of the high 
 And princely brow of his old father, which 
 Broke forth is a slight shuddering, though rarely, 
 Or in some clammy drops, soon wiped away 
 In stem serenity ; these moved you not ? 
 
 [Exit LOKEDANO. 
 
 He's silent in his hate, as Foscari 
 
 Was in his suffering ; and the poor wretch moved 
 
 More by his silence than a thousand outcries [me 
 
 Could have effected. 'Twas a dreadful sight 
 
 When his distracted wife broke through into 
 
 The hall of our tribunal, and beheld 
 
 WTiat we could scarcely look upon, long used 
 
 To such sights. I must think no more of this, 
 
 Lest I forget in thid compassion for 
 
 Our foes, our former injuries, and lose 
 
 The hold of vengeance Lorcdano plans 
 
 For him and me ; but mine would be content 
 
 With lesser retribution than he thirsts for 
 
 And I would mitigate his deeper hatred 
 
 To milder thoughts ; but for the present, Foscari 
 
 Has a short hourly respite, granted at 
 
 The instance of the elders of the Council, 
 
 Moved doubtless by his wife's apjiearance in 
 
 The hall, and his ot\ti sufferings. Lo ! they come : 
 
 How K-fbJ.3 and forlorn ! I cannot bear 
 
 To look o;i them again in this extremity : 
 
 I'll hence, and try to soften Loredano. 
 
 [Exit Babbakigo. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 A Hall in the Doge's Palace. 
 The DoGE and a Senator. 
 
 Sen. Is it your pleasure to sign the report 
 Now, or postpone it till to-morrow ? 
 
 I)o(je. Now ; 
 
 I overlook'd it yesterday : it wants 
 Merely the signature. Give me the pen— 
 
 [ The Doi)E sits down and signs the paper. 
 There, signor. [not sign'd. 
 
 Sen. {hol-in<j at the paper.) You have forgot ; it is 
 
 Do<)e. Not sign'd ? Ah, I perceive my eyes begin 
 To wax more weak with age. I did not see 
 That I had dipp'd the pen without effect. 
 36 
 
 Sen. {dipping the pen into the iiil; and placing fhs 
 paper hfore the DoGB.) Your hand, too shakes, 
 my lord : allow me. thus — 
 
 Boge. 'Tis done, I thank you. 
 
 S<n. Thus the act confirm' 
 
 By you and by " the Ten" gives peace to Venice. 
 
 Boge. 'Tis long since she enjoy'd it : may it be 
 As long ere she resume her arms ! 
 
 Sen. 'Tis almost 
 
 Thirty-four years of nearly ceaseless warfare 
 With the Turk, or the powers of Italy ; 
 The state had need of some repose. 
 
 Doge. No doubt : 
 
 I found her Queen of Ocean, and I leave her 
 Lady of Lombardy : it is a comfort 
 That I have added to her diadem 
 The gems of Brescia and Ravenna ; Crema 
 And Bergamo no less are hers ; her realm 
 By land has grown by thus much iu my reign, 
 While her sea-sway has not shrunk. 
 
 Sen. 'Tis most txue, 
 
 And merits aU our country's gratitude. 
 
 Boge. Perhaps so. 
 
 Sen . Which should be made manifest. 
 
 Boge. I have not complain'd, sir. 
 
 Sen. 3Iy good lord, forgive me. 
 
 Boge. For what ? 
 
 Sen. My heart bleeds for you. 
 
 Boge. For me, signor ? 
 
 Sen. And for your 
 
 Boge. Stop ! 
 
 Sen. It must have way, my lord : 
 
 I have too many duties towards you 
 And all your house, for past and present kindness, 
 Not to feel deeply for your son. 
 
 Doge. Was this 
 
 In your commission 2 
 
 Sen. What, my lord ? 
 
 Boge. This pratUo 
 
 Of things you know not : but the treaty's sign'd : 
 Return with it to them who sent you. 
 
 Sen. I 
 
 Obey. I had in charge, too, from tlie Coimcil 
 That you would fix an hour for their reunion. 
 
 Boge. Say, when they will — now, even at this mo- 
 If it so please them : I am the state's servant, [ment, 
 
 Sen. They would accord some time for your repose. 
 
 Boge. I have no repose ; that is, none which shall 
 The loss of an hour's time unto the state. [cause 
 Let them meet when they will, I shall be found 
 Where I shouhl W, and tchat I have been ever. 
 
 [Exit Senatoii. 
 [ The Doge reitMins in silence, 
 
 Enter an Attendant. 
 
 Alt. Prince ! 
 
 Boge. Say on. 
 
282 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT 11. 
 
 A'f. Tlie illustrious lady Foscari 
 
 Kerjuests an audience. 
 
 I)";/e. Bid her enter. Poor 
 
 Marina ! [Exit Attendant. 
 
 [The Doge remains in silence as be/ore. 
 
 Enter Mabima. 
 
 Miir. I have ventured, father, on 
 your privacy. 
 
 Diii/e. I have none from you, my child. 
 
 Command my time, when not commanded by 
 The state. 
 
 Mar. I wish'd to sfjeak to you of him. 
 
 Do/jie. Your husband ? 
 
 Mar. And your son. 
 
 Doge. Proceed, my daughter 1 
 
 Jftir. I had obtain'd permission from ''the Ten" 
 To attend my husband for a limited number 
 Of hours. 
 
 I)'i(;e. You had so. 
 
 Mar. 'Tis revoked. 
 
 Doge. By whom ? 
 
 Mar. "The Ten." When we had reach'd "the 
 Bridge of Sighs," 
 Which I prepared to pass with Foscari, 
 The gloomy guardian of tliat passage first 
 Demurred : a messenger was sent back to 
 " The Ten ;" but as the court no longer sate. 
 And no permission had been given in writing, 
 I was thrust back, with the assurance that 
 Until that high tribunal reassembled. 
 The dungeon walls must still di^dde us. 
 
 Doge. True, 
 
 The form has been omitted in the haste 
 With wliich the court adjourn'd ; and till it meets, 
 'Tis dubious. 
 
 Mm: Till it meets ! and when it meets, 
 
 They'll torture him again ; and he and I 
 Must purchase, by renewal of the rack. 
 The interview of husljand and of wife, 
 The holiest tie Ijencath the heavens ! O God I 
 Dost tlioii see this ? 
 
 Ihye. Cliild— child 
 
 Mar. {ahruptly.) Call me not " child 1" 
 
 You soon will have no children^-you deserve none — 
 You, who can talk thus calmly of a son 
 In circumstances which would call forth tears 
 Of blooil from Spartans 1 Though these did not 
 Their boys who died in battle, is it written [weep 
 That they lieheld tliem perish piecemeal, nor 
 Streteh'd forth a hand to save them ? 
 
 Diige. You behold me : 
 
 I cannot weep — I would I could ; but if 
 Each white hair on this head were a young life, 
 This ducal cap the diadem of earth. 
 This dueal ring with which I wed the waves 
 A talisman to still them — I'd give all 
 For him. 
 
 Mar. With less he surely might be saved. 
 
 Doge. That answer only shows you know not Ven- 
 Alas ! how should you 2 she kuows not herself, | ice 
 In all her mystery. Hear me — they who aim 
 At Foscari, aim no less at his father ; 
 The sire's destruction would not save the son ; 
 They work by diflerent means to the same end, 
 And that is but they have not eonqucr'd yet. 
 
 Mar. But they have crushed. 
 
 Doge. Nor crush'd as yet — I liva 
 
 Mar. And your son, — how long will he live ? 
 
 Doge. I trast, 
 
 For all that yet is past, as many years 
 And happier than his father. The rash boy, 
 With womanish impatience to return, 
 Hath ruin'd all by that detected letter ; 
 A high crime, which I neither can denv 
 Nor palliate, as parent or as Duke : 
 Had he but borne a little, little longer 
 
 Ilis Caudiote exile, I had hopes hf h.as qutnch'd 
 
 He must return. them— 
 
 Mar. To exile ? 
 
 Doge. I have said it. 
 
 Mar. And can I not go with him ? 
 
 Doge. You web Know 
 
 This prayer of yours was twice denied before 
 By the assembled " Ten," and hardly now 
 Will be accorded to a third request, 
 Since aggravated errors on the part 
 Of your lord renders them still more austere. 
 
 Mar. Austere ? Atrocious ! The old human fi^IlC(!^, 
 With one foot in the grave, with dim eyes, strange 
 To tears save drops of dot.age, with long white 
 And scanty hairs, and shaking hands, and heads 
 As palsied as their hearts are hard, they council, 
 Cabal, and put men's lives out, as if life 
 Were no more than the feeUngs long extinguish'd 
 In their accursed bosoms. 
 
 Doge. You know not 
 
 Mar. I do — I do — and so should you, methinks — 
 That these are demons : could it be else that 
 Men, who have been of women born and suckled — 
 Who have loved, or talk'd at least of love — have given 
 Their hands in saered vows — have danced their babes 
 Upon their knees, perhaps have mourn'il aliove them— 
 In pain, in peril, or in death — who are, 
 Or were at least in seeming, human, cuuld 
 Do as they have done by yours, and y,/a yourself. 
 You, who abet them ? 
 
 Doge. I forgive this, for 
 
 You know not what you say. 
 
 Mar. You kn w it well, 
 
 And feel it nothing. 
 
 Doge. I have borne so much, 
 
 That words have ceased to shake me. 
 
 Mar. Oh, no doubt 
 
SCBNE I. 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 283 
 
 Yon have seen your son's blood flow, and your flesh 
 
 shook not : 
 And, aftur tliat, what are a woman's words ? [you. 
 No more than woman's tears, that they should shake 
 
 Doge. 'SYoman, this clamorous griof of thine, I tell 
 Is no more in the balance weigh'd with that [thee, 
 ■VVTiich but I pity thee, my poor Marina ! 
 
 Afar. Pity my husband, or I cast it from me ; 
 Pity thy son ! T/ioa pity ! — 'tis a word 
 Strange to thy heart — how came it on thy lips ? 
 
 Doi/i\ I must bear these reproaches, though they 
 C'ouldst thou but read [wTong me. 
 
 JUitr. 'Tis not upon thy brow, 
 
 Nor in thine eyes, nor in thine acts, — where then 
 Should I behold this sympathy ? or shall ? 
 
 Dofjr, (^pointing (lownicards.) There ! 
 
 Mar. In the earth ? 
 
 Doge. To which I am tending : when 
 
 It lies upon this heart, far lightlier, though 
 Loaded with marlile, than the thoughts which press 
 Now, you will know me better. [it 
 
 Mar. Are you, then. 
 
 Indeed, thus to be pitied ? 
 
 Doge. Pitied ! None 
 
 Shall ever use that base word, with which men 
 Cloak their soul's hoarded triumph, as a fit one 
 To mingle with my name ; that name shall be, 
 As far as I have borne it, what it was 
 When I received it. 
 
 Mar. But for the poor children 
 
 Of him thou canst not, or thou wilt not save, 
 You were the last to bear it. 
 
 Doge. Would it were so ! 
 
 Better for him he never had been born ; 
 Better for me. I have seen our house dishonor'd. 
 
 Mar. That's false ! A truer, nobler, trustier heart. 
 More loving, or more loyal, never beat 
 Within a human breast. I would not change 
 My exiled, persecuted, mangled husband, 
 Oppress'd Imt not disgraced, crush'd, overwhelm'd, 
 Alive, or dead, for prince or jxi'adin 
 In story or in fable, with a world 
 To back his suit. Dishonor'd ! — he — dishonor'd I 
 I tell thee, Doge, 'tis Venice is dishonor'd ; 
 His name shall be her foulest, worst reproach, 
 For what he suflfers, not for what he did. 
 'Tis ye who are all traitors, tyrants ; — ye ! 
 Did you l)ut love your country like this victim 
 Who totters back in chains to tortures, and 
 Submits to all things rather than to exile, 
 You'd fling yourselves Ijefore him, and implore 
 His grace for your enormous guilt. 
 
 Doge. He was 
 
 Indeed all you have said. I better bore 
 The deaths of the two sons Heaven took from me, 
 I'han .Jacopo'ii disgrace. 
 
 Mar. That word again ? 
 
 Doge. Has he not been condemn'd ? 
 
 Mar. Is none but guilt so ? 
 
 Doge. Time may restore his memory — I would hope 
 
 He was my jjride, my but 'tis useless now — [so. 
 
 I am not given to tears, but wept for joy 
 When he was bom : those drops were ominous. 
 
 Mar. I say he's innocent I And were he not so. 
 Is our own blood and kin to shrink from us ■ 
 In fatal moments ? 
 
 Doge. I shrank not from him : 
 
 But I have other duties than a father's ; 
 The state would not dispense me from those duties : 
 T-n-ice I demanded it, but was refused : 
 They must then be fulfiU'd. 
 
 Enter an Attendant. 
 
 Att. A message from 
 
 "The Ten." 
 
 Doge. Who bears it ? 
 
 Att. Noble Loredano. 
 
 Doge. He !— but admit him. [Exit Attendant. 
 
 Mar. JIust I then retire ? 
 
 Doge. Perhaps it is not requisite, if this 
 
 Concerns your husband, and if not Well, signor, 
 
 Tour pleasure ! [To LoRED^uio entering. 
 
 Lor. I bear that of •' the Ten." 
 
 Doge. They 
 
 Have chosen well their envoy. 
 
 Lor. 'Tis t/ieir choice 
 
 Which leads me here. 
 
 Doge. It does their wisdom honor, 
 
 And no less to their courtesy. Proceed. 
 
 I^or. We have decided. 
 
 We? 
 
 Lor. "The Ten" in council 
 
 Doge. What I have they met again, and met with- 
 Apprizing me ? [out 
 
 Lor. They wish'd to spare your feelings. 
 
 No less than age. 
 
 Doge. That's new — when spared they either ? 
 
 I thank them, notwithstanding. 
 
 Lor. You know well 
 
 That they have power to act at their discretion. 
 With or vrithout the jiresence of the Doge. [fore 
 
 Doge. 'Tis some years since I learn'd this, long be- 
 I became Doge, or dream'd of such advancement. 
 You need not school me, signor : I sate in 
 That council when you were a young patrician. 
 
 Lor. True, in my father's time ; I have heard him 
 The admiral, his lirother, say as much. [and 
 
 Your highness may remember them ; they both 
 Died suddenly. 
 
 Doge. And if they did so, better 
 
 So die than live on lingeringly in pain. 
 
 Lor. No doubt: yet most mt D like to live theil 
 
 Doge. And did not they ? [days out 
 
284 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT 11. 
 
 Lor. The grave knows best : they died, 
 
 As I said, suddenly. 
 
 Duge. Is that so strange, 
 
 That you repeat the word emphatically 2 
 
 Lor. So far from strange, that never was there 
 In my mind half so natural as theirs. [death 
 
 Think you not so ? 
 
 Doge. What should I think of mortals ? 
 
 Lor. That they have mortal foes. 
 
 Doge. I imderstand you ; 
 
 Your sires were mine, and you are heir in all things. 
 
 Lor. You best know if I should be so. 
 
 D<Mje. I do. 
 
 Your fathers were my foes, and I have heard 
 Foul rumors were aljroad ; I have also read 
 Their eijitapli, attributing their deaths 
 To poison. 'Tis perhaps as true as most 
 Inscriptions upon tombs, and yet no less 
 A faille. 
 
 Lor. Who dares says so ? 
 
 Doge. I ! "Tis true 
 
 Your fathers were mine enemies, as bitter 
 As their son e'er can be, and I no less 
 Was theirs ; but I was openly their foe : 
 I never work'd by plot in council, nor 
 Cabal in commonwealth, nor secret means 
 Of practice against life by steel or drug. 
 The proof is, your existence. 
 
 Lor. I fear not. [were I 
 
 Doge. You have no cause, being what I am ; but 
 That you would have me thought, you long ere now 
 Were jiast the sense of fear. Hate on ; I care not. 
 
 Lor. I never yet knew that a noble's life 
 In Venice had to dread a Doge's frown, 
 That is, by open means. 
 
 Doge. But I, good signor. 
 
 Am, or least van, more than a mere duke. 
 In blood, in mind, in means ; and that they know 
 Who dreaded to elect me, and have since 
 Striven all they dare to weigh me down : be sure. 
 Before or since that period, had I held you 
 At so much price as to require your absence, 
 A word of mine had set such spirits to work 
 As would have made you nothing. But in all things 
 I have observed the strictest reverence ; 
 Not for tlie laws alone, for those you have strain'd 
 (I do not speak of yim but as a single 
 Voice of the many) somewhat beyond what 
 I could enforce for my authority, 
 Were I disposed to brawl ; but, as I said, 
 I have observed with veneration, like 
 A priest's for the liigh altar, even unto 
 The sacrilJce of my own blood and quiet. 
 Safety, and all save honor, the decrees. 
 The health, the pride, and welfare of the state. 
 4ud now, sir, to your business. 
 
 l-or 'Tis decreed. 
 
 That, without farther repetition of 
 
 The Question, or continuance of the trial. 
 
 Which only tends to show how stubborn guilt is, 
 
 (" The Ten," dispensing with the stricter law 
 
 Which still prescribes the Question till a full 
 
 Confession, and the prisoner partly having 
 
 Avow'd his crime in not denj-ing that 
 
 The letter to the Duke of Milan 's his), 
 
 James Foscari return to banishment, 
 
 And sail in the same galley which conveyed him. 
 
 Mar. Thank God ! At least they will not drag 
 Before that horrid tribunal. Would he [him more 
 But think so, to my mind the happiest doom, 
 Not he alone, but all who dwell here, could 
 Desire, were to escape from such a land. 
 
 Doge. That is not a Venetian thought, my daughter, 
 
 Mar. No, 'twas too human. Slay I share his e.\ile f 
 
 Lor. Of this " the Ten " said nothing. 
 
 Mar. So I thought I 
 
 Tliat were too biunan, also. But it was not 
 Inhibited ? 
 
 Lor. It was not named. 
 
 Mar. (to the Doge). Then, father. 
 
 Surely you can obtain or grant me thus much : 
 
 [ To LOREDANO, 
 
 And you, sir, not oppose my prayer to be 
 Permitted to accompany my husband. 
 
 Doge. I will endeavor. 
 
 Mar. And you, signor ? 
 
 Lvr. Lady 1 
 
 'Tis not for me to anticipate the pleasure 
 Of the tribunal. 
 
 Mar. Pleasure ! what a word 
 To use for the decrees of 
 
 Doge. Daughter, know yon 
 
 In what a presence you pronounce these things ? 
 
 Mar. A prince's and his subject's. 
 
 Lor. Subject I 
 
 Mar. Oh I 
 
 It galls you : — well, you are his equal, as 
 You think ; but ths-t you are not, nor would be, 
 Were he a peasant : — well, then, you're a prince, 
 A princely noble ; — and what then am I ? 
 
 Zor. The oft'spring of a noble house. 
 
 Mar. And wedded 
 
 To one as noble. What, or whose, then, is 
 The presence that should silence my free thoughts 1 
 
 Lor. The presence of your husband's judges. 
 
 Doge. And 
 
 The deference due even to the lightest word 
 That falls from those who rule in Venice. 
 
 Mar. Keep 
 
 Those maxims for your mass of scared mechanics, 
 Your nuri-liants, your Dalmatian and Greek slaves, 
 Your tributaries, your dumli citizens. 
 And mask'd nobiliiy, your sbirri, and 
 Your spies, your galley and yo^ir other slaves. 
 
BCKNE I. 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 2S6 
 
 To whom your midnigtit carryings off and drown- 
 Your dungeons next the palace roofs, or under [ings, 
 The w ater's level ; your mysterious meetings, 
 And unknown dooms, and sudden executions, 
 Your " Bridge of Sighs," your strangliug chamber, 
 Your torturing instruments, have made ye seem [and 
 The beings of another and worse world ! 
 Keej) such for them : I fear ye not. I know ye ; 
 Have known and proved your worst, in the infernal 
 Process of my poor husband I Treat me as 
 Ye treated him : — you did so, in so dealing 
 With him. Then what have I to fear /rum you, 
 Even if I were of fearful natm-e, which 
 I trust I am not 3 
 
 Doge. You hear, she speaks wildly. 
 
 Mar. Not wisely, yet not wildly. 
 
 Lor. Lady ! words 
 
 Utter'd within these walls I bear no further 
 Than to the threshold, saving such as pass 
 Between the Duke and me on the state's service. 
 Doge 1 have you aught in answer ? 
 
 Doffe. Something from 
 
 The Doge ; it may be also fi'om a parent. 
 
 L'ir. My mission here is to the Doge. 
 
 Doge. Then say 
 
 The Doge will choose his own ambassador, 
 Or state in person what is meet ; and for 
 The father 
 
 Lor. I remember mine. — Farewell ! 
 
 I kiss the hands of the illustrious lady, 
 A.nd bow me to the Duke. [Exit Loredano. 
 
 Mar. Are you content ? 
 
 Doge. I am what you behold. 
 
 Miir. And that's a mystery. 
 
 Doge. All things are so to mortals ; who can read 
 Save he who made ? or, if they can, the few [them 
 And gifted spirits, who have studied long 
 That loathsome volume — man, and pored ujjon 
 Those black and bloody leaves, his heart and brain, 
 But learn a magic which recoils upon 
 The adept who pursues it : all the sins 
 We find in others, nature made our own ; 
 All our advantages are those of fortune ; 
 Birth, weaUh, health, beauty, are her accidents, 
 And when we cry out against Fate, 'twere well 
 We should remember Fortune can take naught 
 Save what she gf.ve — the rest whs nakedness, 
 Ana lusts, and appetites, and vanities. 
 The universal heritage, to battle 
 With as we may, and least in humblest stations, 
 ■Wliere hunger swallows all in one low want, 
 And the original ordinance, that man 
 Must sweat for his poor pittance, keeps all passions 
 Aloof, save fear of famine ! All is low. 
 And false, and hoUow — clay from first to last. 
 The prince's run no less than potter's vessel. 
 Our fame is in men's breath, our Uves upon 
 
 Less than their breath ; our durance upon days, 
 Our days on seasons ; our whole being on 
 Something which is not us ! — So, we are slaves. 
 The greatest as the meanest — nothing rests 
 Upon our will ; the will itself no less 
 Depends upon a straw than on a storm ; 
 And when we think we lead, we are most led. 
 And still towards death, a thing which comes as much 
 Without our act or choice, as birth, so that 
 Methinks we must have sinn'd in some old world, 
 And this is hell : the best is, that it is not 
 Eternal. 
 
 Mar. These are things we cannot judge 
 On earth. 
 
 Doije. And how then shall we judge each other, 
 Who are all earth, and I, who am call'd ujion 
 To judge my son ? I have administer'd 
 My country faithfuhy — victoriously — 
 I dare them to the proof, the chart of what 
 She was and is : my reign has doubled realms ; 
 And, in reward, the gratitude of Venice 
 Has left, or is about to leave, me single. 
 
 Mar. AndFoscari? Idonot think of such things, 
 So I be left with him. 
 
 Doge. You shall be so : 
 
 Thus much they cannot well deny. 
 
 Mar. And if 
 
 They should, I will fly with him. 
 
 I)<>qe. That can ne'er be 
 
 And whither would you fly ? 
 
 Mar. I know not, reck not — 
 
 To Syria, Egypt, to the Ottoman — 
 Anywhere, where we might respire unfetter'd. 
 And Uve nor girt by spies, nor liable 
 To edicts of inquisitors of state. 
 
 Doge. What, wouldst thou have a renegade foi 
 And turn him into traitor ? [husband, 
 
 Mar. He is none ! 
 
 The country is the traitress, which thrusts forth 
 Her best and bravest from her. Tyranny 
 Is far the worst of treasons. Dost thou deem 
 None rebels except subjects ? The prince who 
 Neglects or violates his trust is more 
 A brigand than the robber-chief. 
 
 Doge. I cannot 
 
 Charge me -n-ith such a breach of faith. 
 
 j/j^;._ No ; thou 
 
 Observ'st, obey'st, such laws as make old Draco's 
 A code of mercy by comparison. 
 
 Doge. I found the law ; I did not make it. Were I 
 A subject, still I might find parts and portions 
 Fit for amendment ; but as prince, I never 
 Would change, for the sake of my house, the charter 
 Left by our fathers. 
 
 Mar. Did they make it for 
 
 The ruin of their children ? 
 
 Doge. Under such laws, Venice 
 
186 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT n. 
 
 Has risen to what she is — a state to rival 
 In deerls, and days, and sway, and, let me add, 
 In glory (for we have had Roman spirits 
 Amongst us), all that history has beqiicath'd 
 Of Kome and Carthage in their best time, when 
 The people sway'd by senates. 
 
 Mar. Rather say, 
 
 Groan'd under the stern oligarchs. 
 
 Do(/e. Peril aps so ; 
 
 But yet subdued the world : in such a state 
 An individual, be he richest of 
 Buch rank as is permitted, or the meanest. 
 Without a name, is alike nothing, when 
 The policy, irrevocably tending 
 To one great end, must be maintain'd in vigor. 
 
 Mar. This means that you are more a Doge than 
 father. 
 
 Diiffc. It means, I am more citizen than either. 
 If we had not for many centuries 
 Had thousands of such citizens, and shall, 
 I trust, have still such, Venice were no city. 
 
 Mnr. Accursed be the city where the laws 
 Would stifle nature's ! 
 
 JJof/«. Had I as many sons 
 
 As I have years, I would have given them all, 
 Not without feeling, but I would have given them 
 To the state's service, to fulfill her wishes 
 On the flood, in the field, or, if it must be. 
 As it, alas ! has been, to ostracism. 
 Exile, or chains, or whatsoever worse 
 She might decree. 
 
 Mar. And this is jiatriotism I 
 
 To me it seems the worst barbarity. 
 Let me seek out my husband : the sage " Ten," 
 With aU its jealousy, will hardly war 
 So far with a weak woman as deny me 
 A moment's access to his dungeon. 
 
 Doye. I'll 
 
 So far take on myself, as order that 
 You may he admitted. 
 
 Mar. And what shall I say 
 
 To Poscari from his father ? 
 
 Doge. That he obey 
 
 The laws. 
 
 Mar. And nothing more ? WiU you not see him 
 Ere he depart ? It may be the last time. 
 
 Doge. The last 1 — my boy ! — the last time I shall 
 My last of children ! Tell him I wiU come. [see 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 8 C E N E I . , 
 
 The Prison of .Tacopo Poscabi. 
 
 .he. Fo.i. QinJun). No Ught, save yon faint gleam, 
 which shows me walls 
 Wliich never eclio'd but to sorrow's sounds, 
 
 The sigh of long imprisonment, the step 
 
 Of feet on which the iron clank'd, the groan 
 
 Of death, the imprecation of despair ! 
 
 And yet for this I have return'd to Venice, 
 
 With some faint hope, 'tis true, that time, which 
 
 The marble down, had worn away the hate [wears 
 
 Of men's hearts ; but I knew them not, and here 
 
 Must I consume my own, wbicli never beat 
 
 For Venice but with such a yearning as 
 
 The dove has for her distant nest, when wheeling 
 
 High in the air on her return to greet 
 
 Her callow brood. What letters are these which 
 
 [.Ipproach ing the wall. 
 Are scrawl'd along the inexorable wall ? 
 Will the gleam let me trace them ! Ah 1 the nameo 
 Of my sad predecessors in this place. 
 The dates of their despair, the brief words of 
 A grief too great for many. This atone page 
 Holds like an epitaph their history ; 
 And the poor captive's tale is graven on 
 His dungeon barrier, like the lover's record 
 Upon the bark of some tall tree, which bears 
 His own and his beloved's name. Alas 1 
 I recognize some names familiar to me, 
 And blighted like to mine, which I will add. 
 Fittest for such a chronicle as this, 
 Wliich only can be read, as writ, by wretches. 
 
 [lie enrjrares hU name. 
 
 Enter a Familiar of the " Ten." 
 
 Fam. I bring you food. 
 
 JcK. Fos. I pray you set it down ; 
 
 I am past hunger : but my hps are parch'd — 
 The water ? 
 
 Fam. There. 
 
 Jac. Fox. {after drinhinrj). I thank you : I am l)et- 
 
 Farn. I am commanded to inform you that [ter. 
 Your further trial is postijoned. 
 
 Ja£. Fo!<. Till when ? 
 
 Fam. I know not. — It is also in my orders 
 That your illustrious lady be admitted. 
 
 Jae. Fos. Ah I they relent, then, — I had ceased to 
 'Twas time. [hope it : 
 
 Enter Marina. 
 
 Mar. My best beloved ! 
 
 Jac. FoK. {emhracing her). My true wife. 
 
 And only friend I What happiness 1 
 
 Mar. We'll part 
 
 No more. 
 
 Jac. Fos. How 1 wouldst thou share a dungeon ? 
 
 Mar. -A-y 
 
 The rack, the grave, all— anything with thee, 
 But the tomb last of all, for there he shall 
 Be ignorant of each other, yet I will 
 Share that— all things except new sep»»-atioD ; 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 287 
 
 It is too mu ;h to have Burvived the first. 
 
 How dost tb Du ? How are those worn limbs ? Alas ! 
 
 Why do I ask 2 Thy paleness 
 
 Jac. Fos. 'Tis the joy 
 
 Of seeing thee again so soon, and so 
 Without expectancy, has sent the blood 
 Back to iny heart, and left my cheeks Uke thine, 
 For thou art pale too, my Marina I 
 
 Mar. 'Tis 
 
 The gloom of this eternal cell, which never 
 Knew sunbeam, and the sallow sullen glare 
 Of the familiar's torch, which seems akin 
 To darkness more than light, by lending to 
 The dungeon vapors its bituminous smoke. 
 Which cloud whate'er we gaze on, even thine eyes — 
 No, not thine eyes — they sparkle — how they sjjarkle I 
 
 Jac. Fos. And thine ! — but I am blinded by the 
 torch. 
 
 Mar. As I had been without it. Couldst thou see 
 here ? 
 
 Jac. Fos. Nothing at first ; but use and time had 
 Familiarity with what was darkness ; [taught me 
 And the gray twilight of such glimmerings as 
 Glide through the crevices made by the winds 
 Was kinder to mine eyes than the full sun, 
 When gorgeously o'ergilding any towers 
 Save those of Venice : but a moment ere 
 Thou camest hither I was busy writing. 
 
 Mar. What? 
 
 Jac. Fos. My name : look, 'tis there — recorded nest 
 The name of him who here preceded me, 
 If dungeon dates say true. 
 
 Mar. And what of him ? 
 
 Jac. Fos. These walls are silent of men's ends ; 
 they only 
 Seem to hint shrewdly of them. Such stem walls 
 Were never piled on high save o'er the dead, 
 Or those who soon must be so. — JF/iat of him f 
 Thnu askest. — What of me ? may soon be ask'd, 
 With the like answer — doubt and dreadful surmise — 
 Unless thou telFst my tale. 
 
 Mar. I ■•qyeiil- of thee 1 
 
 Jai\ Fos. And wherefore not ? All then shall 
 The tyranny of silence is not lasting, [speak of me : 
 And, though events be hidden, just men's groans 
 Will burst all cerement, even a living grave's I 
 I do not doubt my memory, but my life ; 
 And neither do I fear. 
 
 .)/.(/■. Thy life is safe. 
 
 Ja-. F<M. i\jid liberty ? 
 
 Mar. The mind should make its own. 
 
 Jac. Fos. That has a noble sound ; but 'tis a sound, 
 A music most impressive, but too transient : 
 The mind is much, but is not all. The mind 
 Ilath nerved me to endure the risk of death, 
 And torture positive, far worse than death, 
 (If death be a deeji sleep), without a groan. 
 
 Or with a cry which rather shamed my judges 
 Than me ; but 'tis not all, for there are things 
 More woful — such as this small dungeon, where 
 I may breathe many years. 
 
 Miir. Alas ! and this 
 
 Small dungeon is all that belongs to thee 
 Of this wide realm, of which thy sire is prince. 
 
 Jac. Fos. That thought would scarcely aid me tc 
 endure it. 
 My doom is common, many are in dungeons. 
 But none like mine, so near their father's palace ; 
 But then my heart is sometimes high, and hope 
 Will stream along those moted rays of light 
 Peopled with dusty atoms, which afford 
 Om- only day ; for, save the jailor's torch. 
 And a strange firefly, which was quickly caught 
 Last night in yon enormous spider's net, 
 I ne'er saw aught here like a ray. Alas ! 
 I know if mind may bear us up, or no. 
 For I have such, and shown it before men ; 
 It sinks in solitude : my soul is social. 
 
 Mar. I will be with thee. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Ah ! if it were so 1 
 
 But that they never granted — ^nor wiU grant, 
 And I shall be alone : no men — no books — 
 Those lying likenesses of lying men. 
 I ask'd for even those outlines of their kind, 
 Which they term annals, history, what you will. 
 Which men bequeath as portraits, and they were 
 Refused me, — so these walls have been my study, 
 Jlore faithful pictures of Venetian story. 
 With all their blank, or dismal stains, than is 
 The Hall not far from hence, which liears on high 
 Hundreds of doges, and their deeds and dates. 
 
 Mar. I come to teU thee the result of their 
 Last council on thy doom. 
 
 Jac. Fos. I know it — look : 
 
 [He points to Jiis limhs, as referring to the 
 Question ichich he had undercjone. 
 
 Mar. No — no — no more of that : even they relent 
 From that atrocity. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Wliat then 2 
 
 Mar. That you 
 
 Return to Candia. 
 
 Jew. Fos. Then my last hope's gone. 
 
 I could endure my dungeon, for 'twas Venice ; 
 I could support the torture, there was something 
 In my native air that buoy'd my spirits up 
 Like a ship on the ocean toss'd by storms. 
 But proudly still bestriding the high waves, 
 And holding on its course ; Ijut there, afiir. 
 In that accursed isle of slaves, and captives, 
 And imbelievers, like a stranded wreck. 
 My very soul seem'd mouldering in my bosom, 
 And piecemeal I shall perish, if remanded. 
 
 Mar. And here ? 
 
 Jac. Fos. At once — bv better means, as onefer 
 
288 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT nt. 
 
 What ! would they even deny me my sires' sepul- 
 A<i well as home and heritage ? [clrre, 
 
 Mar. My husband ! 
 
 I liave sued to accompany thee hence, 
 And not so hopelessly. This love of thine 
 For an ungrateful and tyrannic soil 
 Is passion, and not patriotism ; for me 
 So I could see thee with a quiet aspect, 
 And the sweet freedom of the earth and air, 
 I would not cavil about climes or regions. 
 This crowd of palaces and prisons is not 
 A paradise ; its iirst inhabitants 
 Were wretched exiles. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Well I know hoio wretched I 
 
 Ma". And yet you see how from their banishment 
 Before the Tartar into these salt isles, 
 Their antique energy of mind, all that 
 Remain'd of Rome for their inheritance, 
 Created by degrees an ocean-Rome ;' 
 And shall an evil, which so often leads 
 To good, depress thee thus ? 
 
 Jac. Fos. Had I gone forth 
 
 From my own land, like the old patriarchs, seeking 
 Another region, with their flocks and herds ; 
 Had I been cast out like the Jews Irom Zion, 
 Or like our fathers, driven by Attila 
 From fertile Italy, to barren islets, 
 [ would have given some tears to my late country, 
 i\.nd many thoughts ; but afterwards address'd 
 Myself, with those about me, to create 
 A new home and fresh state : perhaps I could 
 Have borne this — though I know not. 
 
 Mar. Wherefore not ? 
 
 It was the lot of millions, and must be 
 The fate of myriads more. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Ay — we but hear 
 
 Of the survivors' toil in their new lands. 
 Their numbers and success ; but who can number 
 The liearts which broke in silence of that parting. 
 Or after their departure ; of that malady 
 Which calls up green and native fields to view 
 From the rough deep, with such identity 
 To the poor exile's fever'd eye, that he 
 Can scarcely be rcstrain'd from treading them ? 
 That melody, which out of tones Jind tunes 
 Collects sucii pasture for the longing sorrow 
 Of the sad mountaineer, when far away 
 From his snow canopy of cliffs and clouds. 
 
 ' In Lady Morgan's fearless and excellent work upon Italy, I 
 perceive the expreBsion of "Rome of the Ocean," applied to 
 Venice. The same phrase occurs in the " Two Foscari." My 
 publisher can vouch for nic, that the tragedy was written and 
 pent to Ensland sometime before I had seen Lady Morgan's work, 
 whicli I only received on the lUth of .\ugu9t. I hasten, however, 
 to noiiie the coincidence, and to yield the originality of the phrase 
 to her wlio lirat placed it before the public. I am the more anxious 
 to do this, as I am informed (lor I have seen but few of the speci- 
 mens, ami •hose accidentally) that there have been lately brought 
 lEUinst )no charges of plagiarism. 
 
 That he feeds on the sweet, but poisonous thought, 
 And dies. You call this (rOT/v/exi.' It is strength, 
 I say, — the parent of all honest feeling. 
 He who loves not his country, can love nothing. 
 
 Mar. Obey her, then : 'tis she that puts thee forth. 
 
 Jar. Fos. Ay, there it is : 'tis like a mother's curse 
 Upon my soul — the mark is set upon me. 
 The exiles you speak of went forth by nations, 
 Their hands upheld each other by the way. 
 Their tents were pitch'd together — I'm alone [thee. 
 
 Mar. You shall be so no more — I will go with 
 
 Jac. Fos. My best Marina ! — and our children ? 
 
 Mar. They, 
 
 I fear, by the prevention of the state's 
 Abhorrent policy, (which holds all ties 
 As threads, which may be broken at her pleasure,) 
 Will not be suffer'd to proceed with us. 
 
 Jac. Fos. And canst thou leave them ? 
 
 Mar. Yes. With many a pang. 
 
 But — I can leave them, children as they are. 
 To teach you to be less a child. From this 
 Learn you to sway your feelings, when exacted 
 By duties paramount ; and 'tis our first 
 On earth to bear. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Have I not borne ? 
 
 Mar. Too much 
 
 From tyrannous injustice, and enough 
 To teach you not to shrink now from a lot. 
 Which, as compared with what you have undergone 
 Of late, is mercy. 
 
 Jac. Foi. Ah, you never yet 
 
 Were far away from Venice, never saw 
 Her beautiful towers in the receding distance. 
 While every furrow of the vessel's track 
 Seem'd ploughing deep into your heart ; you never 
 Saw days go down upon your native spires 
 So calmly with its gold and crimson glory. 
 And after drearaiijg a disturbed vision 
 Of them and theirs, awoke and found them not. 
 
 Mar. I will divide this with you. Let us think 
 Of our departure from this much-loved city, 
 (Since you uuist /«re it, as it seems,) and this 
 CSiamber of state, her gratitude allots you. 
 Our children will be cared for Ijy the Doge, 
 And by my uncles : we must sail ere night. 
 
 Jiic. Fos. That's sudden. ShaU I not behold my 
 
 Mar. You will. [father » 
 
 Jac. Fos. Wliere ? 
 
 Mar. Here, or in the ducal chamber — 
 
 He said not which. I would that you could bear 
 Your exile as he bears it. 
 
 Jac, Fos. Blame him not, 
 
 I sometimes murmur for a moment ; but 
 He could not now act otherwise. \ show 
 Of feeling or compassion on his pt rt 
 Would have but drawn upon his aged head 
 
rc!;ne I. 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 289 
 
 Suspicion from " the Ten," and upon mine 
 Accumulated ills. 
 
 Mar. Accumulated ! 
 
 What pangs are those they have spared you ? 
 
 Jar. Fox. That of leaving 
 
 Venice without beholding him or you, 
 Which might have been forbidden now, as 'twas 
 Upon my former exile. 
 
 Mar. That is true. 
 
 And thus far I am also the state's debtor, 
 And shall be more so when I see us both 
 Floating on the free waves — away — away — 
 Be it to the earth's end, from this abhorr'd, 
 Unjust, and 
 
 Jac. Fii.'. Curse it not. If I am silent, 
 
 Who dares accuse my country ? 
 
 Mar. ^len and angels ! 
 
 The blood of myriads reeking up to heaven. 
 The groans of .slaves in chains, and men in dungeons, 
 Mothers, and wives, and sons, and sires, and subjects. 
 Held in the bondage of ten bald-heads ; and 
 Though last, not least, tli;/ siluce. Couleht tJwu say 
 Aught in its favor, who would praise like tTiee ? 
 
 Jac. Full. Let us address us then, since so it must 
 To our departure. Who conies here ? [be. 
 
 Elder LoRED.\JiO, attended by Familiars. 
 
 Lor. {to the Familiars.) Retire, 
 
 But leave the torch. [Exeunt the tiro Familiars. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Most welcome, noble signor. 
 
 I did not deem this poor place could have drawn 
 Such presence hither. 
 
 Lor. 'Tis not the &st time 
 
 I have visited these places. 
 
 Mar. Nor would be 
 
 The last, were all men's merits well rewarded. 
 Came you here to insult us, or remain 
 As spy upon us, or as hostage for us ? 
 
 Lor. Neither are of my office, noble lady I 
 I am sent hither to your husband, to 
 Announce "the Ten's" decree. 
 
 Mar. That tenderness 
 
 Has been anticipated : it is known. 
 
 Lor. As how ? 
 
 Mar. I have inform'd him, not so gently 
 
 Doubtless, as your nice feelings would prescribe, 
 The indulgence of your colleagues : but he knew it. 
 If you come for our thanks, take them, and hence ! 
 The dungeon gloom is deep enough without you. 
 And full of reptiles, not less loathsome, though 
 Their sting is honester. 
 
 Jac. F a. I pray you, calm you : 
 
 WTiat can avail such words ? 
 
 Mar. To let him know 
 
 That he \i known. 
 
 Lor. Let the fair dame preserve 
 
 Her sex's privilege. 
 
 37 
 
 Mar. I have some sons, sir. 
 
 Will one day thank you better. 
 
 Lor. You do weU 
 
 To nurse them wisely. Foscari — you know 
 Your sentence, then ? 
 
 Jac. Fos. Return to Candia ? 
 
 Lor. True — 
 
 For life. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Not long. 
 
 Lor. I said — for life. 
 
 Jac. Fos. And I 
 
 Repeat— not long. 
 
 Lor. A year's imprisonment 
 
 In Canca — afterwards the freedom of 
 The whole isle. 
 
 Jar. Fos. Both the same to me : the after 
 
 Freedom as is the first imprisonment. 
 Is't true my wife accompanies me ? 
 
 Lor. Yes, 
 
 If she so wills it. 
 
 Mar. Who obtain'd that justice ? 
 
 Lor. One who wars not with women. 
 
 Mar. But oppresses 
 
 Men : howsoever let him have mtj thanks 
 For the only boon I would have ask'd or taken 
 From him or such as he is. 
 
 Lor. He receives them 
 
 As they are ofier'd. 
 
 Mar. May they thrive with him 
 
 So much ! — no more. 
 
 Jar. Fos. Is this, sir, your whole mission '( 
 
 Because we have brief time for preparation, 
 And you perceive your presence doth disquiet 
 This lady, of a house noble as yours. 
 
 Mar. Nobler 1 
 
 Lor. How nobler ? 
 
 J/ar. As more generous 1 
 
 We say the "generous steed" to express the purity 
 Of his high blood. Thus much I've leam'd, although 
 Venetian, (who see few steeds save of bronze,) 
 From those Venetians who have skimm'd the coasts 
 Of Egypt, and her neighbor Araby : 
 And why not say as soon the " generous man ?" 
 If race be aught, it is in qualities 
 More than in years ; and mine, w'hich is as old 
 As yours, is better in its product, nay — 
 Look not so stern — but get you back, and pore 
 Upon your genealogic tree's most green 
 Of leaves and most mature of fruits, and there 
 Blush to find ancestors, who would have blush'd 
 For such a son — thou cold inveterate hater 1 
 
 Jac. Fos. Again, Marina ! 
 
 Mar. Again I still, Marina 
 
 See you not, he comes here to glut his hate 
 With a last look upon our misery ? 
 Let him partake it ! 
 
 Ja<: Fos. That were difficult 
 
290 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACf 1(1, 
 
 jVar. Notliin<; more easy. He partakes it now — 
 Ay, he may veil beneatli a marble brow 
 And sneering lip the pang, but he partakes it. 
 A few brief words of truth ahame the devil's ser- 
 No less tlian master ; I have probed his soul [vants 
 A moment, as the eternal fire, ere long, 
 Will reach it always. Sec how it shrinks from me ! 
 With death, and chains, and e.xile in his hand 
 To scatter o'er his kind as ho thinks fit : 
 They are his weapons, not his armor, for 
 I have pierced him to the core of his cold heart. 
 I care not for his frowns ! We can but die, 
 And he but live, for him the very worst 
 Of destinies : each day secures liim more 
 His tempter's. 
 
 Jia: FiiH. This is mere insanity. 
 
 Mar. It may be so ; and who hath made us mad f 
 
 Lor. Let her go on ; it irks not me. 
 
 Mar. That's false ! 
 
 You came here to enjoy a heartless triumph 
 Of cold looks upon manifold griefs ! You came 
 To be sued to in vain — to mark our tears. 
 And hoard our groans — to gaze upon the wreck 
 Which you have made a prince's son — my husband ; 
 In short, to trample on the fallen — an ofHce 
 The hangman shrinks from, as all men from him ! 
 How have yoii sped ? We are wretched, signor, as 
 Your plots could make, and vengeance could desire 
 And how,/('(?^ you ? [us, 
 
 Lor. As rocks. 
 
 Mar. By thunder blasted : 
 
 They feel not, but no less are shiver'd. Come, 
 Foseari ; now let us go, and leave thfs felon, 
 The sole fit habitant of such a cell, 
 Which he has peopled often, but ne'er fitly 
 Till he himself shall brood in it alone. 
 
 Enter the Doge. 
 
 Jac. Fos. My father ! 
 
 Doffe, (emhraciiiff him.) Jacopo ! my son — my son I 
 '(W. Foa. My father still ! How long it is since I 
 na\e heard thee name my name — o'lr name ! 
 
 Done. My boy I 
 
 Oouldst thou but know 
 
 Jac. Fos. I rarely, sir, have murmur'd. 
 
 Doge. I feel too much thou hast not. 
 
 Mar. Doge, look there ! 
 
 [She points to Lokedano. 
 
 Doge. I see the man — what mean'st thou ? 
 
 Mar. Caution ! 
 
 r.or. Being 
 
 The virtue which this noble lady most 
 May practice, she doth well to recommend it. 
 
 Mar. Wretch I 'tis no virtue, but the policy 
 Of those who fain must deal perforce with vice : 
 As such I recommend it, as I would 
 To one whose foot was on an adder's path. 
 
 Doffe. Daughter, it is superfluous ; I have long 
 EJiown Loredano. 
 
 f-or. You may know him better. 
 
 Mar. Yes ; worse he could not. 
 Jac. Fos. Father, let not thesa 
 
 Our parting hours be lost in listening to 
 Reproaches, which boot nothing. Is it — is it, 
 Indeed, our last of meetings ? 
 
 I^ofje. You behold 
 
 These white hairs ! 
 
 Jac. Fos. And I feel, besides, that mine 
 
 Will never be so white. Embrace me, ftither ! 
 I loved you ever — never more than now. 
 Look to my children — to your last child's children ; 
 Let them be all to you which he was once. 
 And never be to you what I am now. 
 May I not see them also ? 
 
 Mar. No — not here, [where. 
 
 Jac. Fos. They might behold their parent any 
 Mar. I would that they beheld their father in 
 A place which would not mingle fear with love. 
 To freeze their young blood in its natural current. 
 They have fed well, slept soft, and knew not that 
 Their sire was a mere hunted outlaw. Well 
 I know his fate may one day be their heritage, 
 But let it only be their heritarje, 
 And not their present fee. Their senses, though 
 Alive to love, arc yet awake to terror ; 
 And these vile damjis, too, and yon tliich green wavo 
 Which floats above the place where we now stand — 
 A cell so far below the water's level. 
 Sending its pestilence through every crevice. 
 Might strike them : this is not their atmosphere, 
 However you^and you — and, most of all, 
 As worthiest — yox, sir, noble Loredano ! 
 May breathe it without prejudice. 
 
 Jar. Fos. I have not 
 
 Reflected upon this, but acquiesce. 
 I shall depart, then, without meeting them ? 
 
 Doge. Not so : they shall await you in my cham- 
 Jac. Fos. And must I leave them — all ? [bcr. 
 
 Lor. You must. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Not one ? 
 
 Lor. They are the state's. 
 
 Mar. I thought they had been mine 
 
 Lor. They are, in all maternal things. 
 Mar. That is. 
 
 In all things painful. If they're sick, they will 
 Be left to me to tend them ; should they die, 
 To me to bury and to mourn ; but if 
 They live, they'll make you soldiers, senators. 
 Slaves, exiles — what yon will ; or if they are 
 Females with portions, brides and hrilies for nobles ' 
 Behold the state's care for its sons and mothers I 
 Lor. The hour approaches, and the wind is fair. 
 Jac. Fos. How know you thU here, where the g& 
 nial wind 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARl. 
 
 291 
 
 Ne'er blows in all its blustering freedom ? 
 
 Lot. 'Twas so 
 
 WTien I came here. The galley floats within 
 A. bow-shot of the " Riva di Schiavom." 
 
 Jae. Fvs. Father ! I pray you to precede me, and 
 Prepare my children to behold their father. 
 
 Doge. Be firm, my son ! 
 
 Jdc. Fos. I will do my endeaTor. 
 
 Mir Farewell ! at least to this detested dungeon, 
 And hill to whose good offices you owe 
 In part yoiu- past imprisonment. 
 
 Lor. And present 
 
 Liberation. 
 
 Doge. He speaks truth. 
 
 Jac, Fes. No doubt ! but 'tis 
 
 Exchange of chains for heavier chains I owe him. 
 He knows this, or he had not sought to change 
 But I reproach not. [them. 
 
 Lor. The time narrows, signor. 
 
 Jo/-. Fos. AJas I I little thought so lingeringly 
 To leave abodes hke this : but when I feel 
 That every step I take, even from this cell, 
 Is one away from Venice, I look back 
 Even on these dull damp walls, and 
 
 Doge. Boy ! no tears. 
 
 ifar. Let them flow on : he wept not on the rack 
 To shame him, and they cannot shame him now. 
 They will relieve his heart — that too kind heart — 
 And I will ftnd an hour to wipe away 
 Those tears, or add my own. I could weep now. 
 But would not gratify yon wretch so far. 
 Let us proceed. Doge, lead the way. 
 
 Lor. {to the FamUinr.) The torch, there ! 
 
 Mar. Yes, light us on, as to a funeral pyre, 
 With Loredano mourning like an heir. 
 
 Doge. My son, you are feeble ; take this hand. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Alas ! 
 
 Must youth support itself on age, and I 
 Who ought to be the prop of yours ? 
 
 Lor. Take mine. 
 
 Mar. Touch it not. Foscari ; 'twill sting you. Sig- 
 Stand ofi" ! be sure, that if a grasp of yours [nor. 
 Would raise us from the gulf wherein we are plung- 
 Ko hand of ours would stretch itself to meet it. [ed, 
 Come, Foscari, take the hand the altar gave you ; 
 It could not save, but will support you ever. 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 ACT TV. 
 
 SCENE I . 
 
 A Hall in, the Ducal Palace. 
 
 Enter LoREr iNO and Bakbabigo. 
 
 Bar. And have you co.~vfidence in such a project 1 
 
 Lor. I have. 
 
 Bar. 'Tis hard upon hia years. 
 
 Lor. Say rather 
 
 Kind to relieve him from the cares of state. 
 Bai: 'Twin break his heart. 
 Lfir. Age has no heart to break. 
 
 He has seen his son's half broken, and, except 
 A start of feeling in his dungeon, never 
 Swerved. . 
 
 Bar. In his countenance, I grant you, never ; 
 But I have seen him sometimes in a calm 
 So desolate, that the most clamorous grief 
 Had naught to envy him within. Where is he ? 
 
 Lor. In his ovra portion of the palace, with 
 His son, and the whole race of Foscaris. 
 Bar. Bidding farewell ? 
 
 Lor. A last. As soon he shall 
 
 Bid to his dukedom. 
 Bar. When embarks the son ? 
 
 Lnr. Forthwith — when this long leave is taken. 
 Time to admonish them again. ['Tia 
 
 Bar. Forbear ; 
 
 Retrench not from their moments. 
 
 Lor. Not I, now 
 
 We have higher business for our own. This day 
 Shall be the last of the old Doge's reign. 
 As the first of his son's last banishment. 
 And that is vengeance. 
 
 Bfir. In my mind, too deep. 
 
 Lor. 'Tis moderate — not even life for life, the rule 
 Denounced of retribution from all time ; 
 They owe me still my father's and my uncle's. 
 Bar. Did not the Doge deny this strongly ? 
 Lor. Doubtless. 
 
 Bar. And did not this shake your suspicion ? 
 Lor. No. 
 
 Bar. But if this despotism should take place 
 By our united influence in the Council, 
 It must be done with all the deference 
 Due to his years, his station, and his deeds. 
 
 Lor. As much of ceremony as you will. 
 So that the thing be done. You may, for aught 
 I care, depute the Council on their knees, 
 (Like Barbarossa to the Pope,) to beg him 
 To have the courtesy to abdicate. 
 Bar. "Wliat, if he wiU not ? 
 Lor. We'll elect another. 
 
 And make him nuU. 
 
 B'lr. But will the laws uphold us « 
 
 Lor. What laws? — "The Ten" are laws; and if 
 I wiU be legislator in this business, [they were not. 
 Bar. At your own peril ? 
 
 Lor. There is none, I tell j on. 
 
 Our powers are such. 
 
 Bar. But he has twice already 
 
 Solicited permission to retire. 
 And twice it was refused. 
 
 Lor. The better reasoD 
 
 To grant it the third time 
 
292 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT IT 
 
 Bar. Unask'd ? 
 
 Lor. It shows 
 
 Tke impression of his former instances : 
 If tlicy were from his heart, he may be thankful : 
 If not, 'twill punish his hypocrisy. 
 Come, they are met by this time ; let us join them, 
 And be thou fix'd in ijurjjose for this once. 
 I have prepared such arguments as will not 
 Fail to move them, and to remove him : since 
 Their thoughts, their objects, have been sounded, 
 
 do not 
 Ton, with your wonted scruples, teach us pause. 
 And all will prosper. 
 
 Bar. Could I but be certain 
 
 This is no prelude to such persecution 
 Of the sire as has fallen upon the son, 
 I would support you. 
 
 Lor. He is safe, I tell you ; 
 
 His fourscore years and five may linger on 
 As long as he can drag them : 'tis his throne 
 Alone is aim'd at. 
 
 Bar. But discarded princes 
 
 Are seldom long of life. 
 
 Lor. And men of eighty 
 
 More seldom stiU. 
 
 Bar. And why not wait these few years ? 
 
 Lor. Because we have waited long enough, and he 
 Lived longer than enough. Hence ! into council ! 
 \_Exeunt Lokedauo and Bahbakigo. 
 
 Enter Memmo and a Senator. 
 
 Sen. A summons to " the Ten 1" Wliy so ? 
 
 Mem. " The Ten" 
 
 Alone can answer : they are rarely wont 
 To let their thoughts anticipate their purpose 
 By previous proclamation. We are summon'd — 
 That is enough. 
 
 Sen. For them, but not for us ; 
 
 I would know why. 
 
 Metn. You will know why anon, 
 
 If you obey ; and, if not, you no less 
 Will know why you should have obey'd 
 
 Sen. I mean not 
 
 To oppose them, hut 
 
 Afem. In Venice " hut" 's a traitor. 
 
 But me no " J«?,v," unless you would pass o'er 
 The Bridge which few repass. 
 
 Sen. I am silent. 
 
 Mem. Why 
 
 Thus hesitate ? " The Ten " have call'd in aid 
 Of their deliberation five-and-twcnty 
 Pati'icians of the senate — you are one, 
 And I another ; and it seems to me 
 Both honor'd by the choice or chanee which leads 
 To mingle with a body so august. [us 
 
 Sen. Most true. I say no more. 
 
 Mem, As we hope, signer. 
 
 And all may honestly, (that is, all thjsc 
 Of noble blood may,) one day hope to oe 
 Decemvir, it is surely for the senate's 
 Chosen delegates, a school of wisdom, to 
 Be thus admitted, though as no^aces. 
 To view the mysteries. 
 
 Sen. Let us view them : they, 
 
 No doubt, are worth it. 
 
 Mem. Being worth our lives 
 
 If we divulge them, doubtless they are worth 
 Something, at least to you or me. 
 
 Sen. I sought not 
 
 A place within the sanctuary ; but being 
 Chosen, however reluctantly so chosen, 
 I shall fulfill my office. 
 
 Mem. Let us not 
 
 Be latest in obeying " the Ten's" summons. 
 
 Sen. AU are not met, but I am of your thought 
 So far — let 's in. 
 
 Mem.. The earliest are most welcome 
 
 In earnest councils — we will not be least so. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter the Doge, Jacopo Foscahi, and Marina. 
 
 Jac. FoD. Ah, father 1 though I must and will de- 
 Yet — yet — I pray you to obtain for me [part 
 That I once more return unto my home, 
 Howe'er remote the period. Let there be 
 A point of time, as beacon to my heart. 
 With any penalty annex'd they please. 
 But let me still return. 
 
 JDorfe. Son Jacopo, 
 
 Go and obey our country's wiU : 'tis not 
 For us to look beyond. 
 
 Jac. Foa. But stdl I must 
 
 Look back. I pray you think of me. 
 
 iJor/e. Alas ! 
 
 You ever were my dearest offspring, when 
 They were more numerous, nor can be less so 
 Now you are last ; but did the state demand 
 The exile of the disinterred ashes 
 Of your three goodly brothers, now in earth. 
 And their desponding shades came flitting round 
 To impede the act, I must no less obey 
 A duty, paramount to every duty. 
 
 Miir. My husl)and ! let us on : this but prolongs 
 Our sorrow. 
 
 Jae. Foil. But we are not summon'd yet ; 
 The galley's sails are not unfurl'd :— who knows ? 
 The wind may change. 
 
 )/„;.. And if it do, it will not 
 
 Change their hearts, or your lot : the galley's oar 
 Will quickly clear the harbor. 
 
 Jiir. Foil. O ye elements ) 
 
 Where are your storms ? 
 
 J/,,,. " In human br (a.-its. Alaai 
 
 Will nothing calm you ? 
 
b:ene I. 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 293 
 
 Jac. Fos. Never yet did mariner 
 
 Put up to patron saint sucli prayers for prosperous 
 And pleasant breezes, as I call upon you, 
 Ye tutelar saints of my own city ! wliich 
 Ye love not with more holy love than I, 
 To lash up from the deep the Adrian waves, 
 And waken Auster, sovereign of the tempest ! 
 Till the sea dash me back on my own shore 
 A broken corse upon the barren Lido, 
 Where I may mingle with the sands which skirt 
 The land I love, and never shall see more ! 
 
 Mar. And wish you this with me beside you ? 
 
 Jac. Fos. No — 
 
 No — not for thee, too good, too kind ! Mayst thou 
 Live long to be a mother to those children 
 Thy fond fidelity for a time deprives 
 Of such support ! But for myself alone, 
 May all the winds of heaven howl down the Gulf 
 And tear the vessel, till the mariners, 
 Appaird, turn their despairing eyes on me. 
 As the Phenicians did on Jonah, then 
 Cast me out from amongst them, as an offering 
 To appease the waves. The billow which destroys 
 Will be more merciful than man, and bear me, [me 
 Dead, but still bear me to a native grave. 
 From fishers' hands upon the desolate strand, 
 Which, of its thousand wrecks, hath ne'er received 
 One lacerated like the heart which then 
 Will be — but wherefore breaks it not ? why live I ? 
 
 Jfar. To man thyself, I trust, with time, to master 
 Such useless passion. Until now thou wert 
 A sufferer, but not a loud one : why, 
 What is this to the things thou hast borne in si- 
 Imprisonment and actual torture ? [lence — 
 
 Jac. Fos. Double, 
 
 Triple, and tenfold torture ! But you are right, 
 It must be borne. Father, your blessing ! 
 
 /'<yr. Would 
 
 It could avail thee ! but no less thou hast it. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Forgive 
 
 I>oi/e. What ? 
 
 Jic. Fos. My poor mother, for my birth, 
 
 And me for having lived, and you yourself, 
 (As I forgive you,) for the gift of life, 
 ^\'hich you bestow'd upon me as my sire. 
 
 .'il'/r. What hast thou done ? 
 
 J'le. Fiis. Nothing. I cannot charge 
 
 My memory with much save sorrow : but 
 I have been so beyond the common lot 
 Chasten'd and visited, I needs must think 
 That I was wicked. If it be so, may 
 ^V^lat I have undergone here keep me from 
 A like hereafter ! 
 
 Mar. Fear not : thaVs reserved 
 
 For your oppressors. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Let me hope not. 
 
 i/ ir. Hope not ? 
 
 Jac. Fos. I cannot wish them aU they have inflicted 
 
 Mar. All / the consummate fiends 1 A thousand 
 fold! 
 May the worm which ne'er dieth feed upon them ! 
 
 Jac. Fos. They may repent. 
 
 Mar. And if they do. Heaven will not 
 
 Accept the tardy penitence of demons. 
 
 Enter an Offi^cer and Gvards. 
 
 Offi. Signor ! the boat is at the shore — the wind 
 Is rising — we are ready to attend you. 
 
 Jac. Fos. And I to be attended. Once more, father 
 Your hand ! 
 
 Doge. Take it. Alas, bow thine own trembles ! 
 
 Jac. Fos. No — you mistake ; 'tis youre that shakes, 
 Farewell ! [my father. 
 
 Doge. Farewell ! Is there aught else 1 
 
 Jac. Fos. No — nothing 
 
 [ To the Ojficer 
 Lend me your arm, good signor. 
 
 Offi. You turn pale — 
 
 Let me support you — paler — ho I some aid there ! 
 Some water ! 
 
 Mar. Ah, he is dying ! 
 
 Jac. Fos. Now, I'm ready — 
 
 My eyes swim strangely — where 's the door ! 
 
 Mar. Away ' 
 
 Let me support him — my best love ! O God ! 
 How faintly beats this heart — this pulse ! 
 
 Jac. Fos. The light 1 
 
 Is it the light ? — I am faint. 
 
 [Officer presents him with water. 
 
 Offi. ' He will be better, 
 
 Perhaps, in the air. 
 
 Jac. Fos. I doubt not. Father — wife — 
 
 Your hands ! 
 
 Mar. There's death in that damp clammy grasp 
 
 God 1 My Foscari, how fare you 1 
 
 Jac. Fos. Well ! 
 
 [He dies 
 
 Offi. He's gone 1 
 
 Doge. He's free ! 
 
 Mar. , No — no, he is not dead ; 
 
 There must be life yet in that heart — he could not 
 Thus leave me. 
 
 Doge. Daughter ! 
 
 Mar. Hold thy peace, old man I 
 
 1 am no daughter now — thou hast no son. 
 Oh, Foscari ! 
 
 Offi. We must remove the body. 
 
 Doge. Touch it not, dungeon miscreants ! youi 
 base oflice 
 Ends with his life, and goes not beyond murder. 
 Even by your murderous laws. Leave his remain* 
 To those who know to honor \;hem. 
 
 Offi. 1 J»iis:<. 
 
 Inform the signory, ajij U-mi- tCQt' V-"'"''^''''. 
 
294 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT rv. 
 
 Dofie. Inform the signory from mf^ the Doge, 
 Tiiey have no further power upon those ashes : 
 While he lived, he was theirs, as fits a subject — 
 Nuw lie is mine — my broken-heartetl boy ! 
 
 {Exit Officer. 
 
 Mar. And I must Uve ? 
 
 Doge. Your children live, Marina. 
 
 }f(ir. My children ! true — they live, and I must 
 To bring them up to serve the state, and die [live 
 i\.s died their father. Oh, what best of blessings 
 Were barrenness in Venice ! Would my mother 
 Had been so 1 
 
 Dnge. My unhappy children ! 
 
 Mar. What ! 
 
 YtAi feel it then at last — you ! Where is now 
 The stoic of the state ? 
 
 Doge, {throwing hirnself down ly the body.) Here! 
 
 Mar. Ay, w^eep on I 
 
 I thought you had no tears — you hoarded them 
 Until they are useless ; but weep on I he never 
 Shall weep more — never, never more ! 
 
 Enter Lohedano and Bahbabioo. 
 
 Lor. Wlaat's here ? 
 
 Mar. Ah, the devil come to insult the dead ! 
 Incam.ate Lucifer 1 'tis holy ground. [Avaunt ! 
 
 .k. u-.artyr's ashes now lie there, which make it 
 A shrine. Get thee back to thy place of torment ! 
 
 Var. Lady, we knew not of this sad event, 
 But, pass'd here merely on our path from council. 
 
 Mar. Pass on. 
 
 Liir. We sought the Doge. 
 
 Mar. (pointing to the Doge, who is still on the ground 
 hy his son's body.) lie's busy, look. 
 About the business you provided for him. 
 Are ye content ? 
 
 Bar. We will not interrupt 
 
 A parent's sorrows. 
 
 Miir. No, ye only make them, 
 
 Then leave them. 
 
 Doge, (rising.) Sirs, I am ready. 
 
 Sar. No — not now. 
 
 Lor. Yet 'twas important. 
 
 Doge. If 'twa? so, I can 
 
 Only repeat — I am ready. 
 
 Bar. It shall not be 
 
 Just now, though Venice totter'd o'er the deep 
 Like a frail vessel. I respect your griefs. 
 
 Doge. I thauk you. If the tidings which you bring 
 Are evil, you may say them ; nothing further 
 Can touch me more than him thou look'st on there : 
 If they be good, say on : you need not /tar 
 That they can comfort me. 
 
 Bar. I would they could I 
 
 Doge. I spoke not to yvti, but to Lorcdano. 
 'le understands ine. 
 
 Mur. Ah, I thought it would bo so. 
 
 Doge. What mean vou ! 
 
 Mar. Lo I there is the blood beginninff 
 
 To flow through the dead lips of Foscari — 
 The body bleeds in presence ol the assassin. 
 
 [ 'J'o LOREUANO. 
 
 Thou cowardly murderer by law, behold 
 IIow deatli itself bears witness to thy deeds ! 
 
 Doge. My child ! this is a phantasy of grief. 
 Bear hence the body. ['Jo his attend'ints.] Signers, 
 Within an hour I'U hear you. [if it please you, 
 
 [Exeunt DouE, Makdja, and attendants with the 
 body. Manent Lokedako and Bakbariqo. 
 
 Bar. He must not 
 
 Be troubled now. 
 
 Lor. He said himself that naught 
 
 Could give him trouble farther. 
 
 Bar. These are words ; 
 
 But grief is lonely, and the breaking in 
 Upon it barbarous. 
 
 Lor. Sorrow preys upon 
 
 Its solitude, and nothing more diverts it 
 From its sad visions of the other world. 
 Than calling it at moments back to this. 
 The busy have no time for tears. 
 
 Bar. And therefore 
 
 You would deprive this old man of all business ? 
 
 Lor. The thing 's decreed. The Giunta and " the 
 Ten" 
 Have made it law — who shall ojipose that law ? 
 
 Bar. Humanity I 
 
 Lor. Because his son is dead ? 
 
 Bar. And yet unburied. 
 
 Lor. Had we known this when 
 
 The act was passing, it might have suspended 
 Its passage, but impedes it not — once pass'd. 
 
 Bar. I'll not consent. 
 
 Lor. You have consented to 
 
 AU that's essential — leave the rest to me. 
 
 Bar. Why press his abdication now ? 
 
 Lor. The feelings 
 
 Of private passion may not interrupt 
 The pubUc benefit ; anil what the state 
 Decides to-day must not give way before 
 To-morrow for a natural accident. 
 
 Bar. You have a son i 
 
 Lor. I hare — and had a fatUor, 
 
 Bar. Still so inexorable ? 
 
 Lor. StiU. 
 
 Bar. But let him 
 
 Inter his son before we press upon him 
 This edict. 
 
 Lor. Let him call up into life 
 
 My sire and uncle — I consent. Men may, 
 Even aged men, be, or appear to be, 
 Sires of a hundred sons, but cannot kindle 
 An atom of their ancestors fi-om earth. 
 The victims are not equal : he has seen 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 295 
 
 His sons expire by natural deaths, and I 
 5Iy sires by violent and mysterious maladies. 
 I used no poison, bribed no subtle master 
 Of the destructive art of healing, to 
 Shorten the path to the eternal cure. 
 His sons — and he had four — are dead, without 
 My dabbling in vile drugs. 
 
 Bar. And art thou sure 
 
 He dealt in such ? 
 Lor. Most sure. 
 
 Bar. And yet he seems 
 
 All openness. 
 
 Lor. And so he seem'd not long 
 
 Ago to Carmagnuola. 
 
 Bar. The attainted 
 
 And foreign traitor ? 
 
 Lor. Even so : when he, 
 
 After the very night in which "the Ten" 
 (Join'd with the Doge) decided his destruction, 
 Met the great duke at daybreak ■\vith a jest. 
 Demanding whether he should augur him [swer'd, 
 " The good day or good night ?" his Dogeship an- 
 " That he in truth had pass'd a night of vigil. 
 In which (he added with a gracious smile) 
 There often has been question about you." ' 
 'Twas true ; the question was the death resolved 
 Of Carmagnuola, eight months ere he died ; [him 
 And the old Doge, who knew him doom'd smiled on 
 With deadly cozenage, eight long months before- 
 Eight months of such hypocrisy as is [hand — 
 
 Learn'd but in eighty years. Brave Carmagnuola 
 Is dead ; so is young Foscari and Ms brethren — 
 I never smiled on them. 
 
 Bar. Was Carmagnuola 
 
 Tour friend ? 
 
 Dir. He was the safeguard of the city. 
 
 In early life its foe, but, in his manhood, 
 Its saviour first, then victim. 
 
 Bar. Ah, that seems 
 
 The penalty of savage cities ! He 
 Whom we now act against, not only saved 
 Our own, but added others to our sway. 
 
 Lor. The Romans (and we ape them) gave a crown 
 To him who took a city ; and they gave 
 A crown to him who saved a citizen 
 In battle : the rewards are equal. Now, 
 If we should measure forth the cities taken 
 By the Doge Foscari, with citizens 
 Destroy'd by him, or throuf/h him, the account 
 Were fearfully against him, although narrow'd 
 To private havoc, such as between him 
 And my dead father. 
 Bur. Are you then thus fix'd ? 
 
 Lor. Why, what should change me ? 
 Bar. That which changes me : 
 
 But you, I know, are marble to retain 
 
 > An tiistorical &ct. See Dan torn. ii. 
 
 A feud. But when all is accomphsh'd, when 
 The old man is deposed, his name degraded. 
 His sons all dead, his family depress'd, 
 And you and yours triumphant, shall you sleep ? 
 
 Lor. More soundly. 
 
 Bar. That's an error, and you'll fin 1 it 
 
 Ere you sleep with your fathers. 
 
 Lor. They sleep not 
 
 In their accelerated graves, nor will 
 Till Foscari fiUs his. Each night I see them 
 Stalk fro%vning round my couch, and, pointing to- 
 The ducal jjalace, marshal me to vengeance, [wards 
 
 Bar. Fancy's distemperature ! There is no pas- 
 More spectral or fantastical than Hate ; [sion 
 Not even its opposite. Love, so peoples air 
 With phantoms, as this madness of the heart. 
 
 Erder an Officer. 
 
 Lor. Where go you, sirrah ? 
 
 Offi. By the ducal ordei 
 
 To forward the preparatory rites 
 For the late Foscari's interment. 
 
 Bar. Their 
 
 Vault has been often open'd of late years. 
 
 Lor. 'TwiU be full soon, and may be closed for- 
 
 Offi. May I pass on ? [ever. 
 
 Lor. You may. 
 
 Bar. How bears the Doge 
 
 This last calamity ? 
 
 Offi. With desperate firmness. 
 
 In presence of another he says little. 
 But I perceive his lips move now and then ; 
 And once or twice I heard him, from the adjoining 
 Apartment, mutter forth the words : " My son !" 
 Scarce audibly. I must proceed. [E.vU Officer. 
 
 Bar. This stroke 
 
 Will move aU Venice in his favor. 
 
 Lor. Eight 1 
 
 We must be speedy : let us call together 
 The delegates appointed to convey 
 The council's resolution. 
 
 Bar. I protest 
 
 Against it at this moment. 
 
 Lor. As you please— 
 
 I'll take their voices on it ne'ertheless. 
 And see whose most may sway them, yours or mine 
 [Exeunt Babbabigo and LoMED.iNa 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 77ie Doge's Apartment. 
 
 The Doge and Attendants. 
 
 Att. My lord, the deputation is in waiting j 
 But add. that if another hour would iietter 
 Accord with your will, they will make it theirs. 
 
29f) 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Doge. To me all hours are like. Let them approach. 
 
 [Exit Attendant. 
 
 An Officer. Prince 1 I have done your bidding. 
 
 Doge. What command ? 
 
 Otfi. A melancholy one — to call the attendance 
 Of^ — 
 
 Doge. True — true — true : I crave your pardon. I 
 Begin to fail in apprehension, and 
 Wax very old — old almost as my years. 
 Till now I fought them off, but they begin 
 To overtake me. 
 
 Enter the Deputation, consisting of Six of the Sig- 
 nory, and the Chief of the Ten. 
 
 Noble men, your pleasure ? 
 
 Chief of the Ten. In the first place, the Coimcil 
 doth condole 
 With the Doge on his late and private grief. 
 
 Doge. No more — no more of that. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Will not the Duke 
 
 Accept the homage of respect ? 
 
 Doge. I do 
 
 Accept it as 'tis given — proceed. 
 
 Chief (f the Ten. " The Ten," 
 
 With a selected giunta from the senate 
 Of twenty-five of the best bom patricians, 
 Ha^^ng delilierated on the state 
 Of the republic, and the o'erwhelming cares 
 Which, at this moment, doubly must oppress 
 Your years, so long devoted to your country, 
 Have judged it fitting, with all reverence. 
 Now to solicit from your wisdom, (which 
 Upon reflection must accord in this,) 
 The resignation of the ducal ring. 
 Which you have worn so long and venerably : 
 And to prove that they are not ungrateful, nor 
 Cold to your years and services, they add 
 An appanage of twenty hundred golden 
 Ducats, to make retirement not less splendid 
 Than should become a sovereign's retreat. 
 
 Doge. Did I hear rightly 2 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Need I say again ! 
 
 Doge. No. Have you done ? 
 
 Chief nf the Ten. I have spoken. Twenty-four 
 Hours are accorded you to give an answer. 
 
 Doge. I shall not need so many seconds. 
 
 Chief nf the Ten. We 
 
 Will now retire. 
 
 Doge. Stay 1 Four and twenty hours 
 
 Will alter nothing which I have to say. 
 
 Chief if the Ten. Speak I 
 
 Doge. When I twice before reiterated 
 
 My wish to abdicate, it was refused me : 
 And not alone refused, but ye exacted 
 An oath from me that 1 would never more 
 lienew this ins*».nce. I have sworn to die 
 In full exertion of the functions, which 
 
 My country call'd me here to exercise. 
 According to iny honor and my conscience — 
 I cannot break my oath. 
 
 Chief' if the Ten. Hcduce us not 
 
 To the alternative of a decree, 
 Instead of your compliance. 
 
 Doge. Providence 
 
 Prolongs my days to prove and chasti'n me ; 
 But ye have no right to reproach my length 
 Of days, since every hour has been the country's. 
 I am ready to lay down my Ufe for her. 
 As I have laid down dearer things than life • 
 But for my dignity — I hold it of 
 The johole repubUc ; when the general will 
 Is manifest, then you shall all be answer'd. 
 
 Chief (f the Ten. We grieve for such an answer; 
 Avail you aught. [but it cannot 
 
 Doge. I can submit to all things. 
 
 But nothing will advance ; no, not for a moment. 
 Wliat you decree — decree. 
 
 Chief if the Ten. With this, then, must we 
 
 Return to those who sent us ? 
 
 Doge. Tou have heard me. 
 
 Ch'efof the Ten. With all due reverence we retire. 
 [Exeunt the Deputation, etc 
 
 Enter an Attendant. 
 Att. My lord. 
 
 The noble dame Marina craves an audience. 
 Doge. My time is hers. 
 
 Enter M akin A. 
 
 Mar. My lord, if I intrude — 
 
 Perhaps you fain would be alone ? 
 
 Doge. Alone 1 
 
 Alone, come all the world around me, I 
 Am now and evermore. But we will bear it. 
 
 M(tr. We will ; and for the sake of those who are, 
 Endeavor Oh, my husband I 
 
 Doge. Give it way ; 
 
 I cannot comfort thee. 
 
 Miir. lie might have lived. 
 
 So form'd for gentle privacy of life, 
 So loving, so beloved ; the native o. 
 Another land, and who so bless'd and blessing 
 As my poor Foscari ? Nothing was wanting 
 Unto his happiness and mine save not 
 To be Venetian. 
 
 Iloge. Or a prince's son. 
 
 Mnr. Yes ; all things which conduce to other 
 Imperfect happiness or high ambition, [men's 
 
 By some strange destiny, to him ])roved deadly. 
 The country and the jjeople whom he loved. 
 The prince of whom he was the elder born. 
 And 
 
 Diigc. Soon may be a prince no longer 
 
 Mar. How i 
 
BCKKE I. 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI, 
 
 297 
 
 Dofje. They have taken my son from me, and now 
 At my too long worn diadem and ring. [aim 
 
 Let them resume the gewgaws ! 
 
 Mar. Oh, the tyrants ! 
 
 In such an hour too ! 
 
 Doge. 'Tis the fittest time ! 
 
 An hour ago I should have felt it. 
 
 Mar. And 
 
 Will you not now resent it ? Oh, for vengeance ! 
 But he, who, had he been enough jjrotected. 
 Might have repaid protection in this moment, 
 Cannot assist his father. 
 
 Doge. Nor should do so 
 
 Against his country, had he a thousand lives 
 Instead of that — — 
 
 Mar. They tortured from him. This 
 
 May be pure patnotism. I am a woman : 
 To me my husband and my children were 
 Country and home. I loved him — how I loved him ! 
 I have seen him pass through such an ordeal as 
 The old martyrs would have shrunk from : he is gone. 
 And I, who would have given my blood for him. 
 Have naught to give but tears ! But could I compass 
 The retribution of his wrongs ! Well, well ; 
 I have sons, who shall be men. 
 
 Doge. Tour grief distracts you. 
 
 Mar. I thought I could have borne it, when I saw 
 him 
 Bow'd down by such oppression ; yes, I thought 
 That I would rather look upon his corse 
 Than his prolong'd captivity : — I am punish'd 
 For that thought now. Would I were in his grave ! 
 
 Doge. I must look on him once more. 
 
 Mar. Come with me ! 
 
 Doge. Is he 
 
 Mar. Our bridal bed is now his bier. 
 
 Doge. And he is in his shroud ! 
 
 Mar. Come, come, old man 1 
 
 [^Exeunt the Doge and Makina. 
 
 Enter Babbabigo and Loredano. 
 
 Bar. (to an Attendant.) Where is the Doge ? 
 
 Att. This instant retired hence 
 
 With the illustrious lady his son's widow. 
 
 Dor. Where ? 
 
 Att. To the chamber where the body lies. 
 
 Bar. Let us return, then. 
 
 Lor. You forget, you cannot. 
 
 Wc have the implicit order of the Giunta 
 To await theii' coming here, and join them in 
 Iheir olBce : they'll be here soon after us. [Doge ? 
 
 Bar. And will they press their answer on the 
 
 Lor. 'Twas his own wish that all should be done 
 promptly. 
 He answer'd quickly, and must so be answer'd ; 
 His dignity is look'd to, his ea'ate 
 Cared for — what would he more ? 
 
 Bar. Die in his robes : 
 
 He could not have lived long ; but I have done 
 My best to save his honors, and opposed 
 This proposition to the last, though vainly. 
 Why would the general vote comiJul me hither ? 
 
 Lor. 'Twas fit that some one of such different 
 thouo-hts 
 From ours should be a witness, lest false tongues 
 Should whisper that a harsh majority 
 Dreaded to have its acts beheld by others. 
 
 B(tr. And not less, I must needs think, for the 
 Of humbling me for my vain opposition. [sake 
 
 You are ingenious, Loredano, in 
 Tour modes of vengeance, nay, poetical, 
 A very Ovid in the art of haling ; 
 'Tis thus (although a secondary object, 
 Y''et hate has microscopic eyes) to you 
 I owe, by way of foil to the more zealous, 
 This undesired association in 
 Your Giunta's duties. 
 
 Z«r. How ! — my Giimta I 
 
 Bar. Yours ! 
 
 They speak your language, watch your nod, approve 
 Tour plans, and do your work. Are they not yuitrs f 
 
 Lor. You talk unwarily. 'Twere best they hear not 
 This from you. 
 
 Bar. Oh, they'll hear as much one day 
 
 From louder tongues than mine ! they have gone be- 
 Even their exorbitance of jjowcr : and when [yond 
 This happens in the most contemu'd and abject 
 States, stung humanity will rise to check it. 
 
 Lor. You talk but idly. 
 
 Bar. That remains for proot' 
 
 Here come our colleagues. 
 
 Enter the Deputation as tefore. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. I3 the Duke aware 
 
 We seek his presence ? 
 
 Att. He shall be inform'd. 
 
 [/i'.!'(Y Attendant. 
 
 Bar. The Duke is with his son. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. If it be so, 
 
 We will remit him till the rights are over. 
 Let us return. 'Tis time enough to-morrow. 
 
 Lor. (iiKide to Bar.) Now the rich man's heU-flre 
 upon your tongue, 
 Unquench'd, unquenchable ! I'll have it torn 
 From its vile babbling roots, till you shall utter 
 Nothing but sobs through blood, for this I Sage 
 
 signers, 
 I pray ye be not hasty. {Alond to the others. 
 
 Bar. But be human 1 
 
 Lor. Sec, the Duke comes 1 
 
 Enter the Doge. 
 
 Doge. I have obey'd your summons. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. We come once more to urge our 
 Doge. And I to answer. [jjast request. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. What I 
 
298 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Page. My only answer. 
 
 You have heard it. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Ilear you then the hist decree, 
 Definitive and absolute ! 
 
 Doqc. To the point — 
 
 To the point ! I know of old the forms of oiBce, 
 And gentle preludes to strong acts — go on ! 
 
 Chief uf the Ten. You are no longer Doge ; you 
 are released 
 From your imperial oath as sovereign ; 
 Your ducal robes must be put off; but for 
 Your services, the state allots the appanage 
 Already mention'd in our former congress. 
 Three days are left you to remove from hence, 
 Under the penalty to see confiscated 
 All your own private fortune. 
 
 Do/je. That last clause, 
 
 I am proud to say, would not enrich the treasury. 
 
 Chief of tlie Ten. Your answer, Duke ! 
 
 L'>r. Your answer, Francis Foscari I 
 
 Doge. If I could have foreseen that my old age 
 Was prejudicial to the state, the chief 
 Of the rejjublic never would have shown 
 Himself so far ungrateful, as to place 
 His own high dignity before his country ; 
 But this life having been so many years 
 Not useless to that country, I would fain 
 Have consecrated my last moments to her. 
 But the decree being render'd, I obey. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. If you would have the three 
 days named extended. 
 We willingly will lengthen them to eight, 
 As sign of our esteem. 
 
 Doge. Not eight hours, signor. 
 
 Nor even eight minutes. There's the ducal ring, 
 
 [Taking off hi.i ring and cap. 
 And there the ducal diadem. And so 
 The Adriatic 's free to wed another. 
 
 Chief nf the Ten. Yet go not forth so quickly. 
 Doge. I am old, sir. 
 
 And even to move but slowly must begin 
 To move betimes. Methinks I see amongst you 
 A face I know not — Senator ! your name. 
 You, by your garb. Chief of the Forty ! 
 
 Mem. Signor, 
 
 I am the son of Marco Memmo. 
 
 Doge. Ah ! 
 
 Your fitther was my friend. But mrns and fathers f — 
 What, ho 1 my servants there ! 
 
 Att. My prince 1 
 
 Doge. No prince — 
 
 There are the princes of the prince 1 [Pointing to 
 
 the Ten^s Depu/ntion.] Prep* re 
 To part from hence upon the instant. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Why 
 
 iJo rashly ? 'twiU give scandal. 
 
 Doge. Answer that; 
 
 [ To the Ten 
 It is your province. Sirs, bestir yourselves : 
 
 [ Jo the Servants, 
 There is one burden wliich I beg you boar 
 With care, although 'tis past all further harm — 
 But I will look to that myself. 
 
 Bar. He means 
 
 The body of his son. 
 
 Doge. And call Marina, 
 
 My daughter I 
 
 Enter Mabina. 
 
 Doge. Get thee ready ; we must mourn 
 
 Elsewhere. 
 
 Mar. And everywhere. 
 
 Doge. True ; but in frecdoia, 
 
 Without these jealous spies upon the great. 
 Signors, you may depart : what would you mere ? 
 We are going : do you fear that we shall bear 
 The palace with us ? Its old walls, ten times 
 As old as I am, and I'm very old. 
 Have served you, so have I, and I and they 
 Could tell a tale ; but I invoke them not 
 To fall upon you ! else they would, as erst 
 Tlie pillars of stone Dagou's temjjle on 
 The Israelite and his PhiUsriue foes. 
 Such power I do believe there might exist 
 In such a curse as mine, provoked by such 
 As you ; but I curse not. Adieu, good signora I 
 May the next duke be better than the present. 
 Lor. The present duke is Paschal JIalipiero. 
 Doge. Not till I pass the threshold of these doora. 
 Lor. Saint Mark's great bell is soon about to toll 
 For his inauguration. 
 
 Doge. Earth and heaven ! 
 
 Ye will reverberate this peal ; and I 
 Live to hear this 1 — the first doge who e'er heard 
 Such sound for his successor I Happier he, 
 My attainted predecessor, stern Falicro — 
 This insult at the least was spared him. 
 
 Lor. What 1 
 
 Do you regret a traitor ? 
 
 Doge. No — I merely 
 
 Envy the dead. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. My lord, if you indeed 
 Are bent upon this rash abandonment 
 Of the state's palace, at the least retire 
 By the private staircase, which conducts you towardj 
 The landing place of the canal. 
 
 Doge. No. I 
 
 Will now descend the stairs by which I mounted 
 To sovereignty — the Giant's Stairs on whose 
 Broad eminence I was invested duke. 
 My services have called me up those steps. 
 The malice of my foes wiU drive me down them. 
 There five and tliirty years ago was I 
 Install'd, and traversed these same halls, from w hicb 
 
PCENK I. 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 299 
 
 I nevei thought to be divorced except 
 A coTse — a corse, it might be, fighting for them — 
 But not push'd hence by fellow-citizens. 
 But come ; my son and I Tvill go together — 
 He to his grave, and I to pray for mine. 
 Chiff of the Ten. What 1 tluis in pubUc ? 
 
 Do(]e. I was publicly 
 
 Elected, and so will I be deposed. 
 Marina ! art thou willing ? 
 
 Afar. Here's my arm ! [forth. 
 
 Doye. And here my staff : thus projjp'd will I go 
 
 Chief of the Ten. It must not be — the people will 
 perceive it. [know it, 
 
 Dnge. The people ! There's no people, you well 
 Else you dare not deal thus by them or me. 
 There is a populace, perhaps, whose looks 
 May shame you ; but they dare not groan nor curse 
 8(vve mth their hearts and eyes. [you 
 
 Chief of the Ten. You speak in jjassion, 
 
 Fxsc 
 
 Doge. Ton have reason. I have spoken much 
 More than my wont : it is a foible which 
 Was not of mine, but more excuses you, 
 Inasmuch as it shows that I approach 
 A dotage which may justify this deed 
 Of yours, although the law does not, nor will. 
 Farewell, sirs ! 
 
 B<ir. Tou shall not depart without 
 
 An escort fitting past and present rank. 
 We wiU accompany with due respect. 
 The Doge unto his private palace. Say ! 
 My brethren, wiU we not ? 
 
 Different voices. Ay ! — Ay ! 
 
 Doije. You shall not 
 
 Stir — in my train, at least. I enter'd here 
 As sovereign — I go out as citizen 
 By the same portals, but as citizen. 
 All these vain ceremonies are base insults, 
 Which only ulcerate the heart tlie more. 
 Applying poisons there as antidotes. 
 Pomp is for princes — I am ?ione ! That's false, 
 I am, but only to these gates. Ah 1 
 
 Lor. Hark ! 
 
 [ The great hell of St. Marie's tolls. 
 
 Lor. The bell ? 
 
 Chief of the Ten. St. Mark's, which tolls for the 
 ^<^ MaUpiero. [election 
 
 Doj... Well I recognize 
 
 The sound ! I l:eard it once, but once before, 
 And that is five and thirty years ago 1 
 Even then I teas not young. 
 
 Bar. Sit down, my lord 1 
 
 You tremble. 
 
 Doge. 'Tis the knell of my poor boy. 
 
 My heart aches bitterly. 
 
 Bar. I pray you sit. 
 
 Doge. No ; my seat here has been a throne till now. 
 
 Marina 1 let us go. 
 
 Alar. Most readily. 
 
 Doge, {walls a few stejis, then stops.) I feelathirst 
 will no one bring me here 
 A cup of water ? 
 
 Bar. I 
 
 Ma/r. And I 
 
 Lor. And I 
 
 \^The Doge tuies a gol/let from the hand of 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Doge. I take i/ours, Loredano, from the hand 
 Most fit for such an hour as this. 
 
 Lor. Why so ? 
 
 Doge. 'Tis said that our Venetian crystal haa 
 Such pure antipathy to jjoisons as 
 To burst, if aught of venom touches it 
 You bore this goblet, and it is not broken. 
 
 Lor. Well, sir ! 
 
 Doge. Then it is false, or you are true. 
 
 For my own part, I credit neither ; 'tis 
 An idle legend. 
 
 Mar. You talk wildly, and 
 
 Had better now be seated, nor as yet 
 Depart. Ah, now you look as look'd my husband I 
 
 Bar. He sinks ! — support him ! — quick — a chair — 
 support him ! 
 
 Doge. The bell tolls on ! — let's hence — my brain 's 
 
 Bar. I do beseech you, lean upon us ! [on fire ! 
 
 Doge. No 1 
 
 A sovereign should die standing. My poor boy ! 
 Ofl' with your arms I — That hell ! 
 
 [The Doge ilro/is clown and dies. 
 
 Mar. My God ! My God I 
 
 Bar. (to Lor.) Behold 1 your work 's completed ! 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Is there then 
 
 No aid ? Call in assistance ! 
 
 Att. 'Tis all over. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. If it be so, at least his obsequies 
 Shall be such as befits his name and nation. 
 His rank and his devotion to the duties 
 Of the realm, while his age permitted him 
 To do himself and them full justice. Brethren, 
 Say, shall it not be so ? 
 
 Bar. He has not had 
 
 The misery to die a subject where 
 He reign 'd : then let his funeral rites be princely. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. We are agreed, then ? 
 
 All, except Lor., ansicer. Yes. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Heaven's peace he ivith him ' 
 
 Mar. Signors, your pardon : this is mockery. 
 Juggle no more with that poor remnant, which, 
 A moment since, while yet it had a soul, 
 (A soul by whom you have increased your empire, 
 And made your power as proud as was his glory,) 
 You banish'd from his palace, and tore down 
 From his high place, with such relentless coldness 
 And now, when he can neither know these honors. 
 
300 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 PAET L 
 
 Nor would accept tlicm if lie could, you, signers, 
 Purpose with idle and superfluous pomp. 
 To muke a pageant over what you trampled. 
 A princely funeral will be your reproach, 
 And not his honor. 
 
 Chief (if the Ten. Lady, we revoke not 
 Our purposes so readily. 
 
 Mar. I know it. 
 
 As far as touches torturing the living. 
 [ tliought the dead had been beyond even ymi, 
 Though (some, no doubt,) consign'd to powers which 
 Resemble that you exercise on earth. [may 
 
 Leave him to me ; you would have done so for 
 Flis dregs of life, which you have kindly shorten'd : 
 It is my last of duties, and may prove 
 A dreary comfort in my desolation. 
 Grief Ls fantastical, and loves the dead, 
 And the apparel of the grave. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Do you 
 
 Pretend stiU to this office ? 
 
 Mar. I do, signor. 
 
 Though his possessions have been all consumed 
 [n the state's service, I have still my dowry, 
 Wliich shall be consecrated to his rites. 
 And those of {Site stopn with agitation. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Best retain it for your children. 
 
 Mar. Ay, they are fatherless 1 I thank you. 
 
 Chief if the Ten. We 
 
 Cannot comply with your request. His relics 
 
 Shall be exposed with wonted pomp, and foUow'd 
 Unto their home by the new Doge, not clad 
 As Dvye, but simply as a senator. 
 
 Mar. I have heard of murderers, who have interr'U 
 Their victims ; but ne'er heard, until this hour. 
 Of so much splendor in hypocrisy 
 O'er those they slew. I've heard of widows' tears 
 Alas ! I have shed some — always tlianks to you I 
 I've heard of heirs in sables — you have left none 
 To the deceased, so you would act the part 
 Of such. Well, sirs, your will be done ! as one day 
 I trust, Heaven's will be done too ! 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Know you, lady, 
 
 To whom ye speak, and perils of such speech ? 
 
 Mar. I know the former better than yourselves ; 
 The latter — like yourselves ; and can face both. 
 Wish you more funerals ? 
 
 Bar. Heed not her rash words ; 
 
 Her circumstances must excuse her bearing. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. We will not note them down. 
 
 Bar. (turning to Lor. wlio is writinij upon his tali- 
 lets.) 
 
 What art thou writing, 
 With such an earnest brow, upon thy tablets ? 
 
 Lor. (pointing to the Loge's body.) That he has 
 paid me ! 
 
 Chief of the Ten. What debt did he owe you ? 
 
 Lor. A long and just one ; Nature's debt and mine. 
 
 [ Curtain falls. 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED 
 
 A DRAMA. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 Tms production is founded partly on the story of a 
 novel called " The Three Brothers," published many 
 years ago, from which M. G. Lewis' " Wood Demon " 
 was also taken, and partly on the " Faust " of the 
 great Goethe. The present publication contains the 
 two first Parts only, and the opening chorus of the 
 third. The rest may, perhaps, appear hereafter. 
 
 DRAJIATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Stkanger, afterwards Cssab. 
 
 Arnold. 
 
 Bourbon. 
 
 Philebekt. 
 
 Cbllinl 
 
 Bertha. 
 Olimpia. 
 
 Spirits, Soldiers, Citizens of Some, Priest*, 
 Peasants, etc. 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 S C E K E I . 
 A Forest. 
 Enter Arnold and his mother Bertita 
 i Pert. Out, hunchback 1 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 301 
 
 I was born so, mother 1 
 
 Out, 
 Of seven sons, 
 
 Am. 
 
 Bert. 
 Thou incubus I Thou nightmare 
 The sole abortion I 
 
 Am. Would that I had been so, 
 
 And never seen the light ! 
 
 Bert. I would so too ! 
 
 But as thou liiiKt — hence, hence — and do thy best ! 
 That back of thine may bear its burden ; 'tis 
 More high, if not so broad as that of others. 
 
 Am. It hears its burden ; — but my heart ! Will it 
 Sustain that which you lay upon it, mother ? 
 I love, or, at the least, I loved you : nothing 
 Save you, in nature, can love aught like me. 
 You nursed me — do not kill me ! 
 
 Bert. Yes — I nursed thee, 
 
 Hecause thou wert my first-born, and I knew not 
 If there would be another unlike thee. 
 That monstrous sport of nature. But get hence, 
 And gather wood ! 
 
 Am. I will : but when I bring it, 
 
 Speak to me kindly. Though my brothers are 
 So beautiful and lusty, and as free 
 As the free chase they follow, do not spurn me ; 
 Our milk has been the same. 
 
 Bert. As is the hedgehog's, 
 
 Which sucks at midnight from the wholesome dam 
 Of the young bull, until the milkmaid finds 
 Tlie nipple next day sore and udder dry. 
 Call not thy brothers brethren ! Call me not 
 Mother ; for if I brought thee forth, it was 
 As foolish hens at times hatch vipers, by 
 Sitting upon strange eggs. Out, urchin, out ! 
 
 \^Exit Bertha. 
 
 Arv. (soius.) Oh, mother ! She is gone, and I 
 
 Her bidding ; — wcaxily but willingly [must do 
 
 I would fulfill it, could I only hope 
 
 A kind word in return. What shall I do ? 
 
 [Arkold hegins to cut wood : in doing this Tie 
 ".oounds one of hln hands. 
 My labor for the day is over now. 
 Accursed be this blood that flows so fast ; 
 For double curses will be my meed now 
 At home. What home ? I have no home, no kin, 
 No kind — not made like other creatures, or 
 To share their sports or pleasures. Must I Weed too 
 Like them ? Oh, that each drop which falls to earth 
 Would rise a snake to sting them, as they have stung 
 Or that the devil, to whom they liken me, [me ! 
 
 Would aid his likeness ! If I must partake 
 Ilis form, why not his power ? Is it because 
 I have not his will too ? For one kind word 
 From her -nlio bore me would still reconcile mo 
 Kven to this hateful aspect. Let me wash 
 The wound. 
 
 [Arnold goes to a spring, and stoops to wash 
 /(.'« /iniid : he starts bade. 
 
 They are right ; and Nature's mirror shows me, 
 What slie hath made me. I will not look on it 
 Again, and scarce dare think on't. Hideous wrcti'lj 
 That I am 1 The very waters mock me with 
 My horrid shadow — like a demon jjlaced 
 Deep in the fountain to scare back the cattle 
 From drinking therein. [lie pauses 
 
 And shall I live on, 
 A burden to the earth, myself, and shame 
 Unto what brought me into life ! Tliou blood 
 Which flowest so freely from a scratch, let me 
 Try if thou wilt not in a fuller stream 
 Pour forth my woes forever with thyself 
 On earth, to which I will restore at once 
 This hateful compound of her atoms, and 
 Resolve back to her elements, and take 
 The shape of any reptile save myself, 
 And make a world for myriads of new worms ! 
 This knife ! now let me prove if it will sever 
 Tills wither'd shp of nature's nightshade — my 
 Vile form — from the creation, as it hath 
 The green bough from the forest. 
 
 [Arnold places the knife in the ground, with 
 the point vpxcards. 
 
 Now 'tis set, 
 And I can fall upon it. Yet one glance 
 On the fair day, which sees no foul thing like 
 Myself, and the sweet sun which warm'd me, but 
 In vain. The birds — how joyously they sing ! 
 So let them, for I would not be lamented : 
 But let their merriest notes be Arnold's knell : 
 The fallen leaves my monument ; the murmur' 
 Of the near fountain my sole elegy. 
 Now, knife, stand firmly, as I fain would fall ! 
 
 [As he rushes to throw himself upon the Tcnife, 
 his eye is suddenly caught hy the fountain, 
 which seems in motion. 
 The fountain moves without a wind : but shall 
 The ripple of a spring change my resolve ? 
 No 1 Yet it moves again 1 The waters stir. 
 Not as with air, but by some Kubterrane 
 And rocking power of the int<rnal world. 
 What's here ? A mist ! No more ? — 
 
 [A cloud comes from t/ie- fountain. He stands 
 gazing upon it ; it is dispelled, and a tall 
 Hack man corner towards him. 
 Am. Wip^t would you ? Speak I 
 
 Sjjirit or man ? 
 
 Slran. As man is both, why not 
 
 Say both in one ? 
 
 Aru. Your form is man's, and yet 
 
 You may be devil. 
 
 Stran. So many men are that 
 
 Winch is so call'd or thought, cnut you may add mo 
 To which you please, vrithout diucn wrong to either. 
 But come : you wish to kill yjursclf ; — pursue 
 Your purpose. 
 
301 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 PART 1. 
 
 Am. You have interrupted me. 
 
 Stran. What is that resolution which can e'er 
 Be interrupted ? If I be the devil 
 You deem, a single moment would have made you 
 Mine, and forever, by your suicide ; 
 And yet my coming saves you. 
 
 Am. I said not 
 
 You were the demon, but that your approach 
 Was like one. 
 
 Stran. Unless you keep company 
 
 With him (and you seem scarce used to such high 
 Society) you can't tell how he approaches ; 
 And for his aspect, look upon the fountain, 
 And then on mc, and judge which of us twain 
 Look likcst what the boors believe to be 
 Their cloven-footed terror. 
 
 Am. Do you — dare you 
 
 To taunt me with my born deformity ? 
 
 Stran. Were I to taunt a buffiilo with this 
 Cloven-foot of thine, or the swift dromedary 
 With thy sublime of humps, the animals 
 Would revel in the compliment. And yet 
 Both beings are more swift, more strong, more migh- 
 In action and endurance than thyself, [ty 
 
 And all the fierce and fair of the same kind 
 With thee. Thy form is natural : 'twas only 
 Nature's mistaken largess to bestow 
 The gifts which are of others upon man. 
 
 Am. Give me the strength then of the biiffalo's 
 When he spurs high the dust, beholding his [foot. 
 Near enemy ; or let me have the long 
 And patient swiftness of the desert-ship. 
 The harmless dromedary ! — and I'll bear 
 Thy fiendish sarcasm with a saintly patience. 
 Stran. I will. 
 
 Am. (with mirprise.) Thou canst ? 
 Stran. Perhaps. Would you aught else ? 
 
 Am. Thou meekest me. 
 
 Stran. Not I. Why should I mock 
 
 What all arc mocking 1 That's poor sport, methinks. 
 To talk to thee in human language, (for 
 Thou canst not yet speak mine,) the forester 
 Hunts not the wretched coney, but the boar. 
 Or wolf, or lion, leaving paltry game 
 To petty burghers, who leave once a year 
 Their walls, to fill their household caldrons with 
 Such scullion prey. The meanest gibe at thee, — 
 Now I can mock the mightiest. 
 
 -'!'•"• Then waste not 
 
 Thy time on me : I seek thee not. 
 
 Stran. Your thoughts 
 
 Are not far from mc. Do not send me back : 
 T am not so easily rccall'd to do 
 Good service. 
 Am. Wliat wilt thou do for me ? 
 
 Siran. Change 
 
 Shapes Tith you, if you will, since yours so irks you ; 
 
 Or form you to your wish in any shape. 
 
 Arn. Oh, then you are indeed the demon, for 
 Naught else would wittingly wear mine. 
 
 Slran. I'll show thea 
 
 The brightest which the world e'er bore, and give 
 Thy choice. [thee 
 
 Arn. On what condition ? 
 
 Stran. There's a question ; 
 
 An hour ago you would lave given your soul 
 To look like other men, and now you pause 
 To wear the form of heroes. 
 
 Am. No ; I will not 
 
 I must not compromise my soul. 
 
 Stran. What soul 
 
 Worth naming so, would dwell in such a carcass ? 
 Arn. 'Tis an aspiring one, whate'cr the tenement 
 In which it is mislodged. But name your compact ; 
 Must it be sign'd in blood ? 
 
 Stran. Not in your own. 
 
 Arn. Whose blood then ? 
 
 Stran. We will talk of that hereafter. 
 
 But I'll be moderate with you, for I see 
 Great things within you. You shall have no bond 
 But your own will, no contract save your deeds 
 Aie you content ? 
 Arn. I take thee at thy word. 
 
 Stran. Now then ! — 
 
 [T/ie Stranger approaches the fountain, and 
 turns to Arnold. 
 
 A little of your blood. 
 Arn. For what ! 
 
 Stran. To mingle with the magic of the waters. 
 And make the charm effective. 
 
 Arn. {holdinrj out hia wnumled arm.) Take it all. 
 Stran. Not now. A few drops wiU sufiice for this. 
 TTie Stranger tal-es some of Arnold's blood in 
 his hand, and casts it into the fountain. 
 Stran. Shadows of beauty ! 
 Shadows of power I 
 Rise to your duty — 
 This is the hour ! 
 Walk lovely and pUant 
 
 From the depth of this fountain, 
 As the cloud-shapen giant 
 
 Bestrides the Hartz Mountain. 
 Come as ye were. 
 
 That our eyes may behold 
 The model in air 
 
 Of the form I will mould, 
 Bright as the Iris 
 
 When ether is spann'd : — 
 Such his desire is, [Pointing to Arnuotn. 
 
 Such my command ! 
 Demons heroic — 
 
 Demons who wore 
 
 The form of the stoic 
 
 Or sophist of yore- 
 
«CKIIE I. 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED, 
 
 sn.q 
 
 Or tbe shape of each victor, 
 
 From ilacedon's boy 
 To each high Roman picture 
 Who breatlied to destroy — 
 Shadows of beauty ! 
 
 Shadows of power ! 
 Up to your duty — 
 This is the hour ! 
 [Varioics PJumtoms arise from the ttaters, and 
 pasn in succession be/ore the Stranger and 
 Arxold. 
 Arn. What do I see ? 
 
 Stran. The black-eyed Roman, with 
 
 The eagle's beak between those eyes which ne'er 
 Beheld a conqueror, or look'd along 
 The land he made not Rome's, while Rome became 
 His, and all theirs who heir'd his very name. 
 
 Arn. The phantom's bald; my quest is beauty. 
 Inherit but his fame with his defects ! [Could I 
 
 Stran. His brow was girt with laurels more than 
 You see his aspect — choose it, or reject. [hairs. 
 
 I can but promise you his form : his fame 
 Must be long sought and fought for. 
 
 Arn. I will light too, 
 
 But not as a mock Caesar. Let him pass ; 
 His aspect may be fair, but suits me not. 
 
 S'ran. Then you are far more difficult to please 
 Than Cato"s sister, or than Brutus' mother. 
 Or Cleopatra at sixteen — an age 
 When love is not less in the eye than heart. 
 But be it so ! Shadow, pass on ! 
 
 [ The Phantom of Julius Ocesar disappears. 
 Arn. And can it 
 
 Be, that the man who shook the earth is gone. 
 And left no footstep ? 
 
 Stran. There you err. His substance 
 
 Left graves enough, and woes enough, and fame 
 More than enough to track his memory ; 
 But for his shadow, 'tis no more than yours, 
 Except a little longer and less crook'd 
 I' the sun. Behold another ! 
 
 [A second pfiantom passes. 
 Arn. . Who is he ? 
 
 Stran. He was the fairest and the bravest of 
 Athenians. Look upon him well. 
 
 Arn. He is 
 
 More lovely than the last. How beautiful ! 
 
 Stran. Such was the curled son of Clinias ; — 
 wouldst thou 
 Invest thee with his form ? 
 
 Arn. Would that I had 
 
 Been bom with it ! But since I may choose further, 
 I wUl look fiirther. 
 
 [The shade ofAlcibiades disappears. 
 Stran. Lo I behold again ! [eyed satyr, 
 
 Am. What ! that low, swarthy, short-nosed, round- 
 With the wide nostrils and Silenua' aspect. 
 
 The splay feet and low stature ! I had better 
 Remain that which I am. 
 
 Stran. And yet he was 
 
 The earth's perfection of all mental beauty, 
 And personification of all virtue. 
 But you reject him ? 
 
 Arn. If his form could bring nie 
 
 That which redeem 'd it — no. 
 
 Stran. I have no power 
 
 To promise that ; but you may try, and find it 
 Easier in such a form, or in your own. 
 
 Ai'n. No. I was not bom for philosophy. 
 Though I have that about me which has need on't. 
 Let him fleet on. 
 
 Stran. Be air, thou hemlock-drinker ! 
 
 [ The shadow of Socrates disappears : another rines. 
 
 Arn. What's here ? whose broad brow and whose 
 curly beard 
 And manly aspect look like Hercules, 
 Save that his jocund eye hath more of Bacchus 
 Than the sad purger of the infernal world, 
 Leaning dejected on his club of conquest, 
 As if he knew the worthlessness of those 
 For whom he had fought. 
 
 Stran. It was the man who lost 
 
 The ancient world for love. 
 
 Arn. I cannot blame him. 
 
 Since I have risk'd my soul because I find not 
 That which he exchanged the earth for. 
 
 Stran. Since so far 
 
 Tou seem congenial, will you wear his features ? 
 
 Am. No. As you leave me choice, I am difficult. 
 If but to see the heroes I should ne'er 
 Have seen else on this side of the dim shore 
 Whence they float back before us. 
 
 Stran. Hence, triumvii I 
 
 Thy Cleopatra's waiting. 
 
 [ The shade of Anthony disappears : another r/.»f.«. 
 
 Am. Who is this ? 
 
 Who truely looketh like a demigod, 
 Blooming and bright, with golden hair, and stature, 
 If not more high than mortal, yet immortal 
 In all that nameless bearing of his limbs. 
 Which he wears as the sun his rays— a something 
 Which shines from him, and yet is but the flashing 
 Emanation of a thing more glorious still 
 Was he e'er human only ? 
 
 Stran. Let the earth speak, 
 
 If there be atoms of him left, or even 
 Of the more solid gold that form'd his lu-n. 
 
 Arn. Who was this glory of mankind ? 
 
 Stran. The shame 
 
 Of Greece in peace, her thunderbolt in war - 
 Demetrius the Macedonian, and 
 Taker of cities. 
 
 Am. Yet one shadow more. 
 
804 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 p » r.T I. 
 
 Siran. (aihlrcssin^ the shadow.) Get thee to La- 
 mia's lap 1 
 i 2'/it: shade of Demetrius Poliorcetes tanishes : 
 annther riKes. 
 
 I'll fit you still, 
 Fear not, my hunchback : if the shadows of 
 That which existed please not your nice taste. 
 ril animate the ideal marble, till 
 V'our soul be reconciled to her new garment. 
 
 Am. Content I I will fix here. 
 
 Slraii. I must commend 
 
 Your choice. The godlike son of the sea-goddess, 
 The unshorn boy of Peleus, with his locks 
 As beautiful and clear as the amber waves 
 Of rich Pactolus, roll'd o'er sands of gold, 
 Soften'd by intervening crystal, and 
 Rippled like flowing waters by the wind. 
 All vow'd to Spcrchius as they were — behold them 1 
 And him — as he stood by Polixena, 
 With sanction'd and with soften'd love, before 
 The altar, gazing on his Trojan bride. 
 With some remorse within for Hector slain 
 And Priam weeping, mingled vrith deep passion 
 For the sweet downcast virgin, whose young hand 
 Trembled in his who slew het brother. So 
 He stood i' the temple ! Look upon him as 
 Greece look'd her last upon her best, the instant 
 Ere Paris' arrow flew. 
 
 Arn. I gaze upon him 
 
 As if I were his soul, whose form shall soon 
 Envelope mine. 
 
 Stran. You have done well. The greatest 
 
 Deformity should only barter with 
 The extrcmest beauty, if the proverb's true 
 Of mortals, that extremes meet. 
 
 Arn. Come 1 Be quick ! 
 
 I am impatient. 
 
 Stran. As a youthful beauty 
 
 Before her glass. Yvu both see what is not. 
 But dream it is what must be. 
 
 Arn. Must I wait ? 
 
 'Stran. No ; that were a pity. But a word or two : 
 His statue is twelve cubits ; would you so far 
 Outstep these times, and be a Titan ? Or 
 (To talk canonioally) wax a son 
 Of Anak ? 
 
 Am. Wliy not ? 
 
 Stran. Glorious ambition I 
 
 I love thee most in dwarfs I A mortal of 
 Philistine Btature would have gladly pared 
 His own Goliath down to a slight David : 
 But thou, my manikin, wouldst soar a show- 
 Rather than hero. Thou shalt be indulged, 
 [f such be thy desire ; and yet, by being 
 .A little less removed from present men 
 In figure, thou canst sway them more ; for aU 
 Would rise against thee now, as if to hun'c 
 
 A new-found mammoth ; and their cursed engines. 
 Their culverins, and so forth, wnuhl find way 
 Through our friend's armor there, with greater eaae 
 Than the adulterer's arrow through his heel, 
 Which Tlietis had forgotten to baptize 
 In Styx. 
 
 Arn. Then let it be as thou deem'st best. 
 
 Stran. Thou shalt be beauteous as the thing thou 
 seest, 
 And strong as what it was, and 
 
 Arn. I ask not 
 
 For valor, since deformit}- is daring. 
 It is its essence to o'ertake mankind 
 By heart and soul, and make itself the equal — 
 Ay, the superior of the rest. There is 
 A spur in its halt movements, to become 
 All that the others cannot, in such things 
 As still are free to both, to compensate 
 For stepdame Nature's avarice at first. 
 They woo with fearless deeds the smiles of fortune, 
 And oft, like Timour the lame Tartar, win them. 
 
 Stran. Well spoken ! And thou doubtless wilt 
 remain 
 Form'd as thou art. I may dismiss the mould 
 Of shadow, which must turn to flesh, to incase 
 This daring soul, which could achieve no less 
 Without it. 
 
 Arn. Had no power presented me 
 
 The possibility of change, I would 
 Have done the best which spirit may to make 
 Its way with all deformity's dull, deadly. 
 Discouraging weight upon me, like a mountain, 
 In feeling, on my heart as on my shoulders — 
 A hateful and unsightly molehill, to 
 The eyes of happier man. I would have look'd 
 On beauty in that sex wliich is the tyjje 
 Of all we know or dream of beautiful 
 Beyond the world they brighten, with a sigh — 
 Not of love, but despair ; nor sought to win. 
 Though to a heart all love, what could not love me 
 In turn, because of this vile crooked clog, 
 Wliich makes me lonely. Nay, I could have borne 
 It all, had not my mother spurn'd me from her. 
 The she bear licks her cubs into a sort 
 Of shape ; — my dam beheld my shape was hopeless 
 Had she exposed me, like the Spartan, ere 
 I knew the passionate part of life, I had 
 Been a clod of the valley, — happier nothing 
 Than what I am. But even thus, the lowest, 
 Ugliest, and meanest of mankind, what courage 
 And perseverance could have done, perchance 
 Had made me something — as it has made heroes 
 Of the same mould as mine. You lately saw me 
 Master of my own life, and quick to quit it ; 
 And he who is so is the master of 
 Wliatever dreads to die. 
 
 Stran. Decide between 
 
SCEXT t. 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 305 
 
 WTiat yju have been, or will be 
 
 Am. I have done so. 
 
 you have open'd brighter prospects to my eyes, 
 And sweeter to my heart. As I am now, 
 I might be fear'd, admired, respected, loved 
 Of all save those next to me, of whom I 
 Would be beloved. As thou showest me 
 A choice of forms, I take the one I view. 
 Haste ! haste I 
 Stran. And what shall / wear ? 
 
 Am. Surely, he 
 
 Who can command all forms wiU choose the highest. 
 Something superior even to that which was 
 Pelides now before us. Perhaps his 
 Who slew him, tliat of Paris : or — still higher — 
 The poet's god, clothed in such Umbs as are 
 Themselves a poetry. 
 
 Stran. Less will content me ; 
 
 For I, too, love a change. 
 
 Arn. Tour aspect is 
 
 Dusky, but not uncomely. 
 
 Stran. If I chose, 
 
 I might be whiter ; but I have a penchant 
 For black — it is so honest, and besides 
 Can neither blush with shame nor pale with fear ; 
 But I have worn it long enough of late, 
 And now I'll take your figure. 
 Arn. Mine t 
 
 Stran. Yes. You 
 
 Shall change with Thetis' son, and I with Bertha, 
 Your mother's offspring. People have their tastes : 
 You have yours — I mine. 
 Arn. Dispatch 1 dispatch ! 
 
 Stran. Even so. 
 
 [^The Stranger tal-es some earth and moiilds it 
 along the turf, and then addresses the phan- 
 tom of Achilles. 
 Beautiful shadow 
 
 Of Thetis's boy ! 
 Who sleeps in the meadow 
 
 Whose grass grows o'er Troy : 
 From the red earth, like Adam,' 
 
 Thy likeness I shape. 
 As the being who made him. 
 
 Whose actions I ape. 
 Thou clay, be all glowing, 
 
 Till the rose in his cheek 
 Be as fair as, when blowing, 
 
 It wears its first streak 1 
 Ye violets, I scatter. 
 
 Now turn into eyes I 
 
 And thou, sunshiny water, 
 
 Of blood take the guise I 
 
 Let these hyacinth boughs 
 
 Be his long flowing hair, 
 
 Adam meone "red ear'A," from which the first man was 
 Ibrmel. 
 
 39 
 
 And wave o'er his brows. 
 As thou wavest in air I 
 Let his heart be this marble 
 
 I tear from the rock 1 
 But his voice as the warble 
 
 Of birds on yon oak I 
 Let his flesh be the purest ' ' 
 
 Of mould, in which grew 
 The Uly-root surest, 
 
 And drank the best dew ! 
 Let his limbs be the lightest 
 Which clay can compound, 
 And his aspect the brightest 
 
 On earth to be found 1 
 Elements, near me, 
 
 Be mingled and stirr'd. 
 Know me, and hear me, 
 And leap to my word ! 
 Sunbeams, awaken 
 
 This earth's animation ! 
 'Tis done 1 He hath taken 
 His stand in creation 1 
 [Abnold falls senseless ; his soul passes into th« 
 shape of Achilles, lohich rises from the ground ; 
 while the phantom has disappeared, part hy 
 part, as the figure was formed from the earth. 
 Arn. {in his new form ^ 1 love, and I shall be be- 
 loved ! Oh, life I 
 At last I feel thee 1 Glorious spirit ! 
 
 Stran. Stop ! 
 
 What shall become of your abandon'd garment. 
 Yon hump, and lump, and clod o^ ugliness, 
 Which late you wore, or were ? 
 
 Arn. Who cares ? Let wolves 
 
 And vultures take it, if they wiU. 
 
 Stran. And it 
 
 They do, and are not scared by it, you'll say 
 It must be peace-time, and no better fare 
 Abroad i' the fields. 
 
 Arn. Let us but leave it there ; 
 
 No matter what becomes on't. 
 
 Stran. That's ungracious, 
 
 If not ungrateful. Whatsoe'er it be, 
 It hath sustain'd your soul full many a day. 
 
 Arn. Ay, as the dunghill may conceal a gem 
 Which is now set in gold, as jewels should be. 
 Stran. But if I give another form, it must be 
 By fair exchange, not robbery. For they 
 Wlio make men without women's aid have long 
 Had patents for the same, and do not love 
 Your interlopers. The devil may take men, 
 Not make them, — though he reap the benefit 
 Of the original workmanship :— and therefore 
 Some one must be found to assume the shape 
 You have quitted. 
 
 Arn. Who would do so 1 
 
80d 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 PART 1. 
 
 Stran. That I know not, 
 
 And therefore I must. 
 Am. You 
 
 !^trayi. I said it ere 
 
 you inhabited your preser:z dome of beauty. 
 
 Aril. True. I forget all things in the new joy 
 Of this immortal change. 
 
 Stniii. In a few moments 
 
 I will be as you were, and you shall see 
 Yourself forever by you, as your shadow. 
 Aril. I would be spared this. 
 Stran. But it cannot be. 
 
 What ! shrink already, being what you are. 
 From seeing what you were ? 
 Am. Do as thou wilt. 
 
 Stran. {to the late form of Arnold, extended on 
 the earth.) 
 Clay ! not dead, but soul-less ! 
 
 Though no man would choose thee, 
 An immortal no less 
 
 Deigns not to refuse thee. 
 Clay thou art ; and unto spirit 
 AU clay is of equal merit. 
 Fire I without which naught can live ; 
 Fire I but in which naught can live, 
 1 Save the fabled salamander, 
 
 ^ Or immortal souls, which wander. 
 
 Praying what doth not forgive. 
 Howling for a drop of water. 
 
 Burning in a quenchless lot : 
 Fire ! the only element 
 
 Where nor fish, beast, bird, nor worm, 
 
 Save the worm which dieth not. 
 Can preserve a moment's form. 
 But must with thyself be blent : 
 Fire ! man's safeguard and his slaughter : 
 Fire ! Creation's first-born daughter, 
 And Destruction's threaten'd son, 
 When heaven with the world hath done : 
 I. Fire I assist me to renew 
 Life in what lies in my viev/ 
 
 Stiff and cold 1 
 His resurrection rests with me and you I 
 One little, marshy spark of flame — 
 And he again shall seem the same ; 
 
 But I his spirit's place shall hold 1 
 [An ignis-fatuus Jlits through the wood and rests 
 on the brow of the hody. The Stranger disap- 
 pears : the body rites. 
 Am. (in his new form.) Oh, horrible 1 [thou ? 
 
 Stran. {in Abjiold's late sliajie.) What ! tremblest 
 Arn. Not so — 
 
 I merely shudder. Where is fled the shape 
 Thou lately worest ? 
 
 Stran. To the world of shadows. 
 
 But let U8 thread the present. Whither wilt thou ? 
 Am. Must thou be my companion ? 
 
 Stran. Wherefore not I 
 
 Your betters keep worse company. 
 
 Arn. My betters I 
 
 Stran. Oh, you wax proud, I see, of your new form 
 I'm glad of that. Ungrateful too ! That's well ; 
 You improve apace ; — two changes in an instant, 
 And you are old in the world's ways already. 
 But bear with me : indeed you'U find me useful 
 Upon your pilgrimage. But come, pronounce 
 Where shall we now be errant ? 
 
 Arn. Wliere the world 
 
 Is thickest, that I may behold it in 
 Its workings. 
 
 Stran. That's to say, where there is war 
 
 And woman in activity. Let's see I 
 Spain — Italy — the new Atlantic world — 
 Afiic, with all its Moors. In very truth. 
 There is small choice : the whole race are just now 
 Tugging as usual at each other's hearts. 
 
 Am. I have heard great things of Rome. 
 
 Stran. A goodly choice — 
 
 And scarce a better to be found on earth. 
 Since Sodom was jiut out. The field is wide too ; 
 For now the Frank, and Hun, and Spanish scion 
 Of the old Vandals are at play along 
 The sunny shores of the world's garden. 
 
 Arn. How 
 
 Shall we proceed ? 
 
 Stran. Like gallants, on good coursers 
 
 What ho ! my chargers ! Never yet were better 
 Since Phaeton was upset into the Po. 
 Our pages too I 
 
 Enter two Pages, with four cnal-hho-k hoo-se». 
 
 Arn. A noble sight ! 
 
 Stran. And of 
 
 A nobler breed. Match me in Barbary, 
 Or your Kochlini race of Araby, 
 With these ! 
 
 Arn. The mighty steam, which volumes high 
 
 From their proud nostrils, burns the very air ; 
 And sparks of flame, like dancing fire-flies, wheel 
 Around their manes, as common insects swarm 
 Round common steeds towards simset. 
 
 Stran. Mount, my lord : 
 
 They and I are your servitors. 
 
 Arn. And these 
 
 Our dark-eyed pages — what may be their names ? 
 
 Stran. You shall baptize them. 
 
 Arn. What! in holy water ? 
 
 Stran. Wliy not ? Tlie deeper sinner, better saint. 
 
 Arn. They are beautiful, and cannot, sure, be de- 
 mons. 
 
 Stran. True ; the devil's always ugly ; and your 
 Is never diabolical. [beauty 
 
 Arn. I'll call him 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 307 
 
 Wlio bears tlie golden horn, and wears such bright 
 And blooming aspect, Huon ; for he looks 
 Like to the lovely boy lost in the forest. 
 And never found till now. And for the other 
 And darker, and more thoughtful, who smiles not, 
 But looks as serious though serene as night. 
 He shall be Memnon, from the Ethiop king 
 Whose statue turns a harper once a day. 
 And you 3 
 
 Siran. I have ten thousand names, and twice 
 As many attributes : but as I wear 
 A human shape, will take a human name. 
 
 Am. More human than the shape (though it was 
 I trust. [mine once) 
 
 Stran. Then call me Csesar. 
 
 Arn. Why, that name 
 
 Belongs to empires, and has been but borne 
 By the world's lords. 
 
 Stran. And therefore fittest for 
 
 The devil in disguise — since so you deem me. 
 Unless you call me pope instead. 
 
 Arn. Well, then, 
 
 Goesar thou shalt be. For myself, my name 
 Shall be plain Arnold stiU. 
 
 C(Es. We'll add a title— 
 
 " Count Arnold :" it hath no ungracious sound. 
 And will look well upon a billet-doux. 
 
 Arn. Or in an order for a battle-field. 
 
 C(Bs. (sinffs.) To horse ! to horse ! my coal-black 
 Paws the ground and snufls the air I [steed 
 
 There's not a foal of Arab's breed 
 More knows whom he must bear ; 
 
 On the hiU he wiU not tire, 
 
 S%viftcr as it waxes higher ; 
 
 In the marsh he will not slacken, 
 
 On the plain be overtaken ; 
 
 In the wave he will not sink, 
 
 Nor pause at the brook's side to drink ; 
 
 In the race he will not pant. 
 
 In the combat he'U not faint 1 
 
 On the stones he will not stumble, 
 
 Time nor toil shall make him humble ; 
 
 In the stall he wiU not stiffen, 
 
 But be vringed as a griflan. 
 
 Only flying with his feet : 
 
 And will not such a voyage be sweet ? 
 
 Merrily ! merrily ! never unsound, 
 
 ShaUourbonnyblackhorsesskiro overthe groundl 
 
 From the Alps to the Caucasus, ,Ide we, or fiy ! 
 
 For we'll leave them behind in the glance of an eye. 
 [T7iey mount their horses and disappear. 
 
 SCENE II.. 
 
 A Camp he/ore the Walls of Some. 
 Arnold and Ces.ui. 
 Cos. Tou are well enter' d now. 
 Am. Ay ; but my path 
 
 Has been o'er carcasses : mine eyes are full 
 Of blood. 
 
 Cce-i. Then wipe them, and see clearlj Why 
 Thou art a conqueror ; the chosen knight 
 And free companion of the gallant Bourbon, 
 Late constable of France : and now to be 
 Lord of the city which hath been earth's lord 
 Under its emperors, and — changing sex, 
 Not sceptre, an hermaphrodite of empire — 
 Ladi/ of the old world. 
 
 Arn. How old ? What ! are there 
 
 New worlds ? 
 
 Cas. To you. Tou'U find there are such shortly. 
 By its rich harvests, new disease, and gold ; 
 From one-half of the world named a whole new one, 
 Because you know no better than the dull 
 And dubious notice of your eyes and ears. 
 
 Arn. I'll trust them. 
 
 C(E8. Do ! They will deceive you sweetly, 
 
 And that is better than the bitter truth. 
 
 Arn. Dog I 
 
 Cces. Man ! 
 
 Arn. Devil I 
 
 C(ES. Tour obedient humble servant. 
 
 Arn. Say master rather. Thou hast lured me on, 
 Through scenes of blood and lust, till I am here. 
 
 Cais. And where wouldst thou be ? 
 
 Arn. Oh, at peace — in peace. 
 
 Cas. And where is that which is so? From the star 
 To the winding worm, all Ufe is motion ; and 
 In life commotion is the extremest point 
 Of life. The planet wheels till it becomes 
 A comet, and destroying as it sweeps 
 The stars, goes out. The poor worm winds its way 
 Living upon the death of other things. 
 But still, like them, must live and die, the subject 
 Of something which has made it live and die. 
 You must obey what all obey, the rule 
 Of fix'd necessity : against her edict 
 Rebellion prospers not. 
 
 Am. And when it prospers 
 
 Com. 'Tis no rebellion. 
 
 Am. Will it prosper now ? 
 
 C(BS. The Bourbon hath given orders for the assault 
 And by the dawn there will be work. 
 
 Arn. Alas ! 
 
 And shall the city yield ? I see the giant 
 Abode of the true God, and his true saint. 
 Saint Peter, rear its dome and cross into 
 That sky whence Christ ascended from the crosa, 
 Which his blood made a badge of glory and 
 Of joy, (as once of torture unto him, 
 God and God's Son, man's sole and only refuge.) 
 
 Cms. 'Tis there, and shall be. 
 
 Arn. Wliat 3 
 
 Cm. The crucifix 
 
 Above, and many altar shrines below. 
 
308 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS, 
 
 xABT I, 
 
 A.I30 some culverinf upon the walls, 
 Ajid harquebusses, and what not ; besides 
 Tlie men who are to kindle them to death 
 Of other men. 
 
 Arn. And those scarce mortal arches, 
 
 Pile above pile of everlasting wall, 
 The theatre where emperors and their subjects 
 (Those subjects /i07nanii) stood at gaze upon 
 The battles of the monarchs of the wild 
 And wood, the lion and his tusky rebels 
 Of the then untamed desert, brought to joust 
 In the arena, (as right well they might. 
 When they had left no human foe unconquer'd ;) 
 Made even the forest pay its tribute of 
 Life to their amphitheatre, as well 
 As Dacia men to die the eternal death 
 For a sole instant's pastime, and " Pass on 
 To a new gladiator !" — Must it fall ? 
 
 CcB.1. The city, or the amphitheatre ? 
 The church, or one, or all ? for you confound 
 Both them and me. 
 
 Am. To-morrow sounds the assault 
 
 With the first cock-crow. 
 
 Cces. Which, if it end with 
 
 The evening's first nightingale, will be 
 Something new in the annals of great sieges ; 
 For men must have their prey after long toil. 
 
 Am. The sun goes down as calmly, and perhaps 
 More beautifully than he did on Rome 
 On the day Remus leapt her wall. 
 
 C<E.«. I saw him. 
 
 Am. You ! 
 
 r<Es. Yes, sir. Tou forget I am or was 
 
 Spirit, till I took up with your cast shape 
 And a worse name. I'm Caesar and a hunchback 
 Now. Well ! the first of Caesars was a bald-head, 
 And loved his laurels better as a wig 
 (So history says) than as a glory. Thus 
 The world runs on, but we'll be merry still. 
 I saw your Romulus (simple as I am) 
 Slay his own twin, quickljorn of the same womb, 
 Because he leapt a ditch, ('twas then no wall, 
 Whate'er it now be ;) and Rome's earliest cement 
 Was brother's blood ; and if its native blood 
 Be spilt till the choked Tilier be as red 
 As e'er t'was yellow, it will never wear 
 The deep hue of the ocean and the earth, 
 Which the groat robber sons of Fratricide 
 Have made their never-ceasing scene of slaughter 
 For ages. 
 
 A m. But what have these done, their far 
 Remote descendants, who have lived in peace. 
 The peace of heaven, and in her sunshine of 
 Piety ? 
 
 fmi. And what had the)/ done, whom the old 
 Romans o'erswept ? -Hark ! 
 Am. They are soldiers singing 
 
 A reckless roundelay, upon the eve 
 
 Of many deaths, it may be of their own. 
 
 CcBs. And why should they not sing as well as swans ! 
 They are black ones, to be sure. 
 
 Arn. So, you are leam'd, 
 
 I see, too ? 
 
 Cces. In my grammar, certes. I 
 Was educated for a monk of all times, 
 And once I was well versed in the forgotten 
 Etruscan letters, and — were I so minded — 
 Could make their hieroglyphics plainer than 
 Your alphabet. 
 
 Am. And wherefore do you not ? 
 
 C(e3. It answers better to resolve the alphabet 
 Back into hieroglyphics. Like your statesman. 
 And prophet, pontiff, doctor, alchymist, 
 Philosopher, and what not, they have built 
 More Babels, without new dispereion, than 
 The stammering young ones of the flood's dull ooze, 
 Who fail'd and fled each other. Wliy ? why, marry. 
 Because no man could understand his neighbor. 
 They are wiser now, and will no separate 
 For nonsense. Nay, it is their brotherhood. 
 Their Shibboleth, their Koran, Talmud, their 
 Cabala ; their best brick-work, wherewithal 
 They build more [sneerer 1 
 
 Am. {interrupting him.) Oh, thou everlasting 
 Be silent 1 How the soldiers' rough strain seems 
 Soften'd by distance to a hymn-like cadence 1 
 Listen I 
 
 Cas. Yes. I have heard the angels sing. 
 Arn. And demons howL 
 
 O.*. And man too. Let us listen 
 
 I love all music. 
 
 Sonff of the Soldiers within. 
 
 The black bands came over 
 
 The Alps and their snow ; 
 With Bourbon, the rover. 
 
 They pass'd the broad Po. 
 We have beaten all foemen. 
 
 We have captured a king. 
 We have turn'd back on no men. 
 
 And so let us sing I 
 Here's the Bourbon forever I 
 
 Though pennylcss all, 
 We'll have one more endeavor 
 
 At yonder old wall. 
 With the Bourbon we'll gathei 
 
 At day-dawn before 
 The gates, and together 
 
 Or break or cUmb o'er 
 The wall : on the ladder ' 
 
 As mounts each firm foot, 
 Our shout shall grow gladder, 
 
 And death only be mute. 
 
ECSNE n. 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 309 
 
 Wirt tlie Bourbon we'll mount o'er 
 
 Tl e walls of old Rome, 
 And who then shall count o'er 
 
 The spoils of each dome ? 
 Up ! up with the Uly ! 
 
 And down with the keys I 
 In old Rome, the seven-hilly, 
 
 We'll revel at ease. 
 Her streets shall be gory, 
 
 Her Tiber all red, 
 And her temples so hoary 
 
 Shall clang with our tread. 
 Oh, the Bourbon ! the Bourbon 1 
 
 The Bourbon for aye ! 
 Of our song bear the burden I 
 
 And fire, fire away ! 
 With Spain for the vanguard. 
 
 Our varied host comes ; 
 And next to the Spaniard 
 
 Beat Germany's drums ; 
 And Italy's lances 
 
 Are couch'd at their mother ; 
 But our leader from France is, 
 
 Who warr'd with his brother. 
 Oh, the Bourbon ! the Bourbon ! 
 
 Sans country or home, 
 We'll follow the Bourbon, 
 
 To plunder old Rome. 
 CcM. An indifl'erent song 
 
 For those within the walls, methinks, to hear. 
 
 Am. Yes, if they keep to their chorus. But here 
 The general with his chiefs and men of trust, [comes 
 A goodly rebel ! 
 
 Enter the Constable 'QoTSKaas 'Uumsuis," etc., etc. 
 
 Phil. How now, noble prince. 
 
 You are not cheerful ? 
 
 Bourh. Why should I be so ? 
 
 Phil. Upon the eve of conquest, such as ours. 
 Most men would be so. 
 
 Bourh. If I were secure ! 
 
 Phil. Doubt not our soldiers. Were the waUs of 
 adamant, 
 They'd crack them. Hunger is a sharp artillery. 
 
 Bourh. That they will falter is my least of fears. 
 That they will be repulsed, with Bourbon for 
 Their chief, and all their kindled appetites 
 To marshal them on — were those hoary waUs 
 Mountain!, and those who guard them Uke the gods 
 Of the old fables, I would trust my Titans ; — 
 But now 
 
 Phil. They are but men who war with mortals. 
 
 Bourh. True : but those walla have girded in great 
 And sent forth mighty spirits. The past earth [ages, 
 And present phantom of imperious Rome 
 Is peopled with those warriors ; and methinks 
 They flit along the eternal city's rampart. 
 
 And stretch their glorious, gory, shadowy hands. 
 And beckon me away ! 
 
 Phil. So let them ! Wilt thou 
 
 Turn back from shadowy menaces of shadows ? 
 
 Bourh. They do not menace me. I could have 
 Methinks, a Sylla's menace ; but they clasp, [faced, 
 And raise, and wring their dim and deathlike hands. 
 And with their thin aspen faces and fix'd eyes 
 Fascinate mine. Look there ! 
 
 Phil. I look upon 
 
 A lofty battlement. / 
 
 Bourh. And there ! 
 
 Phil. Not even 
 
 A guard in sight ; they wisely keep below, 
 Shelter'd by the gray parapet from some 
 Stray bullet of our lansquenets, who might 
 Practice in the cool twiUght. 
 
 Bourh. You are blind. 
 
 Phil. If seeing nothing more than may be seen 
 Be so. 
 
 Bourh. A thousand years have mann'd the walls 
 With all their heroes, — the last Cato stands 
 And tears his bowels, rather than survive 
 The liberty of that I would enslave. 
 And the first CiEsar with his triumphs flits 
 From battlement to battlement. 
 
 Pliil. Then conquer 
 
 The walls for which he conquer'd and be greater ! 
 
 Bourh. True : so I will, or perish. 
 
 Phil. You can not. 
 
 In such an enterprise to die is rather 
 The dawn of an eternal day, than death. 
 
 Count Arnold and Caesar advance. 
 
 Cces. And the mere men — do they too sweat beneat'i 
 The noon of this same ever-scorcliing glory ? 
 
 Bourb. Ah t 
 
 Welcome the bitter hunchback 1 and his master 
 The beauty of our host, and brave as beauteous, 
 And generous as lovely. We shall find 
 Work for you both ere morning. 
 
 Cas. You will find, 
 
 So please your highness, no less for yourself. 
 
 Bourh. And if I do, there will not be a laborer 
 More forward, himchback 1 
 
 C(ps. You may well say ■9a 
 
 For you have seen that back — as general. 
 Placed in the rear in action — but your foes 
 Have never seen it. 
 
 Bourh. That's a fair retort. 
 
 For I provoked it : — but the Bourbon's breast 
 Has been, and ever shall be, far advanced 
 In danger's face as yours, were you the devil. 
 
 Cubs. And if I were, I might have saved myself 
 The toil of coming here. 
 
 Phil. Why so ? 
 
 Cobs. One half 
 
 Of your brave bands of their own bold accord 
 
310 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 PART L. 
 
 Will go to him, the other half be sent, 
 More swiftly, not less surely. 
 
 Bourh. Arnold, your 
 
 Slight crooked friend 's as snake-like in his words 
 A.S his deeds. 
 
 Cms. Your highness much mistakes me. 
 
 The first snake was a flatterer — I am none ; 
 And for my deeds, I only sting when stung, 
 Bourh. You are brave, and that's enough for me ; 
 and quick 
 In speech as sharp in action — and that's more. 
 I am not alone a soldier, but the soldiers' 
 Comrade. 
 
 Tuw. They are but bad company, your highness : 
 And worse even for their friends than foes, as being 
 More permanent acquaintance. 
 
 Phil. How now, fellow ! 
 
 Thou waxest insolent, beyond the privilege 
 Of a buffoon. 
 
 Cms. You mean I speak the truth. 
 
 I'll lie — it is as easy : then you'll praise me 
 For calling you a hero. 
 
 Bourh. Philibert ! 
 
 Let him alone ; he's brave, and ever has 
 Been first, with that swart face and mountain shoul- 
 In field or storm, and patient in starvation ; [der, 
 And for his tongue, the camp is full of license, 
 And the sharp stinging of a lively rogue 
 Is, to my mind, far preferable to 
 The gross, dull, hea\-y, gloomy execration 
 Of a mere famish'd, sullen, grumbling slave. 
 Whom nothing can convince save a fuU meal. 
 And wine, and sleep, and a few maravedis, 
 With which he deems him rich. 
 
 Ca». It would be well 
 
 If the earth's princes ask'd no more. 
 
 Bourh. Be silent I 
 
 CxK. Ay, but not idle. Work yourself with words 1 
 You have few to speak. 
 
 Plul. What means the audacious prater ? 
 
 Cm. To prate, like other prophets. 
 , Bourh. PhiUbert 1 
 
 Why will you vex him ? Have we not enough 
 To think on ? Arnold I I wiU lead the attack 
 To-morrow. 
 
 Am. I have heard as much, my lord. 
 
 Bourh. And you will follow ? 
 
 Am. Since I must not lead. 
 
 Bourh. 'Tis necessary for the further daring 
 Of our too needy army, that their chiuf 
 Plant the fipst foot upon the foremost ladder's 
 First step. 
 
 Cma. Upon its topmost, let us hope : 
 
 Ho shall he have his full deserts. 
 
 Bourh. The world's 
 
 {J-cat capital perchance is ours to-morrow. 
 1 iirough every change the seven ill city hath 
 
 Retain'd her sway o'er nations, and the Caesars, 
 But yielded to the Alarics, the Alarics 
 Unto the pontilfs. Roman, Goth, or priest, 
 Still the world's masters I Civilized, barbarian, 
 Or saintly, still the walls of Romulus 
 Have been the circus of an emjjire. Well ! 
 'Twas their turn — now 'tis ours ; and let us hope 
 That we will fight as well, and rule much better 
 
 Cas. Xo doubt, the camp's the school of civic 
 What would you make of Rome ? [rights. 
 
 Bourh. That which it was. 
 
 Ccea. In Alaric's time ? 
 
 Bourh. No, slave ! in the first Cajsar's, 
 Whose name you bear like other curs 
 
 Cm. And kings 1 
 
 'Tis a great name for bloodhounds. 
 
 Bourh. There's a demon 
 
 In that fierce rattlesnake, thy tongue. Wilt never 
 Be serious ? 
 
 CcB-1. On the eve of battle, no ; — 
 
 That were not soldier-like. 'Tis for the general 
 To be more pensive : we adventurers 
 Must be more cheerful. 'WTicrefore should we think ! 
 Our tutelar deity, in a leader's shape, 
 Takes care of us. Keep thought aloof from hosts ! 
 If the knaves take to thinking, you will have 
 To crack those walls alone. 
 
 Boxirh. You may sneer, since 
 
 'Tis lucky for you that you fight no worse for 't. 
 
 C(r.<i. I thank you for the freedom ; 'tis the only 
 Pay I have taken in your highness' service. 
 
 Bourh. Well, sir, to-morrow you shall pay yourselC 
 Look on those towers ; they hold my treasury : 
 But, Philibert, we'll in to council. Arnold, 
 We would request your presence. 
 
 Am. Prince I my service 
 
 Is yours, as in the field. 
 
 Bourh. In both we prize it. 
 
 And yours wiU be a post of trust at daybreak. 
 
 C(Bs. And mine ? 
 
 Bourh. To follow glory with the Bourton, 
 
 Good night ! 
 
 Am. {to CAESAR.) Prepare our armor for the assault 
 And wait within my tent. 
 
 {Exeunt Boukbon, Aunold, Philibert, etc. 
 
 Co'K. {solus.) Within thy tent I 
 
 Think'st thou that I pass from thee with my pros- 
 Or that this crooked coffer, which contain'd [ence I 
 Thy principle of life, is aught to me 
 Except a mask ? And these are men, forsooth I 
 Heroes and chiefs, the flower of Adam's bastards I 
 This is the consequence of gi\'ing matter 
 The power of thought. It is a stubborn substance, 
 And thinks chaotically, as it acts. 
 Ever relapsing into its first elements. 
 Well I I must play with these poor puppets : 'tis 
 The spirit's pastime in his idler hours. 
 
SCEIfE I. 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 311 
 
 When I grow weary of it, I have business 
 Amongst the stars, which these poor creatures deem 
 Were made for them to look at. 'Twere a jest now 
 To bring one down amongst them, and set fire 
 Unto their anthill : how the pismires then 
 Would scamper o'er the scalding soil, and, ceasing 
 From tearing down each other's nests, pipe forth 
 One universal orison I Ha I ha 1 
 
 [Sxit Cesae. 
 
 PART n. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Be/ore the walh of Eome. The assault : the army in 
 •motion, with ladders to scale the walls ; Bottbbon, 
 vith a white scurf over his armor, foremost. 
 
 Chorus of Spirits in the air. 
 
 1. 
 
 . 'Tis the mom, but dim and dark. 
 Whither flies the silent lark ? 
 Whither shrinks the clouded sun ? 
 Is the day indeed begun ? 
 Nature's eye is melancholy 
 O'er the city high and holy : 
 But without there is a din 
 Should arouse the saints within, 
 And revive the heroic ashes 
 Round which yellow Tiber dashes. 
 Oh, ye seven hiUs 1 awaken, 
 Ere your very base be shaken I 
 
 Hearken to the steady stamp 1 
 
 Mars is in their every tramp I 
 
 Not a step is out of tune, 
 
 As the tides obey the moon 1 
 
 On they march, though to self-slaughter, 
 
 Regular as rolling water, 
 
 Whose high waves o'ersweep the border 
 
 Of huge moles, but keep their order, 
 
 Breaking only rank by rank. 
 
 Hearken to the armor's clank I 
 
 Look down o'er each frowning warrior, 
 
 How he glares upon the barrier : 
 
 Look on each step of each ladder, 
 
 As the stripes that streak an adder. 
 
 Look upon the bristling wall, 
 Mann'd without an interval ! 
 Round and round, and tier on tier. 
 Cannon's' black mouth, shining spear, 
 lAt match, bell-mouth'd musquetoon. 
 Gaping to be murderous soon ; 
 All the warlike gear of old, 
 
 Mix'd with what we now jehold, 
 In this strife 'twixt old and new, 
 Gather like a locusts' crew. 
 Shade of Remus 1 'tis a time 
 Awful as thy brother's crime ! 
 Christians war against Chi-ist's shriuc : 
 Must its lot be like to thine ? 
 
 4. 
 
 Near — and near — and nearer still, 
 
 As the earthquake saps the hin, 
 
 First with trembling, hollow motion, 
 
 Like a scarce-awaken'd ocean, 
 
 Then with stronger shock and louder. 
 
 Till the rocks are crush'd to powder, — 
 
 Onward sweeps the rolling host I 
 
 Heroes of the immortal boast ! 
 
 Mighty chiefs 1 eternal shadows 1 
 
 First flowers of the bloody meiidows 
 
 Which encompass Rome, the mother 
 
 Of a peojDle without brother ! 
 
 Will you sleep when nations' quarrels 
 
 Plough the root up of your laurels ? 
 
 Ye who weep o'er Carthage burning, 
 
 Weep not — strike ! for Rome is mourning I 
 
 Onward sweep the varied nations ! 
 Famine long hath dealt their rations. 
 To the wall, wdth hate and hunger, 
 Numerous as wolves, and stronger, 
 On they sweep. Oh, glorious city, 
 Must thou be a theme for pity ? 
 Fight, like your first sire, each Roman ! 
 Alaric was a gentle foeman, 
 Match'd with Bourbon's black banditti I 
 Rouse thee, thou eternal city ; 
 Rouse thee ! Rather give the torch 
 With thy own hand to thy porch, 
 Than behold such hosts pollute 
 Tour worst dwelling with their f^^t 
 
 6. 
 
 Ah, behold yon bleeding spectre I 
 nion's children find no Hector ; 
 Priam's ofispring loved their brother , 
 Rome's great sire forgot his mother 
 When he slew his gallant twin, 
 With inexpiable sin. 
 See the giant shadow stride 
 O'er the ramparts high and wide 
 When the first o'erleapt thy wall, 
 Its foundation mourn'd thy fall. 
 
 * Sclpio, the second AJVicanas, is said to have repeated a verse 
 of Homer, and wept over the burning of Carthage. He haj bet- 
 ter have granted it a capitulation. 
 
312 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 PART II 
 
 Now, though towering like a Babel, 
 Who to stop his steps are able ? 
 Stalking o'er thy highest dome, 
 Remus claims his vengeance, Rome ! 
 
 Now they reach thee in their anger : 
 Fire and smoke and hellish clangor 
 Arc around thee, thou world's wonder I 
 Death is in thy walls and under. 
 Now the meeting steel first clashes, 
 Downward then the ladder crashes, 
 With its iron load all gleaming. 
 Lying at its foot blaspheming I 
 Up again 1 for every warrior 
 Slain, another climbs the barrier. 
 Thicker grows the strife : thy ditches 
 Europe's mingling gore enriches. 
 Rome I although thy walls may perish, 
 Such manure thy fields will cherish. 
 Making gay the harvest-home ; 
 But thy hearths, alas ! oh, Rome ! — 
 Yet be Rome amidst thine anguish. 
 Fight as thou wast wont to vanquish. 
 
 8. 
 
 Yet once more, ye old Penates ! 
 Let not your quench'd hearths be Ate's 1 
 Yet again, ye shadowy heroes. 
 Yield not to these stranger Neroes I 
 Though the son who slew his mother 
 Shed Rome's blood, he was your brother : 
 Twas the Roman curb'd the Roman ; — 
 Brennus was a baffled foeman. 
 Yet again, ye saints and martyrs. 
 Rise 1 for yours are hoUcr charters 1 
 Mighty gods of temples falling. 
 Yet in ruin still appalling ! 
 Mightier founders of those ailtars. 
 True and Christian, — strike the assaulters. 
 Tiber I Tiber I let thy torrent 
 Show even nature's self abhorrenl 
 'Let each breathing he:irt dilated 
 Turn, as doth the lion baited ! 
 Rome be crush'd to one wide tomb, 
 But be still the Roman's Rome I 
 
 Bourbon, Arnold, Cjesar, and oUiem, arrire at the 
 
 foot of the wall. Arnold is about to plant kU 
 
 ladder. 
 
 Bourb. Hold, Arnold 1 I am first. 
 
 Arn. Not so, my lord. 
 
 Bourh. Hold, sir, I charge you! Follow 1 I am 
 Of such a follower, but will brook no leader, [proud 
 [Bourbon /)/'(« ^'' hin Imhhr^ and lieijiiiK to mount. 
 Now, boys I On ! on I 
 
 [4 ihot strikes him, and Bourbon /aU-s. 
 
 Ua». And offl 
 
 ■Am. Eternal powers ! 
 
 The host will be appall'd, — but vengeance ! vengeance I 
 
 Bourh. 'Tis nothing — lend me your hand. 
 
 [Bourbon takei Arnold lij the hand, and ritet; 
 but as he puts his foot on (he step, falls again. 
 Arnold ! I am sped. 
 Conceal my fall — all will go well — conceal it ! 
 Fhng my cloak o'er what will be dust anon ; 
 Let not the soldiers see it. 
 
 Am. You must be 
 
 Removed ; the aid of 
 
 Bourh. No, my gallant boy ; 
 
 Death is upon me. But what is one life ? 
 The Bourbon's spirit shall command them still. 
 Keep them j-et ignorant that I am but clay. 
 Till they are conquerors — then do as you may. 
 
 Cas. Would not your highness choose to kiss the 
 cross ? 
 We have no priest here, but the hilt i/f sword 
 May serve instead : it did the same for Bayard. 
 
 Bonrb. Thou bitter slave 1 to name him at this 
 But I deserve it. [time . 
 
 Arn. (to C^sAR.) Villain, hold your peace ! 
 
 Ctes. What, when a Christian dies ? Shall I not offer 
 A Christian " Vade in pace ?" 
 
 Arn. Silence ! Oh ! 
 
 Those eyes are glazing which o'erlook'd the world, 
 And saw no equal. 
 
 Bourh. Arnold, shouldst thou see 
 
 France But hark 1 hark ! the assault grows warm- 
 er—Oh ! 
 For but an hour, a minute more of life 
 To die within the wall ! Ilecce, Arnold, hence I 
 You lose time — they will conquer Rome without thee. 
 
 Arn. And without thee ! 
 
 Bourb. Not so ; I'll lead them still 
 
 In spirit. Cover up my dust, and breathe not 
 That I have ceased to breathe. Away ! and be 
 Victorious 1 
 
 Arn. But I must not leave thee thus. 
 
 Bourb. You must — farewell — Up 1 up ! the world 
 is winning. [Bourbon dies. 
 
 Cai. {to Arnold.) Come, count, to business. 
 
 Arn. True. I'll weep hereafter. 
 
 [Arnold covers Bourbon's body with a mantle, 
 and jnounts the ladder, crying 
 The Bourbon ! Bourbon ! On, Ijoys ! Rome is ours ! 
 
 Cas. Good-night, lord constable 1 thou wert a man. 
 \CMS&Si follows Arnold ; they reach the battle- 
 ment ; Arnold and C^sar are struck down. 
 
 Cos. A precious somerset ! Is your countship in- 
 jured ? 
 
 Arn. No. [Bemounts the ladder. 
 
 Ga-s. A rare bloodhound, when his own is heated I 
 And 'tis no boy's play. Now he strikes them down I 
 His hand is on the battlement— he grasps it 
 As though it were an altar ; now his foot . 
 
-^^ym/ica:^ 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 313 
 
 Is on ii, and What have we here ? — a Roman ? 
 
 [A man falls. 
 The first bird of the covey ! he has fallen 
 On the outside of the nest. Why, how now, fellow ? 
 
 Wounded Man. A drop of water ! 
 
 Coss. Blood's the only liquid 
 
 Nearer than Tiber. 
 
 Wu(in>led Mail. I have died for Rome. [Dies. 
 
 Cies. And so did Bourbon in another sense. 
 Oh these immortal men ! and their great motives ! 
 But I must after my young charge. He is 
 By this time i' the forum. Charge 1 charge ! 
 
 [CM6iJi mounts the ladder ; the scene closes. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The City. — Combats between the Besiegers and Besieged 
 in the streets. Inhahitantsflyinfj in confusion. 
 
 Enter CiESAR. 
 
 Cas. I cannot find my hero he is mix'd 
 With the heroic crowd that now pursue 
 The fugitives, or battle with the desperate. 
 What have we here ? A cardinal or two 
 That do not seem in love with martyrdom. 
 How the old red-shanks scamjier ! Could they doif 
 Their hose as they have doff'd their hats, 'twould be 
 A blessing, as a mark the less for plunder. 
 But let them fly; the crimson kennels now 
 Will not much stain their stockings, since the mire 
 Is of the self-same purple hue. 
 
 Enter a Party fighting — Arnold at the head of the 
 Besiegers. 
 
 He comes, 
 Hand in hand with the mild twins — Gore and Glory, 
 HoUa ! hold, count 1 
 
 Am. Away ! they must not rally. 
 
 C'ivs. I tell thee, be not rash ; a golden bridge 
 Is for a flying enemy. I gave thee 
 A form of beauty, and an 
 Exemption from some maladies of body 
 But not of mind, which is not mine to give. 
 But though I gave the form of Thetis' son, 
 I dipp'd thoe not in Styx ; and 'gainst a foe 
 I would not warrant thy chivalric heart 
 More than Pelides' heel ; why then, be cautious, 
 And know thyself a mortal stiU. 
 
 Arn. And who 
 
 With aught of soul would combat if he were 
 Invulnerable 2 That were pretty sport. 
 Think'st thou I beat for hares when Uons roar ? 
 
 [Arnold rushes into the combat. 
 
 Cas. A precious sample of humanity ! 
 Well, lus blood's up : and if a Uttle's shed, 
 Twin serve to curb his fever. 
 
 [Arnold cngagei with a Homan, who retires 
 ti)irards a /lortico. 
 
 ilra. Yield thee, slave ! 
 
 40 
 
 I promise quarter. 
 
 Horn. That's soon said. 
 
 Am. And done — 
 
 My word is known. 
 
 Jioni. So shall be my deeds. 
 
 [They reen(/a'/e. C^s.^K eomes forwar d- 
 
 Cas. Why, Arnold ! hold thine own : thou hast in 
 A famous artisan, a cunning sculptor ; [hand 
 
 Also a dealer in the sword and dagger. 
 N^it so, my musqueteer; 'twas he who slew 
 The Bourbon trom the wall. 
 
 Aril. Ay, did he so ? 
 
 Then he hath carved his monument. 
 
 Horn. I yet 
 
 May live to carve your betters'. 
 
 Cas. Well said, my man of marble ! Benvenuto, 
 Thou hast some practice in both ways ; and he 
 Who slays Celhni will have work'd as hard 
 As e'er thou didst upon Carrara's blocks. 
 
 [Arnold disarms and wounds Cellini, liil 
 slightly ; the latter draws a jiistol, and fires; 
 then retires, and disappears through the 
 portico. 
 
 Cos. How farest thee ? Thou hast a taste methinks, 
 Of red Bellona's banquet. 
 
 Aril, (staggers.) 'Tis a scratch. 
 
 Lend me thy scarf. He shall not 'scape me thus. 
 
 Cas. Where is it ? 
 
 Am. In the shoulder, not the sword arm— 
 
 And that's enough. I am thirsty : would I had 
 A helm of water. 
 
 Cas. That's a liquid now 
 
 In requisition, but by no means easiest 
 To come at. 
 
 Aru. And my thirst increases ; — but 
 
 I'll find a way to quench it. 
 
 Cos. Or be quonch'd 
 
 Thyself? 
 
 Am. The chance is even ; we will throw 
 The dice thereon. But I lose time in prating : 
 Prithee be quick. [C/Esar binds on the scwrf. 
 
 And what dost thou so idly ? 
 Why dost not strike ? 
 
 Ccbs. Your old philosophers 
 
 Beheld mankind, as mere spectators of 
 The Olympic games. When I behold a prize 
 Worth wrestUng for, I may be found a Milo. 
 
 Aru. Ay, 'gainst an oak. 
 
 Cirs. A forest, when it suits me. 
 
 I combat with a mass, or not at all. 
 Meantime, pursue thy sport as I do mine ; 
 Wliich is just now to gaze, since all these laborers 
 WiU reap my harvest gratis. 
 
 Arn. Thou art still 
 
 A fiend ! 
 
 Cas. And thou — a man. 
 
 Am. Why, such I I'aiu uould show me. 
 
314 
 
 BYRO.vT'S WORKS. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 Cag. True — as men are. 
 
 Am, And wbat is that ? 
 
 CcBS. Thou feelest and thou see'st. 
 
 \^Exit AutsoiS), joining in the combat which xtill 
 
 continues between detached parties. The scene 
 
 SCENE m. 
 
 St. Peter's — The Interior of the Church — The Pope 
 at the Altar — Prie-ds, etc. crowding in coiifwlon 
 and Citizens flying for refuge, pursued by Sol- 
 diery. 
 
 Enter Caesar. 
 
 A Spanish Soldier. Down with them, comrades ! 
 seize upon those lamps 1 
 Cleave yon Ijald-puted sliaveling to the chine ! 
 His rosary's of gold. 
 
 Lutheran Soldier. Revenge ! revenge I 
 Plunder hereafter, but for vengeance now — 
 Yonder stands Anti-Christ ! 
 
 Can. (liitcrpo.\i/i;/.) IIow now, schismatic ? 
 
 What wouldst thou ? 
 
 Lutli. Sfilil. In tlie holy name of Christ, 
 IK'Sti'^iy proud Anti-Christ. I am a Christian. 
 
 Ca's. Yea, a disciple that would make the founder 
 Df your belief renounce it, could he see 
 Buch proselytes. But stint thyself to plunder. 
 
 Lztth. Sold. I say he is the devil. 
 
 Cees. Hush ! keep that secret, 
 
 Lest he should recognise you for his own. 
 
 Luth. Nold. Why would you save him ? I repeat 
 The devil, or the devil's vicar upon earth. [he is 
 
 Cces. And that's the reason : would you make a 
 quarrel 
 With your best iriends ? You had far best be quiet ; 
 Mis hour is not yet come. 
 
 Zuth. Sold. That shall be seen ! 
 
 [The Lutheran Soldier rushes foricord ; a shot 
 striJces him from one of the Pope's Guards, 
 • and he falls at the foot of the Altar. 
 
 Cats, {to the Lutheran.) I told you so. 
 
 Lath. Siild. And will you not avenge me ? 
 
 C^s. Not I ! You know that " Vengeance is the 
 You see he loves no interlopers. [Lord's : " 
 
 Luth. S'dd. {dying.) Oh, 
 
 Had I but slain him, I had gone on high, 
 Crown'd with eternal glory ! Heaven, forgive 
 Jfy feebleness of arm that rcach'd him not. 
 And take thy servant to thy mercy. 'Tis 
 A glorious triumph still ; proud Babylon's 
 No more ; the Harlot of the Seven Hi 's 
 Hath changed her scarlet raiment for sackcloth 
 And ashes ! [ The Lutheran dies. 
 
 Or<i. Yes, thine own amidst the rest. 
 
 Well done, old Babel 1 
 
 [ The Guards defend themselves desperately, whiU 
 the Pontiff escapes, by a prieate passage, U> tin 
 Vatican, and the Castle of Angelo. 
 
 C(es. Ha ! right nobly battled ! 
 
 Now, priest ! now, soldier ! the two grwit profes- 
 Together by the ears and hearts ! I have not [sions, 
 Seen a more comic pantomime since Titus 
 Took Jewry. But the Uomans had the best then ; 
 Now they must take their turn. 
 
 Soldiers. He hath escapeit 1 
 
 Follow ! [sage up, 
 
 Another Sold. They have barr'd the narrow pas- 
 And it is clogg'd with dead even to the door. 
 
 Cwa*. I am glad he hath escaped ; he may thank 
 me for 't 
 In part. I would not have his bulls abolished — 
 'Twere worth one-half our empire : his indulgences 
 Demand some in return ; — no, no, he must not 
 Fall ; — and besides, his now escape may furnish 
 A future miracle, in future proof 
 Of his infallibility. [ 7V) the S/ianish Soldiery. 
 
 Well, cut-throats ! 
 A\niat do you pause for ? If you make not haste, 
 There will not be a link of pious gold left. 
 And i/tm, too, Catholics ! Would ye return 
 From such a pilgrimage without a relic ? 
 The very Lutherans have more true devotion : 
 See how they strip the shrines 1 
 
 Soldiers. By holy Peter 
 
 He speaks the truth ; the heretics will bear 
 The best away. 
 
 Cds. And that were shame ! Go to I 
 
 Assist in their conversion. 
 
 [The Soldiers disperse; many quit the Chure\ 
 others enter. 
 
 C<es. They are gone, 
 
 And others come : so flows the wave on wave 
 Of what these creatures call eternity. 
 Deeming themselves the breakers of the ocean, 
 While they are but its bubbles, ignorant 
 That foam is their foundation. So, another ! 
 
 Enter Olimpia, flying from the pursuit. She springt 
 upon the Altar. 
 
 Sold. She's mine I 
 
 Another Sold, {opposing the former.) You lie, I 
 track'd her first ; and were she 
 The Pope's niece, I'll not yield her. [ They fight. 
 
 'Ad Sidd. {adranring foirnrds Oliuip.) You may set- 
 Your claims ; I'll make mine good. [tie 
 
 Olimji. Infumal slave 1 
 
 You touch me not alive. 
 
 nd S'dd. Alive or dead ! 
 
 Olirn/i. {embracing a massii'e crucifix.) Respect your 
 God! 
 
 3'/ Sold. Yes, when he shines in gold. 
 
 Girl, you but grasp yom- dowry. 
 
BCKKN IIL 
 
 THE DEFORMED TR AITSFORMED . 
 
 315 
 
 l^As he adrances, Olimpia, tuith a strong and slid" 
 den effort, casts down the crucifix: it strilces 
 the Soldier who/alls. 
 3d Sold. Oh, great God ! 
 
 Olimp. All, now you recognize him ! 
 3(( Sold. My brain's crush'd 1 
 
 Comrades, help, ho ! All's darkness I [He dies. 
 
 Other Soldiers, (coinimj up.) Slay her, although 
 she had a thousand Uves : 
 Bhc hath kill'd our comrade. 
 
 01 imp. Welcome such a death ! 
 
 Vou have no Ufe to give, ■svhich the worst slave 
 Would take. Great God ! through thy redeeming 
 And thy Son's Mother, now receive me as [Son 
 
 I would approach thee, worthy her, and him, and 
 thee ! 
 
 Enter Aksold. 
 
 Arn. What do I see ? Accursed jackals ! 
 Forbear 1 
 
 Cws. {itside and laughing.) Ha ! ha ! here's equity ! 
 The dogs 
 Have as much right as he. But to the issue ! 
 
 Soldiers. Count, she hath slain our comrade. 
 
 Am. With what weapon ? 
 
 Sold. The cross, beneath which he is crush'd ; 
 behold him 
 Lie there, more like a worm than man ; she cast it 
 Ujjon his head. 
 
 .Ir;?. Even so ; there is a woman 
 
 Worthy a brave man's liVzing. Were ye such. 
 Ye would have honor'd her. But get ye hence, 
 And thank your meanness, other God you have none, 
 For your existence. Had you touch'd a hair 
 Of those dishevell'd locks. I would have thinn'd 
 Your ranks more than the enemy. Away 1 
 Ye jackals ! gnaw the bones the lion leaves, 
 But not even these till he permits. 
 
 A Sold, {mvrmxiring.) The lion 
 
 Might conquer for himself then. 
 
 Arn. (cuts him down.) Mutineer ! 
 
 Uebel in hell — you shall obey on earth ! 
 
 [The soldiers assault ARNOLD. 
 
 Am. Come on ! I'm glad on 't ! I will show you, 
 slaves. 
 How you should be commanded, and who led you 
 First o'er the wall you were so shy to scale, 
 Uutil I waved my banners from its height, 
 As you are bold within it. 
 
 Akxold mows down the foremost ; the rest 
 throw down their arms. 
 
 Soldiers. Mercy ! mercy ! 
 
 A rn. Then learn to grant it ! Have I taught you 
 Led you o'er Home's eternal battlements ? [who 
 
 Soldiers. We saw it, and we know it ; yet forgive 
 A moment's error in the heat of conquest — 
 The conquest wliich you led to. 
 
 Am. Get you hence I 
 
 Hence to your quarters ! you will find them fix'd 
 In the Colonna palace. 
 
 Olinip. (aside.) In my father's 
 
 House ! 
 
 Arn, (to the soldiers.) Leave your arms ; ye havs 
 no further need 
 Of such : the city's render'd. And mark well 
 You keep your hands clean, or I'll find out a stream 
 As red as Tiber now runs, for your baptism. 
 
 Soldiers, (deposing their arms and de^iarting.) We 
 
 Arn. (to Olimii.) Lady, you are safe. [obey ! 
 
 Olimp. I should be so, 
 
 Had I a knife even ; but it matters not — 
 Death hath a thousand gates ; and on the marble, 
 Even at the altar foot, whence I look down 
 Uljon destruction, shall my head be dash'd. 
 Ere thou ascend it. God forgive thee, man ! 
 
 Aril. I wish to merit his forgiveness, and 
 Thine own, although I have not injured thee. 
 
 Oliinp. No ! Thou hast only sack'd my native 
 No injury ! — and made my father's house [laud, — 
 A den of thieves ! No injury ! — this temple — 
 Slippery with Roman and with holy gore. 
 No injury ! And now thou wouldst preserve me, 
 
 To be but that shall never be ! 
 
 [She raises her eyes to Heaven, folds her robe 
 round her, and prepares to dash herself down 
 on the side of the Altar opposite to that where 
 Arnold stands. 
 
 Arn. Hold! Hold! 
 
 I swear. 
 
 Olimp. Spare thine already forfeit soul 
 A perjury for which even hell would loathe thee. 
 I know thee. 
 
 Arn. No, thou know'st me not ; I am not 
 Of these men, though 
 
 Olimp. I judge thee by thy mates ; 
 
 It is for God to judge thee as thou art- 
 I see thee purple with the blood of Rome ; 
 Take mine, 'tis all thou e'er slialt have of me, 
 And here, upon the marble of this temple, 
 Where the baptismal font baptized me God's, 
 I offer him a blood less holy 
 But not less pure (pure as it left me then, 
 A redeem'd infant) than the holy water 
 The saints have sanctified ! 
 
 [Olimpia wares her hand to Arnold with ais- 
 dain, and dashes herself on the pavement from 
 the Altar. 
 
 Arn. Eternal God ! 
 
 I feel thee now ! Help ! help ! She's gone. 
 
 Cues, (approaches.) I am here. 
 
 Am. Thou ! but, oh, save her I 
 
 Ofs. (assi.itiiii) him to rai.ie Olimp.) She hath done 
 The leap was serious. [ii well 
 
 Arn. Oh, she is lifeless 1 
 
 Ca'S. If 
 
816 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 PABT n 
 
 She I e so, I have naught to do with that ; 
 The resurrection is beyond me. 
 
 Arn. Slave ! 
 
 C(B.i. Ay, slave or master, 'tis all one : methinks 
 Good words, however, are as well at times. 
 
 Am. Words ! — Canst thou aid her ? 
 
 Cas. I will try. A sprinkling 
 
 Of tliat same holy water may be useful. 
 
 [He hriii'js some in his helmet from the font. 
 
 Arn. 'Tis mix'd with blood. 
 
 Cccs. There is no cleaner now 
 
 In Rome. 
 
 Arn. Row pale ! how beautiful ! how lifeless I 
 Alive or dead, thou essence of all beauty, 
 I love but tliee ! 
 
 r<r>. Even so Achilles loved 
 
 Penthesilea : with his form it seems 
 You have his heart, and yet it was no soft one. 
 
 Avn. She breathes ! But no, 'twas nothing or the 
 Faint flutter Ufe disputes with death. [last 
 
 Cies. She breathes. 
 
 Arn. Thon say'st it ? Then 'tis truth. 
 
 C(es. You do me right — 
 
 The devil speaks truth much oftener than he's 
 He hath an ignorant audience. [deem'd : 
 
 Arn. {without attending to him.) Yes 1 her heart 
 Alas ! that the first beat of the only heart [beats. 
 [ ever wish'd to beat with mine should vibrate 
 To an assassin's pulse. 
 
 Cues. A sage reflection. 
 
 But somewhat late i' the day. WTiere shall we bear 
 I say she lives. [her 2 
 
 Arn. And will she live ? 
 
 Cas. As much 
 
 As dust can. 
 
 Arn. Then she is dead ! 
 
 C<es. Bah 1 bah 1 You are so, 
 
 And do not know it. She mil come to life — 
 Such as you think so, such as you now are ; 
 But we must work by human means. 
 
 Am.. We will 
 
 Convey her imto the Colonna palace, 
 Where I have pitch'd my banner. 
 
 Cten. Come then ! raise her up ! 
 
 Arn. Softly! 
 
 C(Bs. As softly as they bear the dead. 
 
 Perhaps because they cannot feel the jolting. 
 
 Am. But doth she live indeed ? 
 
 CVcs. Nay, never fear ! 
 
 But, if you rue it after, blame not me. 
 
 Arn. Let her but live I 
 
 r.rv. The spirit of her life 
 
 Is yet within her breast, and may revive. 
 Count 1 count ! I am your servant in all things, 
 And this is a new office • — 'tis not oft 
 I am employ'd in such ; but you perceive 
 How stauch a tVieiid is what you call a fiend. 
 
 On earth you have often only fiends for friends ; 
 Now I desert not mine. Soft ! bear her hence, 
 The beautiful haif-clay, and nearly spirit 1 
 I am almost enamor'd of her, as 
 Of old the angels of her earliest sex. 
 
 Am. Thou! 
 
 Goes. I ! But fear not. I'll not be your riva^ 
 
 Am. Rival ! 
 
 C(vt. I could be one right formidable ; 
 
 But since I slew the seven husbands of 
 Tobias' future bride, (and after all 
 'Twas suck'd out by some incense,) I have laid 
 Aside intrigue : 'tis rarely worth the trouble 
 Of gaining, or — what is more difiicult — 
 Getting rid of your prize again ; for there's 
 The rub ! at least to mortals. 
 
 Am. Prithee, peace I 
 
 Softly ! methink's her lips move, her eyes open ! 
 
 6'(R«. Like stars, no doubt ; for that's a metaphor 
 For Lucifer and Venus. 
 
 Arn. To the palace 
 
 Colonna, as I told you ! 
 
 Can. Oh ! I know 
 
 My way through Rome. 
 
 Arn. Now onward, onward ! Gently 
 
 \_Exeunt, bearing Olimpia. The scene closet. 
 
 PART m. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A Castle In the Apennines surrounded hy a wild hi* 
 smiling country. Chorus of Peasants singing bt 
 fore the Gates. 
 
 CH0KTI8. 
 1. 
 
 The wars are over, 
 
 The spring is come ; 
 The bride and her lover 
 Have sought their home : 
 They are happy, we rejoice ; 
 Let their hearts have an echo in every voice I 
 
 3. 
 The spring is come ; the violet's gone, 
 The first-born child of the early sun : 
 With us she is but a winter's flower. 
 The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower, 
 And she lifts up her dewy eye of blue 
 To the youngest sky of the self-same hue. 
 
 8. 
 
 And when the spring comes with her host 
 Of flowers, that flower beloved the most 
 Shrinks from the crowd that may confuse 
 ' Her heavenly odor and virgin hues. 
 
^5l:KXE I. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 317 
 
 4. 
 Pluck tt e others, but still remember 
 Their herald out of dim December — 
 Tlie morning star of all the flowers, 
 The pledge of daylight's lengthen'd hours ; 
 Nor, midst the roses, e'er forget 
 The virgin, virgin violet. 
 
 Enter C.BS.VB. 
 Cas. {dnging.) The wars are all over, 
 Our swords are all idle. 
 The steed bites the bridle 
 The casque's on the wall. 
 There's rest for the rover ; 
 But his armor is rusty, 
 And the veteran grows crusty, 
 As he yawns in the hall. 
 
 He drinks — but what's drinking? 
 A mere pause from thinking ! 
 No bugle awaits him with life-and-death calL 
 
 cnoKus. 
 
 But the hound bayeth loudly. 
 
 The boar's in the wood, 
 And the falcon longs proudly 
 
 To spring irom her hood : 
 On the wrist of the noble 
 
 She sits like a crest. 
 And the air is in trouble 
 
 With birds from their nest. 
 
 CcM. Oh ! shadow of glory 1 
 
 Dim image of war 1 
 But the chase hath no story. 
 
 Her hero no star, 
 Since Nimrod, the founder 
 
 Of empire and chase, 
 Who made the woods wonder 
 
 And quake for their race. 
 i When the iion was young. 
 
 In the pride of his might. 
 Then 'twas sport for the strong 
 
 To embrace him in fight ; 
 To go forth, with a pine 
 
 For a spear, 'gainst the mammoth, 
 Or strike through the ravine 
 
 At the foaming behemoth ; 
 While man was in stature 
 
 As towers in our time. 
 The first-bom of Nature, 
 
 And, like her, sublime 1 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 But the wars are over. 
 The spring is come ; 
 The bride and her lover 
 Have sought their home : 
 They are happy, and we rejoice ; 
 Let their hearts have an echo Ixom every voice I 
 
 [^Exeunt the Peasantry, singing. 
 
 CAiisr 
 
 A MYSTERY, 
 
 " How the Serpent was more sabUe than any beast of the field which the Lord God had made."— Oen. ch. 111. T. 1. 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART., 
 
 THIS "MTSTERT op CAIN" IS INSCKIBED, 
 
 BY HIS OBLIGED FRIEND, AlTD FAITHFtH. BEBTAST, 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The following scenes are entitled " A Mystery," in 
 conformity with the ancient title annexed to dramas 
 upon similar subjects, which were styled " Mysteries, 
 or Moralities." The authoi has by no means taken the 
 sarao liberties with his subject which were common, 
 formerly, as may be seen by any reader curious enough 
 to refer to those very profane productions, whether in 
 
 English, French, Italian, or Spanish. The author has 
 endeavored to preserve the language adapted to his 
 characters ; and where it is (and this is but rarely) 
 taken from actual Scripture, he has made as little al- 
 teration, even of words, as the rhythm would permit. 
 The reader will recollect that the book of Gene is does 
 not state that Eve was tempted by a demon, but by 
 " the Serpent : " and that only because ho was" the most 
 subtle of all the beasts of tho "jeld." Whatever inter 
 
SIS 
 
 BYROX'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT I 
 
 pretatimi t!ie Rabbii s and the Fathers may have put 
 Qj)on this, I tuki> t'le words as I find them, and reply, 
 with Bishop Watson upon similar occasions, when the 
 Fathers were quoted to him, as Moderator in the schools 
 of Cambridge, " Behold the Book I" — holding up the 
 Scripture. It is to be recollected that my present sub- 
 ject has nothing to do with the New Testament, to 
 which no reference can be here made without anachron- 
 ism. With the poems upon similar topics, I have not 
 Deen recently familiar. Since I was twenty I have 
 never read Milton ; but I had read him so frequently 
 before, that this may make little difference. Gesner's 
 " Death of Abel " I have never read since I was eight 
 years of age, at Aberdeen. The general impression of 
 my recollection is delight ; but of the contents I re- 
 member only that Cain's wife was called Mahala, and 
 Abel's Thirza : in the following pages I have called 
 them " Adah " and '• Zillah," the earliest female names 
 which occur in Genesis ; they were those of Lumech's 
 wives : those of Cain and Abel are not called by their 
 names. Whether, then, a coincidence of subject may 
 have caused the same in expression, I know nothing, 
 and care as little. 
 
 The reader will please to bear in mind, (what few 
 choose to recollect,) that there is no allusion to a future 
 state in any of the liooks of Moses, nor indeed in the 
 Old Testament. For a reason for' this extraordinary 
 omission he may consult Warburtou's " Divine Lega- 
 tion ;" whether satisfactory or not, no better has yet 
 been assigned. I have therefore supposed it now to 
 Cain, without, I hope, any perversion of Holy Writ. 
 
 With regard to the language of Lucifer, it was diffi- 
 cult for me to make him talk like a clergjiuan upon 
 the same subjects ; but I have done what I could to 
 restrain him within the boimds of spiritual politeness. 
 
 If be disclaims having tempted Eve in the shape of 
 the Serpent, it is only because the book of Genesis has 
 not the most distant allusion to any thing of the kind, 
 but merely to the Serpent in his serpentine capacity. 
 
 Note.—'Vh.e reader will perceive that the author has 
 partly adopted in this poem the notion of Cuvier, that 
 the world had been destroyed several times before the 
 creation of man. This speculation, derived from the 
 diff"erent strata and the bones of enormous and un- 
 known animals found in them, is not contrary to the 
 Mosaic account, but rather confirms it ; as no human 
 bones have yet been discovered in those strata, although 
 those of many known animals are found near the re- 
 mains of the unknown. The assertion of Lucifer, that 
 the pre-AdMnito world was also peopled by rational 
 beings much more intelligent than man, and propor. 
 tionably poweriul to the mammoth, etc.. etc., is, of 
 course, a poetical fiction to help him to make out hie 
 case. 
 
 I ought to add, that there is a " tramelogedia " of 
 AlSeri, called " Abele." — I have never read that, nor 
 any otlier of the posthumous works of the writer, ex- 
 cept his Life. 
 
 RAVENN.V, Sept. 20, 1831. 
 
 DRAJIATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Men. — Ad.\m. 
 CuN. 
 
 Spirits. — Angel of the Lobd. 
 
 Lucifer. 
 Women. — ^Ete. 
 
 AD.\n. 
 
 Zell.^l,. 
 
 CAIN: A MYSTERY. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 T/ie Land without Paradise. — Tinw, Sunrise. 
 
 Adam, Eve, Cain, Ajbel, Ad.ui, Zillah, offering a 
 
 Si'crijice. 
 
 Adam. God, the Eternal ! Infinite*! All- wise ! — 
 Wlio out of darkness on the deep didst make 
 Light on the waters with a word — all h:iil ! 
 .Jehovah, with returning light, all hail ! 
 
 Eve. God ! who didst name the day, and scparato 
 Morning from night, tiD then divided never — 
 'WTio didst divide the wave from wave, and call 
 Part of thy work the firmament— all hail ! 
 
 Ahet. God ! who didst call the elements into 
 Earth — ocean — air — and fire, and with the day 
 And night, and worlds, which these illuminate, 
 Or shadow, madest beings to enjoy them. 
 And love both tliem and thee — all hail ! all hail ! 
 
 Adah. God, the Eternal ! Parent of all things ! 
 "Wlio didst create these best and beauteous beings, 
 To be beloved, more tlian all, save thee— 
 Let me love thee and them : — All hail 1 all hail ! 
 
 Zillah. O (tod ! who loving, making, blessing all, 
 Yet didst permit the Sequent to creep in, 
 And drive my father forth trom Paradise, 
 Keep us from further evil : — Hail ! all hail ! 
 
 Adam. Son Cain, my first-born, wherefore art then 
 
 Cain. Why should I speak ? [silent ? 
 
 Adam. To pray. 
 
 Cain. Have ye not pray'd ? 
 
 Adam. We have, most fervently. 
 
 Cain. And loudly : I 
 
 Have heard you. 
 
 Adam. So will God, I trust. 
 
 Ahel. Amen! 
 
 Adam. But thou, my eldest bom, art silent still. 
 
 Cain. 'Tis bettor I should be so. 
 
 Adam. Wherefore so t 
 
 Cain. I have naught to ask. 
 
 Adam. Nor aught to thank for ? 
 
 Cain. No. 
 
 Adam. Dost thou not live ? 
 
8CEXE I. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 319 
 
 Cain. Must I not die ? 
 
 Eve. Alas 1 
 
 The limit of our forbidden tree begins 
 To fall. 
 
 Adam. And -ne must gather it again. [ledge ? 
 
 God ! •svhy didst thou plant the tree of know- 
 Cahi. And wherefore pluck'd ye not the tree of 
 
 Ye might have then defied him. [life ? 
 
 Aihim. Oh, my son ! 
 
 Blaspheme not : these are serpent's words. 
 
 Cain. Why not ? 
 
 The snake spoke truth : it was the tree of know- 
 It was the tree of life : knowledge is good, [ledge ; 
 And life is good ; and how can both be evil ? 
 
 Eve. My boy ! thou spcakest as I spoke, in sin, 
 Before thy birth : let me not see renew'd 
 My misery in thine. I have repented. 
 Let me not see my offspring fall into 
 The snares beyond the walls of Paradise, 
 Which e'en in Paradise destroy'd his parents, 
 Content thee with what is. Had we been so, 
 Thou now hadst been contented. Oh, my son ! 
 
 Adam. Our orisoQS completed, let us hence, 
 Each to his task of toil — not heavy, though 
 Needful : the earth is young, and j-ields us kindly 
 Her fruits with little labor. 
 
 Eve. Cain, my son, 
 
 Behold thy father cheerful and resign'd, 
 And do as he doth. [E.reunt Adam and Eve. 
 
 ZiUah. Wilt thou not, my brother ? 
 
 Abel. Wliy wilt thou wear this gloom upon thy 
 Which can avail thee nothing, save to rouse [brow, 
 The Eternal anger ? 
 
 Adah. My beloved Cain, 
 
 Wilt thou frown even on me ? 
 
 Cain. No, Adah I no 
 
 1 fain would be alone a little while. 
 Abel, I'm sick at heart ; but it will pass. 
 Precede me lirother — I wiU follow shortly. 
 .\-nd you, too, sisters, tarry not behind ; 
 Your gentleness must not be harshly met 
 rU follow you anon. 
 
 Adah. If not, I will 
 
 Return to seek you here. 
 
 Ahel. The peace of God 
 
 Be on you]' spirit, brother ! 
 
 [^Exeunt Abel, Zillah, avd Adah. 
 
 Cain, QmIh.i.) And this is 
 
 Life ! — Toil ! and wherefore should I toil ? — because 
 My father could not keep his place in Eden. 
 What had I done in this ? — I was unborn : 
 I sought not to lie born ; nor love the state 
 To wliich that birth has brought me. Wliy did he 
 Yield to the serpent and the woman ? or 
 Yielding, why sutler ? What was there in this ? 
 The tree was planted, and why not for him ? 
 If not, why place him neir it, where it grew. 
 
 The fairest in the centre ? They have but 
 
 One answer to all questions, " 'Twas his will, 
 
 And he is good." How know I that ? Because 
 
 He is all-powerful, must all-good, too, follow ? 
 
 I judge but by the fipuits — and they are bitter — 
 
 Which I must feed on for a fault not mine. 
 
 Wliom have we here ? A shape like to the angels, 
 
 Yet of a sterner and a sadder aspect , 
 
 Of spiritual essence : why do I quake ? 
 
 Why should I fear him more than other spirits, 
 
 Whom I see daily wave their fiery swords 
 
 Before the gates round which I Unger oft, 
 
 In twilight's hour, to catch a glimpse of those 
 
 Gardens which are my just inheritance. 
 
 Ere the night closes o'er the inhilnted walls 
 
 And the immortal trees wliich overtop. 
 
 The cherubim-defended battlements ? 
 
 If I shrink not from these, the fire-arm'd angels. 
 
 Why should I quail from him who now approaches 1 
 
 Yet he seems mightier far than them, nor less 
 
 Beauteous, and yet not all as beautiful 
 
 As he hath been, and might be : sorrow seems 
 
 Half of his immortality. And is it 
 
 So ? and can aught grieve save humanity ? 
 
 He cometh. 
 
 Enter LtrciFER. 
 
 Lucifer. Mortal ! 
 
 Cain. Spirit, who art thou ? 
 
 Lucifer. Master of spirits. 
 
 Cain. And being so, canst thou 
 
 Leave them, and walk with dust ? 
 
 Lucifer. I know the thoughts 
 
 Of dust, and feel for it, and with you. 
 
 Cain. How 1 
 
 You know my thoughts 2 
 
 Lucifer. They are the thoughts of aU 
 
 Worthy of thought ; — 'tis your immortal part 
 Which speaks within you. 
 
 Cain. What immortal part ? 
 
 This has not been reveal'd : the tree of life 
 Was withheld from us by my father's folly, 
 While that of knowledge, by my mother's haste. 
 Was pluck'd too soon ; and all the fruit is death ! 
 
 Lvcifer. They have deceived thee ; thou shall live. 
 
 Cain. I live, 
 
 But live to die : and, living, see no thing. 
 To make death hateful, save an innate clinging, 
 A loathsome, and yet all invincible 
 Instinct of life, which I abhor, as I 
 Despise myself, yet cannot overcome — 
 And so I live. Would I had never lived ! 
 
 Lucifer. Thou Uvest, and must live forever: think 
 The earth, which is thine outward cov'ring, is [nol 
 Existence — it will cease, and thou wilt be 
 No less than *hou art now. 
 
 Cain. No leis ! and why 
 
 No more ? 
 
820 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Lucifer. It may be thou shalt be as we. 
 
 Cain. And ye ? 
 
 Lucifer. Arc everlasting. 
 
 Cain, Are ye happy ? 
 
 Lucifer. Wc are mighty. 
 
 Cain. Are ye happy ? 
 
 lAicifer. No ; art thou ? 
 
 Oil in. How should I be so ? Look on me ! 
 
 Lu -ifer. Poor clay 1 
 
 And thou pretcndest to be wretched ? Tliou ! 
 
 Cain. I am : — and thou, with all thy might, what 
 art thou ? 
 
 Lvcif, r. One who aspired to be what made thee. 
 Would not have made thee what thou art. [and 
 
 Ctiin. Ah 1 
 
 Thou look'st almost a god ; and 
 
 Lufifcr. I am none : 
 
 And having fail'd to be one, would be naught 
 Save what I am. He conquer'd ; let him reign 1 
 
 Cain. Who? 
 
 Lucifer. Thy sire's Maker, and the earth's. 
 
 Ciiin. And heaven's, 
 
 And all that in them is. So I have heard 
 His seraphs sing ; and so my father saith. 
 
 Lur.it'ir. They say — what they must sing and say, 
 Of being that which I am — and thou art — [on pain 
 Of spirits and of men. 
 
 Cain. And what is that ? 
 
 Lwifer. Souls who dare use their immortality — 
 Souls who dare look the Omnijjotent tyrant in 
 His everlasting face, and tell him, that 
 His evil is not good I If he has made, 
 As he saith — which I know not, nor believe — 
 But, if he made us — he cannot unmake : 
 We are immortal ! — nay, he'd have us so, 
 That he may torture : — let him ! He is great — 
 But, in his greatness, is no happier than 
 Wc in our conflict ! Goodness would not make 
 Kvil ; and what else hath he made 2 But let him 
 Sit on his vast and solitary throne, 
 Creating worlds, to make eternity 
 Less burdensome to his immense existence 
 And unjiarticipatcd solitude 1 
 Let him crowd orb on orb : he is alone 
 Indefinite, indissoluble tyrant 1 
 Could Ik; liut crush himself, ^twere the best boon 
 IIo (^ver granted : but, let him reign on. 
 And nudtij)ly himself in misery 1 
 S])irits and men, at least we sympathize — 
 And, sutlering in concert, make our pangs, 
 Innumerable, more endurable, 
 By the unbounded sympathy of all — 
 With all ! But He ! so wretched in his height, 
 So restless in his wretchedness, must still 
 Create, and re-create 
 
 Cain. Thou spi iik'st to me of things which long 
 have sv.um 
 
 In visions through my thought : I never could 
 
 Reconcile what I saw with what I heard. 
 
 My father and my mother talk to me 
 
 Of serpents, and of fruits and trees : I see 
 
 The gates of what they call their Paradise 
 
 Guarded by fiery-sworded cherubim. 
 
 Which sliut them out, and me : I feel the weight 
 
 Of daily toil and constant thought : I look 
 
 Around a world where I seem nothing, with 
 
 Thoughts which arise within me, as if they 
 
 Could master all things : — but I thought alone 
 
 This misery was mine. My father is 
 
 Tamed down ; my mother has forgot the mind 
 
 Which made her thirst for knowledge at the risk 
 
 Of an eternal curse ; my brother is 
 
 A watching shepherd boy, who oilers up 
 
 The firstlings of the flock to him who bids 
 
 The earth yield nothing to us without sweat ; 
 
 My sister Zillah sings an earlier hymn 
 
 Than the birds' matins ; and my Adah, my 
 
 Own and beloved, she, too, understands not 
 
 The mind which overwhelms me : never till 
 
 Now met I aughtto sympathize with me. 
 
 'Tis well — I rather would consort with sjiirits. 
 
 Lurifcr. And hadst thou not been fit by thine own 
 For such companionship, I would not now [soul 
 Have stood before thee as I am : a serpent 
 Had been enough to charm ye, as before. 
 
 Cain. Ah ! didst tliun tempt my mother ? 
 
 Lucifer. I tempt none. 
 
 Save with the truth : was not the tree, the tree 
 Of knowledge ? and was not the trc'e of life 
 Still fruitful ? Did / l>id her pluck them not ? 
 Did / plant things prohiI)ited within 
 The reach of beings innocent, and curious 
 By their own innocence ? I would have made ye 
 Gods ; and even He who thrust ye forth, so thrust 
 Because "ye should not eat the fruits of life, [ye 
 And become gods as we." Were those his words ? 
 
 Cain. They were, as I have heard from those who 
 In thunder. [heard them, 
 
 Liirifer. Then who was the demon ? He 
 Who would not let ye live, or he who would 
 Have made ye live forever in the joy 
 And power of knowledge ? 
 
 Cain. Would they had snatch'd bctb 
 
 The fruits, or neither ! 
 
 Lucifer. One is yours already ; 
 
 The other may be still. 
 
 Cain. How so ? 
 
 Lucifer. By being 
 
 Yourselves, in your resistance. Nothing can 
 Quench the mind, if the mind will be itself 
 And centre of surrounding things — 'tis made 
 To sway. 
 
 Cain. But didst thou tempt my parents ? 
 
 LuciJ'cr. f 
 
SCENE t. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 321 
 
 Poor clay ! what should I tempt tlicm for, or how ? 
 
 Cain. They say the serjient was a spirit. 
 
 Lucifer. TVlio 
 
 Said that ? It is not written so on high : 
 The proud One will not so far falsify, 
 Though man's vast fears and little vanity 
 "Would make him cast upon the spiritual nature 
 nis own low failing. The snake was the snake — 
 No more ; and yet not less than those he tempted, 
 In nature Ijeing earth also — more in wisdom, 
 Since he could overcome them, and foreknew 
 The knowledge fatal to their narrow joys. 
 Think'st thou I'd take the shape of things that die ? 
 
 Cain. But the thing had a demon ? 
 
 Lvcifer. He but woke one 
 
 In those he spake to with his forky tongue. 
 I tell thee that the serpent was no more 
 Than a mere serpent : ask the cherubim 
 Who guard the tempting tree. When thousand ages 
 Have roll'd o'er your dead ashes, and your seed's, 
 The seed of the then world may thus array 
 Their earliest fault in fable, and attribute 
 To me a shape I scorn, as I scorn all 
 That bows to him, who made things but to bend 
 Before his sullen, sole eternity ; 
 But we, who see the truth, must speak it. Thy 
 Fond parents Usten'd to a creeping thing. 
 And fell. For what should spirits tempt them ? 
 Was there to envy in the narrow bounds [What 
 Of Paradise, that spirits who pervade 
 
 Space but I ^ycak to thee of what thou know'st 
 
 With all thy tree of knowledge. [not, 
 
 Cain. But thou canst not 
 
 Speak aught of knowledge which I would not know, 
 And do not thirst to know, and bear a mind 
 To know. 
 
 Lucifer. And heart to look on ? 
 
 Cain. Be it proved. 
 
 Lucifer. Darest thou to look on Death ? 
 
 Cain. He has not yet 
 
 Been seen. 
 
 Lucifer. But must be undergone. 
 
 Cain. My father 
 
 Says he is something dreadful, and my mother 
 Weeps when he is named ; and Abel lifts his eyeg 
 To heaven, and Zillah casts her's to the earth. 
 And sighs a prayer ; and Adah looks on me. 
 And speaks not. 
 
 Lucifer. And thou ? 
 
 Cain. Thoughts unspeakable 
 
 Crowd in my breast to burning, when I hear 
 Of this almighty Death, who is, it seems. 
 Inevitable. Could I wrestle with him ? 
 I wrestled with the lion, when a boy, 
 In play, till he ran roaring from my gripe. 
 
 Lucifer. It has no shape ; but will absorb all 
 That bear Itie form of earth-born being. [things 
 41 
 
 Cain. Ah ! 
 
 I thought it was a being : who could do 
 Such evil things to beings save a being 2 
 
 Lucifer. Ask the Destroyer. 
 
 Cain. Who ? 
 
 L'icifer. The Maker — call him 
 
 Which name thou wilt ; he makes but to destroy. 
 
 Cain. I knew not that, yet thought it, since I 
 Of death ; although I know not what it is, [heard 
 Yet it seems horrible. I have look'd out 
 In the vast desolate night in search of him ; 
 And when I saw gigantic shadows in 
 The umbrage of the walls of Eden, checker'd 
 By the far-flashing of the cherubs' swords, 
 I watch'd for what I thought his coming ; for 
 With fear rose longing in my heart, to know 
 What 'twas which shook us all — but nothing came, 
 And then I turn'd my weary eyes from off 
 Our native and forbidden Paradise, 
 Up to the lights above us, in the azure. 
 Which are so beautiful : shall they, too, die ? [thee. 
 
 Lucifer. Perhaps — but long outlive both thine and 
 
 Cain. I'm glad of that : I would not have them 
 They are so lovely. What is death ? I fear, [die — 
 I feel, it is a dreadful thing ; but what, 
 I cannot compass : 'tis denounced against us, 
 Both them who sinn'd and sinn'd not, as an ill — 
 What ill ? 
 
 Lucifer. To be resolved into the earth. 
 
 Cain. But shall I know it ? 
 
 Lucifer. As I know not death, 
 
 I cannot answer. 
 
 Cain. Were I quiet earth 
 
 That were no evil : would I ne'er had been 
 Aught else but dust ! 
 
 Lucifer. That is a grovelling wish. 
 
 Less than thy father's, for he wish'd to know. 
 
 Cain. But not to live, or wherefore pluck'd he not 
 The life-tree ? 
 
 Lucifer. He was hinder'd. 
 
 Cain. Deadly error I 
 
 Not to snatch first that fruit : — but ere he phick'd 
 The knowledge, he was ignorant of death. 
 Alas I I scarcely know what it is. 
 And yet I fear it — fear I know not what ! 
 
 Lucifer. And I, who know all things, fear noth- 
 What is true knowledge. [ing : seo 
 
 Cain. Wilt thou teach me all ? 
 
 Lucifer. Ay, upon one condition ! 
 
 Cain. Name it. 
 
 Lucifer. That 
 
 Thou dost fall down and worship me — thy Lord. 
 
 Cain. Thou art not the Lord my father worships. 
 
 I-j'icifer. No. 
 
 Cain. His equal ? 
 
 Lncifi-r. No ! I have naught in common with him. 
 Nor would : I would be aught above — beneath 
 
a22 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Aught save .i sharer ji a servant of 
 His power. I dwell apart ; but I am great : — 
 Many there are who worship me, and more 
 Who shall — be thou amongst the first. 
 
 Cain. I never 
 
 As yet have bow'd unto ray father's God, 
 Although my brother Abel oft implores 
 That I would join with him in sacrifice : — 
 Why should I bow to thee ? 
 
 Lwi/cr. Hast thou ne'er bow'd 
 
 To him ? 
 
 Cain. Have I not said it ? — need I say it ? 
 Could not thy mighty knowledge teach thee that ? 
 
 Lucifer. He who bows not to him has bow'd to 
 
 Cain. But I will bend to neither. [me ! 
 
 Luci/er. Ne'er the less, 
 
 Thou art my worshipper : not worshipping 
 Him makes thee mine the same. 
 
 Cain. And what is that ? 
 
 Lucifer. Thou'lt know here — and hereafter. 
 
 Cain. Let me but 
 
 Be taught the mystery of my being. 
 
 Luci/er. Follow 
 
 Where I will lead thee. 
 
 C'lin. But I must retire 
 To till the earth — for I had promised 
 
 Lucifer. What ? 
 
 Cti/in. To cuU some first-fruits. 
 
 Lucifer. Why ? 
 
 Cain. To offer up 
 
 With Abel on an altar. 
 
 Lucifer. Saidst thou not 
 
 Thou ne'er hadst bent to him who made thee ? 
 
 Cain. Yes — 
 But Abel's earnest prayer has wrought upon me ; 
 The offering is more his than mine — and Adah 
 
 Lucifer. Why dost thou hesitate ? 
 
 Cain. She is my sister. 
 
 Bom on the same day, of the same womb ; and 
 She wrung from me, with tears, this i)romise ; and 
 , Rather than see her weep, I would, metbiuks, 
 Bear all — and worship aught. 
 
 Lueiftr. Then lollow me 1 
 
 Cain. I vpill. 
 
 Enter Adah. 
 
 Adali. My brother, I have come for thee ; 
 
 It is our hour of rest and joy — and we 
 Have less without thee. Thou hast labor'd not 
 This mom ; but I have done thy task : the fruits 
 Are ripe, and glowing as the light which ripens : 
 Come away 
 
 Cain. See'st thou not ? 
 
 A(la/i. I see an angel ; 
 
 We have seen many : will he share our hour 
 Of rest ? — he is welcome. 
 
 Cain. But he is not like 
 
 The angels we have seen. 
 
 Aihi'i. Are there, then, others t 
 
 But he is welcome, as they were : they deign'd 
 To be our guests — will he ? 
 
 Cain, {to Lucifer.) Wilt thou ? 
 
 Lucifer. I ask 
 
 Thee to be mine. 
 
 Cain. I must away with him. 
 
 Ada!i. And leave us ? 
 
 Cain. Ay. 
 
 Allah. And me f 
 
 Cain. Beloved Adah t 
 
 Adah. Let me go with thee. 
 
 Lucifer. No, she must not. 
 
 Adah. Who 
 
 Art thou that steppest between heart and heart 3 
 
 Cain. He is a god. 
 
 Adah. How know'st thou ? 
 
 Cain. He speaks like 
 
 A god. 
 
 Adah. So did the serpent, and it lied. 
 
 Luefer. Tliou errest, Adah 1 — was not the tree that 
 Of knowledge ? 
 
 Adah. Ay — to our eternal sorrow. 
 
 Lucifer. And yet that grief is knowledge — so he 
 And if he did betray you, 'twas with truth ; [lied not: 
 And truth in its own essence cannot be 
 But pood. 
 
 Adah. But all we know of it has gather'd 
 Evil on ill : expulsion from our home, 
 And dread, and toil, and sweat, and heaviness ; 
 Remorse of that which was — and hope of that 
 Which comctli not. Cain ! walk not with this spirit. 
 Bear with what we have borne, and love me — I 
 Love tUefl. 
 
 Lucifer. More than thy mother, and thy sire ? 
 
 Adah. I do. Is that a sin, too ? 
 
 Lucifer. No, not yet : 
 
 It one diiy v.'ill be in your children. 
 
 Adah. Wliat ! 
 
 Must not my daughter love her brother Enoch ? 
 
 Lucifer. .Not as thou lovest Cain. 
 
 Adah. Oh, my God ! 
 
 Shall they not love and bring forth things that love 
 Out of their 'ove ? have they not drawn their milk 
 Out of this besom ? was not he, their father, 
 Bom of the same sole womb, in the same hour 
 With me ? did we not love each other ? and 
 In multiplying ou- being multiply 
 Things whicli will love each otiier as we love 
 Them ? — And as I lore thee, my Cain I go not 
 Forth vrith this spirit i he is not of ours. 
 
 Lucifer. The sin I speak of is not of my mahiDg, 
 And cannot be a sin in you — whate'?r 
 It seem in those who will replace ye in 
 Mortality. 
 
 Adah. What is the sin which is not 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 CAIJS 
 
 323 
 
 Sin in itself? Can circumstance make sin 
 Of virtue ? — if it dotb, we are the slaves 
 Of 
 
 Lucifer. Higher things Oian ye are slaves: and 
 Than them or ye would be so, did they not [higher 
 Prefer an iudcpendenoy of torture 
 To the smooth agonies of adulation, 
 In hymns and harpings, and self-seeking prayers, 
 To that which is omnipotent, because 
 It is omnipotent, and not from love. 
 But terror and self-hope. 
 
 Adah. Omnipotence 
 
 Must be all goodness. 
 
 LuciftT. Was it so in Eden ? 
 
 Adah. Fiend ! tempt me not ■n-ith beauty ; thou 
 Than was the serpent, and as false. [art fairer 
 
 Lucifer. As true. 
 
 Ask Eve, your mother : bears she not the knowledge 
 Of good and evil ? 
 
 Adah. Oh, my mother ! thou 
 
 Hast ijluck'd a fruit more fatal to thine offspring 
 Than to thyself; thou at the least hast pass'd 
 Thy youth in Paradise, in innocent 
 And happy intercourse with happy spirits : 
 But we thy children, ignorant of Eden, 
 Are girt about by demons, who assume 
 The words of God, and tempt us with our own 
 Dissatisfied and curious thoughts — as thou 
 Wert work'd on by 'the snake, in thy most flush'd 
 And heedless, harmless wantonness of bliss. 
 I cannot answer this immortal thing 
 Which stands before me ; I cannot abhor him ; 
 I look upon him with a pleasing fear. 
 And yet I fly not from him : in his eye 
 There is a fastening attraction which 
 Fixes my fluttering eyes on his ; my heart 
 Beats quick ; he awes me, and yet draws me near, 
 Nearer, and nearer : — Cain — Cain — save me from him : 
 
 Cain. What dreads my Adah ? This is no ill spirit. 
 
 Adah. He is not God — nor God's : I have beheld 
 The cherubs and the seraphs ; he looks not 
 Like them. 
 
 Cain. But there are spirits loftier still— 
 rhe archangels. 
 
 Lucifer. And still loftier than the archangels. 
 
 Adah. Ay — but not blessed. 
 
 Lucifer. If the blessedness 
 
 Consists in slavery — no. 
 
 Adah. I have heard it said, 
 
 The seraphs lore most — cherubim hirnc most — 
 And this should be a cherub — since he loves not. 
 
 Zw(/^r. And if the higher knowledge quenches love. 
 What must ite he you cannot love when known ? 
 Since the all-knowing cherubim love least. 
 The seraphs' love can be but ignorance : 
 That they are not compatible, the doom 
 Of thy fond parents, for their daring, proves. 
 
 Choose betwixt love and knowledge — since there is 
 No other choice : your sire has chosen already ; 
 His worship is but fear. 
 
 Adah. Oh, Ca n ! choose love. 
 
 Ca 11. For thee, my Adah, I choose not — it was 
 Born with me — but I love naught else. 
 
 Adah. Our parents 1 
 
 Cain. Did they love us when they snatch'd from 
 the tree 
 That which hath driven us all from Paradise ? 
 
 Adah. We were not bom then — and if we had been, 
 Should we not love them and our children, Cain ' 
 
 Cain. My little Enoch ! and his lisping sister! 
 Could I but deem them happy, I would half 
 
 Forget but it can never be forgotten 
 
 Through thrice a thousand generations ! never 
 
 Shall men love the rememljrance of the man 
 
 ^V^^o sow'd the seed of evil and mankind 
 
 In the same hour ! They pluck'd the tree of science 
 
 And sin — and, not content with their own sorrow, 
 
 Begot me — thee — and all the few that are. 
 
 And all the unnumber'd and innumerable 
 
 Multitudes, millions, myriads, which may be. 
 
 To inherit agonies accumulated 
 
 By ages ! — and /must be sire of such things ! 
 
 Thy beauty and thy love — my love and joy. 
 
 The rapturous moment and the placid hour, 
 
 AU we love in our children and each other, 
 
 But lead them and ourselves through many years 
 
 Of sin and pain — or few, but still of sorrow, 
 
 Intercheck'd with an instant of brief pleasure. 
 
 To Death — -the unkno^vn I Methinks the tree o( 
 
 knowledge 
 Hath not fulfill'd its promise : — if they sinn'd 
 At least they ought to have know all things that are 
 Of knowledge — and the mystery of death. 
 Wliat do they know ? — that they are miserable. 
 What need of snakes and fruits to teach us that ? 
 
 Adah. I am not wretched, Cain, and if thou 
 Wert happy 
 
 Cain. Be thou happy, then, alone — 
 
 I will have naught to do with happiness. 
 Which humbles me and mine. 
 
 Adah. Alone I could not. 
 
 Nor would be happy : but with those around us, 
 I thiuk I could be so, despite of death. 
 Which, as I know it not, I dread not, though 
 It seems an awful shadow — if I may 
 Judge from what I have heard. 
 
 Lucifer. And thou couldst lol 
 
 Alone, thou sayst, be happy ? 
 
 Adah. Alone ! Oh, my God 1 
 
 Who could be happy and alone, or good I 
 To me my solitude seems sin ; unless 
 When I think how soon I shall see my brother, 
 His brother, and our children, and our parents. 
 
324 
 
 BYRON'S WOtiKS. 
 
 ACT L 
 
 Lucifer. Yet thy God is alone ; and is he happy ? 
 Lonely, and good ? 
 
 Adah. He is not so ; he hath 
 
 The angels and the mortals to make happy, 
 And thus l)ecomes so in diffusing joy : 
 WTiat else can joy be, but the spreading joy ? 
 
 Luc ft'/: Ask of your sire, the exile fresh from Eden ; 
 Or of his first-born son : ask your own heart ; 
 It is not tranquil. 
 
 Adah. Alas ! no ! and you — 
 
 Are you of heaven ? 
 
 IjUcifiT. If I am not, inquire 
 
 The cause of this all-spreading happiness 
 (Which you proclaim) of the all-great and good 
 Maker of life and living things ; it is 
 His secret, and he keeps it. We must bear, 
 And some of us resist, and both in vain. 
 His seraphs say ; but it is worth the trial, 
 Since better may not be vrithout : there is 
 A wisdom in the spirit, which directs 
 To right, as in the dim blue air the eye 
 Of you, young mortals, lights at once upon 
 The star which watches, welcoming the mom. 
 
 Adah. It is a beautiful star ; I love it for 
 Its beauty. 
 
 Lucifer. And why not adore ? 
 
 Adah. Our father 
 
 Adores the invisible only. 
 
 Lyucifer. But the symbols 
 
 Of the Invisible are the loveliest 
 Of what is visible ; and yon bright star 
 Is leader of the host of heaven. 
 
 Adah. Our father 
 
 Saith that he has beheld the God himself 
 Who made him and our mother. 
 
 /.ucifer. Hast thou seen him ? 
 
 Adah. Yes — in his works. 
 
 Jjueifcr. But in his being ? 
 
 A dnh. No — 
 
 Save in my father, who is God's oivn image ; 
 Oj in his angels, who are like to thee — 
 And brighter, yet less beautiful and powerful 
 In seeming : as the silent sunny noon 
 All light they look upon ua ; but thou seem'st 
 Like an ethereal night, where long white clouds 
 Streak the deep purple, and unnumber'd stars 
 Spangle the wonderful mysterious vault 
 With things that look as if they would be suns ; 
 So beautiful, unnumber'd, and endearing. 
 Not dazzling, and yet drawing us to them. 
 They fill my ey(!8 with tears, and so dost thou. 
 Thou seem'st unhappy : do not make us so. 
 And I will weep for thee. 
 
 Lucifer. Alas ! those tears ! 
 Oouldst thou but know what oceans will be shed 
 
 Aduh. By me ? 
 
 LucAfer, By all. 
 
 Adah. WTiat all ! 
 
 Lucifer. '"'^.^ million million»-- 
 
 The myriad myriads — the aU-pL'ri^led earth — 
 The unpeopled earth — and the o'er-peopled Hell, 
 Of which thy bosom is the germ. 
 
 Adah. Oh, Cain I 
 
 This spirit curseth us. 
 
 Cain. Let him say on ; 
 
 Him will I follow. 
 
 Adah. Wliither ? 
 
 Lucifer. To a place 
 
 Whence he shall come back to thee in an hour ; 
 But in that hour see things of many days. 
 
 Adah. How can that be ? 
 
 Lucifer. Did not your Maker malie 
 
 Out of old worlds this new one in few days ? 
 And cannot I, who aided in this work. 
 Show in an hour what he hath made in many, 
 Or hath destroy'd in few ? 
 
 Cain. Lead on. 
 
 Adah. WiU he, 
 
 In sooth, return within an hour ? 
 
 Lucifer. He shall 
 
 With us acts are exempt from time, and we 
 Can crowd eternity into an hour, 
 Or stretch an hour into eternity. 
 We breathe not by a mortal measurement — 
 But that's a mystery. Cain, come on with me. 
 
 Adah. W'ill he return ? 
 
 Lucifer. Ay, woman ! he alone 
 
 Of mortals from that place, (the first and last 
 Who shall return, save One,) shall come back to 
 To make that silent and expectant world [thee. 
 
 As populous as this : at present there 
 Are few inhabitants. 
 
 Adah. Wliere dwellest thou ? 
 
 Lucifer. Throughout all space. WTiere should I 
 dwell ? Wliere are 
 Thy god or gods — there am I : all things are 
 Divided with me ; life and death — and time — 
 Eternity— and heaven and earth — and that 
 WTiich is not heaven nor earth, but peopled with 
 Those who once peopled or shall people both — 
 These are my realms I So that I do divide 
 7//.V, and possess a kingdom which is not 
 Ilin. If I were not that which I have said, 
 Could I stand here ? His angels are within 
 Your vision. 
 
 Adah. So they were when the fair serpent 
 
 Spoke with our mother first. 
 
 Lucifer. Cain ! thou hast heard. 
 
 If thou dost long for knowledge, I can satiate 
 That thirst ; nor ask thee to partake oi iruits 
 Wliich shall deprive thee of a single good 
 The conqueror has left thee. Follow me. 
 
 Cain. Spirit, I have said it. 
 
 [Exeunt Lucifer and Cais, 
 
SCENE I, 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 325 
 
 Adih. {foUoics, exclaiming.) Cain! 
 Cain! 
 
 my brother ! 
 
 ACT n. 
 
 The Abyss of Space. 
 
 Cain. I tread on air, and sink not ; yet I fear 
 To sink. 
 
 Lucifer. Have faith in me, and thou shalt be 
 Borne on the air, of which I am the prince. 
 
 Cain. Can I do so without impiety ? 
 
 Lucifer. BeUeve — and sink not ! doubt — and per- 
 Would run the edict of the other God, [ish ! thus 
 Wlio names me demon to his angels ; they 
 Echo the sound to miserable things, 
 Which, knowing naught beyond thtir shallow senses. 
 Worship the word which strikes tlieir ear, and deem 
 Evil or good what is proclaim'd to them 
 In their abasement. I will have none such : 
 Worship or worship not, thou shalt behold 
 The worlds beyond thy httle world, nor be 
 Amerced for doubts beyond thy httle life. 
 With torture of my dooming. There will come 
 An hour, when, toss'd upon some water-drops, 
 A man shall say to a man, " BeUeve in me, 
 And walk the waters ;" and the man shall walk 
 The billows and be safe. / wiU not say, 
 Believe in me, as a conditional creed 
 To save thee ; but fly with me o'er the gulf 
 Of space an equal flight, and I will show 
 Wliat thou darest not deny, — the history 
 Of past, and present, and of future worlds. 
 
 Cain. Oh, god, or demon, or whate'er thou art, 
 Is yon our earth ? 
 
 Lucifer. Dost thou not recognize 
 
 The dust which form'd your father ? 
 
 Cain. Can it be ? 
 
 Yon small blue circle, swinging in far ether. 
 With an inferior circlet near it still, 
 Wliich looks like that which Ut our eartlily night ? 
 Is this our Paradise ? Where are its walls. 
 And they who guard them ? 
 
 Lucifer. Point me out the site 
 
 Of Paradise. 
 
 Cain. How should I ? As we move 
 
 Like sunbeams onward, it grows small and smaller, 
 And as it waxes httle, and then less, 
 Gathers a halo round it, like the hght 
 Wliich shone the roundest of the stars, when I 
 Beheld them Irom the skirts of Paradise : 
 Methinks they both, as we recede from them. 
 Appear to join the innumerable stars 
 Which are around us ; and, as we move on, 
 Increase their myriads. 
 
 Lucifer. And if there should be 
 
 Worlds greater than thine own, inhabited 
 
 By greater things, and they themselves far more 
 In number than the dust of thy dull earth, 
 Though multiphed to animated atoms. 
 All living, and aU doom'd to death, and wretchd, 
 What wouldst thou think ? 
 
 Cain. I should be proud of thought 
 
 Which knew such things. 
 
 Lucifer. But if that high thought were 
 
 Link'd to a servile mass of matter, and, 
 
 ft 
 Knowmg such things, aspiring to such things. 
 
 And science still beyond them, were chain'd down 
 
 To the most gross and petty paltry wants, 
 
 All foul and fulsome, and the very best 
 
 Of thine enjoyments a sweet degradation. 
 
 A most enervating and filthy cheat 
 
 To lure thee on to the renewal of 
 
 Fresh souls and bodies, all foredoom'd to be 
 
 As frail, and few so happy 
 
 Cain. Spirit ! I 
 
 Know naught of death, save as a dreadful thing 
 
 Of which I have heard my parents speak, as of 
 
 A hideous heritage I owe to them 
 
 No less than life ; a heritage not happy. 
 
 If I may judge, till now. But, spirit ! if 
 
 It be as thou hast said, (and I within 
 
 Feel the prophetic torture of its truth,) 
 
 Here let me die : for to give birth to those 
 
 Wlio can but sufler many years, and die, 
 
 Methinks is merely propagating death, 
 
 And multiplying murder. 
 
 Lucifer. Thou canst not 
 
 AU die — there is what must survive. 
 
 Cain. The other 
 
 Spake not of this unto my father, when 
 He shut him forth from Paradise, with death 
 Written upon his forehead. But at least 
 Let what is mortal of me perish, that 
 I may be in the rest as angels are. 
 
 Lucifer. T am angelic : wouldst thou be as I am 1 
 
 Cain. I know not what thou art : I see thy power. 
 And see thou show'st me things beyond my power, 
 Beyond aU power of my born faculties. 
 Although inferior still to my desires 
 And my conceptions. 
 
 Lucifer. Wliat are they which dwell 
 
 So humbly in their pride, as to sojourn 
 With worms in clay ? 
 
 Cain. And what art thou who dweUest 
 
 So haughtily in spirit, and canst range 
 Nature and immortahty — and yet 
 Seem'st sorrowful ? 
 
 Lucifer I seem that which I am ; 
 
 And therefore do I ask of thee, if thou 
 Wouldst be immortal ? 
 
 Cain. Thou hast said, I must be 
 
 Immortal in despite of me. I knew not 
 This until lately — but since it must be. 
 
326 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 A<.r II. 
 
 Let me, or happy or unhappy, learn 
 To anticipate my immortality. 
 
 Lucifer. Thou di Jst before I came upon thee. 
 
 Gain. IIow ? 
 
 Lucifer. By suffering. 
 
 Cain. And must torture be immortal ? 
 
 Lvcifer. We and thy sons will try. But now, be- 
 Is it not glorious ? [hold ! 
 
 Cain. Oh, thou beautiful 
 
 And unimaginable ether 1 and * 
 Ye multijjlying masses of inceased 
 And still increasing lights ! what are ye ? what 
 Is this blue wilderness of interminable 
 Air, where ye roll along, as I have seen 
 The leaves along the limpid streams of Eden ? 
 Is your course measured for ye ? Or do ye 
 Sweep on in your unbounded revelry 
 Through an aerial universe of endless 
 Expansion — at which my soul aches to think — 
 Intoxicated with eternity ? 
 
 God ! oh, gods ! or whatsoe'er ye are ! 
 How beautiful ye are ! how beautiful 
 Tour works, or accidents, or whatsoe'er 
 They may be ! Let me die, as atoms die, 
 (If that they die,) or know ye in your might 
 
 And knowledge ! My thoughts are not in this hour 
 
 Unworthy what I see, though my dust is ; 
 
 Spirit ! let me expire, or see them nearer. [earth I 
 
 Lucifer. Art thou not nearer ? look back to thine 
 
 Cuin. Where is it ? I see nothing save a mass 
 Of most innumerable lights. 
 
 Lucifer. Look there ! 
 
 Cain. I cannot see it. 
 
 Lucifer. Yet it sparkles stilL 
 
 Cain. That 1 — yonder ! 
 
 Lucifer. Yea. 
 
 Cain. And wilt thou tell me so ? 
 
 Wliy, I have seen the fire-flies and fire-worms 
 Sprinkle the dusky groves and the green banks 
 In the dim twilight, brighter than yon world 
 Which bears them. 
 
 LVrifer. Thou hast seen l)Oth worms and worlds. 
 Each bright and sparkling — what dost think of 
 them? 
 
 Cain. That they are beautiful in their own sphere, 
 And that the night, which makes both beautiful, 
 The little sliining fire-fly in its flight. 
 And the immortal star in its great course. 
 Must both be guided. 
 
 Lucifer. But by whom or what ? 
 
 Cain. Show mc. 
 
 Lucifer. Dar'st thou behold ? 
 
 Cain. How know I what 
 
 1 dare behold ? A9 yet, thou hast shown naught 
 I dare not gaze on further. 
 
 lywifcr. On, then, witli me. 
 
 Wouldst. thou bel old things mortal or immortal ? 
 
 Cain. Why, what are ihings ? 
 
 Lucifer. H/l/i partly : but what doth 
 
 Sit next thy heart ? 
 
 Cain. The things I see. 
 
 Lucifer. But what 
 
 Sale nearest it ! 
 
 Cain. The things I have not seen, 
 
 Nor ever shall — the mysteries of death. [died, 
 
 Lucifer. 'What, if I show to thee things which have 
 As I have shown thee much which cannot die ? 
 
 Cain. Do so. 
 
 Lucifer. Away, then ! on our mighty wings. 
 
 Cain. Oh ! how we cleave the blue ! The stars fade 
 from us ! 
 The earth ! where is my earth ? Let me look on it. 
 For I was made of it. 
 
 Lucifer. 'Tis now beyond thee, 
 
 Less, in the universe, than thou in it ; 
 Yet deem not that thou canst escape it ; thou 
 Shalt soon return to earth, and all its dust : 
 'Tis part of thy eternity, and mine. 
 
 Cain. Where dost thou lead me ? 
 
 Lucifer. To what was before thee t 
 
 The phantasm of the word ; of which thy world 
 Is but the wreck. 
 
 Cain. What ! is it nut then new ? 
 
 Lucifer. No more than lite is ; and that was ere 
 Or / were, or the things which seem to us [thou 
 Greater than either : many things will have 
 No end ; and some, which would pretend to have 
 Had no beginning, have had one as mean 
 As thou ; and mightier things have been extinct 
 To make way for much meaner than we can 
 Surmise ; for moments only and the y)ace 
 Have been and must be all unchangeable. 
 But changes make not death, except to clay ; 
 But thou art clay, — and canst but comprehend 
 That which was clay, and such thou shalt behold. 
 
 Cain. Clay, spirit ! what thou wilt, I can survey. 
 
 Lucifer. Away, then ! 
 
 Cain. But the lights fade from me fast 
 
 And some till now grew larger as we approach'd, 
 And wore the look of worlds. 
 
 Lucifer. And such they are. 
 
 Cain. And Edens in them ? 
 
 Lucifer. It may be. 
 
 Cain. And men ? 
 
 Lucifer. Yea, or things higher. 
 
 Cain. Ay ? and serpents too ! 
 
 Lucifer. Wouldst thou have men without them ? 
 Breathe save the erect ones ? [must no reptiles 
 
 Cain. How the lights recede I 
 
 Where fly we ? 
 
 Lucifer. To the world of phantoms, which 
 Are beings past, and shadows still to come. 
 
 Cain. But it grows dark and dark — the stara are 
 
 Lucifer. And yet thou secst. [gone I 
 
flOENE TI. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 327 
 
 Vain. 'Tig a feartul liglit 1 
 
 No sun, no moon, no lights innumerable. 
 The very blue of tlie empurpled night 
 Fades to a dreary twilight, yet I see 
 Huge dusky masses : l)ut unlike the worlds 
 We were approaching, which, begirt with Ught, 
 Seem'd full of life even when their atmosjihere 
 Of Hght gave way, and show'd them taking shapes 
 Unequal, of deep valleys and vast mountains ; 
 And some emitting sparks, and some displaying 
 Enormous hquid plains, and some begirt 
 With luminous belts, and floating moons, which took, 
 Like them, the features of fair earth : — instead. 
 All here seems dark and dreadful. 
 
 Lucifer. But distinct. 
 
 Thou seekest to behold death, and dead things ? 
 
 Cain. I seek it not ; but as I know thare are 
 Such, and that my sire's sin makes him and me. 
 And all that we inherit, liable 
 To such, I would behold at once, what I 
 Must one day see perforce. 
 
 Lucifer. Behold ! 
 
 Cain. 'Tis darkness. 
 
 Lcuifer. And so it shall be ever ; but we will 
 Unfold its gates ! 
 
 Cain. Enormous vapors roll 
 
 Apart — what's this ? 
 
 Lucifer. Enter ! 
 
 Cain. Can I return ? 
 
 Lucifer. Return ! be sure : how else should death 
 be peopled ? 
 Its present realm is thin to what it will be 
 Through thee and thine. 
 
 Cain. The clouds still open wide 
 
 And wider, and make widening circles romid us. 
 
 Lucifer. Advance ! 
 
 Cain. And thou ! 
 
 Lucifer. Fear not — without me thou 
 
 Couldst not have gone beyond thy world. On ! on 1 
 [Tliey disappear through the clouds. 
 
 SCENE n. 
 
 Hades. 
 
 Enter Lucifer ami Cain. 
 Cain. How silent and how vast are these dim worlds ! 
 For they seem more than one, and yet more peopled 
 Than the huge brilliant luminous orbs which swung 
 So thickly in the upper air, that I 
 Had deem'd them rather the bright populace 
 Of some all unimaginable heaven, 
 Than things to be inhabited themselves, 
 But that on drawing near them I beheld 
 Their swelling into palpable immensity 
 Of matter, which seem'd made for life to dwell on. 
 Rather than life itself. But here, all is 
 Bo shadowy ard so full of twilight, that 
 
 It speaks of a day past. 
 
 Lucifer. It is the realm 
 
 Of death. — Wouldst have it present ? 
 
 Cain. Till I kno^' 
 
 That which it reaUy is, I cannot answer. 
 But if it be as I have heard my father 
 Deal out in his long homilies, 'tis a thing— 
 Oh God ! I dare not think on't ! Cursed be 
 He who invented life that leads to death ! 
 Or the duU mass of Ufe, that, being Ufe, 
 Could not retain, but needs must forfeit if — 
 Even for the innocent ! 
 
 Lucifer. Dost thou curse thy father 1 
 
 Cain. Cursed he not me in giving me my birth ? 
 Cursed he not me before my birth in daring 
 To pluck the fruit forbidden ? 
 
 Lticifer. Thou say'st weU 
 
 The curse is mutual 'twixt thy sire and thee — 
 But for thy sons and brother ? 
 
 Cain. Let them shu,ie it 
 
 With me, their sire and brother ? Wliat else is 
 Bequeath'd to me ? I leave them my inheritance. 
 Oh, ye interminable gloomy realms 
 Of swimming shadows and enormous shapes, 
 Some fully shown, some indistinct, and all 
 Mighty and melancholy — what are ye 2 
 Live ye, or have ye lived ? 
 
 Lucifer. Somewhat of both. 
 
 Cain. Then what is death ? 
 
 Lucifer. What ? Hath nou he who made ys 
 
 Said 'tis another life 2 
 
 Cain. Till now he hath 
 
 Said nothing, save that all shall die. 
 
 Lucifer. Perhapo 
 
 He one day will unfold that further secret. 
 
 Cain. Hapi^y the day ! 
 
 Lucifer. Yes ; happj ! when unfolded 
 
 Through agonies unspeakable, and clogg'd 
 ■^'ith agonies eternal, to innumerable 
 Yet unborn myriads of unconscious atoms, 
 All to be animated for this only ! 
 
 Cain. What are these mighty phantoms which I 
 Floating around me 2— They wear not the form [see 
 Of the intelligences I have seen 
 Round our regretted and unenter'd Eden, 
 Nor wear the form of man as I have view'd it 
 In Adam's, and in Abel's, and in mine. 
 Nor in my sister-bride's nor in my children's : 
 An'' vet they have an aspect, which, though not 
 Of men uor angels, looks hke som;ithing, which 
 If not the last, rose higher than the first. 
 Haughty, and high, and beautiful, and fuU 
 Of seeming strength, but of inexpUcable 
 Shape; for I never saw such.. They bear not 
 The wing of seraph, nor the face of man. 
 Nor form of mightiest brute, nor aught that ; • 
 Now breathing ; mighty yet and beautiful 
 
32 S 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Acin. 
 
 As the most beautiful and mighty which 
 Live, and yet so unlike them, that I scarce 
 Can call them living. 
 
 Lucifer. Yet they lived. 
 
 Cain. Where? 
 
 Lucifer. Where 
 
 Thou livest. 
 
 Cain. When ? 
 
 Lucifer. On what thou callest earth 
 
 They did inhabit. 
 
 Cain. Adam is the first. 
 
 Lurifr. Of thine, I grant thee — but to mean to be 
 The last of these. 
 
 Cain. And what are they ? 
 
 Lucifer. That which 
 
 Thou shalt be. 
 
 Cain. But what were they ? 
 
 Lucifer. Living, high, 
 
 Intelligent, good, great, and glorious things, 
 As much superior unto all thy sire, 
 Adam, could e're have been in Eden, as 
 The sixty-thousandth generation shall be. 
 In its dull damp degeneracy, to 
 Thee and thy son ; — and how weak they are, judge 
 By thy own flesh. 
 
 Cain. Ah me ! and did they perish ? 
 
 Lucifer. Yes, irom their earth, as thou wilt fade 
 from thine. 
 
 Gain. But was mine theirs ! 
 
 Lucifer. It was. 
 
 Cain. But not as now. 
 
 It is too little and too lowly to 
 Sustain such creatures. 
 
 Lucifer. True, it was more glorious. 
 
 Cain. And wherefore did it fall ? 
 
 Lucifer. Ask him who fells. 
 
 Cain. But how ? 
 
 Lucifer. By a most crushing and inexorable 
 
 Destruction and disorder of the elements. 
 Which struck a world to chaos, as a chaos 
 Subsiding has struck out a world : such things, 
 Thojagh rare in time, are frequently in eternity. 
 Pass on, and gaze upon the past. 
 
 Cain. 'Tis awful I 
 
 Lucifer. And true. Behold these phantoms ! they 
 Material as thou art. [were once 
 
 Cain. And must I bo 
 
 Like them ? 
 
 Lucifer. Let lie who made thee answer that. 
 I show thee what thy predecessors are. 
 And what they wen- thou feelest, in degree 
 IniVrior as thy potty feelings and 
 Thy ])ettier portion of the immortal part 
 Of high intelligence and earthly strength. 
 AVhat ye in common have mth what they had 
 Is lifr, and what yc shaU have — death : the rest 
 "■ vour poor attributes is such as suits 
 
 Reptiles engender'd out of the subsiding 
 Slime of a mighty universe, crush'd into 
 A scarcely-yet shaped planet, peopled with 
 Things whose enjoyment was to be in blindness — 
 A Paradise of Ignorance, from which 
 Knowledge was barr'd as poison. But behold 
 What these superior beings are or were ; 
 Or, if it irk thee, turn thee back and till 
 The earth, thy task — I'U waft thee there in safety. 
 
 Cain. No ; I'll stay here. 
 
 Lucifer. How long ? 
 
 Cain. Forever 1 Since 
 
 I must one day return here from the earth, 
 I rather would remain ; I am sick of all 
 That dust hast shown me — let me dwell in shadows. 
 
 Liirifr. It cannot be : thou now beholdest as 
 A vision that which is reality. 
 To make thyself fit for this dwelling, thou 
 Must pass through what the things thou see'st hav« 
 The gates of death— [pass'd — 
 
 Cain. By what gate have we enter'd 
 
 Even now ? 
 
 Lucifer. By mine ! But, plighted to return. 
 My spirit buoys thee up to breathe in regions 
 Where all is breathless save thyself Gaze on ; 
 But do not think to dwell here till thine hour 
 Is come. 
 
 Cain. And these, too ; can they ne'er repasii 
 To earth again ? 
 
 Lucifer. Their earth is gone forever — 
 
 So changed by its convulsion, they would not 
 Be conscious to a single present spot 
 Of its new scarcely harden'd surface— 'twas — 
 Oh, what a beautifiil world it was ! 
 
 Cain. And is. 
 
 It is not with the earth, though I must till it, 
 I feel at wsir, but that I may not profit 
 By what it bears of beautiful untoiling, 
 Nor gratify my thousand swelling thoughts 
 With knowledge, nor allay my thousand fears 
 Of death and life. 
 
 Luciftr. Wliat thy world is, thou see'st, 
 
 But canst not comprehend the shadow of 
 That which it was. 
 
 Cain. And those enormous creatures, 
 
 Phantoms inferior in intelligence 
 (At least so seeming) to the things we have pas»'d, 
 Resembling somewhat the wild habitants 
 Of the deep woods of earth, the hugest which 
 Roar nightly in the forest, but tenfold 
 In magnitude and terror; taller than 
 The cherub-guarded walls of Eden, ^vith 
 Eyes Hashing like the fiery swords which lence them, 
 And tusks projecting hke the trees stripp'd of 
 Their bark and branches —what were they ? 
 
 Lucifer. That which 
 
 The Mammoth is in thy world ; — l)ut these lie 
 
scKNi; n. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 320 
 
 By myiiads underneath its surface. 
 
 Cain. But 
 
 None on it ? 
 
 Lucifer. No ; for tby frail race to wai' 
 With them wuuld render the curse on it useless — 
 'Twould be destroy'd so early. 
 
 Cain. But why war f 
 
 Lucifer. You have forgotten the denunciation 
 Which drove your race from Eden — war with all 
 
 things, 
 And death to all things, and disease to most things. 
 And pangs, and bitterness ; these were the fruits 
 Of the forbidden tree. 
 
 Cain. But animals- 
 
 Did they, too, eat of it, that they must die ? [you, 
 
 Lucifer. Tour Maker told ye, thei/ were made for 
 As you for him. You would not have their doom 
 Superior to your own ? Had Adam not 
 Fallen, aU had stood. 
 
 Cain. Alas ! the hopeless wretches 1 
 
 They too must share my sire's fate, like his sons ; 
 Like them, too, without having shared the apple ; 
 Like them, too, without the so dear-bought l-noic- 
 It was a lying tree — for we know nothing. [ledge ! 
 At least it promised I'notdeclge at the jjrice 
 Of death — but l-nowledge still : but what knows man ? 
 
 Lucfer. It may l>e death leads to the highest 
 knowledge ; 
 And being of all things the sole thing certain, 
 At least leads to the surest science : therefore 
 The tree was true, though deadly. 
 
 Cain. These dim realms ! 
 
 I see them, but I know them not. 
 
 Lnriftr. Because 
 
 Thy hour is yet afar, and matter cannot 
 Comprehend spirit wholly — but 'tis something 
 To know there are such realms. 
 
 Cain. We knew aiready 
 
 That there was death. 
 
 Lucifer. But not what was beyond it. 
 
 Cain. Nor know I now. 
 
 Lucifer. Thou knowest that there is 
 
 A state, and many states beyond thine own — 
 And this thou knewest not this morn. 
 
 Cain. But all 
 
 Seems dim and shadowy. 
 
 Lucifer. Be content ; it will 
 
 Seem clearer to thine immortality. 
 
 Cain. And yon immeasurable liquid space 
 Of glorious azure which floats on beyond us, 
 Which looks like water, and which I should deem 
 The river which flows out of Paradise 
 Past my own dwelling, but that it is bankless 
 And boimdless, and of an ethereal hue — 
 Wh it is it ? 
 
 Lucifir. There is stiL some such on earth, 
 Although inferior, and thy children shall 
 42 
 
 Dwell near it — 'tis the phantasm of an ocean. 
 
 Cain. 'Tis like another world ; a liquid sun — 
 And those inordinate creatures sporting o'er 
 Its shining surface ? 
 
 Lucifer. Are its inhabitants. 
 
 The past leviathans. 
 
 Cain. And yon immense 
 
 Seqjent, which rears its dripping mane and vasty 
 Head ten times higher than the haughtiest cedar 
 Forth from the abyss, looking as he couM coil 
 Himself around the orbs we lately look'd on — 
 Is he not of the kind which basked beneath 
 The tree in Eden ? 
 
 Lucifer. Eve, thy mother, l)est 
 
 Can tell what shape of serpent tempted her. 
 
 Cain. This seems too terrible. No doubt the other 
 Had more of beauty. 
 
 Lucifer. Hast thou ne'er beheld him ? 
 
 Cain. Many of the same kind, (at least so caU'd,) 
 But never that precisely which persuaded 
 The fatal fruit, nor even of the same aspect. 
 
 Lucifer. Your father saw him not ? 
 
 Cain. No ; 'twas my mother 
 
 Who tempted him — she tempted by the serpent. 
 
 Lucifer. Good man ! whene'er thy wife, or thy 
 sons' wives 
 Tempt thee or them to aught that's new or strange. 
 Be sure thou see'st first who hath tempted them. 
 
 Cain. Thy precept comes too late : there is no 
 For serpents to tempt woman to. [more 
 
 Lucifer. But there [toj 
 
 Are some thiugs still which woman may tempt man 
 And man tempt woman : — let thy sons look to it ! 
 My counsel is a kind one ; for 'tis even 
 Given chiefly at my own expense : 'tis true, 
 'Twill not be foUow'd, so there's little lost. 
 
 Cain. I understand not this. 
 
 Lucifer. The happier th<ra ! — 
 
 Thy world and thou are still too young ! Thou 
 Thyself most wicked and unhappy : is it [thinkeat 
 Not so ? 
 
 Cain. For crime, I know not ; but for pain, 
 I have felt much. 
 
 Lucifer. First-born of the first man ! 
 
 Thy present state of sin — and thou art a\\\, 
 Of sorrow — and thou suSerest, are both Eden 
 In aU its innocence compared to what 
 Thou shortly mayst be ; and that state again 
 In its redoubled wretchedness, a Paradise 
 To what thy sons' sons' sons, accumulating 
 In generations like to dust, (which they 
 In fact but add too,) shall endure and do. 
 Now let us back to earth I 
 
 Cain. And wherefore didst thou 
 
 Lead me here only to inform me this ? 
 
 Lucifer. Was not thy quest for knowledge ? 
 
 Cain, Yc3 ; as I eir,^ 
 
330 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT n. 
 
 The road to happiness. 
 
 Lwifer. If truth be so, 
 
 Thou hast i(. 
 
 Cain. Then my father's God did well 
 
 When he prohibited the fatal tree. 
 
 Liici/tr. But had done better in not planting it. 
 But ignorance of evil doth not save 
 From evil ; it must still roll on the same, 
 A part of all things. 
 
 Cain. Not of all things. No; 
 
 I'll not believe it — for I thirst for good. [ets evil 
 . Lucifer. And who and what doth not ? Who cov- 
 For its own bitter sake ? — None — nothing 1 'tis 
 The leaven of all life, and lifelessness. 
 
 C<iin. Witliin those glorious orbs which we be- 
 Distant, and dazzling, and innumerable, [hold, 
 
 Ere we came down into this phantom realm, 
 111 cannot come : they are too beautiful. 
 
 Lucifer. Thou hast seen them from afar — 
 
 Gain. And what of that ? 
 
 Distance can but diminish glory — they, 
 ^Vhen nearer, must be more ineflaljle. 
 
 Lucifer. Apjjroach the things of earth most beau- 
 tiful, 
 And judge their beauty near. 
 
 Cain. I have done this — 
 
 The loveliest thing I know is loveliest nearest. 
 
 Lucifer. Then there must be delusion. — Wliat is 
 Which being nearest to thine eyes is still [that 
 
 More beautiful than beauteous tilings remote ? 
 
 Cain. My sister Adah. — -All the stars of heaven. 
 The deep blue noon of night, lit by an orb 
 Which looks a spirit, or a sjnrit's world — 
 The hues of twilight — the sun's gorgeous coming — 
 His setting indescribable, which tills 
 My eyes with pleasant tears as I behold 
 Him sink, and feel my heart float softly with him 
 Along that western paradise clouds — [voice — 
 
 The forest shade — the green bough — the bird's 
 The vesper bird's, which seems to sing of love, 
 And mingles with the song of cherubim, 
 As'tlie day closes over Eden's walls ; — 
 All these are nothing, to my eyes and heart. 
 Like Adah's face : I turn from earth and heaven 
 To gaze on it. 
 
 Lucifer. 'Tis fair as frail mortality, 
 In the first da\vn and bloom of young creation, 
 And earliest embraces of earth's parents. 
 Can make its offspring ; still it is delusion. 
 
 Cain. You think so, being not her brother. 
 
 Lucifer. Mortal I 
 
 My brotherhood's with those who have no children. 
 
 Cain. Then thou canst have no fellowship with us. 
 
 Lucifer. It may l->e that thine own shall be for me. 
 But if thou dost possess a beautiful 
 Being beyond all beauty in thine eyes, 
 Why art thou wretched ? 
 
 Cain. Why do I exist ? 
 
 Why art thou wretched ? why are all things so f 
 Ev'n he who made us must be, as the maker 
 Of tilings unhappy ! To produce destruction 
 Can surely never be the task of joy. 
 And yet my sire says he's omnipotent . 
 Then why is evil — he being good ! I ask'd 
 This question of my fothcr ; and he said, 
 Because this evil only was the path 
 To good. Strange good, that nuist arise from out 
 Its deadly opposite. I lately saw 
 A Iamb stung by a reptile : the poor sucklings 
 Lay foaming on the earth, beneath the vain 
 And piteous bleating of its restless dam ; 
 My father pluck'd some herbs, and laid them to 
 The wound ; and by degrees the helpless wretch 
 Kesumed its careless life, and rose to drain 
 The mother's milk, who o'er it tremulous 
 Stood licking its reviving limbs with joy. 
 Behold, my son ! said Adam, how from evil 
 Springs good ! 
 
 Lurifer. Wliat didst thou answer ? 
 
 Cain. Nothing; foi 
 
 He is my father : but I thought, that 'twere 
 A better portion for the animal 
 Never to have been stung at ali, than to 
 Purchase renewal of its little life 
 With agonies unutterable, though 
 Dispell'd by antidotes. 
 
 Lurifer. But as thou saidst 
 
 Of all lieloved things thou lovest her 
 Who shared thy mother's milk, and giveth hers 
 Unto thy children 
 
 Cain. Most assuredly : 
 
 What should I be without her ? 
 
 Lucifer. What am I ? 
 
 Cain. Dost thou love nothing ? 
 
 Lwifer. What does thy God love ! 
 
 Cain. AU things, my father says ; but I confess 
 I see it not in their allotment here. 
 
 Lucifer. And, therefore, thou canst not see I love 
 Or no, except some vast and general purpose, 
 To whicli particular things must melt like snows. 
 
 Cain. Snows I what are they ? 
 
 Lucifer. Be happier in not knowing 
 
 What thy remote offspring must encounter ; 
 Bat bask beneath the clime wliieli knows no winterl 
 
 Cain. But dost thou not love something hke thyself? 
 
 Ljucifer. And dost thou love thyseif? 
 
 Cain. Yes, but love more 
 
 Wliat makes my feelings more endurable. 
 And is more than myself, because I love it. 
 
 Lucifer. Thou lovest it, because 'tis beautiful, 
 As was the apple in thy mother's eye; 
 And when it ceases to be so, thy love 
 Will cease, like any other appetite. 
 
 Cain. Cease to be beautiful 1 how can that bo I 
 
SCKNB ri. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 331 
 
 T,ueifei\ "With time. 
 
 Cain. But time has past, and hitherto 
 
 Even Adam and my mother both are fair : 
 Not like fair Adah and the seraphim — 
 But Terj' fair. 
 
 Lucifer. All that must pass away 
 In them and her. 
 
 Cain. I'm sorry for it ; but 
 
 Cannot I'onceive my love for her the less. 
 And when her beauty disappears, methinks 
 He who creates all beauty will lose more 
 Than me in seeing perish such a work 
 Lucifer. I pity thee who lovest what must perish. 
 Cai)}. And I thee who lov'st nothing. 
 Lucifer. And thy brother — 
 
 Sits he not near thy heart ? 
 
 Cain. Why should he not ? 
 
 Lucifer. Thy father loves him well — so docs thy God. 
 Cain. And so do I. 
 
 Lucifer. 'Tis well and meekly done. 
 
 Cain. Meekly ! 
 
 Lucifer. He is the second born of flesh, 
 
 And is his mother's favorite. 
 
 Cain. Let him keep 
 
 Her favor, since the serpent was the first 
 To win it. 
 
 Lucifer. And his father's ? 
 Cain. What is that 
 
 To me ? should I not love that which all love ? 
 
 Lucifer. And the Jehovah^the indulgent Lord, 
 And bounteous planter of barr'd Paradise — • 
 He, too, looks smilingly on Abel. 
 Cain. I 
 
 Ne'er saw him, and I know not if he smiles. 
 Lucifer. But you have seen his angels. 
 Cain. Rarely. 
 
 Lucifer. But 
 
 Sufficiently to see they love your brother : 
 Hiit sacrifices are acceptable. 
 
 Cain. So be they ; wherefore speak to me of this? 
 Lncifer. Because thou hast thought of this ere now. 
 Cain. And if 
 
 I hare thought, why recall a thought that {he 
 
 pauses^ as agitated) — Spirit ! 
 ITerc we are in tht/ world : speak not of mine. 
 Thou hast shown me wonders ; thou hast sho^vn me 
 Mighty prc-Adamites who walk'd the earth [those 
 Of which ours is the wreck ; thou hast pointed out 
 Myriads of starry worlds, of which our own 
 Is the dim and remote companion, in 
 Infinity of life : thou hast sho^ii me shadows 
 Of that existence with the dreaded name 
 Which my sire brought us — Death ; thou hast shown 
 
 me much — 
 But not nil : show me where Jehovah dwells. 
 In his especial Paradise, — or thine: 
 WTie:-; is it? 
 
 Lucifer. Here, and o'er all space. 
 
 Cain. But ye 
 
 Have some allotted dwelling — as all things : 
 Clay has its earth, and other worlds their tenants ; 
 All temporary breathing creatures their 
 Peculiar element ; and things which have 
 Long ceased to breathe our breath, have theirs, thou 
 And the Jehovah and thyself have thine — [say'st ; 
 Ye do not dwell together ? 
 
 Lucifer. No, we reign 
 
 Together ; but our dwellings are asunder. 
 
 Cain. Would there were only one of ye! perchance 
 A imity of purpose might make union 
 In elements which seem now jarr'd iu storms. 
 How came ye, being spirits, wise and infinite, 
 To separate ? Are ye not as brethren in 
 Your essence, and your nature, and your glory ? 
 
 Lucifer. Art thou not Abel's brother ? 
 
 Cain. We are brethren, 
 
 And so we shall remain ; but were it not so, 
 Is spirit like to flesh ? can it faU out ? 
 Infinity with Immortahty ? 
 Jarring and turning sjDace to misery — 
 For what ? 
 
 Lucifer. To reign. 
 
 Cain. Did ye not tell me that 
 
 Ye are both eternal ? 
 
 Lucifer. Yea ! 
 
 Cain. And what I have seen, 
 
 Yon blue immensity, is boundless ? 
 
 Lucifer. Ay. 
 
 Cain. And cannot ye both reign then ? — is there not 
 Enough ? — why should ye difier ? 
 
 Lucifer. We hoth reign. 
 
 Cain. But one of you makes evil. 
 
 Lucifer. Which ? 
 
 Cain. Thou! for 
 
 If thou canst do man good, why dost thou not ? 
 
 Lucifer. And why not he who made ? / made ye 
 Ye are hi» creatures, and not mine. [not ; 
 
 Cain. Then leave us 
 
 nis creatures, as thou say'st we are, or show me 
 Thy dwelling, or his dwelling. 
 
 Lucifer. I could show thee 
 
 Both ; but the time wiU come thou shalt see one 
 Of them for evermore. 
 
 Co.in. And why not now ? 
 
 Lucifer. Thy human mind hath scarcely grasp to 
 The little I have shown thee into calm [gather 
 
 And clear thought ; and thou wouldst go on aspiring 
 To the great double Jlysteries ! the tiro Principles ! 
 And gaze uj^on them on their secret thrones ! 
 Dust ! limit thy ambition ; for to see 
 Either of these, would be for thee to perish ! 
 
 Cain. And let me perish, so I see them I 
 Lucifei-. There 
 
 The son of her who snatch'd the apjjlc spake I 
 
932 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT in. 
 
 But tliou woulddt only perish, and not see them; 
 That sight is for the other state. 
 
 Cain. Of death ? 
 
 Lucifer. That is the prelude. 
 
 Cain. Then I dread it less, 
 
 Now that I know it leads to something definite. 
 
 Lucifer. And now I will convey thee to thy world, 
 W^here thou shalt multiply the race of Adam, 
 Eat, drink, toil, tremble, laugh, weep, sleep, and die. 
 
 Cain. And to what end have I beheld these things 
 WTiich thou hast shown me ? 
 
 Lucifer. Didst thou not require 
 
 Bjiowledge ? And liave I not, in what I show'd. 
 Taught thee to know thyself? 
 
 Cain. Alas ! I seem 
 
 Nothing. 
 
 Lucifer. And this should be the human sum 
 Of knowledge, to know mortal nature's nothingness; 
 Bequeath that science to thy children, and 
 'T\vill spare them many tortures. 
 
 Cain. Haughty spirit ! 
 
 Thou speak'st it proudly ; but thyself, though proud, 
 Hast a sui^erior. 
 
 Lucifer. No ! by heaven, which he 
 
 Holds, and the abyss, and the immensity 
 Of worlds and life, which I hold with him. No ! 
 I have a victor — true ; but no superior. 
 Homage he has from all — but none from me : 
 I battle it against him, as I battled 
 In highest heaven. Through all eternity, 
 And the unfathomable gulfs of Hades, 
 And the interminable realms of space, 
 And the infinity of endless ages. 
 All, all, will I dispute 1 And world by world, 
 And star liy star, and universe by universe, 
 Shall treml)le in the balance, till the great 
 Conflict shall cease, if ever it shall cease, 
 Which it ne'er shall, till he or I be quench'd I 
 And what can quench our immortality. 
 Or mutual and irrevocable hate ? 
 He'as a conqueror will call the conquer'd 
 Eoil ; but what will be the (toml he gives ? 
 Were I the Wctor, his works would be deem'd 
 The only evil ones. And you, ye new 
 And scarce bom mortals, what have been his gifts 
 To you already, in your little world ? 
 
 Cain. But few ! and some of those but bitter. 
 Lucifer. Back 
 
 With me, then, to thine earth, and try the rest 
 Of his celestial lioons to you and yours. 
 Evil and good are things in their own essence, 
 And not made good or e\'il l)y the giver; 
 But if he gives you good — so call him ; if 
 Evil springs from him, do not name it mine, 
 Till ye know better its true fount ; and .iudge 
 Not by words, though of spirits, but the fruits 
 Of yonr existence, such as it must be. 
 
 One good gift has the fatal apple given — 
 Your reasiin : — let it not be oversway'd 
 By tyrannous threats to force you into faith 
 'Gainst all external sense and inward feeling : 
 Think and endure, — and form an inner world 
 In your own bosom— where the outward fails ; 
 So shall you nearer be the spiritual 
 Nature, and war triumphant with your own. 
 
 \Thcy disappear. 
 
 ACT HI. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The Earth near Eden, as in Act I. 
 Enter Cain and Adah. 
 
 Adah. Hush ! tread softly, Cain. 
 
 C(tin. I will ; but wherefore I 
 
 Adah. Our little Enoch sleeps upon yon bed 
 Of leaves, beneath the cypress. 
 
 Cain. Cypress ! 'tis 
 
 A gloomy tree, which looks as if it moum'd 
 O'er what it shadows ; wherefore didst thou choose 
 For our child's canopy ? [it 
 
 Adah. Because its branches 
 
 Shut out the sun like night, and therefore seem'd 
 Fitting to shadow slumber. 
 
 Gain. Ay, the last — 
 
 And longest ; but no matter — lead me to him. 
 
 [They go up to the child. 
 How lovely he appears ! his little cheeks. 
 In their pure incarnation, vying with 
 The rose leaves strewn beneath them. 
 
 Adah. And his lips, too. 
 
 How beautifully parted ! No ; you shall not 
 Kiss him, at least not now : he ^^•ill awake soon — 
 His hour of mid-day rest is nearly over ; 
 But it were pity to disturb him till 
 'Tis closed. 
 
 Cain. You have said well ; I will contain 
 
 My heart till then. He smiles, and sleeps ! Sleep 
 And smile, thou little, young inheritor [on 
 
 Of a world scarce less young : sleep on, and smile ! 
 Thine are the hours and days when both are cheer- 
 ing 
 And innocent ! thou hast not pluck'd the fruit — 
 Thou know'st not thou art naked ! JIust the time 
 Come thou shalt be amerced for sins unknown. 
 Which were not mine nor thine ? But now sleep on I 
 His cheeks are reddening into deeper smiles, 
 And sliining lids are trembling o'er his long 
 Lashes, dark as the cypress which waves o'er them ■ 
 Half open, from beneath them the clear blue 
 Laughs out, although in slumber. He must dream - 
 Of what? Of Paradise ! Ay, dream of it, 
 My disinherited boy ! 'Tis but a ilream ; 
 For never more thyself, thy sons, nor fathers, 
 
BCEXE I. 
 
 CAIN, 
 
 333 
 
 Shall wa'.k in that forbidden place of joy I 
 
 Adah. Dear Cain ! Nay, do not whisper o'er our 
 Such melanchiily yearnings o'er the past : [son 
 
 Why wilt thou always mourn for Paradise ? 
 Can we not make another ? 
 
 Cain. Where ? 
 
 Alah. Here, or 
 
 Where'er thou wilt : where'er thou art, I feel not 
 The want of this so much regretted Eden. 
 Have I not thee, our boy, our sire, and brother, 
 And Zillah — our sweet sister, and our Eve, 
 To whom we owe so much besides our birth ? 
 
 Cain. Tes — death, too, is amongst the debts we 
 owe her. 
 
 Adah. Oain ! that proud spirit, who withdrew 
 thee hence. 
 Hath sadden'd thine still deeper. I had hoped 
 The promised wonders which thou hast beheld, 
 Visions, thou say'st, of past and present worlds, 
 Would have composed thy mind into the calm 
 Of a contented knowledge ; but I see 
 Thy guide hath done thee evil : still I thank him, 
 And can forgive him all, that he so soon 
 Hath given thee back to us. 
 
 Cain. So soon ? 
 
 Adah. 'Tis scarcely 
 
 Two hours since ye departed : two lo)ig hours 
 To me, but only hours upon tiie sun. [seen 
 
 Cain. And yet I have approach'd that sun, and 
 Worlds which he once shone on, and never more 
 Shall light ; and worlds he never lit : methought 
 Years had roll'd o'er my absence. 
 
 Adah. Hardly hours. 
 
 Cain. The mind then hath capacity of time, 
 And measures it by that which it beholds, 
 Pleasing or painful ; little or almighty. 
 I had beheld the immemorial works 
 Of endless beings ; skirr'd extinguish'd worlds ; 
 And, gazing on eternity, methought 
 I had borrow'd more by a few drops of ages 
 From its immensity ; but now I feel 
 My littleness again. Well said the spirit, 
 That I was nothing ! 
 
 Adah. Wherefore said he so ? 
 
 Jehovah said not that. 
 
 Cain. No; ^(-contents Mm 
 
 With making us the nothing which we are ; 
 And after flattering dust with glimpses of 
 Eden and Immortality, resolves 
 It back to dust again — for wha* 
 
 Adah. Thou know'st — 
 
 Even fcr our parents' error. 
 
 Cain. Wliat is that 
 
 To us ? they sinn'd, then let them die I [thought 
 
 Adah. Thou hast not spoken well, nor is that 
 Thy own, but of the spirit who was with thee. 
 Would J coul 1 die for them, so they might live I 
 
 Cain. Wliy, so say I — provided that one victim 
 Might satiate the insatialjle of life. 
 And that our little rosy sleeper there 
 Might never taste of death nor human sorrow, 
 Nor hand it down to those who spring from him. 
 
 Adah. How know we that some such atonement 
 May not redeem our race ? [one day 
 
 Cain. By sacrificing 
 
 The harmless for the guilty ? what atonement 
 Were there ? why, ire are innocent : what have we 
 Done, that we must be victims for a deed 
 Before our birth, or need have victims to 
 Atone for this mysterious, nameless sin — 
 If it be such a sin to seek for knowledge ? 
 
 Adah. Alas ! thou sinnest now, my Cain : thy 
 Sound impious in mine ears. [words 
 
 Clin. Then leave me I 
 
 Adah. Never 
 
 Though thy God left thee. 
 
 Cain. Say, what have we here 
 
 Adiih. Two altars, which our brother Abel made 
 During thine absence, whereupon to oflfer 
 ■A sacrifice to God on thy return. 
 
 Clin. And how knew he, that /would be so ready 
 With the burnt-offerings, which he daily brings 
 With a meek brow, whose base humility 
 Shows more of fear than worship, as a bribe 
 To the Creator ? 
 
 Adith. Surely, 'tis well done. 
 
 Cain. One altar may suffice ; / have no oflsrmg. 
 
 Adah. The fruits of the earth, the early, beautiful 
 Blossom and bud, and bloom of flowers and fruits, 
 These are a goodly offering to the Lord, 
 Given with a gentle and a contrite spirit. 
 
 Cain. I have toil'd, and tiU'd, and sweaten in tho 
 According to the curse :— must I do more ? [sun 
 For what should I be gentle ? for a war 
 With all the elements ere they will yield 
 The bread we eat ? For what must I be grateful ? 
 For being dust, and grovcUing in the dust, 
 Till I return to dust ? If I am nothing — 
 For nothing shall I be an hypocrite, 
 And seem well-pleased with pain 1 For what shonld I 
 Be contrite ? for my father's sin, already 
 Exjiiate with what we all have undergone. 
 And to be more than expiated by 
 The ages prophesied, upon our seed. 
 Little deems our young blooming sleeper there, 
 The germs of an eternal misery 
 To myriads is within him I better 'twere 
 I snatch'd him in his sleep, and dash'd him 'gainst. 
 The rocks, than let him live to 
 
 Adah. Oh, my God I 
 
 Touch not the child — my child I thy child ! Oh, 
 Cain! 
 
 Cain. Fear not ! for all the stars, and all the powel 
 Which sways them, I would not accost yon infant 
 
334 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT ni 
 
 With ruder f,reeting than a father's kiss. 
 
 Adah. Then, why so awful in thy speech ? 
 
 Cain. I said, 
 
 Twere better that he cea?ed to live, than give 
 Litj to 80 much of sorrow as he must 
 Endure, and, harder still, bequeath ; but since 
 That saying jars you, let us only say — 
 'Twerc better that he never had been born. 
 
 Adah. Oh, do not say so 1 Where were then tho 
 The mother's joys of watching, nourishing, [joys, 
 4.nd loving him ? Soft I he awakes. Sweet Enoch 1 
 
 \She (IOCS to the child. 
 Oh, Cain I look on him ; see how full of life, 
 Of strength, of bloom, of beauty, and of joy, 
 How like to me — how like to thee, when gentle, 
 For then we are all alike ; is 't not so, Cain ? 
 Mother, and sire, and son, our features are 
 Reflected in each other ; as they are 
 In the clear waters, when they are gentle, and 
 When tliou art gentle. Love us, then, my Cain 1 
 And love thyself for our sakes, for we love thee. 
 Look 1 how he laughs and stretches out his arms, 
 And opens wide his blue eyes upon thine. 
 To hail his father ; while his little form 
 Flutters as wing'd with joy. Talk not of pain 1 
 The childless cherubs well might envy thee 
 The pleasures of a parent ! Bless him, Cain I 
 As yet he hath no words to thank thee, but 
 His heart will, and thine own too. 
 
 Cain. Bless thee, boy I 
 
 If that mortal blessing may avail thee, 
 To save the from the serjjent's curse 1 
 
 Adah. It shall. 
 
 Surely a fatlier's blessing may avert 
 A reptile's subtlety. 
 
 Cain. Of that I doubt ; 
 
 But bless him ne'er the less. 
 
 Adah. Our brother comes. 
 
 Cain. Thy brother Abel. 
 
 Enter Abel. 
 
 'Ahel. Welcome, Cain ! My brother, 
 
 The peace of God be on thee ! 
 
 Cain. Abel, hail ! 
 
 Abel. Our sister tells me that thou hist been wan- 
 In high comimmion with a spirit, far [dering, 
 IJeyond our wonted range. Was he of those 
 We have seen and spoken with, like to our father ? 
 
 Cain. No. 
 
 Abel. Why then commime with him ? he maybe 
 A foe to the Most High. 
 
 Cain. And friend to man. 
 
 Has the Most High been so — if so you term him ? 
 
 Ahel. TTm him ! your words are strange to-day, 
 My sister Adah, leave us for awhile — L"^y brother. 
 Vfn mean to sacrifice. 
 
 Allah Farewell, my Cain ; 
 
 But first embrace thy son. May his soft spirit, 
 And Alicl's pious ministry, recall thee 
 To peace and holiness I 
 
 \_Exit Adah, with her child 
 
 Ahel. Where hast thou been ? 
 
 Cain. I know not. 
 
 Ahel. Nor what thou hast seen ? 
 
 C'dn. The dead. 
 
 The immortal, the unbounded, the omnipotent. 
 The overpowering mysteries of space — 
 The innumerable worlds that were and are — 
 A whirlwind of such overwhelming things, 
 Suns, raoons, and earths, upon their loud-voiced 
 
 spheres 
 Singing in thunder round me, as have made me 
 Unfit for mortal converse : leave me, Abel. 
 
 Ahel. Thine eyes are flasljing with unnatural light — 
 Thy cheek is flush'd with an unnatural hue — 
 Thy words are fraught with an unnatural sound — 
 What may this mean ? 
 
 Cain. It means 1 pray thee, leave me. 
 
 Ahel. Not till we have pray'd and sacrificed together, 
 
 Cain. Abel, I jjray thee, sacrifice alone — 
 Jehovah loves thee well. 
 
 Aliel. Both well, I hope. 
 
 Cain. But thee the better: I care not for that; 
 Thou art fitter for his worship than I am ; 
 Revere him, then — but let it be alone — 
 At least, without me. 
 
 Ahel. Brother, I should ill 
 
 Deserve the name of our great father's son, 
 If, as my elder, I rever'd thee not. 
 And in the worship of our God call'd not 
 On thee to join me, and precede me in 
 Our priesthood — 'tis thy place. 
 
 Ctin. But I have ne'er 
 
 Asserted it. 
 
 ^■l/'</. The more my grief; I pray thee 
 To do so now : thy soul seems laboring in 
 Some strong delusion ; it will calm thee. 
 
 Cain. No ; 
 
 Nothing can calm me more. Calm ! say I ? Never 
 Knew I w^liat calm was in the soul, although 
 I have seen the elements still'd. My Abel, leave me I 
 Or let me leave thee to thy pious purpose. 
 
 Ahel. Neither ; we must perform our task together. 
 Spurn me not. 
 
 Cain. If it must be so well, then. 
 
 What shall I do ? 
 
 Ahel. Choose one of those two altars. 
 
 Cain. Choose for me : they to me are so much turf 
 And stone. 
 
 Ahel. Choose thou 1 
 
 Cain. I ha7e chof.en. 
 
 Ahel. Tis the highest, 
 
 jVnd suits thee, as the elder. Now prepare 
 Thine orerings. 
 
SCENE L 
 
 GAIN. 
 
 335 
 
 Cain. Where are thine ? 
 
 Ahel. Behold them here — 
 
 The firsi lings of the flock, and fet thereof — 
 A shepherd's humble otlering. 
 
 Cain. I have no flocks ; 
 
 I am a tiller of the ground, and must 
 Yield what it vieldeth to my toil — its fruit : 
 
 [He gathers fruits, 
 Sehold them in their various bloom and ripeness. 
 
 [T/iei/ dress their altars, and lindle aflame 
 ■upon them. 
 Ahel. My brother, as the elder, offer first 
 The prayer and thanksgiving with sacrifice. 
 
 Coin. No — I am new to this ; lead thou the way. 
 And I will follow — as I may. 
 
 Abel, (kneeling.) Oh God ! 
 
 Who made us, and who breathed the breath of life 
 Within our nostrils, who hath blessed us, 
 And spared, despite our father's sin, to make 
 His children all lost, as they might have been, 
 Had not thy justice been so temper'd with 
 The mercy which is thy delight, as to 
 Accord a pardon like a Paradise, 
 Compared with our great crimes : — Sole Lord of light 1 
 Of good, and glory, and eternity ; 
 Without whom all were evil, and with whom 
 Nothing can err, excejrt to some good end 
 Of thine omnipotent benevolence — 
 £nscrutal)le, but still to be fulflU'd — 
 Accept from out thy humble first of shepherd's 
 First of the first-born flocks — an offering, 
 In itself nothing — as what oflering can be 
 Aught imto thee ? — but yet accept it for 
 The thanksgiving of him who spreads it in 
 The face of thy high heaven, bowing his own 
 Even to the dust, of which he is, in honor 
 Of thee, and of thy name, for evermore 1 
 
 Cain, {standing erect during this speech.) Spirit ! 
 whate'er or whosoe'er thou art, 
 Omnipotent, it may be — and, if good, 
 Shown in the exemption of thy deeds from evil ; 
 Jehovah upon earth ! and God in heaven 1 
 And it may 1)0 with other names, because 
 Thine attributes seem many, as thy works : — 
 If thou must be propitiated with prayers. 
 Take them ! If thou must be induced with altars, 
 And soften'd with a sacrifice, receive them ! 
 Two beings here erect them unto thee. [smokes 
 
 If thou lov'st blood, the shepherd's shrine, which 
 On my right hand, hath shed it for thy service 
 In the first of his flock, whose limbs now reek 
 In sanguinary incense to the skies ; 
 Or if the sweet and blooming fruits of earth, 
 And milder seasons, which the unstain'd turf 
 I spread them on now offers in tlie face 
 Of the broad sun which ripen'd thmn, may seem 
 Good to thee, inasmuch as t'ley have not 
 
 Suffer'd in Umb or life, and rather form 
 
 A sample of thy works, than supplication 
 
 To look on ours I If a shrine without victim, 
 
 And altar without gore, may win thy favor. 
 
 Look on it ! and for him who dresseth it, 
 
 H'e is — such as thou mad'st him ; and seeks noth'ntr 
 
 Which must be won by kneeling: if he's evil, 
 
 Strike him ! thou art omnipotent, and mayst — 
 
 For what can he opjjose ? If he be good. 
 
 Strike him, or spare him, as thou wilt 1 since all 
 
 Rests upon thee ; and good and evil seem 
 
 To have no power themselves, save in thy will ; 
 
 And whether that be good or ill I know not. 
 
 Not being omnipotent, nor fit to judge 
 
 Omnipotence, l)ut merely to endure 
 
 Its mandate ; which thus far I have endured. 
 
 [2'he fire upon the altar of AbbIj iindles into a 
 column of the hrightest flame, and ascends to 
 heaven ; while a whirlwind throios down the 
 altar of Cain, and scatters the fruits abroad 
 upon the earth. 
 Ahel. (kneeling.) Oh, brother, pray I Jehovah's 
 
 wroth vpith thee. 
 Cain. Why so? 
 
 Ahel. Thy fruits are scatter'd on the earth. 
 
 Cain. From earth they came, to earth let them 
 return ; 
 Their seed will bear fresh fruit there ere the summei 
 Thy burnt flesh-off ring prospers better : see 
 How heav'n licks up the flames, when thick wltb 
 blood ! 
 Ahel. Think not upon my offering's acceptancn, 
 But make another of thine own before 
 It is too late. 
 
 Cam. I will build no more altars. 
 Nor suffer any — 
 
 Ahel, (rising.) Cain ! what meanest thou 1 
 Cain. To cast down yon vile flatt'rer of the ciwi,d«, 
 The smoky harbinger of thy dull pray'rs — 
 Thine altar, with its blood of lambs and kids, 
 Which fed on milk, to be destroy'd in blood. 
 Ahel, (opposing hit}).) Thou shalt not: — add not 
 impious works to impious 
 Words ! let that altar stand — 'tis hallow'd now 
 By the immortal pleasure of .lehovah, 
 In his acceptance o*' the victims. 
 
 Cain. His ! 
 
 His pleasure ! what was his high pleasure in 
 The fumes of scorching flesh and smoking blood, 
 To the pain of the bleating mothers, which 
 Still yearn for their dead offspring ? or the pangs 
 Of the sad ignorant victims underneath 
 Thy pious knife ? Give way 1 this bloody record 
 Shall not stand in the sun, to shame creation I 
 
 Ahel. Brother, give back ! thou shalt not touch 
 With violence : if that thou wilt adopi it, [my altar 
 To try another sacrifice, 'tis thine. 
 
336 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT m. 
 
 Cain. Another saciif re ! Give way, or else 
 That sacrifice may be 
 
 Abel. WTiat mean'st thou ? 
 
 Cahi. Give — 
 
 Give way I —thy God loves Mood 1 — then look to it : — 
 Give way, ere he hath more t 
 
 Al'cl. In his great name 
 
 I stand between thee and the «hrine which hath 
 Had his acceptance. 
 
 Cahi. If thou lov'st thyself, 
 
 Stand back till I have strewV. this turf along 
 Its native soli : — else — 
 
 Ahel. (oppon.xg him.) I love God far more 
 Than life. 
 
 Cain, {Stril'in-j him ifith to hrand, on the temples, 
 which he stiafehenfron the altar.) 
 Then take thy life unto thy God, 
 Since he loves lives. 
 
 Alel. {falh.) Whaii hast tViou done, my brother ? 
 
 Cain. Brother ! 
 
 Abel. Oh, God, receive thy servant, and 
 
 Forgive his slayer, for ht, knew not what 
 He did— Cain, give me — f^ive me thy hand ; and tell 
 Poor Zillah 
 
 Cain. 
 
 What? 
 
 (iifler a moment's st>vpef action.) My hand I 
 'tis all red, and with — 
 
 [.A long pause. — Loolcing slmrly round. 
 Where am I ? alone ! Where's Abel ? where 
 Cain ? Can it be tliat I am he ? My brother, 
 Awake ! — why liest thou so on the green earth ! 
 Tis not the hour of slumber ; — why so pale ? 
 What, hast thou ! — thou wort full of life this mom 1 
 Abel ! I pray thee, mock mo not ! I smote 
 Too fiercely, but not fatally. Ah, why 
 Wouldst thou oppose me ? This is mockery ; 
 And only done to daunt me : — 'twas a blow — 
 And but a blow. Stir — stir — nay, only stir I [me 1 
 Who, so — that's well 1 — thou brcath'st ! breathe upon 
 Oh, God ! Oh, God 1 
 
 AM. {rery faintly.) Wliat'she who speaks of God! 
 
 Cain. Thy murderer. 
 
 Alel. Then may God forgive him ! Cain, 
 
 Comfort poor Zillah : — she has but one brother 
 Now. [Abel dies. 
 
 Cain. And I none I — AVlio makes me brotherless ; 
 Ilis eyes are open ! then he is not dead ! 
 Death is like sleep ; and sleep shuts down our lids. 
 His lips, too, are apart ; why then he breathes ! 
 And yet I feel it not. — His heart !— his heart ! — 
 
 Let me see, doth it beat ? methinks No ! — no 1 
 
 This is a vision, else I am become 
 ■rhe native of another and worse world. 
 The earth swims round me: — what is this? — 'tis wet; 
 [ I'vtx hi.1 hand to his hntw, and then lonl-a at it. 
 And yet there arc nr dews ! 'Tis blood — my blood — 
 My brother's and mj ow r and shed by me 1 
 
 Then what have I furtlier to do with life, 
 Since I have taken life from my own flesh ? 
 But he can not be dead ! — Is silence death ? 
 No ; he ^vill wake : then let me watch by hin. 
 Life cannot be so slight, as to be quench'd 
 Thus quickly ! — he hath spoken to me since — 
 Wliat shall I say to him ? — My brother ! — No : 
 He will not answer to that name ; for brethren 
 Smite not each other. Yet— yet — speak to me. 
 Oh ! for a word more of that gentle voice, 
 That I may bear to hear my own again I 
 
 Enter Zillah. 
 
 Zillah. I heard a heavy sound ; what can it be ? 
 'Tis Cain ; and watching by my husband. What 
 Dost thou there, brother? Doth he sleep ? Oh,heav'nl 
 What means this paleness, and yon stream ? — No, no ! 
 It is not blood ; for who would shed his blood ? 
 Abel ! what's this ? — who hath done this ? He moves 
 
 not ; 
 He breath es not : and his hands drop down from mine 
 With stony lifelessness ! Ah ! cruel Cain ! 
 Why cam'st thou not in time to save him from 
 This violence ? Whatever hath aseail'd him, 
 Thou wcrt the stronger, and should'st have stepp'd in 
 Between him and aggression ! Father ! — Eve 1 — 
 Adah ! — come hither I Death is in the world I 
 
 [Exit ZrLLAii, calling on her Parents, etc., etc. 
 
 Cain, (xolus) And who hath brought him there ? — 
 I — who abhor 
 The name of Death so deej)ly, that the thought 
 Empoison'd all my life, before I knew 
 His aspect — I have led him here, and giv'n 
 My brother to his cold and still emijrace, 
 As if he would not have asserted his 
 Inexorable claim without my aid. 
 I am awake at last — a dreary dream 
 Had madden'd me 1 — but he shall ne'er awake I 
 
 Enter Adam, Eve, Ad.vh, and Zillah. 
 
 Adam. A voice of wo from Zillah brings me here. — 
 AYliat do I see ? — 'Tis true 1 — My son ! — my son I 
 Woman, behold the serpent's work, and thine ! 
 
 [ To Eve. 
 
 Et'c. Oh! speak not of it now: the serpent's fangs 
 Are in my heart. My best 'jcloved, Abel ! 
 .Ichovah ! this is punishment beyond 
 A mother's sin, to take him from me ! 
 
 Adam. Who, 
 
 Or what liath done this deed ? — speak, Cain, since thou 
 Wert present ; was it some more hostile angel. 
 Who walks not with Jehovah ? or some wild 
 Brute of the forest ? 
 
 Eve. Ah ! a livid light 
 Breaks through, as from a thundcr.cloud I yon brand, 
 Massy and bloody I snatch'd from off the altar, 
 And black with smoke, and red with 
 
SCEXE t. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 337 
 
 Adam. Speak, my son ! 
 
 Speak, and assure us, Tvretched as we are, 
 That we are not more miserable still. 
 
 AJnfi. Speak, Cain ! and say it was not thou ! 
 
 Eve. It was. 
 
 I see it now —he hangs his guilty head 
 And covers his ferocious eye with hands 
 Incarnadine. 
 
 Arlnh. Mother, thou dost him wrong — 
 Cain ! clear thee Irom this horrible accusal, 
 Which grief wrings from our parent. 
 
 Eve. . Hear, Jehovah ! 
 May the eternal serpent's curse be on him ! 
 For he was fitter for his seed than ours. 
 May all his days be desolate. May 
 
 Adah. Hold ! 
 
 Curse him not, mother, for he is thy son — 
 Curse him not, mother, for he is my brother. 
 And my betroth'd. 
 
 Ere. He hath left thee no brother — 
 
 ZiUah no husband — me no son ! — for this 
 I curse him from my sight for evermore ! 
 All bonds I break between us ! as he broke 
 
 That of his nature, in yon Oh death ! death ! 
 
 Why didst thou not take me, who first incurr'd thee? 
 Why dost thou not so now ? 
 
 Adam. Eve ! let not this. 
 
 Thy natural grief, lead to impiety ! 
 A heavy doom was long forespoken to us ; 
 And now that it begins, let it be borne 
 In such sort as may show oiu- God, that we 
 Are faithful servants to his holy will. 
 Ece., (pointiii'j to Cain.) His will ! ! the wiU of 
 
 yon incarnate spirit 
 Of death, whom I have brought upon the earth 
 To strew it with the dead. May all the curses 
 Of Ufe be on him ! and his agonies 
 Drive him forth o'er the wilderness, like us 
 From Eden, till his children do by him 
 As he did by his brother ! May the swords 
 And wings of fiery cherubim pursue him 
 By day and night — snakes spring up in his path — 
 Earth's fruits be ashes in his mouth — the leaves 
 On which he lays his head to sleep be strew'd 
 With scorpions ! May his dreams be of his victim! 
 His waking a continual dread of death ! 
 May the clear rivers turn to blood as he 
 Stoops down to stain them with his raging lip ! 
 May every element shun or change to him I 
 May he live in the pangs which others die with ! 
 And death itself wax something worse than death 
 To him who first acquainted him with man I 
 Hence, fratricide ! henceforth that word is Cain, 
 Through all the coming myriads of mankind. 
 Who shaU abhor thee, though thou vvert their sire ! 
 May the grass wither from thy feet ! the woods 
 Deny thee shelter 1 earth a home ! the dust 
 43 
 
 A grave I the sun his light 1 and heaven her God I 
 
 [Exit Eva. 
 
 Adam. Cain ! get thee forth : we dwell no more 
 togethere 
 
 Depart ! and leave the dead to me 1 am 
 
 Henceforth alone — we never must meet more. 
 
 Ad.i/i. Oh, part not with him thus, my father : do not 
 Add thy deep curse to Eve's upon bis head ! 
 
 Adam. I curse him not: his spirit be his curse. 
 Come Zillah I 
 
 Zillah. I must watch my husband's corse. 
 
 Adam. We will return again, when he is gone 
 Who hath provided for us this dread office. 
 Come, ZiUah ! 
 
 ZiUaJi. Yet one kiss on yon pale clay, 
 And those lijjs once so warm — my heart ! my heart I 
 [E.rennt Adam and Zillah, weeping. 
 
 Adah. Cain ! thou hast heard, we must go forth. 
 I am ready, 
 So shall our children be. I will bear Enoch, 
 And you his sister. Ere the sun declines 
 Let us depart, nor walk the wilderness 
 Under the cloud of night. — Nay, speak to me, 
 To me — thine own. 
 
 Cain. Leave me ! 
 
 Adah. Why, all have left thee. 
 
 Cain. And wherefore lingerest thou ? Dost thou 
 To dwell with one who hath done this ? [not fear 
 
 Adah. I fear 
 
 Nothing except to leave thee, much as I 
 Shrink from the deed which leaves thee brotherless. 
 I must not speak of this — it is between thee 
 And the great God. 
 
 A Voice from within exclaims, Cain ! Cain ! 
 Adah. Hear'st thou that voice ! 
 
 The Voice within. Cain ! Cain ! 
 
 Adah. It soundeth Hke an angel's tone 
 
 Enter the AjfGEL of the Lord. 
 
 Adah. Where is thy brother Abel ? 
 
 Cain. Am I then 
 
 My brother's keeper ? 
 
 Adah. Cain ! what hast thou done ? 
 
 The voice of thy slain brother's blood cries out. 
 Even from the ground, unto the Lord ! — Now art thou 
 Cursed from the earth, which ojjen'd late her mouth 
 To drink thy brother's blood from thy rash hand. 
 Henceforth, when thou shalt till the ground, it shaUnol 
 Yield thee her strength ; a fugitive shalt thou 
 Be from this day, and vagabond on earth ! 
 
 Adah. This punishment is more than he can bear 
 Behold, thou drivest him from the face of earth, 
 And from the face of God shall he be hid. 
 A fugitive and vagabond on earth, 
 'Twill come to pass, that whoso findeth him 
 Shall slay him. 
 
 Cain. Would thy could ! but who ;\re they 
 
S38 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT lU 
 
 Shall slay me ? where are these on the lone earth 
 As yet unpeopled ? 
 
 Angel. Thou hast slain thy l)rother, 
 
 And who shall warrant thee against thy son ? 
 
 Adah. Angel of Light 1 be merciful, nor say 
 Tliat this poor aching breast now nourishes 
 A murderer in my boy, and of his father. 
 
 Anf/el. Then he would but be what his father is. 
 Did not the milk of Eve give nutriment 
 To him thou now see'st so bosmcar'd with blood ? 
 The fratricide might well engender parricides. — 
 But it shall not be so — the Lord, thy God 
 And mine, commandeth me to set his seal 
 On Cain, so that he may go forth in safety. 
 Who slayeth Cain, a sevenfold vengeance shall 
 Be taken on his head. Come hither : 
 
 Cain. What 
 
 Wouldst thou with me ? 
 
 Aiif/cL To mark upon thy brow 
 
 Exemjition from such deeds as thou hast done. 
 
 Cain. No, let me die ! 
 
 Angel. It must not be. 
 
 [77(« Angel nets the mark on Cain's J>row. 
 
 Cain. It burns 
 
 My brow, but nought to that which is within it. 
 Is there more ? let me meet it as I may. [womb, 
 
 Angel. Stem hast thou been and stubborn from the 
 As the ground thou must henceforth till ; but he 
 Thou slow'st was gentle as the flocks he tended. 
 
 Cain. After the fall too soon was I begotten ; 
 Ere yet my mother's mind subsided from 
 The serpent, and my sire still mourn'd for Eden. 
 That which I am, I am ; I did not seek 
 For life, nor did I make myself; but could I 
 With my own death redeem him from the dust — 
 And why not so ? let him return to-day. 
 And I lie ghastly ! so shall be restored 
 By God the life to him he loved ; and taken 
 Prom me a being I ne'er loved to bear. 
 
 '4 ngd. Who shall heal murder ? what is done is 
 Go forth ! fulfill thy days I and be thy deeds [done. 
 Unlike the last I [ The Anoel disappears 
 
 A ilah. He's gone, let us go forth ; 
 
 I hear our little Enoch cry within 
 Our bo ver. 
 
 Cain Ah 1 little know he what he weeps for ! 
 
 And I who have shed blood cat not shed tears ! 
 But the four rivers would not cleanse my soul. 
 Think'st thou my boy will bear to look on me ? 
 
 Adah. If I thought that he would not, I would- 
 
 Cain. (intrrrupting lier.) ■> No, 
 
 No more of threats : we have had too many of then 
 Go to our children ; I will follow thee. 
 
 Adah. I will not leave thee lonely with the dead. 
 Let us depart together. 
 
 Cain. Oh 1 thou dead 
 
 And everlasting witness 1 whose unsinking 
 Blood darkens earth and heaven ! what thou now art 
 I know not 1 but if thmi see'st what / am, 
 I think thou vrilt forgive him, whom his God 
 Can ne'er forgive, nor his own soul. — Farewell 1 
 I must not, dare not touch what I have made thee. 
 I, who sprung from the same womb ^vith thee, drain'd 
 The same breast, clasp'd thee often to my own, 
 In fondness brotherly and lioyish, I 
 Can never meet thee more, nor even dare 
 To do that for thee, which thou should'st have done 
 For me^-compose thy limbs into their grave — 
 The first grave yet dug for mortality. 
 But who hath dug that grave ? Oh, eartu ! Oh, earth! 
 For all the fruits thou hast rendered to me, I 
 Give thee back this. — Now for the wilderness. 
 
 [jVdah stoops iloir/i and kinscs the liodij of A'BEl,. 
 
 Adah. A dreary and an early doom, my brothej 
 Has been thy lot ? Of all who mourn for thee, 
 I alone must not weep. My office is 
 Henceforth to dry up tears, and not to shed them 
 But yet, of all who mourn, none mourn like me, 
 Not only for thyself, but him who slew thee. 
 Now, Cain ! I will divide thy burden with thee. 
 
 Cain. Eastward from Eden will we take our way ; 
 'Tis the most desolate, and suits my steps. [God 
 
 Adah. Lead I thou shalt be my guide, and may oui 
 Be thine ! Now let us carry forth our children. 
 
 Cain. And he who lieth there was childless. I 
 Have dried the foimtain of a gentle race, [couch, 
 Wliich might have graced his recent marriage 
 And might have temper'd this stern blood of mine. 
 Uniting with our children Abel's offspring 1 
 Oh Abel 1 
 
 Adah. Peace be with him 1 
 
 Cain. But with me ! 
 
 \^Eteunt. 
 
SCEXB I. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 339 
 
 WERNER; OR, THE INHERITANCE 
 
 A TRAGEBT. 
 
 TO 
 
 THE ILLUSTRIOUS GOETHE, 
 
 BY ONE OF HIS HTTHBLEST ADMTRERS, 
 THIS TBAQEDT 18 DEDIOATBD. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The following drama is taken entirely from the 
 " Oerman's Tale, Kraitzner," published many years 
 ago in Lee's Canterhury Tales ; written (I believe) by 
 two sisters, of whom one furnished only this story and 
 another, both of which are considered superior to the 
 remainder of the collection. I have adopted the chai^ 
 acters, plan, and even the language, of many parts of 
 the story. Some of the characters are modified or al- 
 tered, a few of the names changed, and one character, 
 Ida of Stralenheim, added by myself; but in the rest 
 the original is chiefly followed. When I was young 
 (about fourteen, I think) I first read this tale, which 
 made a deep impression upon me ; and may, indeed, be 
 Baid to contain the germ of much that I have since 
 written. I am not sure that it ever was very popular ; 
 or, at any rate, its popularity has since been eclipsed 
 by that of other great writers in the same department. 
 But I have generally found that those who hid read it, 
 agreed with me in their estimate of the singular power 
 of mind and conception which it develops. I should 
 also add conception, rather than execution ; for the story 
 might perhaps, have been developed with greater ad- 
 vantage. Amongst those whose opinions agreed with 
 mine upon this story, I could mention some very high 
 names : but it is not necessary, nor indeed of any use ; 
 for every one must judge according to his own feelings. 
 I merely refer the reader to the original story, that he 
 may see to what extent I have borrowed from it ; and 
 am not unwilling that he should find much greater 
 pleasure in perusing it than the drama, which is found- 
 ed upon its contents. 
 
 I had begun a drama upon this tale so far back as 
 1815, (the first I ever attempted, except one at thirteen 
 years old, called " JJlric and llvtina," which I had sense 
 enough to burn,) and had nearly completed an act, when 
 I was interrupted by circumstances. This is somewhere 
 amongst my papers in England ; but as it has not Ijeen 
 found, I liave rewritten the first, and added the subse- 
 quent acts. 
 
 The whole is neither intended, nor in any shape 
 adapted, for the stage. 
 
 Pisa, February, 1822. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Men.- 
 
 Women.- 
 
 -Wekner. 
 UiiWC. 
 
 Stkalenheim. 
 Idenstbin. 
 Qabor. 
 Fritz. 
 Hknrick. 
 Eric. 
 Aenheim. 
 SIeisteb. ' 
 
 RODOLPU. 
 LUDWIG. 
 
 -Josephine. 
 Ida Stralenheim. 
 
 Scene — Partly on the Frontier af Silesia, and partly 
 ill Siegendorf Castle, near Praf/ue. 
 
 Time — The close of the Thirty Yeain? "War. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Tlie Hall of a decayed Palace near a small Town on 
 
 the Northern Frontier of Silesia — the Night tern- 
 
 pesttious. 
 
 Werner and Josephine ?iis wife. 
 
 Jos. My love, be calmer ! 
 
 Wer. I am calm. 
 
 Jos. To me — 
 
 Tes, but not to thyself: thy pace is hurried, 
 And no one walks a chamber like to ours 
 With steps like thine irben his heart is at rest. 
 Were it a garden, I sh< uld deem thee happy. 
 And stepping with the bee from flower to flower, 
 But here ! 
 
840 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 AfT L 
 
 Wer. 'Tis cbill ; the tapestry lets througli 
 The wind to which it waves my blood is frozen. 
 
 Jos. Ah. no ! 
 
 Wer. {muling.) Wliy ! wouldst thou have it so ? 
 
 Jos. I would 
 
 Ilave it a healthful current. 
 
 Wer. Let it flow 
 
 Until 'tis spilt or check'd — how soon, I care not. 
 
 Jos. And am I nothing in thy heart 3 
 
 Wer. All— all. 
 
 Jos. Then canst thou wish for that which must 
 break mine ? 
 
 Wer. {approaching her sloxcly.) But for thee I had 
 been — no matter what, 
 But much of good and evil ; what I am, 
 Thou knowest ; what I might or should have been 
 Thou knowest not : but still I love thee, nor 
 Shall aught divide us. 
 
 [Werner walks on nhru/itly and then approaches 
 
 JOSEPHTSB. 
 
 The storm of the night 
 Perhaps, aftects me ; I am a thing of feelings. 
 And have of late l)cen sickly, as, alas ! 
 Thou know'st by sufferings more than mine, my love! 
 In watching me. 
 
 Jos. To see thee well is much — 
 
 To see thee happy — 
 
 W/r. Where hast thou seen such ? 
 
 Let me be wretched with the rest 1 
 
 Jos. But think 
 
 Sow many in this hour of tempest shiver 
 Beneath the biting wind and heavy rain, 
 Wliosc every drop bows them down nearer earth, 
 SVTiich hath no chamlser for them save beneath 
 aer surface. 
 
 (!'( /•. And that's not the worst : who cares 
 
 For chambers ? rest is all. The wretches whom 
 Thou namest— ay, the wind howls round them, and 
 The dull and dropping rain saps in their bones _ 
 The creeping marrow. I have been a soldier, 
 A lumter, and a traveller, and am 
 A beggar, and should know the thing thou talk'st of. 
 
 Jvs And. art thou not now shelter'd from them all? 
 
 Wer. Yes. And from these alone. 
 
 Jos. And that is something. 
 
 Wer. True^to a peasant. 
 
 Jos. Should the nobly bom 
 
 Be thankless for tliat refuge which tlieir habits 
 Of early delicacy rtndcr more 
 Needful than to the peasant, when the ebb 
 Of fortune leaves them on the shoals of life ? 
 
 Wer. It is not that, thou know'st it is not ; we 
 Have borne all this, I'll not say patiently. 
 Except in thee — Imt (ve have liorne it. 
 
 Jns. Well? 
 
 Wer Something lieyond our outward sufferings 
 Cthoijjrb 
 
 These were enough to gnaw into our souls) 
 Ilath stung me oft, and, more than ever, note. 
 When, but for this untoward sickness, which 
 Seized me upon this pesolate frontier, and 
 Hath wasted, not alone my strength, but means, 
 And leaves us — no ! this is beyond me ! — but 
 For this I had been happy — thou been happy — 
 The splendor of my rank sustain'd — my name — 
 My father's name — been still upheld ; and, more 
 Than those 
 
 Jos. {itliruplhj.) 3Iy son — our son — our Ulric, 
 Been clasp'd again in these long-empty arms 
 And all a mother's hunger satisfied. 
 Twelve years ! he was but eight then : — beautifiil 
 He was, and beautiful he must be now. 
 My Ulric 1 my adored ! 
 
 Wer. I have been full oft 
 
 The chase of Fortune ; *now she hatli o'ertaken 
 My sjjirit where it cannot turn at bay, — 
 Sick, poor, and lonely 
 
 Jos. Lonely ! my dear husband ? 
 
 Wer. Or woree — involving all I love, in tliis 
 Far worse than solitude. Alone, I had died, 
 And all been over in a nameless grave. 
 
 Jos. And I had not outlived thee ; but pray tak* 
 Comfort ! AVe have struggled long ; but they w 10 
 With fortune win or weary her at last, [stri re 
 
 So that they find the goal or cease to feel 
 Further. Take comfort, — we shall find our boy. 
 
 Wer. We were in sight of him, of every thing 
 Which could bring compensation for past sorrow — 
 And to be baffled thus : 
 
 Jns. We are not baffled. 
 
 Wer. Are we not penniless ? 
 
 Jos. We ne'er were wcalthj 
 
 Wir. But I was bom towealth,and rank,andpower 
 Enjoy'd them, loved them, and, alas ! abused them, 
 And forfeited them by my father's wrath. 
 In my o'er-fervent youth ; but for the abuse 
 Long sufferings have atoned. My father's death 
 Left the path open, yet not without snares. 
 This cold and creeping kinsman, who so long 
 Kept his eye on me, as the snake upon 
 The fluttering bird, hath ere this time outstepp'd m^ 
 Become the master of my rights, and lord 
 Of that which lifts him up to princes in 
 Dominion and domain. 
 
 Jos. AVho knows ? our son 
 
 May have rotum'd Inick to his grandsire, and 
 Even now uphold thy rights for thee ? 
 
 Wer. 'Tis hopi-tesa 
 
 Since his strange disappearance from my fathe s, 
 Entailing, as it were, my sins upon 
 Himself, no tidings have revcal'd his course. 
 I parted with him to his grandsire, on 
 The i)romise that his anger would stop short 
 Of the third generation ; but Heaven seems 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 WERNER, 
 
 341 
 
 To claim her stem prerogative, and visit 
 Upon my boy his father's faults and follies. 
 
 Ji'K. I must hope better still, —at least we have yet 
 Baffled the long jjursuit of Stralcnheim. 
 
 Wer. "We should have done, but for this fatal sick- 
 ness ; 
 More fatal than a mortal malady, 
 Because it takes not life, but life's sole solace : 
 Even now I feel my spirit girt about 
 By the snares of this avaricious fiend ; — 
 How do I know lie hath not track'd us here ? 
 
 Jon. He does not kuow tny jjerson ; and his spies, 
 Who so long watch'd thee, have been left at Ham- 
 Our unexpected journey, and this change [burgh. 
 Of name, leaves all iliscovery far behind : 
 None holds us here for aught save what we seem. 
 
 Wti: Save what we seem ! save what we are — 
 Even to our very hopes — Ha I ha ! [sick beggars, 
 
 Jon. Alas ! 
 
 That bitter laugh ! 
 
 Wer. Who would read in this form 
 
 The high soul of the son of a long hnc ? 
 T17/", in tliis garb, the heir of princely lands ? 
 Who, in this sunken, sickly eye, the pride 
 Of rank and ancestry ? in this worn cheek 
 And famine-hollow'd brow, the lord of hails 
 Which daily feast a thousand vassals? 
 
 Jon. Ynu 
 
 Ponder'd not thus upon these worldly things, 
 My Werner ! when you deign'd to choose for bride 
 The foreign daughter of a wandering exile. 
 
 Wei: An exile's daughter with an outcast son 
 Were a fit marriage ; but I stiU had hopes 
 To Uft thee to the state we both were born for. 
 Your father's house was noble, though decay'd ,- 
 And worthy by its birth to match with ours.[noble; 
 
 Jos. Your father did not think so, though 'twas 
 But had my birth been all my claim to match 
 With thee, I should have deem'd it what it is 
 
 Wir. And what is that in thine eyes ? 
 
 Jos. AU wh :ch it 
 
 Has done in our behalf, — nothing. 
 
 Wer. How, — nothing ? 
 
 Joa. Or worse ; for it has been a canker in 
 Thy heart from the beginning : Imt for this, 
 We had not felt our poverty but as 
 MiUions of myriads feel it, cheerfully ; 
 But for these phantoms of thy feudal fathers, 
 Thou mightst have eam'd thy bread, as thousands 
 
 earn it ! 
 Or, If that seem too humbie, tried by commerce, 
 Or other civic means, to amend thy fortunes. 
 
 Wer, ( \ronieaUy.) And been an Hanseatic burgher ? 
 Excellent I [art 
 
 Jos. Whate'er thou mightst have been, to me thou 
 Wliat no state high or low can ever change, 
 
 My heart's first choice ; — which chose thee, knowing 
 neither [sorrows : 
 
 Thy birth, thy hopes, thy pride ; naught, save thy 
 While they last, let me comfort or divide them ; 
 When they end, let mine end with them, or thee 1 
 
 Wer. My better angel ! such I have ever found thee ; 
 This rashness, or this weakness of my temper, 
 Ne'er raised a thought to injure thee or thine. 
 Thou didst not mar my fortunes : my own nature 
 In youth was such as to unmake an empire. 
 Had such been my inheritance ; but now, 
 Chasten'd, subdued, out-worn, and taught to know 
 Myself, — to lose this for our son and thee ! 
 Trust me, when, in my two-and-twentieth spring, 
 My father barr'd me from my father's house. 
 The last sole scion of a thousand sires, 
 (For I was then the last,) it hurt me less 
 Than to liehold my boy and my boy's mother 
 Excluded in their innocence from what 
 My fiults deserved exclusion ; although then 
 My passions were all hving serpents, and 
 Twined like the gorgon's round me. 
 
 \_A loud htvriing w heard. 
 
 Jos. Hark ! 
 
 Wer. A knocking ! 
 
 Jos. Who can it be at this lone hour i We have 
 Few visiters. 
 
 Wer. And poverty hath none, 
 
 Save those who come to make it poorer still. 
 Well, I am prepared. 
 
 [Werner ?yw?s his hand into his bosom, os ij' fj 
 search J'or some wenpon. 
 
 Jos. Oh 1 do not look so. I 
 
 Will to the door. It cannot be of import 
 In this lone spot of wintry desolation : — - 
 The very desert saves man from mankind. 
 
 [S/ie goes to the door 
 
 Enter Idenstet^. 
 
 Lien. A fair good evening to my fairer hostreas 
 And worthy What's your name, my Mond ! 
 
 Wer. Are ya. 
 
 Not afraid to demand it ? 
 
 Hen. Not afraid ? 
 
 Egad ! I am afraid. You look as if 
 I ask'd for something better than your name. 
 By the face you put on it. 
 
 Wer. Better, sir ! 
 
 Iden. Better or worse, like matrimony : what 
 Shall I say more ? You have been a guest this month 
 Here in the prince's palace — (to be sure, 
 His highness had resign'd it to the ghosts 
 And rats these twelve years — but 'tis still a palace)— 
 I say you have been our lodger, and as yet 
 We do not know you" name. 
 
 Wer. My name is Wemei. 
 
342 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT I, 
 
 Idm. A goodly name, a very worthy name 
 A3 e'er -nas gilt upon a trader's board : 
 I have a cousin in the lazaretto 
 Of Ilamljurgh, who has got a wife who bore 
 The same. He is an officer of trust, 
 Surgeon's asaistant, (hoping to be surgeon,) 
 And has done miracles 1' the way of businesa, 
 Perhaps you are related to my relative. 
 
 Wer. To yours J 
 
 Jos, Oh, yes ; we are, but distantly. 
 
 {Aside to Werner. 
 Cannot you humor the dull gossip till 
 We learn his purpose ? 
 
 Iden. Well, I'm glad of that ; 
 
 I thought 80 all along, such natural yearnings 
 PlayVl round my heart : blood is not water, cousin : 
 And so let's have some wine, and drink unto 
 Our better acquaintance : relatives should be 
 Friends. 
 
 Wer. You appear to have drunk enough already ; 
 And if you had not, I've no wine to oifcr. 
 Else it were yours : but this you know, or should know ; 
 You see I am poor, and sick, and will not see 
 That I would be alone ; but to your business ! 
 What brings you here ? 
 
 Jdcn. Why, what should bring me here ? 
 
 Wer. I know not, though I think that I could guess 
 That which will send you hence. 
 
 Jos. (aside.) Patience, dear Werner ? 
 
 Iden. You don't know what has happeu'd, then ? 
 
 Jos. Hovr' should we ? 
 
 Iden. The river has o'erflow'd. 
 
 Jus. Alas I we have known 
 
 That to our sorrow for these five days ; since 
 It keeps us here. 
 
 Iden. But what you don't know is, 
 
 That a great personage, who fain would cross 
 Against the stream and three postillions' wishes, 
 Is drown'd below the ford, with five post-horses, 
 Ainonkey, and a mastiff, and a valet. 
 
 Jos. Poor creatures 1 are you sure ? 
 
 Iden. Yes, of the monkey. 
 
 And the valet, and the cattle ; but as yet 
 We know not if his excellency's" dead 
 Or no ; your noblemen are hard to drown. 
 As it is fit that men in office should be ; 
 But what is certain is, that he has swallow'd 
 Enough of the Oder to have burst two peasants ; 
 And now a Saxon and Hungarian traveller, 
 Who at their proper peril, snatch'd him irom 
 The whirling river, have sent on to crave 
 A lodging, or a grave, according as 
 It may turn out witli the hvo or dead body. 
 
 Jus. And where will you receive him 2 here, I hope. 
 If we can be of service — say the word. 
 
 Hen. Here? no ; but in the prince's own apartment. 
 As fits a nofjle guest :--'lis damp, no doubt, 
 
 Not having been inhabited these twelve years ; 
 But then he comes from a much damper place, 
 So scarcely will catch cold in 't, if he be 
 Still Uable to cold — and if not, why 
 He'll be worse lodged to-morrow : ne'ertheless 
 I have order'd fire and all appliances 
 To be got ready for the worst — that is, 
 In case he should siurvive. 
 
 Jos. Poor gentleman 1 
 
 I hope he will, with all my heart. 
 
 Wer. Intcndant, 
 
 Have you not leam'd his name ( My Josephine, 
 
 [Aside to his wife. 
 Retire : I'll sift this fool. 
 
 Iden. His name ? oh Lord 1 
 
 Who knows if he hath now a name or no ? 
 'Tis time enough to ask it when he's able 
 To give an answer ; or if not, to put 
 His heir's upon his epitaph. Methought 
 Just now you chid me for demanding names ? 
 
 Wer. True, true, I did so ; you say well and wisely. 
 
 Enter GiVBOR. 
 
 Gah. If I intrude, I crave 
 
 Iden. Oh, no intrusion I 
 
 This is the palace ; this a stranger like 
 Yourself; I pray you make yourself at home : 
 But Where's his excellency ? and how fares he ? 
 
 Gah. Wetly and wearily, but out of peril : 
 He paused to change his garments in a cottage, 
 (Where t doffd mine for these, and came on hithtr,) 
 And has almost recover'd from his drenching. 
 He will be here anon. 
 
 Iden. Wliat ho, there ! bustle ! 
 
 Without there, Herman, Weilburg, Peter, Conrad 
 
 [Gives directions to different servants whs 
 enter. 
 A nobleman sleeps here to-night — see that 
 AU is in order in the damask chamber — 
 Keep up the stove — I will myself to the cellar — 
 And JIadame Idenstein (my consort, stranger,) 
 Shall furnish fortli the bed-apparel ; for, 
 To say the truth, they are marvellous scant of tliis 
 Within the palace precincts, since his higlmoss 
 Left it some dozen years ago. And then 
 His excellency will sup, doubtless ? 
 
 G(d>. Faith I 
 
 I cannot tell ; but I should think the pillow 
 Would please him better tli.nn the table after 
 His soaking in your river : but for fear 
 Your viands should be thrown away, I mean 
 To sup myself, and have a friend without 
 Who will do honor to your good cheer with 
 A traveller's ajipetite. 
 
 Iden. But are you sure 
 
 His excellency But his name : what is it I 
 
 Gah. I do not know. 
 
SCENE L 
 
 "WERNER. 
 
 S43 
 
 lien. And yet you saved liis life. 
 
 Oab. I help'd my friend to do so. 
 
 Jden. Well, that's strange, 
 
 To save a man's life whom you do not know. 
 
 Gah. Not so ; for there are some I know so well, 
 I scarce should give myself the trouble. 
 
 Hen. Pray, 
 
 Qood friend, and who may you be ? 
 
 Gah. By my family, 
 
 Hungarian. 
 
 Iden. Which is call'd, 
 
 Oab. It matters little. 
 
 Iden. (a-iiJe.) I think that all the world are grown 
 anonymous, 
 Since no one cares to tell me what he's call'd ! 
 Pray, has his excellency a large suite ? 
 
 Gab. Sufficient. 
 
 Iden. How many ? 
 
 Gab. I did not count them. 
 
 We came up by mere accident, and just 
 In time to drag him through his carriage window. 
 
 Iden. Well, what would I give to save a great man ! 
 No doubt you'O have a swingeing sum as recompense. 
 
 Gah. Perhaps. 
 
 Iden. Now, how much do you reckon on ? 
 
 Gah. I have not yet put up myself to sale : 
 lu the mean time, my best reward would be 
 A glass of your Hockheimer — a qreen glass, 
 Wreath'd with rich grapes and Bacchanal devices, 
 O'erflowing witli the oldest of your vintage : 
 For which I promise you, in case you e'er 
 Run hazard of being drown'd, (although I own 
 It seems, of all deaths, the least Ukcly for you,) 
 I'll pull you out for nothing. Quick, my friend. 
 And think, for every bumper I shall quaff, 
 A wave the less may roU al)ove your head. . 
 
 /(ZeH, (aside.) I don't much like this fellow — close 
 and dry 
 He seems, two things which suit me not : however, 
 Wine he shall have ; if that unlock him not, 
 I sliaU not sleep to-night for curiosity. 
 
 [Exit Idensteik. 
 
 Gah. (to Weuker.) This master of the ceremonies 
 The intendant of the palace, I presume : [is 
 
 'Tis a fine builfling, but decay'd. 
 
 Wer. The apartment 
 
 Design'd for him you rescued will be found 
 In fitter order for a sickly guest. 
 
 Gah. I wonder then you occupied it not. 
 For you seem delicate in health. 
 
 Wer. (//iiickbj.) Sir ! 
 
 Gah. Pray 
 
 Excuse me : have I said aught to ofiend you ? 
 
 Wer. Nothing : but we are strangers to each other. 
 
 Gah. And that's the reason I would have u^ less so : 
 I thought our bustling guest without had said [part 
 Tou were a chance and passing guest, the counter- 
 
 Of me .and my companions. 
 
 Wer. Very true. 
 
 Gal. Then, as we never met before, and ne'\'cr, 
 It may be, may again encounter, why, 
 I thought to cheer up this old dungeon here 
 (At least to me) by asking you to share 
 The fare of my companions and myself 
 
 Wer. Pray, pardon me ; my health 
 
 Giih. Even as you please, 
 
 I have been a soldier, and perhaps am blunt 
 In bearing. 
 
 Wer. I have also served, and can 
 "Requite a soldier's greeting. 
 
 Gah. In what service ? 
 
 The Imperial ? 
 
 Wer. {'P-iieJd;/, and then interrnpting himself.') I 
 commanded — no — I mean 
 I served ; but it is many years ago. 
 When first Bohemia raised her banner 'gainst 
 The Austrian. 
 
 Gab. Well, that's over now, and peace 
 
 Has tum'd some thousand gallant hearts adrift 
 To live as they best may ; and, to say truth, 
 Some take the shortest. 
 
 Wer. What is that ? 
 
 Gab. Wliate'er 
 
 They lay their hands on. AU Silesia and 
 Lusatia'a T,-oods are tenanted by bands 
 Of the late troops, who levy on the country 
 Their maintenance : the Chatelains must keep 
 Their castle walls — beyond them 'tis but doubtful 
 Travel for your rich count or full-blown baron. 
 My comfort is that, wander where I may, 
 I've little left to lose now. 
 
 Wer. And I — ^nothing. 
 
 Gab. That'sharder still. You say you were a soldier. 
 
 Wer. I was. 
 
 Gab. You look one still. All soldiers are 
 
 Or should be comrades, even though enemies. 
 Our swords when drawn must cross, our engines aim 
 (While levell'd) at each other's hearts ; but when 
 A truce, a peace, or what you will, remits 
 The steel into its scabbard, and lets sleep 
 The spark which lights the matchlock, we are brethren. 
 You are poor and sickly — I am not rich, but healthy; 
 I want for nothing which I cannot want ; 
 You seem devoid of this — wilt share it ? 
 
 [Gabor pulls o'jt his purse. 
 
 Wer. Who 
 
 Told you I was a beggar ? 
 
 Gal. You yourself, 
 
 In saying you were a soldier during peace-time. 
 
 Wer. (Jootii'g at him with suspij:ion.) You know 
 me not ? 
 
 Gidt. I know no man, not even 
 
 Myself: how should 1 then know one I ne'er 
 Belield till half an hour since ? 
 
n;4 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACI I. 
 
 Wir. Sir, I thank you. 
 
 Your offer's noble were it to a friend, 
 And not unkind as to an unknown stranjier. 
 Though scarcely prudent; hut no less I thank yoi. 
 I am a beggar in all save his trade ; 
 And when I beg of any one, it shall be 
 Of him who was the first to offer wliat 
 Few can obtain by asking. Pardon me. [Exit. 
 
 Gab. (fmhis. ) A goodly fellow by his looks, though 
 worn, 
 As most good fellows are, by pain or pleasure, 
 Whicli tear life out of us before our time ; 
 I scarce know which most quickly : but he seems 
 To have seen better days, as who has not 
 Wlio has seen yesterday ? — But here approaches 
 Our sage intendant, with the wine : however. 
 For the cup's sake I'll bear the cupbearer. 
 
 Enter Idenstein. 
 
 I(Un. 'Tis here ! the supernaculum ! twenty years 
 Of age, if 'tis a day. 
 
 Gah. 'Which epoch makes 
 
 Young women and old wine ; and 'tis great pity, 
 Of two such excellent things, increase of years, 
 VVliich still improves the one, sliould spoil the other. 
 Fill full — Here's to our hostess ! — your fair wife ! 
 
 [ Takes the glass. 
 
 Iilen. Fair I— Well, I trust your taste in wine is 
 equal 
 To that you show for beauty; but I pledge you 
 Nevertheless. 
 
 Gah. Is not the lovely woman 
 
 I met in the adjacent hall, who, with 
 An air, and port, and eye, which would liave better 
 Beseem'd this palace in it brightest days, 
 (Though in a garb adapted to its present 
 Abandonment,) return'd my salutation — 
 Is not the same your spouse ? 
 
 I(/eii. I would she were ! 
 
 But you're mistaken : — that's the stranger's wife. 
 
 Gab. And by her aspect she might be a prince's : 
 Though time hath touch'd her, too, she still retains 
 Much beauty: and more majesty. 
 
 Idcii. And that 
 
 Is more than I can say for Madame Idenstein, 
 At least in beauty : as for majesty. 
 She has some of its properties which might 
 Be sjjared — but never mind ! 
 
 Gab. I don't. Rut who 
 
 May be this stranger ? He, too, hath a bearing 
 Above his outward fortunes. 
 
 Iileti. There I differ. 
 
 He's ])oor as Job, and not so jiatient ; but 
 Who he may be, or what, or aught of him. 
 Except his name, (and that I only learn'd 
 To night,) I know not. 
 
 Gab. B t liow came he licre ? 
 
 Idea. lu a most miserable old ealeche, 
 
 About a mouth since, and immediately 
 
 Fell sick, almost to death. He should have died. 
 
 Gab. Tender and true ! — but why ? 
 
 Tilen. Why, what is lift 
 
 Without a li\'ing ? He has not a stiver. 
 
 Gab. In that case, I much wonder that a person 
 Of your apparent jirudence should admit 
 Guests so forlorn into this noble mansion. 
 
 Iden. That s true ; but pity, as you know, doesva&ke 
 One's heart e>mmit these follies ; and besides, 
 They had some valuables left at that time, 
 Wliieli paid their way up to the present hour ; 
 And so I thought they miglit as well be lodged 
 Here as at the small tavern, and I gave them 
 The run of some of the oldest palace rooms. 
 They served to air them, at the least as long 
 As they could pay for firewood. 
 
 Gab. Poor souls 1 
 
 Iden. Ay, 
 
 Exceeding poor. 
 
 Gab. And yet unused to poverty, 
 
 If I mistake not. Whither were they going ? 
 
 Idiii. Oh ! Heaven knows where, unless to hea 
 ven itself. 
 Some days ago that look'd the likeliest journey 
 For Werner. 
 
 Glib. Werner ! I have heard the name : 
 
 But it may be a feign'd one. 
 
 Iden. Like enough I 
 
 But hark ! a noise of wheels and voices, and 
 A blaze of torches from without. As sure 
 As destiny, his excellency's come. 
 I must be at my post: will you not join me. 
 To help him from his carriage, and present 
 Your humble duty at the door ? 
 
 Gab. I dragg'd him 
 
 From out that caiTiage when he would have given 
 His barony or county to repel 
 The rushing river from his gurgling throat. 
 1 He has valets now enough : they stood aloof tut,^ 
 ! Shaking their dripping ears upon the shore. 
 All roaring " Help !" but offering none ; and as 
 For dull/ (as you call it) — I did mine then, 
 Now do yotm. Hence, and liow and cringe hiiu here. 
 
 Men. /cringe I — but I shall lose the opi)ortunity — 
 Plague take it I — he'll be here and I not there ! 
 
 {Exit Idenstein hmtily. 
 
 Re-enter Wekner. 
 
 Wer. (to himself.) I heard a noise of wheels and 
 voices. How 
 All sounds now jar me ! 
 Penririn;/ G.\Bou.] Still here! Is he not 
 A spy of my jiursuer's? His frank offer 
 So suddenly, and to a stranger, wore 
 The aspect of a secret enemy; 
 For friends are slow at such. 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 345 
 
 Oah. Sir, you seem rapt ; 
 
 And yet the time is not aldn to thouglit. 
 These old walls will be noisy soon. The baron, 
 Or count, (or whatsoe'er this half-drown'd noble 
 May be,) for whom this desolate village and 
 Its lone inhabitants show more respect , 
 
 Than did the elements, is come. 
 
 Idcn. {without.) This way — 
 
 This way, j'our excellency : — have a care, 
 The staircase is a little gloomy, and 
 Somewhat decay'd ; but if we had expected 
 So high a guest — Pray take my arm, my lord ! 
 Enter Stualejiheim, Idenstein, ami Attendants — 
 
 partly hh own, and partly Retainers of the Domain 
 
 of whii-h Idensteju is Intendant. 
 
 Stral. I'll rest me here a moment. 
 
 Iden. (to the servants.) Ho 1 a chair ! 
 
 Instantly, knaves ! [STK-AiENHEin sits down, 
 
 Wer. {aside.) 'Tis he ! 
 
 Stral. I'm better now. 
 
 Wlio are these strangers ? 
 
 Iden. Please you, my good lord. 
 
 One says he is no stranger. 
 
 Wer. {aloud and hastily^ Wlio says that ? 
 
 [Tiiey hole at him with surprise. 
 
 Iden. Why, no one spoke of you, or to you ! — but 
 Here's one his excellency may be pleased 
 To recognise. [Pointing to Gabor. 
 
 Gab. I seek not to disturb 
 
 His noble memory. 
 
 Stral. I apprehend 
 
 This is one of the strangers to whose aid 
 I owe my rescue. Is not that the other ? 
 
 [Pointing to Weknee. 
 My state when I was succor'd must excuse 
 My uncertainty to whom I owe so much. 
 
 Iden. He ! — no, my lord, he rather wants for rescue 
 Than can aiford it. 'Tis a poor sick man, 
 Travel-tired, and lately risen from a bed 
 From whence he never dream'd to rise. 
 
 Stral. Methought 
 
 That there were two. 
 
 Oah. There wore, in company ; 
 
 But, in the service render'd to your lordship, 
 I needs must say but one, and he is absent. 
 The chief part of whatever aid was render'd 
 "Was his : it was his fortune to be first. 
 My otU was not inferior, but his strength 
 And youth outstripp'd me ; therefore do not waste 
 Your thanks on me. I was but a glad second 
 Unto a nobler principal. 
 
 Sti at. Where is he ? 
 
 An Allen. My lord, he tarried in the cottage where 
 Tour excellency rested for an hour, 
 And said he would be here to-morrow. 
 
 Stral. TiU 
 
 44 
 
 That hour arrives, I can but offer thanks. 
 And then 
 
 Gab. I seek no more, and scarce deserve 
 
 So much. My comrade may sjjeak for himself. 
 
 Stral. {Ji.ri?ig his eyes upon Werner : then aside.) 
 It cannot be ! and yet he must be look'd to. 
 'Tis twenty years since I beheld him with 
 These eyes ; and, though my agents still have kept 
 Theirs on him, policy has held aloof 
 My own ft'om his, not to alarm him into 
 Suspicion of my plan. Why did I leave 
 At Hamburgh those who would have made aastirance 
 If this be he or no ? I thouglit, ere now. 
 To have Iieen lord of Siegendorf, and parted 
 In haste, though even the elements appear 
 To fight against me, and this sudden flood 
 
 May keep me prisoner here till 
 
 [He pauses, and tools at Werner ; then resumes. 
 
 This man must 
 Be watcli'd. If it is he, he is so changed. 
 His father, rising from his grave again. 
 Would pass him by unknown. I must be w°-y : 
 An error would spoil all. 
 
 Iden. Your lordship seems 
 
 Pensive. Will it not please you to pass on ? 
 
 Stral. 'Tis jjast fatigue which gives my weigll'd« 
 down spirit 
 An outward show of thought. I will to rest. 
 
 Idin. The prince's chamber is prepared, with all 
 The very furniture the prince used when 
 Last here, in its full sijleudor. 
 
 {Aside.) Somewhat tatter'd, 
 And devilish damp, but fine enough by torchlight; 
 And that's enough for your right noljle blood 
 Of twenty quarterings upon a hatchment ; 
 So let their bearer sleep 'neath something Uke one 
 Now, as he one day will forever lie. 
 
 Stral. {rising and turning to Gabor.) Good-night, 
 good people ! Sir, I trust to-morrow 
 WiU find me apter to requit your service. 
 In the meantime I crave your company 
 A moment in my chamber. 
 
 Gab. I attend you. 
 
 Stral, {after a few steps, pauses, and caWs Wkkheb,) 
 Friend ! 
 
 Wer. Sir ! 
 
 Iden. Sir ! Lord — oh lord ! Why don't you say 
 His lordship, or his excellency ? Pray, 
 My lord, excuse this poor man's want of breeding ; 
 He hath not been accustom'd to admission 
 To such a presence. 
 
 Stral. {to Idenstein.) Peace, intendant ! 
 
 Iden. Oh I 
 
 I am dumb. 
 
 Stral, {to Werner.) Have you been long here J 
 
 Wer. liong ? 
 
 Stral. I sought 
 
346 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT t 
 
 A.n answer, not an cclio. 
 
 Wcr. You may seek 
 
 Biitli from the walls. I am not used to answer 
 riiose whom I know not. 
 
 S!ra/. Indeed 1 Ne'ertheless, 
 
 You might reply with courtesy to what 
 [s aslv'J in kindness. 
 
 W, r. When I know it such, 
 
 [ will requite— that is, re/ihj — in unison. 
 
 Stral. The intendant said, you had been detain'd 
 by sickness — 
 If I could aid you — journeying the same way ? 
 
 Wei: (ijuick/(/.) I am not journeying the same way ! 
 
 Stral. How know ye 
 
 5rhat, ere you know my route ? 
 
 ir,;-. Because there is 
 
 But one way that the rich and poor must tread 
 Together. You diverged from that dread path 
 Some hours ago, and I some days : henceforth 
 Our roads must lie asunder, though they tend 
 All to one home. 
 
 MriiL Your language is above 
 
 Your station. 
 
 Wer. {hittci-hj.) Is it ? 
 
 Stral. Or, at least, beyond 
 
 Your garb. 
 
 Wer. 'Tis well that it is not beneath it, 
 
 As sometimes happens to the better clad. 
 But, in a word, what would you with me ? 
 
 Stral. {sliirtle.l.) I. 
 
 Wer. Yes — you ! You know me not, and question 
 And wonder that I answer not — not knowing [me. 
 My inquisitor. Explain what you would have, 
 And then I'll satisfy yourself, or me. 
 
 Stral. I knew not that you had reasons for reserve. 
 
 Wer. Many have such : — Have you none ? 
 
 Stral. None which can 
 
 Interest a mere stranger. 
 
 Wer. Then forgive 
 
 The same unknown and humble stranger, if 
 Ha wishes to remain so to the man 
 Who can have naught in common with him. 
 
 Stral. Sir, 
 
 I will not balk your humor, though untoward : 
 I only meant you service — but good-night ! 
 Intendant, show the way 1 {to Gabok.) Sir, you vnV 
 with me ? 
 \_Excunt StkaIj^^setm and attendants; Iden- 
 STEIN and Gabob. 
 
 Wer. (nolii.i.) 'Tis he ! I am taken in the toils. Be- 
 I quited Hamburgh, Giulio, his late steward, [fore 
 Inform'd me, that he had obtain'd an order 
 From Brandenburgh's elector, for the arrest 
 Of Kruitzner (such the name I then bore) when 
 I came ujxju the frontier ; the free city 
 Alone iircsei'ved my freedom — till I left 
 [ts Wills — ff >1 that I was to quit them ! But 
 
 I deem'd this humble garb, and route obscure, 
 
 Had baffled the slow hounds in their pursuit. 
 
 What's to be done ? He knows me not by person ; 
 
 Nor could aught, save the eye of apprehension, 
 
 Have recognised Jtim, after twenty years, 
 
 We raet so rarely and so coldly in 
 
 Our youth. But those about him ! Now I can 
 
 Divine the frankness of the Hungarian, who 
 
 No doubt is a mere tool and spy of Stralenheim'a, 
 
 To sound and to secure me. Without means ! 
 
 Sick, poor — begirt too with the flooding rivers. 
 
 Impassable even to the wealthy, with 
 
 All the appliances which purchase modes 
 
 Of overjjowering peril with men's lives, — 
 
 How can I hope ? An hour ago methought 
 
 My state beyond despair ; and now, 'tis such, 
 
 The past seems jjaradise. Another day, 
 
 And I'm detected, — on the very eve 
 
 Of honors, rights, and my inheritance, 
 
 When a few drops of gold might save me still 
 
 In favoring an escape. 
 
 Enter Idenbtedi ami Fritz in conversatvm. 
 
 Fritz. Immediately. 
 
 Iden. I tell you 'tis impossiljle. 
 
 Friix. It must 
 
 Be tried, however ; and if one express 
 Fail, you must send on others, till the answer 
 Arrives from Frankfort, from tlie commandant. 
 
 Iden. I will do what I can. 
 
 Frit:;. And recollect 
 
 To spare no trouble ; you will be repaid 
 Tenfold. 
 
 Lhn. The baron is retired to rest ? 
 
 Fritz. He hath thrown himself into an easy chail 
 Beside the fire, and slumbers ; and has order'd 
 He may not be disturb'd until eleven 
 When he wiU take himself to bed. 
 
 Lhn. Before 
 
 An hour is past I'll do my best to serv(^ him. 
 
 Fritz. Remember! [KWC Fritz. 
 
 Jilni. The de^^l take these great men, they 
 
 Think all things made for them. Now here must I 
 Rouse up some half a dozen shivering vassals 
 From their scant pallets, .and, at peril 
 Of their lives, dispatch them o'er the river towards 
 Frankfort. Methinks the baron's own experience 
 Some hours ago might teach him fellow-feeling : 
 But no, " it »(».<'," and there's an end. How now ? 
 Are you there, Mjmheer Werner ? 
 
 Wer. You h.ave left 
 
 Your noble guest right quickly. 
 
 Hen. Yes — he's dozing 
 
 And seems to like that none should sleep besides. 
 Here is a packet for the commandant 
 Of Frankfort, at all risks and all expenses ; 
 But I must not lose timi, . Good-niglit I [Exit 
 
SCENE L 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 34Y 
 
 Wer. " To Frankfort !" 
 
 !?o, so, it tliickeus ! Ay, " the commandant." 
 This tallies well -svith all the prior steps 
 Of tiiis cool, calculating fiend, who walks 
 Between me and my father's house. No doubt 
 He writes for a detachment to convey me 
 Into some secret fortress. — Sooner than 
 
 This 
 
 [Werner JooJrs around, and snatches up a knife, 
 
 lying on a tahle in a recesx. 
 
 Now I am master of myself at least. 
 Hark, — footsteps ! How do I know that Stralcnheim 
 Will wait for even this show of that authority 
 Which is to overshadow usurpation ? 
 That he suspects me' s certain. I'm alone ; 
 He with a numerous train. I weak ; he strong 
 In gold, in numbers, rank, authority. 
 I nameless, or involving in my name 
 Destruction, till I reach my own domain ; 
 He full-blown with his titles, which impose 
 Still further on these obscure petty burghers 
 Than they could do elsewhere. Hark ! nearer still ! 
 I'll to the secret passage, which communicates 
 
 With the No ! all is silent — "twas my fancy ! — 
 
 Still as the breathless interval between 
 
 The flash and thimder : I must hush my soul 
 
 Amidst its perils. Yet I will retire, 
 
 To see if stiU be unexplored the passage 
 
 I wot of: it wiU serve me as a den 
 
 Of secrecy for some hours, at the worst. 
 
 [Werner draws a panel, and exit, closing it 
 after him. 
 
 Enter Gabor and Josephixe. 
 
 Oab Where is your husband ? 
 
 Jos. Here, I thought : I left him 
 
 Not long since in his chamber. But these rooms 
 Have many outlets, and he may be gone 
 To accompany the intendant. 
 
 Gnh. Baron Stralenheim 
 
 Put many questions to the intendant on 
 The subject of your lord, and, to be j)lain, 
 I have my doulits if he means well. 
 
 Jos. Alas ! 
 
 Wliat can there be in common with the proud 
 ^nd wealthy baron, and the unknown Werner ? 
 
 Gai. That you know best. 
 
 Jos. Or, if it were so, how 
 
 Jome you to stir yourself in his behalf, 
 Rather than that of him whose life you saved ? 
 
 Gah. I help'd to save him, as in peril ; but 
 I did not pledge myself to serve him in 
 Oppression. I know well these nol^les, and 
 Their thousand modes of trampling on the poor. 
 I have proved them ; and my spirit boils up when 
 I find then> practising against the weak : — 
 This is my mly motive. 
 
 Jus. It would be 
 
 Not easy to persuade my consort of 
 Your good intentions. 
 
 Oah. Is he so suspicious ? 
 
 Jos. He was not once ; but time and troubles have 
 Made him what you beheld. 
 
 Oah. I'm sorry for ii. 
 
 Suspicion is a heavy armor, and 
 With its own weight impedes more than protects. 
 Good night ! I trust to meet with him at daybreak. 
 
 [E.vit Gabor. 
 
 Re-enter Idensteen and some Peasants. JosEPHlNB 
 retires iij> the Hull. 
 
 First Peasant. But if I'm drown'd ? 
 
 Iden. Why, you wiU be well paid for't, 
 
 Aja.A have risk'd more than drowning for as much, 
 I doubt not. 
 
 Second Peasant. But our wives and families ? 
 
 Iden. Cannot be worse off than they are, and may 
 Be better. 
 
 Third Peasant. I have neither, and will venture. 
 
 Iden. That's right. A gallant carle, and fit to be 
 A soldier. I'll promote you to the ranks 
 In the jjrince's body-guard — if you succeed ; 
 And you shall have besides, in sparkling coin, 
 Two thalers. 
 
 Third Peasant. No more ! 
 
 Iden. Out upon your avarice 
 
 Can that low vice alloy so much ambition I 
 I teU thee, fellow, that two thalers in 
 Small change wiD subdivide into a treasure. 
 Do not five hundred thousand heroes daily 
 Risk lives and souls for the tithe of one thaler ? 
 When had you half the sum ? 
 
 Third Peasant. Never — but ne'er 
 
 The less I must have three. 
 
 Iden. Have you forgot 
 
 Wliose vassal you were bom, knave ? 
 
 Third Peasant. No — the prince's 
 
 And not the stranger's. 
 
 Iden. Sirrah ! in the prince's 
 
 Absence, I'm sovereign ; and the baron is 
 My intimate connection ; — " Cousin Idenstein ! 
 (Quoth he) you"U order out a dozen villains." 
 And so, you villains ! troop — march — march, — I say 
 And if a single dog's-ear of this packet 
 Be sprinkled by the Oder — look to it ! 
 For every page of paper, shall a hide 
 Of yours be stretch'd as parchment on a drum 
 Like Ziska's skin, to beat alarm to all 
 Refractory vassals, who cannot effect 
 Impossibilities — Aw'ay, ye earth-worms ! 
 
 \Exit. driring them out. 
 
 Jos. {coming foncard.) I fain would shun these 
 scenes, too oft repeated, 
 i Of feudal tyranny o'er petty victims : 
 
S48 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT U 
 
 I cannot aid, and will not witness such. 
 
 Even here, in this remote, unnamed, dull spot, 
 
 The dininiist in the district's map, exist 
 
 The insolence of wealth in poverty 
 
 O'er something poorer still — the pride of rank 
 
 In servitude, o'er something still more servile ; 
 
 And vice in misery allVcting still 
 
 A tatti'r"d si)lendor. What a state of being 1 
 
 In Tuscany, my own dear sunny land, 
 
 Our nobles were but citizens and merchants, 
 
 Like Cosmo. We had evils, but not such 
 
 As these ; and our all-ripe and gushing valleys 
 
 Made poverty more cheerful, where each herb 
 
 Was in itself a meal, and every vine 
 
 Rain'd, as it were, the beverage which makes glad 
 
 The heart of man ; and the ne'er uufelt sun 
 
 (But rarely clouded, and when clouded, leaving 
 
 His warmth behind in memory of his beams) 
 
 Makes the worn mantle, and the thin robe, less 
 
 Oppressive than an emperor's jewell'd purple. 
 
 But, here ! the despots of the north appear 
 
 To imitate the ice-wind of their clime, 
 
 Searching the shivering vassal through his rags. 
 
 To \\Ting his soul — as the bleak elements 
 
 His form. And 'tis to be amongst these sovereigns 
 
 My husband pants ! and such his pride of birth 
 
 That twenty years of usage, such as no 
 
 Father born in an humble state could nerve 
 
 His soul to persecute a son withal. 
 
 Hath changed no atom of his early nature ; 
 
 But I, liorn noblj' also, from my father's 
 
 Kindness was taught a ditfercnt lesson. Father ! 
 
 May tliy long-tried and now rewarded spirit 
 
 Look down on us and our so long desired 
 
 Ulric ! I love my son, as thou didst me ! 
 
 What's that ? Thou, Werner ! can it be 2 and thus ? 
 
 Enter Werneb hastily, with the knife in his hand, 
 
 ly the secret panel, which Jie closes hurriedly after 
 
 him. 
 
 Wer. (not at fr.it recognising her.) Discover'd, 
 
 then I'll stab {recofj u ixinij her.) 
 
 Ah ! Josephine, 
 Why art thou not at rest ? 
 
 Jos. What rest ? My God ! 
 
 What doth this mean ? 
 
 Wer. (s^i'iicinij a rouleau.) Here's gold — gold, Jose- 
 phine, 
 Will rescue us from this detested dungeon. 
 
 Jos. And how obtain'd ? — that knife ! 
 
 Wer. 'Tis bloodless — yet. 
 
 Away — we must to our chamber. 
 
 Jos. But whence comest thou ? 
 
 Wer. Ask not ! but let us think where we shall go — 
 This — this \\ill make us way— (jiAow/hj the gold) — 
 I'll lit them now. 
 
 Jet. I dare not think thee guilty of dishonor. 
 
 Wer. Dishonor ! 
 Jos. I nave said it. 
 
 Wer. Let js hence. 
 
 'Tis the last night, I trust, that we need pass here. 
 Jos. And not the worst, I hope. 
 Wer. Hope ! I make sure 
 
 But let us to our chamber. 
 
 Jos. Yet one question — 
 
 Wliat hast thou done ? 
 
 Wer. {fiercely.) Left one thing undone wllicl] 
 
 Had made all well ; let me not think of it ! 
 Away ! 
 
 Jos. Alas, that I should doubt of thee ! 
 
 [Exeunt 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A Hall in the same Palace. 
 Enter Idenstein and Others. 
 
 Men. Fine doings ! goodly doings ! honest doings , 
 A baron jjillaged in a prince's palace ! 
 Where, till this hour, such a sin ne'er was heard of 
 
 Fritz. It hardly could, unless the rats despoil'd 
 The mice of a few shreds of tapestry. 
 
 Iden. Oh ! that I e'er should live to see this day I 
 The honor of our city's gone forever. 
 
 Fritz. Well, but now to discover the delinquent : 
 The baron is determiued not to lose 
 This sum without a search. 
 
 Iden. And so am I. 
 
 Fritz. But whom do you suspect ? 
 
 Iden. Suspect ! all peopU 
 
 Without — within — above — below— Heaven help me I 
 
 Fritz. Is there no other entrance to the chamber I 
 
 Iden. None whatsoever. 
 
 Fritz. Are you sure of that ? 
 
 Iden. Certain. I have lived and served here sincr 
 my birth. 
 And if there were such, must have heard of such, 
 Or seen it. 
 
 Fritz. Then it must be some one who 
 Had access to the antechamber. 
 
 Iden. Doubtless 
 
 Fritz. The man call'd Werner 's poor 1 
 
 Iden. Poor as a n isci 
 
 But lodged so far off, in the other wing. 
 By which there's no communication with 
 The baron's chamber, that it can't be he. 
 Besides, I bade him " good night " in the hall, 
 Almost a mile off, and which onlj' leads 
 To his own apartment, about the same time 
 When this burglarious, larcenous felony 
 Appears to have been committed. 
 
 Fritz. riicre's anothei 
 
 The stranger 
 
 Iden. The Hungarian ? 
 
SCENE T. 
 
 WERXER. 
 
 349 
 
 Frit:. He who help'd 
 
 To fish the baron from the Oder. 
 
 Lien. Not 
 
 Unlikely. But, hold — might it not have been 
 One of the suite ? 
 
 Fritz. How ? We sir ! 
 
 Iilen. No— not you, 
 
 But some of the inferior knaves. You say 
 The baron was asleep in the great chair — 
 The velvet chair — in his embroidcr'd night-gown ; 
 His toilet sj^read before him, and upon it 
 A. cabinet with letters, papers, and 
 Several rouleaux of gold ; of which one only 
 Has disajipearVl ; — the door unbolted, with 
 No difficult access to any. 
 
 Fritz. Good sir. 
 
 Be not so quick ; the honor of the corps 
 Which forms the baron's household's unimpeach'd, 
 From steward to sculUon, save in the fair way 
 Of peculation ; such as in accompts, 
 Weights, measures, larder, cellar, buttery, 
 Wliere all men take their prey ; as also in 
 Postage of letters, gathering of rents, 
 Purvejdng feasts, and understanding with 
 The honest trades who furnish noble masters : 
 But for your petty, picking, downright thievery, 
 We scorn it as we do board-wages. Then 
 Had one of our folks done it, he would not 
 Have been so poor a spirit as to hazard 
 His neck for one rouleau, but have swoop'd all ; 
 Also the cabinet, if portable. 
 
 Idea. There is some sense in that 
 
 Fritz. No, sir, be sure 
 
 'Twas none of our corps ; but some petty, trivial 
 Picker and stealer, without art or genius. 
 The only question is — Who else could have 
 Access, save the Hungarian and yourself ? 
 
 Lien. You don't mean me ? 
 
 Fritz. No, sir ; I honor more 
 
 Your talents 
 
 Lien. And my principles, I hope. 
 
 Fritz. Of course. But to the point : AVhat's to 
 be done ? 
 
 Lien. Nothing — but there's a good deal to be said. 
 We'll offer a reward ; move heaven and earth, 
 And the police, (though there's none nearer than 
 Frankfort ;) post notices in manuscrijit, 
 (For we've no printer) ; and set by my clerk 
 To read them, (for few can save he and I.) 
 We'll send out villains to strip beggars, and 
 Search empty pockets ; also, to arrest 
 All gipsies, and ill-clothed and sallow people. 
 Prisoners we'll have at least, if not the culprit ; 
 And for the baron's gold — if 'tis not found, 
 At least he sliall have the full satisfaction 
 Of mfUii]g twice its substance in the raising 
 Tha gho'l of tliis rouleau. Here's alchemy 
 
 For your lord's losses I 
 
 Fritz. He hath found a better. 
 
 Lien. Where? 
 
 Fritz. In a most immense inheritance. 
 
 The late Count Siegendorf, his distant kinsman. 
 Is dead near Prague, in his castle, and my lord 
 Is on his way to take possession. 
 
 7(7(71. Was there 
 
 No heir ? 
 
 Fritz. Oh, yes ; but he has disappear'd 
 Long from the world's eye, and periiaps the woild. 
 A prodigal son, beneath his father's ban 
 For the last twenty years ; for whom his sire 
 Eefused to kill the fatted calf; and, therefore, 
 If living he must chew the husks still. But 
 The baron would find means to silence him. 
 Were he to reappear : he's politic. 
 And has much influence with a certain court. 
 
 Iden. He's fortunate. 
 
 Fritz. 'Tis true, there is a grandson, 
 
 Wliom the late coimt reclaim'd from his son's hands, 
 And educated as his heir ; but then 
 His birth is doubtful. 
 
 Lien How so ? 
 
 Fritz. His sire made 
 
 A left-hand, love, imprudent sort of marriage. 
 With an Italian exile's dark-eyed daughter : 
 Noble, they say, too ; but no match for such 
 A house as Siegendorf 's. The grandsire ill 
 Could brook the alliance ; and could ne'er be brought 
 To see the parents, though he took the son. 
 
 Iden. If he's a lad of mettle, he may yet 
 Dispute your claim, and weave a web that may 
 Puzzle your baron to unravel. 
 
 Fritz. Why, 
 
 For mettle, he has quite enough : they say 
 He forms a happy mixture of his sire 
 And grandsire's qualities, — ^impetuous as 
 The former, and deep as the latter ; but 
 The strangest is, that he too disappear'd 
 Some months ago. 
 
 Lien. The devil he did I 
 
 Fritz. Why, yes 
 
 It must have been at his suggestion, at 
 An hour so critical as was the eve 
 Of the old man's death, whose heart was broken by iu 
 
 Lien. Was there no cause assign'd ? 
 
 Fritz. Plenty, no doubt, 
 
 And none perhaps the true one. Some aveiT'd 
 It was to seek his parents ; some because 
 The old man held his spirit in so strictly, 
 (But that could scarce be, for he doted on him ;) 
 A third believed he wish'd to serve in war, 
 But peace being made soon after his departure. 
 He might have since retum'd, were that the motive ; 
 A fourth set charitably have surmised, 
 As there was something strange and mystic in him. 
 
350 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 4Cl II 
 
 Tbat in the -wild exuberance of Tiis nature 
 
 He had JDiiiM tlie bhick bands, who lay waste Lusa- 
 
 The mnuntains of Bohemia and Silesia, [tia, 
 
 Sinee the last years of wars had dwindled into 
 
 A kind of general condottiero sjstem 
 
 Of Ijandit warfare ; each troop with its chief. 
 
 And all against mankind. 
 
 Men. That cannot be. 
 
 A young heir, bred to wealth and luxury, 
 To risk his life and honors with disbanded 
 Soldiers and dcsjjeradoes ! 
 
 Fritz. Heaven best knows 1 
 
 But there arc human natures so allied 
 Unto the savage love of enterprise, 
 That they will seek for peril as a pleasure. 
 I've heard that nothing can reclaim your Indian, 
 Or tame the tiger, though their infancy 
 Were fed on milk and honey. After aU, 
 Vour Wallcnstein, your Tilly and Gustavus, 
 Tour Cannier, and your Torstenson and Weimar, 
 Were but the same thing upon a graud scale ; 
 And now that they are gone, and peace proclaim'd, 
 They who would follow the same pastime must 
 Pursue it on their own account. Here comes 
 The baron, and the Saxon stranger, who 
 Was his chief aid in yesterday's escape. 
 But did not leave the cottage by the Oder 
 Until this morning. 
 
 Kilter Stbalenhem and Ulbic. 
 
 Slrid. Since you have refused 
 All compensation, gentle stranger, save 
 Inadequate thanks, you almost check even them, 
 Making me feel the wortlilessness of words. 
 And blush at my own barren gratitude. 
 They seem so niggardly, compared with what 
 Your courteous courage did in my behalf 
 
 Ulr. I pray you press the theme nn further. 
 
 Stral But 
 
 Can I not serve you ? Ton are young, and of 
 Tliat mould which throws out heroes ; ftiir in favor ; 
 Brave, I know, by my living now to say so ; 
 Ajid douiitlessly, with such a form and heart, 
 Would look into the fiery eyes of war, 
 As ardently for glory as you dared 
 An obscure death to save an unknown stranger 
 In as perilous, but opposite, element. 
 You are made for the service : I have served ; 
 Have rank by birth and soldiership, and friends 
 Who shall lie yours 'Tis true this pause of peace 
 Favors such % iews at present scantily ; 
 But 'twill not last, men's spirits are too stirring ; 
 And, after thirty years of conflict, peace 
 Is but a petty war, as the times show us 
 In every forest, or a mere arm'd truce. 
 War will reclaim his own ; and, in the meantime 
 Vou might obtain a post, which would ensure 
 
 A higher soon, and, hj my influence, fail not 
 To rise. I speak of Brandenberg, wherein 
 I stand well with the Elector ; in Bohemia, 
 Like you, I am a stranger, and we are now 
 Upon its frontier. 
 
 Ulr. You perceive my garb 
 
 Is Saxon, and of course my serHce due 
 To my own sovereign. If I must decline 
 Your ofler, 'tis with the same feeling which 
 Induced it. 
 
 Siriil. Why, this is mere usury ! 
 
 I owe my life to you, and you refuse 
 The acquittance of the interest of the debt. 
 To heap more obligations on me, till 
 I bow beneath them. 
 
 Ulr. You shall say so when 
 
 I claim the payment. 
 
 titral. Well, sir, since you -n-ill not— 
 
 You are nobly born ? 
 
 Ulr. I have heard my kinsmen say so 
 
 Stral. Your actions show it. Slight I ask youi 
 
 Utr. Ulric. [name 1 
 
 Stral. Your house's ? 
 
 Ulr. When I'm worthy of it, 
 
 I'll answer you. 
 
 Strnl. {(txiiU.) Most probably an Austrian, 
 Wliom these unsettled times forbid to boast 
 His lineage on these wild and dangerous frontiers, 
 Where the name of his country is abhorr'd. 
 
 {Aloud tn FniTZ and Idenstein. 
 So, sirs ! how have ye sped in your researches ? 
 
 Men. Indiff"erent well, your excellency. 
 
 Siral. Then 
 
 I am to deem the plunderer is caught ? 
 
 Men. Humph '.—not exactly. 
 
 Stral. <^r at least suspected ? 
 
 Men. Oh, for that matter, very much suspected 1 
 
 SiraL Who may he be ? 
 
 Men. Why, don't you know, my lord ? 
 
 Striil. How should I ? I was fast asleep. 
 
 hhn. And 80 
 
 Was I, and that's the cause I know no more 
 Than docs your excellency. 
 
 Stral. Dolt 1 
 
 Tden. Why, if 
 
 Your lordship, being robb'd, don't recognize 
 The rogue ; how should I, not being robb'd, identifj 
 The thief among so many ? In the crowd, 
 May it please your excellency, your thief looks 
 Exactly like the rest, or rather better : 
 'Tis only at the bar and in the dungeon 
 That wise men know your felon by his features ; 
 But I'll engage, that if seen there but once, 
 Whether he be found criminal or no. 
 His face shall be so. 
 
 Stral {to Frits) Prithee, Fritz, inform me 
 What hath been done to trace the fellow J 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 351 
 
 Fritz. Faith ! 
 
 My lord, not much as yet, except conjecture. 
 
 Stral. Besides the loss, (which I must own, affects 
 Just now materially,) I needs would find [me 
 
 The villain out of iniblic motives ; for 
 So dexterous a spoiler, who could creep 
 Through my attendants, and so many peopled 
 And lighted chambers, on my rest, and snatch 
 The gold before my scarce-closed eyes, would soon 
 Leave bare your borough. Sir Intendant ! 
 
 Iden. True ; 
 
 If there were aught to carry off, my lord. 
 
 Ulr. What is all this ? 
 
 Stral. You join'd us but this morning. 
 
 And have not heard that I was robb'd last night. 
 
 Ulr. Some ramor of it reach'd me as I pass'd 
 The outer chamber of the palace, but 
 I know no further. 
 
 Stral. It is a strange business ; 
 
 The intendant can inform you of the facts. 
 
 Iden. 3Iost willingly. You see 
 
 Stral. {impatiently.) Defer your tale, 
 
 Till certain of the hearer's patience. 
 
 Iden. That 
 Can only be approved by proofs. You see 
 
 Stral. {again interrupting him, rxnd addrensing 
 Ulric.) 
 In short, I was asleep upon a chair. 
 My cabinet before me, with some gold 
 Upon it, (more than I much like to lose, 
 Though in part only :) some ingenious person 
 Contrived to glide through all my own attendants. 
 Besides those of the place, and bore away 
 A hundred golden ducats, which to find 
 I would be fain, and there's an end. Perhaps 
 You (as I still am rather faint) would add 
 To yesterday's great oljligation, this. 
 Though slighter, yet not slight, to aid these men 
 (Who seem but lukewarm) in recovering it ? 
 
 Ulr. Most willingly, and without loss of time — 
 {To Idenatein.') Come hither, mynheer! 
 
 Iden. But so much haste bodes 
 Right little speed, and 
 
 Ulr. Standing motionless 
 
 None ; so let's march ; we'U talk as we go on. 
 
 Iden. But 
 
 Ulr. Show the spot, and then I'll answer you. 
 
 Fritz. I will, sir, with his excellency's leave. 
 
 Stral. Do so, and take yon old ass with you. 
 
 Fritz. Hence ! 
 
 Ulr. Come on, old oracle, expound thy riddle ! 
 
 [&?Y irith iDENSTErs and Fkitz. 
 
 Stral. {mlit.<!.) A stalwart, active, soldier-looking 
 Handsome as Hercules ere his first labor, [stripling, 
 And with a brow of thought beyond his years 
 Vriien in rep ise, till his eye kindles up 
 In t.asweriiig yours. I wish I could engage him, 
 
 I have need of some such spirits near me now, 
 
 For this inheritance is worth a struggle. 
 
 And though I am not the man to yield without one 
 
 Neither are they who now rise up between me 
 
 And my desire. The boy, they say, 's a bold one ; 
 
 But he hath play'd the truant in some hour 
 
 Of Ireakish folly, leaving fortune to [whom 
 
 Champion his claims. That's well. The father 
 
 For years I've track'd, as does the bloodhound. 
 
 In sight, but constantly in scent, had put me [never 
 
 To fault ; but here I lutve him, and that's better. 
 
 It must be lie ' All circumstance proclaims it ; 
 
 And careless voices, knowing not the cause 
 
 Of my inquiries, still confirm it. Yes ! 
 
 The man, his bearing, and the mystery 
 
 Of his arrival, and the time ; the account, too, 
 
 The intendant gave (for I have not beheld her) 
 
 Of his "wife's dignified but foreign aspect 
 
 Besides the antipathy with which we met. 
 
 As snakes and Uons shrink back from each other 
 
 By secret instinct that both must be foes 
 
 Deadly, without being natural prey to either ; 
 
 All — all — confirm it to my mind. However, 
 
 We'll grapple, ne'ertheless. In a few hours 
 
 The order comes from Frankfort, if these waters 
 
 Rise not the higher, (and the weather favors 
 
 Their quick abatement,) and I'll have him safe 
 
 Within a dungeon, where he may avouch 
 
 His real estate and name ; and there's no harm done 
 
 Should he prove other than I deem. This robbery 
 
 (Save for the actual loss) is lucky also : 
 
 He's poor, and that's suspicious — he's unknown, 
 
 And that's defenceless. True, we have no proofs 
 
 Of guilt, — but what hath he of innocence ? 
 
 Were he a man indifferent to my prospects, 
 
 In other bearings, I should rafher lay 
 
 The inculpation on the Hungarian, who 
 
 Hath something which I like not ; and alone 
 
 Of all around, except the intendent, and 
 
 The prince's household and mine own, had ingrcBS 
 
 Familiar to the chamber. 
 
 Enter Gabor. 
 
 Friend, how fare vou ? 
 
 Ged). As those who fare well everywhere, when tl. 3 
 Have supp'd and slumber'd, no great matter how 
 And you, my lord ? 
 
 Stral. Better in rest than purse • 
 
 Mine inn is like to cost me dear. 
 
 Gah. I heard 
 
 Of your late loss ; but 'tis a trifle to 
 One of your order. 
 
 Stral. You would hardly think so 
 
 Were the loss yours. 
 
 Gall. I never had so much 
 
 (At once) in my whole life, and therefore am not 
 Fit to decide But I came here to seek you. 
 
352 
 
 BTR'OX S WORiiJs. 
 
 ACT n. 
 
 Tour couriers are tum'd back — I have outstripp'd 
 In my return. [them, 
 
 Stral. You I Why ? 
 
 .Oah. I went at daybreak, 
 
 To watch for the abatement of the river. 
 As being anxious to resume my journey. 
 Your messengers were all check'd like myself; 
 And, seeing the case hopeless, I await 
 The current's pleasure. 
 
 Siral. Would the dogs were in it I 
 
 Why did they not, at least, attempt the passage ? 
 I order'u this at all risks. 
 
 OoJi. Could you order 
 
 Tlie Oder to divide, as Moses did 
 The Red Sea, (scarcely redder than the flood 
 Of the swoln stream,) and be obey'd, perhaps 
 They might have ventured. 
 
 Stral. I must see to it : 
 
 The knaves ! the slaves ! — but they shall smart for 
 this [Exit Stralenheim. 
 
 Gall. (Kol^.f.) There goes my noble, feudal, self- 
 Epitome of what brave chivalry [will'd baron I 
 The preux chevaliers of the good old times. 
 Have left us. Yesterday he would have given 
 His lands, (if he hath any,) and, still dearer. 
 His sixt(>(!n quarterings, for as much fresh air 
 As would have fill'd a bladder, while he lay 
 Gurgling and foaming half way through the window 
 Of his o'erset and water-logg'd conveyance ; 
 And now he storms at half a dozen wretches, 
 Because they love tlieir lives too 1 Yet, he's right : 
 'Tis strange they should, when such as he may put 
 To hazard at his pleasure. Oh, thou world ! [them 
 Thou art indeed a melancholy jest I 
 
 tKrit Gabob. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The Apartment of Werner, iii the Palace. 
 Enter Josephine and Ulric. 
 
 Jb», Stand back, and let me look on thee again I 
 My Ulric ! — my IjeJoved ! — can it be — 
 After twelve years ? 
 
 l^'lr. My dearest mother ! 
 
 Jog. Yes 1 
 
 My dream is realized — ^how beautiful ! — 
 How more than all I sigh'd for ! Heaven receive 
 A mother's thanks ! — a mother's tears of joy 1 
 This is indeed thy work ! At such an hour, too. 
 He comes not only as a son, but saviour. 
 
 U/r. If such a joy await me, it must double 
 Wliat I now fe';l, and lighten from my heart 
 :\ part of the .ong debt of duty, not 
 Of l<>ve (for that was ne'er withheld) — forgive me I 
 Tliis long delav was not my fault 
 
 J"'. I know it, 
 
 But cannot think of sorrow now, and doubt 
 If I e'er felt it, 'tis so dazzled ft'om 
 My memory, by this oblivious transport ! — 
 My son ! 
 
 Enter Werner. 
 Wer. What have we here, — more strangers ? 
 Jo.'i. No I 
 
 Look upon him I Wliat do you see ? 
 
 "''''■• A stripling, 
 
 For the first time 
 
 Wlr. {l-neeling.) For twelve long years, my father 1 
 Wer. O God ! 
 ,/'«. He faints I 
 
 Wer. No — I am better now — 
 
 Ulric I {Etnbraeen him.) 
 
 r/r. My father, Siegendorf I 
 Wir. (starting.) Hush ! boy 
 
 The walls may hear that name ! 
 
 n'lr. Wliat then ? 
 
 Wer. Why, the. — 
 
 But we will talk of that anon. Re memlier, 
 I must be known here but as Werner. Come I 
 Come to my arms again ! Why, thou look'st all 
 I should have been, and was not. .Josephine ! 
 Sure 'tis no father's fondness dazzles me ; 
 But, had I seen that form amid ten thousand 
 Youth of the choicest, my heart woukl have chosen 
 This for my son ! 
 
 l''fr. And yet you knew me not ! 
 
 Wer. Alas ! I have had that upon my soul, 
 Wliich makes me look on all men with an eye 
 That only knows the evil at first glance. 
 
 I'lr. My memory served me for more fondly : I 
 Have not forgotten aught ; and ofttimcs in 
 The proud and princely halls of — (I'll not name them, 
 Ab you say that 'tis perilous) — but i' the pomp 
 Of your sire's feudal mansion, I look'd back 
 To the Bohemian mountains many a sunset. 
 And wept to see another da_y go down 
 O'er thee and me, with those huge hills between ns. 
 They shall not part us more. 
 
 Wer. I know not that. 
 
 Are you aware my father is no more ? 
 
 Wlr. Oh, heavens ! I left him in a green old ago, 
 And looking like the oak, worn, but still steady 
 Amidst the elements, whilst younger trees 
 Fell fast around him. 'Twas scarce three months 
 Wer. Why did you leave him ? [since. 
 
 Jos. (emhriirinij Ulric.) Can you ask that question ? 
 Is he not here ? 
 
 Wer. True : he hath sought his jiarents. 
 
 And found them ; but, oh, how, and in what state 1 
 Ulr. All shall be bettcr'd. What we have to do 
 Is to proceed, and to as=ert our rights. 
 Or ratlier yours ; for I waive all, unless 
 Your fa"ier has disposed in such a sort 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 353 
 
 Of his broad lands as to make mine the foremogt, 
 So that I must prefer my claim for form : 
 But I trust better, and that all is yours. 
 
 Wer. Have you not heard of Stralenheim ? 
 
 U/r. I saved 
 
 His life but yesterday : he's here. 
 
 Wer. You saved 
 
 The serpent who will sting us all ! 
 
 Ulr. You speak 
 
 Riddles : what is this Stralenheim to us ? 
 
 Wer. Every thing. One who claims our lather's 
 Our distant kinsman, and our nearest foe, [lands ; 
 
 Fh: I never heard his name till now. The count, 
 Indeed, spoke sometimes of a kinsman, who, 
 If his own line should fail, might be remotely 
 Involved in the succession ; but his titles 
 Were never named before me — and what then ? 
 His right must yield to oiu-s. 
 
 ire;-. Ay, if at Prague 
 
 But here he is all-powerful ; and has spread 
 Snares for thy father, whicn, if hitherto 
 He hath escaped them, is by fortune, not 
 By favor. 
 
 dir. Doth he personally know you ? 
 
 Wer. No ; but he guesses shrewdly at my person. 
 As he betray'd last night ; and I, perlmps. 
 But owe my temporary liberty 
 To his uncertainty. 
 
 [Tlr. I think you wrong him ; 
 
 (Excuse me for the phrase ;) but Stralenheim 
 Is not what you prejudge him, or, if so. 
 He owes me something both for past and present. 
 I saved his life, he therefore trusts in me. 
 He hath been plunder'd too, since he came hither : 
 Is sick ; a stranger ; and as such not now 
 Able to trace the villain who hath robb'd him : 
 I have pledged myself to do so ; and the business 
 Which brought me here was chiefly that : but I 
 Have found, in searching for another's dross, 
 My own whole treasure — you, my parents ! 
 
 Wer. {agitatedly^ Who 
 
 Taught you to mouth that name of " villain ?" 
 
 Ulr. Wliat 
 
 More noble name belongs to common thieves ? 
 
 Wer. Who taught you thus to brand an unknown 
 With an infernal stigma ? [being 
 
 Ulr. My own feelings 
 
 Taught me to name a ruffian from his deeds. 
 
 Wer. Who taught you, long-sought and iU-found 
 boy ! that 
 It would be safe for my own son to insult me ? 
 
 Ulr. I named a villain. What is there in common 
 With such a being and my father ? 
 
 Wer. Every thing 1 
 
 That ruffian is thy father 1 
 
 ./'«. Oh, my son 1 
 
 lielieve him not — and yet I {her voice falters.) 
 
 45 
 
 Ulr. {starts, holes earnestly at Werner, and then 
 says slowly,) And you avow it 1 
 
 Wer. Ulric ! before you dare desjiise your father 
 Learn to divine and judge his actions. Young, 
 Rash, new to life, and rear'd in luxury's lap. 
 Is it for you to measure passion's force. 
 Or misery's temptation ? Wait — (not long. 
 It Cometh like the night, and quickly) — Wait ! — 
 Wait till, like me, your hopes are blighted — till 
 Sorrow and shame are handmaids of your cabin ; 
 Famine and poverty your guests at table ; 
 Desjiair your bedfellow — then, rise, but not 
 From sleep, and judge ! Should that day e'er arrive — 
 Should you see then the serpent, who hath coil'd 
 Himself around all that is dear and noble 
 Of you and yours, lie slumbering in your path, 
 With but Ills folds between your steps and happiness; 
 When he, who lives but to tear from you name, 
 Lands, life itself, lies at your mercy, with 
 Chance your conductor ; midnight for your mantle ; 
 The bare knife in your hand, and earth asleep, 
 Even to your deadliest foe ; and he, as 'twere 
 Inviting death, by looking like it, while 
 His death alone can save you : — Thank your God 1 
 If then, like me,- content with jjetty plunder. 
 You turn aside 1 did so. 
 
 Ulr. But 
 
 Wer. {((hruptly.) Hear me ! 
 
 I will not brook a human voice — scarce dare 
 Listen to my own (if that be human still) — 
 Hear me ! you do not know this man — I do. 
 He's mean, deceitful, avaricious. You 
 Deem yourself safe, as young and brave ; but learn 
 None arc secure from desperation, few 
 From subtilty. My worst foe, Stralenheim, 
 Housed in a prince's palace, couch'd within 
 A prince's chamber, lay below my knife ! 
 An instant — a mere motion— the least imimlse — 
 Had swept him and all fears of mine from earth. 
 He was within my power — my knife was raised — 
 Withdrawn — and I'm in his : — are you not so ? 
 Wlio tells you that he knows you not ? Who says 
 He hath not lured you here to end you ? or 
 To plunge you, with your parents, in a dungeon ? 
 
 [Ue pavses, 
 
 Ulr. Proceed — proceed ! 
 
 We7: Me he hath ever known, 
 
 And hunted through each change of time — name — 
 
 fortune — 
 And why not you ? Are you more versed in men ? 
 He wound snares round me ; flimg along my path 
 Reptiles, whom, in my youth, I would have spum'd 
 Even from my presence ; but, in spurning now. 
 Fill only with fresh venom. Will you be 
 More patient ? Ulric I — Ulric ! — there are crimes 
 Made venial by the occasion, and temjitatioua 
 Which nature cannot master or forbear. 
 
354 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT n 
 
 Uh: (hol-x jirst at him, and then at JosEPniNB.) 
 My mother 1 
 
 Wir. Ay I I thought so : you have now 
 
 Only one parent. I have lost alike 
 Father and son, and stand alone. 
 
 Ulr. But stay 1 
 
 [Werner rvshes out of the ehamher. 
 
 Jos. (to Ulrir.) Follow him not, until this storm 
 of passion 
 Abates. Thiuk'st thou, that were it well for him, 
 I had not fcllow'd ? 
 
 Ulr. I obey you, mother, 
 
 Although reluctantly. My first act shall not 
 Be one of disobedience. 
 
 Jos. Oh, he is good ! 
 
 Condemn him not from his own mouth, but trust 
 To me, who have borne so much with him, and for 
 That this is but the surtace of his soul, [him, 
 
 And that the depth is rich in better things. 
 
 Ulr. These then are but my father's principles ? 
 My mother thinks not with him ? 
 
 Jfls. Nor doth he 
 
 Think as he speaks. Alas ! long years of grief 
 Have made him sometimes thus. 
 
 Ulr. Explain to me 
 
 More clearly, then, these claims of Stralenheim, 
 That, when I see the subject in its bearings, 
 I may prepare to face him, or at least 
 To extricate you from your present perils. 
 I pledge myself to accomphsh this — but would 
 I had arrived a few hours sooner ! 
 
 Jos. Ay ! 
 
 Hadst thou but done so ! 
 
 Enter Gabor and Idensteen, with Attendants. 
 
 Oah. {to Ulr.) I have sought you, comrade. 
 So this is my reward 1 
 
 Ulr. Wliat do you mean ? 
 
 Oal. 'Sdeath ! have I lived to these years, and 
 for this ! 
 {Xo Men.) But for your age and folly, I would 
 
 Iden. Help ! 
 
 Hands off I Touch an intendant ! 
 
 Gab. Bo not think 
 
 I'll honor you so much as save your throat 
 From the Kavcnstone ' by choking you myself. 
 
 Iden. I thank you for the respite : but there arc 
 Those who have greater need of it than me. 
 
 Ulr. Unriddle this vile wranghng, or 
 
 Oah. At once, then, 
 
 The baron has lieen robb'd, and upon mo 
 This worthy personage has deign'd to fix 
 His kind suspicions — me I whom he ne'er saw 
 Till yester' evening. 
 
 Iden. Wouldst have me suspect 
 
 ^ The Ravenstone, " Uabenstciu," Is the etone gibbet of G«r- 
 nanf and so called from the ravens perchiu;; on it. 
 
 My own acquaintances ? Tou have to learn 
 That I keep better company. 
 
 Gall. Tou shall 
 
 Keep the best shortly, and the last for all men, 
 The worms ! you hound of malice 1 
 
 [Gabor seizes on him 
 
 Ulr. {interfering^ Nay, no violence \ 
 
 He's old, unarm'd — be temperate, Gabor ! 
 
 Glib, {letting go Iden.) True : 
 
 I am a fool to lose myself because 
 Fools deem me knave ; it is their homage. 
 
 Ulr. {to Iden.) How 
 
 Fare you ? 
 
 Iden. Help 1 
 
 Ulr. I hare help'd you. 
 
 Iden. Kill him I then 
 
 I'll say so. 
 
 Gidi. I am calm — live on ! 
 
 Iden. That's more 
 
 Than you shall do, if there be judge or judgment 
 In Germany. The baron shall decide 1 
 
 Gab. Does he abet you in your accusation ? 
 
 Iden. Does he not ? 
 
 Gab. Then next time let him go sin'k 
 
 Ere I go hang for snatching him from drowning. 
 But here he comes 1 
 
 Enter Stralbotheiii. 
 
 Gab. {goes up to him.) My noble lord, I'm t ere ! 
 
 Stral Well, sir 1 
 
 Gall. Have you aught with me ? 
 
 Stral. What should I 
 
 Have with you ? 
 
 Gab. Tou know best, if yesterday's 
 
 Flood has not wash'd away your memory ; 
 But that's a trifle. I stand here accused. 
 In phrases not equivocal, by yon 
 Intendant, of the pillage of your person 
 Or chamber : — is the charge your ot\ti or his t 
 
 Stral. I accuse no man. 
 
 Gab. Then you acquit me, baron 1 
 
 Stral. I know not whom to accuse, or to acquit, 
 Or scarcely to suspect. 
 
 Gah. But you at least 
 
 Should know whom not to suspect. I am insulted— 
 Oppress'd here by these menials, and I look 
 To you for remedy— teach them their duty I 
 To look for thieves at home were part of it, 
 If duly taught ; but, in one word, if I 
 Have an accuser, let it be a man 
 Worthy to be so of a man like me. 
 I am your equal. 
 
 Stral. Tou 1 
 
 ; G<ib. Ay, sir 1 and, for 
 
 Aught that you know, superior ; but jiroceed — 
 i I do not ask for hints, and surmises, 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 365 
 
 And circumstance, and proofs ; I know enough 
 
 Of wt at I have done for you. and what you owe me, 
 
 To have at least waited your payment rather 
 
 Than paid myself, had I been eager of 
 
 Yoar gold. I also know, that were I even 
 
 The villain I am deem'd, the service render'd 
 
 So recently would not permit you to 
 
 Pursue me to the death, except through shame. 
 
 Such as would leave your scutcheon but a blank. 
 
 But this is nothing : I demand of you 
 
 Justice upon your unjust servants, and 
 
 From your own lips a disavowal of 
 
 All sanction of their insolence : thus much 
 
 You owe to the unknown, who asks no more, 
 
 And never thought to have ask'd so much. 
 
 St ml This tone 
 
 May be of innocence. 
 
 Gah. 'Sdeath ! who dare doubt it. 
 
 Except such villains as ne'er had it ? 
 
 Siral. Tou 
 
 Are hot, sir ! 
 
 Gab. Must I turn an icicle 
 
 Before the breath of menials, and their master ? 
 
 Stral. Uhic ! you know this man ; I found him in 
 Tovr company. 
 
 Gah. We found you, in the Oder ; 
 
 Would we had left you there ! 
 
 Stral. I give you thanks, sir. 
 
 Oah. I've eam'd them ; but might have earn'd 
 more from others, 
 Perchance, if I had left you to your fate. 
 
 Stral. Ulric ! you know this man ? 
 
 Gah. No more than you do, 
 
 If he avouches not my honor. 
 
 Ulr. I 
 
 Can vouch your courage, and, as far as my 
 Own brief connection led me, honor. 
 
 Stral. Then 
 
 I'm satisfied. 
 
 Gah. {ironically.) Right easily methinks. 
 What is the spell in his asseveration. 
 More than in mine ? 
 
 Stral. I merely said that I 
 
 Was satisfied — not that you are absolved. 
 
 Gah. Again 1 Am I accused or no ? 
 
 Stral. Go to I 
 
 Tou wax too insolent. If circumstance 
 And general suspicion be against you. 
 Is the fault mine ? Is 't not enough that I 
 Decline all question of your guilt or innocence 2 
 
 Gab. My lord, my lord, this is mere cozenage, 
 A vile equivocation ; you well know 
 Your doubts are certainties to all around you — 
 Your look 's a voice — your froT\'n'8 a sentence ; you 
 Are practising your power on me — because 
 You have it ; but beware ! you know not whom 
 You strive to tread on. 
 
 Stra... Threat'st thou ? 
 
 Gah. Not so much 
 
 As you accuse. You hint the basest injury, 
 And I retort it with an open warning. 
 
 Stral. As you have said, 'tis true I owe you some- 
 For which you seem disposed to pay yourself [thing 
 
 Gah. Not with your gold. 
 
 Stral. With bootless insolence, 
 
 [To Ms Attendants and Idekstein. 
 You need not nirther to molest this man, 
 But let him go his way. Ulric, good morrow I 
 
 [Exit Stralbnheim, Idekstein, and Attend- 
 ants. 
 
 Gah. (folhwing.) I'U after u m and 
 
 Ulr. {stopjiing him.) Not a step. 
 
 Gah. Who shall 
 
 Oppose me ? 
 
 Ulr. Your own reason, with a moment's 
 
 Thought. 
 
 Gah. Must I bear this ? 
 
 UVr. Pshaw ! we aJ must bear 
 
 The arrogance of something higher than 
 Ourselves — the highest cannot temjjer Satan, 
 Nor the lowest his vicegerents upon earth. 
 I've seen you brave the elements, and bear [skm — 
 Things which had made this silkworm cast his 
 And shrink you from a few sharp sneers and words ? 
 
 Gah. Must I bear to be deem'd a thief ? If 'twere 
 A bandit of the woods, I could have borne it — 
 There's something daring in it ; — but to steal 
 The moneys of a slumbering man ! — 
 
 Ulr. It seems, then, 
 
 You are not guilty ? 
 
 Gah. Do I hear aright ? 
 
 Toil, too ! 
 
 Ulr. I merely ask'd a simple question. 
 
 Gal). If the judge ask'd me, I would answer " No," 
 To you I answer thus. {lie drairs.) 
 
 Ulr. {drawing.) With all my heart 1 
 
 Jos. Without there I Ho 1 help ! help ! O God 
 Here's murder 1 
 
 [Exit Josephine shrieking. 
 
 Gabor and UijRIC fght. Gabor is disarmed just a* 
 Stralenheim, JosEpniNE, Idenstein, etc., re- 
 enter. 
 Jos. Oh, glorious heaven ! He's safe ! 
 Stral. {to Jos.) Wlio 's safe ? 
 
 Jos. My 
 
 Ulr. {interrupting her with a stern look, and tim- 
 ing afterwards to Stralenheim.) Both 1 
 Here 's no great harm done. 
 
 Stral. What hath caused all this I 
 
 Uir. Tou, baron, I believe ; but as the efiiect 
 Is tmrmless, let it not disturb you. Gabor ! 
 There is your sword ; and v/hen you bare it next, 
 Let it not be against yoxiijnends. 
 
3&H 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT II 
 
 fULRlc pronounces the last words slowlt/ and em- 
 phatically in a low tirice to Gabor. 
 
 Gab. I thank you 
 
 Less for my life than for your counsel. 
 
 Strnl. These 
 
 Brawls must end here. 
 
 (,'ali. {tiikintj his sirord.) They shall. You have 
 wrongVl me, Ulric, 
 Mors with your unkind thoughts than sword. I 
 The last were in my bosom rather than [would 
 
 The first in yours. I could have borne yon noble's 
 Aljsurd insinu.itions — ignorance 
 And dull suspieion are a part of his 
 Entail will last liim longer than his lands. 
 But I may fit him yet : — you have vanquish'd me 
 I was the fool of passion to conceive 
 That I could cope with you, whom I had seen 
 Already proved by greater perils than 
 Rest in this arm. We may meet by and by, 
 However — but in friendship. [Exit Gabor. 
 
 StraJ. I ^\-ill brook 
 
 No more ! This outrage following up his insults, 
 Perhaps his guilt, has cancell'd all the little 
 I owed him heretofore for the so-vaunted 
 Aid which he added to your abler succor. 
 Ulric, you are not hurt ? 
 
 Ulr. Not even by a scratch. 
 
 Striil. (to Iden.) Intendant ! take your measures 
 Yon fellow : I revoke my former lenity, [to secure 
 He shall be sent to Frankfort with an escort 
 The instant that the waters have abated. 
 
 Iden. Secure him ! He hath got his sword again, 
 And seems to know the use on't ; 'tis his trade, 
 Belike ; — I'm a civilian. 
 
 Strii/. Fool 1 are not 
 
 Yon score of vassals dogging at your heels 
 Enough to seize a dozen such ? Hence 1 after him 1 
 
 Ulr. Baron, I do beseech you ! 
 
 Stral. I must be 
 
 Obey'd. No words I 
 
 Merc. Well, if it must be so — ■ 
 
 March, vassals 1 I'm your leader, and will bring 
 The rear up : a wise general never should 
 Expose liis precious life — on which all rests. 
 I like that article of war. 
 
 [Exit iDENSTErff and Attendants. 
 
 Stral. Come hither, 
 
 Ulric ! what does this woman here ? Oh, now 
 I recognize her ! 'tis the stranger's wife 
 Whom they name " Werner." 
 
 Ulr. 'Tis his name. 
 
 Sfral. Indeed ! 
 
 Is not your husliand visible, fair dame ? — 
 
 Jos. Who seeks him ? 
 
 Stra/. No one — for the present ; but 
 
 I fain w uld parley, Ulric, with yourse'*^ 
 illone. 
 
 Ulr. I will retire •with you. 
 
 Jos. Not so : 
 
 You are the latest stranger, and command 
 All places here. 
 
 (Aside to Ulr., as she rjoes out.) Oh, Ulric ! have i 
 Bemember what depends on a rash word ! [care— 
 
 Ulr. (to .Jos.) Fear not !- 
 
 [Exit JOSEPHINH 
 
 Stral. Ulric, I think that I may trust you : 
 You saved my life — and acts like these beget 
 Unbounded confidence. 
 
 Ulr. Say on. 
 
 Sir III. Mysterious 
 
 And long-engender'd circumstances (not 
 To be now fully, enter'd on) have made 
 This man obnoxious — perhaps fatal to me. 
 
 Ulr. Who ? Gabor, the Hungarian ? 
 
 Stral. No— this " Werner " 
 
 With the false name and habit. 
 
 Ulr. How can this be t 
 
 He is the poorest of the poor — and yellow 
 Sickness sits cavem'd in his hoUow eye : 
 The man is helpless. 
 
 Stral. He is — 'tis no matter ; — 
 
 But if he be the man I deem (and that 
 He is so, all around us here — and much 
 That is not here — confirm my apprehension) 
 He must be made secure ere twelve hours further. 
 
 Ulr. And what have I to do with this ? 
 
 Strnl. I have sent 
 
 To Frankfort, to the governor, my friend, 
 (I have the authority to do so by 
 An order of the house of Brandenburg,) 
 For a fit escort — but this cursed flood 
 Bars all access, and may do so for some hours. 
 
 Ulr. It is abating. • 
 
 Stral. That is well. 
 
 Ulr. But how 
 
 Am I concern'd ? 
 
 Strid. As one who did so much 
 
 For me, you cannot be indiS'erent to 
 That which is of more import to me than 
 The life you rescued. Keep your eye on him ! 
 The man avoids me, knows that I now know him. 
 Watch him ! — as you would watch the wil 1 boai 
 He makes against you in the hunter's gap — [whci 
 Like him he must be spear'd. 
 
 Ulr. Wliy so ? 
 
 Stral. He stands 
 
 Between me and a brave inheritance ! 
 Oh, could you see it ! But you shall. 
 
 Ulr. I hope so. 
 
 Stral. It is the richest of the rich Bohemia, 
 Unscathed by scorching war. It lies so near 
 The strongest city, Prague, that fli'e and sword 
 Have skimm'd it lightly : so that now, besides 
 Its own exuberance, it bears double value, 
 
g<'ENE n. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 35^ 
 
 Confronted with whole reakns far and near 
 Made deserts. 
 
 T^lr. You describe it faithfully. 
 
 Stral. Ay — could you see it, you would say so^ 
 As I have said, you shall. . [but, 
 
 Ulr. I accept the omen. 
 
 Stral. Then claim a recompense from it and me. 
 Such as hotk may make worthy your acceptance. 
 And services to me and mine forever. 
 
 Ulr. And this sole, sick, and miserable wretch — 
 This way-worn stranger — stands between you and 
 This Paradise ? (As Adam did between 
 The devil and his). [Aside.^ 
 
 Stral. He doth. 
 
 Ulr. Hath he no right ? 
 
 Stral. Right ! none. A disinherited prodigal, 
 Who for these twenty years disgraced his lineage 
 In all his acts — Ijut chiefly by his marriage, 
 And living amidst commerce-fetching burghers, 
 And dabbling merchants, in a mart of Jews. 
 
 Ulr. He has a wife, then ? 
 
 Stral. You'd be sorry to 
 
 Call such your mother. You have seen the woman 
 He calls his wife ? 
 
 Ulr. Is she not so ? 
 
 Stral. No more 
 
 Than he's your father : — an Italian girl. 
 The daughter of a banish 'd man, who lives 
 On love and poverty with this same Werner. 
 
 Ulr. They are childless, then ? 
 
 Stral. There is or was a bastard. 
 
 Whom the old man — the grandsire fas old age 
 Is ever doting) took to warm his bosom, 
 As it went chilly do^vnward to the grave : 
 But the imp stands not in my path — he has fled, 
 No one knows whither ; and if he had not, 
 His claims alone were too contemptible 
 To stand. "Why do you smile ? 
 
 Ulr. At your vain fears : 
 
 A poor man almost in his grasp — a child 
 Of doubtful birth — can startle a grandee ! 
 
 Stral. All 's to be fear'd, where all is to be gain'd. 
 
 Ulr. True ; and aught done to save or to obtain it. 
 
 Stral. You have harp'd the very string nest to my 
 I may depend upon you ? [heart. 
 
 Ulr. 'Twere too late 
 
 To doubt it. 
 
 Stral. Let no foolish pity shake 
 
 Your bosom, (for the appearance of the man 
 Is pitiful,) he is a wretch, as likely 
 To have robb'd me as the fellow more suspected, 
 Except that circumstance is less against him. 
 He being lodged far off, and in a chamber 
 Without approach to mine : and, to say truth, 
 I thmk too well of blood allied to mine, 
 Vc deem he would descend to such an act : 
 
 Besides, he was a soldier, and a brave one 
 Once — though too rash. 
 
 Ulr. And they, my lord, we know 
 
 By our experience, never plunder till [heirs. 
 
 They knock the brains out tirst — which makes them 
 Not thieves. The dead, who feel naught, can lose noth- 
 Nor e'er be robb'd : their spoils are a bequest— [iug. 
 No more. 
 
 Stral. Go to ! you are a wag. But say 
 I may be sure you'll keep an eye on this man. 
 And let me know his slightest movement towards 
 Concealment or escape ? 
 
 Ulr. You may be sure 
 
 You yourself could not watch him more than I 
 WiU be his sentinel. 
 
 Stral. By this you make me 
 
 Yours, and forever. 
 
 Ulr. Such is my intention. 
 
 [Kxeunt 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 A Hall ill the same Palace, fro^m whence the secret 
 Passage leads. 
 
 Enter Werner and Gabor. 
 
 Gah. Sir, I have told my tale : if it so please you 
 To give me refuge for a few hours, well — 
 If not, I'll try my fortune elsewhere. 
 
 Wn: How 
 
 Can I, so ivretched, give to Misery 
 A shelter ? — wanting such myself as much 
 As e'er the hunted deer a covert 
 
 Gah. Or 
 
 The wounded lion his cool cave. Methinks 
 You rather look like one would turn at bay. 
 And rip the hunter's entrails. 
 
 Wer. Ah ! 
 
 Gab. I care not 
 
 If it be so, being much disposed to do 
 The same myself But will you shelter me ? 
 I am oppress'd Uke you — and poor like you — 
 Disgraced [grace! i 
 
 Wer. {abruptly.) Who told you that I was dis 
 
 Gab. No one ; nor did I say you were so : with 
 Your poverty my likeness ended ; but 
 I said / was so — and would add, with truth 
 As undeservedly as you. 
 
 Wer. Again 1 
 
 K%I? 
 
 Gab. Or any other honest man. 
 What the devil would you have ? You 4on"t belie^o 
 Guilty of this base theft ? [nie 
 
 Wer. No, no — I cannot. 
 
 Gab. Wliy that's my heart of honor ! yon young 
 Your miserly iutcndant and dense noble — [gallant- 
 All — all suspected me ; and why ? because 
 
358 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT m. 
 
 I am the worst-clothed, and least named amongst 
 
 them ; 
 Althoui;li, wore Momus' lattice in your breasts, 
 My soul might brook to open it more widely 
 Than tlieirs : but thus it is — you poor and helpless — 
 Boili still more than myself. 
 
 Wcr. How know you that ? 
 
 Gah. You're right : I ask for shelter at the hand 
 Which I call helpless ; if you now deny it, 
 I were well paid. But you, who seem to have proved 
 The wholesouie l)itterness of life, know well, 
 By sympathy, that all the outspread gold 
 Of the new world the Spaniard boasts about. 
 Could never tempt the man who knows its worth, 
 Weigh'd at its jjroper value in the balance, 
 Save in such guise (and there I grant its power, 
 Because I feel it) as may leav no nightmare 
 Upon his heart o' nights. 
 
 Wcr. What do you mean ? 
 
 Gah. Just what I say ; I thought my speech was 
 You are no thief — nor I — and, as true men, [plain : 
 Should aid each other. 
 
 Wer. It is a damn'd world, sir. 
 
 Onh. So is the nearest of the two next, as 
 The priests say, (and no doubt they should know 
 Therefore I'll stick by this — as being loth [best,) 
 To sufi'er martyrdom, at least with such 
 An epitaph as larceny upon my tomb. 
 It is but a night's lodging which I crave ; 
 To-morrow I will try the waters as 
 The dove did, trusting that they have abated. 
 
 Wcr. Abated ? Is there hojie of that ? 
 
 Oah. There was 
 
 At noontide. 
 
 Wer. Then we may be safe. 
 
 Gah. Are y(m 
 
 In peril ? 
 
 Wer. Poverty is ever so. 
 
 Oah. That I know by long practice. Will you not 
 Promise to m;ike mine less ? 
 
 Wa: Your poverty ? 
 
 Gab. No — you don't look a leech for that disorder ; 
 I meant my peril only : you've a roof, 
 And I have none ; I merely seek a covert. 
 
 Wer. Rightly ; for how should such wretch as I 
 Have gold { 
 
 Giih. Scarce honestly, to say the truth on't. 
 Although I almost wish you had the Iwron's. 
 
 Wer. Dare you insinuate ? 
 
 Gah. Wliat ? 
 
 Wer. Are you aware 
 
 To whom you speak ? 
 
 Gnh. No ; and I am not used 
 
 Greatly to care. (.1 noke heard without.) But hark ! 
 
 Wer. Who come ? [they come 1 
 
 Oah. The intendan' and his man-homids, after me : 
 I'd face the'Aj — but it w ere in vain to expect 
 
 Justice at hands like theirs. Wh-:re shall I go \ 
 But show me any place. I do assure you, 
 If there be faith in man, I am most guiltless : 
 Think if it were your own case I 
 
 Wer. {anide.) O just God ! 
 
 Thy bell is not hereafter ! Am I dust still ? 
 
 Gah. I see you're moved ; and it shows well ic 
 I may live to requite it. [you : 
 
 lI'iT. Are you not 
 
 A spy of Stralenheim's ? 
 
 Oah. Not I ! and if 
 
 I were, what is there to espy in you ? 
 Although, I recollect, his frequent question 
 About you and your spouse might lead to some 
 Suspicion ; but you best know — what — and why 
 I am his deadliest foe. 
 
 Wer. You ? 
 
 Gah. After such 
 
 A treatment for tlie service which in part 
 I render'd him, I am his enemy : 
 If you are not his friend, you will assist me. 
 
 Wer. I wiU. 
 
 Gah. But how ? 
 
 Wer. {shoinintj the jmnel.) There is a secret spring : 
 Remember, I discover'd it by chance, 
 And used it but for safety. 
 
 Oah. Open it, 
 
 And I will use it for the same. 
 
 Wcr. I foimd it, 
 
 As I have said : it leads through winding walls, 
 (So thick as to bear paths within their ribs, 
 Yet lose no jot of strength or stateliness,) 
 And hollow cells, and obscure niches, to 
 I know not whither ; you must not advance : 
 Give me your word. 
 
 Oah. It is unnecessary : 
 
 How should I make my way in darkness through 
 A Gothic labyrinth of unknown windings ? [lead ? 
 
 Wer. Yes, but who knows to what place it may 
 /"know not — (mark you !) — but who knows it might 
 Lead even into the chamber of your foe ? [not 
 
 So strangely were contrived these galleries 
 By our Teutonic fathers in old days, 
 Wlicn man built less agaiast the elements 
 Than his next neighbor. You must not advance 
 Beyond the two first two windings ; if you do, 
 (Albeit I never pass'd them,) I'll not answer 
 For what you may be led to. 
 
 Gab. But I mil. 
 
 A thousand thanks ! 
 
 Wer. You'll find the spring the more obvious 
 
 On the other side ; and, when you would return, 
 It yields to the least touch. 
 
 Gab. I'll in— farewell I 
 
 [Gabok goea in hi/ the secret prtnek 
 
 Wcr. {mlim.) Wliat have I had done ? Alas ! wha< 
 Before to make this fearful ? Let it be [had I done 
 
BCENK I. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 nsfl 
 
 still some atonement that I save the man, 
 Whose sacrifice had saved perhaps my own — 
 They come 1 to seek elsewhere what is before them 1 
 
 Elder Idenstein and Others. 
 
 IJen. Is he not here ? He must have vanished 
 Through the dim Gothic glass by pious aid [then 
 Of pictured saints ujjon the red and yellow [sunrise 
 Casements, through which the sunset streams like 
 On long pearl-color'd beards and crimson crosses. 
 And gilded croisers, and cross'd arms, and cowls, 
 And helms, and twisted armor, and long swords, 
 All the fantastic furniture of windows 
 Dim with brave knights and holy hermits, whose 
 Likeness and fame alike rest in some 23anes 
 Of crystal, which each rattling wind proclaims 
 As frail as any other life or glory. 
 He's gone, however. 
 
 Wer. Whom do you see ? 
 
 Iden. A viUain. 
 
 Wer. Why need you come so for, then ? 
 Iden. In the search 
 
 Of him who robb'd the baron. 
 
 Wer. Are you sure 
 
 You have divined the man ? 
 
 Iden. As sure as you 
 
 Stand there : but where's he gone ? 
 Wer. Who 1 
 
 Iden. He we sought. 
 
 Wer. Tou see he is not here. 
 Iden. And yet we traced him 
 
 Up to this haU. Are you accomplices ? 
 Or deal you in the black art ? 
 
 Wer. I deal plainly, 
 
 To many men the blackest. 
 
 Iden. It may be 
 
 I have a question or two for yourself 
 Hereafter ; but we must continue now 
 Our search for t' other. 
 
 Wer. You had best begin 
 
 Your inquisition now : I may not be 
 So patient always. 
 
 Iden. I should like to know. 
 
 In good sooth, if you really are the man 
 That Stralenheim's in quest of. 
 
 Wer. Insolent 1 
 
 Said you not that he was not here ? 
 
 Iden. Yes, one ; 
 
 But there's another whom he tracks more keenly, 
 And soon, it may be, with authority 
 Both paramount to his and mine. But come I 
 Bustle, my boys ! we are at fault. 
 
 \_Exit Idenstein and Attendants. 
 Wer. In what 
 
 A maze hath ray dim destiny involved me 1 
 And one base sin hath done me less ill than 
 Tlie leaving undone one far greater. Down, 
 
 Thou busy Jevil, rising in my heart I 
 
 Thou art too late ! I'll naught to do with blood. 
 
 Enter Ulric. 
 
 Ulr. I sought you, father ! 
 
 Wer. Is 't not dangerous ! 
 
 Ulr. No ; Stralenheim is ignorant of all 
 Or any of the ties between us ; more — 
 He sends me here a spy upon your actions. 
 Deeming me wholly his. 
 
 Wer. I cannot think it ; 
 
 'Tis but a snare he winds about us both, 
 To swoop the sire and son at once. 
 
 Ulr. I cannot 
 
 Pause in each petty fear, and stumble at 
 The doubts that rise like briers in our path. 
 But must break through them, as an unarm'd carle 
 Would, though with naked limbs, were the wolf 
 
 rustling 
 In the same thicket where he hew'd for bread. 
 Nets are for thrushes, eagles are not caught so : 
 We'll overfly or rend them. 
 
 Wer. Show me hozo ? 
 
 Ulr. Can you not guess ? 
 Wer. I cannot. 
 
 Ulr. That is strange. 
 
 Came the thought ne'er into your mind last niejht ? 
 Wer. I understand you not. 
 
 Ulr. Then we shall never 
 
 More understand each other. But to change 
 
 The topic 
 
 Wer. You mean to jntrsue it, as 
 
 'Tis of our safety. 
 
 Ulr. Right ; I stand corrected. 
 
 I see the subject now more clearly, and 
 Our general situation in its bearings. 
 The waters are abating ; a few hours 
 Will bring his summon'd myrmidons from Prank- 
 WTien you will be a prisoner, perhaps worse, [fort, 
 And I an outcast, bastardized by practice 
 Of this same baron to make way for him. 
 
 Wer. And now your remedy ! I thought to eseapfl 
 By means of this accursed gold ; but now 
 I dare not use it, show it, scarce look on it. 
 Methinks it wears upon its face my guilt 
 For motto, not the mintage of the state ; 
 And, for the sovereign's head, my own begirt 
 With hissing snakes, which curl around my temples 
 And cry to all beholders, Lo 1 a viUain ! 
 
 Ulr. You must not use it, at least now ; but take 
 This ring. [He r/ives Wernbb a jewel. 
 
 Wer. A gem ! It was my father's ! 
 Ulr. jVnd 
 
 As such is now your own. With this you must 
 Bribe the intendant for liis old caleche 
 And horses to pursue your route at sunrise, 
 Together with my mother. 
 
360 
 
 BYRON S WORKS. 
 
 ACT m. 
 
 Wer. And leave you, 
 
 So lately found, in peril too ? 
 
 Ub: Fear nothing I 
 
 The only fear were if wc fled together, 
 For that would make our tics beyond all doubt. 
 The waters only lie in flood between 
 This burgh and Frankfort ; so far 's in our favor 
 The route on to Bohemia, tliough encumbcr'd, 
 Is not impassable ; and when you gain 
 A few hours' start, the dilliculties will be 
 The same to your ijursuers. Once beyond 
 The frontier, and you're safe. 
 
 We>: My noble boy ! 
 
 Ulr. Hush 1 hush ! no transports : vre'U indulge 
 In Castle Siegcndorf ! Display no gold : [in them 
 Show Idensteiu the gem, (I know the man, 
 And have look'd through him :) it will answer thus 
 A doulile purpose. Stralenheim lost (/old— 
 J\^o jewel : therefore it could not be his ; 
 And then tlie man who was possess'd of this 
 Can hardly be suspected of abstracting 
 The baron's coin, when he could thus convert 
 This ring to more than Struknlieim has lost 
 By his last night's skmibcr. Be not over timid 
 In your address, nor yet too arrogant. 
 And Idensteiu will serve you. 
 
 Wer. I wiU follow 
 
 In all things your direction. 
 
 Ulr. I would have 
 
 Spared you the trouble ; but had I appear'd 
 To take an interest in you, and still more 
 By dal)l)ling with a jewel in your favor, 
 All had been known at once. 
 
 lI'tT. My guardian angel ! 
 
 This overpays the past. But how wilt thou 
 Fare in our absence ? 
 
 Ulr. Stralenheim knows nothing 
 
 Of me as aught of kindred with yourself. 
 I will but wait a day or two with him 
 To lull all doubts, and then rejoin my father. 
 
 Wer. To part no more ! 
 
 Ulr. I know not that ; but at 
 
 Tlie least we'll meet again once more. 
 
 Wer. My boy 1 
 
 31y friend ! my only child, and sole preserver I 
 Oh, do not hate me 1 
 
 Ulr. Hate my father 1 
 
 Wer. Ay ! 
 
 My father hated me. Why not my son ? 
 
 Ulr. Your father knew you not as I do. 
 
 Wer. Scorpions 
 
 Are in thy words ! Thou know me ? in this guise 
 Thou canst not know me, I am not myself; 
 Yet (hate me not) I will lie soon. 
 
 Ulr. I'll imit ! 
 
 In thr moan time be sure that all a son 
 Cao do for parents shall be done for mine I 
 
 Wer. I see it, and I feel it ; yet I feel 
 Further — that you desjjise me. 
 
 Ulr. Wherefore she uU1 1 
 
 Wer. Must I repeat my humiliation ? 
 Ulr. No ! 
 
 I have fathom'd it and you. But let us talk 
 Of this no more. Or if it must be ever, 
 Not noic. Your error has redoubled all 
 The present difiiculties of our house, 
 At secret war witli that of Stralenheim. 
 All we have now to think of is to baflle 
 Hnr. I have shown one way. 
 
 Wer. The only one. 
 
 And I embrace it, as I did my sou, 
 Who show'd himself and father's sufetxj in 
 One day. 
 
 Ulr. You sh'iU be sale ; let that suftice. 
 Would Stralenheim's apj'earance in Bohemia 
 Disturb your right, or mine, if once we were 
 Admitted to our lands ? 
 
 Wer. Assuredly, 
 
 Situate as we are now, although the first 
 Possessor might, as usual, prove the strongest 
 Especially the next in blood. 
 
 Ulr. Blood! 'tis 
 
 A word of many meanings ; in the veins, 
 And out of them, it is a different things 
 And so it should be, when the same in blood 
 (As it is call'd) are aliens to each other, 
 Like Theban brethren : when a part is bad 
 A few spilt ounces purify the rest. 
 Wer. I do not apprehend you. 
 Ulr. That may be — 
 
 And should, perhaps— and yet but get yc ready ; 
 
 You and my mother must away to-night. 
 
 Here comes the intendant : sound him with the gem ; 
 
 'Twill sink into his venal soul like lead 
 
 Into the deep, and bring up slime and mud. 
 
 And ooze too, from the bottom, as the lead doth 
 
 With its greased understratum ; but no less 
 
 WiU serve to warn our vessels through these shoals. 
 
 The freight is rich, so heave tlie line in time ! 
 
 Farewell ! I scarce have time, but yet your liand, 
 
 My father ! 
 
 Wer. Let mo embrace thee I 
 
 Ulr. We may be 
 
 Observed : subdue your nature to the hour I 
 Keep oft' from me as from your foe I 
 
 Wer. Accursed 
 
 Be he who is the stifling cause which smothers 
 The best and sweetest feelings of our hearts ; 
 At such an hour too 1 
 
 Ulr. Yes, curse— it will ease yon ' 
 
 Here is the intendint 
 
 Enter Idenstein. 
 
 Master Idenstein 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 WERNER, 
 
 301 
 
 How fare you in jour purpose ? Have you caught 
 The rogue '! 
 
 Men. No, faith ! 
 
 Ulr. Well, there are plenty more ; 
 
 You may have better luck another chase. 
 Where is the baron ? 
 
 Iden. Gone back to his chamber : 
 
 And now I think on't, asking after you 
 With nobly-born impatience. 
 
 Ulr. Tour great men 
 
 Must be answer'd on the instant, as the bound 
 Of the stung steed replies unto the spur : 
 'Tis well they have horses, too ; for if they had not, 
 I fear that men must draw their chariots, as 
 They say kings did Sesostris. 
 
 Men. Who was he ? 
 
 Ulr. An old Bohemian — an imperial gipsy. 
 
 Iden. A gipsy or Bohemian, 'tis the same, 
 For they pass by both names. And was he one ? 
 
 Ulr. I've heard so ; but I must take leave. In- 
 
 tendant, [your name. 
 
 Your servant ! — Werner, {to Wer., sUijhtly^ if that be 
 
 Yours. [Exit Ulric. 
 
 Men. A well-spoken, pretty-faced young man ! 
 And prettily-behaved ! He knows his station, 
 You see, sir : how he gave to each his due 
 Precedence ! 
 
 Wer. I perceived it, and applaud 
 
 His just discernment and your own. 
 
 Iden. That's well— 
 
 That's very well. To« also know your place, too ; 
 And yet I don't know that I know your place. 
 
 Wer. {showing the rinr/.) Would tliis assist your 
 knowledge ? 
 
 Men. How !— What !— Eh ! 
 
 A jewel ! 
 
 Wer. 'Tis your own on one condition. 
 
 Men. Mine ! Name it ! 
 
 Wer. That hereafter you permit me 
 
 At thrice its value to redeem it : 'tis 
 A family ring. 
 
 Men. A family ! — yours ! — a gem ! 
 
 I'm breathless ! 
 
 Wer. You must also furnish me 
 
 An hour ere daybreak with all means to quit 
 This place. 
 
 Iden. But is it real 3 Let me look on it : 
 
 Diamond, by all that's glorious ! 
 
 Wer. Come, I'll trust you : 
 
 You have guess'd, no doubt, that I was born above 
 My present seeming. 
 
 Men. I can't say I did. 
 
 Though this looks like it : this is the ti-ue breeding 
 Of gentle biood ! 
 
 Wer. I liave important reasons 
 
 For wishing to continue privily 
 My journey hence. 
 46 
 
 Men. So then yon ri>-e the man 
 
 Whom Stralenheim's in quest of i 
 
 Wer. I am not ; 
 
 But being taken for him might conduct 
 So much embarrassment to nie just now. 
 And to the baron's self hereafter — 'tis 
 To spare both that I would avoid aU bustle. 
 
 Men. Be you the man or no, 'tis not my business ,• 
 Besides, I never should obtain the half 
 From this proud, niggardly noble, who would raise 
 The country for some missing bits of coin. 
 And never offer a precise reward — 
 But th is ! — another look ! 
 
 Wei: Gaze on it freely ; 
 
 At day-dawn it is yours. 
 
 IiUn. Oh, thou sweet sparkler ! 
 
 Thou more than stone of the philosopher ! 
 Thou touchstone of Philosophy herself ! 
 Thou bright eye of the Mine ! tliou loadstar of 
 The sou! ! the true magnetic Pole to which 
 AU hearts point duly north, hke trembling needles ! 
 Thou flaming Spirit of the Earth ! which, sitting 
 High on the monarch's diadem, attractest 
 More worship than the majesty who sweats 
 Beneath the crown which makes his head ache, hke 
 Millions of hearts which bleed to lend it lustre I 
 Shalt thou be mine ? I am, methinks, ah'eady 
 A little king, a lucky alchymist ! — 
 A wise magician, who has bound the devil 
 Without the forfeit of his soul. But come, 
 Werner, or what else ? 
 
 Tl'i )•. Call me Werner stiU ; 
 
 You may yet know me by a loftier title. 
 
 Mm. I do believe in thee ! thou art the spirit 
 Of whom I long have dream'd in a low garb. 
 But come, I'U serve thee ; thou shalt be as free 
 As air, despite the waters ; let us hence : 
 I'U show thee I am honest — (oh, thou jewel !) 
 Thou shalt be furnish'd, Werner, ■fi'ith such means 
 Of flight, that if thou wert a snail, not birds 
 Should overtake thee. Let me gaze again ! 
 I have a foster brother in the mart 
 Of Hamburgh skiU'd in precious stones. How many 
 Carats may it weigh 2 Come, Werner, I wiU wing thee I 
 
 [Ex'iunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Stralenheim's Chamber. 
 Stralenheim and Fritz. 
 
 Fritz. All's ready, my good lord ! 
 
 Siral. I am not sleepy, 
 
 And yet I must to bed ; I fain would say 
 To rest, but something heavy on my spirit. 
 Too dull for wakefulness, ton quick for slumber, 
 Sits on me as a cloud along the sky, 
 Which wiU not let the sunbeams through, nor yet 
 
S62 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Descend in rain and end, but spreads itself 
 'Twixt earth ;md heaven, like envy between man 
 And man, an everlasting mist ; — I will 
 Unto my pillow. 
 
 Fritz. May you rest there well 1 
 
 Siral. I feel, and fear, I shall. 
 
 Fritz. And wherefore fear ? 
 
 Stnil. I know not why, and therefore do fear more, 
 
 Because an imdescribaljlc but 'tis 
 
 All folly. Were the looks (as I desii-ed) 
 Changed, to-day, of this chamber ? for last night's 
 Adventure makes it needful. 
 
 Frits. Certainly, 
 
 According to your order, and beneath 
 The inspection of myself and the young Saxon 
 Who saved your life. I think they call him " Ulric." 
 
 Stral. You tliiak ! you supercilious slave 1 what 
 right 
 Have you to tax ymir memory, which should be 
 Quick, proud, and happy to retain the name 
 Of him who saved your master, as a litany 
 Whose daily repetition marks your duty. [still 
 
 Get hence ! " Yun think," indeed I you who stood 
 Howling and dripping on the bank, whilst I 
 Lay dnug, and the stranger dash'd aside 
 The roaring torrent, and restored me to 
 Thank him — and despise you. '■'Tou thiuh f^' and 
 Can recollect his name I I will not waste [scarce 
 More words on you. Call me betimes. 
 
 Fritz. Good night 1 
 
 I trust to-morrow will restore your lordship 
 To renovated strength and temper. 
 
 [ The scene closes. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 TVte Secret Passage. 
 
 Oab. (s lus.) Four — 
 
 Five — six hours have I counted, like the guard 
 Of outposts on the never-merry clock : 
 That hollow tongue of time, which, even when 
 It sounds for joy, takes something from enjoyment 
 With every clang. 'Tis a perpetual knell. 
 Though for a marriage feast it rings : each stroke 
 Peals for a hojjc the less ; the funeral note 
 Of Love deep-l)uried without resurrection 
 In the grave of Possession ; while the knoll 
 Of long-lived parents finds a jovial echo 
 To triple Time in the son's ear. 
 
 I'm cokl^ 
 I'm dark ; I've blown my fingers — number'd o'er 
 And o'er my steps — and knock'd my head against 
 Some fifty buttresses — and roused the rats 
 And bats in general insurrection, till 
 Their cursed pattering feet and whirling wings 
 Leave me scarce hearing for another sound. 
 A light I It is at distance, (.if I can 
 
 Measure in darkness distance ;) but it blinks 
 
 As through a crevice or a keyhole, in 
 
 The inhibited direction : I must on, 
 
 Nevertheless, fi-om curiosity. 
 
 A distant lamp-light is an incident 
 
 In such a den as this. Pray heaven it lead me 
 
 To nothing that may tempt me ! Else — Heaven aid 
 
 To obtain or to escape it ! Sliining still [mo 
 
 Were it the star of Lucifer himself, 
 
 Or he himself girt with its beams, I could 
 
 Contain no longer. Softly ! mighty well ! 
 
 That corner's turn'd — so — ah ! no ! — right ! it draws 
 
 Nearer. Here is a darksome angle — so. 
 
 That's weather'd. Let me pause. Suppose it leads 
 
 Into some greater danger than that which 
 
 I have escaped — no matter, 'tis a new one ; 
 
 And novel perils, like tresh mistresses. 
 
 Wear more magnetic aspects : I will im. 
 
 And lie it where it may — I have my dagger. 
 
 Which may protect me at a pinch. Burn still, 
 
 Thou little light ! Thou art my ignis fatuus ! 
 
 My stationary Will-o'-the-Wisp ! So ! so I 
 
 He hears my invocation, and fails not. 
 
 \^The scene closes, 
 
 SCENE IT. 
 
 A Garden. 
 
 Enter Werner. 
 
 Wer. I could not sleep — and now the hour's at 
 All's ready. Idenstcin has kept his word ; [kand . 
 And station'd in the outskirts of the town, 
 Upon the forest's edge, the vehicle 
 Awaits us. Now the dwindling stars begin 
 To pale in heaven ; and for the last time I 
 Look on these horrid walls. Oh, never, never 
 Shall I forget them ! Here I came most jioor, 
 But not dishonor'd : and I leave them with 
 A stain, — if not upon my name, yet in 
 My heart ! — a nevcr-d)-ing cankerworm, 
 Whicli all the coming sjjlendor of the lands, 
 And rights, and sovereignty of Siegendorf 
 Can scarcely lull a moment. I must find 
 Some means of restitution, which would ease . 
 My soul in part ; but how without discovery ? — 
 It must be done, however ; and I'll pause 
 Upon the method the first hour of safety. 
 The madness of my misery led to this 
 Base infamy ; repentance must retrieve it : 
 I will have naught of Stralenheim's upon 
 My spirit, though he would grasp aU of min<. , 
 Lands, freedom, Ufe, — and yet he sleeps as souhdly 
 Perhaps, as infancy, with gorgeous curtains 
 Sjiread for his canopy, o'er silken piUows, 
 
 Such as when Hark '. what noise is that ? Agaii I 
 
 The branches shake, and sr me loose stones have fallen 
 i'rom yonder terrace. 
 
SCENE IT. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 363 
 
 [Ulric leaps down, from the terrace. 
 Ulric ! ever welcome ! 
 Thrice welcome now I this filial 
 
 Ulr. Stop 1 Before 
 
 We approach, tell me 
 
 VTer. Why look you so ? 
 
 Ulr. Do I 
 
 Behold my father, or 
 
 W,r. What ? 
 
 Ulr. An assassin 2 
 
 Wer. Insane or insolent ! 
 
 Ulr. Reply; sir, as 
 
 You prize your life, or mine I 
 
 Wer. To what must I 
 
 Answer ? 
 
 Ulr. Are you or are you not the assassin 
 Of Stralenheim J 
 
 Wer. I never was as yet 
 
 The murderer of any man. What mean you ? 
 
 Ulr. Did not you this night (as the night before) 
 Retrace the secret passage ? Did you not 
 
 Again revisit Stralenheim's chamber ? and 
 
 [Uleic pauses. 
 
 Wer. Proceed. 
 
 Ulr. Died he not by your hand ? 
 
 Wer. Great God ! 
 
 Ulr. Ton are innocent, then ! my father's innocent ! 
 Embrace me! Yes,- — your tone — your look — yes. 
 Yet say so. [yes, — 
 
 Wer. If I e'er, in heart or mind, 
 
 Conceived deliberately such a thought, 
 But rather strove to trample back to hell 
 Such thoughts — if e'er they glared a moment through 
 The irritation of my oppressed spirit — 
 May heaven be shut forever from my hopes 
 As from mine eyes 1 
 
 Ulr. But Stralenheim is dead. 
 
 Wer. 'Tis horrible I 'tis hideous, as 'tis hateful 1 
 But what have I to do vrith this ? 
 
 Ulr. No bolt 
 
 Is forced ; no violence can be detected. 
 Save on his body. Part of his own household 
 Have been alarm'd ; but as the intendant is 
 Absent, I took upon myself the care 
 Of mustering the police. His chamber has. 
 Past doubt, been enter'd secretly. Excuse me, 
 If nature 
 
 Wer. Oh, my boy ! what unknown woes 
 
 Of dark fatality, like clouds, are gathering 
 Above our house ! 
 
 Ulr. My father ! I acquit you ! 
 
 But will the world do so ? will even the judge, 
 £f But you must away this instant. 
 
 Wer. No ! 
 
 ('11 face it. Who shall dare suspect me ? 
 
 Ulr. Yet 
 
 You had no guests — no visitors — no life 
 
 Breathing around you, save my mother's ? 
 
 Wer. Ah 1 
 
 The Hungarian I 
 
 Ulr. He is gone ! he disappeared 
 
 Ere sunset. 
 
 Wer. No ; I hid him in that very 
 
 Conceal'd and fatal gallery. 
 
 Ulr. There I'll find him. 
 
 [Uleic is going. 
 
 Wer. It is too late : he had left the palace ere 
 I quitted it. I found the secret panel 
 Open, and the doors which lead from that hall 
 Which masks it : I but thought he had snatch'd the 
 And favorable moment to escape [silent 
 
 The mvrmidons of Idenstein, who were 
 Dogging him yeslcr-even. 
 
 Ulr. Y'ou rcclosed 
 
 The panel ? 
 
 Wer. Yes ; and not without reproach 
 
 (And inner trembling for the avoided peril) 
 At this duU heedlessness, in leaving thus 
 His shelterer's asylum to the risk 
 Of a discovery. 
 
 Ulr. You are sure you closed it ? 
 
 Wer. Certain. 
 
 Ulr. That's well ; liut had been better, if 
 You ne'er had turn'd it to a den for [He pauses. 
 
 Wer. Thieves I 
 
 Thou wouldst say : I must bear it and deserve it ; 
 But not 
 
 Ulr. No, father ; do not speak of this : 
 
 This is no hour to think of petty crimes. 
 But to prevent the consequence of great ones. 
 Why would you shelter this man ? 
 
 Wer. Could I shun it ? 
 
 A man pursued by my chief foe ; disgraced 
 For my ovni crime ; a victim to my safety, 
 Imploring a few hours' concealment from 
 The very wretch who was the cause he needed 
 Such refuge. Had he been a wolf I could not 
 Have in such circumstances thrust him forth. 
 
 Ulr. And like the wolf he hath repaid you. But 
 It is too late to ponder thus : — you must 
 Set out ere dawn. I will remain here to 
 Trace the murderer, if 'tis possible. 
 
 Wer. But this my sudden flight will give the Mo- 
 Suspicion : two new victims in the lieu [loch 
 Of one, if I remain. The fled Hungarian, 
 Who seems the culprit, and 
 
 Ulr. Who seems ? Who els« 
 
 Can be so ? 
 
 Wer. Not /, though just now you doubted — 
 You, my son ! — doubted 
 
 Ulr. And do you doubt of hio 
 
 The fugitive ? 
 
 Wer. Boy ! since I fell into 
 
 The abyss of crime, (though not of such crime,) I, 
 
S64 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Having seen the innocent oppress'd for me, 
 May doubt even of the guilty's guilt. Your heart 
 Is free, and quic k with virtuous wrath to accuse 
 Appearances ; and views a criminal 
 In Innocence's shadow, it may be, 
 Because 'tis dusky. 
 
 Ulr. And if I do so, 
 What will mankind, who know you not, or knew 
 But to oppress ? You must not stand the hazard. 
 Away ! — I'll make all easy. Idenstein 
 Will for his own sake and his jewel's hold 
 His peace — he also is a partner in 
 Your flight — moreover 
 
 Wei: Fly ! and leave my name 
 
 Linked with the Hungarian's, or preferr'd as poorest. 
 To bear the brand of bloodshed 3 
 
 Ulr. Pshaw ! leave any thing 
 
 Except our father's sovereignty and castles. 
 For which you have so long panted and in vain ! 
 What name f You have no name, since that you bear 
 Is feign'd. 
 
 Wei: Most true ; but still I would not have it 
 Engraved in crimson in men's memories. 
 Though in this most obscure abode of men — 
 Besides, the search 
 
 Ulr. I will provide against 
 
 Aught that can touch you. No one knows you here 
 As heir of Siegendorf : if Idenstein 
 Suspects, 'tis hnt suspicion, and he is 
 A fool : his folly shall have such employment 
 Too, that the unknown Werner shall give way 
 To nearer thoughts of self. The laws (if e'er 
 Laws ruach'd this village) are all in abeyance 
 With the late general war of thirty years. 
 Or crush'd, or rising slowly from the dust, 
 To which tlie march of armies trampled them. 
 Stralenheim, although noble, is unheeded 
 Here, save as mjch — witliout lands, influence. 
 Save what hath perish'd with him. Few prolong 
 A week beyond their funeral rites their sway 
 O'er men, miless by relatives, whose interest 
 Is Toused : such is not here the case ; he died 
 Alone, unknown, — a solitary grave, 
 Obscure as his deserts, without a scutcheon. 
 Is all he'll have, or wants. If / discover 
 The assassin 'twill be well — if not, believe me, 
 None else ; though aU the full-fed train of menials 
 May howl above bis ashes, (as they did 
 Around him in his danger on the Oder,) 
 Will no more stir a finger noie than t/ien. 
 Hence ! hence I I must not hear you answer. Look ! 
 The stars are almost faded, and tlie gray 
 Begins to grizzle the black hair of night. 
 You shall not answer : — Pardon me that I 
 Am peremptory ; 'tis your son that speaks, 
 Your long-lost, late-found son. Let's call my mother 1 
 Softly and swiftly step, and leave the rest 
 
 To me : I'U answer for the event as far 
 
 As regards you, and that is the chief point, 
 
 As my first duty, which shall be observed. 
 
 We'll meet in Ca.stle Siegendorf — once more 
 
 Our banners shall be glorious ! Think of that 
 
 Alone, and leave all other thoughts to me, 
 
 Whose youth may better battle with them. Hence ! 
 
 And may your age be happy ! I will kiss [you 1 
 
 My mother once more, then Heaven's speed be with 
 
 Wer. This counsel 's safe — but is it honorable ? 
 
 Ulr. To save a father is a child's chief honor. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 B C E K £ 
 
 [Exeunt, 
 
 A Gothic Hall in the Castle i>f Siegendorf, near 
 Prague. 
 
 Enter Emc and Henbick, Retainers of the Count. 
 
 Erie. So, better times are come at last ; to these 
 Old walls new masters and high wassail — both 
 A long desideratum. 
 
 Hen. Yes, for masters, 
 
 It might be unto those who long for novelty, 
 Tliough made by a new grave : but as for wassail, 
 Methinks the ok] Count Siegendorf maintain'd 
 His feudal hospitality as high 
 As e'er another prince of the empire. 
 
 Eric. Why, 
 
 For the mere cup and trencher, we no doubt 
 Fared passing well ; but as for merriment 
 And sport, without which salt and sauces season 
 The cheer but scantily, our sizings were 
 Even of the narrowest. 
 
 Uen. The old count loved not 
 
 The roar of revel ; are you sure that this does ? 
 
 Eric. As yet he hath been courteous as he's boua 
 And we all love him. [tcous. 
 
 Hen. His reign is as yet 
 
 Hardly a year o'erpast its honevmoon, 
 And the first year of sovereigns is bridal : 
 Anon, we shall perceive his real sway 
 And moods of mind. 
 
 Eric. Pray Heaven he keep the present . 
 
 Then his brave son. Count Ulric — there's a knight ! 
 Pity the wars are o'er 1 
 
 Hen. Why so ? 
 
 Erie. Look on him 1 
 
 And answer that yourself. 
 
 Hen. He's very youthful. 
 
 And strong and beautiful as a young tiger. 
 
 Eric. That's not a faithful vassal's likeness. 
 
 Hen. But 
 
 Perliaps a true one. 
 
 Eric. Pity, as I said, 
 
 The wars are over : in the hall, who like 
 Coimt Ulric for a well-supported pride. 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 365 
 
 Wliicli awes, and yet offend? not ? in the field, 
 Who like him with his spear in hand, when, gnash- 
 His tusks, and ripping up from right to left [ing 
 The howling hounds, tlie boar makes for the thicket ? 
 Who backs a horse, or bears a hawk, or wears 
 A sword like him ? Whose plume nods knightlier ? 
 
 Hen. No one's, I grant you. Do not fear, if war 
 Be long in coming, he is of that kind 
 Will make it for himself, if he hath not 
 Already done as much. 
 
 Eric. Wliat do you mean ? 
 
 Een. You can't deny his train of followers 
 (But few our native fellow vassals born 
 On the domain) are such a sort of knaves 
 As {Patises^ 
 
 Eric. What ? 
 
 Hen. The war (you love so much) leaves living. 
 Like other parents, she spoils her worst children. 
 
 Eric. Nonsense ! they are all brave iron-visaged 
 Such as old TiUy loved. [fellows, 
 
 Hen. And who loved Tilly ? 
 Ask that at Magdebourg — or for that matter 
 Wallenstein either ; — they are gone to 
 
 Eric. Rest ; 
 
 But beyond 'tis not ours to j^ronounce. 
 
 Hen. I wish they had left us something of their 
 The country (nominally now at peace) [rest : 
 
 Is overrun with — God knows who : they fly 
 By night, and disappear with sunrise ; but 
 Leave us no less desolation, nay, even more, 
 Than the most ojien warfare. 
 
 Eric. But Count LHric — 
 
 What has all this to do with him ? 
 
 Hen. With 7/ m.' 
 
 He might prevent it. As you say he's fond 
 
 Of war, why makes he it not on those marauders ? 
 
 Eric. You'd better ask himself 
 
 Hen. I would as soon 
 
 Ask the lion why he laps not milk. 
 
 Eric. And here he comes I 
 
 Hen. The devil ! you'll hold your tongue ? 
 
 Erie. Why do you turn so pale ? 
 
 Hen. 'Tis nothing — but 
 
 Be silent. 
 
 Eric. I will, upon what you have said. 
 
 Hen. I assure you I mean nothing, — a mere sport 
 Of words, no more ; besides, had it been otherwise, 
 He is to espouse the gentle Baroness, 
 Ida of Stralenheim, the late baron's heiress : 
 And she, no doubt, will soften whatsoever 
 Of fierceness the late long intestine wars 
 Have given all natures, and most unto those 
 Who were born in them, and bred up upon 
 The knees of Ilomicide ; sprinkled, as it were. 
 With blood even at their baptism. Prithee, peace 
 On all that I have sai 1 ! 
 
 Enter Ulric nnd Rodolph. 
 
 Good morrow, count. 
 
 V/r. Good morrow, worthy Hcnrick. Eric, is 
 All ready for the chase ? 
 
 Eric. The dogs are order'd 
 
 Down to the forest, and the vassals out 
 To beat the bushes, and the day looks promising. 
 Shall I call forth your excellency's suite ? 
 Wliat courser will you please to mount ? 
 
 rir. The dun, 
 
 Walstein. 
 
 Eric. I fear he has scarcely recover'd 
 The toils of Monday : 'twas a noble chase : 
 You spear'd/<7«r with your own hand. 
 
 Ulr. True, good Eric ; 
 
 I had forgotten — let it be the gray, then. 
 Old Ziska : he has not been out this fortnight. 
 
 Eric. He shall be straight caparison'd. How many 
 Of your immediate retainers shall 
 Escort you ? 
 
 Uh: I leave that to WeUburg, our 
 
 Master of the horse. [Exit Eric. 
 
 Rodolph ! 
 
 Hod. My lord ! 
 
 Ulr. The newa 
 
 Is awkward from the — (Rodolph poin ts to Hesrick.) 
 
 How now, Henrick ? why 
 Loiter you here ? 
 
 Hen. For your commands, my lord. 
 
 Ub: Go to my father, aud present my duty, 
 And learn if he would aught with me before 
 I mount. [F.tit He>"rick. 
 
 Rodolph, our friends have had a check 
 L^pon the frontiers of Franconia, and 
 'Tis rumor'd that the column sent against them 
 Is to be strengthen'd. I must join them soon. 
 
 Mod. Best wait for further and more sure advicea. 
 
 Ulr. I mean it — and indeed it could not well 
 Have fallen out at a time more opposite 
 To all my plans. 
 
 Hod. It wiU be difficult 
 
 To excuse your absence to the count your father. 
 
 Ulr. Yes, but the unsettled state of our domain 
 In high Silesia will permit and cover 
 jMy journey. In the mean time, when we are 
 Engaged in the chase, draw off the eighty men 
 Whom Wolffe leads — keep the forests on your route : 
 You know it well ? 
 
 Bod. As well as on that nigh* 
 
 Wlien we 
 
 Ulr. We will not speak of that until 
 
 We can repeat the same with like success : [ter. 
 
 And when you have join'd, give Rosenljerg this let- 
 
 [Gii'es a letter. 
 Add further, that I have sent this slight addition 
 To our force with you and Wolffe, as herald rf 
 
866 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 My coming, tliough I could but spare them ill 
 At this time, as my father loves to keep 
 Full numbers of retainers round the castle, 
 Until this marriage, and its feasts and fooleries, 
 Arc rung out with its peal of nuptial nonsense. 
 
 J^oil. I thought you loved the lady Ida ? 
 
 Wh: ' . Why, 
 
 1 do so — but it follows not from that 
 I would bind in my youth and glorious years, 
 So l)rief and burning, with a lady's zone. 
 Although 'twere that of Venus ; — but I love her, 
 As woman should be loved, fairly and solely. 
 
 £od. And constantly 1 
 
 Ulr. I think so ; for I love 
 
 Naught else. But I have not the time to pause 
 Upon these gewgaws of the heart. Great things 
 We have to do ere long. Speed ! speed 1 good Ro- 
 
 Rod. On my return, however, I shall find [dolph I 
 The Baroness Ida lost in Countess Slegendorf ? 
 
 Ulr. Perhaps, my father wishes it ; and sooth 
 'Tis no bad policy : this union with 
 The last Ijud of the rival branch at once 
 Unites the future and destroys the past. 
 
 Rod. Adieu. 
 
 Ulr. Yet hold — we had better keep together 
 
 Until the chase begins ; then draw thou oflf, 
 And do as I have said. 
 
 Rod. I will. But to 
 
 Retuni — 'twas a most kind act in the count 
 Your father to send up to Konigsberg 
 For this fair orplian of the baron, and 
 To hail her as his d.aughtcr. 
 
 Ulr. Wondrous kind 1 
 
 Especially as little kindness till 
 Then grew between them. 
 
 Rod. The late baron died 
 
 Of a fever, did he not 2 
 
 Ulr. How should I know. 
 
 Rod. I have heard it whisper'd there was some- 
 thing strange 
 Ai)out his death — and even the place of it 
 Is Bcarcely known. 
 
 Ulr. Some obscure village on 
 
 The Saxon or Silesian frontier. 
 
 Rod. He 
 
 Has left no testament — no farewell words ? 
 
 Ulr. I am neither confessor nor notary, 
 So cannot say. 
 
 Rod. Ah 1 here's the lady Ida. 
 
 Enter Ida. Stralenheim. 
 
 Uh You are early, my sweet cousin I 
 
 Ida Not too early. 
 
 Dear Ulric, if I do not interrupt you. 
 Why do you call me " rousin f" 
 
 Ulr. Qim Hi />(/,) Are we not so ? 
 
 Ida. Yes, but I dc not like the name ; methinks 
 
 It sounds 90 cold, as if you thought upon 
 Our pedigree, and only weigh'd our blood. 
 
 Ulr. {slarliiiff.) Blood I 
 
 Tila. Why does yours start from your checks ? 
 
 r/r. ' Ay! doth it 1 
 
 Idii. It doth — but no ' it rushes like a torrent 
 Even to your lirow again. 
 
 Ulr. {refovcriiiri Iiimself.) And if it fled, 
 It only was because your presence sent it 
 Back to my heart, which beats for you, sweet cousin ! 
 
 Ida. "Cousin" again. 
 
 Ulr. Nay, then I'll call you sister. 
 
 /(/(/. I like that name still worse. Would we had 
 Been aught of kindred 1 [ne'er 
 
 Ulr, ('ihomil;/.) Would we never had 1 
 
 Ida. Oh, heavens I and can you wish that ? 
 
 Ulr. Dearest Ida I 
 
 Did I not echo your own wish ? 
 
 Ida. Yes, Ulric, 
 
 But then I wish'd it not with such a glance, 
 And scarce knew what I said ; but let me be 
 Sister, or cousin, what you will, so that 
 I still to you am something. 
 
 Ulr. You shall be 
 
 All— all 
 
 Ida. And you to me are so already ; 
 
 But I can wait ! 
 
 Ulr. Dear Ida ! 
 
 Ida. Call me Ida, 
 
 I '«?»• Ida, for I would be yours, none else's — 
 Indeed I have none else left, since my poor father — 
 
 [She pauses. 
 
 Ulr. You have mine — you have >nr. 
 
 Ida. Dear Ulric, how I wish 
 
 My father could but view my happiness, 
 Wliich wants but this ! 
 
 Ulr. Indeed ! 
 
 Ida. You w ould have loved him. 
 
 He you ; for the brave ever love each other : 
 His manner was a little cold, his spirit 
 I'roud, (as is birth's prerogative ;) but under [other 1 
 
 This grave exterior Would you had known each 
 
 Had such as you been near him on his journey, 
 He had not died without a friend to soothe 
 His last and lonely moments. 
 
 Ulr. Who says that f 
 
 Ida. What? 
 
 Ulr. That he died alone f 
 
 Ilia. The general rumoi 
 
 And disappearance of his servants, who 
 Have ne'er retum'd : that fever was most deadly 
 Which swept them all away. 
 
 Ulr. TS they were near liina. 
 
 He could ot die neglected or alone. 
 
 Ida. Alas ! what is a menial to a deathbed, 
 Wlien the dim eye rolls vainly round for what 
 It loves ? — They say he died of a fever. 
 
dCBN'S I. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 867 
 
 Ulr. Say ! 
 
 It loai SO. 
 
 Ida, I sometimes dream otherwise. 
 
 Ulr. All dreams are false. 
 
 Ida. And yet I see liim as 
 
 I see you. 
 
 Ulr. Where ? 
 
 Ida. In sleep — I see him lie 
 
 Pale, bleeding, and a man mth a raised knife 
 Beside him. 
 
 Ulr. But you did not see his/ntr-e ? 
 
 Ida. {hoHng at him.) No ! O my God ! do you ? 
 
 Ulr. Why do you ask ? 
 
 Ida. Because you look as if you saw a murderer ! 
 
 Ulr. (ngifatcdhj.) Ida, this is mere childishness ; 
 your weakness 
 Infects me, to my shame ; but as all feelings 
 Of yours are common to me, it aifects me. 
 Prithee, sweet child, change 
 
 Ida. Child, indeed 1 I have 
 
 Full fifteen summers ! [A bugle somtds. 
 
 Bod. Hark, my lord, the bugle 1 
 
 Ida. {peevishly to Hod.) Why need you tell him 
 that ? Can he not hear it 
 Without your echo ? 
 
 Jiod. Pardon me, fair baroness ! 
 
 Ida. I will not pardon you, unless you earn it 
 By aiding me in my dissuasion of 
 Count Ulric from the chase to-day. 
 
 Rod. You will not. 
 
 Lady, need aid of mine. 
 
 Ulr. I must not now 
 
 Forgo it. 
 
 Ida. But you shall ! 
 
 Ulr. ' Shall f 
 
 Ida. Yes, or be 
 
 No true knight. — Come, dear Ulric ! yield to me 
 In this, for one day : the day looks heavy. 
 And you are turn'd so pale and ill. 
 
 Ulr. You jest. 
 
 Ida. Indeed I do not : — ask of Rodolph. 
 
 Rod. Truly, 
 
 My lord, within this quarter of an hour 
 You have changed more than e'er I saw you change 
 In years. 
 
 Ulr. 'Tis nothing ; but if 'twere, the air 
 Would soo I restore me. I'm the true chameleon. 
 And live but on the atmosphere ; your feasts 
 In castle halls, and social banquets, nurse not 
 My spirit — I'm a forester and breather 
 Of the steep mountain-tops, where I love all 
 The eagle loves. 
 
 Ida. Except his prey, I hope. 
 
 Ulr. Sweet Ida, wish me a fair chase, and I 
 Will bring you six boars' he^ids for trophies home. 
 
 Ida. And wiK you not stay, then ? You shall not 
 
 Come 1 I will sing to you. [go 
 
 Ulr. Ida, you scarcely 
 
 Will make a soldier's wife. 
 
 Mil. I do not wish 
 
 To be so ; for I trust these wars are over. 
 And you wiU hve in peace on your domains. 
 
 Enter Werner as Count SrEGENUORP. 
 
 Ulr. My father, I salute you, and it grieves me 
 With such brief greeting. You have heard our bugle 
 The vassals wait. 
 
 Sie(/. So let them. — You forget 
 
 To-morrow is the appointed festival 
 In Prague for peace restored. You are apt to foUoiv 
 The chase with such an ardor as wiU scarce 
 Permit you to return to-day, or if 
 Retum'd, too much fatigued to join to-morrow 
 The nobles in our marshall'd ranks. 
 
 Ulr. You, count 
 
 Will well supply the place of both — I am not 
 A lover of these pageantries. 
 
 Sie(!. No, I'lric : 
 
 It were not well that you alone of all 
 Our young nobility 
 
 Ida. And far the noblest 
 
 In aspect and demeanor. 
 
 Siefj. (til Idii.) True, dear child. 
 
 Though somewhat ii'ankly said for a fair damsel. 
 But Ulric, recollect too our position. 
 So lately reinstated in our honors. 
 Believe me, 'twould be mark'd in any house. 
 But most in our^, that one should be found wanting 
 At such a time and place. Besides, the Heaven 
 Which gave us back our own, in the same moment 
 It spread its peace o'er all, hath double claims 
 On us for thanksgiving : first, for our country ; 
 And next, that we are here to share its blessings. 
 
 Ulr. (aside.) Devout, too ! Well, sir, I obey at once. 
 
 (Then, aloud to a Servant.) 
 
 Ludwig, dismiss the train without 1 [£»/< LuDWio. 
 
 Ida. And so 
 
 You yield at once to him what I for hours 
 Might supplicate in vain. 
 
 Sief/. (smilinr/.) You are not jealous 
 
 Of me, I trust, my pretty rebel ! who 
 Would sanction disobedience against all 
 Except thyself ? But fear not ; thou shalt rule him 
 Hereafter with a fonder sway and firmer. 
 
 Ida. But I should like to govern now. 
 
 Sieg. You shall. 
 
 Your harp, which by the way awaits you with 
 The countess in her chamber. She complains 
 That you are a sad truant to your music : 
 She attends you. 
 
 Ida. Then good morrow, my kind kinsmen I 
 
 Ulric, you'll come and hear me ? 
 
S68 
 
 BYROX'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT r? 
 
 UIt. 3y and by. 
 
 Ida. Be sure I'll sound it better than your bugles ; 
 Then pray you be as punctual to its notes : 
 I'll play you King Gustavus' march. 
 
 JJlr. And why not 
 
 Old Tilly's ? 
 
 Ida. Not that's monster's ! I should think 
 My harp-strings rang with groans, and not with 
 
 music, 
 Could aught of // h sound on it : — but come quickly ; 
 Tour mother will be eager to receive you. [Exit. 
 
 Sieg. Ulric, I wish to speak with you alone. 
 
 Ulr. My time 's your vassal. 
 {Axide to Rtd.) Rodolph, hence 1 and do 
 
 A.S I directed : and by his best speed 
 Ajid readiest means let Rosenberg reply. 
 
 7?rt(/. Count Siegendorf, command you aught? I 
 Upon a journey past the frontier. [am bound 
 
 Sieff. \staHs.) Ah ! — 
 
 Where ? on what frontier ? 
 
 Mod. The Silesian, on 
 
 My way — (Anide to Ulric.) — W/iere shall I say ? 
 
 Ulr. (aside to Rodolph.) To Hamburgh. 
 
 ( Aside to himself.) That 
 Word will, I think, put a firm padlock on 
 Bis further inquisition. 
 
 Rod. Count, to Hamburgh. 
 
 Sieg. {agitated) Hamburgh ! No, I have naught to 
 do there, nor 
 Am aught connected with that city. Then 
 God speed you ! 
 
 Rod. Fare yc well. Count Siegendorf ! 
 
 {Exit RoDOLrH. 
 
 .Bieg. Ulric, this man, who has just departed, is 
 One of those strange companions whom I fain 
 Would reason with you on. 
 
 Ulr. My lord, he is 
 
 Noble by birth, of one of the first houses 
 In Saxony. 
 
 Sieg. I talk not of his birth. 
 
 But of his bearing. Men speak lightly of him. 
 
 Ulr. So they will do of most men. Even the 
 monarch 
 Is not fenced from his chamberlain's slander, or 
 The sneer of the last courtier whom he has made 
 Great and ungrateful. 
 
 Sieg. If I must be plain. 
 
 The world speaks more than lightly of this Rodolph : 
 They say he is leagued with the "black bands" who 
 Ravage the frontier. [still 
 
 Ulr. And will you believe 
 
 ^he world ? 
 
 Sieg. In this case — yes. 
 
 Ulr. In any case, 
 
 I thought you knew it better than to take 
 All accusation for a sentence. 
 
 Sieg. Son 1 
 
 I understand you ; you refer to but 
 
 My destiny has so involved about me 
 Her spider web, that I can only flutter 
 Like the poor fly, but break it not. Take heea, 
 Ulric; you have seen to what the passions led me: 
 Twenty long years of misery and famine 
 Quench'd them not — twenty thousands more, per- 
 chance, 
 Hereafter (or even here in moment.'i which 
 Might date for years, did .\ngujsh make the dial) 
 May not obliterate or expiate 
 The madness and dishonor of an instant. 
 Ulric, be warn'd by a father ! — I was not 
 By mine, and you behold me ! 
 
 ' Ulr. I behold 
 
 The prosperous and beloved Siegendorf, 
 Lord of a prince's appanage, and honor'd 
 By those he rules and those he ranks with. 
 
 Sieg. Ah I 
 
 Why wilt thou call me prosperous, while I fear 
 For thee ? Beloved, when thou lovest me not ! 
 All hearts but one may beat in kindness for me — 
 But if my son's is cold ! 
 
 Ulr. Who dare say that ? 
 
 Sieg. None else but I, who sec it— :/"('</ it — keener 
 Than would your adversary, who dared say so, 
 Your sabre in his heart 1 But mine survives 
 The wound. 
 
 Ulr. Your err. My nature is not given 
 
 To outward fondling : how should it be so. 
 After twelve years' divorcement from my parents ? 
 
 Sieg. And did not / too pass those twelve torn 
 years 
 In a like absence ? But 'tis vain to urge you — 
 Nature was never call'd back by remonstrance. 
 Let's change the theme. I wish you to consider 
 That these young violent nol)lcs of high naroe, 
 But dark deeds, (ay, the darkest, if all Rumor 
 Reports be true,) with whom thou consorte-'t, 
 Will lead thee 
 
 Ulr. {impatientl;/.) I'll be led by no man. 
 
 Sieg. N'or 
 
 Be leader of such, I would hope : at once 
 To wean thee from the perils of thy youth 
 And haughty spirit, I h.ive thought it well 
 That thou shouUlst wed the lady Ida — more 
 As thou appcar'st to love her. 
 
 Ulr. I have said 
 
 I will obey your orders, were they to 
 Unite with Hecate — can a son say more ? 
 
 Sieg. He says too much in saying this. It is not 
 The nature of thine age, nor of thy blood, 
 Nor of thy temperament, to talk so coolly, 
 Or act so carelessly, in that which is 
 Tlie liloom or blight of all men's happiness, 
 (,For Glory's pillow is but restless if 
 
SCEXE I. 
 
 AV K K N E R . 
 
 309 
 
 Love lay not down liis clieek tliere :) some strong 
 Some master fiend is in thy service to [bias, 
 
 Misrule the mortal who believes him slave, 
 And make his every thought subservient ; else 
 Thou"dst say at once — " I love young Ida, and 
 WiU wed her :" or, ''I love her not, and all 
 The powers of earth shall never make me." — So 
 Would I have answer'd 
 
 Uh: Sir, you wed for love. 
 
 Sieg. I did, and it has been my only refuge 
 [n many miseries. 
 
 Ulr. Which miseries 
 
 Had never been but for this love match. 
 
 Sieff. StiU 
 
 Against your age and nature ! Who at twenty 
 E'er answer'd thus till now ? 
 
 C7r Did you not warn me 
 
 Against your own example ? 
 
 Sieg. Boyish sophist ! 
 
 In a word, do you Icve, or love not, Ida ? 
 Ulr. What matters it, if I am ready to 
 Obey you in espousing her ! 
 
 Sieg. As far 
 
 As you feel, nothing, but all life for her. 
 She's young — all beautiful — adores you — is 
 Endow'd with qualities to give happiness, 
 Such as rounds common life into a dream 
 Of something which your poets cannot paint. 
 And (if it were not wisdom to love virtue) 
 For which Philosophy might barter Wisdom; 
 And giving so much happiness deserves 
 A little in return. I would not have her 
 Break her heart for a man who has none to break ; 
 Or wither on her stalk like some pale rose 
 Deserted by the bird she thought a nightingale. 
 
 According to the Orient tale. She is 
 
 (Hr. The daughter of dead Stralenheim, your foe : 
 rU wed her, ne'erthclcss ; though, to say truth. 
 Just now I am not violently transported 
 In favor of such unions. 
 
 Sieg. But she loves you. 
 
 Ulr. And I love her, and therefore would think 
 Sieg. Alas ! Love never did so. [ficiee. 
 
 Ulr. Then 'tis time 
 
 He should begin, and take the bandage from 
 His eyes, and look before he Ic-ips : till now 
 He hath ta'en a jump i' the dark. 
 Sieg. But you consent ? 
 
 Ulr. 1 did. and do. 
 
 Sieg. Then fix the day. 
 
 Ulr. 'Tis usual, 
 
 And certes courteous, to leave that to the lady. 
 Sieg. /will engage for lier. 
 Ulr. So will not / 
 
 For any woman ; and as what I fix, 
 I fain would see unshaken, when Bhe gives 
 Her answer. I'U give mine. 
 47 
 
 f^ieg. But 'tis your office 
 
 To woo. 
 
 Ulr. Count, 'tis a marriage of your making, 
 So be it of your wooing : but to please you 
 I will now pay my duty to my mother, 
 With whom, you know, the lady Ida, is. — 
 What would you have 1 You have forbid my stirring 
 For manly sports beyond the castle walls, 
 And I obey ; you bid rae turn a chamberer, 
 To pick up gloves, and fans, and knitting needles, 
 And list to songs and tunes, and watch for smiles, 
 And smile at pretty prattle, and look into 
 The eyes of feminine, as though they were 
 The stars receding early to our wish 
 Upon the dawn of a world-winning battle — 
 What can a son or man do more ? lEiit Ulkic 
 
 Sieg. (solus.) Too much ! — 
 
 Too much of duty, and too little love ! 
 He pays me in the coin he owes me not : 
 For such hath been my wayward fiite, I could not 
 Fulfil a parent's duties by his side 
 Till now ; but love he owes me, for my thouffhts 
 Ne'er left him, nor my eyes long'd without tears 
 To see my child again, and now I have found him I 
 But how I — obedient, but with coldness ; duteous 
 In my sight, but with carelessness ; mysterious — 
 Abstracted — distant — much given to long alisence, 
 And where — none know — in league with the most 
 
 riotous 
 Of our young nobles; though to do him justice, 
 He never stoops down to their vulgar pleasures ; 
 Tet there's some tie between them which I cannot 
 Unravel. They look up to him — consult him — 
 Throng round him as a leader : but with me 
 He hath no confidence! Ah ! can I hope it 
 After — what ! doth my father's curse descend 
 Even to my child ? Or is the Hungarian near 
 To shed more blood ? or — Oh ! if it should be ! 
 Spirit of Stralenheim, dost thou walk these walls 
 To wither him and his — who, though' they slew not, 
 Unlatch'd the door of death for thee ? 'Twas not 
 Our fault, nor is our sin : thou ' -ert our foe. 
 And yet I spared thee when my o-.\-n destruction 
 Slept with thee ; to wake with thine awakening 1 
 And only took — Accursed gold ! thou liest 
 Like poison Ln my hands ; I dare not use thee. 
 Nor part from thee ; thou earnest in such a guise, 
 Methinks thou wouldst contaminate all hands 
 Like mine. Tet I have done, to atone for thee, 
 Thou villanous gold ! and thy dead master's doom, 
 Though he died not by me or mine, as much 
 As if he were my brother ! I have ta'en 
 His orphan Ida — cherish'd her as one 
 Who will be mine. 
 
 Atten. 
 
 Enter an Attendant. 
 
 The abbot, if it please 
 
870 
 
 BTRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Your excellency, whom yon sent for, waits 
 
 Upon you. [Exit Attendant. 
 
 Enter the Prior Albert. 
 
 Prior. Peace be with these walls, and all 
 
 Within them ! 
 
 Sieg. Welcome, welcome, holy father I 
 And may thy prayer be heard ! — all men have need 
 Of such, and I 
 
 Prior. Have the first claim to all 
 
 The prayers of our community. Our convent, 
 Erected by your ancestors, is still 
 Protected by their children. 
 
 Sieg. Yes, good father ; 
 
 Continue daily orisons for us 
 In these dim days of heresies and blood. 
 Though the schismatic Swede, Gustavus, is 
 Gone home. 
 
 Prior. To tlie endless home of unbelievers, 
 Wliere there is everlasting wail and woe. 
 Gnashing of teeth, and tears of blood, and fire 
 Eternal, and the worm which dicth not ! 
 
 Sieg. True, father : and to avert those pangs from 
 one, 
 Who though of our most faultless holy church. 
 Yet died without its last and dearest offices, 
 Which smooth the soul through purgatorial pains, 
 I have to otVor humbly this donation 
 In masses for this spirit. 
 
 [SiBGENDOUF offers the gold which he had tal-en 
 from. Str.\lenheim. 
 
 Prior. Count, if I 
 
 Receive it, 'tis because I know too well 
 Refusal would offend you. Be assured 
 The largess shall be only dealt in alms, 
 And every mass no less sung for the dead. 
 Our house needs no donations, thanks to yours. 
 Which has of old endow'd it ; but from you 
 And yours in all meet things 'tis fit we obey. 
 For whom shall mass be said ? 
 
 Sieg. (filtiring.) For — for— the dead. 
 
 Prior. His name ? 
 
 Sieg. 'Tis from a soul, and not a name, 
 
 I would avert perdition. 
 
 Prior. I meant not 
 
 To pry into your secret. We will pray 
 For one unknown, the same as for the proudest. 
 
 Si-eg. Secret 1 I have none : but, father, he who's 
 gone 
 Might haue one ; or, in short, he did l)equeath — 
 No, not bequeath — but I bestow this sum 
 For pious purposes. 
 
 Prior. A proper deed 
 
 In the behalf of our departed friends. 
 
 Sieg. But he who's gone was not my iriend, but foe, 
 The deadliest and the staunchest. 
 
 Prior. Better stilL 
 
 To employ our means to obtain lieaveii for the aouli 
 Of our dead enemies is worthy those 
 Who can forgive them living. 
 
 Sieg. But I did not 
 
 Forgive this man. I loathed him to the last, 
 As he did me. I do not love him now, 
 But 
 
 Prior. Best of all ! for this is pure religion I 
 You fain would rescue him you hate from hell — 
 An evangelical compassion — with 
 Your own gold too ! 
 
 Sieg. Father, 'tis not my gold ! 
 
 Prior. Whose then ? You said it was no legacy. 
 
 Sieg. No matter whose — of this be sure, that he 
 Who own'd it never more will need it, save 
 In that which it may purchase from your altars : 
 'Tis yours, or theirs. 
 
 Prior. Is there no blood upon it ? 
 
 Sieg. No ; but there's worse than blood — etemai 
 shame ! 
 
 Prior. Did he who own'd it die in his led ? 
 
 Sieg. Alas ' 
 
 He did. 
 
 Prior. Son ! you relapse into revenge, 
 If you regret your enemy's bloodless death. 
 
 Sieg. His death was fathomlessly deep in blood. 
 
 Prior. You said he died in his bed, not battle. 
 
 Sieg. He 
 
 Died, I scarce know — but — he was stabb'd i' the dark, 
 And now you have it — jjerish'd on his pillow 
 By a cut-throat ! Ay ! — you may look upon me 1 
 I am not the man. I'll meet your eye on that point, 
 As I can one day God's. 
 
 Prior. Nor did he die 
 
 By means, or men, or instrument of yours ? 
 
 Sieg. No I by the God who sees and strikes ! 
 
 Prior. Nor know you 
 
 Who slew him ? 
 
 Sieg. I could only guess at one. 
 
 And he to me a stranger, unconnected, 
 As uncmploy'd. Except by one day's knowledge, 
 I never saw the man who was suspected. 
 
 Prior. Then you are free from guilt. 
 
 Sirg. (engeriij.) Oh, am I ? — say ! 
 
 Prior. You have said so, and know best. 
 
 Sieg. Father ! I have spoken 
 
 The truth, and naught but truth, if not the wliole : 
 Yet say I am not guilty 1 for the blood 
 Of this man weighs on me, as if I shed it. 
 Though, by the Power who abhorreth human blood, 
 I did not ! — nay, once spared it, when I might 
 And could — ay, perhaps, shot/Id, (if our sclf-safuty 
 Be e'er excusable in such defences 
 Against the attacks of over-potent foes :) 
 But pray for him, for me, and all my house ; 
 For, as I said, though I be innocent, 
 I know not why, a like remorse is on me, 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 371 
 
 As if he had fallen by me or mine. Pray for me, 
 Father ! I have pray'd myself in vain. 
 
 Prior, I will. 
 
 Be comforted ! You are innocent, and should 
 Be calm as innocence. 
 
 Sieg, But calmness is not 
 
 &.lways the attribute of innocence. 
 [ feel it is not. 
 
 Prior. But it will be so, 
 
 WTien the mind gathers ujj its truth within it. 
 Remember the great festival to-morrow, 
 In which you rank amidst our chiefest nobles. 
 As well as your brave son ; and smooth your aspect ; 
 Nor in the general orison of thanks 
 For bloodshed stopp'd, let blood you shed not rise 
 A cloud upon your thoughts. This were to be 
 Too sensitive. Take comfort, and forget 
 Such things, and leave remorse unto the guilty. 
 
 '[^Exeunt. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I . 
 
 A la/r(je and magnificent Gothic Rail in the Castle of 
 Siegendorf, decorated with Trophien, Banners and 
 Army of that Family. 
 
 Enter Arnheim and Meister, Attendantti of Count 
 
 SlEOEinjORP. 
 
 Am. Be quick ! the count will soon return : the 
 Already are at the portal. Have you sent [ladies 
 The messengers in search of him he seeks for ? 
 
 Meis. I have, in all directions, over Prague, 
 As far as the man's dress and figure could 
 By your description track him. The devil take 
 These revels and processions I All the pleasure 
 (If such there be) must fall to the spectators. 
 I'm sure none doth to us who make the show. 
 
 Arn. Go to 1 my lady countess comes. 
 
 Meis. I I ratl-er 
 
 Ride a day's hunting on an outworn jade, 
 Than follow in the train of a great man 
 In these dull pageantries. 
 
 Arn. Begone ! and rail 
 
 Within. [Fxeunt. 
 
 Enter the Countess Josepiiine Siegendorp 
 and Ida Stralenheim. 
 
 Jos. "Well, Heaven be praised, the show is over ! 
 
 Ida. How can you say so I never have I dreamt 
 <Jf aught so beautiful. The flowers, the boughs. 
 The banners, and the nobles, and the knights. 
 The gems, the robes, the plumes, the happy faces, 
 The coursers, and the incense and the sun [tomhs. 
 Streaming through the stain'd windows, even the 
 Wliich look'd so calm, and the celestial hymns, 
 WTiich seem as if they rather came from heaven 
 
 Than mounted there. The bursting organ's peal 
 Rolling on high like an harmonious thunder ; 
 The white robes and the lifted eyes ; the world 
 At peace ! and all at peace with one another ! 
 Oh, my sweet mother ! [Emhracina JosEPHraa 
 
 Jos. My beloved child ! 
 
 For such, I trust, thou shalt be shortly. 
 
 Ida. ' Oh, 
 
 I am so already. Fee! how my heart beats ! 
 
 Jos. It does, my love ; and never may it throb 
 With aught more bitter. 
 
 Ida. Never shall it do so ! 
 
 How should it ? "Wliat should make us grieve ? I 
 To hear of sorrow : how can we be sad, [hate 
 
 Who love each other so entirely ? You, 
 The count and Ulric, and your daughter Ida. 
 
 Jos. Poor child ! 
 
 Ida. Do you pity me ? 
 
 Jos. No ; I but envj, 
 
 And that in sorrow, not in the world's sense 
 Of the universal vice, if one vice be 
 More general than another. 
 
 Ida. I'll not hear 
 
 A word against a world which still contains 
 You and my Ulric. Did you ever see 
 Aught like him ? How he tower'd amongst them aU ! 
 How all eyes foUow'd him ! The flowers fell faster — 
 Rain'd from each lattice at his feet, methought. 
 Than before all the rest ; and where he trod 
 I dare be sworn that they grow still, nor e'er 
 Will wither. 
 
 Jos. You will spoil him, little flatterer. 
 
 If he should hear you. 
 
 Ida. But he never will. 
 
 I dare not say so much to him — I fear him. 
 
 Jos. Why so ? he loves you well. 
 
 Ida. But I can never 
 
 Shape my thoughts of him into words to him. 
 Besides, he sometimes frightens me. 
 
 Jos. How so 2 
 
 Ida. A cloud comes o'er his blue eyes suddenly, 
 Yet he says nothing. 
 
 Jos. It is nothing : all men, 
 
 Especially in these dark troublous times. 
 Have much to think of 
 
 Ida. But I cannot think 
 
 Of aught save him. 
 
 Jos. Yet there are other men, 
 
 In the world s eye, as goodly. There 's, for instance, 
 The young Count Waldorf, who scarce once with- 
 His eyes from yours to-day. [drew 
 
 Ida. I did not see him, 
 
 But Ulric. Did you not see at the moment 
 Wlien all knelt, and I wept ? and yet methought. 
 Through my fast tears, though they were thick and 
 I saw him smiling on me. [wana 
 
 e/cs. I could not 
 
372 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Bee auglit save heaven, to which my eye3 were raised 
 Together with the people's. 
 
 Ida. I thought too 
 
 Of heaven, although I looked on Ulric. 
 
 Jos. Come, 
 
 Let us retire ; they will be here anon 
 Expectant of the banquet. "We will lay 
 Aside these nodding plumes and dragging trains. 
 
 Ida. And, above all, these stiflF and heavy jewels, 
 Which make my head and heart ache, as both throb 
 Beneath their glitter o'er my brow and zone. 
 Dear mother, I am with you. 
 
 Enter Count Siegendokp, in full dress, frnm the 
 solemnity, and Lttdwio. 
 
 8ie(i. Is he not found ? 
 
 Lnd. Strict search is making everywhere ; and if 
 The man be in Prague, be sure he will be found. 
 
 Sieg. "Where 's Uh-ic ? 
 
 Lnd. He rode round the other way 
 
 With some young nobles ; but he left them soon ; 
 And, if I err not, not a minute since 
 I heard his excellency, with his train, 
 Oallop o'er the west drawbridge. 
 
 Enter Uleic, splendidly dressed. 
 
 Sieg. {to Lud.) See they cease not 
 
 Their quest of him I have described. {Exit Lttdwio. 
 
 Oh, Ulric 1 
 How have I long'd for thee 1 
 
 Ulr. Your wish is granted — 
 
 Behold me ! 
 
 Sieg. I have seen the murderer. 
 
 Ulr. "Whom? Where? 
 
 Sieg. The Hungarian, who slew Stralenheim. 
 
 Ulr. You dream. 
 
 Sieg. I live I and as I live, I saw him — 
 
 Heard him 1 he dared to utter even my name. 
 
 Ulr. "What name 1 
 
 Sieg. "Werner ! Hwa^ mine. 
 
 , Ulr. It must be so 
 
 No more : forget it. 
 
 Sieg. Never 1 never 1 all 
 
 My destinies were woven in that name : 
 It will not be engraved upon my tomb, 
 But it may lead me there. 
 
 Ulr. To the point — the Hungarian ? 
 
 Sieg. Listen ! — The church was throng'd ; the 
 hymn was raised ; 
 'Te DeAnn" peal'd from nations, rather than 
 From choirs, in one great cry of " God be praised" 
 For one day's peace, after tlirice ten dread years, 
 Each bloodier t'lan the fonner : I arose. 
 With all the nol)le3, and as I look'd down 
 Along the lines of lifted faces, — from 
 Our banner'd and cseutcheon'd gallery, I 
 Saw, like a flash of lightning, (for I saw 
 
 A moment and no more,) what struck me sightless 
 To all else — the Hungarian's face ! I grew 
 Sick ; and when I recover'd from the mist 
 "Wliich curl'd about my senses, and again 
 Look'd down, I saw him not. The thanksgiving 
 Was over, and we march'd back in procession. 
 
 Ulr. Continue. 
 
 Sieg. "When we reach'd the ]Huldau's bridge. 
 
 The joyous crowd above, the numberless 
 Barks niann'd with revellers in their best garbs, 
 Which shot along the glancing tide below, 
 The decorated street, the long array. 
 The clashing music, and the thundering 
 Of far artillery, which seem'd to bid 
 A loud and long farewell to its great doings. 
 The standards o'er me, and the tramplings round, 
 The roar of rushing thousands, — all — all could not 
 Chase tliis man from my mind, although my senses 
 No longer held him palpable. 
 
 Ulr. You saw him 
 
 No more, then ? 
 
 Sieg. I look'd, as a dj-ing soldier 
 Looks at a draught of water, for this man : 
 But still I saw him not ; but in his stead 
 
 Ulr. What in his stead ? 
 
 Siei. My eye forever fell 
 
 Upon your dancing crest ; the loftiest 
 As on the loftiest and the loveliest head 
 It rose the highest of the stream of plumes, 
 Wliich overflow'd the glittering streets of Prague. 
 
 Ulr. What 's this to the Hungarian ? 
 
 Sieg. Much ; for I 
 
 Had almost then forgot him in my son ; 
 When just as the artillery ceased, and paused 
 The music, and the crowd embraced in Ueu 
 Of shouting, I heard in a deep, low voice, 
 Distinct and keener far upon my ear 
 Than the late cannon's volume, this word — Werner ! 
 
 Ulr. Uttered by— 
 
 Sieg. UiM 1 I turn'd — and saw — and fell. 
 
 Ulr. And wherefore ? Were you seen ? 
 
 Sieg. The officious care 
 
 Of those around me dragg'd me from the spot, 
 Seeing my faintness, ignorant of tlie cause : 
 You, too, were too remote in the procession 
 (The old nobles being divided from their children) 
 To aid me. 
 
 Ulr. But I'll aid you now. 
 
 Sieg. In what ? 
 
 Ulr. In searching for this man, or When he's 
 
 What shall we do with him ? [found 
 
 Sieg. I know not that. 
 
 Ulr. Then wherefore seek ? 
 
 Sieg. Because I cannot res* 
 
 Till he is found. His fate, and Stralenheim's, 
 And ours, seem intertwisted 1 nor can be 
 UnraveU'd tiU 
 
BCENB L 
 
 "WERNER. 
 
 373 
 
 Enter an Attendant. 
 
 Atten. A stranger to wait on 
 
 Your excellency. 
 
 Sieg. Who ? 
 
 Atten. He gave no name. 
 
 Sieg. Admit him ne'ertheless. 
 
 [Tfie Attendaut introduces Gabor, and 
 a/teru>ards exit. 
 
 Ah! 
 
 Gah. 'Tis, then, Werner 1 
 
 Sieg. (haughtily.) The same you knew, sir, by that 
 name ; and t/ou ! 
 
 Gab. (looking round.) I recognise you both: father 
 and son, 
 It seema. Count, I have heard that you, or yours. 
 Have lately been in search of me : I am here. 
 
 Sieg. I have sought you, and have found you : you 
 are charged 
 (Tour own heart may inform you why) with such 
 A crime as [He pauses. 
 
 Gab. Give it utterance, and then 
 
 I'll meet the consequence. 
 
 Sieg. You shall do so— 
 
 Unless 
 
 Gab. First, wlio accuses me ? 
 
 Sieg. All things, 
 
 If not all men : the universal rumor — 
 My own presence on the spot — the place — the 
 And every speck of circumstance unites [time — 
 To fix the blot on you. 
 
 Gah. jVjid on me only * 
 
 Pause ere you answer : is no other name, 
 Save mine, stain'd in this buisness ? 
 
 Sieg. Trifling villian ! 
 
 Who play'st with thine own guilt I Of all that 
 
 breathe 
 Thou best dost know the innocence of him 
 Gainst whom thy breath would blow thy bloody 
 But I wiU talk no further with a wretch, [slander, 
 Further than justice asks. Answer at once. 
 And without quibbling, to my charge. 
 
 Gab. 
 Sieg. 
 Gab. 
 Sieg. 
 Gab. 
 
 'Tis false ! 
 
 Who savs so ? 
 
 I. 
 
 And how disprove it 2 
 By 
 The presence of the murderer. 
 
 Sieg. Name him ! 
 
 Gab. He 
 
 May have more names than one. Your lordship 
 Once on a time. [had so 
 
 Sieg. If you mean me, I dare 
 
 Your utmost. 
 
 Gab. You may do so, and in safety 1 
 
 [ know the assassin. 
 
 Sie<j. Where is he ? 
 
 Gab. (pointing to Ulric.) Beside you I 
 
 [Ulric rushes forward to attack Gabor. 
 SiEGENDORP in terposes. 
 Sieg. Liar and fiend ! but you shall not be slain ; 
 These walls are mine, and you are safe within them. 
 
 [He turns to Ulric. 
 Ulric, repel this calumny, as I 
 Will do. I avow it is a growth so monstrous, 
 I could not deem it earth-born ; but be calm; 
 It will refute itself But touch him not. 
 
 [Ulric endearors to compose himself 
 Gah. Look at him, count, and then hear me. 
 Sieg. (first to Gabor, and then looting at Ulric.) 
 
 I hear thee 
 
 My God ! you look 
 
 fTlr. How ? 
 
 Sic(7- As on that dread night 
 
 When we met in the garden. 
 
 Ulr. (composes himself.) It is nothing. 
 Gab. Count, you are bound to hear me. I came 
 hither 
 Not seeking you, but sought. When I knelt down 
 Amidst the people in the church, I dream'd not 
 To find the beggar'd Werner in the seat 
 Of senators and princes ; but you have calFd me, 
 And we have met. 
 
 Sieg. Go ou, sir. 
 
 Gab. Ere I do so. 
 
 Allow me to inquire who profited 
 By Stralenheim's death ? Was't I — as poor as ever , 
 And poorer by suspicion on my name ! 
 The baron lost in that last outrage neither 
 Jewels nor gold ; his life alone was sought, — 
 A life which stood between the claims of others 
 To honors and estates scarce less than princely. 
 
 Sieg. These hints, as vague as vain, attach no less 
 To me than to my son. 
 
 G'lh. I can't help that. 
 
 But let the consequence alight on him 
 Who feels himself the guilty one amongst us. 
 I speak of you. Count Sicgendorf, because 
 I know you innocent, and deem you just. 
 But ere I can proceed — dare you protect me ? 
 Dare you command me ? 
 
 [ SiEGENDORP./! ;•«« loohi at the Hungarian, and 
 then at Ulric, who his unbucMed hi.t siy-bre, 
 and is drawing lines with it on thefloiT — 
 still in its sheath. 
 Ulr. (looks at his father and sai/s) 
 
 Let the man go on ! 
 Gah. I am unarm'd, count — bid your son lay d- vni 
 His sabre. 
 
 Ulr. (offers it to him contemptuously.) 
 
 Take it. 
 Gah. No, sir, 'ris enough 
 
 That we are both unarm'd — I would not choose 
 
sn 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT T 
 
 I 
 
 To wear fi steel which may be atain'd with more 
 Blood tliun came there iu battle. 
 
 Ulr. (casta the aabrej'rom, him in contempt.) 
 It — or some 
 Such other weapon, in my hands — spared yours 
 Once when disarm'd and at my mercy. 
 
 Gah. True — 
 
 I have not forgotten it: you spared me for 
 Your own esjjecial purpose — fo sustain 
 A.n ignominy not my own. 
 
 Ulr. Proceed. 
 
 The tale is doubtless worthy the relator. 
 But is it of my father to hear further ? 
 
 [ To SlEGENDOBF. 
 
 8ic'j. (t:ih:i hit son hi/ the hind.) My son ! I know 
 my own innocence, and doubt not 
 Of yours — but I have promised this man patience ; 
 Let him continue. 
 
 Gall. I will not detain you 
 
 By speaking of myself much : I began 
 Life early — and am what the world has made me. 
 At Frankfort on the Oder, where I pass'd 
 A winter in obscurity, it was 
 My chance at several places of resort 
 (Wliicl) I frequented sometimes but not often) 
 To hear related a strange circumstance 
 In February last. A martial force. 
 Sent by the state, had, after strong resistance, 
 Secured a band of desperate men, supposed 
 Marauders from the hostile camp. — They proved, 
 However, nut to be so — but banditti, 
 Wliom either accident or enterprise 
 Iliid carried from their usual haunt — forests 
 Which skirt Bohemia — even into Lusatia. 
 Many amongst them were reported of 
 High rank — and martial law slept for a time. 
 At last they were escorted o'er the frontiers, 
 And placed beneath the civil jurisdiction 
 Of the free town of Frankfort. Of their fate, 
 I know no more. 
 
 Sieg. And what is this to Ulric ? 
 
 Gah. Amongst them there was said to be one man 
 Of wonderful endowments : — birth and fortune. 
 Youth, strength, and beauty, almost superhuman. 
 And courage as unrivall'd, were proclaim'd 
 His by the public rumor ; and his sway. 
 Not only over his associates, but 
 His judges, was attibuted to witchcraft. 
 Such was his influence :- -I have no great faith 
 In any magic save that of the mine — 
 I therefore deem'd him wealthy. — -But my soul 
 Was roused with various feelings to seek out 
 This prodigy, if only to behold him. 
 
 Sie'j. And did you so ? 
 
 Gab. Y'ou'll hear. Chance favor'd me : 
 
 A popular alTray in the public square 
 Drew crowds together — it was one of those 
 
 Occasions where men's souls look out of them. 
 
 And show them as they are — even in their faces : 
 
 The moment my eye met his, I exclaim'd, 
 
 " This is the man !" though he was then, as since, 
 
 With the nobles of the city. I felt sure 
 
 I had not err'd, and watch'd him long and nearly ; 
 
 I noted down his form — his gesture — features, 
 
 Stature, and bearing — and amidst them all. 
 
 Midst every natural and acquired distinction, 
 
 I could discern, methought, the assassin's eye 
 
 And gladiator's heart. 
 
 Ulr. (smilinff.) The tale sounds well. 
 
 Gah. And may sound better. — He ajjpear'd to me 
 One of those beings to whom Fortune bends 
 As she doth to the daring — and on whom 
 The fates of others oft depend; besides. 
 An indescribaijle sensation drew me 
 Near to this man, as if my point of fortune 
 Was to be iix'd by him. — There I was wrong. 
 
 Siei;. And may not be right now. 
 
 Oah I foUow'd him. 
 
 Solicited his notice — and obtain'd it — 
 Though not his fnendship: — it was his intention 
 To leave the city privately — we left it 
 Together, — and together we arrived 
 In the poor town where Werner was conceal'd. 
 
 And Straleuheim was succor'd Now we are on 
 
 The verge — dare you hear further ? 
 
 Sie;;. I must do 80- • 
 
 Or I have heard too much. 
 
 Gah. I saw in you 
 
 A man above his station — and if not 
 So high, as now I find you, in my then 
 Concei)tions, 'twas that I had rarely seen 
 Men such as you appcar'd in height of mind 
 In the most high of worldly rank; you were 
 Poor, even to all save rags : I would have shared 
 My purse, though slender, with you — you refused it 
 
 Sir//. Doth my refusal make a debt to you. 
 That thus you urge it ? 
 
 Guh. iStill you owe me something 
 
 Though not for that ; and I owed you my safety. 
 At least my seeming safety, when the slaves 
 Of Straleuheim pursued me on the grounds 
 That / had robb'd him. 
 
 iSieg. I conceal'd you — I, 
 
 Wliom and whose house you arraign, reviving viper 
 
 Gah. I accuse no man — save in my defence. 
 You, count, have made yourself areuser — ^judge : 
 Y'our hall's my court, your heart is my tribunaL 
 Be just and 7 '11 be merciful ! 
 
 Sieg. You merciful I — 
 
 Y'ou 1 Base calumniator I 
 
 Gah. I. 'Twill rest 
 
 With me at last to be so. You conceal'd me — 
 In secret passages known to yourself. 
 You said, and to none else. At dead of night, 
 
SCENE t. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 31.' 
 
 Weary with watching iu tt e dark, and dubious 
 Of tracing l)ack my way, I saw a glimmer. 
 Through distant crannies, of a twinkling light : 
 I foDow'd it, and reach'd a door — a secret 
 Portal — which open'd to the chamber, where, 
 With cautious hand and slow, ha\dng first undone 
 As much as made a crevice of the fastening, 
 I look'd through and beheld a purple bed, 
 And on it Stralenheim ! — 
 
 Si(-</. Asleep ! And yet 
 
 You blew him ! — Wretch ! 
 
 GnJi. He was already slain, 
 
 And bleeding like a sacrifice. My own 
 Blood became ice. 
 
 Sic'j. But he was all alone ! 
 
 You saw none else 2 You did not see the 
 
 [lie pauses from agitation. 
 
 Gab. No, 
 
 He, whom you dare not name, nor even I 
 Scarce dare to recollect, was not then in 
 The chamber. 
 
 Sii(j. {to Ulric.) Then, my boy ! thou art guilt- 
 less still — 
 Thou bad'st me say / was so once — Oh ! now 
 Do thou as much ! 
 
 Oah. Be patient ! I can not 
 
 Recede now, though it shake the very walls 
 Which frown above us. Y'ou remember, — or 
 If not, your son does, — that the locks were changed 
 Beneath his chief inspection on the morn 
 Which led to this same night: how he had enter'd 
 He best knows — but within an antechamber. 
 The door of which was half ajar, I saw 
 A man who wash'd his Woody hands, and oft 
 With stern and anxious glance gazed back upon 
 The bleeding body — but it moved no more. 
 
 Sie,j. Oh! God of fathers 1 
 
 0<ib. I beheld his features 
 
 As I see yours — but yours they were not, though 
 Resembling them— behold them in Count Ulric's ! 
 Distinct, as I beheld them, though the expression 
 Is not now what it then was ; — but it was so 
 When I first charged him with the crime— so lately. 
 
 fSiea. This is so 
 
 Gab. {interrupting him.) Nay — but hear me to the 
 Noio you must do so. I conceived myself [end I 
 Betray'd by you and Idm (for now I saw 
 There was some tie between you) into this 
 Pretended den of refuge, to become 
 The victim of your guilt ; and my first thought 
 Was vengeance : but though arm'd with a short 
 
 poinard 
 (Having left my sword without) I was no match 
 For him at any time, as had been proved 
 That morning — eitlier in address or force. 
 I tum'd, and fled — i' the dark : chance rather than 
 Skill made me gain the secret door of the hall, 
 
 And thence the chamber where you slept : if I 
 Had found you iraJcing, Heaven alone can tell [ed , 
 What vengeance and suspicion might have prompt- 
 But ne'er slept guilt as Werner slept that night. 
 
 Sieg. And yet I had horrid dreams ! and such 
 brief sleep, 
 The stars had not gone down when I awoke. 
 Why didst thou spare me ? I dreamt of my father — 
 And now my dream is out ! 
 
 Oab. 'Tis not my fault 
 
 If I have read it. Well ! I fled and hid me — 
 Chance led me here after so many moons — 
 And show'd me Werner in Count Siegendorf I 
 Werner, whom I had sought in huts in vain, 
 Inhabited the palace of a sovereign ! 
 Y'ou sought me and have found me — now you know 
 My secret, and may weigh its worth. 
 
 Sieg. {after a pause.) Indeed 1 
 
 Gah. Is it revenge or justice which inspires 
 Your meditation ? 
 
 Sieg. Neither — I was weighing 
 
 The value of your secret. 
 
 Gah. Y'ou shall know it 
 
 At once : — when you were poor, and I, though poor, 
 Rich enough to relieve such poverty 
 As might have envied mine, I ofler'd you 
 My purse — you would not share it : — I'll be franker 
 With you : you are wealthy, noljle, trusted by 
 The imperial powers — you understand me ? 
 
 Sieg. Yes. 
 
 Gab. Not quite. You think me venal, and scarce 
 'Tis no less true, however, that my fortunes [true : 
 Have made me both at present. You shaU aid me ; 
 I would have aided you — and also have 
 Been somewhat damaged in my name to save 
 Yours and your son's. Weigh well what I have said. 
 
 Sieg. Dare you await the event of a few minutes' 
 Deliberation ? 
 
 Oab. {casta his eyes on Ulric who is leaning against 
 a pillar) If I should do so ? 
 
 Sieg. I pledge my life for yours. Withdraw into 
 This tower. [Opens a turret door. 
 
 Gah. {hesitatingly.) This is the second safe asylum 
 You have ofler'd me. 
 
 Sieg. And was not the first so ? 
 
 Gal). I know not that even now — but will approve 
 The second. I have still a further shield. 
 I did not enter Prague alone ; and should I 
 Be put to rest with Stralenheim, there are 
 Some tongues without will wag in my behalf. 
 Be brief in your decision ! 
 
 Sirg. I will be so. 
 
 My word is sacred and irrevocable 
 Within these walls, but it extends no further. 
 
 Gab. I'll take it for so much. 
 
 Seig. {points to Ulric's sabre still vpon the ground^ 
 Take also that — 
 
376 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT T. 
 
 I saw you eye it eagerly, and him 
 Distrustfully. 
 
 Gah. {takex up tlie mhn:) I will ; and so provide 
 To sell my life — not cheaply. 
 
 [Gabor goes into the turret, which Siegendoep 
 closes. 
 
 Sie;/. (advances to Ulr.) Now, Count Ulric ! 
 For son I dare not call thee. What say'st thou ? 
 
 C/lr. His tale is true. 
 
 Sieg. True, monster ! 
 
 Ulr. Most true, father 1 
 
 And you did well to listen to it : what 
 We know, wo can provide against. He must 
 Be silenced. 
 
 Sieg. Ay, with half of my domains ; 
 
 And with the other half, could he and thou 
 Unsay this villany. 
 
 U!r. It is no time 
 
 For trifling or dissembling. I have said 
 His story's true ; and he too must be silenced. 
 
 Sieg. How so ? 
 
 Ulr. As StralenUeim is. Are you so dull 
 
 As never to have hit on this before ? 
 When we met in the garden, what except 
 Discovery in the act could make me know 
 His death ? Or hael the prince's household been 
 Then summon'd, woulel the cry for the police 
 Been left to such a str.anger 2 Or sliouUl I 
 Have loiter'd on the way ? Or coulel i/oii, Werner, 
 The object of the baron's hate anel fears, 
 Have fled, unless by many an hour before 
 Suspicion woke ? I sought and fathom'd you, 
 Doubting if you were false or feeble : I 
 Perceived you were the latter ; and yet so 
 Confiding have I found you, that I doubted 
 At times your weakness. 
 
 Sieg. Parricide ! no less 
 
 Than common stabber ! What deed of my life, 
 Or thought of mine, could make you deem me fit 
 For yotu- accomplice ? 
 
 Ulr. Father, do not raise 
 
 The 'devil you cannot lay between us. This 
 Is time lor union anel for action, not 
 For family disputes. While i/on were tortured, 
 Could / be calm 'i Think you that I have heard 
 This fellow's tale without some feeling ? You 
 Have taught me feeUng for you and myself; 
 For whom or what else did you ever teach it ? 
 Sieg. Oh, my dead father's curse! 'tis working now. 
 
 Ulr. Let it work on ! the grave will keep it elown 1 
 Ashes ar.J feel)le foes : it is more easy 
 To baffle such, than countermine a mole, 
 Wliich winels its blind but living path beneath you. 
 Yet hear me still ! If t/ou condemn me, yet 
 Remember irhn hath taught me once too often 
 To listen to him ! U'fio proclaim'el to me 
 That there were crimes made venial by the occasion ? 
 
 That passion was our nature ? that the goods 
 
 Of Heaven waiteel on the goods of fortune 'I 
 
 117(0 show'd me his humanity secured 
 
 By his nerccs only ? Who deprived me of 
 
 AU power to vinelicate myself and race 
 
 In open day 2 By his disgrace which stamp'd 
 
 (It might be) bastardy on me, and on 
 
 Himself — a fehii's brand ! The man who is 
 
 At once both warm and weak invites to deeels 
 
 He longs to do, but elare not. Is it strange [done 
 
 That I should act what you could think ? We have 
 
 With right and wrong ; and now must only ponder 
 
 Upon efl'ects, not causes. Straleuheim, 
 
 Whose life I saved from impulse, as, unknown, 
 
 I would have saved a peasant's or a dog's, I slew 
 
 Known as our foe — but not from vengeance. He 
 
 Was a rock in our way which I cut through. 
 
 As doth the bolt, because it stooel Iietween ua 
 
 Anel our true destination — but not idly. 
 
 As stranger I jjreserveel him, and he owed me 
 
 His life: when due, I but resumed the debt. 
 
 He, you, and I stooel o'er a gulf wherein 
 
 I have plunged our enemy. You kindled first 
 
 The torch — you show'd the path ; now trace me that 
 
 Of safety— or let me 1 
 
 Sieg. I have done with life ! 
 
 Ulr. Let us have elone with that which cankers 
 Familiar feuds and vain recriminations [life — 
 
 Of things which cannot be undone. We have 
 No more to learn or hide : I know no fear, 
 And have within these very walls men who [things. 
 (Although you know them not) dare venture all 
 You stanel high with the state ; what passes here 
 Will not excite her too great curiosity : 
 Keep your own scci-ct, keep a steady eye, 
 Stir not, and speak not ; — leave the rest to me ; 
 We must have no tltird babblers thrust between us. 
 
 [Exit Ulric. 
 
 Sieg. (solus.) Am I awake 2 are these my father's 
 halls 2 
 And yon — my son 2 My son I mine .' who have ever 
 Alihorr'd both mystery and blood, anel yet 
 Am plungcel into the eleepest hell of both ! 
 I must lie speeely, or more will be sheel — 
 The Hungarian's ! — Ulric — he huth j)artlsan9. 
 It seems : I might have guess'd as much. Oh, fool i 
 Wolves prowl in company. He hath the key 
 (As I too) of the opposite door which leads 
 Into the turret. Now then 1 or once more 
 To be the father of fresh crimes, no less 
 Than of the criminal 1 Ho ! Gal)«>r ! Gabor 1 
 
 [Exit into the turret, closing the door after him. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The Interior of the Turret. 
 Gabob and Siegendorf. 
 Gab. Who calls 2 
 
fSCENE n. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 an 
 
 Take these, and fly ! 
 
 Siegi. I — Siegendorf ! 
 
 Lose not a moment I 
 
 [Tears off a diamond star and other jewels, and 
 thrusts them into GrABOu's hand. 
 
 Oah. What am I to do 
 
 With these ? 
 
 Sieg. Whate'er you will : sell them, or hoard, 
 
 And prosper ; but delay not, or you are lost I 
 
 Gab. You pledged your honor for my safety I 
 
 Sieg. And 
 
 Must thus redeem it. Ply ! I am not master, 
 It seems, of my own castle — of my own 
 Retainers — nay, even of these very walls, 
 Or I would bid them faU and crush me 1 Fly ! 
 Or you will be slain by 
 
 Gab. Is it even so ? 
 
 Farewell, then ! Recollect, however, count, 
 You sought this fatal interview ! 
 
 Sieg. I did : 
 
 liBt it not be more fatal still ! — Begone ! 
 
 Gab. By the same path I enterxl ? 
 
 Sieg. Yes ; that's safe still : 
 
 But loiter not in Prague ; — you do not know 
 With whom you have to deal. 
 
 Gab. I know too well — 
 
 And knew it ere yourself, unhappy sire ! 
 Farewell. [Exit Gabor. 
 
 Sieg. (sohi.s and listening.) He hath clear'd the 
 staircase. Ah ! I hear 
 The door sound loud behind him ! He is safe ! 
 
 Safe ! — -Oh, my fether's spirit ! — I am faint 
 
 [Se leans down upon, a stone seat, neetr the wall 
 of the tower, in a drooping potlure. 
 
 Enter Uleic, with others armed, and with weetpons 
 drawn. 
 
 Ulr. Dispatch ! — he's there 1 
 
 Lud. The count, my lord ! 
 
 Ulr. (recognizing Sieg.) Tou here, sir 1 
 
 Sieg. Yes : if you want another victim, strike 1 
 
 Ulr. (seeing him stripped of his jewels.) Where is 
 the ruffian who hath plunder'd you ? 
 Vassals, dispatch in search of him ! You see 
 'Twas as I said — the wretch hath stripp'd my father 
 Of jewels which might form a prince's heirloom ! 
 Away I I'll follow you forthwith. 
 
 [Exeunt all but SiEGEsrDORF and Ulric. 
 What's this ? 
 Where is the villain ? 
 
 Steg. There are two, sir : which 
 
 Are you in quest of ? 
 
 Ulr. Let us hear no more 
 
 Of this : he must be found. You have not let him 
 Escape ? 
 
 Steg. H?'s gone. 
 
 Ulr. With your connivance ? 
 
 4S 
 
 Sieg. With 
 
 My fullest, freest aid. 
 
 Ulr. Then fare you well 1 
 
 [Ulric is going. 
 
 Steg. Stop ! I command — entreat— implore ! Oh, 
 Win you then leave me ? [Uhic ! 
 
 Ulr. Wliat ! remain to ba 
 
 Denounced — dragg'd, it may be, in chains ; and ah 
 By your inherent weakness, half-humanity, 
 Selfish remorse, and temporizing i^ity. 
 That sacrifices your whole race to save 
 A wretch to profit by our ruin ! No, count. 
 Henceforth you have no son ! 
 
 Sieg. I never had one ; 
 
 And would you ne'er had borne the useless name I 
 Where will you go ? I would not send you forth 
 Without protection. 
 
 Ulr. Leave that unto me. 
 
 I am not alone; nor merely the vain heir 
 Of your domains ; a thousand, ay, ten thousand 
 Swords, hearts, and hands, are mine. 
 
 Sitg. The foresters! 
 
 With whom the Hungarian found you first at Frank- 
 fort I 
 
 Ulr.Yea — men — who are worthy of the name! Go 
 Your senators that they look well to Prague ; [tell 
 Their feast of peace was early for the times; 
 There are more spirits abroad than have been laid 
 With Wallenstein ! 
 
 Enter Josephtne and Ida. 
 
 Jos. What is't we hear? My Siegendorf! 
 
 Thank heav'n, I see you safe ! 
 
 Sieg. Safe ! 
 
 Tda. Yes, dear father, 
 
 Sieg. No, no ; I have no children : never more 
 Call me by that worst name of parent. 
 
 Jos. What 
 
 Means my good lord ? 
 
 Sieij. That you have given birth 
 
 To a demon ! 
 
 Ida. (taking Ulric's hind.) Who shall dare say 
 this of Dlric ? 
 
 Sieg. Ida, beware ! there's blood upon that hand. 
 
 Ida. (stooping to liss it.) I'd kiss it oflF, though it 
 
 Sieg. It is so ! [were mine. 
 
 Ulr. Away! it is your father's ? [Exit Ulric. 
 
 Ida. Oh, great God I 
 
 And I have loved this man ! 
 
 [Ida falls senseless — Josephtne stands speech- 
 less with horror. 
 
 Sieg. The wretch hath slam 
 
 Them both ! — My Josephine ! we are now alone 1 
 Would we had ever been so ! — All is over 
 For me ! — Now open wide, my sire, thy grave ; 
 Thy curse hath dug it deeper for thy son 
 In mine ! — Tlic race of Siegendorf is past ! 
 
3ie 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 A SERIES OF POEMS, ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED.' 
 
 Virginibus puerisque canto. — Horace, lib. iii. Ode 1, 
 
 M;/r' ufl /!£ /id'A' alvee, /il/re tI veinci Homer, Jliad, x. 349. 
 
 Ho whistled as he went, for want of thonght.— Dryben. 
 
 TO 
 
 THE RIGHT HONORABLE FREDERICK, EARL OF CARLISLE, 
 
 KNIGHT OJ THE GARTER, ETC., ETC. 
 THE SECOND EDITION OF THESE POEMS 19 IN SCRIBED, 
 
 BT HIS OBLIGED WARD AND ATFECTIONATB KTNBMAN,' 
 
 THE ATHBOE. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Ik submitting to the public eye tbe following collec- 
 tion, I have not only to combat the difficulties that 
 writers of verso generally encounter, but may incur the 
 charge of presumption for obtruding myself on the 
 world, when, without doubt, I might be, at my age, 
 more usefully employed. 
 
 These jiroductions are the fruits of the lighter houis 
 of a young man who has lately completed his nine- 
 teenth year. As they bear the internal evidence of a 
 boyish mind, this is, perhaps, unnecessary information. 
 Some few were written during the disadvantages of 
 illness and depression of spirits : under the former in- 
 fluence, " Childish Recollections," in particular, 
 were compjsed. This consideration, though it cannot 
 excite the voice of praise, may at least arrest the arm 
 of censure. A considerable portion of these poems has 
 been privately printed, at the request and for the peru- 
 sal of my friends. I am sensible that the partial 
 and frequently injudicious admiration of a social circle 
 is uot the criterion by wliich poetical genius is to be 
 estimated, yet, " to do greatly " we must " dare great- 
 ly ;" and I have hazarded my reputation and feelings 
 in publishing this volume. " I have passed the Ru- 
 bicon," and must stand or fall by the " cast of the die." 
 In the latter event, I shall submit without a murmur ; 
 for, though not without solicitude for the fate of these 
 eSusions, my expectations are by no means sanguine. 
 It probable that I may liave dared much and done lit- 
 tle ; for, in the words of Cowper, "it is one thing to 
 write what may please our friends, who, because they 
 are such, are apt to be a little biased in our favor, and 
 another to write what may please everybody ; because 
 they who have no connection, or even knowledge of 
 the author, wiU be sure to find fault if they can." To 
 
 ■' First puWiBhi'd in 1807. 
 
 > Isabella, the dniiwbter of William, fourth Lord Byron, (great- 
 gtwt undo of the Poet,) became, in ni3. the wife of Henry, fourth 
 
 the truth of this, however, I do not wholly subscribe* 
 on the contrary, I feel convinced that these trifles will 
 uot be treated with injustice. Tlieir merit, if they 
 possess any, will be liberally allowed : their numerous 
 faults, on the other hand, cannot expect that favor 
 which has been denied to others of mattirer years, de- 
 cided character, and far greater ability. 
 
 I have not aimed at exclusive originality, still less 
 have I studied any particular model for imitation : 
 some translations are given, of which many are para- 
 phrastic. In the original pieces tliere may appear a 
 casual coincidence with autliors whose works I have 
 been accustomed to read ; but I have not been guilty 
 of intentional plagiarism. To produce any thing en- 
 tirely new, in an age so fertile in rhyme, would be an 
 Herculean task, as every subject lias already been 
 treated to its utmost extent. Poetry, however, is not 
 my primary vocation ; to divert the dull moments of 
 indisposition, or the monotony of a vacant hour, urged 
 me " to this sin ;" little can be expected from so 
 unpromising a muse. My wreath, scanty as it must 
 be, is all I shall derive from these ]>roductions ; and I 
 shall never attempt to replace its fading leaves, or jjluck 
 a single additional sprig from groves where I am, at 
 best, an intruder. Though accustomed, in my young- 
 er days, to rove a careless mountaineer on the High- 
 lands of Scotland, I have not of, late years, had the 
 benefit of such pure air, or so elevated a residence, as 
 might enable me to enter the lists with genuine bards, 
 who have enjoyed both these advantages. But they 
 derive considerable fame, and a few not less profit, from 
 their productions : while I shall expiate my rashness 
 as an interloper, certainly without the latter, and in all 
 probability with a very slight share of the former. 1 
 
 Earl of Carlisle, and was the mother of the ilftbEarl, to whom 
 this dedication was addressed. Tliis lady was a poetess iu hei 
 way. The Fairy's Answer to Mrs. Oreville's "Prayer ol Indlf 
 erfence," in Pcarch's Collection is usually ascribed to her. 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 379 
 
 leave to others " virum volitare per ora." I look to the 
 few who will hear with patience " dulce est desipere in 
 Loco." To the former worthies I resign, without repin- 
 ing, the hope of immortality, and content myself with 
 the not Tcry magnificent prospect of ranking amongst 
 " the moh of gentlemen who write ;" — my readers must 
 determine whether 1 dare say "with ease," or the honor 
 of a posthumous page in " The Catalogue of Royal 
 and Noble Authors," — a work to which the Peerage is 
 under iufluite obligations, inasmuch as manj' names of 
 consid.'i-able length, sound, and antiquity, are thereby 
 rescued from the obscurity which unluckily over- 
 shadows several voluminous productions of their il- 
 lustrious bearers. 
 
 With slight hopes, and some fears, I publish this 
 first and last attempt. To the dictates of young am- 
 bition may be ascribed many actions more criminal 
 and equally absurd. To a few of my own age the 
 contents may afford amusement: I trust they ^vill, at 
 least, be found harmless. It is highly improbable, from 
 my situation and pursuits hereafter, that I should ever 
 obtrude myself a second time on the public ; nor, even, 
 in the very doubtful event of present indulgence, shall 
 [ be tempted to commit a future trespass of the same 
 nature. The opinion of Dr. Johnson on the Poems 
 of a noble relation of mine,' " That when a man of 
 rank appeared in the character of an author, he de- 
 served to have his merit handsomely allowed," can 
 have little weight with verbal, and still less with peri- 
 odical censors ; but were it otherwise, I should be loth 
 to avail myself of the privilege, and would rather incur 
 the bitterest censure of anonymous criticism, than 
 triumph in honors granted solely to a title. 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 COUSIN TO THE AUTHOR, AXB VERT DEAR TO HIM.' 
 
 Htjsh'd are the winds, and still the evening gloom, 
 Not e'en a zephyr wanders through the grove, 
 
 Whilst I return, to view my Margaret's tomb. 
 And scatter flowers on the dust I love. 
 
 ' The E.arl of Carlisle, whose works have long received the 
 meed of public applause, to which, by their intrinsic worth, they 
 were well entitled. 
 
 2 The author claims the Indnl^ence of the reader more for this 
 piece than, perhaps, any other in the collection : but a? it was 
 written at an earlier period than the rest, (being composed at the 
 age of fourteen.) and his first essay, he preferred submitting it to 
 the indulgence of his friends in its present state, to maldng either 
 addition or alteration. 
 
 3 My first d.tsh into poetry was as early as 1800. It was the 
 ebullition of a passion for my first cousin. Margaret Parker 
 (daughter and grand-daogbter of the two Admirals Parker), one of 
 the most beautifiil of evanescent beings. I have long forgotten 
 lt3 verse : but it would be diflBcult for me to forget her — her dark 
 eyes — her long eyelashes — her completely Greek cast of face and 
 figure I I was then about twelve — she rather older, perhaps a 
 year. She died about a year or two afterwards, in consequence of 
 a fall, which injured her spine, and induced consumption. Her 
 
 Within this narrow cell reclines her clay. 
 That clay, where once such animation beam'd : 
 
 The King of Terrors seized her as his prey ; 
 Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem'd. 
 
 Oh 1 could that King of Terrors pity feel, 
 Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate I 
 
 Not here the mourner would his grief reveal, 
 Not here the muse her virtues would relate. 
 
 But wherefore weep ? Her matchless spirit soars 
 Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day ; 
 
 And weeping angels lead her to those bowers 
 Where endless pleasures virtue's deeds repay. 
 
 And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven arraign, 
 And, madly, godlike Pro^ddence accuse ? 
 
 Ah ! no, far fly from me attempts so vain ; — 
 I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse. 
 
 Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear. 
 Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face; 
 
 Still they call forth my warm afi'ection's tear. 
 
 Still in my heart retain their wonted place, isoj.' 
 
 TO E .< 
 
 Let FoUy smile, to view the names 
 Of thee and me in friendship twined ; 
 
 Yet Virtue will have greater claims 
 
 To love, than rank with vice combined. 
 
 And though unequal is thy fate, 
 Since title deck'd my higher birth ! 
 
 Yet envy not this gaudy state ; 
 
 Thine is the pride of modest worth. 
 
 Our souls at least congenial meet. 
 Nor can thy lot my rank disgrace , 
 
 Our intercourse is not less sweet. 
 
 Since worth of rank supplies the place. 
 
 Nmember 1802. 
 
 sister Augusta (by some thought still more beautiful), died of the 
 same malady; and it was, indeed, in attending her, that Margaret 
 met with the accident which occasioned her death. My sister told 
 me, that when she went to see her, shortly before her death, upon 
 accidentally mentioning my name. Margaret colored, throughout 
 the paleness of mortality, to the eyes, to the great astonishment 
 of my sister, who knew nothing of our attachment, nor could 
 conceive why my name should alTect her at such a time. I knew 
 nothing of her illness — being at Harrow and in the country — till 
 she was gone. Some years after. I made an attempt at an elegy — 
 a very dull one. I do not recollect scarcely any thing equal to the 
 transparent beauty of my cousin, or to the sweetness of her tem- 
 per, during the short period of onr intimacy. She looked as if 
 she had been made out of a rainbow — all beauty and peace.^2/yrofl 
 Diary, 1S31. 
 
 * This little poem, and some others in the collection, refer to a 
 boy of Lord Bj-ron's own age. son of one of his tenants at New- 
 stead, for whom he had formed a romantic attachment, of earlier 
 date than any of his school friendships. 
 
S80 
 
 BYROI!* 'S WORKS. 
 
 TO D . 
 
 In thee, I fondly hoped to clasp 
 
 A friend, whom death alone could sever ; 
 Till envy, with malignant grasp, 
 
 Detach'd thee from my breast forever. 
 
 Tfue, she has forced thee from my breast, 
 Yet, in my heart thou kccp'st thy seat; 
 
 There, there thine image still must rest, 
 Until that heart shall cease to beat. 
 
 And, when the grave restores her dead, 
 When Ufe again to dust is given, 
 
 On tliy dear breast I'll lay my head — 
 Without thee, where would be my heaven ? 
 
 February, 1803. 
 
 EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. 
 
 *A.(TTi)p Trpiv fi}v f ?.a//7rcf Ivl i^uoioiv iuoc. — LaertiuS. 
 
 On, Friend 1 forever loved, forever dear ! 
 
 What fi-uitless tears have bathed thy honor'd bier I 
 
 What sighs re-echo"d to thy parting breath. 
 
 Whilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of death I 
 
 Could tears retard the tyrant in his course ; 
 
 Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force ; 
 
 Could youth and virtue claim a short delay. 
 
 Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey. 
 
 Thou still hadst Uved to bless my aching sight, 
 
 Thy comrade's honor and thy friend's delight. 
 
 If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh 
 
 The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie. 
 
 Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart, 
 
 A grief too deep to trust the sculjjtor's art. 
 
 No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, 
 
 But living statues there are seen to weep ; 
 
 AflSiction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb. 
 
 Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom. 
 
 Wliat though thy sire lament his failing line, 
 
 A father's sorrows cannot equal mine ! 
 
 Though none, like thee, his dying hoiu- will cheer, 
 
 Yet other oflfspring soothe his anguish here : 
 
 But, who with me shall hold thy former place ? 
 
 Thine image, what new friendship can efface ? 
 
 Ah ! none ! — a father's tears will cease to flow, 
 
 Time will assuage an infant brother's wo ; 
 
 To all, save one, is consolation known. 
 
 While solitary friendship sighs alone. i803. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 WnKN, to their airy hall, my fathers' voice 
 Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice; 
 When, poised upon tlu; gale, my form shall ride. 
 Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side ; 
 Oh, may my shade behold no sculptured urns 
 To mark tlie spot where earth to earth returns I 
 
 No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encumber'd etone ; 
 
 My epitaph shall be my name alone ; 
 
 If tliat with honor fail to crown my clay. 
 
 Oh, may no other fame my deeds repay ! 
 
 'J'/i(if, only that, shall single out the spot; 
 
 By that remember'd, or with that forgot. 18O8. 
 
 ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 
 
 " Wliy dost thou build the hall, eon of the winged days ? Then 
 lookeBt from thy tower to-day : yet a few years, and the blast of 
 the desert comes, it howls in thy empty court." — Ossiak. 
 
 Thbough thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow 
 winds whistle ; 
 Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay ; 
 In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle 
 Have choked up the rose which late bloom'd in 
 the way. 
 
 Of the mail-cover'd Barons, who proudly to battle 
 Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain. 
 
 The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast 
 Are the only sad vestiges now that remain, [rattle. 
 
 No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing num- 
 bers. 
 Raise a flame in the breast for the war-laurel'd 
 wreath ; 
 Near Askalon's towers, John of Horistan slumbers ; 
 Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death. 
 
 Paul and Hubert, too, sleep in the valley of Crcssy ; 
 
 For the safety of Edward and England tliey fell : 
 My fathers ! the tears of your country redress ye ; 
 
 How you fought, how you died, still her annala 
 can teU. 
 
 On Marston, with Rupert, 'gainst traitors contending, 
 Four brothers enrich'd with their blood the bleak 
 field ; 
 
 For the rights of a monarch their country defending, 
 Till death their attachment to royalty seal'd. 
 
 Shades of heroes, farewell ! your descendant, do- 
 parting 
 
 From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu ! 
 Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting 
 
 New courage, he'll think upon glory and you. 
 
 Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 
 'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret ; 
 
 Far distant he goes, with the same emulation. 
 The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. 
 
 That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish ; 
 
 He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown : 
 Like you will ho live, or like you will he ])erisn : 
 
 When decay'd, maybe mingle his dust with yoni 
 own I ia» 
 
HOURS. OF IDLENESS. 
 
 381 
 
 LINES 
 
 WBITTEN IN "letters TO AN ITALIAN NTTN AND 
 AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN : BY J. J. ROUSSEAU : 
 FOUNDED ON PACTS." 
 
 " Away, away, your flattering arts 
 May now betray some simple hearts ; 
 And you will smile at their believing, 
 And they shall weep at your deceiving." 
 
 tNSWER TO THE FOREGOING, ADDRESSED TO MISS — . 
 
 Dear, simple girl, those flattering arts, 
 
 From which thou'dst guard frail female hearts, 
 
 Exist but in imagination, — 
 
 Mere phantoms of thine own creation ; 
 
 For he who views that witcliing grace, 
 
 That perfect form, that lovely face. 
 
 With eyes admiring, oh, believe me. 
 
 He never wishes to deceive thee I 
 
 Once in thy polish'd mirror glance, 
 
 Thou'lt there descry that elegance, 
 
 Which from our sex demands such praises, 
 
 But envy in the other raises : 
 
 Then he who teDs thee of thy beauty, 
 
 Believe me, only does his duty : 
 
 Ah ! fly not from the candid youth ; 
 
 It is not flattery, — 'tis truth. jviy, isot 
 
 ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL WHEN 
 DYING. 
 
 [ANisnjXA I va^la, blandnla, 
 Hospes comesqne corporis, 
 Qnie nunc abibis in Iocs — 
 Pallidula, rigida, nudula, 
 Nee, ut Bolea, dabis jocos ?] 
 
 Ah ! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite, 
 Friend and associate of this clay ! 
 
 To what unknown region borne. 
 Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight ? 
 No more with wonted humor gay, 
 
 But pallid, cheerless, and fbrlom. 
 
 TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. 
 
 AD LESBIAM. 
 
 Equal to .Jove that youth must be — 
 Greater than Jove he seems to me — 
 Who, free from Jealousy's alarms. 
 Securely views thy matchless charms. 
 That cheek, which ever dimpling glows, 
 That mouth, from whence such music flows, 
 To him, alike, are always known. 
 Reserved for him, and him alone. 
 Ah, Lesbia ! though 'tis death to me, 
 I cannot choose but look on thee ; 
 But, at the sight, my senses fly ; 
 
 I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die ; 
 Whilst trembling with a thousand- fears, 
 Parch'd to the throat my tongue adheres. 
 My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short, 
 My limbs deny their slight support. 
 Cold dews my paUid face o'erspread. 
 With deadly languor droops my head, 
 My ears '•Kith, tingling echoes ring, 
 And life itself is on the wing, 
 My eyes refuse the cheering light, 
 Their orbs are veil'd in starless night : 
 Such pangs my nature sinks beneath, 
 And feels a temporary death. 
 
 TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON 
 VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS. 
 
 BY DOMITIUS MAESU8. 
 
 He who sublime in epic numbers roU'd, 
 And he who struck the softer lyre of love, 
 
 By Death's ' unequal hand alike controU'd 
 Fit comrades in Elvsian regions move. 
 
 BHTATION OF TIBULLUS. 
 " Snlpicia ad Cerinthnm." — Lib. 4. 
 Cruel Oerinthus ! does the fell disease 
 Wliich racks my breast your fickle bosom 
 Alas ! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain. 
 That I might live for love and you again : 
 But now I scarcely shall bewail my fate ; 
 By death alone I can avoid your bate. 
 
 TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. 
 
 [Lngete, Veneres, Cupidinesque, etc.] 
 
 Ye Cupids, droop each little head, 
 Nor let your wings with joy be spread. 
 My Lesbia's favorite bird is dead, 
 
 Whom dearer than her eyes she loved : 
 For he was gentle, and so trJ8, 
 Obedient to her call he flew. 
 No fear, no wild alarm he knew, 
 
 But lightly o'er her bosom moved. 
 
 And softly fluttering here and there, 
 He never sought to cleave the air. 
 But cherujj'd oft, and, free from care, 
 
 Tuned to her car his grateful strain. 
 Now having pass'd the gloomy bourne 
 From whence he never can return. 
 His death and Lesbia's grief I mourn. 
 
 Who sighs, alas I but sighs in vain. 
 
 ' The hand of Death is said to be nnjnsl or nneqaal, as VlrgO 
 was ccnsiderably older than Tlbnllns at bis decease. 
 
S82 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS 
 
 Oh, cursed be tliou. devouring grave ! 
 
 But still to martial strains unknown, 
 
 Whose jaws eternal victims crave, 
 
 My IjTe recurs to love alone : 
 
 From whom no earthly power can save, 
 
 Fired with the hope of fiature fame, 
 
 For thou hast ta'en the bird away : 
 
 I seek some nobler hero's name ; 
 
 From thee my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow, 
 
 The dying chords are strung anew. 
 
 Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow ; 
 
 To war, to war, my harp is due : 
 
 Thou art the cause of all her wo, 
 
 With glowing strings, the epic strain 
 
 Receptacle of life's decay. 
 
 To Jove's great son I raise again ; 
 
 
 Alcides and his glorious deeds, 
 
 
 Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds. 
 
 TTWTTATED PROM CATULLUS. 
 
 All, all in vain ; my wayward lyre 
 
 TO ELLEN. 
 
 Wakes silver notes of soft desire. 
 
 
 Adieu, ye chiefs renown'd in arms ! 
 
 Oh 1 might I kiss those eyes of fire, 
 
 Adieu, the clang of war's alarms I 
 
 A million scarce would quench desire : 
 
 To other deeds my soul is strung. 
 
 Still would I steep my lips in bliss. 
 
 And sweeter notes shall now be sung ; 
 
 And dwell an age on every kiss : 
 
 My harji shall all its powers reveal, 
 
 Nor then my soul should sated be ; 
 
 To tell the tale my heart must feel : 
 
 Still would I kiss and cling to thee : 
 
 Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim, 
 
 Naught should my kiss from thine dissever; 
 
 In songs of bliss and sighs of flame. 
 
 Still would we kiss, and kiss forever ; 
 
 
 E'en though the number did exceed 
 The yellow harvest's countless seed. 
 To part would be a vain endeavor : 
 
 
 
 PROM ANACREON. 
 
 Couid I desist ? — ah 1 never — never 1 
 
 [MffTovifKriaif noff upait;' k. t. A.] 
 
 
 'TwAS now the hour when Night had (Iriven 
 
 
 TRANSLATION FROM HORACE. 
 
 Her car half round yon sable heaven ; 
 
 
 Bootes, only, seem'd to roU 
 
 [JiiBtum et tenacem propoBiti vinim, etc.] 
 
 His arctic charge around the pole ; 
 
 The man of firm and no))le sou. 
 
 While mortals. lost in gentle sleep. 
 
 No factious clamors can control ; 
 
 Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep 
 
 No threat'ning tyrant's darkling brow 
 
 At this lone hour, the Paphian boy, 
 
 Can swerve him from his just intent : 
 
 Descending from the realms of joy, 
 
 Gales the warring waves which ploi^h, 
 
 Quick to my gate directs his course, 
 
 By Auster on the billows spent, 
 
 And knocks with all his little force. 
 
 To curb the Adriatic main, 
 
 My visions fled, alarm'd I rose, — 
 
 Would awe his fix'd determined mind in vain. 
 
 "What stranger breaks my bless'd repose!' 
 
 
 " Alas !" replies the wily child. 
 
 Ay, and the red right arm oi Jove, 
 
 In faltering accents sweetly mild. 
 
 Hurtling his lightnings from above, 
 
 " A hapless infant here I roam. 
 
 With all his terrors there unfurl'd. 
 
 Far from my dear maternal home. 
 
 He would, unmoved, unawed behold. 
 
 Oh, shield me from the wintry blast I 
 
 The flames of an expiring world, 
 
 The nightly storm is pouring fast ; 
 
 Again in crashing chaos roU'd, 
 
 No prowling rol)l)er lingers here. 
 
 In vast promiscuous ruin hurl'd. 
 
 A wandering bal)y who can fear V 
 
 Might light his glorious funeral pile : 
 
 I heard his seeming artless tale. 
 
 Still dauntless 'mid the wreck of earth he'd smile. 
 
 I heard his sighs upon the gale : 
 
 
 My breast was never pity's foe. 
 
 
 PROM ANACREON. 
 
 But felt for all the baby's wo. 
 
 [OAw Xeyetv Arpcidaf, K. r. X.] 
 
 I drew the bar, and by the light. 
 
 Young Love, the infant, met my sighf ; 
 
 I wish to tune my quivering lyre 
 
 His bow across his shoulders flung, 
 
 To deeds of fame and notes of fire ; 
 
 And thence his fiital quiver hung. 
 
 To echo, from its rising swell, 
 
 (Ah 1 little did I think the dart 
 
 How heroes fought and nations fell, 
 
 Would rankle soon within my heart.) 
 
 Wlien Atreus' sons advanced to war. 
 
 With care I tend my weary guest. 
 
 Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar • 
 
 His little fingers chill my brea;: 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 383 
 
 His glossy curls, liis azure wing, 
 
 Which droop with nightly showers, I wring ; 
 
 His shivering limbs the embers warm ; 
 
 And now reviving from the storm, 
 
 Scarce had he felt his wonted glow, 
 
 Than swift he seized his slender bow : — 
 
 " I fain would know, my gentle host," 
 
 He cried, " if this its strength has lost ; 
 
 I fear, relax'd with midnight dews. 
 
 The strings their former aid refuse." 
 
 With poison tipp'd, his arrow flies. 
 
 Deep in my tortured heart it Ues ; 
 
 Then loud the joyous urchin laugh'd : — 
 
 " My bow can stiU impel the shaft : 
 
 'Tis firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it ; 
 
 Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it ?" 
 
 PROM THE PROMETHEUS XTNCTUS OF 
 
 ^SCHYLUS. 
 
 [Mj/da/i* b ndvTa vefiuv^ K. t. ?,.j 
 
 Great Jove, to whose almighty throne 
 Both gods and mortals homage pay. 
 
 Ne'er may my soul thy power disown. 
 Thy dread behests ne'er disobey. 
 
 Oft shall the sacred victim faU 
 
 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, 
 WTien placed aloft in goolike state, 
 
 The blushing beauty by thy side, 
 
 rhou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled. 
 
 And mirthful strains the hours beguiled. 
 
 The NjTiiphs and Tritons danced around, 
 
 Njf yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentless 
 
 frown'd. 
 
 Harrow, Dec. 1, 1804. 
 
 TO EivniA. 
 
 Since now the hour is come at last. 
 When you must quit your anxious lover ; 
 
 Since now our dream of bliss is past. 
 One pang, my girl, and all is over. 
 
 Alas ! that pang will be severe, 
 
 Which bids us part to meet no more ; 
 
 Which tears me far from one so dear, 
 Departing for a distant shore. 
 
 Well ! we have pass'd some happy hours. 
 And joy will mingle with our tears : 
 
 When thinking on these ancient towers. 
 The shelter of our infant years ; 
 
 Wliere from this Gothic casement's height, 
 We view"d the lake, the park, the dell ; 
 
 And still, though tears obstruct our sight, 
 We lingering look a last fareweU, 
 
 O'er fields through which we used to run, 
 And spend the hours in childish play ; 
 
 O'er shades where, when the race was done, 
 Reposing on my breast you lay ; 
 
 Whilst I, udmiring, too remiss. 
 Forgot to scare the hovering flies, 
 
 Yet envied every fly the kiss 
 
 It dared to give yo>ir slurnbering eyea 
 
 See still the little painted bark. 
 In which I row'd you o'er the lake ; 
 
 See there, high waving o'er the paik, 
 The elm I clamber'd for your sake. 
 
 These times are past — our joys arp gone 
 You leave me, leave this happy vale ; 
 
 These scenes I must retrace alone : 
 Without thee what will they avail ? 
 
 Who can conceive, who has not proved. 
 The anguish of a last embrace ? 
 
 When, torn from aU you fondly loved. 
 You bid a long adieu to peace. 
 
 This is the deepest of our woes. 
 For this these tears our cheeks bedew; 
 
 This is of love the final close. 
 
 Oh, God I the fondest, last adieu I 
 
 TO M. S. 6. 
 
 Whene'eb I view those lips of thine. 
 Their hue invites my fervent kiss ; 
 
 Yet I forego that bliss diWne, 
 Alas 1 it were unhallow'd bliss. 
 
 Whene'er I dream of that pure breast, 
 How could I dwell upon its snows 1 
 
 Yet is the daring wish repress'd ; 
 For that, — would banish its repose. 
 
 A glance from thy soul-searching eye 
 Can raise with hope, dejjress with feai ; 
 
 Yet I conceal my love, — and why ? 
 I would not force a painful tear. 
 
 I ne'er have told my love, yet thou 
 Hast seen my ardent flame too well ; 
 
 And shall I plead my passion now. 
 To make thy bosom's heaven a hell f 
 
S84 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 No ! for thou never canst be mine, 
 United by tlie priest's decree : 
 
 By any ties but those divine, 
 
 Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er shalt be. 
 
 Then let the secret fire consume. 
 Let it consume, thou shalt not know : 
 
 With joy I court a certain doom, 
 Ratlier than spread its guilty glow. 
 
 I will not ease my tortured heart, 
 
 By driving dove-eyed peace from thine; 
 
 Rather than such a sting impart. 
 Each thought presumptuous I resign. 
 
 Yes 1 yield those lips, for which I'd brave 
 More than I here shall dare to tell ; 
 
 Thy innocence and mine to save, — 
 1 bid thee now a last farewell. 
 
 Yes ! yield that breast, to seek despair, 
 And hope no more thy soft embrace ; 
 
 Which to obtain my soul would dare 
 All, all reproach — but thy disgrace. 
 
 At least from guilt shalt thou be free, 
 No matron shall thy shame reprove ; 
 
 Though cureless pangs may prey on me, 
 No martyr shalt thou be to love. 
 
 TO CAROLINE. 
 
 Think'st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes, 
 Suffused in tears, implore to stay ; 
 
 And heard unmoved thy plenteous sighs, 
 Which said far more than words can say? 
 
 Though keen the grief thy tears express'd, 
 When love and hope lay both o'erthroT\Ti ; 
 
 ^Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast 
 
 Throbb'd with deep sorrow as thine own. 
 
 But when our cheeks with angmsh glow'd, 
 Wlien thy sweet lips were join'd to mine. 
 
 The tears tliat from my eyelids flow'd 
 Were lost in those which fell from thine. 
 
 Thou couldst not feel my burning cheek, 
 Thy gushing tears had qucnch'd its flame 
 
 And as thy tongue essay'd to speak. 
 In signs alone it breathed my name. 
 
 And yet, my girl, we weep in vain. 
 In vain our fate in sighs deplore ; 
 
 Remenibrancc only can remain, — 
 But that will make us weep the more. 
 
 Again, thou best beloved, adieu I 
 Ah ! if thou canst, o'ercome regret ; 
 
 Nor let thy mind past joys review,- 
 Our only hope is to forget 1 
 
 TO CAROLINE. 
 
 When I hear you express an affection so warm. 
 Ne'er think, my beloved, that I do not believe ; 
 
 For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm. 
 And your eye beams a ray which can never deceive. 
 
 Yet, still, this fond bosom regrets, while adoring, 
 That love, like the leaf, must faU into the sear ; 
 
 That age wiU come on, when remembrance, deploring 
 Contemplates the scenes of her youth with a tear; 
 
 That the time must arrive, when, no longer retaining 
 Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to the 
 breeze. 
 
 When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining, 
 Prove nature a prey to decay and disease. 
 
 'Tis this, my beloved, which spreads gloom o'er my 
 features, 
 
 Though I ne'er shall presume to arraign the decree, 
 Which God has proclaim'd as the fate of his creatures, 
 
 In the death which one day will deprive you of me. 
 
 Mistake not, sweet skeptic, the cause of emotion, 
 No doubt can the mind of your lover invade ; 
 
 He worships each look with such faithful devotion, 
 A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade. 
 
 But as death, my beloved, soon or late shall o'ertake us, 
 And our breasts, which alive with such sympathy 
 glow. 
 
 Will sleep in the grave tiU the blast shall awake us, 
 When calling the dead, in earth's bosom laid low, — 
 
 Oh I then let us drain, while we may, draughts of 
 
 pleasure. 
 
 Which from passion like ours may unceasingly flow, 
 
 Let us pass round the cup of love's bliss in full measure, 
 
 And quaff the contents as our nectar below. 
 
 1806. 
 
 TO CAROLINE. 
 
 Oh I when shall the grave hide forever my sorrows? 
 
 Oh ! when shall my soul vnng her flight from this 
 clay? 
 The present is hell, and the coming to-morrow 
 
 But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day. 
 
 From my eye flows no tear, from my lips flow no 
 curses, [bliss 
 
 I blast not the fiends who have hurl'd me from 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 385 
 
 For poor is the soul w}iich, bewailing, rehearses 
 Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this. 
 
 Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury ilakes 
 
 bright'niug, 
 Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream 
 
 could assuage, [its lightning, 
 
 On our foes should my glance launch in vengeance 
 
 With transport my tongue give a loose to its rage. 
 
 But now tears and curses, alike unavailing, 
 Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight; 
 
 Could they view us our sad separation bewailing. 
 Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight. 
 
 Yet still, though we bend with a feign'd resignation, 
 L'fe beams not for us with one ray that can cheer; 
 
 Lo'V e and hope upon earth bring no more consolation ; 
 Ii the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear. 
 
 0). ! when, my adored, in the tomb will they place me, 
 Since, in life, love and friendship forever are fled i 
 
 If igain in the mansion of death I emiirace thee, 
 Perhaps thev will leave unmolested the dead. 
 
 1805. 
 
 STANZAS TO A LADY, 
 
 ■wrrn the poems op c.oioens. 
 This votive pledge of fond esteem. 
 
 Perhaps, dear girl ! for m*thou"lt prize, 
 It sings of Love's enchanting dream, 
 
 A theme we never can despise. 
 
 Who blames it but the envious fool. 
 The old and disappointed maid ; 
 
 Or pupil of the prudish school. 
 In single sorrow doom'd to fade ? 
 
 Then read, dear girl ! with feeling read, 
 For thou wilt ne'er be one of those; 
 
 To thee in vain I shall not plead 
 In pity for the poet's woes. 
 
 He was in sooth a genuine bard ; 
 
 His was no faint, fictitious flame : 
 Like his, may love be thy reward, 
 
 But not thy hapless fate the same. 
 
 THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE. 
 
 *A Bap6iT0^ de xop^aic 
 
 'EpG ■' 1 flovvov !iX':l. AUACREON. 
 
 Away with your fictions of flimsy romance ; 
 Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove 1 
 49 
 
 Give me the mild beam of the soul-brealiing glance 
 Or the raptiu-e which dwells on the first kiss of 
 love. 
 
 Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with fantasy glow, 
 Wliose pastoral passions are made f( r the grove ; 
 
 From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow, 
 Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love I 
 
 If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse. 
 
 Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rove, 
 
 Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse, 
 And try the efifect of the first kiss of love ! 
 
 I hate you, ye cold compositions of art ! 
 
 Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots re- 
 prove, 
 I court the efl'usions that spring from the heart, 
 
 Wliich tliroljs with delight to the first kiss of love. 
 
 Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes, 
 Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move : 
 
 Arcadia disfjlays but a region of dreams : 
 
 Wliat are visions like these to the first kiss of love ? 
 
 Oh ! cease to affirm that man, since his birth. 
 
 From Adam till now,has with wretchedness strove; 
 
 Some portion of paradise still is on earth. 
 And Eden revives in the first kiss of love. 
 
 Wlien age chills the blood, when oirr pleasures are 
 pass'd — 
 
 For years fleet away with the wings of the dove — ■ 
 The dearest remembrance will still be the. last. 
 
 Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love. 
 
 ON A CHANGE OF PIASTERS AT A GREAT 
 PUBLIC SCHOOL. 
 
 Where are those honors, Ida ! once your own, 
 When Probus fiU'd your magisterial throne ? 
 As ancient Rome, fast falling to disgrace, 
 Hail'd a barbarian in her Ciesar's place. 
 So you, degenerate, share as hard a fate, 
 And scat Pomposus where your Probus sate. 
 Of narrow brain, yet of a narrower soul, 
 Pomposus holds you in his harsh control ; 
 Pomposus, by no social virtue sway'd. 
 With florid jargon, and vpith vain parade ; 
 'V^ith noisy nonsense, and new-fangled rules. 
 Such as were ne'er before enforced in schools. 
 Mistaking pedantry for learning's laws, 
 He governs, sanction'd but by self-applause. 
 With him the same dire fate attending Rome, 
 Ill-fated Ida ! soon must stamp your doom : 
 Like her o'erthrown, forever lost to fame. 
 No trace of science left you, but the name 
 
 July, 1806, 
 
SS6 
 
 BYROX'S WORKS. 
 
 TO THE DUKE OF DORSET.' 
 
 Dorset 1' whose early steps witli mine have stray'rt, 
 Exploring every path of Ida's glade ; 
 WTiom still affection taught me to defend. 
 And made me less a tyrant than a friend, 
 Though the harsh custom of our youthful band. 
 Bade thee obey, and gave me to command ; ' 
 Thee, on whose head a few short years will shower 
 The gift of riches, and the pride of power; 
 E'en now a name illustrious is thine ovrn, 
 Renown'd in rank, not far beneath the throne. 
 Yet, Dorset, let not this seduce thy soul 
 To shun fair science, or evade control, 
 Thougli ])assive tutors,' fearful to dispraise 
 The titled cliild, whose future breath may raise, 
 View ducal errors with indulgent eyes. 
 And wink at faults they treml:(le to chastise. 
 
 When youtlifiil parasites, who bend the knee 
 To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee, — 
 And even in simple boyhood's opening dawn 
 Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn, — 
 When these declare, " that pomp alone should wait 
 On one by birth predestined to be great ; 
 That books were only meant for drudging fools. 
 That gallant spirits scorn the common rules ;" 
 Believe them not ; — they point the path to shame. 
 And seek to blast the honors of thy name. 
 Turn to the few in Ida's early throng, 
 Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong ; 
 Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth, 
 None dare to raise the sterner voice of trnth. 
 Ask thine own heart ; 'twill liid thee, boy, forbear ; 
 For well I know that virtue lingers there. 
 
 Yes ! I have mark'd thee many a nassing day, 
 But now new scenes invite me far away ; 
 Yes 1 I have mark'd within that generous mind 
 A soul, if well matured, to bless mankind. 
 Ah ! though myself, by nature haughty, wild, 
 Wliom Indiscretion hail'd her favorite child ; 
 -Though every error stamps me for her own, 
 And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone ; 
 
 ' In lookinf; over my papere to select a few additonal poem?. Tor 
 this Hecond edition. I found tlic abo\-e line?, wliicti I Iind totally 
 forgotten, composed in the Fnmmei- of 1S0.5, a «hort time pr'ivious 
 to my departure frora Harrow. They were addressed to a young 
 Bchoolfellow of hifxh rank, who had t)cen my freqncnt companion 
 in Borne rambles lhrou;„di the neighboring country : however, lie 
 never saw tlie lines, and most probably never will. .\s. on a re- 1 
 perusal, I foinid them not worse than some other pieces in the [ 
 collection, I have now published them, for the first time, after a 
 Blight revision. , 
 
 ■■' Gcorge-John-Frederick, fourth Duke of Dorset, born Novem- ' 
 ber \a, no:i. This amiable nobleman was killed by a fall from his 
 horse, while hunting near Dublin, February 33, 1815, being on a \ 
 visit at the lime to bis mother, tlie duchess-dowager, and her sec- i 
 ond husband, Charles, Harl of Whltworth, then Lord Lieutenant 
 of Ireland. | 
 
 * At every public school the junior boys are completely subserv- I 
 lent to the ui»per forms till they attain a seat in the higher classes. 
 From this slate of pn liation. veiy projierly, no rank is exempt ; i 
 
 Though my proud heart no precept now can tame. 
 I love the virtues which I cannot claim. 
 
 'Tis not enough, witli other sons of power, 
 To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour ; 
 To swell some peerage page in feeble pride, 
 With long-drawn names that grace no page beside ; 
 Then share with titled crowds the common lot — 
 In life just gazed at, in the grave forgot ; 
 While naught divides thee from the vulgar dead, 
 ExcejM the dull cold stone that hides thy head, 
 The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the herald's roll, 
 That flcll-emljlazon'd but neglected scroll, 
 Where lords, unhonor'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, 
 A race, with old armorial lists o'erspread, 
 In records destined never to be read. 
 Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes. 
 
 Exalted more among the good and wise, 
 
 A glorious and a long career ])ursue. 
 
 As fu-st in rank, the first in talent too : 
 Spurn every vice, each little meanness slum ; 
 
 Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son. 
 Turn to the annals of a former day ; 
 
 Bright are the deeds thine earlier sires display. 
 
 One, though a courtier, lived a man of worth. 
 
 And caU'd, proud boast ! the British drama forth.* 
 
 Another view, not less renown'd for wit ; 
 
 Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit ; 
 
 Bold in the field, and favor'd by the Nine ; 
 
 In every splendid p.art ordain'd to shine ; 
 
 Far, far distinguish'd from the glittering throng, 
 
 The pride of princes, and the boast of song.' 
 
 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 [mine : 
 i Shades where Hope, Peace, and Friendship all were 
 
 Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue, 
 
 but after a certain period, they command in turn those who suc- 
 ceed. 
 
 * Allow me to disclaim any personal allusions, even the most 
 distant : I merely mention generally what is too often the weak 
 noss of preceptors, 
 
 ^ " Tliomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, was bom in lijST. WhiW 
 a student of the Inner Temi>le. he wrote bis tragedy of Oorboduc, 
 wkich was played before Queen Elizabeth at Whitehall, in 1.5(it. 
 His tragedy, and his contribution of the Induction and legend of 
 the Duke of Buckingham to the " Mirror for Magistrates," com- 
 pose the poetical histoiy of Sackville." 
 
 " Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset, was bom t.i IfiST. and died 
 in n(Mi. lie was esteemed tlie most accomplished man of his 
 day. and alike distinguished in the voluptuous court of Charle? 
 II. and the gloomy one of William III. He behaved with consid- 
 erable gallantry in the sea-fight with the Dutch in 1605 : on tho 
 day previous to which he Is said to have com])0sod his celebrated 
 song. To aU you Ladien now at Land His character has been 
 drawn in llie highest colors by Dryden. Pope. Prior and Congreve. 
 
HOURS OP IDLENESS. 
 
 387 
 
 And gild their jjinions a8 tlie moments flew ; 
 Peace, that reflection never frown'd away, 
 By dreams of ill to cloud some future day ; 
 Friendship, wliose truth let childhood only tell, 
 Alas ! they love not long, who love so well. 
 To these adieu ! nor let me linger o'er 
 Scenes hail'd, as exiles hail their native shore, 
 Receding slowly through the dark-blue deep, 
 Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep. 
 
 Dorset, farewell ! I will not aslc one part 
 Of sad remembrance in so young a heart; 
 The coming morrow from thy youthful mind 
 Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind. 
 And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year. 
 Since chance has thrown us in the self-same sphere, 
 Since the same senate, nay, the same debate. 
 May one day claim our suffrage for the state, 
 We hence may meet, and pass each other by. 
 With faint regard, or cold and distant eye. 
 
 For me, in future, neither friend nor foe, 
 A stranger to thyself, thy weal or wo. 
 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 : 
 Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught 
 To veil those feelings which perchance it ought. 
 If these, — but let me cease the lengthen'd strain, — 
 Oh ! if these wishes are not breathed in vain. 
 The guardian seraph who directs thy fate 
 WiU leave thee glorious, as he found thee great. 
 
 1805. 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 WMTTEN SHORTLY AFTER THE MARRIAGE OF 
 MISS CHjV WORTH. 
 
 Hells of Annesley ! bleak and barren. 
 Where my thoughtless childhood stray'd, 
 
 How the northern tempests, warring, 
 Howl above thy tufted shade ! 
 
 Now no more, the hours beguiling, 
 
 Former favorite haunts I see ; 
 Now no more my Mary smiling 
 
 Makes ye seem a heaven to me. 
 
 1805. 
 
 GRANTA. A Medley. 
 
 Oh ! could Le Sage's' demon's gift 
 Be realized at my desire, 
 
 1 The DiaWe Boitenx of Lc Sage, where Asmodeus, the demon, 
 places Don Cleofas on an elevated situation, and unroofi^ the houses 
 for inspection. 
 
 '' On the death of Mr. Pitt, in January, 1S06, Lord Henry Petty 
 ind Lord Palmcrston were candidates to represent tl.e University 
 pf Cambridge in parliament. 
 
 This night my trembling form he'd lift 
 To place it on St. Mary's spire. 
 
 Then would, unroof'd, old Granta's halls 
 
 Pedantic inmates full display ; 
 Fellows who dream on lawn or stalls, 
 
 The price of venal votes to pay. 
 
 Then would I view each rival wight, 
 
 Petty and Palmerston survey ; 
 Who canvass there with all their might, 
 
 Against the next elective day.^ 
 
 Lo ! candidates and voters he 
 
 All luU'd in sleep, a goodly number : 
 
 A race renown'd for piety, 
 
 Wliose conscience won't disturb their slunber 
 
 Lord H ,' indeed, may not demur ; 
 
 Fellows are sage reflecting men : 
 They know preferment can occur 
 
 But very seldom, — now and then. 
 
 They know the Chancellor has got 
 
 Some pretty livings in disposal: 
 Each hopes that one may be his lot, 
 
 And therefore smiles on his proposal. 
 
 Now from the soporific scene 
 I'U turn mine eye, as night grows later, 
 
 To view, unheeded and unseen, 
 The studious sons of Alma Mater. 
 
 There, in apartments small and damp, 
 
 The candidate for college prizes 
 Sits poring by the midnight lamp ; 
 
 Goes late to bed, yet early rises. 
 
 He surely well deserves to gain them, 
 
 With all the honors of his coUege, 
 Wlio, striving hardly to obtain them. 
 
 Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge : 
 
 Who sacrifices hours of rest 
 
 To scan precisely metres Attic ; 
 Or agitates his anxious breast 
 
 In solving problems mathemat' ■ 
 
 Who reads felse quantities in Seaie.* 
 
 Or puzzles o'er the deep triangl-; . 
 Deprived of many a wholesome meal ; 
 
 In barbarous Latin' doom'd to wrangle : 
 
 Renoimcing every pleasing page 
 From authors of historic use ; 
 
 ' Edward-Harvey Hawke, third Lord Hawke. His lordship died 
 in 1824. 
 
 * Scale's publication on OreekMetres displays considerable talent 
 and ingenuity, but, as might be expected in so difflcnlt a woi a, ifl 
 not remarkable for accuracy. 
 
 ^ The Latin of the schools is of the caniM sjecies and not rerj 
 intelligible. 
 
i.-ii 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Prefi.'rring to the letter'd sage, 
 Tlie square of the liypotlienuse.i 
 
 Still, harmless are these occupations 
 That liurt none but the hapless stud . Jt, 
 
 Compared witli other recreations, 
 Which liring together the imprudent; 
 
 Whose daring revels shock the sight, 
 
 When vice and infamy combine, 
 Wlien drunkenness and dice invite. 
 
 As every sense is steep'd in -wine. 
 
 Not so the methodistio crew. 
 
 Who plans of reformation lay: 
 In liuml>lo attitude they sue, 
 
 And for the sins of others pray : 
 
 Forgetting that their pride of spirit. 
 
 Their exultation in their trial, 
 Detracts most largely from the merit 
 
 Of all their boasted self-denial. 
 
 'Tis morn : — from these I turn my sight. 
 
 What scene is this which meets the eye ? 
 A numerous crowd, array'd in white,' 
 
 Across the green in numljcrs 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 list'ning ear. 
 
 To this is join'd the sacred song, 
 The royal minstrel's hallow'd strain ; 
 
 Thougli he who hears the music long 
 Will never wish to hear again. 
 
 Our ciioir would scarcely be excused, 
 Even as a band of raw beginners : 
 
 All mercy now must be refused 
 To such a set of croaking sinners. 
 
 If David, when liis toils were ended, 
 
 Had heard these blockheads sing before him, 
 
 To us his psalms had ne'er descended, — 
 In furious mood he would have tore 'em. 
 
 The luckless Israelites, when taken 
 
 By some inhuman tyrant's order. 
 Were ask'd to sing, by joy forsaken. 
 
 On Babylonian river's border. 
 
 Oh ! had they sung in notes like these, 
 Inspired by stratagem or fear, 
 
 I Tlic discovery of Pythagoras, that the square of the hypotho- 
 nuee is equal to the squares of the other two sii -9 of a right-angled 
 triangle. 
 
 ^ On a saint's day, the students wear surp.ices in chapel. 
 
 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 wiU stay to read • 
 
 My pen is blunt, my ink is low ; 
 'Tis almost time to stop, indeed. 
 
 Therefore, farewell, old Granta's spires I 
 
 No more, like Cleofas, I fly ; 
 No more thy theme my muse inspires : 
 
 The reader's tired, and so am I. 
 
 1808. 
 
 ON A DISTANT VIEW OF THE VILLAGE 
 
 AND SCHOOL OF HARROW ON THE HILL. 
 
 Oh I mihi pnetcritos referat si Jupiter annos.—Vmau. 
 
 Te scenes of my childhood, whose loved recollection 
 Embitters the present, compared with the past ; 
 
 Where science first dawn'd on the powers of re- 
 flection, 
 And friendships were form'd too romantic to last ; 
 
 Wliere fancy yet joys to trace the resemblance 
 Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied ; 
 
 How welcome to me your ne'er fading remembrance, 
 ANHiich rests in the bosom, though hope is denied 1 
 
 Again I revisit the hills where we sported. 
 
 The streams where we swam, and the fields where 
 we fought ; [sorted, 
 
 The school where, loud wam'd by the bell, we re- 
 To pour o'er the precepts by pedagogues taught. 
 
 Again I behold where for hours I have pondcr'd, 
 As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone I lay ; 
 
 Orroundthe steep brow of the churchyard I wander'd, 
 To catch tlie last gleam of the sun's setting ray. 
 
 I once more view the room, \nt\x spectators sur- 
 rounded, 
 Wlicre, as Zanga, I trod on Alonzo o'erthrown ; 
 While, to swell my young pride, such applauses re- 
 sounded, 
 I fancied that Mossop' himself was outshone ; 
 
 Or, as Lear, I pour'd forth the deep imprecation, 
 By my daughters of kingdom and reason deprived; 
 
 Till, fired by loud plaudits and self-adulation, 
 I regarded myself as a Garrick revived. 
 
 Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret you I 
 Unfadcd your memory dwells in my breast ; 
 
 Though sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget you : 
 Tour pleasures may still be in fancy possess'd. 
 
 To Ida full oft may remembranci? i-cstore me, 
 
 While fate shall the shades of the future unroll ! 
 
 » Mossop, a cotemporary of Oarrick, famous for his perfoi-m- 
 ance of Zanga. 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 38& 
 
 Since darkness o'ershadows the prospect before me, 
 More dear is the beam of the past to my soul. 
 
 But if, through the course of the years which await 
 me. 
 Some new scene of jsleasure should open to view, 
 I will say, while with rapture the thought shall elate 
 me. 
 Oh, such were the days which my infancy knew !" 
 
 ISOG. 
 
 TO M — -. 
 
 Oh! did chose eyes, instead of fire, 
 With bright but mild aflfection shine. 
 
 Though they might kindle less desire. 
 Love, more than mortal, v.'ould be thine. 
 
 For thou art form'd so heavenly fair, 
 Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam. 
 
 We must admire, but still desjjair ; 
 That fatal glance forljids 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 ? 
 
 Tis said that Berenice's hair 
 In stars adorns the vault of heaven ; 
 
 But they would ne'er permit thee there. 
 Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven. 
 
 For did those eyes as planets roll, 
 
 Thy sister-lights would scarce appear : 
 
 E'en suns, which systems now control. 
 
 Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.' 
 
 1806. 
 
 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 naught : 
 
 1 *' Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, 
 Having some business, do intreat her eyes. 
 To twinkle in their spheres till they return."— Shakes. 
 
 5 The last line is almost a li eral translation from a Spanish 
 •roverb. 
 
 But, placed in all thy charms before me, 
 
 All I forget, but to adore thee. 
 
 Oh memory ! thou choicest blessing 
 
 Wlien 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 arc 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 ! 
 
 FontUy we hope 'twill last for aye. 
 
 When, lo! she changes in a day. 
 
 This record will forever stand, 
 
 " Woman, thy vows are traced in sand."5 
 
 TO M. S. a. 
 
 When I dream that you love me, you'll surely 
 Extend not your anger to sleep ; [forgive ; 
 
 For in ^dsions alone your aft'ection can Uve, — 
 I rise, and it leaves me to weep 
 
 Then, Jlorpheus ! 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 ! 
 
 Ah ! frown not, sweet lady, unbend your soft brow 
 
 Nor deem me too happy in this ; 
 If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now, 
 
 Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss. 
 
 Though in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you may 
 Oh ! think not my penance deficient ! [smile, 
 
 When dreams of your presence my slumbers be- 
 To awake wiU be torture sufficient. [guile, 
 
 TO MART. 
 
 ON RECEIVING HER rlCTtTRE.s 
 
 This faint resemblance of thy charms. 
 Though strong as mortal art could give, 
 
 My constant heart of fear disarms. 
 Revives my hopes, and bids me live. 
 
 ' Of this " Mary," who is net to be confounded with the heireet 
 of Annesley. or " Mary " of Aberdeen, all that has been ascertained 
 is, that she wne of an humble, if not equivocal station in life, — and 
 that she had lon:^ light golden hair, " of which," says Mr. 
 Moore, " the poet used to show a lock, as well as her j ictore 
 amon<: his friends." 
 
SPO 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS 
 
 Here I can trace the locks of gold 
 
 Which round thy snowy forehead wave, 
 
 TLe cheeks whicli sprung from beauty's mould, 
 The lips which made me beauty's slave. 
 
 Here I can trace — ah, no 1 that eye, 
 
 Whose azure floats in liquid Hre, 
 Must all the painter's art defy, 
 
 And bid him from the task retire. 
 
 Here I behold a beauteous hue ; 
 
 But Where's the beam so sweetly straying ; 
 Which gave a lustre to its blue, 
 
 Like Luna o'er the ocean playing ? 
 
 Sweet copy ! far more dear to me. 
 
 Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art. 
 Than aU the living forms could be 
 
 Save her who placed thee next my heart. 
 
 She placed it, sad, with needless fear, 
 Lest time might shake my wavering soul. 
 
 Unconscious that her image there 
 Held every sensa in fast control. 
 
 Through hours, through years, through time, 'twill 
 My hope, in gloomy moments, raise ; [cheer ; 
 
 In life's last conflict "twill appear. 
 And meet my fond expiring gaze. 
 
 TO LESBIA. 
 
 Lesbia ! since far from you I've ranged, 
 Our souls with fond affection glow not; 
 
 You say 'tis I, not you, have changed, 
 I'd tell you why, — but yet I know not. 
 
 four polish 'd brow no cares have cross'd ; 
 
 And, Lesbia ! we are not much older 
 Since, trembling, first my heart I lost. 
 
 Or told my love, with hope grown bolder. 
 
 Sixteen was then our utmost age. 
 
 Two years have lingering pass'd away, love ! 
 And now new thoughts our minds engage, 
 
 At least I feel disposed to stray, love 1 
 
 'Tis I that am alone to l)lamo, 
 I that am guilty of love's treason ; 
 
 Since your sweet breast is still the same, 
 Caprice nuist bo my only reason. 
 
 I do not, love ! susfject your truth. 
 
 With jealous doul)t my bosom heaves not : 
 
 ' The occurrence took place at Sonthwdl, and the bcautiflil lady 
 ;o whom the lines were addressed was Misf H(j-:3on. 
 
 Warm was the passion of my youth. 
 One trace of dark deceit it leaves not 
 
 No, no, my flame was not pretended ; 
 
 For, oh ! I loved you most sincerely ; 
 And — though our dream at last .€ -.nded— 
 
 3Iy bosom still esteems you dearly. 
 
 No more we meet in yonder bowers ; 
 
 Absence has made me jjrone to roviLg; 
 But older, firmer hearts than ours 
 
 Have found monotony in loving. 
 
 Your cheek's soft bloom is unimpair'd. 
 New beauties still are daily bright'ning ; 
 
 Your eye for conquest beams pre])ared. 
 The forgo of love's resistless lightning. 
 
 Arm'd thus to make their bosoms bleed. 
 Many will throng to sigh like me, love ! 
 
 More constant they may prove, indeed; 
 Fonder, alas ! they ne'er can be, love ! 
 
 LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 [As the author was discharging his pistols in a garden, two 
 ladies passing near the spot were alarmed by the sound of a bullet 
 hissing near them ; to one of whom the following stanzas wew 
 addressed the next morning.] » 
 
 Doubtless, sweet girl ! the hissing lead, 
 Wafting destructiou o'er thy charms. 
 
 And hurtling- o'er thy lovely head. 
 Has fill'd that breast wth fend alarms. 
 
 Surely some envious demon's force, 
 
 Vex'd to behold such beauty liere, 
 Impell'd the buUot's viewless course, 
 
 Diverted from its first career. 
 
 Yes ! in that nearly fatal hour 
 
 The ball obey'd some hell-born guide; 
 
 But Heaven, with interposing power, 
 In pity turn'd the death aside. 
 
 Yet, as perchance one trembling tear 
 
 Upon that thrilling bosom fell ; 
 Which I, th' unconscious cause of fear, 
 
 Extracted from its glistening cell : 
 
 Say, what dire penance can atone 
 
 For such an outrage done to tliee ? 
 Arraign'd before thy beauty's throne. 
 
 What punishment wilt thou decree ? 
 
 Might I perform the judge's part. 
 The sentence I should scarce deplore ; 
 
 ' This word is used liv Orav, in his poem to the Fatal S ■■tan.*' 
 
 *• Iron Avi^l of arrowy shower 
 Harilos through the dariien'd air." 
 
-.^Hz^t^is^} _-2a^^ ^^/.- ' 
 
 WW > \ ■■ \'-' I V\ 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS, 
 
 39] 
 
 It only would restor a heart 
 Which but belong d to thee before. 
 
 The least atonement I can make 
 
 Is to become no longer free ; 
 Henceforth I breathe but for thy sake, 
 
 Thou shalt be all in aU to me. 
 
 But thou, perhajis, mayst now reject 
 
 Such expiation of my guilt : 
 Come then, some other mode elect ; 
 
 Let it be death, or what thou wilt. 
 
 Choose then, relentless ! and I swear 
 Naught shall thy dread decree jirovent ; 
 
 Yet hold — one little word forbear 1 
 Let it be auttht but banishment. 
 
 LOVE'S LAST ADIEU. 
 
 Af(, iT act. fiE (jievyei. — AnACREON. 
 
 The roses of love glad the garden of life, [dew, 
 
 Though nurtiu'ed 'mid weeds dropping pestilent 
 
 Till time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife. 
 Or primes them forever, in love's last adieu ! 
 
 In vain with endearments we soothe the sad heart. 
 In vain do we vow for an age to be true ; 
 
 The chance of an hoiu- may command us to part. 
 Or death disunite us in love's last adieu 1 
 
 Still Hope, breathing peace through the grief-swollen 
 breast, 
 
 Will whisper, " Our meeting we yet may renew :" 
 With this dream of deceit half our sorrow's repreas'd. 
 
 Nor taste we the poison of love's last adieu 1 
 
 Oh ! mark you jon pair: in the sunshine of youth 
 Love twined round their childhood his flow'rs as 
 they grew ; 
 
 They flourish awhile in the season of truth, 
 Till cliiU'd by the winter of love's last adieu I 
 
 Sweet lady ! why thus doth a tear steal its way 
 Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in hue ? 
 
 Yet why do I ask ? — to distraction a prey, 
 Thy reason has perish'd with love's last adieu ! 
 
 Oh ! who ia yon misanthrope, shunning mankind? 
 
 From cities to caves of the forest he flew : 
 There, raving, he howls his comjjlaint to the wind ; 
 
 The mountains reverberate love's last adieu ! 
 
 Now hate rules a heart which in love's easy chains 
 Once passion's tumultuous blandishments knew ; 
 
 Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins; 
 He ponders in phreusy on love's last adieu ! 
 
 How he envies the wretch with a soul wrapp'd in 
 
 steel 1 
 His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are few. 
 Who laughs at the pang that he never can feel, 
 And dreads not the anguish of love's last adieu ' 
 
 Youth flies, life decays, even hope is o'crcait; 
 
 No more with love's former devotion we sue ? 
 He spreads his young wing, he retires with the blast; 
 
 The shroud of aflection is love's last adieu 1 
 
 In this life of probation for rapture divine, 
 Astrea declares that some penance is due ; 
 
 From him who has worshipp'd at love's gentle shrine, 
 The atonement is ample in love's last adieu t 
 
 Who kneels to the god, on his altar of light 
 Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew : 
 
 His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight ; 
 His cypress, the garland of love's last adieu t 
 
 DA.MJETAS. 
 In law an infant,' and in years a boy. 
 In mind a slave to every vicious joy ; 
 From every sense of shame and virtue wean'd ; 
 In Ues an adept, in deceit a flend ; 
 Versed in hypocrisy, while yet a child ; 
 Fickle as wind, of incUuations wild ; 
 Woman his dujse, his heedless friend a tool , 
 Old in the world, though scarcely broke from schoo 
 Damfctas ran through all the maze of sin. 
 And found the goal when others just begin : 
 Even stiU conflicting passions shake his soul, 
 j And bid him drain the dregs of pleasure's bowl , 
 But, pall'd with vice, he breaks his former chain. 
 And what was once his bliss appears his bane. 
 
 TO MAHION. 
 Marion ! why that pensive brow ? 
 What disgust to life hast thou ? 
 Change that discontented air ; 
 Frowns become not one so fair. 
 'Tis not love disturbs thy rest, 
 Love's a stranger to thy breast ; 
 He in dimpling smiles appears 
 Or mourns in sweetly timid tears. 
 Or Ijends the languid eyelid down, 
 But shuns the cold forbidding frown. 
 Then resume thy former fire. 
 Some will love, and all admire ; 
 While that icy aspect chills us, 
 Naught but cool indifi'erence thrills us. 
 Wouklst thou wandering hearts beguile. 
 Smile at least, or seem to smile. 
 
 ^ In law every person is an infnTit who han not attained tiic ac« 
 of twenty-ono. 
 
;;92 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Eyes like tbine were never meant 
 
 To liide tliuir oil)s in dark restraint ; 
 
 Spite of all thou fain wouklst say. 
 
 Still in truant Ix'anis they play. 
 
 Thy lips — but here my modest Muse 
 
 Her impulse chaste must needs refuse : 
 
 She blushes, curt'sies, frowns — in short she 
 
 Dreads lest the subject should transport me ; 
 
 And flying off in search of reason, 
 
 Brink's prudence back in proper season. 
 
 All I sliall therefore say (wbate'er 
 
 I think, is neither licre nor there) 
 
 Is, tliat such lips, of looks endearing, 
 
 Were form'd for better things than sneering : 
 
 Of smoothing compliments divested, 
 
 Advice at least 's disinterested ; 
 
 Such is my artless song to thee. 
 
 From all (he flow of flattery free ; 
 
 Counsel like mine is like a brother's : 
 
 My heart is given to some others ; 
 
 Tiiat is to say, unskill'd to cozen, 
 
 It sliares itself among a dozen. 
 
 Marion, adieu ! oh, pr'ythee slight not 
 
 This warning, though it may delight not ; 
 
 And, lest my precejjts be displeasing 
 
 To those who think remonstrance teasing, 
 
 At once I'll tell thoe our opinion 
 
 Concerning woman's soft dominion : 
 
 Howe'er we gaze with admiration 
 
 On eyes of blue or lips carnation, 
 
 Howe'er the flowing locks attract us, 
 
 Howe'er those beauties may distract us, 
 
 Still fickle, we are prone to rove. 
 
 These cannot fix our souls to love : 
 
 It is not too severe a stiicture 
 
 To say tliey form a jiretty picture ; 
 
 But wouklst tliou see the secret chain 
 
 Which binds us in your humljle train, 
 
 To hail you queens of all creation, 
 
 Know, in a word, 'tis Animation. 
 
 TO' A LADY 
 
 WHO PRESENTED TO TUB AUTHOR A LOCK OF HAIR 
 BRAIDEI] WITH HIS 0\\'N, AND APPOINTED A NIGHT 
 m DECEMnBR TO MEET IIIM IN THE GARDEN. 
 
 These locks, which fondly thus entwine, 
 In firmer chains our hearts confine. 
 Than all th' unmeaning protestations 
 
 ' In the above li .tie piece tlie author has been accused by gome 
 cundiU readers of intmduciiig the name of a lady from whom he 
 wae some hundred miles* distant at the time this was written ; 
 and poor Juliet, who has slept so loni^ in "the tomb of all the 
 •"lapuh'ts," has been converted, with a trilling alteration of her 
 name, into an Kiitrlish damsel, walking in a garden of their own 
 creation, during the month of Decefnber, in a village where the 
 talhor never passed a winter. Such has been the candor of some 
 in;j:c::ioiis criiics. We would advise the liberal commentators on 
 lusle and arbiters of dcci vum to read ShakaDcare, 
 
 Wliich swell with nonsense ove orations. 
 
 Our love is fix'd, I tliink we ve proved it. 
 
 Nor time, nor jiltiee, nor art have moved it 
 
 Then wherefore should we sigh and whine. 
 
 With groundless jealousy repine, 
 
 With silly whims and fancies frantic, 
 
 Merely to make our love romantic ? 
 
 Why should you weep like Lydia Languish, 
 
 And fret with self-created anguish. 
 
 Or doom the lover you have chosen. 
 
 On winter nights to sigh half frozen ; 
 
 In leafless shades to sue for pardon, 
 
 Only because the scene's a garden ? 
 
 For gardens seem, by one consent, 
 
 Since Shakspeare set the precedent. 
 
 Since Juliet first declared her passion. 
 
 To form the place of assignation.' 
 
 Oh ! would some modem muse inspire, 
 
 And seat her by a sea-coal fire ; 
 
 Or had the bard at Christmas written, 
 
 And laid the scene of love in Britain, 
 
 He surely, in commiseration. 
 
 Had changed the place of declaration. 
 
 In Italy I've no objection ; 
 
 Warm nights are proper for reflection ; 
 
 But here our climate is so rigid, 
 
 That love itself is rather frigid. 
 
 Think on our chilly situation. 
 
 And curb this rage for imitation ; 
 
 Then let us meet, as oft we've done, 
 
 Beneath the influence of the sun ; 
 
 Or, if at midnight I must meet you, 
 
 Within your mansion let me greet you : 
 
 There we can love for hours together, 
 
 Much l)etter, in such snowy weather, 
 
 Than placed in all th' Arcadian groves 
 
 That ever witness'd rural loves ; 
 
 Then, if my passion fail to please, 
 
 Kext night I'll be content to freeze ; 
 
 No more I'll give a loose to laughter. 
 
 But curse my fate forever after.^ 
 
 OSCAR OF ALVA. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 How sweetly shines through azure s'Kies, 
 The lamp of heaven on Lora's shore ; 
 
 Where Alva's hoary turrets rise. 
 And hear the din of arms no more. 
 
 5 Having heard that a very severe and indelicate censtire hae 
 been passed on the above poem. I beg leave to reply in a qtiot»- 
 tlon from an admired work, "Carr's Stranger in France." — "As 
 
 I we were contemplating a painting on a large scale, in which, 
 among other figures, is the uncovered whole length of a warrior, 
 a prudish-looking l.idy. who seemed to have touched the age of 
 
 1 desperation, after having attentively surveyed it through her 
 glass, observed to her party, that there was a great deal of Inde* 
 corum in that picturt!. Madame S. shrewdly whispered *n my 
 ear. ' that the indecorum was in the remark.' " 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 393 
 
 But often has yon rolling moon 
 
 On Al/a's cnsques of silver play'd ; 
 
 And view'd, at midnight's silent noon, 
 Her chiefs in gleaming mail array'd : 
 
 And on the crimson'd rocks beneath, 
 Which scowl o'er ocean's sullen flow. 
 
 Pale in the scatter'd ranks of death. 
 She saw the gasping warrior low ; 
 
 While many an eye which ne'er again 
 Could mark the rising orb of day, 
 
 Tum'd feebly from the gory plain, 
 Beheld in death her fading ray. 
 
 Once to those eyes the lamp of Love, 
 They bless'd her dear propitious light ; 
 
 But now she glimmer'd from above, 
 A sad, funereal torch of night. 
 
 Faded is Alva's noble race. 
 
 And gray her towers are seen afar ; 
 
 No more her heroes urge the chase. 
 Or roll the crimson tide of war. 
 
 But who was last of Alva's clan ? 
 
 Why grows the moss on Alva's 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 waU. 
 
 Yes, when the eddving 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 on Oscar's birth. 
 When Angus hail'd his eldest bom ; 
 
 The vassals round their chieftain's hearth 
 Crowd to applaud the hajipy mom. 
 
 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 tlie war-notes wild 
 Hoped that one day the pibroch's strain 
 
 Should play before the hero's child 
 While he should lead the tartan train. 
 
 Another year is quickly pass'd. 
 And Angus hails another son ; 
 
 His natal day is like the last. 
 Nor soon the jocund feast was done. 
 50 
 
 Taught by their sire to bend the bow, 
 
 On Alva's dusky hills of wind, 
 The boys in childhood chased the roe. 
 
 And left their hounds in speed behind 
 
 But ere their years of youth are o'er. 
 
 They mingle in the ranks of war ; 
 They lightly wheel the bright claymore, ; 
 
 And send the whistling arrow far. -J 
 
 Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair. 
 Wildly it stream'd along the gale ; 
 
 But Allan's locks were bright and fair, 
 Ajid pensive seem'd his cheek, and pale. 
 
 But Oscar own'd a hero's soul. 
 
 His dark eye shone through beams «i truth j 
 AUan had early learn'd control. 
 
 And smooth his words had been from youth 
 
 Both, both were brave : the Saxon sjiear 
 Was shiver'd oft beneath their steel ; 
 
 And Oscar's bosom scorn'd to fear. 
 But Oscar's bosom knew to feel ; 
 
 Wiiile 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 nolile 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 Glenalvon's child. 
 
 Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note l 
 Hark to the swelling nuptial song I 
 
 In joyous strains the voices float, 
 And still the choral peal prolong. 
 
 See how the heroes' blood-red piume» 
 
 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 nuprials throng the bands. 
 Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease. 
 
 But where is Oscar ? sure 'tis late : 
 Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame ? 
 
 While thronging guests and ladies wait. 
 Nor Osear nor his brother came. 
 
S94 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 At length young AUan join'd the bride : 
 " "Why conies not Oscar," Angus said : 
 
 " Is he not here ?" the youth replied ; 
 " With me he royed not o'er the glade : 
 
 " Perchance forgetful of the day, 
 'Tis his to chase the bounding roe ; 
 
 Or ocean's waves prolong his stay ; 
 Yet Oscar's bark is seldom slow." 
 
 " Oh, no !'■ the anguish'd sire rejoin'd, 
 " Nor chase nor wave my boy delay ; 
 
 Would he to Mora seem unkind ? 
 
 Would aught to her impede his way ? 
 
 " Oh, search, ye chiefs ! oh, search around ! 
 
 Allan, with these through Alva fly ; 
 'Pill Oscar, till my son is found, 
 
 Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply." 
 
 All is confusion — through the vale 
 The name of Oscar hoarsely rings, 
 
 It rises on the murnuiring gale. 
 
 Till night expands her dusky wings ; 
 
 It breaks the stillness of the night, 
 
 '3ut echoes through her shades in vain, 
 
 It sounds through morning's misty light, 
 But Oscar comes not o'er the plain. 
 
 fbree days, three sleepless nights, the Chief 
 For Oscar search'd each mountain cave ; 
 
 Then hope is lost ; in boundless grief. 
 His locks in gray-torn ringlets wave. 
 
 " Oscar ! my son ! — thou God of Heav'n, 
 llestore the prop of sinking age ! 
 Or if that hojie no more is given. 
 Yield his assassin to my rage. 
 
 " Yes, on some desert rocky shore 
 
 My Oscar's whiten'd bones must lie ; 
 ■ Then grant, thou God ! I ask no more. 
 With him his frantic sire may die 1 
 
 " Yet he may live, — away, despair ! 
 
 Be calm, my soul ! he yet may live ; 
 T' arraign my fate, my voice forbear ! 
 
 God ! my impious prayer forgive. 
 
 " Wliat, if he live for me no more, 
 
 1 sink forgotten in the dust, 
 The hope of Alva's age is o'er ; 
 
 Alas ! can pangs like these be just ?" 
 
 Thus did the hapless parent mourn. 
 Till Time, which soothes severest wo, 
 
 Had l)ade serenity return. 
 
 And made the tear-drop cease to flow. 
 
 For still some latent hope surWved 
 That Oscar might once more appear ; 
 
 His hope now tlroojj'd and now revived, 
 TiU Time had told a tedious year. 
 
 Days roll'd along, the orb of light 
 Again had run his destined race ; 
 
 No Oscar bless'd his father's sight, 
 And sorrow left a fainter trace. 
 
 For youthful Allan still remain'd, 
 
 And now his fother's only joy ; 
 And Mora's heart was quickly gain'd. 
 
 For beauty crown'd the fair-hair'd boy. 
 
 She thought that Oscar low was laid. 
 And Allan's face was wondrous fair ; 
 
 If Oscar lived, some other maid 
 
 Had claim'd his faithless bosom's care. 
 
 And Angus said, if one year more 
 In fruitless hope was pass'd away. 
 
 His fondest scruples should be o'er. 
 And he would name their nuptial day. 
 
 Slow roll'd the moons, but bless'd at last 
 Arrived the dearly destined morn ; 
 
 The year of anxious trembling pass'd. 
 What smiles the lovers' cheeks adorn ! 
 
 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. 
 
 Again the clan, in festive crowd, 
 
 Throng through the gate of Alva's hall; 
 
 The sounds of mirth re-echo loud. 
 And all their former joy recall. 
 
 But who is he, whose darken'd brow 
 Glooms in the midst of general mirth ? 
 
 Before his eyes' far fiercer glow 
 
 The blue flames curdle o'er the hearth. 
 
 Dark is the rolte which wraps his form. 
 
 And tall his plume of gory red ; 
 His voice is like the rising storm. 
 
 But light and trackless is his tread. 
 
 'Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round. 
 The bridegroom's health is deeply quaff'd ; 
 
 With shouts the vaulted roofs resound, 
 And all combine to hail the draught. 
 
 Sudden the stranger-chief arose. 
 
 And all the clamorous crowd are hush'd 
 
 And Angus' cheek with wonder glows, 
 And Mora's tender bosom blush'd. 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 398 
 
 " Old man !" he cried, " this pledge is done ; 
 
 Thou saw'st 'twas duly drank by me : 
 It hail'd tlie nuptials of thy son : 
 
 Now will I claim a pledge from thee. 
 
 " And is it thus a brother hails 
 
 A brother's fond remembrance here 1 
 
 If thus aftection's strength prcvads, 
 WTiat might we not expect from fear V 
 
 " While all around is mirth and joy, 
 To bless thy Allan's happy lot, 
 
 Say, hadst thou ne'er another boy ? 
 Say, why should Oscar be forgot ?" 
 
 Roused by the sneer, he raised the bowl, 
 " Would Oscar now could share our mirtl , ' 
 
 Internal fear appall'd his soul ; 
 
 He said, and dash'd the cup to earth. 
 
 "Alas !" the hapless sire replied, 
 The big tear starting as he spoke, 
 
 " When Oscar left my hall, or died, 
 This aged heart was almost broke. 
 
 " 'Tis he ! I hear my murderer's voice !" 
 Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming form ; 
 
 " A murderer's voice !" the roof rei)lies. 
 And deeply swells the bursting storm. 
 
 " Thrice has the earth revolved her course 
 Since Oscar's form has bless'd my sight ; 
 
 And Allan is my last resource. 
 
 Since martial Oscar's death or flight." 
 
 The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink, 
 The stranger's gone, — amidst the crew 
 
 A form was seen in tartan green. 
 And tall the shade temfic grew. 
 
 " 'Tis well," replied the stranger stem, 
 And fiercely flash 'd his rolling eye : 
 
 " Thy Oscar's late I fain would learn ; 
 Perhaps the hero did not die. 
 
 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 woimds there. 
 And flx'd was the glare of his glassy eye. 
 
 ' Perchance, if those whom most he loved 
 Would call, thy Oscar might reUim ; 
 Perchance the chief has only roved ; 
 For him thy beltane yet may bum.' 
 
 And thrice be smiled, with his eye so ^xik\, 
 
 On Angus bending low the knee ; 
 And thrice he frowu'd on a chief on the ground, 
 
 Wliom shivering crowds with horror see. 
 
 ^ Fill high the bowl the table round, 
 
 We will not claim the pledge by stealth ; 
 With wine let every cup be crowm'd ; 
 Pledge me departed Oscar's health." 
 
 The bolts loud roll, from pole to ]m\e, 
 
 The thunders through the welkin ring, [stcrm, 
 
 And the gleaming form, through the mist of the 
 Was borne on high by the whirlwind's wing. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 Cold was the feast, the revel ceased. 
 Who lies upon the stony floor ? 
 
 ObUvion press'd old Angus' breast, 
 At length his life-pulse throlis once more. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 " 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 ! 
 
 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. 
 
 But Oscar's breast is cold as clay, 
 His locks are lifted bj' the gale : 
 
 And Allan's barbed arrow lay 
 
 With him in dark Glentanar's vale. 
 
 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 whence the dreadful stranger cams 
 Or wlio, no mortal wight can tell ; 
 
 But no one doubts the form of flame. 
 For Alva's sons knew Oscar well. 
 
 Beltane Trcp. a ni^hlaiid festival on the first of May, held ' Baal, flBd the name still preserves the primeval origin of the Ce\ 
 »tear fires lighted for ihe occasion. Bsal-tain mc;ius the fire of i tic superstition. 
 
896 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 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. 
 
 Svnft is the shaft from Allan's bow ; 
 
 Whose 'streaming life-blood stains his side ? 
 Dark Oscar's sable crest is low, 
 
 The dart has drunk his vital tide. 
 
 And Mora's eye could Allan move. 
 She bade his wounded pride rebel ; 
 
 Alas ! that oyes which beam'd with love 
 Should urge the soul to deeds of heU. 
 
 Lo ! seest thou not a lonely tomb 
 Which rises o'er a warrior dead ? 
 
 It glimmers through the twilight gloom ; 
 Oh ! that is Allan's nuptial bed. 
 
 Par, distant far, the noble grave 
 
 Wliich held his clan's great ashes stoed ; 
 
 And o'er his corse no banners wave, 
 
 For they were staiu'd with kindred blood. 
 
 What minstrel gray, what hoai:y 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 round his glories high in air : 
 
 A dying father's bitter curse, 
 
 A brother's death-groan echoes there. 
 
 THE EPISODE OF NISUS AND EURYALUS. 
 
 A PABAPHRASE PROM THE >ENEID, LIB. IX. 
 
 Nisus, the guardian of the portal, stood, 
 
 Eager to gild his arms with hostile blood ; 
 
 Well skill'd in tight the quivering lance to wield. 
 
 Or pour his arrows through th' embattled field : 
 
 From Ida torti, he left his sylvan cave, 
 
 And sought a foreign home, a distant grave. 
 
 To watch the movements of the Daunian host, 
 
 With him Euryalus sustains the post; 
 
 No lovelier mien adorn'd the ranks of Troy, 
 
 And beardless bloom yet graced the gallant boy ; 
 
 Though few the seasons of his youthful life, 
 
 As yet a novice in the martial strife, 
 
 'Twas his, with beauty, valor's gifts to share — 
 
 A soul luToic, as his form was fair : 
 
 These burn with one pure llame of generous love ; 
 
 In peace, in war, united still they move ; 
 
 Friendship and glory form their joint reward; 
 And now combined they hoUl their nightly guard. 
 
 " What god," exclaim'd the first, " instils this fire I 
 Or, in itself a god, wliat great desire ? 
 My laboring soul, with anxious thought oppress'd, 
 Abhors this station of inglorious rest; 
 The love of fame with this can ill accord. 
 Be 't mine to seek for glory with my sword. 
 Seest thou yon camp, with torches twinkling dim, 
 Where drunken slumbers wraj) each lazy limb ? 
 Wliere confidence and ease the watch disdain. 
 And drowsy Silence holds her sable reign ? 
 Then hear 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 the fame be mine,) 
 Were this decreed, beneath yon rising mound, 
 Methinks an easy path perchance were found ; 
 Which jjass'd, I speed my way to Pallas' walls, 
 And lead ^neas from Evander's halls." 
 
 With equal ardor fired, and warlike joy. 
 His glowing friend address'd the Dardan boy : — 
 "These deeds, my Nisus, shalt thou dare alone? 
 Must all the fame, the peril, be thine own 2 
 Am I by thee despised, and left afar. 
 As one unfit to share the toils of war ? 
 Not thus his son the great Opheltes taught ; 
 Not thus my sire in Argive combats fought; 
 Not thus, when llion fell by heavenly hate, 
 I track'd ^neas through the walks of fate: 
 Thou know'st my deeds, my breast devoid of fear, 
 And hostile life-drops dim my gory spear. 
 Here is a soul with hope immortal burns. 
 And life, ignoble life, for f/lori/ spurns. 
 Fame, fame is cheaply earn'd by fleeting breath : 
 The price of honor 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 valor tlnin my own, 
 I swear by him who tUls Olympus' throne ! 
 So may I triumph, as I speak the truth, 
 And clasp again the comrade of my youth 1 
 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. 
 Live thou, such beauties I would faiu pres 'rve, 
 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 mc back I'y force, 
 Or wealth redeem from foes my captivj corse; 
 Or, if my destiny these last ileny. 
 If in thcspoiler"^ power my ashes lie. 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 397 
 
 Thy pious care may raise a simple tomb, 
 To mark thy love, and sigiiahzc my doom. 
 Why should thy doting ■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 ; 
 Wlio braved what woman never braved before. 
 And left her native for the Latian shore." 
 " In vain you damp the ardor of my soul," 
 Replied Euryalus ; " it scorns control ! 
 Hence, let us haste !" — their brother guards arose, 
 Roused by their call, nor court again repose ; 
 The pair, buoy'd up on Hope's exulting wing. 
 Their stations leave, and speed to seek the king. 
 
 Now o'er the earth a solemn stillness ran. 
 And lull'd alike the cares of brute and man ; 
 Save where the Dardan leaders nightly hold 
 Alternate converse, and their plans unfold. 
 On one great point the council are agreed. 
 An instant message to their prince decreed ; 
 Each lean'd upon the lance he well could wield, 
 And poised with easy arm his ancient shield; 
 When Nisus and his friend their leave request 
 To offer something to their high behest. 
 With anxious tremors, yet unaweil by fear. 
 The faithful pair before the throne appear : 
 lulus greets them ; at his kind command. 
 The elder first address'd the hoary ba»il. 
 
 " With patience" (thus Hyrtacidis began), 
 " Attend, nor judge from youth our humble plan. 
 Where yonder beacons half expiring beam. 
 Our slumbering foes of future conquest dream, 
 Kor heed that we a secret path have traced. 
 Between the ocean and the portal placed. 
 Beneath the covert of the black'ning smoke. 
 Whose shade securely our design will cloak ! 
 If you, ye chiefs, and fortune will allow. 
 We'll bend our course to yonder mountain's brow. 
 Where Pallas' walls at distance meet the sight. 
 Seen o'er the glade, when not obscured by night ; 
 Then shall jEneas in his pride return. 
 While hostile matrons raise their offspring's um ; 
 And Latian spoils and purpled heaps of dead 
 Shall mark the havoc of our hero's tread. 
 Such is our purpose, not unknown the way ; 
 Where yonder torrent's devious waters jtray. 
 Oft have we seen, when hunting by the stream, 
 The distant spires above the valleys gleam." 
 
 Matire in years, for sober wisdom famed. 
 Moved by the speech, Alethes here exclaim'd, — 
 "Ye parent gods ! who rule the fate of Troy, 
 Still dwells the Dardan spirit hi the boy; 
 Whot minds like these in striplings thus ye raisi 
 Youri is the godUke act, be yours the praise ; 
 
 In gallant youth, my fainting hopes revive. 
 
 And Ilion's wonted glories still survive." 
 
 Then in his warm emiirace 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 earth, 
 
 Doubtless await such young, exalted worth. 
 
 ^neas and Ascanius shall combine 
 
 To yield ajjplause far, far surpassing mine."- 
 
 lulus then : — " By all the powers above 1 
 
 By those Penates who my country love I 
 
 By hoary Vesta's sacred fane, I swear, 
 
 Jly hopes are all in you, ye generous pair! 
 
 ■ Restore my fatlier to my grateful sight. 
 
 And all my sorrows yield to one delight. 
 
 Nisus ! two silver goblets are thine own. 
 
 Saved from Arisba's stately domes o'erthrown ; 
 
 My sire secured tliem on that fatal day, 
 
 Nor left such bowls an Argive robber's prey : 
 
 Two massy tripods, also, shall be thine ; 
 
 Two taleuts jjolish'd from the glittering mine ; 
 
 An ancient cup, which Tyrian Dido gave. 
 
 While yet om- vessels press'd the Pmiic wave : 
 
 But when the hostile chiefs at length bow down, 
 
 When great jEneas wears Hesperia's crown. 
 
 The casque, the buckler, .and the fiery steed 
 
 Which Turuus guiiles 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 damefl 
 
 To soothe thy softer hours with amorous flames. 
 
 And all the realms which now the Latins sway 
 
 The labours of to-night shall well rejjay. 
 
 But thou, my generous youth, whose tender years 
 
 Are near my own, whose worth ray heart reveres 
 
 Henceforth affection, sweetly t'jus begun, 
 
 Shall join our bosoms and our souls in one ; 
 
 Without thy aid, no glory shall be mine ; 
 
 Without thy dear advice, no great design ; 
 
 Alike through life esteera'd, thou godlike boy, 
 
 In war my bulwark, and in peace my joy," 
 
 To him Euryalus : — " No day shall shame 
 The rising glories which from this I claim. 
 Fortune may favor, or the skies may frown, 
 But valor, spite of fate, obtains renOTNiL 
 Yet, ere from hence our eager steps depart, 
 One boon I beg, the nearest to my heart. 
 My mother, sprung from Priam's royal line, 
 Like thine ennobled, hardly less divine, 
 Nor Troy nor king Acestes' realms restrain 
 Her feeble age from dangers of the main ; • 
 
39S 
 
 BYRON'S "WORKS 
 
 Alone she came, all selfisb fears above, 
 
 A. bright example of maternal love. 
 
 Unknown the secret enterprise I brave, 
 
 Lest grief should bend my parent to the grave ; 
 
 From this alone no fond adieus I seek, 
 
 No fainting mother's lips have press'd my cheek ; 
 
 By gloomy night and thy right hand I vow 
 
 Her parting tears would shake mypuriMse now: 
 
 Do thou, my prince, her failing age sustain. 
 
 In thee her much loved child may live again ; 
 
 Her dying hours with pious conduct bless, 
 
 Assist her wants, relieve her fond distress : 
 
 So dear a hojie must all my soul inflame, 
 
 To rise in glory, or to fell in fame." 
 
 Struck with a filial care so deeply felt, 
 
 In te."rs at once the Trojan warriors melt : 
 
 Fastei than all, lulus' eyes o'erflow ; 
 
 Such love was his, and such had been his wo. 
 
 'All thou has ask'd receive," the prince replied ; 
 
 " Nor this alone, but many a gift beside. 
 
 To cheer thy mother's years shall be my aim, 
 
 Creusa's' style l)ut wanting to the dame. 
 
 Fortune an adverse wayward course may run. 
 
 But blcss'd thy mother in so dear a son. 
 
 Now, by my life ! — my sire's most sacred oath — 
 
 To thee I pledge my full, my firmest troth, 
 
 K\\ the rewards which once to thee were vow'd. 
 
 If tliou shouldst fall, on her shall be bestow'd." 
 
 Thus spoke the weeping prince, then forth to view 
 
 A gleaming falchion from the sheath he drew ; 
 
 Lycaon's utmost skill had graced the steel, 
 
 For friends to envy and for foes to feel : 
 
 A tawny hide, the Moorish lion's spoil, 
 
 Slain 'midst the forest, in the hunter's toil, 
 
 Mnestheus to guard the elder youth bestows, 
 
 And old Alethes' casque defends his brows. 
 
 Arm'd, thence they go, while all th' assembled train. 
 
 To aid their cause, implore the gods in vain. 
 
 More than a boy, in wisdom and in grace, 
 
 lulus holds amidst the chiefs his place : 
 
 Hi^ prayer ho sends ; but what can prayers avail. 
 
 Lost in the murmurs of the sighing gale I 
 
 The trench is pass'd, and, favor'd by the night. 
 Through sleeping foes they wheel their wary flight. 
 WlicTi shall the sleep of many a foe be o'er ? 
 Alas 1 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 labor share : 
 Here lies our path ; lest any hand arise. 
 Watch thou, while many a dreaming chieftain dies : 
 
 m > The Tiolher of lulus, lost on the night when Troy was taken. 
 
 I'll carve our passage through the heedless foe. 
 And clear thy road with many a deadly felow." 
 His whispering accents then the youth repres8'<l, 
 And pierced proud Rhamnes through his panting 
 
 breast : 
 Slretch'd at his ease, th' incautious king reposed ; 
 Debauch, and not fatigue, his eyes had closed • 
 To Tumus dear, a prophet and a prince. 
 His omens more than augur's skill evince ; 
 But he, who thus foretold the fete of all. 
 Could not avert his own untimely fall. 
 Next Remus' armor-bearer, hapless, fell. 
 And three imhappy slaves the carnage swell ; 
 The charioteer along his courser's sides 
 Expires, the steel his scver'd neck divides ; 
 And, last, his lord is number'd with the dead : 
 BountUng convulsive, flies the gasping head ; 
 From the swoll'n 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 niiiht in childish games was pass'd ; 
 LuU'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 slauphter'd fold, the keepers lost in s^pcp, 
 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 tyrants foams. 
 
 Nor less the other's deadly vengeance came, 
 But falls on feeble crowds without a name ; 
 His wound unconscious Fadus scarce can feel, 
 Yet wakeful Rhaesus sees the threatening steel ; 
 His coward breast behind ajar he hides. 
 And vainly in the weak defence confides ; 
 Full in his heart, the falchion search'd his veins, 
 The reeking weaj)on bears alternate stains ; 
 Through wne and blood, commingling as they flow 
 One feeble spirit seeks the shades below. 
 Now where Messapus dwelt they bend their way, 
 Whose fires emit a feint and trembling ray ; 
 There, unconfined, behold each grazing steed, 
 Unwatch'd, unheeded, on the herbage feed : 
 Brave Nisus here arrests his comrade's arm, 
 Too flush'd with carnage, and with conquest warm 
 " Hence let us haste, the dangerous path is pass'd . 
 Full foes enough to-night have breathed their last 
 Soon will the day those eastern clou<l8 adorn ; 
 Now let us speed, nor tempt the rising mom." 
 
 With silver arms, with various art emboss'd. 
 What bowls and mantles in confusion toss'd. 
 They leave regardless I yet one glittering prize 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 399 
 
 Attracts the younger hero's wandering eyes ; 
 
 The gilded harness Rhamnes' coursers ivlt, 
 
 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 at this hour, a band of Latian horse 
 To Turnus' camp pursue their destined course : 
 Wliile the slow foot their tardy march delay, 
 The knights, impatient, spur along the way : 
 Three hundred mail-clad men, by Volscens led. 
 To Turnus with their master's promise sped : 
 Now they approach the trench, and view the walls, 
 ■^Tien, on the left, a light reflection falls ; 
 The plunder'd helmet, through the waning night. 
 Sheds forth a silver radiance, glancing bright. 
 Volscens with question lond the pair alarms : — 
 " Stand, stragglers ! stand ! why early thus in arms ? 
 From whence, to whom ?" — He meets with no reply ? 
 Trusting the covert of the night, they fly : 
 The thicket's depth with hurried pace they tread. 
 While round the wood the hostile squadron spread. 
 
 With brakes entangled, scarce a path between, 
 Dreary and dark appears the sylvan scene : 
 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 tremljling ground. 
 Again he turns, of footsteps hears the noise ; 
 The seund elates, the sight his hope destroys : 
 The hapless boy a ruffian train surround, 
 While lengthening shades his weary way confound ; 
 Him with loud shouts the furious knights pursue, 
 Struggling in vain, a captive to the crew. 
 What can his friend 'gainst thronging numbers dare ? 
 Ah 1 must he rush, his comrade's fate to share ? 
 What force, what aid, what stratagem essay, 
 Back to redeem the Latian spoiler's prey ? 
 His life a votive ransom nobly give, 
 Or die with him for whom he wish'd to live ? 
 Poising with strength his lifted lance on high. 
 On Luna's orb he cast his phrenzied eye : — 
 " Goddess serene, transcending every star I 
 Queen of the sky, whose beams are seen afar 1 
 
 By night heaven owns thy sway, 1: y day the grove, 
 When, as chaste Dian, here thou deign'st to rove ; 
 If e'er myself, or sire, have sought to grace 
 Thine altars with the produce of the chase, 
 Speed, speed my dart to pierce yon vaunting crowd 
 To free ray friend, and scatter far the proud." 
 Thus having said, the hissing dart he flung ; 
 Through parted shades the hurtling weapon sung 
 The thirsty point in Sulmo's entrails lay, 
 Transfix'd his heart, and strctch'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 rivea 
 A second shaft with equal force is driven. 
 Fierce Volscens 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 accursed, thy life shall pay for all !" 
 Quick fi-om the sheath his flaming glaive 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, 
 And pour these accents, shrieking as he flies • 
 ' Me, me, — your vengeance hurl on me alone ; 
 Here sheathe the steel, my blood is all your own ! 
 Ye starry spheres ! thou conscious Heaven ! attest I 
 He could not — durst not — lo ! the guile confess'd ! 
 All, all was mine, — his early fate suspend ; 
 He only loved too well his hapless friend : 
 Spare, spare, ye chiefs ! from him your rage remove 
 His fault was friendship, aU 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, exi^ires beneath the share ; 
 Or crimson poppy, sinking with the shower, 
 Declining gently, falls a fading flower ; 
 Thus, sweetly drooping, bends his lovely head, 
 And lingering beauty hovers round the dead. 
 
 But fiery Nisus stems the battle's tide, 
 Revenge his leader, and despair his guide ; 
 Volscens he seeks amidst the gathering host, 
 Volscens must soon appease his comrade's 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 ; 
 In viewless circles wheel'd, his falchion flies. 
 Nor quits the hero's grasp till Volscens dies ; 
 Deep in his throat its end the weapon found. 
 The tyrant's soul fled groaning through the wound 
 Thus Nisus all his fond afi'ection proved— 
 Dying, revenged the fate of him he loved ; 
 
400 
 
 BTRON 'S AVOKKS. 
 
 Then on his bosom sought his wonted place, 
 And death was heavenly in liis friend's embrace. 
 
 Celestial pair I if aught my verse can claim, 
 Wafted on Time's broad pinion, yours is fame I 
 Ages on ages sliall your fate admire. 
 No future day shall see your names expire, 
 While stands the Capitol, immortal dome 1 
 And vanquish'd niillious hail their empress, Rome ! 
 
 TRANSLATION FROM THE IVIEDEA OF 
 EURIPIDES. 
 
 ['Epwrcf i'Kep fiev dyaVf k. t. ?c.] 
 
 When fierce conflicting passions urge 
 
 The breast where love is wont to glow. 
 What mind can stem the stormy surge 
 
 Which rolls the tide of human wo ? 
 The hope of praise, the dread of shame. 
 
 Can ronsL the tortured breast no more ; 
 The wild desire, the guilty flame, 
 
 Absorbs each wish it felt before. 
 
 But if afl"ection gently thrills 
 
 The soul liy purer dreams possess'd. 
 The jilcasing lialra of mortal ills 
 
 In love can soothe the aching breast : 
 If thus thou conicst in disguise. 
 
 Fair Venus ! from thy native heaven, 
 What heart unfeeling would despise 
 
 The sweetest boon the gods have given ? 
 
 But never from thy golden bow 
 
 May I beneath the shaft expire 1 
 Whose creeping venom, sure and slow, 
 
 Awakes an all-consuming fire : 
 Ye racking doubts ! ye jealous fears 1 
 
 AVith others wage internal war ; 
 Repentance, source of future tears, 
 
 From me be ever distant far ! 
 
 . May no distracting thoughts destroy 
 
 The holy calm of sacred love I 
 May all the hours be wing'd with joy. 
 
 Which hover foithful hearts above ! 
 Fair Venus ! on thy myrtle shrine 
 
 > SleJ<!a, who accompanied Jason to Corinth, was deserted by 
 hira lor the dau^-hler of Croon, king of that city. The chorus 
 from wl'-ic*! this is talien here addresses Medea; thouf;ti a con- 
 Blderabie liberty is talicn with tlie original, by expanding tho 
 idea, as a'.so in some other parts of the translation. 
 
 ^ The original is KaOojiuv dvoi^avri /cAz/da ^pcvwv, literally, 
 •'disclosing the bright key of the mind." 
 
 ^ No reneclion is here intended against the person mentioned 
 onrler the name of jVlagnus. lie is merely represented as per- 
 forming an unavoidable Ainclinn of his oflice. Indeed, such an 
 Attempt could only recoil upon himself; as that gentleman is now 
 as much 'distinguished by his eloquence, and the dignified pro- 
 priety with which he (ills his situation, as be was in liis younger 
 day« Ibr wit and conviviality.— [Dr. William Mansel was, in 1790, 
 appoiuteu to the Leadship of Trinity College, by Mr. Pitt. While 
 
 May I with some fair lover sigh. 
 Whose heart may mingle pure •n'ith mine- 
 With me to live, with me to die. 
 
 My native soil ! beloved before. 
 
 Now dearer as my peaceful home, 
 Ne'er may I quit thy rocky shore, 
 
 A hapless bauish'd wretch to roam I 
 This very day, this very hour, 
 
 May I resign this fleeting breath ! 
 Nor quit my silent hiunble bower ; 
 
 A doom to me far worse than d(;ath. 
 
 Have I not heard the exile's sigh ? 
 
 And seen the exile's silent tear. 
 Through distant climes condemn'd to fly, 
 
 A pensive, weary wanderer here ? 
 Ah ! hapless dame ! ' no sire bewails, 
 
 No friend thy wretched fate deplores, 
 No kindred voice with rapture hails 
 
 Thy steps within a stranger's doors. 
 
 Perish the fiend whose iron heart. 
 
 To fixir afl'ection's truth unkno-mi, 
 Bids her he fondly loved deixirt, 
 
 Unpitied, helpless, and alone ; 
 Who ne'er unlocks with silver key^ 
 
 The milder treasures of his soul, — 
 May such a friend be far from me, 
 
 And ocean's storms between us roll I 
 
 THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A COLLEGE 
 EXAJHNATION. 
 
 High in the midst, surrounded by his peers, 
 Magnus' his ample front sublime uprears : 
 Placed on his chair of state, he seems a god, 
 While Sophs and Freshmen tremble at his nod. 
 As all around sit wrapp'd in siieechless gloom, 
 Ilis 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 ; 
 
 a bachelor of arts, he distinguished himself as the author of sev- 
 eral jeitx (I'espHt. Dr. .Toweft, of Trinity Ilall, having amused 
 both himself and the public, bv a pretty little fairy garden, wltb 
 narrow gravel walks, besprinkled with shells and pellucid peb. 
 bles, and enclosed by a Chinese railing. Dr. Mansel wrote the to*. 
 lowing lines thereon : — 
 
 " A little garden, little Jowett made, 
 And fenced it with a little palisade ; 
 If you would know the taste of little .Towett, 
 This little garden won't a little show It." 
 
 lie was indebted to the influence of his pupit, the late Mr. Pepco- 
 val, for his subsequent promotion, in 1.S08, to the see of Bristol. 
 He is supposed to have materially assisted in the " Pursuits o( 
 Literature." Ilis lordship died at Trinity Lodge, in June, 1620.1 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS, 
 
 401 
 
 Who, scarcely sldlFd an English line to pen, 
 Scans Attic metres with a critic's ken. 
 Wliat, though he knows not how his fathers bled, 
 When civil discord piled the fields with dead, 
 When Edward bade his conquering bands advance. 
 Or Henry tramjiled on the crest of France : 
 Thougli marvL-lling at the name of Magna Charta, 
 Yet well he recollects the law of Sparta ; 
 (^an tell what edicts sage Lycurgus made, 
 ^Tiile Blackstone 's on the shelf neglected laid ; 
 Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deathless fame. 
 Of Avon's bard remembering scarce the name. 
 
 Such is the youth whose scientific pate 
 Class-honors, 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, 
 Th' Athenian's ' glowing style, or TuUy's fire. 
 A manner clear or warm is useless, since 
 We do not try by speaking to convince. 
 Be other orators of pleasing proud : 
 We speak to please ourselves, not move the crowd : 
 Our gravity prefers the muttering tone, 
 A proper mixture of the squeak and groan : 
 No borrow'd grace of action must be seen. 
 The slightest motion would displease the Dean ; 
 Wliilst every staring graduate would prate 
 Against what he could never imitate. 
 
 The man who hopes t' obtain the promised cup 
 Must in one posture stand, and ne'er look up ; 
 Nor stop, but rattle over every word — 
 No matter what, so it can not be heard. 
 Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest : 
 Wlio speaks the fastest 's sure to speak the best ; 
 Wh ", utters most within the shortest space 
 May safely hope to win the wordy race. 
 
 The sons of science these, who, thus repaid. 
 Linger in ease in Granta's sluggish shade ; 
 Where on Cam's sedgy bank supine tiiey Ue 
 Unknown, unhonor'd live, unwept for die ; 
 Dull as the pictures which adorn their halls : 
 They think all learning flx'd within their walls : 
 In manners rude, in foolish forms precise. 
 All modern arts aft'ecling to despise ; 
 Yet prizing Bcntley's, Brunck's, or Person's' note, 
 'AoTP. than the verse on which the critic wrote : 
 Vain as their honors, heavy as their ale, 
 Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale ; 
 
 1 liemobthenes. 
 
 '• The present Greek professor of Trinity College, Cambridge ; 
 a man whose powers of mind and writings may, perhaps, justify 
 their preference. 
 
 5] 
 
 ! To friendship dead, though not untaught to feel 
 When Self and Church demand a l.iigot zeal. 
 With eager haste they court the lord of power, 
 
 I Whether 'tis Pitt or Petty rules the hour : ' 
 
 ; To him, with suppliant smiles, they bend the head, 
 While distant mitres to their eyes are sjiread. 
 But should a storm o'erwhelm him with disgrace, 
 
 I They'd fly to seek the next who flll'd his place. 
 
 j Such are the men who learning's treasures guard ! 
 Such is their practice, such is their reward I 
 This much, at least, we may presume to say — 
 The premium can't exceed the price they pay. 
 
 1808. 
 
 TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER. 
 
 Sweet girl ! though only once we met, 
 
 That meeting I shall ne'er forget ; 
 
 And though we ne'er may meet again, 
 
 Remembrance will thy form retain. 
 
 I would not say, " I love," but still 
 
 My senses struggle with my will : 
 
 In vain, to drive thee from my breast, 
 
 My thoughts are more and more repress'd ; 
 
 In vain I check the rising sighs. 
 
 Another to the last rcpUes : 
 
 Perhaps this is not love, but yet 
 
 On* meeting I can ne'er forget. 
 
 Whsit though we never silence broke. 
 
 Our eyes a sweeter language spoke ; 
 
 The tongue in flattering falsehood deals, 
 
 And tells a tale it never feels : 
 
 Deceit the guilty lips impart ; 
 
 And hush the mandates of the heart ; 
 
 But soul's interpreters, the eyes. 
 
 Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise. 
 
 As thus our glances oft conversed, 
 
 And all our bosoms felt rehearsed. 
 
 No spirit, from wdthin, reproved us, 
 
 Say rather, " 'twas the spirit moved us." 
 
 Though what they utter'd I repress, 
 
 Yet I conceive thou'lt partly guess ; 
 
 For as on thee my memory ponders, 
 
 Penhance to me thine also wanders. 
 
 This for myself, at least, I'll say. 
 
 Thy form ajipears through night, through day: 
 
 Awake, with it my foncy teems ; 
 
 In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams • 
 
 The vision charms the hours away. 
 
 And bids mp curse Aurora's ray. 
 
 For breaking slumbers of delight, 
 
 Wl)ich make me wish for endless night. 
 
 3 Since this was written, Lord Henry Petty has lost his place, 
 and snbsoquenOy (I had almost said consequently) the honor of 
 representing the University. A fact so glaring requires no com- 
 ment. 
 
402 
 
 BYRON'S V.'ORKS. 
 
 Since, oil ! T;\liat('cr my future fate, 
 Shall joy or wo my steps await, 
 Tempted by love, by storms beset, 
 Thine image I can ne'er forget. 
 
 Alas ! again no more we meet, 
 Kg more our former looks repeat ; 
 Then let me breathe this parting prayer, 
 The dictate of my bosom's care : 
 "May Ilcaven so guard my lovely Quaker, 
 That anguish never can o'crtake her ; 
 That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her, 
 But bliss lie aye her heart's partaker ' 
 Oh ! may the happy mortal, fated 
 To be, by dearest ties, related. 
 For her each hour new joys discover, 
 And lose the husband in the lover ! 
 May that fair bosom never know 
 What 'tis to feel the restless wo. 
 Which stings the soul with vain regret, 
 Of him who never can forget !" 
 
 THE CORNELIAN. 
 
 Ko specious splendor of this stone 
 
 Endears it to my memory ever ; 
 With lustre only once it shone. 
 
 And blushes modest as the giver. 
 
 Some, who can sneer at friendship's ties. 
 Have, for my w:'akness, oft reproved mc ; 
 
 Yet still tlie simple gift I prize, — 
 For I am sure the giver loved mc. 
 
 He offer'd it with downcast look, 
 As fearful that I might refuse it ; 
 
 I told him when the gift I took. 
 My only fear should lie to lose it. 
 
 This pledge attentively I view'd, 
 And sparkling as I held it near, 
 
 Methought one drop the stone bedew'd. 
 And ever since I've loved a tear. 
 
 Still, to adorn his humble youth, 
 
 Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield ; 
 But he who seeks the flowers of truth. 
 
 Must quit the garden for the fiehl. 
 
 Tis not the plant uprear'd in sloth, 
 
 Wliieh beauty shows, and sheds perfume ; 
 
 The flowers which yield the most of both 
 In Nature's wild luxuriance bloom 
 
 Had Fortune aided Nature's care, 
 For once forgetting to l)e blind. 
 
 His would have been an ample share. 
 If well proportiot'd ' his mind. 
 
 But had the goddess clearly seen, 
 Ilis form had lix'd her fickle breast; 
 
 Her countless hoards would his have been, 
 And none remaiu'd to give thee rest. 
 
 AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGirE, 
 
 DELFVERED PREVIOUS TO THE PERFORM.\NCE 0» 
 
 " THE ■WTTEEL OP FORTUNE ' 
 THEATRE. 
 
 AT A pun 'TB 
 
 SrscE the refinement of this polish'd age 
 
 Has swept immoral railery from the stage ; 
 
 Since taste has now expunged licentious wit. 
 
 Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ ; 
 
 Since now to please with purer scenes we seek. 
 
 Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek , 
 
 Oh ! let the modest Muse some pity claim. 
 
 And meet indulgence, though she find not fame 
 
 Still, not for her alone we wish respect. 
 
 Others appear more conscious of defect : 
 
 To-night no veteran Roscii you behold. 
 
 In all the arts of scenic action old ; 
 
 No Cooke, no Kemble, can salute you here ; 
 
 No Siddons draw the sTOipathetic tear ; 
 
 To-night you throng to witness the dihut 
 
 Of embryo actors, to tlie Drama new : 
 
 Here, then, our almost unfledged wings we try ; 
 
 Clip not our pinions ere the birds can fly : 
 
 Failing in this our first attempt to soar. 
 
 Drooping, alas ! we fall to rise no more. 
 
 Not one poor trembler only fear betrays, 
 
 ^V^lo hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your praise 
 
 But all our dramatis persona; wait 
 
 In fond susjiense this crisis of their fate. 
 
 No venal views our progress can retard. 
 
 Your generous plaudits are our sole reward : 
 
 For these, each Hero all liis power displays. 
 
 Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze. 
 
 Surely the last ^viU some protection find ; 
 
 None to the softer sex can prove unkind : 
 
 While Youth and Beauty form the female shield. 
 
 The .sternest censor to the fair must yield. 
 
 Yet, should our feel>le eflbrts naught avail. 
 
 Should, after all, our best endeavors fail. 
 
 Still let some mercy in your bosoms live, 
 
 And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF MR. FOX, 
 
 THE FOLLOWING ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU APPEARBl 
 IN A MORNDJa PAPER. 
 
 " Our nation's foes lament on Fox's death, 
 But bless the hour when Pitt resign'd his breath 
 These feelings wide, let sense <>nd truth undue. 
 We give the palm where Justice points its due." 
 
 I 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS, 
 
 403 
 
 rO WHTCH THE AUTHOE OF TtESE PIECES SENT 
 THE FOLLOWING REPLY. 
 
 Oh factious viper ! whose envenom'd tooth 
 Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth ; 
 What though our " nation's foes " lament the fate, 
 With generous feeling, of the good and great. 
 Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name 
 Of him whose meed exists in endless fame ? 
 When Pitt expired in plenitude of power. 
 Though ill success obscured his djdng hour, 
 Pity her dewy wings before him spread. 
 For nolile spirits " war net with the dead :" 
 His frien<ls, in tears, a last sad requiem gave. 
 As all hi.-i errors slumljer'd in the grave ; 
 He sunk, an Atlas bending 'neath the weight 
 Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state ; 
 When, lo ! a Hercules in Fox appear'd, 
 Who for a time the ruin'd fabric rear'd : 
 He, too, is fall'u, who Britain's loss supplied, 
 With him our fast-reviving hopes have died ; 
 Not one great jicople only raise his urn, 
 All Europe's far-extended regions mourn. 
 " These feelings wide, let sense and truth imclue. 
 To give the palm where Justice points its due ;" 
 Yet let not canker'd Calumny assail, 
 Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil. 
 Fox ! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep. 
 Whose dear remains in honor'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 Candor's sacred mask, 
 For Pitt, and Pitt alone, has dared to ask. 
 
 THE TEAR. 
 
 " O lachryinarum fons, tenero sacros 
 Ducentiura ortus ex animo ; quater 
 Felix I in imo qui t^catentem 
 Pcctore to, pia Nympha, sensit." — Gray. 
 
 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 aft'ection 's a Tear. 
 
 Too oft is a smile but the hypocrite's wile. 
 
 To mask detestation or fear ; 
 Give me the soft sigh, whilst the soul-telling eye 
 
 Is dimm'd for a time with a Tear. 
 
 Mild Charity's glow, to us mortals below. 
 Shows the soul from barbarity clear ; 
 
 Compassion will melt where this virtue is felt. 
 And its dew is diffused in a Tear. 
 
 The man doom'd to sail with the blast of the gale, 
 Through bUlows Atlantic to steer, 
 
 As he bends o'er the wave which may soon be hia 
 The green sparkles bright with a Tear. [grave, 
 
 The soldier braves death for a fanciful ^\Teath 
 
 In Glory's romantic career ; 
 But he raises the foe when in battle laid low. 
 
 And bathes every wound with a Tear. 
 
 If with high-bounding pride he return to his bride 
 Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear, 
 
 All his toils are repaid when, embracing the maid. 
 From her eyelid he kisses the Tear. 
 
 Sweet scene of my youth ! seat of Friendship and 
 Where love chased each fast-fleeting year, [Truth, 
 
 Loth to leave thee, I mouni'd, for a last look I turn'd, 
 But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear. 
 
 Though my vows I can pour to my Mary no more. 
 
 My Mary to Love once so dear ; 
 In the shade of her bower I remember the hour 
 
 She rewarded those vows ^vith a Tear. 
 
 By another possess'd, may she live ever bless'd ! 
 
 Her name still my heart must revere : 
 With a sigh I resign what I once thought was mine, 
 
 And forgive her deceit with a Tear. 
 
 Ye friends of my heart, ere from you I depart. 
 This hope to my breast is most near : 
 
 If again we shall meet in this rural retreat. 
 May we meet, as we part, with a Tear. 
 
 ^Vhen my soul wings her flight to tlie regions of 
 And my corse shall recline on its bier, [night, 
 
 As ye pass by the tomb where my ashes consume, 
 Oh ! moisten their dust with a Tear. 
 
 May no marble bestow the splendor of wo. 
 
 Which the children of vanity rear ; 
 No fiction of fame sliall blazon my name ; 
 
 All I ask — all I wish — is a Tear. 
 
 October 36, ISOo. 
 
 REPLY TO SOME VERSES OF J. M. B. PIGOT, 
 ESQ., ON THE CRUELTY OF HIS MIS^ 
 TRESS. 
 
 Why, Pigot, complain of this damsel's disdain, 
 
 Wliy thus in despair do you Iret ? 
 For months you may try, yet, believe me, a sigh 
 
 Will never obtain a coquette. 
 
 Would you teach lier to love ? for a time seem to 
 At first she may frown in a pet ; [rova 
 
 But leave her awhile, she shortly will smile. 
 And then yoi may kiss your coquette. 
 
404 
 
 B Y R O N ' !S WO R K S . 
 
 For such are the airs of these fanciful fairs, 
 
 They think all our homage a debt : 
 Yet a partial neglect soon takes an effect, 
 
 And humbles the proudest coquette. 
 
 Dissemble your pain, and lengthen your chain, 
 
 And seem her hauteur to regret ; 
 If again you shall sigh, she no more will deny 
 
 That yours is the rosy coquette. 
 
 If still, from false pride, your pangs she deride, 
 
 This whimsical virgin forget ; 
 Some other admire, who ^-ill melt with your fire. 
 
 And laugh at the little coquette. 
 
 For me, I adore some twenty or more. 
 And love them most dearly ; but yet, 
 
 Though my heart they inthral, I'd abandon them all 
 Did they act like your blooming coquette. 
 
 No longer repine, adopt this design. 
 
 And break through her slight-woven net ; 
 
 Away with despair, no longer forbear 
 To fly from the captious coquette. 
 
 Then quit her, my friend ! your bosom defend. 
 Ere quite with her snares you're beset : [smart. 
 
 Lest your deep-wounded heart, when incensed by the 
 Should lead you to curse the coquette. 
 
 October 27, 1806. 
 
 TO THE SIGHING STREPHON. 
 
 YoTiR pardon, my friend, if my rhymes did offend, 
 
 Your pardon a thousand times o'er : 
 From friendship I strove your pangs to remove, 
 
 But I swear I will do so no more. 
 
 Since your beautiful maid your flame has repaid, 
 
 No more I your fnlly regret ; 
 Pile's now most divine, and I bow at the shrine 
 
 Of this quickly reformed coquette. 
 
 Yet still, I must own, I should never have known 
 From your verses, what else she deserved ; 
 
 Your pain scem'd so great, I pitied your fate, 
 As your fair was so devilish reserved. 
 
 Since the balm-lircathing kiss of this magical miss 
 Can such wonderful transports produce ; [met," 
 
 Since the "world you forget, when your lips once have 
 My counsel will get but abuse. 
 
 ' Miss Elizabeth Pigot, of Southwell, to whom several of Lord 
 Byron's cnrlicst letters were addressed. 
 
 ' Lachin y Oair^ or, as it is pronounced in the Erse, Loch na 
 Gftirr, towers proudly pre-eminent in the Northern I^ighlands 
 near Tnvcrcauld. One of our modem tourists mentions it as the 
 'JiigheBt mountain, perhape, in Great Britain. Be this aa it may 
 
 You say, when " I rove, I know nothing of love ;" 
 
 'Tis true, I am given to range : 
 If I rightly remember, I've loved a good number, 
 
 Yet there's pleasure, at least, in a change. 
 
 I will not advance, by the rules of romance, 
 
 To humor a whimsical fair ; 
 Tliough a smile may delight, yet a frown won'< 
 
 Or drive me to dreadful despair. [affright, 
 
 AYliile my blood is thus warm I ne'er shall reform. 
 
 To mix in the Platonists' school ; 
 Of this I am sure, was my passion sr pure. 
 
 Thy mistress would think me a fool. 
 
 And if I should slum every woman for one, 
 Whose image must fill my whole breast — 
 
 Whom I must prefer, and sigli but for her — 
 What an insult 'twould be to the rest 1 
 
 Now, Strephon, good-by ; I cannot deny 
 
 Your passion appears must absurd ; 
 Such love as you plead is pure love indeed, 
 
 For it only consists in the word. 
 
 TO ELIZA.' 
 
 Eliza, what fools are the Mussulman sect, 
 
 Wlio to woman deny the soul's future existence ; 
 
 Could they see thee, Eliza, they'd own their deft ct, 
 And this doctrine would meet with a genera, 
 resistance. 
 
 Had their prophet possess'd half an atom of sense, 
 He ne'er would have women from paradise driven; 
 
 Instead of his houris, a flimsy pretence. 
 
 With women alone he had peopled his heaven. 
 
 Yet still, to increase your calamities more. 
 
 Not content with depriving your bodies of spirit. 
 
 He allots one poor husband to share amongst four ! — 
 With souls you'd dispense ; but this last whc 
 could bear it ? 
 
 His religion to please neither party is made ; 
 
 On husbands "tis hard, to the wives most unciWI; 
 Still I can't contradict what so oft has been said, 
 
 " Though women are angels, yet wedlock's thft 
 devil." 
 
 LACHIN Y GAIR.» 
 
 AwAT, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses I 
 In you let the minions of luxury rove ; 
 
 it is certainly one of the most sublime and picturesque amon^ 
 our " Caledonian .Mps." Its appearance is of a dusky hue. but the 
 summit is the seat of eternal snows. Near Lachin y Oair I spent 
 some of the early part of my life, the recollecti' a of which hna 
 f^iven birth to these stanzas. 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 40S 
 
 Restore me the rocks, where the snow-flake reposes, 
 Though still they are sacred to freedom and love : 
 
 Fet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains, 
 Round their white summits though elements war ; 
 
 Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing 
 fountains, 
 I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr. 
 
 Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd; 
 
 My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid ;' 
 On chieftains loug pcrish'd my memory ponder'd. 
 
 As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade. 
 I sought not my home till the day's djing glory 
 
 Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star ; 
 For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story, 
 
 Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr. 
 
 " Shades of the dead ! have I not lieard your voices. 
 
 Rise on the night-roUiug 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 vrliile 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. 
 
 " ni-starr'd," though brave, did no visions forbocUng 
 
 Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause ?" 
 Ah ! were you destined to die at Culloden,^ 
 
 Victory crown'd not your foil with a2JpIause : 
 Still were you happy in death's earthy slumber, 
 
 You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar ;* 
 The pibroch resounds, to the piper's loud number. 
 
 Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr. 
 
 Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you, 
 
 Years must elapse ere I tread you again : 
 Nature of verdure and flow'rs has bereft you, 
 
 Yet still are you dearer than Albion's jilain. 
 England ! thy beauties are tame and domestic 
 
 To one who has roved o'er the mountains afar : 
 Oh, for the crags that are wild and majestic ! 
 
 The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr ! 
 
 TO ROJLiNCE. 
 
 Pabest of golden dreams, Romance ! 
 
 Auspicious queen of childish joys, 
 Who lead'st along, in airy (lance. 
 
 Thy votive train of girls and boys ; 
 
 This word is erroneoualy prononnced plad ; the proper pro- 
 QODciation (according to the Scotch) is ehoT\-n by the orthography. 
 
 ' I allude here to my maternal ancestore, ■' the Gord<ms,''^ many 
 of whom fought for the unfortunate Prince Charles, better known 
 by the name of the Pretender. This branch waw nearly allied by 
 blood, as well as attachment, to the Stuarts. George, the second 
 Earl of Huntley, married the l^rincess .\nnabella Stuart, daughter 
 of Jami:8 the First of Scotland. By her he left four sous: the 
 third. Sir William Gordon, I have the honor to claim as one of my 
 progenitors. 
 
 * Whether any perished in the battle of L'ulioden. I am not 
 
 At length, in spells no longer bound, 
 I break the fetters of my youth ; 
 
 No more I tread thy mystic round. 
 But leave thy realms for those of Truth 
 
 And yet 'tis hard to quit the dreams 
 
 Which haunt the uususijicioug soul. 
 Where every nymph a goddess seems. 
 
 Whose eyes through rays immortal roll ; 
 While Fancy holds her Ijoundless reign, 
 
 And all assume a varied hue ; 
 'When virgins seem no longer vain, 
 
 And even woman's smiles are true. 
 
 And must we owe thee but a name, 
 
 And from thy hall of clouds descend; 
 Nor find a sylph in every dame, 
 
 A Pylades' in every friend ? 
 But leave at once thy realms of air 
 
 To mingling bands of fairy elves ; 
 Confess that woman 's false as fair, 
 
 And friends have feeling for — themselves t 
 
 With shame I own I've felt thy sway ; 
 
 Repentant, now thy reign is o'er : 
 No more thy precepts I obey. 
 
 No more on fancied pinions soar. 
 Fond fool ! to love a sparkling eye. 
 
 And think that eye to truth was dear ; 
 To trust a passing wanton's sigh. 
 
 And melt beneath a wanton's tear 1 
 
 Romance ! disgusted with deceit. 
 
 Far from thy motley court I fly. 
 Where Afl'ectation holds her seat, 
 
 And sickly Sensibility ; 
 Whose silly tears can never flow 
 
 For any pangs excejjting thine; 
 Wlio turns aside from real wo. 
 
 To steej) in dew thy gaudy shrine. 
 
 Now join with sal:>le Sympathy, 
 
 With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds, 
 Who heaves with thee her simple sigh, 
 
 Whose breast for every bosom bleeds ; 
 And call thy sylvan female choir. 
 
 To mourn a swain forever gone. 
 Who once could glow vrith equal fire. 
 
 But bends not now before thy throne. 
 
 certain ; but, as many fell in the insurrection, I have used ;bi 
 name of the principal action ^^ parK pro toio " 
 
 ^ A tract of the Highlands so called. There is also a CastI of 
 Rraemar. 
 
 ^ It is hardly necessary to add. that Pylades was the compp-iioD 
 of Orestes, and a partner in one of those friendships which, idib 
 those of .\chines and Patrocltis, Nisus and Euryalus. Damoi and 
 Pythias, have been banded down to posterity as remarkab. s in- 
 stances of attachments, which in all probability never existed 
 beyond the imagination of the poet, or the page of an biBls,#rfaA 
 or modern novelist. 
 
406 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Ye genial nymphs, whose ready tears 
 
 On nil occiisions swiftly How; 
 Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears, 
 
 With fancied flames and phrensy glow; 
 Say, will you mourn my absent name, 
 
 Apostate from your gentle train 2 
 An infant bard at least may claim 
 
 From you a sympathetic strain. 
 
 Adieu, fonil race I a long adieu ! 
 
 The hour of fate is hovering nigh ; 
 J'en now the gulf appears in view, 
 
 Where unlamented you must lie : 
 Oblivion's blackening lake is seen. 
 
 Convulsed by gales you cannot weather ; 
 WTiere you, and eke your gentle queen, 
 
 Alas ! must perish altogether. 
 
 ANSWER TO SO:^rE ELEGANT VERSES 
 
 »iu\t BY A KRIEND TO THE AUTHOR, COMPLAININQ 
 
 THA.T ONE OF HIS DESCRIPTIONS WAS RATHER TOO 
 
 WAKMLy DRAWN. 
 
 But if nny oM I'xdy, knight, priest, or pliysician. 
 Should condeTnn me for printing a second edition ; 
 If pood MaddUi r^quiutum my work should abuse, 
 May I ventajj Lj pve her a smack of my ma?e ¥" 
 
 New Bath Guide. 
 
 Candor compeln uio, Beciier !' to co:umend 
 
 The verse whieli dieuds the censor with the friend. 
 
 Your strong yet just reproof extorts applause 
 
 From me, the heedless and imprudent cause. 
 
 For this wild error which pervades my strain, 
 
 1 sue for pardon, — must 1 sue in vain ? 
 
 The wise sometimes from S^i3doai's ways depart: 
 
 Can youth then hush the dictuies of the heart? 
 
 Precepts of prudence curb, but can't control, 
 
 The tierce emotions of tlie flowing soul. 
 
 When Love's delirium haunts the glowing mind, 
 
 Limping Decorum lingers far behind : 
 
 Vajnly the dotard mends her prudish pace, 
 
 Outstripp'd and vanquish'd in the menviil chase. 
 
 Tlie young, the old, have worn the chains of love; 
 
 Let those they ne'er confined my lay repnjve : 
 
 Let those whose souls contemn the pleasing power 
 
 Their censures on the liaplt'ss victim shov.er. 
 
 Oh ! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song, 
 
 The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng. 
 
 Whose labor'd lines in chilling numbers flow. 
 
 To paint a pang the author ne'er can know ! 
 
 The artless Helicon I boast is youth : — 
 
 Jly lyre, the heart ; my muse, the siniplc truth. 
 
 Far be 't from me the '" virgin's mind " to " talat :' 
 
 Seduction's dreafl is here no slight restraint. 
 
 The maid whose virgin breast is void of guile, 
 
 Wliose wishes dimple in a modest smile. 
 
 Whose downcast eye disdains the wanton leer, 
 
 Firm in her virtue's strength, yet not severe — 
 
 She whom a conscious grace shall thus refine 
 
 Will ne'er be " tainted" by a strain of mine. 
 
 But for the nymjjh whose premature desires 
 
 Torment her bosom witli unholy lires. 
 
 No net to snare her willing heart is spread; 
 
 She would have fallen, though she ne'er liad read. 
 
 For me, I fain would please the chosen few. 
 
 Whose souls, to feeling and to nature true, 
 
 Will spare the childish verse, and not destroy 
 
 The light effusions of a heedless boy. 
 
 I seek not glory from the senseless crowd ; 
 
 Of fancied laurels I shall ne'er be proud : 
 
 Their warmest plaudits I would scarcely prize. 
 
 Their sneers or censures 1 alike despise. 
 
 Noveirtberi&.lSW. 
 
 ' The. Rev. John Bccher. prebendary of Southwell, the well- 
 known author of several idnlaiithropic plans for the amelioration 
 of the couditiiin of the poor. In this fjentleman the youthful poet 
 found not only an honest and judicious critic, but a sincere friend. 
 To k.^ care the superintendence of the second edition of " Hours 
 of IdteuesB," during its progress through a coufitry press, was in- 
 trusted, and at his 8U;^^estiou several con'cctions and omissions 
 were madu. 
 
 ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY.^ 
 
 " It la the voice of years that are gone ! they roll before mi 
 with all their deeds."— Ossian. 
 
 Newstead ! fast-falling, once-resplendent dome I 
 Religion's shrine ! repentant Hekrv's" pride ! 
 
 Of warriors, monks, and dames the cloister'd tomb, 
 Whose pensive shades aroimd thy ruins glide. 
 
 Hail to thy pile I more honor'd in thy fall 
 
 Thau modern mansions in their pillar'd state; 
 
 Proudly majestic frowns thy \'aulted hall, 
 Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate. 
 
 No nuiil-clad serfs," obedient to their lord, 
 In grim array the crimson cross' demand ; 
 
 Or gay assemble round the festive board 
 Their chief's retainers, an immortal band. 
 
 Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye 
 
 Retrace their progress though the lapse of time, 
 
 Marking each ardent youth, ordain'd to die, 
 A votive pilgrim in .ludea's clime. 
 
 But not from thee, dark pile ! dejjarts the chief; 
 
 His feudal realm in other regions lay : 
 In thee the wounded conscience courts relief, 
 
 Retiring from the garish blaze of day. 
 
 2 As one poem on this subject is alre.-idy printed, the autbot 
 had, originally, no intention of inserting the following. It is now 
 added at the particu'ar request of some friends. 
 
 " Henry II. foanded Newstead soon after the murder of Thomat 
 a Becket. 
 
 * This word is used by Walter Scott, in his poem, " The Wild 
 Huntsman ;" synonymous with vas-al. 
 
 » The red cross was the batlge of "he crusaders 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 407 
 
 Tea ! in thy gloomy cells and shades profound 
 The mouk ahjiirc-d a world he ne'er could view ; 
 
 Or blood-staiu'd guilt repenting solace found, 
 Or innocence from stern opjiression flew. 
 
 A. monarch bade thee from that vdltX arise, 
 Where Sherwood's outlaws once were wont to 
 
 And Superstition's crimes, of various dyes, [prowl ; 
 Sought shelter in the priest's protecting cowL 
 
 Where now the grass exhales a murky dew, 
 The humid pall of life-extinguish'd clay, 
 
 In sainted fame the sacred fathers grew. 
 Nor raised tlieir pious voices but to pray, 
 
 Wliere now the bats their wavering wings extend 
 Soon as the gloaming' spreads her waning shade. 
 
 The choir did oft their mingling vespers blend, 
 Or matin orisons to Mary- paid. 
 
 Years roll on years ; to ages, ages yield • 
 
 Abbots to abbots, in a line, succeed : 
 Religion's charter tluiir protecting shield 
 
 Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed. 
 
 One holy Henky rear'd the Gothic walls. 
 And bade the pious inmates rest in peace ; 
 
 Another Henet' the kind gift recalls, 
 
 And bids devotion's hallow'd echoes cease. 
 
 7ain is each threat or supplicating prayer ; 
 
 He drives them exiles from their bless'd abode, 
 To roam a dreary world in deep despair — 
 
 No friend, no home, no refuge, but their God. 
 
 Hark how the hall, resounding to the strain, 
 Shakes with the martial music's novel din ! 
 
 The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign. 
 High crested banners wave thy walls within. 
 
 Of changing sentinels the distant hum, 
 The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish'd arms. 
 
 The braying trumpet and the hoarser drum, 
 Unite in concert with increased alarms. 
 
 An alibey once, a regal fortress' now, 
 
 Encircled by insulting rebel jiowers, 
 War's dread machines o'erhangtliy threatening brow, 
 
 And dart destruction in sulphureous showers. 
 
 ■ As " gloaming," the Scottish word for twilight, is far more 
 poetical, and las been recommended by many eminent literary 
 men, particularly by Dr. Moore in his Letters to Bums, I have 
 ventured to use it on account of its harmony. 
 
 • The priory was dedicated to the Virgin. 
 
 ' At the dissolution of the monasteries, Henry ATII. bestowed 
 Newstead Abbey on Sir .John Byron. 
 
 * Newstead sustained a consi ■'erah'** eieg^ in the war between 
 "harles 1 and his parliament 
 
 Ah, vain defence ! the hostile traitor's siege. 
 
 Though oft repulsed, by guile o'ercomes the brave 
 
 His thronging fose opj^ress the faithful liege. 
 Rebellion's reeking standards o'er him wave. 
 
 Not unavenged the raging baron yields ; 
 
 The blood of traitors smears the purple plain ; 
 Unconquer'd still, his falchion ther^; he wields, 
 
 And days of glory yet for him remain. 
 
 Still in that hour the warrior wisli'd to strew 
 Self-gather'd lam-els on a self-sought grave ; 
 
 But Charles' protecting genius hither flew, 
 
 The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to sava 
 
 Trembling, she snatch'd him' from th' unequal stii fe. 
 
 In other fields the torrent to repel ; 
 For nobler combats, here, reserved his life, 
 
 To lead the band where godlike Falkland' felL 
 
 From thee, poor pile ! to lawless plunder given. 
 While dying groans their painful requiem soimd, 
 
 Far diiierent incense now ascends to heaven. 
 Such victims wallow on the gory groimd. 
 
 There many a pale and '-ifhless robber's corse, 
 Noi'ome and ghast k.tiles thy sacred sod ; 
 
 O'er mingling man, an.t horse commix'd with horse, 
 Corrujjtion's heap, the savage spoilers trod. 
 
 Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds o'erspread, 
 Ransack'd, resign i vrforce their mortal mould : 
 
 From rufflan fangs es ,pe not e'en the dead. 
 Raked from repose •; search for buried gold 
 
 Hush'd is the harp, UQ!»trung the warlike lyre. 
 The minstrel's palsied hand reclines in death ; 
 
 No more he strikes the quivering chords with tire, 
 Or sings the glories of the martial wreath. 
 
 At length the sated murucrers, gorged with pr'Y, 
 Retire ; the clamor of the fight is o'er ; 
 
 Silence again resumes her awtul sway. 
 And sable Horror guards the massy door. 
 
 Here Desolation holds her dreary court : 
 Wliat satellites declare her distnal reign ! 
 
 Shrieking their dirge, ill-omen'd birds resort, 
 To flit their vigils in the hoary fane. 
 
 * Lord Byron, and his brother Sir William, held high commands 
 in the royal army. The former was general in chief in Ireland, 
 lieutenant of the Tower, and governor to James, Duke of York, 
 afterwards the unhappy James n. ; the latter had a principal share 
 in many actions. 
 
 ' Lucins Carey, Viscount Falkland, the most accomplishi d man 
 of his age, was killed at the battle of Newbury, charging in the 
 ranks of Lord Byron's regiment of cavalry. 
 
408 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Soon a new morn's restonng beams dispel 
 The clouds of anarcliy 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 laboring breath ; 
 Earth shudders as hei; caves receive his bones, 
 
 Loathing' the offering of so dark a death. 
 
 The legal rulei'- now resumes the hehn, 
 
 He guides through gentle seas the jjrow 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 ; 
 
 Culture again adorns the gladdening vale. 
 
 And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn. 
 
 A thousand songs on tuneful echo float, 
 Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees ; 
 
 And hark I the horns proclaim a mellow note. 
 The hunter's cry hangs lengthening on the breeze. 
 
 Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys shake : 
 AVliat fears, what anxious hopes, attend the chase 1 
 
 The dying stag seeks refuge in the Lake ; 
 Exulting shouts announce the flnish'd race. 
 
 Ah, happy days ! too happy to endure 1 
 
 Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew : 
 
 No splendid vices glitter'd to allure ; 
 
 Their joys were many, as their cares were few. 
 
 From these descending, sons to sires succeed ; 
 
 Time steals along, and Death ujjrears his dart ; 
 Another chief impels the foaming steed. 
 
 Another crowd pursue the 25antiug hart. 
 
 Newstead ! what saddening change of scene is thine ! 
 
 Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay I 
 The last and youngest of a noble line 
 
 Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway. 
 
 iDeserted now, he scans thy gray worn towers ; 
 Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep ; 
 Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers ; 
 I These, these he views, and views them but to weep. 
 
 ' Tbli? is an historical fact. A violent tempest occurred Imme- 
 illa*d> subsequent to the death or interment of Cromwell, v/hich 
 Wei*- -oncd mjiny disputes between his partisans and the cavaliers : 
 bom djitfirpretc I the ciruiimi^tance into divine interposition ; but 
 
 Yet are his tears no emblem of regret ; 
 
 Cherish'd aftection only bids them flow. 
 Pride, hope, and love forliid liim to forget. 
 
 But warm his bosom with impassion'd glow. 
 
 Yet he prefers thee to the gilded domes 
 Or gewgaw grottoes of the vainly great ; 
 
 Yet lingers 'mid thy damp and mossy tombs, 
 Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the will of fatn 
 
 Haply thy sun, emerging, yet may shine, 
 Thee to irradiate with meridian ray ; 
 
 Hours splendid as the past may still be thine, 
 And bless thy future as thy former day. 
 
 CHILDISH RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 '* I cannot but remember such things were. 
 And were most dear to me." 
 
 When slow Disease, with all her host of pains. 
 Chills the warm tide which flows along the veins; 
 When Health, affrighted, spreads her rosy wing. 
 And flies with every changing gale of spring ; 
 Not to the aching frame alone confined. 
 Unyielding pangs assail the drooping mind : 
 ^VTiat grisly forms, the spectre-train of wo. 
 Bid shuddering Nature shrink beneath the blow, 
 With Resignation wage relentless strife, 
 While Hope retires apjjaU'd, antl clings to life. 
 Yet less the pang when, through the tedious hour 
 Remembrance sheds around her genial power. 
 Calls back the vanish'd days to rajjture given, 
 When love was bliss, and Beauty form'd our heaven 
 Or, dear to youth, portrays each childish scene. 
 Those fairy bowers, where all in turn have been. 
 As when through clouds that pour the summer stora 
 The orb of day unveils his distant form. 
 Gilds with faint beams the crystal dews of rain, 
 And dimly twinkles o'er the watery plain ; 
 Thus, while the future dark and cheerless gleams, 
 The sun of memory, glowing through my dreams, 
 Though sunk the radiance of his former blaze, 
 T, scenes far distant jKiints his paler raj's; 
 Still rules my senses with unliounded sway. 
 The past confounding with the present day. 
 
 Oft does my heart indulge the rising thought, 
 Which still recurs, unlook'd for and unsought; 
 My soul to Fancy's fond suggestion yields, 
 And roams romantic o'er her airy fields: 
 Scenes of my youth, developed, crowd to view, 
 To which I long have bade a last adieu ! 
 Seats of delight, inspiring youthful themes ; 
 Friends lost to me for aye, except in dreams; 
 
 whether as appriphation or condemnation, we leave for the casaisti 
 of that a;,'e to decide. I have made such use of the occurrence M 
 I suite,! the subject of my poem. - Charles It. 
 
HOURS OK IDLENESS. 
 
 409 
 
 Some who in marble prematurely sleep, 
 
 Wliose forms I now remember but to weep; 
 
 Some who }-et urge, the same scholastic course 
 
 Of early science, future fame the source ; 
 
 Who, still contending in the studious race, 
 
 In quick rotation fill the senior place. 
 
 These with a thousand visions now unite. 
 
 To dazzle, though they please, my aching sight. 
 
 Ida ! bless'd spot, where Science holds her reign, 
 
 How joyous once I join'd thy youthful train ! 
 
 Bright in idea gleams thy lofty spire. 
 
 Again I mingle with thy playful choir ; 
 
 Our tricks of mischief, every childish game, 
 
 Unchanged by time or distance, seem the same ; 
 
 Through winding paths along the glade, I trace 
 
 The social smile of every welcome face; 
 
 My wonted haunts my scenes of joy and wo, 
 
 Each early boyish friend, or youthful foe, 
 
 Ourfeuds dissolved, but not my friendshij) pass'd : — 
 
 I bless the former, and forgive the last. 
 
 Hours of my youth ! when, nurtured in my breast. 
 
 To love a stranger, friendship made me bless'd ;— 
 
 Friendship, the dear peculiar bond of youth, 
 
 When every artless bosom throbs with truth ; 
 
 Untaught by worldly widsom how to feign. 
 
 And check each impulse with prudential rein. 
 
 When all we feel, our honest souls disclose — 
 
 In love to friends, in open hate to foes ; 
 
 No varnish'd talcs the lips of youth repeat, 
 
 No dear-bought knowledge purchased by deceit. 
 
 Hypocrisy, the gift of lengthen'd years, 
 
 Matured by age, the garb of prudence wears. 
 
 When now the boy is ripen'd into man. 
 
 His careful sire chalks forth some wary plan ; 
 
 Instructs his son from candor's path to shrink, 
 
 Smoothly to speak, and cautiously to think ; 
 
 Still to assent, and never to deny — 
 
 A patron's praise can well reward the lie : 
 
 And who, when Fortune's warning voice is heard, 
 
 Would lose his opening prospects for a word ? 
 
 Although against that word his heart rebel, 
 
 And truth indignant all his bosom swell. 
 
 Away with themes like this, not mine the task 
 From flattering fiends to tear the hateful mask; 
 Let keener bards delight in satire's sting ; 
 My fancy soars not on Detraction's wing : 
 Once, and but once, she aim'd a deadly blow, 
 To hurl defiance on a secret foe ; 
 But when that foe, fi-om feeling or from shame, 
 The cause unknown, yet still to me the same, 
 Warn'd by some friendly hint, perchance, retired, 
 With this submission all her rage expired. 
 
 ■ Dr. Drury. This most able and excellent man retired from 
 nis situation in March. 1805. after having reu-'ded thirty-live years 
 at Harrow ; the last twenty as head-master ; <in office he held with 
 eqiial honor to himself and advantage to the very extciisive school 
 over which he presided. Panegyric would here be superfluous ; 
 52 
 
 From dreaded pangs that feeble foe to save. 
 She hush'd her young resentment, and forgave; 
 Or, if my muse a pedant's portrait drew, 
 Poiiposus' virtues are but known to few ; 
 I never fear'd the young usurper's nod. 
 And he who wields must sometimes feel the rod. 
 If since on Granta's failings, known to all 
 Who share the ccmverse of a college hall. 
 She sometimes trifled in a lighter strain, 
 'Tis past, and thus she will not sin again, 
 Soon must her early song forever cease. 
 And all may rail when I shall rest in peace. 
 
 Here first remember'd be the joyous band, 
 Who hail'd me chief,i obedient to command ; 
 Who join'd with me in every boyish sport — 
 Their first adviser, and their last resort ; 
 Nor shrunk beneath the upstart pedant's frown. 
 Or all the sable glories of his gown ; 
 Who, thus transplanted from his father's school — 
 Unfit to govern, ignorant of rule — 
 Succeeded him, whom all unite to praise, 
 The dear preceptor of my early days ; 
 Probtjs,! the pride of science, and the boast. 
 To Ida now, alas ! forever lost. 
 With him, for years, we search'd the classic page, 
 And fear'd the master, though we loved the sage : 
 Retired at last, his smaU yet peaceful seat, 
 From learning's labor is the bless'd retreat. 
 PoMposus fills his magisterial chair ; 
 PoMPOSUS governs, — ^but, my muse, forbear : 
 Contempt, in silence, be the pedant's lot ; 
 His name and precepts be alike forgot ! 
 No more his meution shall my verse degrade, — 
 To him my tribute is already jDaid. 
 
 High, through those elms, with hoary branches 
 crown'd. 
 Fair Ida's bower adorns the landscape round ; 
 There Science, from her favor'd seat, sur\-eys 
 The vale where rural Nature claims her praise ; 
 To her awhile resigns her youthful train. 
 Who move in joy, and dance along the plain ; 
 Inscatter'd groups each favor'd haunt pursue; 
 Repeat old pastimes, and discover new ; 
 Flush'd with his rays, beneath the noontide sim, 
 In rival bands between the wickets run, 
 Drive o'er the sward the ball with active force, 
 Or chase with nimble feet its rapid cinirse. 
 But these with slower steps direct their way, 
 Wliere Brent's cool waves in limpid currents stray; 
 
 it would be useless to enumerate qiialifications which were never 
 
 doubled. A considerable contest took place between three rival 
 
 candidates for his vacant chair: of this I can only say, 
 
 Si mca cum vestris valui>>eiit vnta. Pcla^gil 
 
 Non fcret ambiyuu>i 'anti '.-er'^imiui* Uiicrv*. 
 
410 
 
 BYRON 'S WORKS. 
 
 While yonder (ew search out some green retreat, 
 
 And arbors shade them from the summer lieat : 
 
 Others again, a pert and lively crew, 
 
 Bome rough and thoughtless stranger placed in view, 
 
 With frolic quaint their antic jesta expose, 
 
 And tease the grumbling rustic as lie goes ; 
 
 Nor rest with this, but many a passing I'ray 
 
 'J'radition treasures for a future day : 
 
 " 'Twas here the gather'd swains for vengeance 
 
 fought, 
 And here we euruVl the conquest dearly bought ; 
 Here have we iled before superior might. 
 And here renew'd the wild tumultuous fight." 
 Wliile thus our souls witli early passions swell, 
 In lingering tones resounds the distant bell; 
 Th' allotted hour of daily sport is o'er. 
 And Learning Ijeckons from her temple's door. 
 Ko splendid tablets grace her simiJle hall. 
 But ruder records till the dusky wall ; 
 There, deeply carved, behold each tyro's name 
 Secures its owner's academic fame ; 
 Here mingling view the names of sire and son — 
 The one long graved, the other just begun : 
 These shall survive alike when .^on and sire 
 Beneath one common stroke of fate expire : 
 Perhaps their last memorial these alone. 
 Denied in death a monumental stone. 
 Whilst to the gale in mournful cadence wave 
 The sighing weeds that hide their nameless grave. 
 And here my name, and many an early friend's. 
 Along the wall in lengthen'd line extends. 
 Though still our deeds amuse the youthful race, 
 Who tread our steps, and fill our former place. 
 Who young obey'd their lords in silent awe, 
 ■Whose nod commanded, and whose voice was law; 
 And now, in turn, possess the reins of power. 
 To rule the little tyrants of an hour ;— 
 Though, sometimes, witli the tales of ancient day, 
 They pass the dreary winter's eve away — 
 " And thus our former rulers stcmm'd the tide, 
 And thus tlu'y dealt the combat side by side ; 
 Just in this place the mouldering walls they scaled, 
 Nor bolts nor bars against their strength avail'd ; 
 Here Probiis came, the rising fray to quell. 
 And here he falter'd forth his last farewell ; 
 And here one niglit abroad they dared to roam. 
 While bold Po.mfosus Iiravely stay'd at home ;" — 
 While thus they speak, the hour must soon arrive, 
 ■WTien names of these, like ours, alone survive : 
 Yet a few years, one general wreck will whelm 
 The faint remembrance of our fairy realm. 
 
 Dear honest race ! though now we meet no 
 more. 
 One last long look on what we were before — 
 Our first kind greetings, and our last adieu — 
 Drew te;u-s from eyes unused to weep with you. 
 
 Through sijlendid circles, fashion's gaudy world, 
 Where folly's glaring standard waves unfurl'd, 
 1 plunged to di-own in noise my fond regret. 
 And all I sought or hoped was to forget. 
 Vain wish ! if chance some well-remember'd face, 
 Some old companion of my early race. 
 Advanced to claim his friend with honest joy, 
 My eyes, my heart, proelaim'd nie still a boy; 
 The glittering scene, the fluttering groups ii.ound. 
 Were quite forgotten when my friend was found : 
 The smiles of beauty — (for, alas! I've known 
 What 'tis to bend before Love's mighty throne) — 
 The smiles of beauty, though those smiles were deal 
 Could hardly charm me, when that friend was neai 
 My thoughts bewilder'd in the fond surprise, 
 The woods of In.v danced before my eyes ; 
 I saw the sprightly wand'rers pour along, 
 I saw and join'd again the joyous tlirong; 
 Panting, again I traced her lofty grove ; 
 And friendship's feelings triumphed over love. 
 
 Yet, why should I alone with such delight, 
 Retrace the circuit of my former flight ? 
 Is there ao cause beyond the common claim 
 Endear'd to all in ehildliood's very name? 
 Ah ! sure some stronger impulse vibrates here, 
 Wliich whispers friendship ^vill be doubly dear, 
 To one who thus for kindred hearts must roam, 
 And seek abroad the love denied at home. 
 Those hearts, dear Ida, have I found in thee — 
 A home, a world, a paradise to me. 
 Stern Death forbade my orphan youth to share 
 The tender guidance of a father's care. 
 Can rank, or e'en a guardian's name, supply 
 The love which glistens in a father's eye ? 
 For this can wealth or title's sound atone, 
 Made, by a parent's early loss, my own ? 
 What !)rother springs a brother's love to seek ? 
 What sister's gentle kiss has press'd my cheek? 
 For me how dull the vacant moments rise. 
 To no fond bosom link'd by kindred ties ! 
 Oft in the progress of some fleeting dream 
 Fraternal smiles collected round me seem ; 
 While still the visions to my heart are press'd. 
 The voice of love will murmur in my rest : 
 I hear — I wake — and in the sound rejoice ; 
 I hear again, — Init ah 1 no l)rother's voice. 
 A hermit, 'midst of crowds, I fain must stray 
 Alone, though thousand pilgrims till the way; 
 While these a thousand kindred wreaths entwine, 
 I cannot call one single blossom mine : 
 What then remains ? in solitude to groan. 
 To mix in friendshii), or to sigh alone. 
 Thus must I cling to some endearing hand, 
 And none more dear than Id.Vs social band. 
 
 Aloxzo ! best and dearest and o'' niv friends, 
 Thy name ennobles him who thus tommends : 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 411 
 
 Prom this fond tribute thou canst gain no praise ; 
 The praise is his wlio now that tribute pays. 
 Oh ! in the promise of thy early youth, 
 If hope anticipate th words of truth, 
 Some loftier bard sh;,ll sing thy glorious name, 
 'i'o build his own upcn thy deathless fame. 
 Friend of ray heart, and foremost of the list 
 Of those with whom I lived supremely bless'd. 
 Oft have we drain'd the font of ancient lore ; 
 Though drinking deeply, thirsting still the more. 
 Yet, when confinement's lingering hour was done. 
 Our sports, our studies, and our souls were one : 
 Together we impell'd the flying ball ; 
 Together waited in our tutor's hall ; 
 Together joiu'd in cricket's manly toil, 
 Or shared the produce of the river's spoil ; 
 Or, plunging from the green declining shore. 
 Our phant limbs the buoyant billows bore ; 
 In every clement, unchanged, the same, 
 All, all that brothers should be, but the name. 
 
 Nor yet are you forgot, my jocund boy 1 
 Davus, the harbinger of childish joy ; 
 Fore\ er foremost in the ranks of fun. 
 The laughing herald of the harmless pun ; 
 Yet with a breast of such materials made — 
 Anxious to please, of pleasing half afraid ; 
 Candid and liberal, with a heart of steel 
 In danger's jjath, though not untaught to feel. 
 Still I remember, in the factious strife, 
 '("he rustic's musket aim'd against my life : 
 High poised in air the massy weajion hung, 
 A cry of horror burst from every tongue ; 
 Wliilst I, in combat with another foe. 
 Fought on, unconscious of th' impending blow ; 
 Your arm, brave boy, arrested his career — 
 Forward you sprung, insensible to fear ; 
 Disarm'd and baffled by your conquering hand. 
 The groveling savage roU'd uj:)on the sand : 
 An act like this, can simple thanks repay ? 
 Or all the labors of a grateful lay ? 
 Oh no ! whene'er my breast forgets the deed. 
 That instant, Davus, it deserves to bleed. 
 
 Lycus ! on me thy claims are justly great : 
 Thy milder virtues could my muse relate. 
 To thee alone, unrivall'd, would belong 
 The feeble efforts of my lengthen'd song. 
 Well canst thou boast, to lead in senates fit, 
 A Spartan firmness with Athenian wit : 
 Though yet in embryo these perfections shine, 
 Ltcus 1 thy father's fame will soon be thine. 
 Where learning nurtures the superior mind. 
 What may we hope from genius thus refined ! 
 Allien time at length matures thy growing years, 
 How wilt thou tower above thy fellow peers ! 
 Prudence and sense, a spirit bold and free. 
 With honor's soul, united beam in thee. 
 
 Shall fair Eurtalus pass by unsung ? 
 Prom ancient lineage, not unworthy sprung : 
 What though one sad dissension bade us part, 
 Thy name is yet embalm'd within my heart ; 
 Yet at the mention does that heart rebound, 
 And jsalpitate, responsive to the sound. 
 Envy dissolved our ties, and not our will : 
 We once were friends, — I'U think we are so still 
 A form unmatch'd in nature's partial mould, 
 A heart untainted, we in thee behold : 
 Yet not the senate's thunder thou shalt wield. 
 Nor seek for glorj in the tented field ; 
 To minds of ruder texture these be given— 
 Thy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven. 
 Haply, in ijolish'd courts might be thy seat, 
 But that thy tongue could never forge deceit ; 
 The courtier's supple i)Ow and sneering smile, 
 The flow of compliment, the slijipery wile. 
 Would make that breast with indignation. 
 And all the glittering snares to tempt thee spurn. 
 Domfestic happiness will stamp thy fate ; 
 Sacred to love, unclouded e'er by hate ; 
 The world admire thee, and thy friends adore : — 
 Ambition's slave alone would toil for more. 
 
 Now lost, but nearest, of the social band. 
 See honest, open, generous Cleon stand ; 
 With scarce one sjjeck to cloud the pleasing scene, 
 No vice degrades that purest soul serene. 
 On the same day our studious race begun. 
 On the same day our studious race was run ; 
 Thus side by side we pass'd our first career. 
 Thus si'le by side we strove for many a year ; 
 At last concluded our scholastic life, 
 We neither conquer'd in the classic strife : 
 As sjjeakers each supports an equal name. 
 And crowds allow to l)oth a partial fiime : 
 To soothe a youthful rivafs early ])ride. 
 Though Clcou's candor would the palm divide, 
 Y'^et candor's self compels me now to own. 
 Justice awards it tc my fi-iend alone. 
 
 Oh ! friends regretted, scenes forever dear. 
 Remembrance hails you with her warmest tear ! 
 Drooping, she bends o'er pensive Fancy's urn, 
 To trace the hours which never can return ; 
 Yet with the retrospection loves to dwell. 
 And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell I 
 Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind, 
 As infant laurels round my head were twinea, 
 When Probus' praise rejaaid my lyric song. 
 Or placed me higher in the studious throng ; 
 Or when my first harangue received applause, 
 His sage instruction the primeval cause. 
 What gratitude to him my soul possess'd 
 While hope of dawnir-.g liimors till'd my breast 
 For all my humble fame, to him alone 
 The praise is due. who made that fame my o\\rD, 
 
412 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Oh I could I soar above these feeble lays, 
 
 These young effusions of my early days, 
 
 To him my muse her noblest strain would give : 
 
 The song might perish, but the theme might live. 
 
 Yet why for liiui the needless verse essay ? 
 
 His honor'd name requires no vain display : 
 
 By every son of grateful Ida bless'd, 
 
 It finds an echo in each youthful breast; 
 
 A tame beyond the glores of the proud, 
 
 Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd. 
 
 Ida 1 not yet exhausted is the theme. 
 Nor closed the progress of my youthful dream. 
 How many a friend deserves the grateful strain ! 
 What scenes of childhood still unsung remain ! 
 Yet let me hush this echo of the past. 
 This parting song, the dearest and the last ; 
 And brood in secret o'er those hom's of joy. 
 To me a silent and a sweet employ, 
 Wliile future hope and fear alike unknown, 
 I think with pleasure on the past alone ; 
 Yes, to the past alone my heart confine. 
 And chase the i^hantom of what once was mine. 
 
 Ida ! still o'er thy hills in joy preside, 
 And proudly stciT through time's eventful tide ; 
 Still may thy blooming sons thy name revere. 
 Smile in thy bower, but quit thee with a tear ; — 
 That tear, perhaps, the fondest which wiU flow. 
 O'er their last scencof happiness below. 
 Tell me, ye hoary few, wlio glide along. 
 The feeble veterans of some former throng, 
 WTiose friends, Uke autumn leaves by tempests 
 
 whirl'd. 
 Are swept forever from this busy world ; 
 Revolve the fleeting moments of 3-our youth, 
 Wliile Care as yet withheld her venom'd tooth ; 
 Say if remembrance days like these endears 
 Beyond the rapture of succeeding years ? 
 Say, can ambition's fever'd dream bestow 
 So sweet a balm to soothe your hours of wo ? 
 Can treasures, hoarded for some thankless son, 
 Can royal smiles, or wreaths by slaughter won, 
 Can stars or ermine, man's maturer toys, 
 (For glittering baubles are not l(5ft to boys,) 
 Recall one scene so much beloved to view. 
 As those where Youth her garland twined for you ? 
 Ah, no ! amidst the gloomy calm of age 
 You turn with faltering had life's varied page ; 
 Peruse the record of your days on earth, 
 Unsullied only where it marks your birth ; 
 Still lingering pause above each checker'd leaf, 
 And blot with tears the sable lines of grief; 
 
 1 " L'Amile eat 1' Amour sans ailcs," ia a French proverb. [See 
 ft subsequc^nt. poem, under this title. 1 
 
 ■J Written by James Montjjomery, author of '' Wanderer in 
 r>witzorland/' etc. 
 
 ' No •larticular hero is here alluded to. The exploits of Bayard, 
 
 Where Passion o'er the theme Iter mantle .nrew, 
 
 Or weeping Virtue sigh'd a faint adieu ; 
 
 But bless the scroll which fairer words adorn, 
 
 Traced by the rosy finger of the morn ; 
 
 When Friendship bow'd before the shrine of truth 
 
 And Love, without his pinion,' smiled ou youth. 
 
 ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM, EN 
 TITLED "THE COJDION LOT." 
 
 Montgomery ! true, the common lot 
 Of mortals hes in Lethe's wave ; 
 
 Yet some shall never be forgot — 
 Some shall exist beyond the grave. 
 
 " Unknown the region of his birth," 
 The hero' rolls the tide of war ; 
 Yet not unknown his martial worth. 
 Which glares a meteor from afar. 
 
 His joy or grief, his weal or wo. 
 
 Perchance may 'scape the page of fame, 
 
 Yet nations now unborn will know 
 The record of his deathless name. 
 
 The patriot's and the poet's frame 
 Must share the common tomb of all ; 
 
 Their glory will not sleep the same ; 
 Tlidt will arise, though empires fall. 
 
 The lustre of a beauty's eye 
 
 Assumes the ghastly stare of death ; 
 
 The fair, the brave, the good must die. 
 And sink the yawning grave beneath. 
 
 Once more the speaking eye revives. 
 Still beaming through the lover's strain. 
 
 For Petrarch's Laura still survives : 
 She died, but ne'er will die again. 
 
 The rolling seasons pass aw.ay. 
 
 And Time, untiring, waves his wing ; 
 
 Whilst honor's laurels ne'er decay. 
 But bloom in fresh, unfading spring. 
 
 All, all must sleep in grim repose, 
 
 Collected in the silent tomb ; 
 The old and young, with friends and foes, 
 
 Festering alike in shrouds, consume. 
 
 The mouldering marble lasts its day, 
 Yet falls at length a useless fane ; 
 
 To ruin's ruthless fangs a prey. 
 
 The wrecks of pillar'd pride remain. 
 
 Nemonre, Edward the Bla<'k Prince, and in more modern t*mea 
 the fame of Marlborough. Frederick the Great, Count S^axe, 
 Charles of Sweden, etc., are familiar to every historical reader, 
 but the e.xact places of their birth are known to a very si. all nro 
 portion o! their admirers. 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 411 
 
 Wliat, though the sculpture be destroy'd, 
 From dark oblivion meant to guard ; 
 
 A bright renown shall be enjoj-'d 
 
 By those whose virtues claim reward. 
 
 Then do not say the common lot 
 Of all lies deep in Lethe's wave ; 
 
 Some few who ne'er will be forgot 
 Fhall burst the bondage of the grave. 
 
 806. 
 
 TO A LADY 
 
 WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR WITH THE VELVET 
 BXSD WHICH BOTJXD HER TRESSES. 
 
 This Band, which bound thy yellow hair, 
 Is mine, sweet girl ! thy pledge of love ; 
 
 It claims my warmest, dearest care, 
 Like relics left of saints above. 
 
 Oh ! I will wear it next my heart ; 
 
 'Twill bind my soul in bonds to thee ; 
 From me again 'twill ne'er depart. 
 
 Bat mingle in the grave ■nith me. 
 
 The dew I gather from thy lip 
 
 Is not so dear to me as this ; 
 That I but for a moment sip. 
 
 And banquet on a transient bliss : 
 
 This will recall each youthful scene. 
 E'en when our lives are on the wane ; 
 
 The leaves of Love will still be green 
 When Memory bids them bud again. 
 
 Oh ! little lock of golden hue, 
 
 In gently waving ringlet curl'd. 
 By the dear head on which you grew, 
 
 I would not lose you for a world. 
 
 Not though a thousand more adorn 
 
 The polish'd brow where once you shone. 
 
 Like rays which gild a cloudless morn. 
 Beneath Columbia's fervid zone. 
 
 1S06. [First published, 1833.] 
 
 REMEMBRANCE. 
 
 'Tis done ! — I saw it in my dreams : 
 
 No more with Hope the future beams ; 
 My days of happiness are few ; 
 
 CliiU'd by misfortune's wintry blast. 
 
 My dawn of life is overcast, 
 Love, Hope, and .Toy, alike adieu ! — - 
 Would I could add Rememl^rance too ! 
 
 1806. [First pnblished, 1832.] 
 
 LINES 
 
 ADDRESSED TO THE RET. J. T. BECHER, ON HIS AD- 
 VISING THE AUTHOR TO MIX MORE WITH SOCIETT. 
 
 Dear Becher, you tell me to mis with mankind ; — 
 I cannot deny such a precept is wise ; 
 
 But retirement accords with the tone of my mind 
 I will not descend to a world I despise. 
 
 Did tlie senate or camp my exertions require. 
 Ambition might promjjt me, at once, to go forth 
 
 Wlien infancy's years of probation expire. 
 
 Perchance I may strive to distinguish my birth. 
 
 The fire in the cavern of Etna conceal'd. 
 Still mantles unseen in its secret recess ; — 
 
 At length, in a volume terrific reveal'd. 
 
 No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress. 
 
 Oh ! thus, the desire in my bosom for fame 
 Bids me live but to hojje for posterity's praise. 
 
 Could I soar with the jjhoenix on pinions of flame, 
 With him I would wish to ex|3ire in the blaze. 
 
 For the life of a Pox, of a Chatham the death. 
 What censure, what danger, what wo would 1 
 brave ! [breath ! 
 
 Their lives did not end when they yielded theil 
 Their glory illumines the gloom of their grave. 
 
 Yet why should I mingle in Fashion's full herd ? 
 
 Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her rules ? 
 MHiy bend to the proud, or applaud the absurd 1 
 
 Why search for delight in the friendship of fools ? 
 
 I have tasted the sweets and the bitters of love ; 
 
 In friendship I early was taught to believe ; 
 My passion the matrons of prudence r^p'ove ; 
 
 I have found that a friend may prc^eps, ye*-, .'lecei-'e. 
 
 To me what is wealth ? — ^it may pass in an hour. 
 If tyrants prevail, or if Fortune should frowr , 
 
 To mo what is title ? — the jjhantom of power ; 
 To me what is fashion ? — I seek but renown. 
 
 Deceit is a stranger as yet to my soul ; 
 
 I still am unpractised to varnish the truth : 
 
 Then why should I live in a hateful control ? 
 
 Wliy waste upon folly the days of my youth ? 
 
 isoe- 
 
 THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA. 
 
 AN nilTATION OF MACPHERSON'S OSSIAN.' 
 
 Dear are the days of youth ! Age dwells on thei» 
 remembrance througli the mist of time. In the t^vi• 
 light he recalls the sunny hours of morn. He lifts liig 
 spear with trembling hand. " Not thus feebly did 1 
 raise the steel before my fathers !" Passed is the race 
 
 ' It may be necessary to observe, that the story, though con- Euryalus," of wliich ep pode a translation is already given n tb« 
 I leraMy varied in the catastrophe, is tikeu Irom "Nisus and present volume. 
 
nu 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 of lieroes f But their fame rises on the harp ; their 
 Biiiils riile on tlie wings of the wind ; tlioy hear the 
 sound tlir-jugh the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in 
 their hall of clouds 1 Such is Calmar. The {rray stone 
 marks his narrow house. He looks down from eddy- 
 Ino' tempests : he rolls his form in the whirlwind, and 
 hovers on the blast of the mountain. 
 
 In Morven dwelt the chief; a beam of war to Fingal. 
 His stcpn in the field were marked in blood. Lochlin's 
 sons had fled before his anjjry spear : but mild was 
 the eye of Calmar ; soft was the flow of his yellow 
 locks: they streamed like the meteor of the night. 
 No maid was the sigh of his soul : his thoughts were 
 given to friendship, — to dark-haired Orla, destroyer of 
 heroes ! Equal were tt'.eir swonls in battle ; but fierce 
 was the pride of Orla : — gentle alone to Calmar. To- 
 gether they dwelt in the cave of Oithona. 
 
 From Lachlin, Swaran bounded o'er the blue waves. 
 Erin's sons fell beneath his might. Fingal roused iiis 
 chiefs to combat. Th<'ir ships cover the ocean. Their 
 hosts throng on the green liills. They come to the aid 
 of Erin. 
 
 Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies : 
 but the blazing oaks gleam through the valley. The 
 sons of Lochlin slept : their dreams were of blood. 
 They lift the spear in thought, and Fingal flies. Not 
 so the host of Morven. To watch was the post of Orla. 
 Calmar stood by his side. Their spears were in their 
 hands Fingal called his cliiefs : they stood around. 
 The king was in the midst. (Iray were his locks, but 
 strong was the arm of the king. Age withered not 
 his powers. " Sons of Morven," said the hero, " to- 
 morrow we meet the 'oe. But where is Cuthullin, the 
 shield of Erin ? He rests in the halls of Tura ; he 
 knows not of our coming. Who will speed through 
 Lochlin to the hero, and call the chief to arms ? The 
 path is by the swords of foes ; but many are my heroes. 
 They are thunderbolts of war. Speak, ye cliiefs ! Who 
 ■will arise '?" 
 
 " Son of Trenraor 1 mine be the deed," said dark- 
 haired Orla, " and mine alone. VNHiat is death to me '! 
 I love tlie sleep of the mighty, but little is the danger. 
 Thesons of Lochlin dream. I will seek car-borne Cuth- 
 ulUn. If I fall, raise the song of bards ; and lay me by 
 the stream of Lubar." " And slialt thou fall alone ';" 
 said fairhaired Calmar. " Wilt tliou leave thy friend 
 afar'( Chic^f of Oithona ! not feeble is my arm in fight. 
 Could I see thee die, and not lift the spear '? No, Orla ! 
 ours has becm the chase of the roebuck, and the feast 
 of shells ; ours be the path of danger : ours has been 
 the cave of Oithona ; ours be the narrow dwelling on 
 the banks of Lubar." " Calmar," said the chief of 
 Oithona, " why should thy yellow locks be darkened 
 in the dust of Erin '( Let me fall alone My father 
 dwells in his hall of air : he will rejoice in his boy ; 
 but the blue-eyed Mora spreads the feast for her son 
 In Morven. She listens to the stops of the hunter on 
 the heath, and thinks it is the tread of Calmar. Let 
 him not say, ' Calmar has fallen by the steel of Loch- 
 lin : ho died witli gloomy Orla, the chief of the dark 
 bro V.' Why should tears dim the azure eyes of 
 
 Mora 1 Why should her voice curse Orla, the destroyei 
 of Calmar 'i Live, Calmar ! Live to raise my stone of 
 moss ; live to revenge me in the blood of Lochlin 
 Join the song of bards above my grave. Sweet will 
 be the song of death to Orla, from the voice of Calmar 
 My ghost shall smile on the notes of praise." " Orla,' 
 said the son of Mora, " could I raise the song of death 
 to my friend'; Could I give his fame to the winds? 
 No, ray heart would speak in sighs : faint and broken 
 are the sounds of sorrow. Or'a ! our souls shall hear 
 the song together. One cloud shall be ours on high : 
 the bards will mingle the names of Orla and Calmar." 
 
 They quit the circle of the chiefs. Their steps are 
 to the host of Lochlin. The dying blaze of oak dim 
 twinkles through the night. The northern .star points 
 the path to Tura. Swaran, the king, rests on his lonely 
 hill. Here the troops are mixed : they frown in sleep ; 
 their shields beneath their heads. Their swords gleam 
 at distance in heaps The fires are faint ; their embers 
 fail in smoke. All is hushed ; but the gale sighs on 
 the rocks above Lightly wheel the heroes through 
 the slumbering band. Half the journey is past, when 
 Mathon, resting on his shield, meets the eye of Orla. 
 It rolls in flame, and glistens through the shade. His 
 spear is raised on high. " Why dost thou bend thy 
 brow, chief of Oithona 1" said fair haired Calmar : " we 
 ar« in the midst of foes. Is this a time for delay ?" 
 " It is a time for vengeance," said Orla of the gloomy 
 brow. " Mathon of Lochlin sleeps : seest thou his 
 spear ? Its point is dim with the gore of ray father. 
 The blood of Mathon shall reek on mine ; but shall I 
 slay him sleeping, son of Mora "? No ! he shall feel 
 his wound : my fame shall not soar on the blood of 
 slumber. Rise, Mathon, rise ! The son of Conna calls : 
 thy life is his ; rise to combat." Mathon starts from 
 sleep ; but did he rise alone ? No : the gathering 
 chiefs l)ound on the plain. " Fly ! Calmar, fly !" said 
 dark-hai red Orla. "Mathon is mine. I shall die in 
 joy : but Lochlin crowds around. Fly through the 
 shade of night." Orla turns. The helm of Mathon is 
 cleft ; his shield falls from his arm : he shudders in 
 his blood. He rolls by the side of the blazing oak. 
 Strumon sei's him fall : his wrath rises : his weapon 
 glitters on the head of Orla : but a spear ])ierced his 
 eye. His brain gushes through the wound, and foams 
 on the spear of Calmar. As roll the waves of the 
 ocean on two mighty barks of the north, so pour the 
 men of Lochlin on the chiefs. As, breaking the surge 
 in i.)am, proudly steer the barks of the north, so rise 
 the chiefs of Morven on the scattered crests of Lochlin. 
 The din of arms came to the ear of Fingal. He strikes 
 his siiield ; his sons throng around ; the people pour 
 along the heath. Uyno bounds in joy. Ossian stalks 
 in his arms. 0.scar shakes the spear. The eagle wing 
 of Fillan floats on the wind. Dreadful is the clang of 
 death ! many are the widows of Lochlin 1 Morven pre- 
 vails in its strength. 
 
 Morn glimmers on the hills : no living foe is seen ; 
 but the shH'pers are many : grim they lie on Erin. 
 The breeze of oc(?an lifts their locks ; yet they do not 
 awake. The hawks scream above their prey. 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 4li 
 
 Wliose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a chief ? 
 Bright as the gold of tlie stranger, they mingle with 
 the dark hair of his friend. 'Tis Calmar : he lies on 
 the bosom of Orla. Theirs is one stream of blood. 
 Fierce is the look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes 
 not ; but his eye is still a flame. It glares in death 
 unclosed. His hand is grasped in Calmar's ; but Cal- 
 mar lives ! he lives, though low. " Rise," said the 
 king, " rise, son of Mora : 'tis mine to heal the wounds 
 of heroes. Calmar may yet bound on the hills of 
 Morven." 
 
 " Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morven 
 with Orla," said the hero. " What were the chase to 
 me alone ? Who should share the spoils of battle with 
 Calmar ". Orla is at rest ! Rough was thy soul, Orla ! 
 yet soft to me as the dew of morn. It glared on oth- 
 ers in lightning : to me a silver beam of light. Bear 
 my sword to blue-eyed Mora ; let it hang in my empty 
 hall. It is not pure from blood : but it could not save 
 Orla. Lay me with my friend. Raise the song when I 
 am dark !" 
 
 They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four gray 
 stones mark the dwelling of Orla and Calmar. When 
 Swaran was Ijound, our sails rose on the blue waves. 
 The winds gave our barks to Morven: — the bards 
 raised the song. 
 
 " Wliat form rises on the roar of clouds ? Wliose 
 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, 
 Calmar! Lovely wast thou, son of blue-eyed Mora; 
 but not harmless was thy sword. It hangs in thy 
 cave. The ghosts of Lochlin shriek around its steel. 
 Hear thy praise, Calmar ! It dwells on the voice of the 
 mighty. Thy name shakes on the echoes of Jlorven. 
 Then raise thy fair locks, son of Mora. Spread tliem 
 on the arch of the rainbow ; and smile through the 
 tears of the storm " ' 
 
 L'.UnTIE EST L' AMOUR SANS AXLES. 
 
 Why should my anxious breast repine, 
 
 Because my youth is fled ? 
 Days of delight may still be mine ; 
 
 Affection is not dead. 
 In tracing back the years of youth, 
 One firm record, one lasting truth 
 
 Celestial consolation brings ; 
 Bear it, ye breezes, to the seat 
 Where first my heart responsive beat, — 
 
 " Friendship is Love without his wings !" 
 
 ■Qirough few, but deeply chcckcrd years, 
 What moments have been mine ! 
 
 ■ I fear Lain^'s later edition has completely OTerthrowu every 
 nope that Macphert^on's Ossian mi^ht prove the translation of a 
 Berles of poems complete in themselves ; but. while the impos- 
 iiire is din covered, the merit of the work remains undisputed, 
 Uiongh uot Kithoat faults -particularly, In some parte, turyld and 
 
 Now half obscured by clouds of tears, 
 
 Now bright in rays divine ; 
 Howe'er my future doom be cast. 
 My soul, enraptured with the past. 
 
 To one idea fondly clings ; 
 Friendship ! tliat thought is all thine own. 
 Worth worlds of liliss, that thought alono — 
 
 "Friendship is Love without his wings I" 
 
 Wliere yonder yew-tftes lightly w.ivo 
 
 Their branches on the gale, 
 Unheeded heaves a simple grave, 
 
 Which tells the common tale ; 
 Round this unconscious schoolboys stray, 
 Till the dull knoll of childish play 
 
 From yonder studious mansion rings ; 
 But here whene'er my footsteps move, 
 My silent tears too plainly prove, 
 
 " Friendship is Love without his wings 1' 
 
 Oh, Love ! before thy glowing slirine 
 
 My early vows were paid ; 
 My liopes, my dreams, my heart was thine. 
 
 But these are now decay'd ; 
 For thine are pinions like the wind, 
 No trace of thee remains behind. 
 
 Except, alas ! thy jealous stings. 
 Away, away ! delusive power. 
 Thou shalt not haunt my coming hour; 
 
 Unless, indeed, without thy wings. 
 
 Seat of my youth != thy distant spire 
 
 Recalls each scene of joy ; 
 My bosom glows with fonner fire, — 
 
 In mind again a boy. 
 Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill. 
 Thy every path delights me still. 
 
 Each flower a double fragrance flings ; 
 Again, as once, in converse gay. 
 Each dear associate seems to say, 
 
 " Friendship is Love without his wings 1" 
 
 My Lycus !» wherefore dost thou weep ? 
 
 Thy falling tears restrain ; 
 Aflcction for a time may sleep. 
 
 But, oh, 'twill wake again. 
 Think, think, my friend, when next we meet 
 Our long-wish'd interview, how sweet ! 
 
 From this my hope of rapture springs; 
 While youthful hearts thus fondly swell. 
 Absence, my friend, can only tell, 
 
 "Friendship is Love without his wings!" 
 
 bombastic diction. The present humble imitation will bo pur 
 doned by the admirers of the orif;inal as an attempt, however in- 
 ferior, which evinces an attachment to their favorite author 
 
 - Harrow. 
 
 ' The Earl of Clare. 
 
416 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 In one, and one alone deceived, 
 
 Did I my error mourn ? 
 No --from oppressive bonds relieved, 
 
 I left the wrctcli to scorn. 
 I turn'd to those my childhood knew. 
 With feelings warm, with bosoms true, j 
 
 Twined with my heart's according strings ; 
 And till those vital chords shall break. 
 For none l)ut these my breast shall wake 
 
 Friendship, the pojver deprived of wings I 
 
 Ye few 1 my soul, my life is yours, 
 
 My memory and my hope ; 
 Your worth a lasting love ensures, 
 
 Unfetter'd in its scope ; 
 From smooth deceit and terror sprung, 
 With asjjcct fair and honey'd tongue. 
 
 Let Adulation wait on kings ; 
 With joy elate, by snares beset. 
 We, we, my friends, can ne'er forget, 
 
 "Friendship is Love without his wings !" 
 
 Fictions and dreams inspire the bard 
 
 Wlio rolls the ejnc song; 
 Friendship and Truth be my reward — 
 
 To me no bays belong ; 
 If laurell'd Fame but dwells with Ues, 
 Me the enchantress ever flies. 
 
 Whose heart and not whose fancy sings ; 
 Simple and yoimg, I dare not feign ; 
 Mine be the rude yet heartfelt strain, 
 
 " Friendship is Love without his wings !" 
 [First published, 1832.] 
 
 THE PRAYER OF NATURE. 
 
 Fathkr of Light I great God of Heaven ! 
 
 Hear'st thou the accents of despair ? 
 Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven ? 
 
 Can vice atone for crimes by prayer ? 
 
 Father of Light, on thee I call 1 
 
 Thou seest my soul is dark within ; 
 
 Thou who canst mark the sparrow's fall. 
 Avert from me the death of sin. 
 
 No shrine I seek, to sects unknown ; 
 
 Oh, point to me the path of truth I 
 Thy dread omni])otence I o%\ti ; 
 
 Spare, yet an;end, the faults of youth. 
 
 Let bigots rear a gloomy fane. 
 Let superstition hail the pile. 
 
 Let priests, to spread their sable reign, 
 With tales of mystic rites beguile. 
 
 Shall man confine his Maker's sway 
 To Gothic domes of mouldering stone ? 
 
 Thy temple is the foee of day ; 
 Earth, ocean, heaven, thy boundless throne. 
 
 Shall man condemn his race to hell. 
 Unless they bend in pomjjous form? 
 
 Tell us that all, for one who fell, 
 Must perish in the mingling storm ? 
 
 Shall each pretend to reach the skies, 
 
 Yet doom his lirothcr to expire, 
 Wliose soul a diflercnt liofje supplies. 
 
 Or doctrines less severe inspire? 
 
 Shall these, by creeds they can't expouni^ 
 
 Prepare a fancied Ijliss or wo? 
 Shall reptiles, grovelling on tlie ground, 
 
 Their great Creator's purpose know ? 
 
 Shall those who live for self alone, 
 Wliose years iloat on in daily crime- • 
 
 Shall they by Faith for guilt atone. 
 And live beyond tbe bounds of Time t 
 
 Father! no prophet's laws I seek, — 
 Tin/ laws in Nature's works appear; — 
 
 I own myself corrujit and weak. 
 Yet will I pray, for thou wilt hear I 
 
 Thou who canst guide the wandering star 
 Though trackless realms of icther's space; 
 
 Wlio ealm'st the elemental war, 
 Wliose hand from pole to pole I trace : — 
 
 Tliou, who in wisdom placed me here. 
 Who, when thou wilt, can take me hence, 
 
 Ah 1 wliilst I tread this earthly sphere, 
 Extend to me thy wide defense. 
 
 To Thee, my God, to Thee I call I 
 
 Whatever weal or wo betide. 
 By thy command I rise or fall. 
 
 In thy protection I ccjifide. 
 
 If, when this dust to dust 's restored, 
 
 My soul shall float on airy wing. 
 How shall thy glorious name adored 
 
 Inspire her feeble voice to sing 1 
 
 But, if this fleeting spirit share 
 With clay the grave's eternal bed, 
 
 While life yet throbs, I raise my prayer. 
 Though doom'd no more to quit the dead. 
 
 To Thee I breathe my humble strain. 
 
 Grateful for all thy mercies past. 
 And hope, my God, to thee again 
 
 This erring life may fly at last. 
 
 Docomlicr M, ISOB 
 [First publialiod, ISSO.i 
 
HOURS OF IDLEXESS. 
 
 4i; 
 
 TO EDWARD NOEL LONG, ESQ. 
 
 Nil ego contiilerim jocuudo eanus aniico. — IIoB. 
 Dear Long, 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, 
 \Vliich spreads the sign of future peace. 
 And bids the war of tempests cease. 
 Ah ! though the present brings but pain, 
 I think those days may come again ; 
 Or if, in melancholy mood, 
 Some lurking envious fear intrude. 
 To check my bosom's fondest thought. 
 
 And interrupt the golden dream, 
 I crush the fiend with malice fraught. 
 And still indulge my wonted theme. 
 Although we ne'er again can trace. 
 
 In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore ; 
 Nor through the groves of Ida chase 
 
 Our raptured visions as before, 
 Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion, 
 And Manhood claims his stern dominion — 
 Age will not every hope destroy, 
 But yield some hours of sober joy. 
 
 Yes, I will hope that Time's broad vring 
 WiU 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 control. 
 Confines the current of the soul, 
 Congeals the tears 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, stiU despise the censor stern. 
 
 But ne'er forget another's wo. 
 Yes, as you knew me in the days 
 O'er which Ilcmembrance yet delays. 
 Still may I rove, untutor'd, wild. 
 And even in age at heart a child. 
 
 Though now on airy visions borne. 
 To you my soul is still the same. 
 
 Oft has it been my fate to mourn, 
 A nd all my former joys are tame. 
 
 But, hence ! ye hours of sable hue ! 
 Your ijowns are gone, my sorrows o'er : 
 
 iy every bliss my childhood knew, 
 53 
 
 I'll think upon your shade no more. 
 Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is pass'd, 
 
 And caves their suUen roar enclose. 
 We heed no more the wintry blast. 
 
 When luU'd by zephyr to repose. 
 
 FuU often has my infant Muse 
 
 Attuned to love her languid lyre ; 
 But now without a theme to choose, 
 The strains in stolen sighs expire. 
 My youthful nymphs, alas ! are flown ; 
 
 E is a wife, and C a mother, 
 
 And Carolina sighs alone, 
 
 And Mary's given to another ; 
 And Cora's eye which roU'd on me. 
 Can now no more my love recall : 
 In truth, dear Lonr, 'twas time to flee ; 
 
 For Cora's eye will shine on all. 
 And though the sun, with genial rays, 
 His beams alike to all disjjlays, 
 And every lady's eye 's a .«««, 
 These last should be confined to one. 
 The soul's meridian don't become her, 
 'Wliose sun disi^lays a general xummer! 
 Thus faint is every former flame. 
 And passion's self is now a name. 
 As, when the ebbing flames are low. 
 
 The aid which once improved their light, 
 And bade them bum with fiercer glow, 
 
 Now quenches all their sparks in night ; 
 Thus has it been with passion's fires. 
 
 As many a boy and girl remembers. 
 While aU the force of love expires, 
 Extinguish'd with the dying embers. 
 
 But now, dear Long, 'tis midnight's noon, 
 And clouds obscure the watery moon, 
 Wliose beauties I shall not rehearse. 
 Described in every stripling's verse ; 
 For why should I the path go o'er. 
 Which every bard has trod before ? 
 Yet ere yon silver lamp of night 
 
 Has thrice perforni'd her stated round. 
 Has thrice retraced her path of hght. 
 
 And chased away the gloom profound, 
 I trust that we, my gentle friend, 
 Shall see her rolling orbit wend 
 Above the dear-loved peaceful seat 
 ~ Which once contain'd our youth's retreat ; 
 And then with those our childhood knew, 
 We'll mingle in the festive crew ; 
 Wliile many a tale of former day 
 Shall wing the laughing hours away. 
 And all the flow of souls shall pour 
 The sacred, intellectual shower. 
 Nor cease till Luna's waning horn 
 Scarce glimmers throutrh tiie mist of mom. 
 
418 
 
 BYROX'S WORKS. 
 
 TO A LADY.' 
 
 Oh 1 had my fate been join'd with thine, 
 As once tills jKcdge ai)])iar'd a token, 
 
 These follies had not then been mine. 
 For then my peace had not been broken. 
 
 To thee these early faults I owe. 
 To thee, the wise and old reproving : 
 
 They know my sins, but do not know 
 
 'Twas thine to break the Ijonds of loving. 
 
 For once my soul, like thine, was pure, 
 And all its rising fires could smother ; 
 
 But now thy vows no more endure, 
 Bestow'd by thee upon another. 
 
 Perhaps his peace I could destroy, 
 And spoil the blisses that await him ; 
 
 Yet let my rival smile in joy. 
 
 For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. 
 
 Ah ! since thy angel form is gone. 
 My heart no more can rest with any ; 
 
 But what it sought in thee alone. 
 Attempts, alas ! to find in many. 
 
 Tlien fare thee well, deceitful maid ! 
 
 'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee ; 
 Nor Hope, nor Slemory yield their aid. 
 
 But Pride may teach me to forget thee. 
 
 Yet all this giddy waste of years. 
 
 This tiresome round of palling pleasures ; 
 
 These varied loves, these matron's fears. 
 These thoughtless strains to passion's measures- 
 
 If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd : — 
 This cheek now pale from early riot. 
 
 With passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd. 
 But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet. 
 
 Yes, once the rural scene was sweet, 
 For Nature seem'd to smile before thee ; 
 
 And once my breast abhorr'd deceit, — 
 For then it beat but to adore thee. 
 
 But now I seek for other joys : 
 
 To think would drive my soul to madness ; 
 In thoughtless throngs and empty noise, 
 
 I conquer half my bosom's sadness. 
 
 Yet, even in these a thought will steal, 
 In s])ite of every vain endeavor, — 
 
 And fiends might pity what I feel, — 
 To know that thou art lost forever. 
 
 I WOULD I WERE A CARELESS CmiD. 
 
 I woui.D I were a careless child. 
 
 Still dwelling in my Highland cave, 
 Or roaming through the dusky wild. 
 
 Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave ; 
 The cumbrous pomp of Saxon^ pride 
 
 Accords not with the free born soul. 
 Which loves the mountain's craggy side, 
 
 And seeks the rocks where billows roU. 
 
 Fortune! take back these cultured lands, 
 
 Take l)ack this name of splendid sound I 
 I hate the touch of servile hands, 
 
 I hate the slaves that cringe around. 
 Place me along the rocks I love. 
 
 Which sound to Ocean's waldest roar ; 
 I ask but this — again to rove 
 
 Through scenes my youth hath known before 
 
 Pew are my years, and yet I feel 
 
 The world was ne'er design'd for me : 
 Ah ! why do dark'ning shades conceal 
 
 The hour when man must cease to be t 
 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 comp.inions o'er the bowl 
 
 Dispel awhile the sense of ill ; 
 Though pleasure stirs tlie maddening so-u. 
 
 The heart — the heart — is lonely still. 
 
 How dull ! to hear the voice of those 
 
 Wliom rank or chance, whom wealth or power 
 Have made, though neither friends nor foe» 
 
 Associates of the festive hour. 
 Give me again a faithful few. 
 
 In years and feelings still the same. 
 And I will fly the midnight crew. 
 
 Where Ijoist'rous joy is but a name. 
 
 And woman, lovely woman ! thou, 
 
 My hope, my comfort<;r, my all I 
 How cold must be my bosom now. 
 
 When e'en thy smiles liegin to pall 1 
 Without a sigh would I resign 
 
 This busy scene of splendid wo, 
 To make that calm contentment mine. 
 
 Which virtue knows, or seems to know. 
 
 ' Mrs. Mueters. 
 
 » Sassenach, or Saxon, a Gaelic word, signifying either Lowlana 
 or English. 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 419 
 
 F in Tvoiild I fly the liaunts of men — 
 
 I seek to shun, not hate mankind ; 
 My breast requires the sullen glen, 
 
 Wliose gloom may suit a darkened mind. 
 Oh ! that to me the wings were given 
 
 Wliich bear the turtle to her nest ! 
 Then would I cleave the vault of heaven, 
 
 To flee away, and be at rest.' 
 
 WHEN I ROVED A YOUNG HIGHL.'^'DER. 
 
 W"hen I roved a young Highlander o'er the durk 
 heath. 
 
 And climb'd thy steep summit, oh, Jlorven of 
 snow !" 
 To gaze on the torrent that thuuder'd beneath, 
 
 Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below,' 
 tJntutor'd by science, a stranger to fear, 
 
 And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew, 
 No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear ; 
 
 Need I say, my sweet Mary, 'twas centred in you ? 
 
 Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name, — 
 
 What passion can dwell in the heart of a child ? 
 But still I perceive an emotion the same 
 
 As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild : 
 One image alone on my bosom impress'd, 
 
 I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new ; 
 And few were my wants, for my wishes were bless'd ; 
 
 And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with 
 you. 
 
 I arose with the dawn : with my dog as my guide. 
 
 From mountain to mountain I bounded along ; 
 I breasted the billows of Dec's' rushing tide, 
 
 And heard at a distance the Highlander's song : 
 At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose. 
 
 No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my view ; 
 And warm to the skies my devotions arose. 
 
 For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you. 
 
 I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone ; 
 
 The mountains are vanish'd, my youth is no more ; 
 As the last of my race, I must wither alone, 
 
 And delight but in days I have witness'd before : 
 Ah ! splendor has raised, Vjut embitter'd, my lot ; 
 
 5Iore dear were the scenes which my infancy Ivnew : 
 Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they arc not 
 forgot ; 
 
 Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you. 
 
 ' *' And I said, Oh ! that I had wiDgs like a dove ; for then would 
 I fly away, and be at re'-t."— Psalm Iv. 6. This verse also consti- 
 tates a part of the most beautiful anthem in our language. 
 
 ^ Morven. a lofty mountain in Abcrdeen=hirc. " Gormal of 
 snow." i^ an expression frequently to he found in Ossian. 
 
 ^ This will not appear extraordinary to those who have been 
 accustomed to the mountains. It is by no means uncommon, on 
 R'tainin^r the top of Ben.c-\ii*. Ben-y-bourd. etc., to perceive. 
 
 When I see some dark hill point its crest to the sky, 
 
 I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colblccn 
 When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye, 
 
 I think of those eyes that endear'd the rude scene ; 
 When, haply, some light-waring locks I behold, 
 
 That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue, 
 I think on the long-flowing ringlets of gold, 
 
 The locks that were sacred to beauty, and you. 
 
 Yetthe day may ariive when the mountains once more 
 
 Shall rise to my sight in their mantles of snow : 
 But while these soar above me, unchanged as before, 
 
 Will Mary be there to receive me ? — ah, do ! 
 Adieu, then, ye hills, where my childhood was bred ! 
 
 Thou sweet-flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu ! 
 No home in the forest shall shelter my head, — 
 
 Ah, Mary ! what home could be mine but with you 5 
 
 TO GEORGE, EARL DELAWARR. 
 
 Oh ! yes, I will own we were dear to each other ; 
 
 The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are 
 true ; 
 The love which you felt was the love of a brother, 
 
 Nor less the affection I cherish'd for you. 
 
 But Friendship can vary her gentle dominion ; 
 
 The attachment of years in a moment expires : 
 Like Love, too, she moves on a swift-waving pinion, 
 
 But glows not, like Love, with unquenchable fires. 
 
 Full oft have we wander'd through Ida together, 
 And bless'd were the scenes of our youth, I allow : 
 
 In tiie spring of our life, how serene is the weather 1 
 But winters rude tempests are gathering now. 
 
 No more with aflfection shall memory blending, 
 The wonted delights of our childhood retrace : 
 
 When pride steels the bosom, the heart is unbending, 
 And what would be justice appears a disgrace. 
 
 However, dear George, for I still must esteem you — 
 The few whom I love I can never upbraid — 
 
 The chance which has lost may in future redeem you, 
 Repentance will cancel the vow j'ou have made. 
 
 I will not complain, and though chill'd is afiection, 
 With me no corroding resentment shall live : 
 
 My bosom is cahn'd by the simple reflection, [give. 
 That both may be wrong, and that both should for- 
 
 betwecn the summit and the valley, clouds pouring down rain, 
 and occasionally accompanied by lightning, while the spectatot 
 litcr.iUy looks down upon the storm perfectly secure from ifa 
 effects. 
 
 * " Breasting the lofty sni^e." — .Shakspeark. The Dee is a 
 beautiful river, which rises near Mar Lodge and falls into the sea 
 at New Aberdeen. 
 
 * Colbleen is a mountain near the verge t>f the Hi|-blauds, not 
 far from the rulaie of Dee Castle. 
 
420 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 You knew that my soul, that my heart, my existence, 
 If danger demanded, were wholly your own ; 
 
 You knew me imalter'd by years or by distance, 
 Devoted to love and to friendship alone. 
 
 You knew, — but away with the vain retrospection ! 
 
 The bond of aflVction no longer endures ; 
 Too late you may droop o'er the fond recollection, 
 
 And sigh for the friend who was formerly yours. 
 
 For the present, we i)art, — I will hope not forever ; 
 
 For time and regret will restore you at last : 
 To forget our dissension we both should endeavor, 
 
 I ask no atonement, but days like the past. 
 
 TO THE EARL OF CLARE. 
 
 *' Tu semper amoris 
 9Ia memor, et cari commitis dc abt^ccdat imago." — Vai. F1.A0. 
 
 Friend of my youth ! when young we roved, 
 Like striplings, mutually beloved, 
 
 With friendship's purest glow, 
 The bliss which wing'd those rosy hours 
 Was such as pleasure seldom showers 
 
 On mortals here below. 
 
 The recollection seems alone 
 Dearer than all the joys I've known. 
 
 When distant far from you : 
 Though pain, '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 wo. 
 Though near, alas ! distinctly flow, 
 
 Nor mingle as before : 
 Now avnft or slow, now black or clear 
 Till death's unfathom'd gulf appear. 
 
 And both shall quit the shore. 
 
 1 These stanzas were written soon after the appearance of a bo- 
 ^are critique, in a nortbern review, ou a new piil)lication of the 
 'iritieh Anacreon. 
 
 Our souls, my friend ! which once supplied 
 One wish, nor breathed a thought beside, 
 
 Now flow in different channels : 
 Disdaining humbler rural sports, 
 'Tis yours to mix in polish'd courts, 
 
 And shine in fashion's annals ; 
 
 'Tis mine to w.aste on love my time. 
 Or vent my reveries in rhyme, 
 
 Without the aid of reason ; 
 For sense and reason (critics know it) 
 Have quitted every amorous poet, 
 
 Nor left a thought to seize on. 
 
 Poor Little ! sweet, melodious bard ! 
 Of late esteem'd it monstrous hard 
 
 That he, who sang before all, — 
 He who the lore of love expanded, — 
 By dire re^newers should bo branded. 
 
 As void of wit and moral." 
 
 And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine. 
 Harmonious favorite of the Nine ! 
 
 Repine not at thy lot. 
 Thy soothing lays may still be read. 
 When Persecution's arm is dead. 
 
 And critics are forgot. 
 
 Still I must yield those worthies merit. 
 Who chasten, tdth unsparing spirit. 
 
 Bad rhymes, and those who write them ; 
 And though myself may be the next, 
 By critic sarcasm to lie vex'd, 
 
 I really will not fight them.' 
 
 Perhaps they would do quite as well 
 To break the rudely sounding shell 
 
 Of such a yoimg beginner. 
 He who offends at jicrt nineteen. 
 Ere thirty may become, I ween, 
 
 A very harden'd sinner. 
 
 Now. Clare, I must return to you ; 
 And, sure, apologies are due : 
 
 Accept, then, my concession. 
 In truth, dear Clare, in fancy's flight 
 I soar along from left to right 1 
 
 My muse admires digression. 
 
 I think I said 'twould be your fate 
 To add one star to royal state ; — 
 
 May regal smiles attend you ! 
 And should a noble monarch reign. 
 You will not seek his smiles in vain. 
 
 If worth can recommend you. 
 
 ' A hard (liorresco referena) defied his reviewer to mortal com 
 hat. If this examiile becomes prevalent, our periodical ceiisort 
 must he dipped in llie river Styx : for what else can seciire thei« 
 from the numerous host of their enraged assailants ? 
 
 I 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 421 
 
 Yet since in danger courts al oiind, 
 Where specious rivals glitter roimd, 
 
 From snares may saints preserve you ; 
 And grant yoiu- love or friendship ne'er 
 From any claim a kindred care, 
 
 But those who best deserve you ! 
 
 Not for a moment may you stray 
 From truth's secure, unerring way 1 
 
 May no delights decoy ! 
 O'er roses may your footsteps move, 
 Tour smiles be ever smiles of love, 
 
 Tour tears be tears of joy 1 
 
 Oh I if you wish that happiness 
 
 Your coming days and years may bless, 
 
 And virtues crown your brow ; 
 Be still as you were wont to be, 
 Spotless as you've been known to me, 
 
 Be still as you are now.' 
 
 And though some trifling share of praise. 
 To cheer my last decUning days, 
 
 To me were doubly dear ; 
 Wliilst blessing your beloved name, 
 I'd waive at once a j'OoVs fame. 
 
 To prove a prophet here. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN 
 THE CHURCHYARD OF HARROW.^ 
 
 Spot of my youth ! whose hoary branches sigh. 
 Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky ; 
 Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod. 
 
 ' [" Of all I have e*er known, Clare has always been the ietist 
 altered in every tbins: f*-om the excellent qualities and kind affec- 
 tions which attached me to him so strongly at school. I shotild 
 hardly have thouirht it possible for society (or the world, as it is 
 called) to leave a beiu^ with so little of the leaven of bad pas- 
 sions. I do not speak from personal experience only, but from 
 all I have ever heard of him from othsrs, during absence and dis- 
 tance."— .Byron Diar'j. 1S21.] 
 
 'On losing his DLtural dangtter, Ulegra, in April, 1S22, Lord 
 
 With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod ; 
 With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore. 
 Like me, the happy scenes they kucw before : 
 Oh ! as I trace again thy winding hiU, 
 Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still. 
 Thou drooping Elm ! beneath whose boughs I lay 
 And frequent mused the twilight hours away ; 
 Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline. 
 But, ah ! without the thoughts which then were 
 How do thy branches, moaning to the blast, [mine : 
 Invite the bosom to recall the past. 
 And seem to whisper, as they gently swell, 
 " Take, whilst thou can, a lingering, last farewell !" 
 
 When fate shall chill, at length, this fever'd breast 
 And calm its cares and passions into rest. 
 Oft have I thought, 'twould soothe my dying hour,— 
 If aught may soothe when life resigns her power, — 
 To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell. 
 Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell ; 
 With this fond dream, methiuks, 'twere sweet to die — 
 And here it lingcr'd, here my heart might lie ; 
 Here might I sleep where all my hopes arose, 
 Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose ; 
 Forever stretch'd beneath this manthng shade, 
 Press'd by the turf where once my childhood play'd 
 Wrapp'd by the soil that veils the spot I loved, 
 Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps moved , 
 Bless'd by the tongues that charm'd my youthful ear, 
 Moum'd by the few my soul acknowledged here ; 
 Deplored by those in early days aUied, 
 And imremember'd by the world beside. 
 
 September 2, 1807. 
 
 Byron sent her remains to be buried at Harrow, '■ where," h< 
 says, in a letter to Mr. Murray, " I once hoped to have laid m) 
 own." "There is." he adds, "a spot in the churchyard, ne.ai 
 the footpath, on the brow of the hill looking towards Windsor, 
 and a tomb under a large tree, (bearing the name of Peachie oi 
 Peachey.) where I used to eit for hours and hcnire when a boy. 
 This was my favorite spot ; but as I wish to erect a tablet to hci 
 memory, the body had better be deposited in the church ; —and 
 it was 90 accordingly. 
 
422 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ENGLISH BARDS ANL SCOTCH IIEVIEWERS: 
 
 A SATIRE.' 
 
 " I had ratber be a kitten, and cry mew I 
 Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers." — Shakspbabb. 
 
 " Such shameless bards we have ; and yet 'tis true, 
 There are as mad, abandoned critics too."— Pope. 
 
 PREFACE.^ 
 
 All my friends, learned and unlearned, have urged 
 me not to publish this Satire with my name. If 1 
 were to lie " turned from tlie career of my humor by 
 quibbles (juiek, and paper bullets of the brain," I should 
 have complied with their counsel. But I am not lobe 
 terrified by abuse, or bullied by reviewers, with or 
 without arms. I can safely say that I have attacked 
 none personally, who did not commence on the offen- 
 sive. An author's works are public property : he who 
 purchases may judge, and publish hi.s opinion if he 
 pleases ; and the authors I have endeavored to com- 
 memorate may do by me as I have done by them. I 
 dare say tliey will succeed better in condemning my 
 scribblings, than iu mending their own. But my 
 object is not to prove that I can writs well, but, if 
 possible, to make others write better. 
 
 As the poem_ has met with far more success than I 
 expected, I have endeavored in this edition to make 
 some additions and alterations, to render it more 
 worthy of ])ublic perusal. 
 
 In the first edition of this satire, published anony- 
 mously, fourteen lines on the subject of Bowles's Pope 
 were written by, and inserted at the request of, an 
 ingenious friend of miue,^ who has now in the press a 
 volume of poetry. In the present edition they arc 
 erased, and some of my own substituted in their stead ; 
 my only reason for this being that which I conceive 
 would operate witli any other per.9on in the same man- 
 ner, — a determination not to publish with my name 
 ftify production, wliich was not entirely and exclusively 
 my own composition. 
 
 With regard to the real talents of many of the 
 poetical persons whose perform;inces are mentioned 
 or alluded to iu the following pages, it is presumed by 
 
 ' Tho first edition of this satire, which then began with what is 
 now the ninety-seventh line, C' Tiinf. was, ere yet,'' etc.,) appeared 
 in Marcli, 18U9. A second, to which the author prefixed his name, 
 followed iu October of that year: and a third and fourth were 
 called for during his llrst pilgrimage, iu I.SIO and ISll. On his 
 return to England, a fifth editiim was prepared for the press by 
 himself, with considerable care, but suppressed, and, except one 
 copy, destroyed, when on the eve of publication. The text is now 
 printed from the copy that escaped; on casually meeting witii 
 which, in ISKJ, he reperused the whole, and wrote on the margin I 
 Bome annotations, which also we shall preserve, — tlislinguishing 
 them, by the insertion of their date, from those aftixed to tho prior 
 editions. The first of these MS. notes of ISlC appears on the fly- 
 leaf, and runs thus:— "The binding of this volume is consider- 
 ably too va uable for the couteuts ; and nothing but the considera- 
 
 the author 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 faidts overlooked, and 
 his metrical canons received without scruple and with- 
 out consideration. But the unquestionable possession 
 of considerable genius by several of the writers licre 
 censured rentiers their mental prostitution more to be 
 regretted. Imbecility may be pitied, or, at worst, 
 laughed at and forgotten : perverted powers demand 
 the most decided reprehension. No one can wish more 
 than the author that some known and able writer had 
 tmdertakeu their exposure ; but Mr. (Jifford has de- 
 voted himself to Massinger, and, in the absence of the 
 regular jihysician, a country pr::ctitioner may, in cases 
 of absolute necessity, be allowed to jirescribe his nos- 
 trum to prevent the extension of so deplorable an epi- 
 demic, provided there be no quackery iu his treatment 
 of the malady. A caustic is here oflercd ; as ii is to 
 be feared nothing short of actual cautery can recover 
 the numerous j)aticuts alliicted witli the ))resent preva- 
 lent and distressing rabUs for rliyming. — As to the 
 Edinburgh Reviewers, it wcmld indeed require a Her- 
 cules to crush tho Hydra ; but if the author succeeds 
 iu merely " bruising one of the heads of the serpent," 
 though his own liand should suffer in the encovmter 
 he will be amply satisfied. 
 
 ENGLISH BARDS, ETC. 
 
 Still must I hear ?' — shall hoarse Fitzgerald» baw. 
 His creaking couplets in a tavern hall," 
 And I not sing, lo-st, haply, Scotch reviews 
 Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my muse ? 
 
 tion of its being the property of another, prevents me from con 
 signing this misenblc record of misplaced anger and indiscrimin- 
 ate acrimony to tlie Ilames." 
 
 2 This preface was written for the second edition, and printed 
 with it. The noble author had left this country previous to the 
 publication of tliat edition, and is not yet returned -Xole to thi 
 fourth edition, ISU.— [" He is, and gone again."— Z«rrf B. 1810.] 
 
 '^ Mr. Hobhouse. 
 
 * Tmit.— 
 
 " Semper ego auditor tantum I nunquamne reponam, 
 Vexalus toties rauci Theseide Codri V'—Juv. Sat. I. 
 
 » [" Jloarat Fitzgerald."— '" Right enough ; but why notice snot 
 a mountebank."— i?y7'on, 181f!.] 
 
 « Mr. Fitzgerald, facetiously termed by Cobbett the " Small Heci 
 Poet," inflicts his annual tribute of verse on the Literary I'"und 
 
ENGLISH BARDS AXD SCOTCTH REVIEWERS. 
 
 123 
 
 Prepare for rlivme — I'll publish, right or wrong, 
 Fools are my theme, let satire be ray song. 
 
 Oh ! nature's noblest gift — my gray goose-quill ! 
 Slave of ray thouglits, obediont to my will, 
 Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen. 
 That mighty instruraent of little men ! 
 The pen ! foredoom'd to aid the mental throes 
 Of brains that labor, big with verse or prose, 
 Though nymphs forsake, and critics may deride. 
 The lover's solace, and the author's pride. 
 Wliat wits ! what poets dost thou daily raise ! 
 How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise ! 
 Condemn'd at length to be forgotten quite, 
 With all the pages which 'twas thine to write. 
 But thou, at least, mine own especial pen ! 
 Once laid aside, but now assumed again. 
 Our task complete, like Haraet's' shaU be free; 
 Though spum'd by others, yet beloved by rae : 
 Then let us soar to-day ; no common therae. 
 No eastern vision, no disteraper'd dream" 
 Inspires — our path, though fuU of thorns, is jjlain ; 
 Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain. 
 
 When Vice triuraphant holds her sov'reign sway, 
 Obey'd by all who naught beside obey ; 
 When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime, 
 Bedecks her cap with bells of every clime ; 
 When knaves and fools combined o'er all prevail. 
 And weigh their justice in a golden scale ; 
 E'en then the boldest start from public sneers. 
 Afraid of sliarae, unknown to other fears. 
 More darkly sin, by satire kept in awe, 
 And shrink from ridicule, though not from law. 
 
 Such is the force of wit ! but not belong 
 To me the arrows of satiric song ; 
 The royal vices of our age demand 
 A keener weapon, and a mightier hand. 
 
 not content with writing, he spouts in person, after the company 
 have imbibed a reasonable quantity of bad port, to enable them 
 to sust.iin the operation. — [For the long period of thirty-two years, 
 this harmless poetaster was an attendant at the anniversary din- 
 ners of tlie Literary Fund, and constantly honored the occasion 
 with an odo. which he himself recited with most (comical dignity 
 of emphasis. He was fortunate in having for his patron Viscount 
 Dndiey and Ward, on whose death without a will, his benevolent 
 intentions towards the bard were fulfiJlcd by his son, the late 
 Earl Dudley, who generously sent him a draft for 50()iV. Fitzgerald 
 died in 18'ii). Of his numerous lo^-al efiusions only a sin/jte iifie 
 has survived its author ; but the characteristics of his style have 
 been so liappily hit otF in the " Rejectei> .^dresses " — (a work 
 which Lord Byron has pronounced te be " by far the best thing of 
 the kind since the RoU'iad,") — that we cannot resist the temptation 
 of an extract •— 
 
 " Who burnt (confound his soul I) the houses twain. 
 Of Covent Garden and of Drury Lane ? 
 Wlio. while the British squadron lay off Cork. 
 ttJod bless the Regent and the Buke of York I) 
 With a foul earthquake ravaged the Caraccas. 
 And rai-ed the price of drj-goods and tobaccos ? 
 Wbt makex the quartern loaf and Luddites viae 1 
 
 Still there are follies, e'en for me to chase, 
 
 i\jid yield at least amusement in the race : 
 
 Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame ; 
 
 The cry is up, and scribblers are my game. 
 
 Speed, Pegasus ! — ye strains of great and small, 
 
 Ode, epic, elegy, have at you all ! 
 
 I too can scrawl, and once upon a time 
 
 I pour'd along the town a flood of rhyme, 
 
 A schoolboy freak, unworthy praise or blame ; 
 
 I printed — older children do the same. 
 
 'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print ; 
 
 A book's a book, although there's nothing in 't, 
 
 Not that a title's sounding charm can save 
 
 Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave : 
 
 This Lambe must own, since his jsatrician name 
 
 Fail'd to preserve the spurious farce from shame.' 
 
 No matter, George continues still to write,* 
 
 Though now the name is veil'd from public sight. 
 
 Moved by the great example, I pursue 
 
 The self-same road, but make my own review ; 
 
 Not seek great Jefii'ey's, yet like him, will be 
 
 Self-constituted judge of poesy. 
 
 A man must serve his tirae to ev'ry trade 
 Save censure — critics all are ready raade. 
 Take hackncy'd jokes from Miller, got by rote, 
 With just enough of learning to misquote ; 
 A mind well skill'd to find or forge a fault ; 
 A turn for punning, call it Attic salt ; 
 To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet. 
 His pay is just ten sterling pounds jier sheet: 
 Fear not to lie, 'twill seem a sharjwr hit ; 
 Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit ; 
 Care not for feeling — pass your proper jest. 
 And stand a critic, hated yet caress'd. 
 
 And shall we own such judgment ? no — as soon 
 Seek roses in December — ice in June ; 
 
 Who fills the butcher's shops with large bine flies ? 
 Who thought in flames .St. James's court to pinch ? 
 Who burnt the wardrobe of poor Lady Finch ? 
 Why he, who forging for this isle a yoke. 
 Reminds me of a line I lately spoke — 
 ' The free of freedom is thf. British oak. 
 Bless everj' man possess'd of aught to give I 
 Long may Long Tilney Wellesley Long Pole live I 
 God bless the army, bless their coats of scarlet I 
 God bless the navy, hiess the Princess Charlotte I 
 God bless the Guards, though worsted G.allia scoff! 
 God bless their pig-tails, though they're now cut off I 
 And oh ! in Downing-street should Old Nick revel, 
 England's prime minister, then bless the Devil !"] 
 
 ' Cid Hamet Benengeli promises repose to his pen. in the last 
 chapter of Don Quixote. Oh ! that our voluminous gentry would 
 follow the example of Cid Hamet Benengeli. 
 
 - [•' This must have been written in the spirit of prophecy."— 
 B. 1816.] 
 
 3 This ingenuous youth is mentioned more particularly, with bifi 
 production, in another place. 
 
 * In the Edinburgh Ue\iew. — [" He's a very good fellow, and, 
 except his mother and sister, the best of the set, to my mind."— 
 B. 1816.] 
 
424 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff; 
 
 Believe a woman or an eijitapli, 
 
 Or any other thing that's false, before 
 
 You trust in critics, who tliemselves are sore ; 
 
 Or yield one single thought to be misled 
 
 By Jeffrey's heart, or Lambe's Boeotian head.' 
 
 To these young tyrants,'^ by themselves misijlaced. 
 
 Combined usurjjers on the throne of taste ; 
 
 To these, when authors bend in humble awe. 
 
 And hail their voice as truth, their word as law — 
 
 While these are censors, 'twould be siu to spare ; 
 
 WTiUe sucli are critics, why should I forbear ? 
 
 But yet, so near all modern worthies run, 
 
 'Tis doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun ; 
 
 Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike, 
 
 Our bards and censors are so much alike. 
 
 Then should you ask me,> wh.j' I venture o'er 
 The path which Pope and Clifford trod before ; 
 If not yet sickcn'd you can still proceed : 
 Go on ; my rhyme will tell you as you read. 
 " But hold !" exclaims a friend, — " here's some 
 
 neglect : 
 T'l-is — that — and t' other line seem incorrect." 
 What then ? the self-same blunder Pojx! has got. 
 And careless Dryden — " Ay, but Pye has not :" — 
 Indeed ! — 'tis granted, faith ! — but what care I ? 
 Better to err with Pope, than shine ^-ith Pye. 
 
 Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days* 
 Ignoble themes obtain'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. 
 
 ' Me?Rri?. Jeffrey anil iMimbc arc the alpha and omega, tlie first 
 and the last of the Edinhurj^h Review ; the others are mentioned 
 hereaiter.— [" Tlii^ was not jn!*t. Neitlicr the heart nor the head 
 of the^e gentlemen are at all what they are here represented. At 
 the time tliis was written, I was personally unacquainted with 
 either."— B. ISKi.] 
 
 - IMIT. '■ Stulta est dementia, cum tot ttbique 
 
 occurras peritiirie parcere chartis.*'— Juv. Sat. I. 
 
 ' Imit. " Cur tamen hoc lihcat potius decurrere campo 
 
 Per quern ma^^us cquos .\urunciB flexit alumnus ; 
 Si vacat, et placidi rationcm adaiittitis, edam." — 
 
 Juv. Sat. I. 
 
 * [Tlie first edition of the Satire opened with this line, and Lord 
 Byron's original inlention was to pralix the following — 
 " Arol'ment. 
 
 " The poet considereth times past, and their poesy — makes a sud- 
 den transition t(» times present— is incensed against book-makers 
 — reviletli Walter Scott for cupidity and ballad-mongering, with 
 notable remarks on Master Southey— complaincth that Master 
 Sontliey bath inflicted three poems, epic and otherwise, on the 
 public— invcigheth against William Wordsworth, but laudeth Mis- 
 ter Coleridgtj and his elegy on a young ass — is disposed to vitu- 
 perate Mr. Lewis- and greatly rebuketh Thomas Little (the lat»!) 
 •md the Loi'd SIrangford— recommendeth Mr. Hayley to turn bis 
 .itlention to prose — and e.xhorteth the Moravians to glorify Mr. 
 (Jrahame— «ympatliizcth with the Rev. William Bowles— and de- 
 ploreth the melancholy fate of .Tames Montgomery — brcaketh out 
 into invective against tlio Edinburgh Reviewers- -calleth them hard 
 
 Then, in this happy isle, a Pope's 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 tlie poet's lame. 
 Like him great Dryden pour'd tlie tide of song, 
 In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly strong. 
 Then Congrcve's scenes could cheer, or Otway'i 
 
 melt — 
 For nature then an English audience felt. 
 But why these names, or greater still, retrace, 
 When all to feebler bards resign their place ? 
 Yet to such times our lingering looks are cast. 
 When taste and reason with those times are pass'd. 
 Now look around, and turn each trifling page, 
 Survey the precious works that please the age; 
 This truth at least let satire's self allow. 
 No dearth of bards cau be complain'd of now. 
 The loaded press beneath her labor groans. 
 And printers' devils shake their weary bones ; 
 While Southey's epics cram the croaking shelves. 
 And Little's lyrics shine in hot-press'd twelves. 
 Thus saith the jireachcr : " Naught Ijeneath the sun 
 Is new ;" yet still from change to change we run : 
 What varied wonders tempt us as they pass 1 
 The cow-pox, tractors, galvanism, and gas, 
 In turns apjioar, to make the vulgar stare, 
 Till the swolu Ijuljblo burst — and all is air 1 
 Nor loss new schools of Poetry arise. 
 Where dull pretcndtirs grapple for the prize : 
 O'er taste awhile these pseudo bards prevail; 
 Each country liook-club bows the knee to Baal, 
 And, hurling lawful genius fnmi the tlirone, 
 Erects a shrine and idol of its own ; 
 Some leaden calf — but whom it matters not, 
 From soaring Southey down to grovelling Stott.« 
 
 names, harpic* and the like — apostrophizetb JeflVey, and prophe- 
 sietb- Episode of Jeffrey and Moore, their jeopardy and deliver- 
 ance ; portents on the morn of the combat ; the Tweed, Tolbooth, 
 Frith of Forlh, severally shocked ; descent of a goddess to pave 
 Jellrey ; incorporation of Tlie bullets with bis sinciput and occi- 
 put. — Edinburgli Reviews en masse.—hoYA Aberdeen, Herbert, 
 Scott, Ilallam, Pillans, Lambe, Sidney Smith, Brougliam, etc.— 
 The Lord Holland applauded for dinners and translations. — The 
 Drama; Skcrtiugton, Hook. Reynolds, Kenney, Cherry, etc. — 
 Sheridan, Colntan, and Cumberland called upon to write. — Re- 
 turn to poesy — scribblers of all sorts — lords sometimes rhyme ; 
 much better not— Hafiz, Rosa Matilda, and X. Y. Z.— Rogers. Camp- 
 bell, Gifford, etc., true poets— Translators of the Creek .\ntliology 
 — Crabbe— Darwin's style— Cambridge— Seatonlan Prize- Smythe 
 — Hodgson — Oxford — Richards— Poeta loquitur— Conclusion."] 
 
 * Stott, better known in the " Morning Post " by the name of 
 Hafiz. This jierson is at present the most profound e.xplorer ol 
 the bathos. I remember, when the reigning family left Portugal, 
 a special Ode of JIaster Stott's, beginning thus: {SUti loquitur 
 quoad IRbemla.)— 
 
 " Princely offspring of Braganza, 
 Erin greets thee with a stanza." etc. 
 Also a Sonnet to Hats, well worthy of the subject, and a raoet 
 thundering Ode, commencing as follows :— 
 
 " Oh ! for a Lay, loud as the surge 
 That lashes Lapland's sounding shore.'* 
 Lord have mercy on us I the " Lay of the Last Minstrel " waa 
 nothing to this. 
 
ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS, 
 
 425 
 
 Beliold ! in various throngs the scribbling crew, 
 For notice eager, pass iu long review : 
 Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace, 
 AJid rhyme and blank maintain an equal race ; 
 Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode ; 
 And tales of terror jostle on the road ; 
 Immeasurable measures move along ; 
 For simpering folly loves a varied song, 
 To strange mysterious dulness still the friend, 
 Admires the strain she cannot comiirehend. 
 Thus Lays of Jlinstrels' — may they be the last ! — 
 On half-strung haii^s whine mournful to the blast. 
 While mountain spirits prate to river sprites, 
 That dames may listen to the sound at nights ; 
 And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner's brood. 
 Decoy young border nobles through the wood, 
 And skip at evei-y 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 \dew in state, proud prancing on his roan, 
 The golden-crested haughty Jlarniion, 
 Now forging scrolls, now foremost iu the fight, 
 Not quite a felon, yet but half a knight, 
 The gibbet or the field prepared to grace ; 
 A mighty mixture of the great and base. 
 And think'st thou, Scott ! by vain conceit perchance, 
 On public taste to foist thy stale romance, 
 Though Murray with his Miller may combine 
 To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line ? 
 No ! when the sons of song descend to trade. 
 Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade. 
 Let such forego the poet's sacred name, 
 Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame : 
 Still for stern Mammon may they toil in vain ! 
 And sadly gaze on gold they cannot gain 1 
 
 1 See the '* Lay of the Last Minstrel," passim. Never was any 
 plan so incongTuou-i and absurd as the ^ouudwork of this produc- 
 tion. The entrance of Thunder and Lii;htuini^, proio^iizing to 
 Baycs' tragedy, unfortunately takes away the merit of originality 
 from the dialogue between Messieurs the Spirits of Flood and Fell 
 in the first canto. Then we have the amiable William of Delo- 
 raine. "a stark, moss-trooper," videlicet, a happy compound of 
 poacher, sheep-stcaler, and highwajnnan. The propriety of his 
 majical lady's injunction not to read can only be equalled by his 
 candid ackuowled'^'raeut of his independence of the trammels of 
 spellin;;, altliough, to use his own elegant phrase, "'twas his 
 ncck-vorse at Harribee," i. e. the gallows.— The biography of Gil- 
 pin norner, and the marvellous pedestrian page, who travelled 
 twice as fast as his master's horse, without the aid of seven- 
 leagued boots, are cUefa-d'mnrre in the Improvement of taste. 
 For incident we have the invisible, but by no means sp.aring box 
 on the ear bestowed on the page, and the entrance of a knight and 
 charger into the castle, under the very natural disguise of a wain 
 of hay. Jlarmion, the hero of the latter romance, is exactly what 
 William of Deloraine would have been, had he been able to read 
 and write. The poem was manufactured for Messrs. Constable, 
 Murray and Miller, worshipful booksellers, in consideration of the 
 54 
 
 Such be their meed, such still the just reward 
 Of prostituted muse and hireling bard ! 
 For this we spurn Apollo's venal son, 
 And bid a long '■ good-night to Marmion.'" 
 
 These are the themes that claim our plaudits now ; 
 These are the bards to whom the muse must bow ; 
 While Milton, Dryden, Pope, alike forgot. 
 Resign their hallow'd bays to Walter Scott. 
 
 The time has been, when yet the muse was young, 
 When Homer swept the lyre, and Maro sung, 
 An epic scarce ten centuries could claim. 
 While awe-struck nations hail'd the magic name ; 
 The work of each immortal bard appears 
 The single wonder of a thousand years.' 
 Empires have moulderVl irom the face of earth, 
 Tongues have expired v.itli those who gave them 
 Without the glory such a strain can give, fbirthi 
 As even in ruin bids the language live. 
 Not so with us, though minor bards content, 
 On one great work a life of labor spent : 
 With eagle pinion soaring to the skies. 
 Behold the Ijallad-monger Southey rise ! 
 To him let Camoens, Milton, Tasso yield, 
 Whose annual strains, like armies, take the field. 
 First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance. 
 The scourge of England and the boast of France i 
 Though burnt by wicked Badford for a witch, 
 Behold her statue placed iu glory's niche ; 
 Her fetters burst, and just released from prison, 
 A virgin phrenix from her ashes risen. 
 Next see tremendous Thalaba come on,* 
 Arabia's monstrous, wild, and \vond'rous son; 
 Domdaniel's dread destroyer, who o'orthrew 
 More mad magicians than the world e'er knew. 
 Immortal hero ! all thy foes o'crcome. 
 Forever reign — the rival of Tom Thumb ! 
 Since startled metre fled before thy face, 
 
 receipt of a sum of money ; and truly, considering the inspiration, 
 it is a very creditable production. If Mr. Scott will write for hire, 
 let him do his best for his paymasters, but not disgrace bis genius, 
 which is undoubtedly great, by a repetition of black-letter ballad 
 imitations. 
 
 '^ Good night to Marmion"— the pathetic and also prophetic 
 exclamation of Henry Blount, Esquire, on the death of honeot 
 Marmion. 
 
 3 .\s the Odyssey is so closely connected with the story of the 
 Iliad, thcym.ay almost be classed as one grand historical poem. In 
 alluding to Milton and Tasso, we consider the " Paradise Lost," 
 and " (;ierusalommo Liberata," as their standard elTorts ; since 
 neither the " .Jcnisalem Conquered "of the Italian, nor the " Par- 
 adise Regained" of the English bard, obtained a proportionate 
 celebrity to their former poems. Query: Which of Mr. Southey'a 
 will survive ? 
 
 ^ "Thalalja," Mr. Southey's second poem, is written in open 
 dcQance of precedent and poetry. Mr. S. wished to produce 
 something novel, and succeeded to a miracle. ".loan of Arc" 
 was mar\*eIlous enou.gb, but "Thalaba" was one of those poems 
 " whicli." in the words of Porson. " will be read when Homer 
 and Virgil are forgone-), but— no! U! then." 
 
(26 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Well wert tliou dmrni'd tlie last of all thy race 1 
 Well might trumplia) t genii bear thee hence, 
 Illustrious conqueror of common sense ! 
 Now, last and greatest, Madoc spreads his sails, 
 Cacique in Mexico, and prince in Wales ; 
 Tells us strange tales, as other travellers do, 
 More old than Mandevillu's, and not so true. 
 Oh, Southey ! Southey !' cease thy varied song! 
 A bard may chant too often and too long : 
 As thou art strong in verse, in mercy, spare ! 
 A fourth, alas ! were more than we could bear. 
 But if, in spite of all the world can say. 
 Thou still wilt verseward plot thy weary way; 
 If still in Berkley ballads most uncivil. 
 Thou wilt tlevole old womi'n to the devil,-' 
 The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue : 
 '' God help thee," Southey,^ and thy readers too.< 
 
 Next comes the dull disciple of thy school, 
 That mild apostate ii-om poetic rule, 
 The simple Wordsworth, framer of a lay 
 As soft as evening iu his favorite May,' 
 Who warns his friend " to shake off toil and trouble. 
 And quit his books, for fear of growing double ;''" 
 Who, both by precept and examijle, shows 
 That prose is verse and verse is merely prose ; 
 
 > We beg Mr. Soutbey's pardon ; " Madiic disdains tbe degrad- 
 ing title ol' epic." See his preface. Why is epic degraded V and 
 by whom ? Certainly the late romaunts of Masters Cottle, Laureat 
 Pye, Ogilvy, Hole, and gentle Mistress Cowley, have not exalted 
 the epic muse ; but as Mr. Soutbey's poem " disdains the appel- 
 lation.*' allow us to asU— has he substituted anything better in its 
 stead? or must lie be content to rival Sir liichard Blackmore 
 in the quantity a.s well as quality of bis verse ? 
 
 = See " Tbe Old Woman of Berkley," a ballad, by Mr. Southey, 
 wherein an aged gentlewoman is carried away by Beelzebub, on a 
 " high-trotting horse." 
 
 3 The last line, '' God help thee," is an evident plagiarism from 
 the Ami-jacobin to Mr. Southey, on his Dactylics.— [Lord Byron 
 bore alludes to Mr. Giflbrd's parody on Mr. Soutbey's Dactylics, 
 which ends thus ;— 
 
 " Ne'er talk of ears again 1 look at thy spelling-book ; 
 Dilworth and Dyche are both mad at thy quantities— 
 , Dactylics, call'st thou 'emt— ' God help thee, silly one.' '"] 
 
 * Lord Byron, on being introduced to Mr. Southey in 1313, at 
 Holland House, describes him " as the best-looking bard ht had 
 Been for a long time." — " To have that poet's head and shoulders, 
 I would," he says, " almost have written his Sapphics. He is cer- 
 tainly a prepossessing person to lo()k on, and a niau of laleut, and 
 all that, and there is his eulogy." In his Journal, of tbe same 
 year, he says — "Southey I have not seen much of. His appear- 
 ance is epic, and he is (be only existing entire man of letters. All 
 tbe others have some pursuit annexed to their authorship. 
 His manners arc mild, but not those of a man of the world, and 
 his talents of the first order. His prose is perfect. Of his poetiy 
 there are vai-ious oj}inions : there is. perhaps, too much of it for 
 the present generation— posterity will probably select. lie has 
 passages equal to any thing. .\t present, he has tiparty, but no 
 public — except for bis prose writings. His Life of Nelson is 
 beautifiU." Elsewhere, and later. Lord Byron pronounces 
 Bouthey's Dor Roderick "the flrst poem of our time. "J 
 
 » [" Unjvit. '— B. ISIO.] 
 
 • Lyrical Ballads, p. -l.— " The Tables Turned." Stanza 1. 
 
 * Up, up, my friend, and clear your looks ; 
 Wlij all this toil and trouble '! 
 
 Convincing all, by demonstration plain. 
 Poetic souls delight in prose insane : 
 And Christmas stories tortured into rhyme 
 Contain the essence of the true sublime. 
 Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy, 
 The idiot mother of " an idiot boy ;" 
 A moon-struck, silly lad, who lost his way, 
 And, Uke his bard, confounded night with day; 
 So close on eacli pathetic part he dwells. 
 And each adventure so sublimely tells. 
 That all who view the " idiot in his glory," 
 Conceive the bard the hero of the story. 
 
 Shall gentle Coleridge pass unnoticed here, 
 To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear ? 
 Though themes of innocence amuse him best, 
 Yet still obscurity 's a welcome guest. 
 If Inspiration should her aid refuse 
 To him who takes a pixy for a muse," 
 Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass 
 The bard who soars to elegize an ass. 
 So well the subject suits his noble mind. 
 He brays," the laureat of the long-ear'd kind.io 
 
 Oh, wonder-working Lewis In monk, or bard, 
 Who fain wouldst make Parnassus a chturchyard 1 
 
 Up, up, my friend, and quit your books. 
 Or surelj* you'll grow double." 
 
 ' Mr. W. in bis preface labors hard to prove, that prose and 
 verse are much the same ; and certainly his precei)t6 and practic« 
 are strictly confornuxble : — 
 
 " And thus to Betty's questions, he 
 Made ansv.'er like a traveller bold. 
 The cock did crow, to-whoo, to-whoo. 
 And tbe sun did shine so cold," etc., p. 129, 
 
 Coleridge's Poems, p. 11, Songs of tbe Pixies, i. e., Devon 
 shire fairies ; p. 42, we have " Lines to a young Lady ;" and p. 
 52, " Lines to a young .\ss." 
 
 " [Thus altered by Lord Byron, in bis last revision of the satire. 
 In all former editions the line stood, 
 
 " A fellow-feeling makes us wond'rous kind."] 
 
 ' " [" VnJxisI" B. 1810.— In a letter to Jlr. Coleridge, written in 
 ISl.'j, Lord Byron says, — " You mentiim my * Satire,' lampoon, or 
 whatever yon or others please to call it. I can only say, that it 
 was written when I was very young and vciy angiy, and lias been 
 a thorn in my side ever since ; more particularly as almost all the 
 persons animadverted upon became subsequently my acquaint- 
 ances, and some of them my I'riends ; which is ' heaping fire upon 
 an enemy's head,' and forgiving me too readily to permit me tc 
 forgive myself. The part applied to you is pert, and petulant, 
 and shallow enough ; but, although I have long done every thing in 
 my power to suppress the circulation of the whole thing, I shall 
 always regret the wantonness or generality of many of its at- 
 tei'.ipted attacks."] 
 
 " (Matthew Gri'gory Lewis, JLP. for Hindon, never distin- 
 guished himself in I'arliament, but, mainly in consequence of 
 the clever nse he made of his knowledge of the German language, 
 then a rare accomplishment, attracted much notice in the literary 
 world, at a very early period of his life. His Tales of Terror; 
 the drama of the Castle Spectre ; and the romance called thf 
 Bravo of Venice, (which is. however, little more than a version 
 from the Swiss Zschocke :) but above all the lil)idinous and impi- 
 ous novel of The Monk, invested the name of Lewis with an ex 
 traordinary degree of celebrity, during the poor period which ir- 
 tervcned between the obscuration of Cowper. and the lull display 
 of Sir Walter Scott's talents, in the " Lay of the Last Minstrel." 
 
ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 427 
 
 Lo ! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow, 
 
 Thy muse a sprite, Apollo's sexton thou ! 
 
 Whether on ancient tomljs thou tak'st thy stand 
 
 By gibb'ring spectres bail'd, thy kindred baud ; 
 
 Or tracest chaste descrii^tious on thy page, 
 
 To please the females of our modest age ; 
 
 All hail, M.P. ! ' from whose infernal brain 
 
 Thin sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train ; 
 
 At whose command "grim women" throng in crowds, 
 
 And kings of tire, of water, and of clouds. 
 
 With " small gray men," " \vild yagers," and what 
 
 To crown with honor thee and Walter Scott ; [not 
 
 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, 
 Witli sparkling eyes, and cheek by passion flush'd. 
 Strikes his wild lyre, while listening dames are 
 'Tis Little ! young Catullus of his day, [hush'd ? 
 As sweet, but as immoral, in his lay ! 
 Grieved to condemn," the muse must still be just, 
 Nor spare melodious advocates of lust. 
 Pure is the flame which o'er her altar bums ; 
 From grosser incense with disgust she turns : 
 Yet kind to youth, this expiation o'er. 
 She bids thee "'mend thy line, and sin no more."' 
 
 For thee, translator of the tinsel song. 
 To whom such glittering ornaments belong, 
 Hibernian Strangford ! with thine eyes of blue,* 
 And boasted locks of red or auburn hue, 
 Whose plaintive strain each love-sick miss admires, 
 And o'er harmonious fustian half expires, 
 Learn, if thou canst, to yield thy author's sense. 
 Nor vend thy sonnets on a false pretence. 
 
 ' " For every one knows little Matt 's an M.P."— See a poem 
 to Mr. Lewis, in •' The Statesman," supposed to be written by 
 Mr. Jeliyll. 
 
 ^ [In very early life, " Little's Poems" were Lord Byron's fav- 
 orite study. •■ Eeigho !" he ei-rjairas, in 18-,>0, in a letter to Moore, 
 " I believe all the mischief I have ever done, or sung, has been 
 owin^ to that confounded book of yours."] 
 
 3 [Ori^nally. " mend thy life, and sin no more."] 
 
 * The reader, who may wish for an explanation of tliis, may 
 refer to '■ Strangford's Camoens," p. 12", note to p. 56, or to the last 
 page of the Edinburgh Review of Strangford's Camoens. 
 
 ' It is also to be remarked, that the things given to the public 
 as poems of Camocns are no more to be found in the original 
 Portuguese, than in the Song of Solomon. 
 
 • Hayley's two most notorious verse productions are " Triumphs 
 of Temper." and " The Triumph of Masic." Ho has also writ- 
 ten much comedy in rhyme, epistles, etc., elc. As be is rather an 
 elegant write- of notes and biography, let us recommend Pope's 
 advice to Wycherley to Mr. H.'s considerallon, viz. "to convert 
 his poetry into prose," which may be easily done by taking away 
 Ihc final syllable of each couplet. 
 
 ' Mr. Grahame has pouredj'orth two volumes of cant, under the 
 name of " Sabbath Walks," and " Biblical Pictures."— [This very 
 amiable man. and pleasing poet, published subsequenily " The 
 Birds of Scotland." and oth"' pieces ; but bis reputaiion rests on 
 
 Think'st thou to gain thy verse a higher place, 
 By dressing Camocns" in a suit of lace ? 
 Mend, Strangford ! mend thy morals and thy taste 
 Be warm, but pure ; be amorous, but be chaste : 
 Cease to deceive ; thy pilfer'd harp reston;. 
 Nor teach the Lusian bard to copy Moore. 
 
 Behold ! — ye arts ! one moment spare the text — 
 Hayley's last work, and worst — until his next ; 
 Whether he spin poor couplets into plays. 
 Or damn the dead with purgatorial praise, 
 His style in youth or age is still the same. 
 Forever feeble and forever tame. 
 Triumijhaut first see "Temper's Triumphs" shine . 
 At least I'm sure they triumph'd over mine. 
 Of " Music's Triumphs," all who read may swear 
 That luckless music never triurajDli'd there." 
 
 Moravians, rise ! bestow some meet reward 
 On dull devotion — Lo ! the Sabbath bard. 
 Sepulchral Grahame,' pours his notes sublime 
 In mangled prose, nor e'en aspires to rhyme ; 
 Breaks into Ijlank the Gospel of St. Luke, 
 And boldly pilfers from the Pentateuch ; 
 And, undisturb'd by conscientious qualms, 
 Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the Psalms. 
 
 Hail, Sympathy ! thy soft idea brings' 
 A thousand visions of a thousand things. 
 And shows, still whimpering through threescore of 
 The maudlin prince of mournful sonneteers, [years, 
 And art thou not their prince, harmonious Bowles 1 
 Thou first, great oracle of tender souls ? 
 Whether thou sing'st with equal ease, and grief, 
 The fall of empires, or a yellow leaf; 
 Wliether thy muse most lamentably tells 
 WTiat merry sounds jsroceed from Oxford bells,' 
 
 his " Sabbath." He began life as an advocate at the Edinburgh 
 bar ; but be had little success there, and being of a melancholy 
 and very devout temperament, entered into holy orders, and re- 
 tired to a curacy near Durham, where be died in ISll.] 
 
 ^ [Immediately before this line, we find in the original manu- 
 script, the following, which Lord Byron good-naturedly consented 
 to omit, at the request of Mr. Dallas, who was, no doubt, a friend 
 of the scribbler they refer to :— 
 
 " In verse most stale, unprofitable fiat — 
 
 Come, let us change the scene, and ' gtean^ with Pratt ; 
 
 In him an author's luckless lot behold, 
 
 Condemn'd to make the books which once he sold : 
 
 Degraded man ! again resume thy trade — 
 
 The votaries of the Muse are ill repaid. 
 
 Though daily puffs once more invite to buy 
 
 A new edition of thy ' Sympathy.' " 
 
 I'o which this note was appended : — " Mr. Pratt, once a bath 
 bookseller, now a London author, has written as much, to as lit- 
 tle purpose, as any of his scribbling cotemporaries. Mr. P.'a 
 ' Sympathy' is in rhyme ; but his prose productions are the most 
 voluminous." The more popular of these last were entitled 
 " lileanings."] 
 
 » See Bowles's " Sonnet lo Oxford," and " Stanzas on hearing 
 the Bells of Oslend." 
 
428 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Or, still in bells delighting, finds a friend 
 
 [n every eliime that jingled fi-om Ostend ; 
 
 Ah ! how much juster were thy muse's hap, 
 
 If to thy bells thou wouldst but add a cap 1 
 
 Delightful Bowles ! still blessing and still bless'd. 
 
 All love thy strain, but children like it best. 
 
 'Tis thine, with gentle Little's moral song, 
 
 To soothe the mania of the amorous throng 1 
 
 With thee our nursery damsels shed their tears. 
 
 Ere miss as yet completes her infant years : 
 
 But in her teens thy whining powers are vain ; 
 
 She quits poor Bowles for Little's jjurcr strain. 
 
 Now to soft themes thou scornest to confine 
 
 The lofty numbers of a harp like thine ; 
 
 " Awake a louder and a loftier strain,'" 
 
 Such as none heard before, or will again ! 
 
 Wliere all Discoveries jumbled from the flood. 
 
 Since first the leaky ark reposed in mud, 
 
 By more or less, are sung iu every book. 
 
 Prom Cajitain Noah down to Captain Cook. 
 
 Nor this alone ; but, pausing on the road. 
 
 The bard sighs forth a gentle episode : ^ 
 
 And gravely tells — attend, each beauteous miss I — 
 
 When first Madeira trembled to a kiss. 
 
 Bowles ! in thy memory let this precept dwell. 
 
 Stick to thy sonnets, man ! — at least they sell." 
 
 But if some new-born whim, or larger bribe, 
 Prompt thy crude brain, and claim thee for a scribe ; 
 If chance some bard, though once by dunces fear'd. 
 Now, prone in dust, can only be revered ; 
 If Pope, whose fame and genius, from the first. 
 
 ' " Awake a louder," etc., ie the first line in Bowles's " Spirit 
 of Discovery ;" a very spirited and pretty dwarf-epic. Among 
 otiier exquisite lines we have the following ; — 
 A kiss 
 Stole on the list'ning Bilence, never yet 
 ncre heard ; they trembled even as if the power, etc. 
 
 That is, the woods of Madeira treml)led to a kiss ; very mach as- 
 tonished, as well they miglit be. at such a phenomenon.— [" Mis- 
 quoted and niisumlerstood by me ; but not intentionally. It was 
 not the ■ wciod^,' hut the people in them who trembled— why, 
 Heaven only knows — unless they were overheard making the 
 prodigious smack."— iiy/'O/i, 1810.] 
 
 2 The episode above alluded to is the story of " Robert a Ma- 
 chin" and "Anna d'Arfet," a pair of.constaut lovers, who per- 
 formed the kiss above-mentioned, that startled the woods of 
 Madeira. 
 
 = [" Although," says Lord Byron, 1821, "I regret having pub- 
 lished " English Bards and Scotch Reviewers,' the part which I 
 regret the least is that which regards Mr. Bowles, with reference 
 to Pope. While I was writing that publication, in 180* and 180S, 
 Mr. Hobhouse was desirous that I should express our mutual 
 opinion of Poiie. and of Mr. Bowles's edition of his works. As 
 I had c(>nipli't(;d my oullhie, and felt lasy, 1 requested that tie 
 would do so. lie did it. His fourteen lines on Bowles's Pope are 
 in tb 1 first edition of ' English Bards,' and are quite as severe, 
 aod much more poetical, than my own in tiie second. On re- 
 printing tlie work, as I i)ut my name to it, I omitted Mr. Hob- 
 llouse'e lines, by which the work gained less than Mr. Bowles." 
 -Th.^ following are the lines wiitlen by Mr. Hobhouse :— 
 ■' Slick to thy sonnets, man 1— at least they sell. 
 Or take the ouiv path that open lies 
 
 Have foil'd the best of critics, needs the worst, 
 Do thou essay : each fault, each failing scan ; 
 The first of poets was, alas ! but man. 
 Rake from each ancient dungliill cv'ry pearl, 
 Consult Lord Fanny, and contide in Curll ;• 
 Let all the scandals of a former age 
 Perch on thy pen, and flutter o'er thy page; 
 Aflfect a candor which thou canst not feel, 
 Clothe envy in the garb of honest zeal ; 
 Write, as if St. John's soul could still inspire, 
 And do from hate what JIallet" did for hire. 
 Oh! hadst thou lived in that congenial time, 
 To rave with Dennis, and with I{alph to rhyme;' 
 Throng'd with the rest around his living head, 
 Not raised thy hoof against the lion dead ;' 
 A meet reward had crown'd thy glorious gains, 
 And hnk'd thee to the Dunciad for thy pains. 
 
 Another epic ! Who inflicts again 
 More books of blank upon the sons of men ? 
 Beeotian Cottle, rich Bristowa's boast. 
 Imports old stories from the Cambrian coast. 
 And sends his goods to market — all alive I 
 Lines forty thousand, cantos twenty-five ! 
 Fresh fish from Helicon !» who'll buy ? who'll buj ( 
 The precious bargain's cheap — in faith, not I. 
 Your turtle-feeder's verse must needs be flat, 
 Though Bristol bloat him with the verdant fat ; 
 If Commerce fills the purse, she clogs the brain. 
 And Amos Cottle strikes the lyre in vain. 
 In him an author's luckless lot behold, 
 Coudcmn'd to make the books which once he sold. 
 
 For modem worthies who would hope to rise : 
 
 Fix on some well-known name, and, bit by bit, 
 
 Pare olV the merits of his worth and wit ; 
 
 On each alike employ the critic's knife. 
 
 And when a comment fails, prefix a life ; 
 
 Hint certain failings, faults before tmknown, 
 
 Reriew forgotten lies, and add your own ; 
 
 Let no disease, let no misfortune 'scape, 
 
 And i>riut, if luckily deformed, a shai)e. 
 
 Thus shall the world, quite undeceived at last, 
 
 Cleave to their present wits, and quit their past; 
 
 Bards once revered no more with favor view. 
 
 But give their modern sonneteers their duo ; 
 
 Thus with the dead may living merit cope. 
 
 Thus Bowles may triumph o'er the shade of Pope."] 
 
 • Curll is one of the heroes of the Duncind, and was a bookseler. 
 Lord Fanny is the poetical name of Lord Hervey, author of " Linei 
 to the Imitator of Horace." 
 
 » Lord Bolingbroke hired Mallet to traduce Pope after his de- 
 cease, because the poet had retained some copies of a work by 
 Lord Bolingbroke—" the Patriot ICing,"— which that splendid but 
 malignant genius had ordered to be destroyed. 
 
 « Dennis the critic, and lialph the rhymester.— 
 
 " Silence, ye wolves 1 while Ralph to Cynthia howls. 
 Making night hideous: answer him, ye owls l"—J>unHtt(l. 
 
 ' See Bowles's lat' edition of Pope's Works, for which he re- 
 ceived three hundrf pouhds. Thus Mr. B. has experienced how 
 much easier it Is to profit by the reputation of auotlier than, to 
 elev^te his own. 
 
 « ^" Fresh fish from Helicon."—" Helicon" Is a mountain, mi 
 not a flsh-pond. It should have been " Uippocrenn."- .Bj/ron, 1816.| 
 
ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 429 
 
 Oh, Amos Cottle ! — Phcebus ! what a name, 
 To fill tiie speakir.g trump of future fame ! — 
 Oh, Amos Cottle 1 for a moment think 
 What meager profits spring from pen and ink ! 
 When thus devoted to poetic dreams, 
 Who will peruse thy prostituted reams ? 
 Oh, pen perverted ! paper misapplied ! 
 Had Cottle' still adorn'd the counter's side. 
 Bent o'er the desk, or born to useful toils. 
 Been taught to make the paper which he soils, 
 Plough'd, delved, or jjlied the oar with lusty hmb. 
 He had not sung f Wales, nor I of him. 
 
 As Sisyphus against the infernal steep 
 Rolls tiic huge rock whose motions ne'er may sleep, 
 So up thy hill, amljrosial Richmond, heaves 
 Dull Maurice- all his granite weight of leaves: 
 Smooth, solid monuments of mental pain ! 
 The petrifactions of a filodding brain. 
 That ere they reach the top, fall lumbering back again. 
 
 With broken Ijre, and cheek serenely pale, 
 Lo ! sad Alca;us wanders down the vale ; 
 Though fair they rose, and might have bloom'd at 
 
 last, 
 Hi= hopes have perish'd by the northern blast : 
 Nijjp'd in the bud by Caledonian gales. 
 His blossoms wither as the blast prevails ! 
 O'er his lost works let clnssic Sheffield weep ; 
 May no rude hand disturb their early sleep \' 
 
 Tet say ! why should the bard at once resign 
 His claim to fa^■or from the sacred Nine ? 
 Forever startled by the mingled howl 
 Of northern wolves, that still in darkness prowl; 
 A coward Ijrood, which mangle as they prey. 
 By hellish instinct, all that cross their way ; 
 Aged or young, the living or the dead. 
 No mercy find — these haqjies must be fed. 
 Wliy do the injured unresisting yield 
 The calm possession of their native field ? 
 
 * Mr. Cottle, Amoa, Joseph, I don't know which, but one or 
 both, once sellers of books they did not write, and now writers 
 of books they do not sell, have published a pair of epies. 
 " AJfred,"—(i>oor Alfred 1 Pye has been at him too 1)—" Alfred," 
 and the " Fall of Cambria." 
 
 ^ Mr. Maurice hath manufactured the component parts of a 
 ponderous quarto, upon the beauties of '' Richmond Hill," and 
 the like : — it also takes in a charming \iew of Tuniham Green, 
 Ilammersmith, Brentford, Old and New, and the parts adjacent. — 
 [The Rev, Thomas Maurice also wrote "Westminister Abbey." 
 and other poems, the " History of Ancient and Modem Hindos- 
 tan," &c., and his own "Memoirs; comprehending ,-\necdotca 
 of Literary Characters, during a period of thirty years ;'"— a very 
 amusing piece of autobiography. He died in 1824, at his apart- 
 ments in the British Museum ; where he had been for some yeara 
 assistant keeper of MSS.] 
 
 ' Poor Montgomery, though praised by every English Review, 
 has been bitterly reviled by the Edinburgh. After all, the bard 
 of Sheffield is a man of considerable geniu^ His " Wanderer of 
 Bwitzerland " is worth a thousand " Lyricit BiUads," andat least 
 fifty "degraded epies " 
 
 "\Miy tamely thus before their fangs retreat. 
 
 Nor hunt the bloodhounds back to Arthur's Seal 1' 
 
 Health to immortal Jefirey,' once, in name, 
 England could boast a judge almost the same ; 
 In soul so like, so merciful, yet just, 
 Some think that Satan has resign'd his trust, 
 And given the spirit to the world again. 
 To sentence letters, as he sentenced men. 
 With hand less mighty, but ■with heart as black. 
 With voice as willing to decree the rack ; 
 Bred in the courts betimes, though all that law 
 As yet hath taught him is to find a flaw ; 
 Since well instructed in the patriot school 
 To rail at party, though a party tool. 
 Who toows, if chance his patrons should restore 
 Back to the sway they forfeited before. 
 His scribbling toils some reeompence may meet, 
 And raise this Daniel to the judgment-seat ? 
 Let Jefireys' shade indulge the pious hojje. 
 And greeting thus, present him with a rope : 
 " Heir to my virtues ! man of equal mind ! 
 Skill'd to condemn as to traduce mankind, 
 This cord receive, for thee reserved with care. 
 To wield in judgment, and at length to wear." 
 
 Health to great Jeffrey ! Heaven preserve his life 
 To flourish on the fertile shores of Fife, 
 And guard it sacred in its future wars. 
 Since authors sometimes seek the field of Mars ! 
 Can none remember that eventful day ? 
 That ever glorious, almost fatal fray. 
 When Little's leadless pistol met his eye, 
 And Bow-street myrmidons stood laughing by?' 
 Oh, day disastrous ! On her tirm-set rock, 
 Dunedin's castle felt a secret shock ; 
 Dark roU'd the sympathetic waves of Forth, 
 Low groan'd the startled whirlwinds of the north ; 
 Tweed ruffled half his waves to form a tear, 
 The other half pursued its calm career;' 
 Arthur's steep summit nodded to its base, 
 The surly Tolbooth scarcely kept her place. 
 
 * Arthur's Seat ; the hill which overhangs Edinburgh. 
 
 6 [Mr. Jeflrey, who, after the first Number or two, snccecdefj 
 the Rev. Sydney Smith in the editorship of the Edinburgh Re\iew, 
 retired from his critical post some litth; time before he was ap- 
 pointed Lord Advocate for Scotland.] 
 
 '■ In 1805, Messrs. .Jeffrey and Moore met at Chalk-Farm. The 
 duel was prevented by the interference of the magistracy ; and, 
 on examination, the balls of the pistols were found to have eva- 
 porated. This incident gave occasion to much waggeiy in the 
 daily prints. [The above note was struck out of the fifth edition, 
 and the following, after being submitted to Mr. Moore, substituted 
 in its place : — " I am informed that Mr. Jloore published at the 
 time a disavowal of the statements in the newspaiiers, as far as 
 regarded himself; and, injustice to him, I mention this cii-cmn- 
 stance. As I never heard of it before, I cai not state the partic,;- 
 lurs, and was only made acquainted with the fact very lately."— 
 November 4. 1811.] 
 
 ' The Tweed here behaved with proper decorura ; it would have 
 been liighly reprehensible in the English half ol the river to have 
 shown the smallest symptom of apprehension. 
 
430 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 The 'I'olliooth felt — for marble sometimes can, 
 
 On sucli occasion, feel as much as man — 
 
 Tlie Tolliooth felt defrauded of his charms, 
 
 If Jeffrey died, except within her arms :' 
 
 Nay, last, not least, on that portentous mom, 
 
 The sixteenth story, where himself w?s born, 
 
 His patrimonial garret, fell to ground, 
 
 And jjale Edina shudder'd at the sourd : 
 
 Strew'd were the streets around with milk-white 
 
 reams, 
 Flow'd all the Canongate with inky streams ; 
 This of his candor seem'd the sable dew 
 That of his valor show'd the bloodless hue; 
 And all with justice decm'd the two combined, 
 The mingled emblems of his mighty mind. 
 But Caledonia's goddess hovcr'd o'er 
 Tlie field, and saved him from tlic wrath of Moore ; 
 From either pistol snatch'd the vengeful lead, 
 And str.aight restored it to her favorite's head ; 
 That head, with greater than magnetic pow'r. 
 Caught it, as DanaL' caught the golden show'r, 
 And though the thickening dross will scarce refine, 
 Augments its ore, and is itself a mine. 
 " My son," she cried, " ne'er thirst for gore again, 
 Resign the pistol, and resume the pen ; 
 O'er politics and poesy jxreside. 
 Boast of thy country, and Britannia's guide. 
 
 ' This display of sympathy on the part of the Tolbooth, (the 
 principal prison in Ediubur^'h.) which truly seems to have been 
 most alVcctcd on this occasion, is much to be commended. It was 
 lo be appreliended, that the many unliappy criminals executed in 
 the front mii^ht have rendered the edifice more callous. She is 
 paid to be of the softer sex, because her delicacy of feeling on this 
 day was truly feminine, though, like most feminine impulses, per- 
 haps a little selfibli. 
 
 * His lordship has been much abroad, is a member of the Athe- 
 nian Society, and reviewer of " Gcll's Topo.^aphy of Troy." — • 
 [Geoigo Ilarailton Gordon, fourth Earl of -Aberdeen, K.T.,F.R.S., 
 and P.S.A. In 1S'J2, his lordship publis-hed an " Inquiry into the 
 Principles of Beauty in Grecian Archite(;ture."] 
 
 ' Mr. Herbert is a translator of Icelandic and other poetry. One 
 of the principal pieces is a " Son;]: on the Recovery of Thor's 
 Hammer:" tlie translation is a pleasant chant in the vulgar 
 tongue, and endeth tluis : — 
 
 ' "Instead of money and rln;;:s, I wot, 
 
 The hammer's bruises were her lot, 
 Thus Odin's son his hammer got." 
 [The Hon. William Herbert, brother to the Earl of Carnarvon. 
 He also published, in 1811. " Ilclga," a poem in seven cantos.] 
 
 * The Kcv. Sydney Smite the reputed author of I'etcr Plym- 
 ley's Letters, and sundry criticisms. 
 
 * Mr. ILillin revijwcl P.iyne Kui.cht's "Taste," and was ex- 
 ceedingly severe on some Greek verses therein. It was not dis- 
 covered that the lines were Pindar's till the press rendered it 
 Impossible to cancel the critique, which still stands an everlasting 
 moiuimcnt of Hallam's ingenuity.— .Vtf^c added to second edition. 
 — The paid llallam is incensed l)ecansc he is falsely accused, see- 
 ing that he never dineth at Holland House. If this be true, 3 am 
 ftorry— not for having said so, but on Ills account , as I understand 
 Ms lordship's feasts are preferable to his compositions. If he did 
 not review Lord Holland's performance, I am glad, because it must 
 have been paiulnl to read, and irksome to praise it. It Mr. Hallam 
 will tell me wlio did review it, the real name shall find a place in 
 the te.tt : provided, nevertheless, the said name be ol tw o orthodox 
 Jiusicjil syllables, and will come in*-> the verse: till then, Hallam 
 nust <tand for wivt of a better.— lit cannot be necessary to vin 
 
 For long as All^ion's heedless sons submit, 
 Or Scottish taste decides on English wit, 
 So long shall last thine unmolested reign, 
 Nor any dare to take thy name in vain. 
 Behold, a chosen band shall aid thy phin. 
 And own thee chieftain of the critic clan. 
 First in the oat-fed p)ialan.\ shall bo seen 
 The travell'd thane .Vthcnian Aberdeen.'- 
 Herbert shall wield Tliors hammer,' and sometimes. 
 In gratitude, thou'lt praise his rugged rhymes ; 
 Smug Sydney' too thy bitter page shall seek, 
 And classic Hallam,' much renown'd for Greek ; 
 Scott may perchance his name and influence lend. 
 And paltry Pillans" shall traduce liis friend ; 
 While gay Thalia's luckless votary, Lanilie,' 
 Damn'd like the devil, devil-like will damn. 
 Known be thy name, unliounded be thy sway I 
 Thy Holland's banquets shall each toil repay ; 
 While grateful Britain yields the praise she owes 
 To Holland's hirelings and to learning's foes. 
 Yet mark one caution ere thy next Review 
 Spread its light wings of saffron and of blue, 
 Beware lest blundering Brougham' destroy the 
 
 sale. 
 Turn l)cef to bannocks, cauliflowers to kail." 
 Thus ha-ving said, the kilted goddess kiss'd 
 Her son, and vanish'd in a Scottish mist.' 
 
 cate the great author of the " Middle Ages " and the " Conetitu 
 tional History of England" from the insinuations of the juvenile 
 poet.] 
 
 " Pillftns is a tutor at Eton.— [Mr. Pillans became afterwards 
 Rector of the High School of Edinburgh and was for some veara 
 Professor of Humanity in that University. Tliere was not. It la 
 believed, the slightest found;ition lor the charge in the text.] 
 
 ' The Hon. ("Jeorge Lambe reviewed " Berest'ord's Miseries," 
 and is, moreover, author of a farce enacted witli much applause 
 at the Priory, Stanmore ; and damned with great expedition at 
 the late theatre, Covent Garden. It was entitled " Whistle for 
 it."— [Mr. Lambe was, in 1818, the successful candidate for the 
 representation of Westminster, in opposition to Mr. Hobhousc; 
 who. iiowever, defeated him in the following year. In 1821, Mr. 
 Lambe published a translation of Catullus. In 1.S32, he was ap. 
 pointed Under Secretary of State for the Home Department, hxt 
 chief being liis brotlier. Lord Melbourne. He died in 1833.] 
 
 " Mr. Broughiim, in No. xxv. of the Edinburgh Review, throngh 
 out the article concerning Pon Pedro de Cevallos, has .displayed 
 more politics than policy ; many of tlie worthy burgesses of Edin- 
 burgh being so incensed at the int'amous principles it evinces, up 
 to have withdrawn their subscriptions.— [Here followed, in the 
 first edition—" The name of tliis personage is pronounced Broom 
 •n the south, but the truly northern and muxical pronunciation ta 
 Broit«h-asi, in two syllables ;" but for this Lord B. substituteQ 
 in the second edition :— " It seems tliat Mr. Brongham is not a 
 Pict, as I suiiposed, but a Borderer, aiid his name is pronounced 
 Broom, from Trent to Tay : — so be it."] 
 
 • I ought lo apidogize to the worthy deities for introducing • 
 new goddess with sliort petticoats to their notice ; but, alas 
 what was to be done ? I could not s.ay Caledonia's genius. It 
 being well known there is no sudi genius to be found fi-om Clack- 
 mauan to Caithness ; yet, without supernatui-al agency, how was 
 .leffi-ey to be saved ? The national " kelpies " are too upoctical, 
 and the " brownies " and "glide neighbors" (spirits of a good 
 disposition) refused to extricate him. A goddess, therefore, haa 
 beim ctlicd for the purpose ; and great ought lo be the gratitndf 
 of Jeffrey, seeing it is the only comniunit.ation he ever held, or i» 
 likely to hold, with anything heavenly. 
 
ENGLISH BAEDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWEKS. 
 
 431 
 
 Then prosper Jeffrey ! pertest of the train 
 Whom Scotland pampers with her fiery grain I 
 Whatever blessing waits a genuine Scot, 
 In double portion swells thy glorious lot ; 
 For thee Edina culls her evening sweets, 
 And showers their odors on thy candid sheets, 
 Wliose hue and fragrance to thy work adhere — 
 This scents its pages, and that gilds its rear,' 
 Lo ! blushing Itch, coy nymph, enamor'd grown. 
 Forsakes the rest, and cleaves to thee alone : 
 And, too unjust to other Pictish men, 
 Enjoys thy person, and inspires thy pen ! 
 Illustrious Holland ! hard would be his lot. 
 His hirelings mention'd, and himself forgot !'' 
 Holland, with Henry Petty' at his back. 
 The whipper-in and huntsman of the pack. 
 Bless'd be the banquets spread at Holland House, 
 Where Scotchmen feed, and critics may carouse ! 
 Long, long beneath that hospitable roof 
 Shall Grub-street dine, while duns are kept aloof. 
 See honest Hallam lay aside his fork. 
 Resume his jjen, review his Lordship's work. 
 And, grateful for the dainties on his plate, 
 Declare his landlord can at least translate !* 
 Dunedin ! view thy children with delight, 
 They write for food-- and feed because they write : 
 And lest, when heated with the unusual grape. 
 Some glowing thoughts should to the press escape, 
 And tinge with red the female readers cheek, 
 My lady skims the cream of each critique ; 
 Breathes o'er the page her purity of soul, 
 Reforms each error, and refines the whole ' 
 
 Now to the Drama turn —Oh ! motley sight ! 
 What precious scenes the wondering eyes invite ! 
 
 ■ See the color of the hack binding of the Edinburgh Review. 
 " ["Bad enough, and on mistaken grounds too."— B. 1816.] 
 = [Lord Henry Petty ; Bubsequently Marquis of Lansdowne.] 
 ■• Lord Holland has translated some specimens of Lope de Vega, 
 inserted in his life of the author. Both are bepraised by his die- 
 inlerested guests. 
 
 » Certain it is, her ladyship is suspected of baring displayed her 
 
 matchless wit in the Edinburgh Review. Hr>wcTer that may be, 
 
 we know, from good authority, that the manuscripts are submitted 
 
 to her perusal— no doubt, for correction. 
 
 " In the melo^lrama of Tekeli, that heroic prince is clapped 
 
 into a barrel on the stage ; a new asylum for dbstressed heroes. 
 
 [In the original MS. the note stands thus :— " In the melo-drama 
 of Tekeli. that heroic prince is clapped into a barrel on the stage, 
 »nd Count E\Tard in the fortress hides himself in a green-house 
 built cspre-i^ly for the occasion. 'Tis a pity that Theodore Hook, 
 who is really a man of talent, should confine his genius to such 
 paltry productions as the ' Fortress,' ' Music Mad,' etc., etc." 
 
 ' All these are favorite expressions of Mr. Reynolds, and promi- 
 nent in his comedies, Tning and defunct.- [Thj reader is referred 
 to Mr. Reynolds' Autobiography, published in 1826, for a full 
 account of his voluminous writings for the stage.] 
 « [Mr. Kcancy, the author of many successful dramas.] 
 • Mr. Thomas Sheridan, the new manager of Drury Lane theatre, 
 stripped the tragedy of Bonduca of the dialogue, and exhibited 
 the 60i;nes a? the spectacle of Caractacus. Was this worthy of 
 
 Puns, and a prince within a barrel pent,« 
 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 sufier scenes like these ; 
 WTiile Reynolds vents his " dammes !" " poohs !" 
 
 and " zounds !"' 
 And common-place and common sense confounds ? 
 While Kenney's " World " — ah ! where is Kenney's' 
 
 wit?— 
 Tires the sad gallery, lulls the listless pit ; 
 And Beaumont's piUer'd Caratach afibrda 
 A tragedy complete in all but words i' 
 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 J 
 Have we no living bard of merit ?— none ! 
 Awake, George Colman !'° Cumberland, awake 1" 
 Ring the alarum bell I let folly quake I 
 Oh, Sheridan I if aught can move thy pen, 
 Let Comedy assume her throne again ; 
 Abjure the mummery of the German schools ; 
 Leave new Pizarros to translating fools ; 
 Give, as thy last memorial to tlie age. 
 One classic drama, and reform the stage. 
 Gods ! o'er those boards shall Folly rear her head. 
 Where Garrick trod, and Siddons lives to tread ?>' 
 On those shall Farce display BuSbon'ry's mask. 
 And Hook conceal his heroes in a cask ? 
 Shall sapient managers new scenes produce 
 From Cherry, Skeflington, and Mother Goose ? 
 WHiile Shakspeare, Otway, Massingej, forgot. 
 On stalls must moulder, or in closets rot 2 
 Lo ! with what pomp the daily prints proclaim 
 
 his sire ? or of himself ?—[Tliomas Sheridan, who united much of 
 the conrivial wit of his parent to many amiable qualities, received, 
 after the termination of his theatrical management, the appoint- 
 ment of coloni.al paymaster at the Cape of Good Hope, where he 
 died in September, 1817. leaving a widow, whose novel of "Car 
 weil " has obtained much approbation, and several children ; 
 among others, the accomplished authoress of " Rosalie " and other 
 poems, now the Honorable Mrs. Norton. 1 
 
 '" [Lord Byron entertained a high opinion of George Colman 9 
 convivial powers—" If I had," he says, " to choose, and could not 
 have both at a time. I should say, ' Let me begin the evening with 
 Sheridan, and fluish it with Colman.' Sheridan for dinner, and 
 Colman for supper ; Sheridan for claret or port, but Colman, for 
 even-thing. Sheridan was a grenadier company of life-guards, 
 but Colman a whole regiment— of light infantry, to be sure, but 
 still a regiment. Mr. Colman died in October, 1836."] 
 
 •' [Richard Cumberland, the well-known author of the " West 
 Indian," the " Observer." and one of the most interesting of auto- 
 biographies, died in 1811.] 
 
 '= [In all editions previous to the fifth, it was. " Kemble lives to 
 tread." Lord Byron used to say. that, " of actors, Cooke was the 
 most natural, Kemble the most superuatnr.al, Kean the medium 
 between the two ; but that Jlrs. Siddons was worth them all pat 
 together." Such effect, however, had Kean's acting on his mind, 
 that once, on seeing him play Sir Giles Overreach, he was seized 
 with a sort of con\7ilsiTe fit. John Kemble died in 1*43.— his 
 illustrious sister in 1830.1 
 
432 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 The rival candidates for Attic fame ! 
 In grim array though Lewis' spectres rise, 
 Still Skefiington and Goose divide the jirize.' 
 And sure (jrcat Skeffington must claim our praise, 
 For skirtless coats and skeletons of plays 
 Rcnown'il alike; whose genius ne'er confines 
 Her flight t garnish Greenwood's gay designs ;'' 
 Nor sleep -nith " Sleeping Beauties," but anon 
 In five fai etious acts comes thundering on,' 
 While poor John Bull, bcwildcr'd with the scene. 
 Stares, wondering what the de^-il it can mean ; 
 But tis some hands applaud, a venal few ! 
 Rath ?r than sleep, why John applauds it too. 
 
 Such are we now. Ah ! wherefore should we turn 
 To wliat our t^xthere were, unless to mourn ? 
 Degenerate Britons ! are ye dead to shame, 
 Or, kind to dullness, do you fear to blame ? 
 Well may the nobles of our present race 
 Watch each distortion of a Naldi's face ; 
 Well may they smile on Italy's buffoons, 
 And worship Catalani's pantaloons,' 
 Since their own drama \Telds no fairer trace 
 Of wit than puns, of humor than grimace. 
 
 Then let Ausonia, skill'd in every art 
 To soften manners, but corrupt the heart. 
 Pour her exotic follies o'er the town. 
 To sanction Vice, and hunt Decorum down : 
 Let wedded strumpets languish o'er Deshayes, 
 And bless the promise which his form displays ; 
 Wiile Gayton bounds before th' enraptured looks 
 Of hoary marfjuisos and stripling dukes : 
 Let high-born lechers eye the lively Presle 
 Twirl her light limbs, that spurn the needless veil; 
 Let Angiolini bare her breast of snow. 
 Wave the white arm, and point the pliant toe ; 
 Collini trill her love-inspiring song, 
 Strain her fair neck, and charm the listening throng ! 
 Whet not your scythe, su])pressors of our vice ! 
 Reforming saints ! too delicately nice ! 
 By, whose decrees, our sinful souls to save. 
 No Sunday tankards foam, no barbers shave ; 
 
 ' [Dibdiu'9 pantomime of Mother Gooso had a ran of nearly a 
 hundi'ctl nights, and bronjiht more than t^venty thousands pounds 
 to the treasury of Covcnt Garden theatre.] 
 
 • Mr. Greenwood is. we believe, scene-p.iinter to Dmry Lane 
 theatre — as sucli. Mr. Skeffinj^ton is much indebted him. 
 
 ' Mr. [arierwnrd-" Sir Lumiey] SliefTrnjiton is the iUustrious au- 
 thor of the " .'>l('opini; Reauty ;'' and some comedies, particularly 
 *'Maids and Haelielors :" Raccalaurii baculo maps quam lanro digni. 
 
 * Naldi and Catalani require little notice ; for the visage of the 
 one and the salary of the other, will cnnblc^is long to recollect 
 these amusing vagabonds. Besides, we are still black and blue 
 from the squeeze on the first night of tho lady's appearance in 
 trousers. 
 
 '' To prevent any blunder, such as mistaking a street for a man, 
 I beg leave to state, that it is the institution, and not the duke of 
 that name, which is here alluded to A gentlemen, with whom I 
 am slightly acquainted, lost in the .\rgyle Tleoms several thousand 
 pounds 'It l)acIigainmon. It is but ju-^tice tc ',h : .na " ytrer in this 
 
 And beer undrawn, and beards unmown, display 
 Tour lioly reverence for the Sabbath-day. 
 
 Or hail at once the patron and the pile 
 Of vice and folly, Greville and Argyle !' 
 Wliere yon proud palace. Fashion's hallow'd fane 
 Spreads wide her portals for the motley train, 
 Behold the new Petronius" of the day, 
 Our arbiter of pleasure and of play I 
 There the hired eunuch, the Hesperian choir, 
 The melting lute, the soft lascivious lyre, 
 The song from Italy, the step from France, 
 The midnight orgy, and the mazy dance. 
 The smile of beauty, and the flush of wine, 
 For fops, fools, gamesters, knaves, and lords combine ; 
 Each to his humor — Comus till allows ; 
 Chamimign, dice, music, or your neighljor's spouBe. 
 Talk not to us, ye star^-ing sons of trade ! 
 Of piteous ruin, which ourselves have made ; 
 In Plenty's sunshine Fortune's minions bask, 
 Nor think of poverty, except " en masque," 
 When for the night some lately titled ass 
 Appears the beggar which his grandsiro waa. 
 The curtain dropp'd, the gay burlctta o'er, 
 The audience take their turn upon the floor ; 
 Now round tlie room the circling dow'gers sweep, 
 Now in loose waltz the thin-clad daughters leap ; 
 The first in lengthen'd line majestic swim, 
 The last display the free unfetter'd limb ! 
 Those for Ilil)erni.a's lusty sons repair 
 With art tlie charms which nature could not spare 
 These after husbands ^\-ing their eager flight, 
 Nor leave much mystery for the nuptial night. 
 
 Oh ! bless'd retreats of infamy and ease, 
 Wliere, all forgotten but the ])ower to please. 
 Each maid may give a loose to genial thought, 
 Each swain may teach new systems, or be taught ; 
 There the blithe youngster, just return'd from Spain, 
 Cuts the light pack, or calls the rattling main ; 
 The jovial caster 's set, and seven 's the nick. 
 Or — done ! — a thousand on the coming trick I 
 If, mad with lo.5s, existence 'gins to tire. 
 
 instance to to say, that some degree of disapprobation was manl 
 Tested ; bnt why are the implements of gaming allowed in a place 
 devoted to the society of both sexes ? A pleasant thing for the 
 wives and daughters of those who are blessed or cursed with such 
 connections, to hear the billiard-tables rattling in one room, and 
 the dice in another I That this is the case I myself can testify, 
 as a late unworthy member of an institution which materiailj 
 alTects the morals of the higher orders, while the lower may not 
 evou move to the sound of a tabor and fiddle, without a chance of 
 indictment for riotous behavior. — [Conceiving the foregoing note, 
 together with the line in the text, to convey a ri'fiection upon bia 
 conduct, as manager of the .\n,'j-le institution. Colonel Greville, 
 demanded an expLmation of Lord Byron. The matter was re- 
 ferred to Mr. Lcckie (the author of a work uu Sicilian alVairs) on 
 the part of Colonel Oreville, and to .Mr. Moore on the jwirt of Lord 
 Byron ; by whom it was amicably settled.] 
 
 " retronius, " .\rl)iter elegautiariim " to Nero, " and a very pretty 
 fellow in bia day," as .Mr. Congreve's "Old Bachelor" saitb of 
 Hannibal. 
 
ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REV'IEWEllS. 
 
 433 
 
 And all your hope or wish is to erpirc, 
 
 Here's Powell's pistol ready for your life, 
 
 And, kinder sliU, two Pagets for your wife ;' 
 
 Fit consummation of an earthly race, 
 
 Begun in folly, ended in disgrace ; 
 
 While none l)ut menials o'er the bed of death, 
 
 Wash thy red wounds, or watch thy wavering breath ; 
 
 Traduced by Uars, and forgot by all. 
 
 The mangled victim of a drunken brawl. 
 
 To Uve like Clodius, and like Falkland fall." 
 
 Trutli ! rouse some genuine bard, and guide his 
 To drive this pestilence from out the land. [hand, 
 E'en I — least thinking of a thoughtless throng. 
 Just skill'd to know the right and choose the wrong, 
 Freed at that age when reason's shield is lost. 
 To fight my coiu'se through passion's countless host, 
 Whom every path of pleasure's flow'ry way 
 Has lured in turn, and all have led astray — 
 E'en I must raise my voice, e'en I must feel 
 Such scenes, such men, destroy the public weal ; 
 Although some kind, censorious friend will say 
 " What art thou better, meddling fool, than they ?" 
 And every brother rake will smile to see 
 That miracle, a moralist in me. 
 No matter — when some bard in virtue strong, 
 Gilford, perchance, shall raise the chastening song. 
 Then sleep my pen forever ! and my voice 
 Be only heard to hail him, and rejoice ; 
 Rejoice, and j-ield my feeble praise, though I 
 May feel the lash that Virtue must apply. 
 
 As for the smaller fry, who swarm in shoals 
 From silly Hafiz up to simple Bowles,3 
 
 * [The ori^nnal reading was. " a Paget for yonr wife."] 
 
 ' I knew the late Lord Falkland well. On Sundair night I beheld 
 him presiding at his own table, in all the honest pride of hospital- 
 ity ; on Wednesday morning, at three o'clock, I saw stretched 
 before me all that remained of courage, feeling, and a host of pas- 
 sions. He was a gallant and successful officer ; his fanlts were 
 the fanlts of a sailor — as such, Britons will forgive them. He died 
 like a brave man in a better cause ; for had he fallen in like man- 
 ner on the deck of the frigate to which he was just appointed, his 
 last moments would have been held up by his countrymen as an 
 example to succeeding heroes^ [Lord Falkland was killed in a 
 duel by Mr. Powell, in 1S09. It was not by words only that Lord 
 Byron gave proof of sympathy on the melancholy occasion. 
 Though his own difficulties pressed on him at the time, he con- 
 trived to administer relief to the widow and children of his friend.] 
 
 3 What would be the sentiments of the Persian Anacreon, Hafiz, 
 could he rise from his splendid sepulchre at Sheeraz. (where he 
 reposes with Fcrdousi and Sadi, the oriental Homer and Catullus.) 
 and behold his name assumed by one Stott of Dromore. the most 
 Impudent and execrable of literary poachers for the daily prints ? 
 
 * [Miles Peter Andrews, many years M.P. for Bewdley, Colonel 
 of the Prince of Wales's Volunteers, proprietor of a gunpowder 
 manufactory at Dartford, author of numerous prologues, epilogues, 
 and farces, and one of the heroes of the Baviad. He died in 1814.] 
 
 ■• [In ihc original manuscript we find these lines :— 
 *' In these, our times, with daily woiulers big, 
 A lefter'd peer is like a lettcr'd pig ; 
 Both Itnow their alphabet, but who. from thence. 
 Infers that peers or pigs have manly sense ? 
 Still less that such should woo the graceful Nine : 
 Parnassus was not made for lord- and swine."] 
 
 * f (.)n being told that it was believed he alluded to Lord Carlisle's 
 
 55 
 
 Wliy should we caU them from their dark abode, 
 
 In broad St. Giles's or in Tottenham-read ? 
 
 Or (since some men of fashion nobly dare 
 
 To scrawl in verse) from Bond-street or the Square ! 
 
 If things of ton their harmless lays indite. 
 
 Most wisely doom'd to shim 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 befaU, 
 
 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 schooll.)Oy and his early lay 
 
 Men pardon, if his follies pass away ; 
 
 But who forgives the senior's ceaseless ver.ie, 
 
 Whose hairs grow hoary as his rhymes grow worse I 
 
 What heterogeneous honors deck the peer ! 
 
 Lord, rhymester, petit-maitre, pamjjhleteer !' 
 
 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 1" 
 
 Nor drugg'd their audience with the tragic stuff. 
 
 Yet at their judgment let his lordshiji laugh. 
 
 And case his volumes in congenial calf: 
 
 Yes ! doff that covering, where morocco shines, 
 
 And hang a calf-skin* on those recreant lines.* 
 
 nervous disorder in this line, Lord Byron exclaimed, — "I thank 
 heaven I did uot know it ; and would not, could not, if I had. 1 most 
 naturally be the bst person to be pointed on defects or maladies." 
 ' The Earl of Carlisle has lately published an eighleen-penny 
 pamphlet on the state of the stage, and offers his plan for build- 
 ing a new theatre. It is to be hoped his lordship will be permitted 
 to bring forward anything for the stage — except his own ti^edies. 
 « " i)off that lion's bile, 
 
 And hang a calf-skin on those recreant limbs." 
 
 Shak. King Joh». 
 Lord Carlisle's works, most resplendently boond, foim a conspic- 
 uous omrment to his book-shelves : — 
 
 ^' The rest is all but leather and prunella." 
 ^ ["Wrong also — the provocation was not sufficient to jnstily 
 the acerbity." — B. ISIG.] — Lord Byron gi-eatly regretted the sar- 
 casms he had published against his noble relation, under the mis- 
 taken impression that Lord Carlisle had intentionally slighted 
 him. In a letter to Mr. Kogers. written in 1814, he asks,— '^ la 
 there any chance or possibility of making it np with Lord Carlisle, 
 as I feel disposed to do anything reasonable or unreasonable to 
 effect it." And in the third canto of Childe Harold, he thus ad- 
 verts lo the fate of the Hon. Frederick Howard, Lord Carlisle's 
 youngest son, one of those who fell gloriously at Waterloo :— 
 " Their praise is hj-mn'd by loftier harps than mine ; 
 Yet one I would select from that proud throng. 
 Partly because they bleud me with his line. 
 And partly that 1 did his Sire wme wrortg. 
 And partly that bright names will haUow song \ 
 And his was of I^e bravest, and when shower d 
 The death-bolts deadliest the tl.inn'd files along, 
 Even where the thickest of v.-ar's tempest lower'd. 
 They reach'd no nobler breast than '.bine, young, gallant Howard I" 
 
i:n 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 With you, ye Druids ! rich in native lead, 
 Who daily scrilible for your daily bread ; 
 With you I war not : Gillbrd's heavy hand 
 Flas crush'd, without remorse, your numerous band. 
 On " all the talents " vent your venal spleen ; 
 Want is your plea, let pity be your screen. 
 Let monodies on Fox regale your crew, 
 And Melville's Mantle' prove a blanket too ! 
 One common Lethe waits each hapless bard, 
 And, Jjeace l)e with you ! 'tis your best reward. 
 Such damning fame as Dunciads only give 
 Could bid your lines bejond a morning live; 
 But now at once your fleeting labors close, 
 With names of greater note in bloss'd repose. 
 Far be 't fi'om me unkindly to upbraid 
 The lovely Rosa's prose in masquerade. 
 Whose strains, the faithful echoes of her mind. 
 Leave wondering comprehension far belxind.^ 
 Though Crusca's bards no more our journals fill. 
 Some stragglers skirmish round the columns still ; 
 Last of the howling host which once was Bell's, 
 Matilda snivels yet, and Ilaflz yells ; 
 And Merry's Metaphors appear anew, 
 Chain'd to the signature of O. P. Q.° 
 
 When some brisk youth, the tenant of a stall,' 
 Employs a pen less pointed than his awl, 
 Leaves his snug shop, forsakes his store of shoes, 
 St. Crispin quits, and cobbles for the muse, 
 Heavens ! how tlie vulgar stare ! how crowds applaud 1 
 How ladies read, and Uterati laud !' 
 If chance some wicked wag should pass his jest. 
 
 ^ " Melville'B Mantle," a parody on " Elijah's Mantle," a poem. 
 
 ' This lovely little .Jessica, the daughter of the noted -Jew Kinjj, 
 Beoms to he a follower of the Delia rrusea school, and has pub- 
 lished two vohimos of very respectable absurdities in rhyme, as 
 times po ; besides sundry novels in the style of the first edition 
 of the Muuk.— [" She since married the Morninj,' Post— an exceed- 
 ing Kood matcli ;, and is now dead— which is better."— B. 1816.] 
 
 ' These are the si^atures of various worthies who figure in the 
 poetical departments of the newspapers. 
 
 * LJoseph Blackett, the shoeiuaker. lie died at Seaham, in 1810. 
 fiie poems were afterwards collected by Pratt ; and, oddly enough, 
 his principal patroness was Miss Miibank, then a perfect stranger 
 to Lord Byron. In a letter written to Dallas, on board the Volnge 
 frigate, at sea, iu .Tune, 1811, he says, — "I see that yours and 
 Pratt's protciie, Blackett. the cobbler, is dead, in spite of his 
 rhymes, and is probably one of the instances where death has 
 naved a man from damnation. You were the ruin of that poor 
 fellow arn.-.Mi^st you ; had it not been for his patrons, lie might 
 now have been in very good plight, shoe- (not verse-) making ; but 
 you have made him iramortnl with a vengeance ; who would think 
 that anybody would bo such a blockhead as to sin against an ex- 
 press proverb. — ' Ne siitor ultra crepidam !' 
 
 ' But spare him, ye Critics, his I'uUies are past. 
 For the Cobbler is come, as he ought, to his lasL^ — 
 Which two lines with a scratch under last, to show where the 
 joke lies, I beg that you will prevail (m Miss Miibank to have 
 Irwertcd o:i the tomb of her departo<l Blackett."] 
 
 * [" This was meant for poor lilapkett, who was then patronized 
 by A. J. H.'' (Lady Byron ;) " but fkat I did not know, or this 
 would not have been written, at brast I thiuk not." — B. ISltJ,'' 
 
 * Capel LotlY, Esq., the Msecena- of shoemakers, and preface- 
 writer-general to dietrepsed versemen ; a kind of grat is accoucheur 
 to those who wish 'o b» delivered of rhyme, but do not laiow how 
 
 'Tis sheer ill-natnre — don't the world know best ? 
 
 Genius must guide when wits admire the rhyme, 
 
 And Ctijjel Lofl't' declares 'tis quite sublime. 
 
 Hear, then, ye happy sons of needless trade ! 
 
 Swains ! quit tlie plough, resign the useless spade 
 
 Lo ! Burns' and Blooinfleld, nay, a greater far, 
 
 Gilford was bom beneath an adverse star, 
 
 Forsook the labors of a servile state, 
 
 Stemm'd the rude storm, and triumph'd over fate : 
 
 Then why no more ? if Phoebus smiled on you, 
 
 Bloom field ! why not on brother Nathan too?' 
 
 Ilim too the mania, not the muse, has seized ; 
 
 Not inspiration, but a mind diseased : 
 
 And now no boor can seek his last abode, 
 
 No common be enclosed without an ode. 
 
 Oh ! since increased refinement deigns to smile 
 
 On Britain's sons, and bless our genial isle, 
 
 Let poesy go fortli, pervade the whole. 
 
 Alike tlie rustic, and mechanic soul ! 
 
 Tc tuneful cobblers I still your notes prolong, 
 
 Compose at once a slipper and a song ; 
 
 So shall the fivir your handiwork peruse. 
 
 Your sonnets sure shall please — perhaps your shoes 
 
 May Moorland weavers' boast Pindaric skill. 
 
 And tailors' lays be longer than their bill ! 
 
 Wliile punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, 
 
 And jiay for jioems — when they jsay for coats. 
 
 To the famed throng now paid the tribute due, 
 Neglected genius ! let me turn you. 
 Come forth, oh, Campbell !'° give thy talents scope ; 
 
 to bring forth.— [The poet Bloomflcld owed his first celebrity to 
 the notice of Capel LofTt and Thomas Rill. Esquires, who read his 
 " Farmer's Boy," in manuscript, recommended it to a publisher 
 and by their influence in society and literature, soon drew general 
 attention to its merits. It is distressing to remember that, after 
 all that had been done by the zeal of a few friends, the public 
 sympathy did not rest permanently on the amiable Bloomtield, 
 who died in extreme poverty in 1823.] 
 
 ' "Head Burns to-day. What would he have been if a patri- 
 cian ? M'e should have bad more polish— less force — just as much 
 Terse, but no immortality— a divorce and a duel or two, the wldoh 
 had he survived, as his potations must have been less spiritnous. 
 be might have lived as long as Sheridan, and outlived as much as 
 poor Brinsley."— flyron Journal, 1813.] 
 
 • See KatkHDiel Blooiufleld's ode, elegy, or whatever he or any 
 one else chooses to call it, on the enclosure of "Honingtoti 
 Green." 
 
 " Vide " Recollections of a 'Weaver In the Moorlands of Staf 
 fordshire." 
 
 '" It would be superfluous to recall to the mind of the reader thd 
 autlKirs of " The Pleasures of Memory " and " The Pleasures of 
 Hope," the most beautiful didactic poems in our language, if wc 
 except Pope's " Essay on Man ;" but so many poetasters nave 
 started up, that even the names of Campbell and Rogers are be- 
 come strange. — [Beneath this note of Lord Byron scribbled, in 1816: 
 " Pretty Miss Jacqueline 
 
 Ilad a nose aquiline, 
 
 .\nd would assert rude 
 
 Things of Miss Gertrude, 
 
 While BIr. Marmion 
 
 Led a great army on, 
 
 Making Kelinma look 
 
 Like a tierce Mameluke."! 
 
ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH RETIEWERS. 
 
 43£ 
 
 Wlio dares aspire if thou must cease to hojje ? 
 And thou, melodious Rogers !' rise at hist, 
 Recall the pleasing memor\- of the past ; 
 Arise ! let bless'd remembrance still inspire, 
 and strike to wonted tones thy hallow'd lyre ; 
 Restore Apollo to his vacant throne. 
 Assert thy country's honor and thine own.'' 
 What ! must deserted Poesy still weep 
 Where her last hopes with pious Cowper sleep ? 
 Unless, perchance, from his cold bier she turns. 
 To deck the turf that wraps her minstrel, Burns ! 
 No ! though contempt hath mark'd the spurious 
 The race who rhyme from folly, or for food, [brood. 
 Yet stiU some genuine sons 'tis hers to boast. 
 Who, least aifecting, still effect the most : 
 Feel as they write, and write but as they feel — 
 Hear witness Gifford,^ Sotheby,' Macneil.' 
 
 " Why slumbers Giffbrd ?" once was asked in 
 Why slumbers Gilford ? let us ask again. [vain ;« 
 Xie there no follies for his pen to purge P 
 Are there no fools whose backs demand the scourge ? 
 Are there no sins for Satire's bard to greet ? 
 Stalks not gigantic Vice in every sti-eet ? 
 Shall peers or princes tread pollution's path, 
 And 'scape aUke the law's and muse's wrath ? 
 Nor blaze with guilty glare through future time. 
 Eternal beacons of consummate crime ? 
 Arouse thee, Gilford ! be thy promise claim'd, 
 Make bad men better, or at least asliamed. 
 
 Unhappy White !* wh,ile life was in its spring, 
 And thy young muse just waved her joyous wing, 
 The spoiler swept that soaring lyre away, 
 
 1 [" I have been reading," says Lord Byron, in 1813, '^Memory 
 again, and Hope togetbcr, and retain all my preference of the 
 former. His elegance is really wonderful— there is no such a 
 thing as a vulgar line in hie book."] 
 
 2 [" Rogers has not fulfilled the promise of his first poems, but 
 has still very great merit."— B. 1816.] 
 
 = Gifl'ord, author of the Bariad and Mseviad, the first satires of 
 the day, and translator of Juvenal. 
 
 * Sotheby, translator of Wieland's Oberon and Virgil's Geor- 
 gics. and author of " Saul," an epic poem.— [Mr. Sotheby after- 
 wards essentially raised his reputation by various original poems, 
 and a translation of the Diad. He died in 1834.] 
 
 5 Macncil, whose poems are deservedly popular, particularly 
 "Scotland's Sc.iith." and the "Waes of War," of which ton 
 thousand copies were sold in one month. — [Hector Maciieil died 
 in 1818.] 
 
 « [Lord Byron here alludes to the masterly poem of " New Mor- 
 ality," (the joint production of Mr. Canning and Mr. Frere,) in 
 (he Anti-jacobin, in which Giti'ord is thus apostrophized: — 
 
 *' Bethink thee, GitTord, when some future age 
 Siiall trace the promise of thy playful page ; 
 * The hand which brush'd a swarra of fools away. 
 Should rouse to grasp a more reluctant prey 1' 
 Think, then, will pleaded indolence excuse 
 The tame secession of thy languid muse ? 
 Ah 1 where is now that promise ? why so long 
 Sleep the keen shafts of satire and of song? 
 Oh ! come, with taste and virtue at thy side. 
 With ardent ceal inflamed, and patriot pride ; 
 With keen poetic glance direct the blow, 
 And em pty all thy Quiver on the fo»- 
 
 Which else had sounded an immortal lay. 
 
 Oh, what a noble heart was here undone, 
 
 Wlien Science' self destroy'd her favorite son ! 
 
 Yes, she too much indulged thy fond jjursuit, 
 
 She sow'd the seeds, but death has reap'd the fruit, 
 
 'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow, 
 
 And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low ! 
 
 So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, 
 
 No more through rolling clouds to soar again, 
 
 View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, 
 
 And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart ; 
 
 Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel. 
 
 He nursed the jjinion which impell'd the steel ; 
 
 While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest 
 
 Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast."" 
 
 There be, who say, in these enlighten'd days, 
 That splendid Ues are all the poet's praise ; 
 That strain'd invention, ever on the wing. 
 Alone impels the modem bard to sing : 
 'Tis true, that all who rhyme — nay, all who write, 
 Shrink from that fatal word to genius — trite ; 
 Yet Truth sometimes will lend her noblest fires, 
 And decorate the verse herself inspires : 
 This foct in Virtue's name let C'rabbe'" attest; 
 Though nature's sternest painter, yet the best." 
 
 Aad here let 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 ; 
 
 No pause- no rest— till weltering on the ground 
 
 The poisonous hydra lies, and pierced with many a wonnd."J 
 
 ' Mr. Gifl'ord promised puljlicly that the Baviad and Mwviad 
 should not be his last original works : let him remember, " Mox 
 in reluctantes dracones."— [Mr. Gifl'ord became the editor of the 
 Quarterly Review,— which thenceforth occupied most of his time, 
 —a few months after the first appearance of this eatira in 18(in.] 
 
 » Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge, in October, 1806, in 
 consequence of too much exertion in the pursuit of studies that 
 would have matured a mind which disease and poverty could not 
 impair, and which death itself destroyed rather than eubdned. 
 His poems abound in such beauties as must impress the reader 
 with the liveliest regret that so short a period was allotted to tal- 
 ents which would have dignified even the sacred ftinctioiis he was 
 destined to assume. 
 
 • [Mr. Southey's dehghtful Life of Eirke IrVliite is in every one's 
 hands.] 
 
 ■" ["I consider Crabbe and Coleridge as the first of these times, 
 in point of power and genius."— B. 1810.] 
 
 " [This eminent poet and excellent man died at his rectory erf 
 Trowbridge, in February, 1831, aged seventy-eight. With the ex- 
 ception of the late Lord Stowell, he was the last snrriring cele- 
 brated man mentioned by Boswcll in connection with Johnson, 
 who revised his poem of the " Village." His otlier works are the 
 " Library," the " Newspaper," the " Borough," a collection of 
 " Poems," which Charles Fox read in manuscript on his death- 
 bed ; " Tales," and also " Tales of the Hall." He left various 
 poetical pieces in MS., and a collective edition of his works waa 
 published in 1834, preceded by an interesting memoir, written 
 by his son.] 
 
 '2 Mr. Shee, author of "Rhymes on Art," and "Elements of 
 Art ."—[Subsequently Sir Martin Shee, and President of the Roya. 
 Acadcmy.l 
 
4«6 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 VHiose magic touch can bid the canvass glow, 
 Or pour the easy rhyme's harmonious flow ; 
 While honors, doubly merited, attend 
 The poet's rival, l)Ut the painter's friend. 
 
 Blcss'd is the man who dares approach the bower 
 Where dwelt the Muses at their natal hour ; 
 Whose steps have press'd, whose eye has mark'd afar, 
 The clime that nursed the sons of song and war, 
 The scenes which glory still must hover o'er, 
 Her place of birth, her own Achaian shore. 
 But doubly bless'd is he whose heart e.xpands 
 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 ! ' 'twas thy happy lot at once to view 
 Those shores of glory, and to sing them ton ; 
 And sure no common muse inspired thy pen 
 To hail the land of gods and godlike men. 
 
 And you, associate bards != 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 odors breathe, 
 And all their renovated fragrance flung, 
 To grace the beauties of thy 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, 
 
 I Walter lioilwell Wrisht, late consul general for the Seven Is- 
 lands, is aiilliur of a vcrj' beautiful pirem, ju^?t pulilished: it is on- 
 titlotl "nora! loniciB,'' and is descriptive of the isles and llic ad- 
 jacent coast of Greece.— [To the third edition, which came out 
 In 181f'.. was added an .xccllent translation of the " Oreste" of 
 Aincri. Afler his return to England, Mr, Wright was chosen Ee- 
 eorder of Bury St. Edmunds,] 
 
 = The translators of the Antholouy. Bland and Merivale, have 
 since published separate jioems, which evince frcuius that only 
 rcciuil-es opportunity to attain eminence.— (Tiie late Rev, Robert 
 Bland published, in conjunction with Mr. Merirale, " Collections 
 from the Greek Anlhology." He also wrote " Edwy and Elp^va," 
 the " Four Slaves of Cytliera." etc. In 1S14, Mr. Merivale pub- 
 lished " Orlando in Roncevalles ;" and in the following year, "An 
 Ode on the Delivery of Europe." lie was afterwards one of the 
 Commis.^ioners of the new Bankruptcy Court.] 
 
 ' Tlic nc,s,'lect of the " Botanic Garden " is some proof of re- 
 turning taste. The scenery is its sole recommendation. 
 
 * Messrs. Lamh and Lloyd, the most ignoble followers of Southey 
 »nd Co.— [In nnS, Charles I.amli and Charles Lloyd published in 
 conjunction a volume, entitled, " Poems in Blank Verse." Mr. 
 Lamb was also the author of " John Woodville," " Tales from 
 Shakspeare," the ■• Essays of Elia," etc. Ho died in 183->, Mr. 
 Lloyd has also published " Edward Oliver," a novel, " Nugffi Ca- 
 nornj," and a translation of Alfieri's Tragedies.] 
 
 » By '.lic-hy, I hope that in Mr. Scott's next poem, his hero or 
 heroine will be less addicted to " flr.amarye," and more to gram- 
 mar, than the Lady of the Lay and her bravo, William of Delo- 
 rkioe 
 
 • f Vnimi."— Byron, 181" 
 
 Whose ^Ided cymbals, more adorn'd than clear, 
 The eye delighted, but fatigued the ear ; 
 In show the simple lyre could once surpass. 
 But now, woni down, ap])ear in native brass ; 
 While all his train of hovering sylphs around 
 Evaporate in similes and sound : 
 Him let them shun, with him let tinsel die : 
 False glare attracts, l)ut more oflends the eye.' 
 
 Yet let them not to vulgar Wordsworth stoop, 
 The meanest object of the lowly group. 
 Whose verse, of all but childish prattle void, 
 Seems Iflessed liarmony to Lamb and Lloyd :* 
 Let them — but hold, my muse, nor dare to teach 
 A strain far, far beyond thy humble reach : 
 The native genius with their being given 
 Will point the patli, and peal their notes to heaven. 
 
 And thou, too, Scott ! * resign to minstrel rude 
 The wilder slogan of a border feud : 
 Let otliers spin their meager lines for hire ; 
 Enough for genius, if itself inspire ! 
 Let Southey sing, although his teeming muse, 
 Prolific every spring, be too profuse ; 
 Let simple Wordsworth* chime his childish verse, 
 And brother Coleridge lull the b.abe at nurse ; 
 Let spectre-mongering Lewis aim, at most. 
 To rouse the galleries, or to raise a ghost ; 
 Let Moore still sigh ; let Strangford steal from Moore, 
 And swear that Camoens sang such notes of yore ; 
 Let Hayley hobble on, ^Montgomery rave, 
 And godly Grahame chant a stu])id stave ; 
 Let sonneteering Bowles his strains refine, 
 And whine and whimper to the fourteenth line ; 
 Let Stott, Carlisle,' Matilda, and the rest 
 
 ' It may he asked why I have censured the Earl of Carlisle, my 
 guardian and relative, to whom I dedicated a volume of puerile 
 poems a few years ago ?— The giiardianship was nominal, at least 
 as far as I have been able to discover ; the relationship I cannot 
 help, and am very sorry for it ; hut as hia lordship seemed to for- 
 get it on a very essential occasion to me, I sludl not burden my 
 memory with the recollection. I do not think that personal dif- 
 ferences sanction the unjust condemnation of a brother scribbler ; 
 but I sec no reason why they should act as a preventive, wlien the 
 author, noble or ignoble, has, for a scries of years, hegniled n 
 "discerning public" (.9 the advertisements have it) with divers 
 reams of most orthodox, imperial nonsense. Besides, J do not 
 step aside to vituperate Ihe earl: no— his works come fairly in 
 review with those of other patrician literati. If, before I esc.apci 
 fVom ray teens, I said any thing in favor of his lordship's paper 
 books, it was in the way of dutiful dedication, and more from the 
 advice of others than my own judgment, and I seize the llrst op. 
 portunity of jironouncing my sincere recantation, I liavc heard 
 that some persons conceive me to be under ohlialions to Lord 
 Carlisle : if so, I shall bo most particularly happy to learn wliat 
 they are, and when conferred, that they may be duly appreciated 
 and publicly acknowledged. What I have humbly advanced as an 
 opinion on his printed things. I am prepared lo support, if neces- 
 sary, by quotations from elegies, eulogies. o,les, episodes, and cer- 
 tain facetious and dainty tragedies hearing his name and mark:- 
 " What can ennoble knaves, or fools, or cowards 1 
 Alas 1 not all the blood of all the Howards." 
 
 So says rope. Amen!—, _ — -a»-„. whalovcr the fonn 
 
 datiou might ho."— B. 1810.1 
 
ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 43^ 
 
 Of Grub-3treet, and of Grosvcnor-place the best, 
 Scrawl on, till death release us from the strain, 
 Or Common Sense assert her rights again. 
 But thou with powers that mock the aid of praise, 
 Shouldst leave to humbler bards ignoble lays : 
 Thy eour try's voice, the voice of all the nine. 
 Demand a hallow'd harp — that harp is thine. 
 Say ! will not Caledonia's annals jield 
 The glorious record of some nobler field, 
 Than the wild foray of a plundering clan, 
 Whose proudest deeds disgrace the name of man ? 
 Or Marmion's acts of darkness, fitter food 
 For Sherwood's outlaw tales of Robin Hood ? 
 Scotland ! still proudly claim thy native bard. 
 And be thy praise his first, his best reward ! 
 Yet not with thee alone his name should live. 
 But own the vast renown a world can give ; 
 Be known, perchance, when Albion is no more, 
 And tell the tale of what she was before ; 
 To future times her faded fame recall, 
 And save her glory, though his country fall. 
 
 Yet what avails the sanguine poet's Iiope, 
 To conquer ages, and with time to cope ? 
 Xew eras spread their wings, new nations rise, 
 And other victors fill the applauding skies ; 
 A few brief generations fleet along. 
 Whose sons forget the poet and his song : 
 E'en now, what once-loved minstrels scarce may 
 The transient mention of a dubious name ! [claim 
 Wlien fame's loud trump hath lilown its noblest blast. 
 Though long the sound, the echo sleeps at last ; 
 And glory, Ukc the phcenis' 'midst her th-es, 
 Exhales her odors, blazes, and expires. 
 
 Shall hoary Granta call her sable sons. 
 Expert in science, more exjiert at puns ? 
 Shall these approach the muse ? ah, no ! she flies, 
 Even from the tempting ore of Seaton's prize ; 
 Though printers condescend the press to soil 
 
 > [The devU take that phoenix I How came it there ? "— B. 1816.] 
 
 = '"The Rev. Charles James Hoare published, in 1803, the 
 *' Shipwreck of St. Paul," a Seatonian prize poem.] 
 
 ' [The Rev. Charles Hoyle, author of " Exodus." an epic in 
 thirteen books, and several other Seatonian pri/o poems.] 
 
 * The " Games of Iloyle," well known to the votaries of whist, 
 chest, etc., are not to be superseded by the vagaries of his poet- 
 ical namesake, whose poem comprised, as expressly stated in the 
 advertisement, all the " plagues of Egypt." 
 
 ' [" Right enough : this was well deserved, and well laid on."— 
 B. ISK).] I 
 
 •^ This person, who ha.s lately betrayed the most rabid symptoms 
 of confirmed authorshi] , is writer of a poem denominated the 
 "Art of Pleasing," "as lucus a non luceudo," containing little 
 pleas.intry and less poetry. He also acts as monthly stipendiary 
 and collector of calumnies for the " Satirist." If this unfortunate 
 young man would exchange the magazines for the mathematics, 
 and endeavor to take a decent degree in his university, it might 
 eventually prove more serviceable than his present salary.— [Mr. 
 Howson Clarke was also the author of " The Saunterer," and a 
 ' History of the Campaign in Ruseia."] 
 
 With rhyme by Hoare," and epic blank by Hoyle ;' 
 Not him whose page, if still upheld by whist, 
 Requirer, no sacred theme to bid us list.' 
 Ye ! who in Granta's honors would surpass, 
 Must mount her Pegasus, a full-grown ass ; 
 A foal well worthy of her ancient dam, 
 Whose Helicon is duller than her Cam. 
 
 There Clarke, still striving piteously "to please ' 
 Forgetting dogg'rel 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.'' 
 
 Oh, dark asylum of a Vandal race ! ' 
 At onco the boast of learning, and disgrace ! 
 So lost to Phoebus, that nor Hodgson's* verse 
 Can make thee better, nor poor Hewson's' worse,i> 
 But where fair Isis rolls her purer wave. 
 The partial muse delighted loves to lave ; 
 On her green banks a greener wreath she wove, 
 To crown the bards that haunt her classic grove ; 
 Where Richards wakes a genuine poet's tires. 
 And modern Britons glory in their sires." 
 
 For me, who, thus unask'd, have dared to tell 
 My country, what her sons should know too well. 
 Zeal for her honor bade me here engage 
 The host of idiots that infest her age ; 
 No just applause her honor'd name shall lose, 
 As fii'st in freedom, dearest to the muse. 
 Oh, would thy bards but emulate thy fame, 
 And rise more worthy, Albion, of thy name I 
 Wliat Athens was in science, Rome in power, 
 Wliat Tyre appcar'd in her meridian hour, 
 'Tis thine at once, fair All)ion ! to have been — 
 Earth's chief dietatress, ocean's lovely queen : 
 
 ' "Into Cambridgeshire the Emperor Probns transported a con- 
 siderable body of Vandals." — Gibbon's Decline and Fall, vol. 11, 
 p. 8.3. ITiere is no reason to doubt the truth of this assertion ; 
 the breed is still in high perfection. 
 
 ^ This gentleman's name requires no praise : the man who in 
 translation displays unquestionable genius may be well expected 
 to excel in original composition, of which it is to be hoped wc 
 shall soon see a splendid specimen. — [Besides a translation of 
 Juvenal, Mr. Hodgson has published " Lady Jane Grey," ■' Sii 
 Edgar." and " The Friends." a poem in four books. He aisc 
 translated, in conjunction with Dr. Butler, Lucien Bonaparte's 
 unreadable epic of " Charlemagne."] 
 
 ^ Hewson Clarke, esq., as it is written. 
 
 " [Originally,— 
 " So sunk in dullness, and so lost iu shame. 
 That 3iuythe and Hodgson scarce redeem thy name."] 
 
 " The " Aboriginal Britons," an excellent poem by Ricliarda. 
 [The Rev. George Richards, D. D., has also sent from the presf 
 "Songs of the .\boriginal Bards of Britain," "Modem France,'* 
 two volumes of Miscellaneous Poems, and Bampton Lecturei 
 " On the Divine Origin of Prophecy."] 
 
438 
 
 BYRONS' WORKS. 
 
 But Rome dpcay'd, and Athens strew'd the plain, 
 A.iid 'I'yic^'s proud piers Ho shatter'd in the main ; 
 Like these, tliy strenj^tli may sink, in ruin hurl'd, 
 And Britain fall, the bulwark of the world. 
 But let me cease, and dread Cassandra's fate, 
 With warning ever scotf'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 Britain ! l)e thy rulers bless'd, 
 The senate's oracles, the people's jest ! 
 Still hear thy motley orators dispense 
 The flowers of rhetoric, though not of sense, 
 Wliile Canning's colleagues hate him for his wit, 
 And old dame Portland' fills the place of Pitt. 
 
 Yet once again, adieu ! ere this the sail 
 That wafts me hence is shivering in the gale ; 
 And Afric's coast and Calpe's adverse height. 
 And Staniboul's minarets must greet my sight : 
 Thence shall I stray through beauty's native clime," 
 Wliere Kaff' is clad in rocks, and crown'd with 
 
 snows sublime. 
 But should I back return, no temiDting press' 
 Sliall drag my journal from the desk's recess : 
 Let coxcombs, printing as they come from far. 
 Snatch his own wreath of ridicule from Carr ;" 
 Let Aberdeen and Elgin' still pursue 
 The shade of fame through regions of virtu ; 
 Waste useless thousands on their Phidian freaks, 
 Misshapen monuments and maim'd antiques ; 
 And make their grand saloons a general mart 
 For all the mutilated blocks of art. 
 Of Darden tours let dilettanti tell, 
 I leave topography to rapid" Gell ;' 
 And, quite content, no more shall interpose 
 To stun the public ear — at least with prose. 
 
 Thus far Pve held my undisturl/d career. 
 Prepared for rancor, steel'd 'gainst selfish fear : 
 This thing of rhyme I ne'er disdain'd to own — 
 
 ' With this vorso the satire originally ended. 
 
 ' A friend of mine being asl^ed. why his Grace of Portland was 
 likened to an old woman ? replied, " he suppoc*ed it war* because 
 ne was past bearing." Ilis Grace is now gathered to his grand- 
 mothers, where he sleeps as sound as ever; but even his slct«p 
 was better than his collcigues' waking. ISll. 
 
 ' Georgia. * Mount CaucasuB. 
 
 ' These four lines originally stood.— 
 
 " But should I hack return, no letter'd sago 
 Shall drag my conimon-iilace book on the stage ; 
 Let vain Vale\.ti«* rival luckless Carr, 
 And equal him whose work he sought to mar." 
 
 • Lord Valentia (whose tremendous travels are forthcoming, 
 with due decorations, graphical, topographical, typographical.) de- 
 posed, on Sir .Tohn Carr's unlucky suit, that Mr. Dubois's satire 
 prevented his purchase of the " Stranger in Ireland."— O. fio, my 
 loRl ! has your lordship no more feeling for a fellow-tourist ?— but 
 *lw< of/ trade," they say. etc. 
 
 Though not obtrusive, yet not quite unknown ; 
 
 My voice was heard again, though not so loud. 
 
 My page, though nameless, never disavow'd ; 
 
 And now at once I tear the veil away : — 
 
 Cheer on the pack ! the quarry stan<ls at bay, 
 
 TJnscared by all the din of Melbourne bouse. 
 
 By Lamb's resentment, or by Holland's spouse. 
 
 By Jefirey's harmless pistol, Hallam's rage, 
 
 Edina's brawny sons and brimstone page ; 
 
 Our men in buckram shall have blows enough. 
 
 And feel they too "are penetrable stuff:" 
 
 And though I hope not hence unscathed to go, 
 
 Who conquers me shall find a stubl)orn foe. 
 
 The time hath been, when no harsh sound would fall 
 
 From lips that now m.ay seem imbued with gaU ; 
 
 Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise 
 
 The meanest thing that crawl'd beneath my eyes : 
 
 But now, so callous grown, so changed since youth, 
 
 Pve learn'd to think, and sternly speak the truth ; 
 
 Leam'd to deride the critic's starch decree. 
 
 And break him on the wheel he meant for me ; 
 
 To spurn the rod a scribbler bids me kiss. 
 
 Nor care if courts and crowds ajiplaud or hiss : 
 
 Nay more, tliough all my rival rhymesters frown, 
 
 I too can hunt a poetaster down ; 
 
 And, arm'd in proof, the gaiuitlet cast at once 
 
 To Scotch marauder, and to southern dutice. 
 
 Thus much I've dared ; if my incondite lay 
 
 Ilath wrong'd these righteous times, let others say ; 
 
 This, let the world, which knows not how to spare. 
 
 Yet rarely blames unjustly, now declare. 
 
 P08TCRIPT TO THE SECOND EDITION. 
 
 I HAVE been informed, since the present edition went to the 
 press, that my trusty and well-beloved cousins, the Edinburgh 
 Reviewers, are preparing a most vehement crititjue on my poor, 
 gentle, virrt'xiMinf/ Muse, whom they have already so he-deviled 
 with their ungodly ribaldry : 
 
 " Tantjene animis cffilestibus ir»e I" 
 I suppose I must say of Jeffrey as Sir Andrew .\guecheek aaltb, 
 " .\n I had known lie was so cunning of fence, I had seen bim 
 damned ere I hid fought him." What a pity it is that I shall be 
 beyond the Bosphorus before the next number has passed the 
 Tweed t But I yet hope to light my pipe with it in Persia. 
 
 • [In a letter written from Gibraltar to his friend Hodgson, Lord 
 Byron says, — "I have seen Sir John Carr at Seville and Cadiz, 
 and, like Swift's barber, have been down on my knees to beg he 
 would not put me into black and while."] 
 
 " Lord I'^lgin would fain persu.ide us that all the figures, with 
 and without noses, in his stoncsbop, are tlie work of Phidias I 
 " Credat Judanis I" 
 
 '^ [The original epithet was '^ classic." Lord liyron altered it 
 in the fifth edition, and added this note :— " ' Bapid,' indeed 1 lie 
 topographized King Priam's dominions in three days I I culleu 
 him 'classic" before I saw the Troad. but since have learned betr 
 ter than to tack to his name what don't bchuig to it."] 
 
 " Mr. Cell's Topography of Troy and Ithaca cannot fail to en- 
 sure the approb.ilion of every man iiossessed of classical tasti as 
 thj well for the information Mr. Gdl conveys to the mind orthe 
 reader, as for the ability and research the respective works dis- 
 play.— [" Since seeing the plain ol Troy, my opinions are somfl- 
 wbat changed as to the above note. Cell's survey was hasty an* 
 superficial." -B. 1816.1 
 
HINTS FROM HOKACl!.. 
 
 489 
 
 Mv nortberu friends have accused me, with justice, of person- 
 ality towards their great literary anthropophagus, Jeffrey ; but 
 what else was to be done with bim and his dirty pack, who feed by 
 " lying and tiaudering," and slake their thirst by '' evil speaking ?" 
 I have adduced facts already well known, and of Jeffrey's mind I 
 have stated my free opinion, nor has he thence sustained any 
 injury ;— what scavenger was ever soiled by being pelted with 
 mud ? It may be said that I quit England because I have censured 
 there *' persons of honor and wit about town ;" but T am coming 
 back again, and their vengeance will keep hot till my return. 
 ■Jhose who know me can testify that my motives for leaving Eng- 
 land are very different from fears, literary or personal : those who 
 do not, may one day be convinced. Since the publication of this 
 thing, my name has not been concealed ; I have been mostly in 
 London, ready to answer for my transgressions, and in daily ex- 
 pectation of sundry cartels; but, alas 1 "-the age of chivalry is 
 over," or, in the vulgar tongue, there is no spirit now-a-dayg. 
 
 There is a youth ycleped Hewson Clarke, (subaudi esg^nre,) a 
 sizcr of Emanuel College, and, I believe, a denizen of Bcrwick- 
 apoii-Tweed, whom I have introduced in these pages to much 
 better company than he has been accustomed to meet : he is, not- 
 Tiith 3 landing, a very sad dog, and for no reason that I can dis- 
 
 cover, except a personal quarrel with a bear, kept by me at 
 Cambridge to sit for a fellowship, and whom the jealousy of 
 his Trinity contemporaries prevented from success, has been 
 abusing me, and, what is worse, the defenceless innocent above- 
 mentioned, in the " f^atirist," for one year and some months. I 
 am utterly unconscious of ha\'ing given him any provocation ; 
 indeed, I am guiltless of having heard his name til! coupled with 
 the " Satirist." He has therefore no reason to complain, and I 
 dare say that, like Sir Fretful Plagiary, he is rather pleased than 
 otherwise. I have now mentioned all who have done me the 
 honor to notice me and mine, that is, my bear and my book, 
 except the editor of the ■' Satirist," who, it seems, is a gentleman 
 —God wot I I wish he could impart a little of his gentility to hia 
 subordinate scribblers. I hear that Mr. Jemingham is about to 
 take up the cudgels for his Msecenas, Lord Carlisle. I hope not ; 
 he was one of the few, who, in the very short intercourse I had 
 with bim, 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 publishers ; and, in the words of Scott, I wish 
 " To all and each a fair good night. 
 And rosy dreams and slumbers light." 
 
 HINTS FROM HORACE: 
 
 BEIKO AN ALLUSION Df ENGLISH TERSE TO THE EPISTLE "AD PISONES, DE ARTE POETICA," AND INTENDED . 
 A SEQUEL TO " ENGLISH BABDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS." 
 
 " Ergo fuDgar vice cotie, acutum 
 
 Reddere quaj ferrum valet, essors ipsa secandi." 
 
 HoR. De Arte Poetlca. 
 
 ' Rhymes are difflcuit things — they are stubborn things, sir." 
 
 Fielding's Amelia. 
 
 ATHENS. Capuchin Convent, March 12, ISll. 
 Who would not laugii, if Lawrence, hired to grace 
 His costly convass with each flatter'd face, 
 iVbused his art, till Nature, with a blush. 
 Saw cits grow centaurs underneath his brush ? 
 Or, should some limner join, for show or sale, 
 A maid of honor to a mermaid's tail ? 
 Or low Dubost — as once the world has seen — 
 Degrade God"s creatures in his grajihic spleen ? 
 Not all that forced politeness, which defeudsi 
 Fools in their faults, could gag his grinning friends,' 
 Believe me, Moschus," like that picture seems 
 The book which, sillier than a sick man's dreams. 
 Displays a crowd of figures incomplete, 
 Poetic nightmares, without head or feet." 
 
 Poets and painters, as all artist know, 
 
 1 In an English new.-^paper, which finds its way abroad where- 
 ever there are Englishmen, I road an account of this dirty dauber's 
 caricature of Mr. H — - as a '■ b ast," and the consequent action, 
 etc. The circumstance is, probably, too well known to require 
 further comment.— [Tlie geulleman here alluded to was Thomas 
 Hope. Esq., the author of '* Anasta^ius," and one of the most 
 munificent p.aIrous of art this country ever possessed. Having, 
 somehow, ofiendcd an unprincipled French painter, by name 
 Dnbost, that adventurer revenged himself by a picture called 
 " Beauty and the Beast," in which Mr. Hope and his lady were 
 represented according to the well-known 'airy storj-. The picture 
 had too much malice not to succeed ; anu, to the disgrace of John I 
 
 May shoot a little with a lengthen'd bow , 
 "We claim this mutual mercy for our task. 
 And grant in turn the pardon which we ask , 
 But make not monsters spring from gentle damB — 
 Birds breed not vipers, tigers nurse not lambs. 
 
 A labor'd, long exordium, sometimes tends 
 (Like patriot speeches) but to paltry ends ; 
 And nonsense in a lofty note goes down 
 As pertness passes with a legal gown : 
 Thus many a bard describes in pompous strain 
 The clear brook babbling through the goodly jilain; 
 The groves of Grants, and her Gothic halls [walls; 
 King's Coll., Cam's stream, stain'd windows, and old 
 Or, in advent'rous numbers, neatly aims 
 To paint a rainbow, or — the river Thames.* 
 
 Bull, the exhibition of it is said to liave fetched thirty pouuds In 
 a day. A brother of Mrs. Hope thrust his sword through the can- 
 vass; and M. Dubost had the consolation to get five pounds dam- 
 ages. The affair made much noise at the time ; though Mr. Hope 
 had not then pkaced himself on that seat of literary eminence 
 which lie afterwards attained. Probably, indeed, no man's repu- 
 tation in the world was ever so suddenly and completely altered, 
 as his was by the appearance of his magnificent romance. He 
 died in 1S3.3.] 
 ' [" Moschus."— In the original MS., " Hobhonae."] 
 = [The opening of the poem Is, with reference to the original, 
 ingenious. — Moobe.] 
 < " Where pure description held the plac« of sense."— Pope. 
 
44U 
 
 BYRON 'S WORKS. 
 
 You sketch a tree, and so perhaps may shine — 
 But daub a shipwreck like an alehouse sign ; 
 You plan a vnse — it dmudlcs to a jiot ; 
 Then glide down Grulj-strect — fasting and forgot ; 
 Laugh VI into Lethe by some quaint Review, 
 Whose wit is never troublesome till — true. 
 
 In fine, to whatsoever you aspire. 
 Let it at least be sim])le and entire. 
 
 The greater portion of the rhyming tribe 
 (Give ear. my friend, fjr thou hast been a scribe) 
 Are led astray l>y some peculiar lure. 
 I labor to be brief — become obscure ; 
 One falls w-hile following elegance too fast ; 
 Another soars, inflated with bomljast ; 
 Too low a third crawls on, afraid to lly, 
 lie spins his subject to satiety ; 
 Absurdly varying, he at last engraves 
 Fisli in the woods, and Ijoars beneath the waves 1 
 
 Unless your care 's exact, your judgment nice, 
 The flight from folly leads but into vice ; 
 None are complete, all wanting in some part. 
 Like certain tailors, limited in art. 
 For gallygaskins Slowshears is your man ; 
 But coats must elaim another artisan.' 
 Now this to me, I own, seems much the same 
 As Vulcan's feet to bear Apollo's frame ; 
 Or, with a fair complexion, to expose 
 Black eyes, black ringlets, but— a bottle nose ! 
 
 Dear autliors ! suit your topics to your strength, 
 And ponder well your subject, and its length ; 
 Nor lift your load, before you're quite aware 
 What weight your shoulders will, or will not, bear. 
 But lucid (Jrder, and Wit's siren voice. 
 Await the poet, skilful in his choice; 
 With native eloquence he soars along, 
 Grace in his thoughts, and music in his song. 
 
 Let judgment teach him wisely to combine 
 With future parts the now omitted line : 
 This shall the author choose, or that reject. 
 Precise in style, and cautious to select ; 
 Nor slight applause will candid pens afford 
 To him who furnishes a wanting word. 
 Then fear not, if 'tis needful, to produce 
 Some terui unknown, or obsolete in use, 
 (As Pitf^ has furnish'd us a word or two, 
 
 1 ^lere common mortals were commonly content with one tailor 
 and witti one bill, Imt ttio more particular ;;ontU*men founri it im- 
 pot't'ible to confide their lower garments to the makers of their 
 body clothe3. I speak of the bei^inninsf of ISOO : what reform 
 may have since taken place, I neither know, nor desire to know. 
 
 '^ Mr. Pitt was liberal in hie additions to our parliamentary 
 tonf^ue : as may be seen ia many publicat'.oi *, particularly the 
 Edinburich Ueview 
 
 Which lexicographers declined to do,) 
 
 So you indeed, w ith care — (but be content 
 
 To take this license rarely,) —may invent. 
 
 New words find credit in tliese latter days 
 
 If neatly grafted on a Gallic phrase. 
 
 What Chaucer, Spenser did, we scarce refuse 
 
 To Drydcn's or to Pope's maturer muse. 
 
 If you can add a little, say why not. 
 
 As well as William Pitt, and Walter Scott ? 
 
 Since they, by force of rhyme and force of lungg, 
 
 Enrich'd our island's ill-united tongues ; 
 
 'Tis then — and shall Ije — lawful to present 
 
 Reform in writing, as in parliament. 
 
 As forests shed their foliage by degrees, 
 So fade expressions which in season please ; 
 And we and ours, alas ! are due to fate, 
 And works and words but dwindle to a date. 
 Though as a monarch nods, and commerce calls. 
 Impetuous rivers stagnate in canals ; 
 Though swamps subdued, and marshes drain'd, 
 
 sustain 
 The heavy ploughshare and the yellow grain, 
 And rising ports along the busy shore 
 Protect the vessel from old Ocean's roar. 
 All, all must perish ; but, surviving last. 
 The love of letters half jirescrves the past. 
 True, some decay, yet not a few revive f 
 Though those shall sink, which now appear to thrive, 
 As custom arbitrates, whose shifting sway 
 Our life and language must alike obey. 
 
 Tlie immortal wars which gods and angels wage, 
 Are they not shown in Milton's sacred page ? 
 His strain will teach what numbers best belong 
 To themes celestial told in epic song. 
 
 The slow, sad stanza will correctly paint 
 The lover's anguish, or the friend's complaint. 
 But which deserves the laurel — rhyme or blank ? 
 Which holds on Helicon the higher rank ? 
 Let squabbling critics by themselves dispute 
 This point, as puzzling as a Chancery suit. 
 
 Satiric rhyme first sprang from selfish spleen. 
 You doulit — see Drydeu, Pope, St. Patrick's dean.' 
 
 Blank verse is now, with one consent, allied 
 To Tragedy, and rarely quits her side. 
 Though mad Almanzor rhymed in Dryden's days, 
 
 ' Old ballads, old plays, and old wosien's stories are at preseat 
 
 in as much request as old wine or new speeches. In fact, this is 
 the millennium of black letter; thanks to our Ilebers, Webers, 
 and Scotts I 
 
 * " Mac Flccknoe," the " Donciad," and all Swift's lampoonlni; 
 ballfuls. Whatever their other works may be. these originated In 
 personal fcclinjjs, and angry retort on unworthy rivals ; and 
 though the ability of these satires elevates the poetical, their poi^ 
 nancy dctr.acts from the personal cliaracter of the writers. 
 
HINTS FROM HORACE, 
 
 441 
 
 No sing-song hero rants in modern Jilays; 
 
 VTliile modest Comedy lier verse foregoes 
 
 For jest and2>i/'t' in very middling prose. 
 
 Not that our Bens or Beaumonts show the worse, 
 
 Or lose one point, because they wrote in verse. 
 
 But so Thalia pleases to appear. 
 
 Poor virgin ! damn'd some twenty times a year ! 
 
 Whate'er the scene ; let this advice have weight : — 
 Adapt your language to your hero's state. 
 At times Meljxjmene forgets to groan. 
 And bnsk Thalia takes a serious tone ; 
 Nor unregarded will the act pass by 
 Where angry Townly^ lifts his voice on liigh. 
 Again, our Shakspeare limits verso to kings, 
 When common prose will serve for common things ; 
 And lively Hal resigns heroic ire, 
 To " holloing Hotspur" and the sceptred sire. 
 
 'Tis not enough, ye bards, with all your art, 
 To polish poeuis ; — they must touch the heart : 
 Where'er the scene be laid, where'er the song, 
 Still let it Ijear the hearer's soul along ; 
 Command your audience or to smile or weep, 
 Whiche'er may please you — any thing but sleep. 
 The poet claims our tears ; but, by his leave, 
 Before I shed them, let me see him grieve. 
 
 If bauish'd Romeo feign'd nor sigh nor tear, 
 Lull'd by his languor, I should sleep or sneer. 
 Sad words, no doubt, become a serious face. 
 And men look angry in the joroper place. 
 At double meanings folks seem wondrous sly. 
 And sentiment prescribes a pensive eye ; 
 For nature forui'd at first the inward man. 
 And actors copy nature — when they can. 
 She bids the beating heart with rapture bound. 
 Raised to the stars, or levell'd ■nith the ground; 
 And for expression's aid, 'tis said, or sung. 
 She gave our mind's interpreter — the tongue. 
 Who, worn with use, of late would fain dispense 
 (At least in theatres) with common sense ; 
 
 ' With all tlie ^Tilgar applause and critical abhorrence of puTUi^ 
 they have Aristotle on their side ; who permits them to oratois, 
 and gives them consequence by a t^ve disquisition. 
 '^ [In Vanbrujh's comedy of the "Provoked Husb.iud."] 
 3 " And in his ear I'll hollo Mortimer !"— I Henry IV. 
 
 * ('Johnson. Pray, Mr. Bayes. who is that Drawcansir? Bayes. 
 Why. Sir, a great hero, that frights his mistress, snubs up kings, 
 baffles armies, and docs what he will, without regard to numbers, 
 good Ben?e, or justice." — Jiehearsai. 
 
 * About two ye.ir8 ai::o a young man, uamed Towneend, was an- 
 nounced by Mr. Cumberland (in a review since deceased) as being 
 en^^ged on an epic poem to be entitled " Armaireddon." The 
 plan and specimen promise much ; but I hope neither to offend 
 Mr. Townsend. nor his frieuds, by recommending to his attention 
 the lines of Ilor.ice to which these rhymes allude. If Mr. Town- 
 send succeeds in his undertaking, as there is reason to hope, how 
 much will the world be indebted to Mr. Cumberland for bringing 
 him before the public ! But. till that evcntlul day arrives, it may 
 be doubted whether the premature display of bis plan (sublime as 
 the ideas confessedly are) has not, — by raising expectation too 
 
 50 
 
 O'erwhelm with sound the boxes, gallery, pit, 
 And raise a laugh with any thing — but wit. 
 
 To skilful writers it will much import, 
 Wlience spring their scenes, from common life 01 
 
 court ; 
 Whether they seek ajjplause by smile or tear. 
 To draw a " Lying Valet," or a " Lear," 
 A sage, or rakish youngster wild from school, 
 A wandering " Peregrine," or plain " John Bull ;" 
 All persons jjlease when nature's voice prevails, 
 Scottish or Irish, bom in Wilts or Wales. 
 
 Or follow common fame, or forge a plot. 
 Wlio cares if mimic heroes lived or not ? 
 One precept serve to regulate the scene : — 
 Make it appear as if it 'Might have heen. 
 
 If some Drawcansir^ you aspire to draw. 
 Present him raving and above aU law : 
 If female furies in your scheme are plann'd, 
 Macbeth's fierce dame is ready to your hand ; 
 For tears and treachery, for good and evil, 
 Constance, King Richard, Hamlet, and the Devill 
 But if a new design you dare essay. 
 And freely wander from the beaten way. 
 True to your characters, till all be pass'd, 
 Preserve consistency from first to last. 
 
 'Tis hard to venture where our betters fail, 
 Or lend fresh interest to a twice-told tale ; 
 And yet, perchance, 'tis wiser to prefer 
 A hackney'd plot, than choose a new, and err ; 
 Yet copy not too closely, but record. 
 More justly, thought for thought than word for word. 
 Nor trace your prototi,i)e through narrow ways. 
 But onlj' follow where he merits praise. 
 
 For you, young bard ! whom luckless fate may 
 To tremble on the nod of all who read, [lead 
 
 Ere your first score of cantos time unrolls, 
 Beware — for God's sake, don't begin like Bowles !' 
 
 high, or diminishing curiosity, by developing his argument, — 
 rather incurred the hazard of injuring Sir. Townsend's future 
 prospects. Mr. Cumberland (whose talents I shall not depreciate 
 by the humble tribute of my praise) and Mr. Townsend must not 
 suppose me actuated by unworthy motive? in this suggestion. I 
 wish the author all the success he can wish himself, and shall be 
 truly happy to see epic poetry weighed up from the bathos where 
 it lies suuken with Sonthey, Cottle, Cowley, (Mrs. or .'Vbraham.) 
 Ogilvy, Wilkie, Pyc. and all the " dull of past and present days." 
 Even if he is not a Milton^ he may be better than Blockmore ; if 
 not an Ilonier^ an Antimachus. I should deem myself presump- 
 tuous, as a young man. in offering advice, were it not addressed 
 to one still younger. Mr. Townsend has the greatest difficulties 
 to encounter: but in conquering them he will find employment; 
 in having conquered them, his reward. I know too well "tha 
 scribbler's scoff, the critic's contumely :" and I am afraid time 
 will teach Mr. Townsend to laiow them better. Those who sue 
 ceed, and those who do no, must bear this alike, and it is hard to 
 say which have most of it. I trust that Mr. Townsend's shaio 
 will be from enry ; — he will soon know n ankind well euongb not 
 to attribute this expression to malice. 
 
442 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 'Awake a louder and a loftier strain," — 
 
 And pray, what follows from his boiling brain ? — 
 
 lie sinks to Southe}''s level in a trice, 
 
 Whose epic mountains never fail in mice ! 
 
 Not so of yore awoke your mighty sire 
 
 The temper'd warlilings of his master-lyre ; 
 
 Soft as the gentler breathing of the lute, 
 
 " Of man's first disobedienee and the fruit " 
 
 He speaks, but, as his subject swells along, 
 
 Earth, heaven, and Hades echo with the song; 
 
 Still to the midst of things he hastens on. 
 
 As if we witnessed all already done ; 
 
 Leaves on his path whatever seems too mean 
 
 To raise the subject, or adorn the scene ; 
 
 Gives, as each page improves upon the sight. 
 
 Not smoke from brightness, but from darkness — 
 
 light ; 
 And truth and fiction with such art compounds. 
 We know not wher(^ to fix their several bounds. 
 If you would pl'-asc the public, deign to hear 
 What soothes tlie mauy-hcaded monster's ear; 
 If your heart triumph when the hands of all 
 Applaud in thunder at the curtain's fall. 
 Deserve those plaudits — study nature's page, 
 And sketch the striking traits of every age ; 
 While varving man and varying years unfold 
 Life's little tale, so oft, so vainly told : 
 Observe his sirai)lo childhood's dawning days, 
 His pranks, his jJrate, his playmates, and his plays ; 
 Till time at length the mannish tyro weans. 
 And ])rurient vice outstrips his tardy teens ! 
 
 Behold him freshman ! forced no more to groan 
 O'er Virgil's' devilish verses and — his own ; 
 Prayers are too tedious, lectures too abtrase, 
 He flies from TavcU's frown to " Fordham's Mews ;" 
 (Unlucky Tavell !^ doom'd to daily cares 
 By pugilistic pupils, and l)y bears,') 
 Fines, tutors, tasks, conventions threat in vain, 
 Before hounds, hunters, and Newmarket plain. 
 ' Rough with his eldiTS, with his equals rash. 
 Civil to sharpers, prodigal of cash ; 
 Constant to naught — save hazard and a whore, 
 Yet cursing both^-for both have made him sore ; 
 Unread, (unless, since books beguile disease. 
 The p — X becomes his passage to ijegrees ;) 
 Fool'd, pillaged, dunn'd, he wastes his term away, 
 
 • Harvey, the ciraUator of the circulation of the blood, used to 
 fling away Viriiil in tiis ecsla^y of admiration, and t^ny, " the book 
 had a devil." Now. pucli a character as I am copyin;; would prob- 
 nbly flin^ it away also, but latlier wish that tlie devil had the book ; 
 not from dislike to the poet, but a well-founded horror of hexame- 
 ters. Indeed, the public school penance of " Lon^ and Short" is 
 enough to beget an antii)athy to poetry for the residue of a man's 
 life, and. perhaps, so far may be an advant.igo. 
 
 '•* " Infanduin. regina, jubes rcnovare dolorcra." I dare say Mr. 
 Tavell (to wliom I mean no affront) will understand me : and it is 
 10 matter wdiether any one else does or no.— To tlie above events. 
 
 And, unexpell'd perhaps, retires M.A. ; 
 Master of arts ! as hclh and chtW proclaim, 
 Where scarce a blackleg bears a briglitcr name I 
 
 Launch'd into life, extinct his early fire, 
 He apes the selfish prudence of his sire ; 
 Marries for money, chooses friends for rank. 
 Buys land, and shrewdly trusts not to the Bank ; 
 Sits in the Senate ; gets a son and heir ; 
 Sends him to Harrow, for himself was there. 
 Mute, though he votes, unless when call'd to cheei 
 HiB son 'b so sharp — he'll see the dog a peer ! 
 
 JIanhood declines — age palsies every limb ; 
 He quits the scene — or else the scene quits him ; 
 Scrapes wealth, o'er each departing penny grieves, 
 And avarice seizes all aml>ition leaves ; 
 Counts cent jier cent, and smiles, or vainly frets, 
 O'er hoards dimiuish'd by young Hopeful's debts; 
 Weighs well and wisely what to sell or Ijiiy, 
 Complete in all life's lessons — but to die ; 
 Peevish and spiteful, doting, hard to please. 
 Commending every time, save times like these ; 
 Crazed, querulous, forstiken, half forgot. 
 Expires unwept — is buried — let him rot ! 
 
 But from the Drama let nie not digress, 
 Nor spare my precepts, though they jjlcase you less. 
 Though woman weep, and liardest hearts are stirr'd 
 W'hen what is done is rather seen than heard, 
 Yet many deeds preserved in history's page, 
 Are better told than acted on the stage ; 
 The ear sustains what shocks the timid eye. 
 And horror thus sulisides to sympathy. 
 True Briton all besides, I here am French — 
 Bloodshed 'tis surely better to retrench ; 
 The gladiatorial gore we teach to flow 
 In tragic scene disgusts, though but in show ; 
 We hate the carnage while we see the trick, 
 And find small sympathy in being sick. 
 Not on the stage the regicide Macbeth 
 Appals an audience with a monarch's death ; 
 To gaze when sable Hubert threats to sear 
 Young Artliur's eyes, can (nim or luiliire bear? 
 A halter'd heroine" Johnson sought to slay — 
 We saved Irene, but half damn'd the play. 
 And (Heaven be praised !) our tolerating times 
 Stint metamorphoses to pantomimes ; 
 
 " quipque ipse miserrima vidi, et quorum pars m.agna fui," "aU 
 iinuf! and terms bear testimony." 
 
 3 [The Rev. G, K. Tavell was a fellow and tutor of Trinity Col- 
 lege, Cambridge, during Lord Byron's residence, and owed this 
 notice to the zeal with which be had protested against some juve- 
 nile vagaries, sulliciently explained in Mr. Moore's Notices.] 
 
 * " Hell." a gaining-liouse so-called, wlicre you ri^k little, and 
 arc cheated a good deal. "Club," a pleasant purgatory, where 
 you lose more, and are not supposed to be cheated at all. 
 
 ' "Irene bad to speak two lines with the bowstring round bei 
 neck ; but the audience cried out ' 5Iurder !' and she was obliged 
 to go oil' the stage alive."— i(osa'<H'» Johnson. 
 
HINTS FROM HORACE. 
 
 443 
 
 And Lewis' self, with all his sprites, would quake 
 To change Earl Osmond's negro to a snake ! 
 Because, in scenes exciting joy or grief, 
 We loathe the action whicli exceeds belief: 
 And yet, God knows ! what may not authors do. 
 Whose postscripts prate of dyeing " heroines blue ?'" 
 
 Above all things, Dan Poet, if you can. 
 Eke out your acts, I pray, with mortal man ; 
 Nor call a ghost, unless some cursed scrape 
 Must open ten trajj-doors for your escape. 
 Of all the monstrous things I'd fain forl)id, 
 I loathe an opera worse than Dennis did ; 
 Whore good and evil persons, right or wrong, 
 Rage, love, and aught but moralize, in song. 
 Hail, last memorial of our foreign friends, 
 Whicli Gaul allows, and still Hespcria lends ! 
 Napoleon's edicts no embargo lay 
 On whores, spies, singers wisely shipp'd away. 
 Our giant capital, whose squares are spread, 
 Wlicre rustics earn'd, and now may beg, their bread, 
 In aU iniquity is grown so nice, 
 It scorns amusements which are not oi" price. 
 Hence the pert siiopkeeper, whose throbbing ear 
 Aches with orchestras which he pays to hear. 
 Whom shame, not sympathy, forbids to snore, 
 His anguish doubling by his own '' encore ;" 
 Squeezed in " Fop's Alley," jostled by the beaux, 
 Teased with his hat, and trembling for his toes ; 
 Scarce wrestles through the night, nor tastes of ease, 
 Till the dropp'd curtain gives a glad release : 
 Why this, and more, he sutlers — can ye guess ? — 
 Because it costs him dear, and makes him dress ! 
 
 So prosper eunuchs from Etruscan schools ; 
 Give us but fiddlers, and they're sure of fools ! 
 Ere scenes were play'd by many a reverend clerk,' 
 (What harm, if David danced before the ark ?) 
 In Christmas revels, simple country folks [jokes. 
 Were pleased with morrice-mumm'ry, and coarse 
 Improving years, with things no longer known. 
 Produced blithe Punch and merry JIadame Joan, 
 Who still fi-isk on with feats so lewdly low, 
 'Tis strange Benvolio' sufl'ers such a show ; 
 Suppressing peer ! to whom each vice gives place, 
 Oaths, boxing, begging, — all, save rout and race. 
 
 Farce follow'd Comedy, and reach'd her prime, 
 In ever-laughing Foote's fantastic time : 
 
 ' In the postscript to the •' Castle Spectre," Mr, Lewis tells us, 
 that though blacks were unknown in En'^land at the period of his 
 action, yet he has made the anachronism to set off the scene ; and 
 if he could have produced the ellect "by making his heroine 
 blue,"— I quote him—" blue he would have made her !" 
 
 2 "Tlie first theatrical representations, entitled ■Mysteries and 
 Moralities.' were generally enacted at Clu■i^tmas, by monks, (as 
 the only persons who could read.) and latterly by the clergy and 
 ttudents of the universities. The dramatis personse were usually 
 Adam, Pater Ccelestis, Faith, Vice," etc., etc. 
 
 3 Benvulio does not bet; but every man who maintains race- 
 no" <C3 is a promoter of all th ; c'>»comitant evils of the turf. 
 
 Mad wag ! who pardon'd none, nor spared the best, 
 And turn'd some very serious things to jest. 
 Nor church nor state escaped his public sneers, 
 Arms nor the gown, jiriests, lawyers, volunteers, 
 " Alas, poor Yorick !" now forever mute ! 
 Whoever loves a laugh must sigh for Foote. 
 
 We smile, perforce, when histrionic scenes 
 Ape the swolu dialogue of kings and queens, 
 Wlieu '' Chrononhotonthologos must die," 
 And Arthur struts in mimic majesty. 
 
 Moschus ! with whom once more I hope to sit, 
 And smile at folly, if we can't at wit ; 
 Yes, friend ! for thee I'll quit my cynic cell. 
 And bear Swift's motto, " Vive la bagatelle !" 
 Which charm'd our days in each iEgean clime, 
 As oft at home, with revehy and rhyme. 
 Then may Eui^hrosyne, who sped the jMst, 
 Soothe thy Ute's scenes, nor leave thee in the last ; 
 But fiud in thine, Uke jjagan Plato's bed,* 
 Some merry manuscript of mimes, when dead. 
 
 Now to the Drama let us bend our eyes. 
 Where fetter'd by whig Walpole low she lies ; 
 Corruption foil'd her, for she fear'd her glance ; 
 Decorum left her for an opera dance ! 
 Yet Chesterfield," whose polish'd pen inveighs 
 'Gainst laughter, fought for freedom to our plays ; 
 Uncheck'd by megrims of patrician brains. 
 And danming dulness of lord chamberlains. 
 Repeal that act !' again let Humor roam. 
 Wild o'er the stage — we've time for tears at home ; 
 Let "Archer" plant the horns on " Sullcn's" brows, 
 And " Estifania" gull her " Copper'" spouse ; 
 The moral's scant — but that may be excused, 
 Slen go not to be lectured, but amused. 
 He whom our plays dispose to good or ill 
 Must wear a head in want of Willis' skill ; 
 Ay, but Macheath's example — psha ! — no more ! 
 It form'd no thieves — the thief was form'd before ; 
 And, spite of puritans and Collier's curse," 
 Plays make mankind no better, and no worse. 
 Then spare our stage, ye methodistic men ; 
 Nor burn damn'd Drury if it rise again. 
 But why to brain-scorch'd bigots thus appeal ? 
 Can heavenly mercy dwell with earthly zeal ? 
 
 Avoiding to bet is a little Pharisaical. Is it an escnlpation f 1 
 think not. I never yet heard a bawd praised for chastity, because 
 the herself did not commit fornication I 
 
 • IJndcr Plato's pillow a volume of the 3!imm of Sophron was 
 found the day he died.— V"t(?« Barthelcmi, De Pauw, or Diogenes 
 Laertius, if agreeable. Pe Pauw calls it a jest-book. Cumberland, 
 in his Observer, terms it moral, like the sayings of Publius S.vrus, 
 
 ' His speech on the Licensing Act is one of his most eloquent 
 efforts. 
 
 ' Michael Perez, the " Copper Captain," in " Rule a Wife aii.l 
 have a Wife." 
 
 ' Jerry Collier's controversy with Congreve, etc., on the sul jecl 
 of the drama, is too well known to require further comment. 
 
iU 
 
 BYRON 'S WORKS 
 
 For times of fire and fagot let them hope 1 
 rimes dear alike to puritan or pope. 
 
 As ])ious Calvin saw Servetus blaze, 
 
 5o would new sects on newer victims gaze. 
 
 E'en now tlie soncrs of Solyma begin ; 
 
 Faith cants, perplex'd ajiologies of sin ! 
 
 WTiile the Lord's servant chastens whom he loves, 
 
 Ajid Simeon' kicks, where Baxter only " shoves." ' 
 
 Whom nature guides, so writes, that every donee 
 Enraptured, things to do the same at once ; 
 But after inky thumbs and bitten nails, 
 And twenty scatter'd quires, the coxcomb fails. 
 
 Let Pastoral be dumb ; for who can hope 
 To match the youthful eclogues of our Pope ? 
 Yet his and Phillips' faults, of ditTereut kind, 
 For art too rude, for nature too refined. 
 Instruct how hard the medium 'tis to hit 
 'Twixt too much polish and too coarse a wit. 
 
 A vulgar scribbler, certes, stands disgraced 
 In this nice age, when all asjjire to taste; 
 The dirty language, and the noisome jest, 
 Which pleased in Swift of yore, we now detest; 
 Proscribed not only in the world polite, 
 But even too nasty for a city knight !_ 
 
 Peace to Swift's faults ! his wit hath made them 
 Unmateh'd liy aU, save matchless lludibras ! [pass. 
 Whose author is perhaps the first we meet, 
 Wlio from our couplet lopp'd two final feet ; 
 Nor less in merit than the longer line, 
 This measure moves a favorite of the Nine. 
 Though at first view eight feet may seem in vain 
 Form'd, save in ode, to bear a serious strain. 
 Yet Scott has shown our wondering isle of late 
 This measure shrinks not from a theme of weight. 
 And, varied skilfully, surpasses far 
 Heroic, rhyme, but most in love and war. 
 Whose fluctuations, tender or sublime, 
 Are curb'd too much by long-recurring rhyme. 
 
 But many a skilful judge abhors to see, 
 Wliat few admire — irregularity. 
 This some vouchsafe to pardon ; but 'tis hard 
 When such a word contents a British bard. 
 
 And must the bard his glowing thoughts confine. 
 Lest censure hover o'er some faulty line ? 
 
 I Mr. Simeon is thn very bully of belief*, and caslii^tor of 
 "good works." He U iibly supported by John Stickles, a laborer 
 in the same vineyard :— but I eay no more, for, according to 
 Johnny in full conureiration. ^'no hopes for them oa lavglut,^'' — 
 [The Kcv. Clinrlos Simeon, fellow of Kind's Collese, Cambridge,— 
 a zeaioue Calviuist, who, in consequence of his zeal, has been en- 
 gaged in sundry warm di-^pntatlons witli other divines of the uni- 
 versity. Besides many sinde sermons, he has pnblislied "Helps 
 to Composition, or 500 Skeleton Scnnons." in five volumes; and 
 •' TIorK Homileticje. or Discourses {in the form of skeletons) upon 
 Ihe wUo.e Scripture," in eleven vol'imes-l 
 
 Remove whate'er a critic may su8j>ect, 
 To gain the paltry suffrage of " correct V 
 Or prune the sjjirit of each daring phrase, 
 To fly from error, not to merit praise ? 
 
 Ye, who seek finish'd models, never cease, 
 By day and night, to read the works of Greece. 
 But our good fathers never bent their brains 
 To heatlien Greek, content with native strains. 
 The few who read a page, or used a jjen. 
 Were satisfied with Chaucer and old Ben ; 
 The jokes and numbers suited to their taste 
 Where quaint and careless, anytliing but chaste ; 
 Yet whether right or wrong the ancient rules. 
 It will not do to call our fathers fools ! 
 Though you and I, who eruditely know 
 To separate the elegant and low. 
 Can also, when a hobliling line apjjears, 
 Detect with fingers, in default of ears. 
 
 In sooth I do not know, or greatly care 
 To learn, who our first English strollers were; 
 Or if, till roofs received the vagrant art. 
 Our Muse, like that of Thespis, kept a cart; 
 But this is certain, since our Shakspeare's days, 
 There's pomp enough, if little else, in plays ; 
 Nor will Melpomene ascend her throne 
 Without high heels, white plume, and Bristol stone, 
 
 Old comedies still meet with much applause, 
 Though too licentious for dramatic laws : 
 At least, wo moderns, wisely, 'tis confcss'd, 
 Curtail, or silence, the lascivious jest. 
 
 Wh.ite'er their follies, and their faults beside, 
 Our enterprising bards pass naught untried; 
 Nor do they merit slight applause who choose 
 An English subject for an English muse, 
 And leave to minds which never dare invent 
 French flippancy and German sentiment. 
 Wlicre is that living language which could claim 
 Poetic more, as philosophic, fame, 
 If all our bards, more jxitient of delay. 
 Would sto]), like Pope, to polish by the way? 
 
 Lords of the quill, whose critical assaults 
 O'erthrow whole quartos with their quires of faults, 
 
 5 "BaxterN Shove to heavy-a — d Christians "—the veritable 
 title of a book once in good repute, and likely enotigh to be bo 
 again.— [Bicliard Baxter la described by Granger as "a man fi^ 
 mous for weakness of body and strength of mind ; for having th« 
 strongest sense of religion himself, and exciting a sense of it In 
 the thoughtless and prolligate : for preaching more sermons, en- 
 g!lging in more ecmtrovcrsies, and writing more books, than any 
 otlier non-conformist of his age," Dr. Barrow says. " ins practi- 
 cal writings were never mended, his controversial seldom con- 
 ftited." On Boswell's asking •lohn-'on wliich of them hi ehoiilc 
 read, tlie Doctor replied, " Any of tiiera : they arc all good." 
 
HINTS FROM HORACE. 
 
 445 
 
 Wlio ?oon detent, and mark where'er we fail, 
 A.nd prove our marljle with two nice a nail ! 
 Democritus himself was not so bad ; 
 Ih only thmi/hf, but ym would make, us mad ! 
 
 But truth to say, most rhymers rarely guard 
 Against tliat ridicule they deem so hard ; 
 In person negligent, tliey wear, from sloth. 
 Beards of a week, and nails of annual growth ; 
 Reside in garrets, fly from those they meet. 
 And walk in aileys, rather than the street. 
 
 With little rhyme, less reason if you please, 
 The name of poet may be got with ease. 
 So that not tuns of hellelioric juice 
 Shall ever turn your head to any use ; 
 Write but like Wordsworth, live beside a lake, 
 And keep your bushy locks a year from Blake ;' 
 Then print your book, once more return to town, 
 And boys shall hunt your hardship up and down. 
 
 Am I not wise, if such some poets' plight. 
 To purge in spring — hke Bayes" — before I write ? 
 If this precaution soften'd not my bile, 
 I know no scribbler with a madder style ; 
 But since (perhaps my feelings are too nice) 
 I cannot purchase fame at such a price, 
 I'll lal)our gratis as a grinder's wheel. 
 And, bhmt myself, give edge to others' steel. 
 Nor write at all, unless to teach the art 
 To those rc'icarsing for the poet's part ; 
 From Horace show the pleasing paths of song. 
 And from my own example — what is wrong. 
 
 Though modern practice sometimes differs quite, 
 'Tis just as well to think before you write ; 
 Let every book that suits your theme be read. 
 So shall you trace it to the fountain-head. 
 He who has learn'd the duty which he owes 
 To friends and country, and to pardon foes ; 
 Who models his deportment as may best 
 Accord with brother, sire, or stranger guest ; 
 Who ta>ies our laws and worship as they are. 
 Nor roars reform for senate, church and bar; 
 In practice, rather than loud precept, wise. 
 Bids not his tongue, but heart philosophize : 
 
 ' As fiimons a toneor as Licinns himself, and bettor paid, and 
 may, lilce him. be one day a senator, liavinc a better qualification 
 than one half of the heads he crops, viz. — independence. 
 
 - [" Bayejt. Pray, Sir, how do you do when yon write V Smith. 
 Faith. Sir. f"r the most part I'm in pretty ?ood health. Bayes. I 
 mean what do yon do when yon wiite? Smith. I take pen. Ink, 
 and paper, and pit down. Bayes. Now I write standing — thatV 
 one thintr ; and then another thinir i?. with what do you prepare 
 yonriielf? Smith. Prepare myself! what the devil does the fool 
 mean ? Bayes. ^^'hy, I'll tell you what I do. If I am to write 
 fhmiliar thini:s, as sonnet« to Armida, and the like. I make use of 
 Btewed prunes only : but when I have a grand design in hand. I 
 ever take physic and let blood : for when yf>u would have pure 
 
 Such is the man the poet should rehearse, 
 As joint exemplar of his life and verse. 
 
 Sometimes a sprightly wit, and tale well told, 
 Without much grace, or weight, or art, will hold 
 A longer empire o'er the public mind 
 Than sounding trifles, empty, though refined. 
 
 Unhappy Greece ! thy sons of ancient days 
 The muse may celebrate with perfect praise, 
 Whose generous children narrow'd not their hearts 
 With commerce, given alone to arms and arts. 
 Our hoys (save those whom pul->Iic schools compel 
 To " long and short " before they're taught to spell^ 
 From frugal fathers soon imbibe by rote, 
 " A penny saved, my lad, 's a penny got." 
 Babe of a city birth ! from sixpence take 
 The third, how much will the remainder make ? — 
 " A groat." — " Ah, bravo ! Dick hath done the siun J 
 He'll swell my fifty thousand to a plum." 
 
 They whose young souls receive this rust betimeS; 
 'Tis clear, are fit for anything but rhymes ; 
 And Locke will tell you, that the father 's right 
 Who hides all verses from his children's sight; 
 For poets, (says this sage,' and many more,) 
 JIake sad mechanics with their lyric lore ; 
 And Delphi now, however rich of old. 
 Discovers little silver, and less gold, 
 Because Parnassus, though a mount di's'ine. 
 Is poor as Irus,^ or an Irish mine.' 
 
 Two objects alvrays should the poet move, 
 Or one or both, — to please or to improve. 
 Wliate'er you teach, be brief, if you design 
 For our remembrance your didactic line ; 
 Redundance places memoiy on the rack, 
 For brains may be o'erloaded, like the back. 
 
 Fiction does best when taught to look like trutu 
 And fairy fables bubbles none but youth ; 
 Esiject no credit for too wondrous tales, 
 Since Jonas only springs alive from whales ! 
 
 Young men with aught 1 <nt elegance dispense : 
 Maturer years require a little sense. 
 To end at once : — that bard for all is fit 
 Who mingles well instruction with his wit : 
 
 BwiftncBS of thought, and flery flights of fancy, yon must have a 
 care of the pensive part. In fine, yon must purge." — Rehearsal.'] 
 
 3 1 have not the original by me, but the Italian translation run? 
 as tollows :— " E una cosa a mio credere molto stravagante, cht 
 nn padre dosideri, o jjermctta. chc suo figliiiolo coltivl o jiorfezicui 
 questo talento," A little further on: "Si trovano di rado nel 
 Pamupo le miniere d' oro e d' argsnto." — Educazione del Fandulli 
 del Sigrxyr Loeke. 
 
 * '• Iro panporior :" this is the same beirgar who boxed with 
 TTlysses for a pound of kid's fry. whicli he lost, and half a dozen 
 teeth besides.— See Odyssey, b. 18. 
 
 ^ The Irish gold mine of Wicklow. which yields .iust ore enough 
 to swear by, or gild a bad gumea. 
 
UG 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 For him reWews shall smile, for him o'erflow 
 The patronage of Paternostor-row ; 
 His book, with Longman's liberal airl, shall pass, 
 (Wlio ne'er flespises books that brina; him brass ;) 
 Through tlirec long weeks the taste of London lead, 
 Ind cross St. Qoorge's Channil and the Tweed. 
 
 But everything has faults, nor is 't unknown 
 That harps and fiddles often lose their tone, 
 And wayward voices, at their owner's call, 
 With all his best endeavors, only squall ; 
 Dogs blink their covey, flints withhold the spark, 
 And double-barrels (damn them !) miss their mark.' 
 
 Where frequent beauties strike the reader's view, 
 We must not quarrel for a blot or two ; 
 But jjardon equally to books or men, 
 The slijjs of human nature, and the pen. 
 
 Yet if an author, spite of foe or friend. 
 Despises all advice too much to mend, 
 But ever twangs the same discordant string, 
 Give him no quarter, howsoe'er he sing. 
 Let Havard's" fate o'ertake him, who, for once, 
 Produced a play too ilashing for a dunce : 
 At fu-st none deem'd it his ; but when his name 
 Announced the fact — what then ? — it lost its fame. 
 Though all deplore when Milton deigns to doze. 
 In a long work 'tis fair to steal repose. 
 
 As pictures, so shall poems be ; some stand 
 The critic eye, and please when near at hand ; 
 
 ' As Mr. Pope took the liberty of (lamninir Ilomcr. to whom he 
 was under great oblii^atious — ^' And limner {damn him!) calls'''' 
 —it may be presumed that «nybody or anj-thhig may be damned 
 In verfe by poetical license ; and. in ca?c of accident, I beg leave 
 to plead 60 illustrious a precedent. 
 
 ' For the f lory of Billy Havard's tragedy, see " Davies's Life of 
 Garrick " I believe it is "Regulus," or "Charles the First." 
 The moment it was known to be his the theatre thinned, and the 
 bookseller refused to give the customary sum for the copyright.— 
 [" navard,". n.iys Davios, '• was reduced to great straits, and in 
 order to retrieve his affairs, the slory of Charles the First was 
 pjopot^ed to him as a proper subject to engage the public atten- 
 tion. Ha\'ardV desire of ease was known to be superior to his 
 tldrst for fame or money ; and Giffard, the manager, insisted upon 
 the power of locking him up till the work was finished. To this 
 be consented ; and GilTard actually turned the key upon him. and 
 let him out at his pleasure, till the play was completed. It was 
 acted with great emolument to the manager, and some degree of 
 reputation, as well as gain, to the author. It drew lai'go crowds 
 to the theatre ; curiosity was excited with respect to the author; 
 that was a secret to be kept ft-om the people ; but Il.ivard's love 
 of fame would not suffer it to be concealed longer tlian the tenth 
 or twelfth night of acting the play. The moment Ilavard put on 
 the sword and tie-wig, the genteel dress of the times, and pro- 
 fessed himself to be the writer of ' Charles the First,' the audiences 
 were thinned, and the bookseller refused to give the usu.al sum of 
 a hundred pounds for the copyright."] 
 
 ' To the Eelect ic or Christian Keviewer.- 1 have to return thanks 
 for the fervor of that charity whicii, in 180!), induced them to 
 express a hope that a thing then published by me might lead to 
 certain consequences, which, although natural enoui^h. surely came 
 but rashly from reverend lips. I refer them to their own pages, 
 *vhnre thev congratulated theniselvea on the prosoect of a tilt 
 
 But others at a distance strike the sight ; 
 This seeks the shade, but that demands the light, 
 Nor dreads the connoisseur's fastidious view, 
 But, ten times scrutinized, is ten times new. 
 
 Parnassian j)ilgriins ! ye whom chance, or choice, 
 Hath led to listen to the .Muse's voice, 
 Heceive this counsel, and be timely wise ; 
 Few reach the summit which before you lies. 
 Our church and state, our courts and camps, concede 
 Reward to very moderate heads indeed 1 
 In these plain common sense will travel far ; 
 All are not Erskines who mislead the bar ; 
 But poesy between the best and worst 
 No medium knows ; you must be last or fii-st; 
 For middling poets' miserable volumes 
 Are damn'd alike by gods, and men, and columns. 
 
 Again, my Jefirey ! — as that sound inspires. 
 How wakes my bosom to its wonted fires 1 
 Fires, such as gentle Caledonians feel 
 When Southrons writhe upon their critic wheel, 
 Or mild Electics,^ when some, worse than Turks, 
 "Would rob poor Faith to decorate " good works." 
 Such are the geni.al feelings thou canst claim — 
 My fiilcon flies not at ignoble game. 
 Mightiest of all Dunedin's lieasts of chase I 
 For thee my Pegasus woulil mend his pace. 
 Arise, my JeflVey ! or my inkless pen 
 Shall never blunt its edge on meaner men ; 
 Till thee or thine mine evil eye discerns, 
 
 between Mr. Jeffrey and myself, from which some great good was 
 to accrue, provided one or both were knocked on the head. Hav- 
 ing survived two years and a half those " Elegies " which they 
 were kindly preparing to review, I have do peculiar gusto to give 
 them "so joyful a trouble,'" except, indeed, "upon compulsion, 
 Hal ;" but if, as David says in the " Kivals," it should come to 
 " bloody sword and gun fighting," " we won't run, will we. Sir 
 Lucius ?" I do not know wiiat I had done to these Kclectic gentle- 
 men : my works are their lawful perquisite, to bo hewn in pieces 
 like .Agag. if it seem meet unto them : but why they should be in 
 such a hurry to kill ofl" their author, I am ignorant. " Tlie race is 
 not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong;" and now, 
 as these Christians have " smote me on one cheek," I hold them 
 up the other: and, in return for their good wishes, give them an 
 opportunity of repeating them. Dad any other set of men ex- 
 pressed such sentiments. I should have smiled, and left them to 
 the "recording angel;" but from the Pharisees of Christianity 
 decency might be expected. I can a-^sure these bretiiren, that, 
 publican and sinner as I am, I would not nave treated " mine ene- 
 my's dog thus." To show them the superiority of my brotherly 
 love, if ever the Reverend Messrs. Simeon or I?am-don should be 
 engaged in such a conflict as that in which they requested me to 
 fall, I hope they may escape with being " winged " only, and that 
 neaviside may be at baud to extract the ball.— [The following is 
 the charitable pa>sage in the Eclectic Review of which Lord R>Ton 
 speaks : " If the noble lord and the learned advocate have the 
 courage requisite to sustain their mutual insults, we shall prob- 
 aldy soon hear the explosions of another kind of paper-wtir, n(tcT 
 the fashion of the ever-raemorablo duel which the latteris said to 
 have fought, or seemed to fight, with ' Little Moore.' IrVc confess 
 there is sutUcient provocation, if not in the critique at least inthfl 
 satire, to urge a 'man of lionor' to defy his assailant to moria) 
 combat. Of this we shall no doubt hear more in due time."| 
 
HINTS FROM HORACE. 
 
 445 
 
 AJas ! I cannot " strike at wretched kernes." 
 
 Inhuman Saxon ! wilt thou then resign 
 
 A muse and heart by choice so wholly thine ? 
 
 Dear, d — d contemner of my schoolboy songs, 
 
 Hast tlion no vengeance for my manhood's wrongs ? 
 
 If unprovoked thou once could bid me Isleed, 
 
 Hast thou no weapon for my daring deed ? 
 
 What ! not a word ! — and am I then so low 2 
 
 Wilt tUou forbear, who never spared a foe ? 
 
 Hast thou no wrath, or wish to give it vent ? 
 
 No wit for nobles, dunces by descent ? 
 
 No jest on " minors," quibbles on a name, 
 
 Nor one facetious paragraph of blame ? 
 
 Is it for this on Iliou I liave stood. 
 
 And thducfht of Homer less than Holyrood ? 
 
 On shore of Euxine or ^gean sea 
 
 My hate, untravell'd, fondly tum'd to thee. 
 
 Ah ! let me cease ; in vain my bosom bums, 
 
 From Cory don unkind Alexis turns :> 
 
 Thy rhymes are vain ; thy .leflrey then forego, 
 
 Nor woo that anger which he will not show. 
 
 What then ? — Edina starves some lanker son, 
 
 To write an arriele thou canst not shun ; 
 
 Some less fastidious Scotchman shall be found, 
 
 As bold in Billingsgate, though less renown'd. 
 
 As if at table some discordant dish 
 Should shock our optics, such as frogs for fish ; 
 As oil in lieu of butter men decry. 
 And poppies please not in a modern pie ; 
 If all such mixtures then be half a crime. 
 We must have excellence to relish rhyme. 
 
 ' Invenies aliam, si te hie fastidit Alexin. 
 
 ^ Mr. Southoy has lately tied another canister to his tail in the 
 *'• Ciir^e of Kehama," maiigre the neglect of Madoc, etc.. and has 
 in one instance had a wonderful effect. A literary friend of mine, 
 walking out one lovely evening last snmmer, on the eleventh 
 bridge of the Paddington canal, was alarmed by the cry of " one 
 in jeopardy ;" he rushed along, collected a body of Irish hay- 
 makers, {supping on buttermilk In an adjacent paddock.) procured 
 three rakes, one eel-spear, and a landing-net, and at last (horresco 
 referens) pulled out— his own publisher. The unfortunate man 
 was gone forever, and eo was a large quarto wherewith he had 
 taken the leap, which proved, on inquirv', to have been Mr. South- 
 ey's last work. Its "alacrity of sinking" wag so great, that it 
 has never since been heard of; though some maintain that it is 
 at this moment concealed at Alderman Birch's pastry premises, 
 Cornbili. Be this as it may, the coroner's inquest brought in a 
 verdict of "Felode bibliopola " against a " quarto unktiown ;" 
 and circum-itaniial evidence being since strong against the " Curse 
 of Kehama." (of which the above words are an exact description.) 
 it will be tried by ite peers next session, in Grub-street. — .\rthur, 
 Alfred, Davideis, liichard Coeur de Lion, Exodus. Exodia, Epig- 
 oniad. Calvary, Fall of Cambria, Siege of .\cre, Don Roderick, 
 and Tom Thumb the Great, are the names of the twelve jurors, 
 rilc judges arc Pyc, Bowles, and the bellman of St. Sepulchre's. 
 The same advocates, pro and con. will be employed as are now 
 engaged in Sir Francis Burdett's celebrated cause in the Scotch 
 courts. The public anxiously await the result, and all live pub- 
 lishers will be subprenaed as witnesses. — But Mr. Southey has 
 published the " Curse of Kehama," — an inviting title to qnibblers. 
 By the by, it is a good deal beneath Scott and Campbell, and not 
 much above Southey, to allow the booby Ballantyne to entitle 
 Ihem, in the Edinburgh Annual Register (of which, by the by, 
 Soutiiey is 'ditor)"the grand poetical triumvirate of the day." 
 
 Mere roast and boil'd no epicure invites ; 
 Thus poetry disgusts, or else delights. 
 
 Who shoot not flying rarely touch a gun : 
 Will he who swims not to the river run ? 
 And men unpractised in exchanging knocks 
 Must go to Jackson ere they dare to box. 
 Whate'er the weapon, cudgel, fist, or foil. 
 None reach expertness without years of toil ; 
 But fifty dunces can, with perfect ease, 
 Tag twenty thousand couplets, when they please. 
 Why not ? — shall I, thus qualified to sit 
 For rotten boroughs, never show my wit ? 
 Shall I, whose fathers with the quorum sate, 
 And lived in freedom on a fair estate ; 
 Who left me heir, with stables, kennels, packs, 
 To all their income, and to — tirire its tax ; 
 Whose form and pedigree have scarce a fault, — 
 Shall I, I say, suppress my Attic salt 1 
 
 Thus think " the mob of gentlemen ;" but you 
 Besides all this, must have some genius too. 
 Be this your sober judgment, and a rule. 
 And print not piping hot from Southey"s school, 
 Who, (ere another Thalaba appears,) 
 I trust, will spare us for at least nine years. 
 And hark ye, Southey l" pray — but don't be vex"d— • 
 Bum all your last three works — and half the next. 
 But why this vain advice ? once published, books 
 Can never be recall'd — from pastry-cooks ! 
 Though "Madoc," with " PuceUe,"3 instead of punk. 
 May travel back to Quito — on a trunk !' 
 
 But, on second thoughts, it can be no great degree of praise to 
 be the one-eyed leaders of the blind, though they might as well 
 keep to themselves " Scott's thirty thousand copies sold," which 
 must sadly discomfit poor Southey's unsaleables. Poor Sout'.iey 
 it should seem, is the " Lepidus " of this poetical triumvirate 
 am only surprised to see him in such good company. 
 
 "Such things, we know, are neither rich miv rare. 
 But wonder how the devil he came there." 
 The trio are well defined in the sixth proposition of Euclid 
 " Because, in the triangles D B C, A C B, D B is equal to A C, and 
 B C common to both ; the two sides D B, B C, are equal to the 
 two .-V C, < • li. each to each, and the angle D B C is equal to the 
 angle A B C : therefore the base B C is equal to the base A B, 
 and the triangle D B C (Mr. Southey) is equal to the triangle A 
 C B, the le^s to the greater, which is absurd, etc.— The editor of 
 the Edinburgh Register will find the rest of the theorem hard "oy 
 his stabling; he has only to cross the river; 'tis the first turn- 
 pike t' other side " Pons Asinorum."* 
 
 3 Voltaire's " Pncelle " is not quite so immaculate as Mr. 
 Southey's " Joan of Arc.'' and yet I am afraid the Frenchman 
 has both more truth and poetry too jn his side— (they rarely go 
 together)— than our patriotic minstrel, whose first essay was in 
 praise of a fanatical French strumpet, whose title of witch would 
 be correct with the change of the first letter. 
 
 * Like Sir Bland Burges's " Richard ;" the tenth book of which 
 I read at Jlalfa, on a trunk of Eyre^s, 19 (.'ockspur-street. If thie 
 be doubted, I shall buy a portmanteau to quote from. 
 
 * TliiG Latin has sorely puzzled the University of Edinburgh. 
 Ballantyne said it meant the " Bridge of Berwick," but Southej 
 claimed it as half English ; Scott swore it was the " Brig o' Stir 
 ling;" he had just passed two King James's and a dozen .Doug- 
 lasses over it. -\t last it was decided by Jeffrey, th.ot it meant no- 
 thing more nor less than the " counter of Archy Constahh-'s shop." 
 
us 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Orplicus, ^-e learn from Ovid and Lcmprierc, 
 Led all wild beasts but women by the ear ; 
 And bad he fiddled at the present hour, 
 We'd seen the lions waltzing in the Tower ; 
 And old Amphion, such were niiustrels then, 
 Had built St. Paul's without the aid of Wren. 
 Verse too was justice, and the bards of Greece 
 Did more than constables to keep the peace ; 
 Abolish'd cuckoldom with much applause, 
 Call'd county meetings, and enforced the laws, 
 Cut down crown influence with reforming scythes. 
 And served the church — without demanding tithes ; 
 And hence, throughout all Hellas and the East, 
 Each poet was a prophet and a priest. 
 Whose old-establish'd boarrl of joint controls 
 Tncluded kingdoms in tlio cure of souls. 
 
 Next rose the martial Homer, Epic's prince. 
 And fighting's been in fashion ever since. 
 And old Tyrt;i'us, when the Spartans warr'd, 
 (A limping leader, but a lofty bard,) 
 Though wall'd Ithome had resisted long, 
 Reduced the fortress by the foi'ce of song. 
 
 When oracles prevail'd, in times of old, 
 In song alone Apollo's will was told : 
 Then if your verse is what all verse should be, 
 And gods were not ashamed on 't, why should we ? 
 
 The Muse, like mortal females, may be woo'd ; 
 In turns she'll seem a Paphian or a prude ; 
 Fierce as a bride when first she feels aflright, 
 Mild as the same upon the second night ; 
 Wild as the wife of alderman or peer. 
 Now for his grace, and now a grenadier ! 
 Her eyes beseem, her heart belies, her zone, 
 loe in a crowd, and lava when alone. 
 
 If verse be studied with some show of art, 
 
 * [" PoUio.^^— la the original MS. " Jiogers.^^] 
 
 ^ '^ Turn qaoque marmorcii ciput a cervice rernlsam, 
 ' Ourgite cum medio portans (Eisritu Hebrns, 
 Volvorct Euvydlcen vox ipsa, et IViiida lin<.tia ; 
 Ah, niiseram Eurydicen ! anima ftigiente vocabat ; 
 Eury(li(:en toto rererehfiiit llumino ripte." — Georgic. iv. 523. 
 
 3 1 beij Nathaniers pardon : he is not a cobbler ; i^ is a faUor^ 
 but begged Capel Loirt lo sink the profession in his preface to two 
 
 pair of panta psha !— of cantos, which he wished the public to 
 
 try on ; hut the sieve of a patron let it out, and so far saved tlic 
 expon-e of an advertisement lo his country customers.— Merry's 
 "Moorllelds whine" w.ad nothing to all this. 
 
 ■* This well-meaning gentleman has spoiled some excellent shoe- 
 makers, and been accessory to (lie poetical undoing of many of 
 the industrious ]ioor, Nathaniel liloomflcld and his brother Bobby 
 have Bct all Somersetshire singing ; nor has the malady confined 
 Itself to one county. Pratt too (ivho once was wiser) has cauglit 
 the contagion of j)alr<>nage, and decoyed a poor fellow named 
 Blaclcett into poetry: but ho died during the operation, leaving 
 one child and two volumes of " Remains," utterly destitute. The 
 girl, if she dun't lake a poetical twist, and come forth as a shoe- 
 making Sappho, may do well ; but the " ti'agedies " are as rickety 
 as if they had been tte offspring of an Earl or a Seatonian prize 
 pout The palroDS 'his pnn' lad are certainly answerable for 
 
 Kind Nature always will perform her part ; 
 Though without genius, and a native vein 
 Of wit, we loathe an artificial strain- 
 Yet art and nature join'd will win the prize. 
 Unless they act like us and our allies. 
 
 The youth who trains to ride, or run a race 
 Must bear privations with unrullled face. 
 Be call'd to labor when he thinks to dine. 
 And harder still, leave wenching and his wine. 
 Ladies who sing, at least who sing at sight. 
 Have foUow'd music through her farthest flight ; 
 But rhymers tell you neither more nor less, 
 " I've got a pretty poem for the press ;" 
 And that's enough ; then write and print so fast — 
 If Satan take the hindmost, who'd be last ? 
 They storm the types, they publish, one and all, 
 They leap the counter, and they leave the stall. 
 Provincial maidens, men of high command. 
 Yea, baronets have iuk'd the blooily hand ! 
 Cash cannot quell them ; Pollio' play'a this prank, 
 (Then Phoebus first found credit in a bank !) 
 Not all the living only, 1)ut the dead, 
 Fool on, as fluent as an Orpheus' head •' 
 Damn'd all their days, they posthumously thrive — 
 Dug up from dust, though buried wlien alive ! 
 Reviews record this epidemic crime, 
 Those Books of Martyrs to the rage for rhyme. 
 Alas ! wo worth the scribbler ! often seen 
 In Morning Post, or Monthly Magazine-. 
 There lurk his earlier lays ; but soon, hot-press'd, 
 Behold a quarto ! — Tarts must tell the rest. 
 Then leave, ye wise, the lyre's precarious chords 
 To muse-mad baronets, or madder lords. 
 Or country Crispins, now grown somewhat stale, 
 Twin Doric minstrels, drunk with Doric ale ! 
 Hark to those notes, narcotically soft, 
 The cobbler-laureates' sing to Capel Lofft !* 
 
 his end ; and it ought to he an indictable offenc:. But this is tha 
 least they have done; for, by a reilneraent of barbarity, they havo 
 made the (late) man posthumously ridiculous, by printing what he 
 would Inive had sense enough never to print himself, Certes, these 
 rakers of " Kemains " come nnder the statute against " resurrec- 
 tion men." What does it signify whether a poo- dear dead dunce 
 is to be stuck up in Surgeons' or in Stationers' Hall t Is it so bad 
 to unearth his bones as his blunders ? It is not better to gibbet his 
 body on a heath, than his soul in an octavo ? •' \\c know what 
 we are, but we know not what we may be ;" and it is to be hoped 
 we never shall know, if a man who Ins passed t>:roHgh life with a 
 sort of eclat, is to find himself a mountebank on the other side of 
 Styx, and made, like poor Joe Blackett, the laughing-stock of 
 purgatory. The plea of pnblicalion is to proMde tor the child; 
 now, might not some of this " Suttr ultra Crcpidam'a " friends 
 and seducers have done a decent acC'on withou* inveigling Pratt 
 Into biography ? And then his inscription sidit into so many 
 modicums 1 — "To tho Duchess of !?onuich, the Kighl Hon. So- 
 and-So, and Mrs. and Miss Somelody, these volumes are, etc,, 
 etc." — why, this is doling out the " soft milk j( dedication " in 
 gills,— there is but a quart, and he divides it among a dozen. 
 Why, Pratt, hiidst thou not a piilT left! Dost Ihou think six 
 families of distinction can share this in quiet ? Tliere is a child, 
 a book, and a dediaition : send the girl to her ,^race, ttie t olunies 
 to the grocer, n-\d the dedic;itiou to the devil. 
 
HINTS FROM HORACE. 
 
 44!1 
 
 rill, lo ! that modern Midas, as he hears. 
 Adds an ell growth to his egregious ears ! 
 
 There lives one druid, who prepares in time, 
 Oainst future feuds his poor revenge of rhyme ; 
 Racks his dull memory, and his duller muse, 
 To publish fiiults which friendship should excuse. 
 If friendship 's nothing, self-regard might teach 
 More polish'd usage of his parts of speech. 
 But what is shamf or what is aught to him ? 
 He vents his spleen, or gratifies his whim. 
 Some fixncied slight has roused his lurking hate. 
 Some folly cross'd, some jest, or some debate ; 
 Dp to his den Sir Scribbler hies, and soon 
 The gather'd gall is voided in lampoon. 
 Perhaps at some pert speech you've dared to 
 
 frown, 
 Perhaps your poem may have pleased the town : 
 If so, alas ! 'tis nature in the man — 
 May Heaven forgive you, for he never can ! 
 Then be it so ; and may his withering bays 
 Bloom fresh in satire, though they fade in praise ! 
 While his lost songs no more shall steep and 
 
 stink, 
 The dullest, fattest weeds on Lethe's brink, 
 But springing upwards from the sluggish mould, 
 Be (what they never were before) — be sold ! 
 Should some rich bard, (but such a monster now, 
 n modern physics, we can scarce allow,) 
 Should some pretending scribbler of the court, 
 Some rhyming peer' — there's plenty of the sort'— 
 All but one jjoor dependant priest withdrawn, 
 (Ah ! too regardless of his chaplain's yawn !) 
 Condemn the unlucky curate to recite 
 Their last dramatic work by candle-light. 
 How would the preacher turn each rueful leaf, 
 Dull as his sermons, but not half so brief! 
 Tet, since 'tis promised at the rector's death, 
 He'U risk no living for a little breath. 
 
 ' [In the original MS. — 
 
 " Some rhyming peer — Carlisle or Carysfort." 
 To which is Fubjoined this note: — "Of 'John Joshna, Earl of 
 Caryhfort,' T know nothing at present, bnt from an advertisement 
 in an eld newspaper of certain Poems and Tragedies by his lord- 
 ship, which I saw hy accident in the Morea. Being a rhymer him- 
 self, be will forgive the liberty I take with his name, seeing, as he 
 must, bow veiy commodious it is at the close of that couplet ; and 
 as for what follows and goes before, let hira place it to the account 
 of the otlier Thane ; since I cannot, under these circumstances, 
 augur pro or con the contents of his ' foolscap cro\^'n octavos.^ " — 
 John Joshua Proby, first Earl of Carysfort, was joint postmaster- 
 general in 1805, envoy to Berlin in ISOO, and ambassador to Peters- 
 burgh in 1807. Besides his poems, he published two pamphlets, 
 to show the necessity of universal sulfragc and short parliaments. 
 He died in 182.S.] 
 
 ^ Here will Mr. GilTord allow me to introduce once more to his 
 notice the sole survivor, the " ullimns Romanorum," the last of 
 the Cruscanti !— ■' Edwin " the " profound." by our Lady of Pun- 
 ishment I hero he i-. as lively as in the days of ■* well said Baviad 
 (he OorriTl." 1 though t Fitzgcrii.d had been the tail of poesy ; 
 lull, r.lns 1 he is duly ihe penuIIiiniUe 
 5- 
 
 Then spouts and foams, and cries at every line, 
 
 (The Lord forgive him !) " Bravo ' grand ! divine 1" 
 
 Hoarse with those praises, (which, by llatt'ry fed, 
 
 Dependence barters for her bitter bread,) 
 
 He strides and stamps along with creaking boot, 
 
 Till the floor echoes his emphatic foot ; 
 
 Then sits again, then rolls his pious eye, 
 
 As when the djang vicar will not die ! 
 
 Nor feels, forsooth, emotion at his heart ; — 
 
 But all dissemblers overact their part. 
 
 Ye, who aspire to '• build the lofty rh rme," 
 Believe not all who laud your false " sublime ;" 
 But if some friend shall hear your work, and say, 
 " Exijunge that stanza, lop that line away," 
 And, after fruitless efforts, you return 
 "Without amendment, and he answers, " Bum !" 
 That instant throw your paper in the fire. 
 Ask not his thoughts, or follow his desire ; 
 But if (true bard !) you scorn to condescend, 
 An d will not alter what you can't defend, 
 If you will breed this bastard of your brains,' — 
 We'll have no words— I've only lost my pams. 
 
 Tet, if you only prize your favorite thought, 
 As critics kindly do, and authors ought ; 
 If your cool friend annoy you now and then, 
 And cross whole pages with his plaguy pen ; 
 No matter, throw your ornaments aside, — 
 Better let him than all the world deride. 
 Give light to passages too much in^shade. 
 Nor let a doubt obscure one verse you've made ; 
 Your friend 's " a Johnson," not to leave one word, 
 However trifling, which may seem absurd ; 
 Such erpiug trifles lead to serious ills. 
 And furnish food for critics,' or their quills. 
 
 A FAatlLIAR EPISTLE TO THE EDITOR OP THE MORKINQ 
 CHRONICLE. 
 
 "What i earns of paper, floods of ink," 
 Do some men spoil, who never think I 
 And so perhaps you'll say of me, 
 In which your readers may agree. 
 Still I write on, and tell you why ; 
 Nothing 's so bad. yon can't deny. 
 But may instruct or entertain 
 Without the risk of giving pain, etc., etc. 
 
 ON SOaCE MODERN QUACKS AND REFORMIBTB. 
 
 In tracing of the human mind 
 
 Through all its various courses. 
 Though strange, 'tis true, we often find 
 
 It knows not its resources : 
 
 And men through life assume a part 
 For which no talents they possess. 
 Yet wonder that, with all their art. 
 They meet no better with success, etc., etc. 
 ' ''Bastard of yovr ira!'ns."—Miner%'a being the first by Jnpi 
 ter's headpiece, and a variety of equally unaccounlable partnri 
 tions upon earth, such as Madoc, etc., e*c. 
 ' " K crust for the criiica."— JJayes, in the " Ilekearsat." 
 
450 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 As the Scotch fiddle, with its touching tvine, 
 Or the sad 'nfluence of the angry moon, 
 All men avoid bad writers' ready tongues. 
 As yawning waiters fly' Fitzscribble's' lungs ; 
 Yet on he mouths — ten minutes — tedious each 
 As prc'late's homily, or placeman's speech ; 
 Long as the last years of a lingering lease, 
 Wlien riot pauses until rents increase. 
 Wliile such a minstrel, muttering fustian, strays 
 O'er hedge and ditch, through unfrequented ways, 
 If by some chance he walks into a well. 
 And shouts for succor with stentorian yell, 
 " A rope ! help. Christians, as ye hope for grace 1" 
 Nor woman, man, nor child ^^"ill stir a pace ; 
 For tliLTe liis carcass he might freely fling, 
 From plircnzy, or the humor of the thing. 
 Though this has happen'd to more bards than one ; 
 I'll tell you Budgell's story, — and have done. 
 
 BudgeU, a rogue and rhymester, for no good, 
 (Unless his case be much misunderstood,) 
 
 When teased with creditors' continual claims, 
 "To die like Cato,"» leapt into the Thames ! 
 And therefore be it lawful through the town 
 For any bard to poison, hang, or drown. 
 Who saves the intended suicide receives 
 Small thanks from him who loalhes the life he 
 And, sooth to say, mad poets must not lose [leav ;8 ; 
 The glory of that death they freely cl.ose. 
 
 Nor is it certain that some sorts of verse 
 Prick not the poet's conscience as a curse ; 
 Dosed' with vile drams on Sunday he was found, 
 Or got a child on consecrated ground ! 
 And hence is haunted with a rhyming rage — 
 Fear'd like a bear just bui sting trom his cage. 
 If free, all fly his versifying fit. 
 Fatal at once to simpleton or wit, 
 But him, unhapjiy ! whom he seizes, — him 
 He flays with recitation limb by limb ; 
 Probes to the quick where'er he makes his Ijreach, 
 And gorges like a lawyer — or a leech. 
 
 THE CURSE OF MINERVA.* 
 
 " Pallae te hoc vulnere, Pallas 
 
 biimolat, et pcenam scelerato ex sangaine amnit."— jEnbid. lib. xii. 
 
 Athen?, Capuchin Coxvent, March 17, 1811. 
 Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, 
 Along Morea's hills the setting sun ; 
 Not, as in nortliorn climes, obBciiroly bright, 
 But one unclouded l)laze of living light; 
 O'er the hushed deep the yellow beam he throws, 
 Gilds the green wave that trembles as it glows ; 
 On old ^gina's rock and Hydra's isle 
 The god of gladness sheds his parting smile ; 
 O'er his own regions lingering loves to shine, 
 Though there his altars are no more divine. 
 Descending fast, the mountain-shadows kiss 
 Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis I 
 
 ' And the ** waiters " are the only fortunate people who can 
 "fly" from them; all the rest, viz. the sad eubpcribcrs to the 
 "Literary Fund," being compelled, by courtesy, to sit out the 
 recitation witliout a hope of exclaiming, " Sic " (that is, by chok- 
 ing Fitz with bad wine, or wor^e poetry) " me servavit Apollo I" 
 
 * [*' Fltzwribhle," originally " Fitzgerald."] 
 
 'On his table were fount! these words : "•WbatOato did, and 
 Addison ajiproveil, cannnt be wrong." But Addison did not "ap- 
 prove ;" and if he had, it would not liave mended the matter. He 
 had Invited his daughter on the name water party ; but Miss Bud- 
 geU, by some accident, escaped this laet paternal attention. Thus 
 fell the fiycnphant of " Atti;'u«," and the enemy of Pope !—l Eu- 
 stace Uudgell, a friend and relative of Addison's, "leapt into the 
 Thames" to escape a pro^^ecution, on account of forging the will 
 of Dr. Tindal ; in which Eustace had provided himself with a 
 legacy of two thousand pounds. To this Pope alludes— 
 
 " Let Budgeh charge low Orub-street on my quill, 
 And write whatever he please — except my will."] 
 
 Their azure arches through the long expanse, 
 Slore deeply purpled, meet his mellowing glance, 
 And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, 
 Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven ; 
 Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, 
 Behind his Delphian rock he sinks to sleep. 
 
 On such an eve his palest beam he cast, 
 Wlien, Athens ! here thy wisest look'd his last. 
 How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray, 
 That closed their murder'd sage's" latest day. 
 Not yet — not yet — Sol ixauscs on the hill, 
 The precious hour of parting lingers still ; 
 
 * If "dosed with." etc., be censured as low. T beg leave to refb' 
 to the original for something still lower; and if any reader wiL 
 translate "Minxerit in patrios cineres, etc., into a decent coup- 
 let, I will insert said couplet in lieu of the present. 
 
 [^ This fierce philippic on Lord Elgin, whose collection of Athe- 
 nian marbles was ultimately purchased for the nation, in 1816, at 
 the cost of thirty-five thousand pounds, was written at Athens, in 
 March, 1811, and prepared for publication along with the "Hints 
 from ITorace ;" hut, like that satire, suppressed by Lord Byron, 
 from motives which the reader will easily understand. It was 
 first given to the world in IRiS, Few can wonder that Lord By- 
 ron's feelings should have been powerfully excited by the specta- 
 cle of the despoiled Parthenon ; but it is only due to Lord Elgin 
 to keep in mind. that, had those precious marbles remained, they 
 must, in all likelihood, have perished forever amidst the miser- 
 able scenes of violence which Athens has since witnessed.] 
 
 " Socriites drunk the hemlock a short time before sunset, (the 
 hour of execution.) notwithstanding the entreaties of hie disci- 
 ples to wait till the sun went down. 
 
THE CURSE OF MINERVA. 
 
 451 
 
 But sad his light to agonizing eyes, 
 And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes ; 
 Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour, 
 The land where Phrebus never frown'd before ; 
 But ere he sunk below Cithojron's head. 
 The cup of wo was quaff 'd — the spirit fled; 
 The soul of him that scom'd to fear or fly, 
 Who lived and died as none can live or die. 
 
 But, lo ! from high Hymettus to the plain 
 The queer, of night asserts her silent reign ;' 
 No murky vapor, herald of the storm, 
 Hides her fair face, or girds her glowing form ; 
 With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play, 
 There the white column greets her grateful ray. 
 And bright around, with quivering beams beset. 
 Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret : 
 The groves of oUve scatter'd dark and wide, 
 Wliere meek Cepliisus sheds his scanty tide, 
 The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque. 
 The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk,= 
 And sad and sombre mid the holy calm. 
 Near Theseus' fane, yon solitary palm ; 
 All, tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye, 
 And duU were his that pass'd them heedless by. 
 
 Again the Jilgean, heard no more afar. 
 Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war ; 
 Again his waves in milder tints unfold 
 Their long expanse of sapphire and of gold, 
 Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle. 
 That frown, where gentler ocean deigns to smile. 
 
 As thus, within the walls of Pallas' fane, 
 I mark'd the beauties of the land and main, 
 Alone, and friendless, on the magic shore, 
 Wliose arts and arms but hve in poets' lore ; 
 Oft as the matchless dome I tuni'd to scan, 
 Sacred to gods, but not secure from man. 
 The past retum'd, the present seem'd to cease, 
 And Glory knew no clime beyond her Greece ! 
 
 Hours roH'd along, and Dian's orb on high 
 Had gain'd the centre of her softest sky ; 
 And yet unwearied still my footsteps trod 
 O'er the vain shrine of many a vanish'd god : 
 But chiefly, Pallas ! thine ; when Hecate's glare, 
 Check'd by thy columns, feU more sadly fair 
 O'er the chill marble, wliere the startling tread 
 Thrills the lone heart like echoes from the dead. 
 
 ^ The twilight in Greece is mnch shorter than in our own coun- 
 try ; the days in winter are longer, but in summer of less dnra- 
 tion. 
 
 ' The kiosk is a Turkish snnimer-house ; the palm is without 
 the present walls ot Athens, not far from the temple of Theseus, 
 between which and the tree the wall intervenes. Cephisus' stream 
 •« indeed &-:anty. and IH^sus has no stream at all. 
 
 Long had I mused, and treasured every trace 
 The wreck of Greece recorded of her race,' 
 When, lo ! a giant form before me strode. 
 And Pallas hail'd me in her own abode ! 
 
 Yes, 'twas Minerva's self; but, ah ! how changed 
 Since o'er the Dardan field in arms site ranged I 
 Not such as erst, by her divine command, 
 Her form appear'd from Phidias' plastic hand : 
 Gone were the terrors of her awful brow. 
 Her idle tegis bore no Gorgon now ; 
 Her helm was dinted, and the broken lance 
 Seem'd weak and sbaftless e'en to mortal glance ; 
 The olive branch, which still she deign'd to clasp, 
 Shrunk from her touch, and withered in her grasp ; 
 And, ah ! though stiU the brightest of the sky, 
 Celestial tears bedimm'd her large blue eye ; 
 Round the rent casque her owlet circled slow. 
 And mourn'd his mistress with a shriek of wo ! 
 
 "Mortal !" — 'twas thus she spake — "that bluA ol 
 Proclaims thee Briton, once a noble name ; [shame 
 First of the mighty, foremost of the free, 
 Now honor'd less by all, and /eost by me : 
 Chief of thy foes shall Pallas still be found. 
 Seek'st thou the cause of loathing ? — look around. 
 Lo ! here, despite of war and wasting fire, 
 I saw successive tyrannies expire. 
 'Scaped from the ravage of the Turk and Goth,' 
 Thy country sends a spoiler worse than both. 
 Survey this vacant, violated fane ; 
 Recount the relics torn that yet remain : 
 These Cecrops placed, this Pericles adom'd,* 
 That Adrian rear'd when drooping Science mourn'd. 
 What more I owe let gratitude attest — 
 Know, Alaric and Elgin did the rest. 
 Th.it all may learn from whence the plunderer came, 
 The insulted wall sustains his hated name : 
 For Elgin's fame thus grateful Pallas pleads, 
 Below, his name — above, behold his deeds ! 
 Be ever hail'd with equal honor here 
 The Gothic monarch and the Pictish peer : 
 Arms gave the first his right, the last had none, 
 But basely stole what less barbarians won. 
 So when the lion quits his feU repast. 
 Next prowls the wolf, the filthy jackal last : 
 Flesh, limbs, and blood the former make their own, 
 The last poor brute securely gnaws the bone. 
 Yet still the gods are just, and crimes are cross'd : 
 See here what Elgin won, and what he lost ! 
 
 • [In the original MS. — 
 
 " Ah, .\thens ! scarce escaped from Turk and Goth : 
 Hell sends a paltrj- Scotchman worse than both."] 
 
 * This is spoken of the city in general, and not of I he Acropolta 
 in particular. The temple of Jupiter Olympius, by some supposed 
 the Pantheon, was fini-bed by Hadrian : sixteen columns aic stand- 
 int^, of the most beautiful marble and architecture. 
 
152 
 
 BYRO>. S WORKS. 
 
 Anitlier name with his pollutes my shrine 1 
 Behold where Dian's beams disdain to shine ! 
 Some retribution still might Pallas claim, 
 When Venus half avenged ilinerva's shame.'" 
 
 She ceased awhile, and tlius I dared reply, 
 To soothe the vengeance kindling in her eye : 
 " Daughter of Jove ! in Britain's injured name, 
 A true-born Britain may the deed disclaim. 
 Frown not on England ; England owns him not : 
 Athena, no ! thy plunderer was a Scot. 
 Ask'st thou the difference ? From foir Phyle's tow- 
 Survey Boeotia ; — Caledonia 's ours. [ers 
 And well I know within that bastard land" 
 Hath ^yi.•^dom's goddess never held command ; 
 A barren soil, wliere Nature's germs, confined 
 To stern sterility, can stint the mind ; 
 Whose thistle well betrays the niggard earth. 
 Emblem of all to whom the land gives birth ; 
 Each genial influence nurtured to resist ; 
 A land of meanness, sophistry, and mist. 
 Each breeze from foggy mount and marshy plain 
 Dilutes with drivel every drizzly brain, 
 Till, burst at length, each ^vatery head o'erflows, 
 Foul as their soil, and frigid as their snows. 
 Then thousand schemes of petulance and pride 
 Dispatch her scheming children far and wide : 
 Some east, some west, some everywhere but north 
 In quest of lawless gain, they issue forth. 
 And thus — accursed be the day and year 1 — 
 She sent a Piet to i)lny the felon here. 
 Yet Caledonia claims some native worth 
 As dull Bosotia gave a Pindar birth ; 
 So may her few, the letter'd and the brave. 
 Bound to no clime, and victors of the grave, 
 Shake oti'the sordid dust of such a land. 
 And shine like children of a h.ippier strand ; 
 As once, of yore, in some olmoxious place. 
 Ten names (if found) had saved a wretched race." 
 
 ' "Mortal!" the blue-eyed maid resumed, "once 
 Bear back my mandate to thy native shore, [more 
 Though fallen, alas ! this vengeance yet is mine. 
 To turn my counsels far from -lands like thine. 
 Hear then in silence Pallas' stern behest ; 
 Hear and liiiicve, for Time will tell the rest. 
 
 " First on the head of him who did this deed 
 My curse shall light, — on him and all his seed; 
 Without one spark of intellectual fire, 
 Be all the sons as senseless as the sire : 
 If one with wit the parent brood disgrace, 
 
 ■ His lordi^hipVs name, and that of one wlio no longer bears it, 
 ftre cirvcd conspicuously on the Parthenon ; above, in a part not 
 far dii^tant, are the torn remnants of the bastjo relievoB, destroyed 
 m a vain atten.pt to remove them. 
 
 "^ " Irisli has,nrds," iiecordinc^ to Sir CaUa2:han O'Bralla^han. 
 
 ' [In ISlfj, thirty-live tliousand pounds were voted by Parliament 
 for the purcliase of tlie El;;in marbles. 1 
 
 Believe him bastard of a brighter race : 
 
 Still with his liireling artists let him prate. 
 
 And Folly's praise repay for Wisdom's hate ; 
 
 Long of their patron's gusto let them teU, 
 
 Whose noblest, mitire gusto is- — to sell : 
 
 To sell, and make — may Shame record the day I 
 
 The state receiver of his pilfer'd prey.' 
 
 Meantime, the flattering, feeble dotard. West, 
 
 Europe's worst dauber, and poor Britain's best, 
 
 With palsied hand shall turn each model o'er. 
 
 And own himself an infant of fourscore.* 
 
 Be all the bruisers cuU'd from all St. Giles', 
 
 That art and nature may compare their styles ; 
 
 While brawny brutes in stupid wonder stare. 
 
 And maiTcl at his lordship's ' stone shop " there. 
 
 liound the throug'd gate shall sauntering co.xcomba 
 
 To lounge and lucubrate, to prate and peep ; [creep, 
 
 While many a languid maid, with longing sigh, 
 
 On giunt statues casts the curious eye ; 
 
 The room with transient glance appears to skim. 
 
 Yet marks the mighty back and length of limb ; 
 
 Mourns o'er the diftercncc of rl0^o and then ; 
 
 Exclaims, ' These Greeks indeed were proper men 1' 
 
 Draws sly comparisons of these with thuKe, 
 
 And envies Lais all her Attic beaux. 
 
 When shall a modern maid have swains like theee ' 
 
 Alas ! Sir Harry is no Hercules ! 
 
 And last of all, amidst the gaping crew. 
 
 Some calm spectator, as he takes liis view, 
 
 In silent indignation mix'd with grief. 
 
 Admires the phnuler, but abhors the thief. 
 
 Oh, loathcfl in life, nor pardon'd in the dust. 
 
 May hate pursue his sacrilegious lust 1 
 
 Link'd with the fool that fired the Ephesi.an dome, 
 
 Shall vengeance follow far lieyond the tomb. 
 
 And Eratostratus and Elgin shine 
 
 In many a branding page and burning line ; 
 
 Alike reserved for aye to stand accursed, 
 
 Perchance the second blacker than the first. 
 
 " So let hiui stand, through ages yet unborn, 
 Fix'd statue on the pedestal of Scorn ; 
 Though not for him alone revenge shtill wait. 
 But fits thy country for her coming fate : 
 Hers were the deeds that taught her lawless son 
 To do what oft Britannia's self had done. 
 Look to the Baltic — Ijhizing from afar. 
 Your old ally yet mourns perfidious war.' 
 Not to such deeds did I'allas lend her aid, 
 Or break the compact which herself had made ; 
 Far from such councils, from the faithless field 
 
 < Mr. West, on seein:; tlie " Elcnn Collection," (I snppoBO wt 
 shall hearof the ■' Aberslmw " and " Jack Shephard " collection,) 
 declai-es himself '- a mere tyro " in art. 
 
 • Poor Crib was sadly puzzled when the marbles were Urst ei 
 hibitcd at Elyin House ; be asked if it was not " a stone ebop f 
 —tie was rli;ht ; it is a shop. 
 
 • [The affair of Copenhagen.] 
 
THE CURSE OF MINERVA, 
 
 453 
 
 Bhe fled — but left hcliind her Gorgon shield ! 
 A fatfil gift, that turn'd your friends to stone, 
 And left lost Alliion liatcd and alone. 
 
 " Look to the East, where Ganges' swarthy race 
 Shall shake your tyrant empire to its base ; 
 Lo ! there Rebellion rears her ghastly head, 
 And glares the Nemesis of native dead ; 
 Till Indus rolls a deep pui-pureal flood. 
 And claims his long arrear of northern blood. 
 So may ye perish ! — Pallas, when she gave 
 Your free-born rights, forbade ye to enslave. 
 
 " Look on your Spain ! — she clasps the hand she 
 hates. 
 But boldly clasps, and thrusts you from her gates. 
 Bear witness, bright Barossa ! thou canst tell 
 Whose were the sons that bravely fought and fell. 
 But Lusitania, kind and dear ally, 
 Can spare a few to fight, and sometimes fly. 
 Oh glorious field ! by Famine fiercely won, 
 The Gaul retires for once, and all is done ! 
 But when did Pallas teach, that one retreat 
 Retrieved three long olympiads of defeat ? 
 
 " Look last at home — ye love not to look there ; 
 On the grim smile of comfortless despair ; 
 Your city saddens : loud though Revel howls. 
 Here Famine faints, and yonder Rapine prowls. 
 See all alike of more or less bereft ; 
 No misers tremble when there's nothing left. 
 ']jk'3s"d pajjer credit;' who shall dare to sing? 
 It clogs like lead Corruption's weary wing. 
 Yet Pallas pluck'd each f)remier by the ear, 
 Wlio gods and men alike disdain'd to hear ; 
 But one, repentant o'er a bankrupt state. 
 On Pallas calls, — but calls, alas ? too late : 
 Then raves for * * ; to that Mentor bends. 
 Though he and Pallas never yet were friends. 
 Him senates hear, whom never yet they heard. 
 Contemptuous once, and now no less absurd. 
 So, once of yore, each reasonable frog 
 Swore faith and fealty to his sovereign ' log.' 
 Thus hail'd your rulers their patrician clod. 
 As Egypt chose au onion for a god. 
 
 •' Now fare ye well I enjoy your little hour ; 
 Go, grasp the shadow of your vanish'd p'jwer ; 
 31 OSS o'er the failure of each fondest scheme ; 
 Tour strength a name, your bloated weal th a dream. 
 Gone is that gold, the marvel of mankind. 
 
 * Ble^s'd paper credit ! I.'ist ar.ci best supply, 
 That lenis Corruption ligUti-r wings to fly.' 
 
 -Pope. 
 
 And pirates barter all tliat's left behind.^ 
 
 No more the hirelings, purchased near and far. 
 
 Crowd to the i-anks of mercenary war. 
 
 The idle merchant on the useless quay 
 
 Droops o'er the bales no bark may bear away ; 
 
 Or, back returning, sees rejected stores 
 
 Rot piecemeal on his own encumbcr'd shores : 
 
 The starved mechanic breaks his rustiug loom. 
 
 And desperate mans him 'gainst the coming dooia^ 
 
 Then in the senate of your sinking state 
 
 Show me the man whose counsels may have weight. 
 
 Vain is each voice where tones could once command ; 
 
 E'en factions cease to charm a factious laud : 
 
 Yet jarring sects convulse a sister isle. 
 
 And light with maddening hands the mutual pile. 
 
 " 'Tis done, 'tis past, since Pallas warns in \ain ; 
 The Furies seize her abdicated reign : 
 Wide o'er the realm they wave their kindling brandi, 
 And wring her vitals with their fiery hands. 
 But one convulsive struggle still remains, 
 And Gaul shall weep ere Allfiou wear her chains. 
 The baimer'd jiomj) of war, the glittering files. 
 O'er whose gay trappings stern Belloua smiles ; 
 The brazen trump, the sijirit-stirring drum. 
 That bid the foe defiance ere they come ; 
 The hero bounding at his country's call. 
 The glorious death that consecrates his fall. 
 Swell the young heart with visionary charms. 
 And bid it antedate the joys of arms. 
 But know, a lesson you may yet be taught, 
 With death alone are laurels cheaply bought : 
 Not in the conflict Havoc seeks delight. 
 His day of mercy is the day of fight. 
 But when the field is fought, the battle won, 
 Though drench'd with gore, his woes are but begun 
 His deeper deeds as yet ye know by name ; 
 The slaughter'd peasant and the ravish'd dame. 
 The rifled mansion and the foe-reap'd field, 
 111 suit with souls at homo, untaught to yield. 
 Say ■n'ith what eye along the distant down 
 Would flying burghers mark the blazing to-mi ? 
 How view the column of ascending flames 
 Shake his red shadow o'er the startled Thames ? 
 Nay, frown not, Albion ! for the torch was thine 
 That lit such jiyres from Tagus to the Rhine : 
 Now should they burst on thy devoted coast. 
 Go, ask thy bosom who deserves them most. 
 The law of heaven and earth is life for life. 
 And she who raised, in vain regrets, the strife." 
 
 ' The Deal and Dover trafflcliers ic specie. 
 
454 
 
 B Y R O N' S \\' O n K S . 
 
 THE "WALTZ 
 
 AN APOSTROPHIC HYMN, 
 
 " Qaalis in Eurotte ripis, ant per juga Cynthl, 
 Esercet Diana chores. " Vibgil. 
 
 *'Sacii on Eurotas' banks, or Cynthia' ti height, 
 Diana seems ; and so she charms the sight, 
 Wiien in the dance the graceful goddess leads 
 The quire of nymphs, and overtops their heads/' 
 
 Drtden's Tirgil. 
 
 TO THE PUBLISHER. 
 Sin, — I am a country gentleman of a midland county. 
 I might have been a parliament-man for a certain hor- 
 ot>gh : having had the offer of as many votes as Gcn- 
 ■iral T. at the general election in 1813.' But I was all 
 for domestic happiness ; as, fifteen years ago, on a visit 
 to London, I married a middle-aged maid of honor. 
 We lived hajjpily at Hornem Hall till last season, when 
 my wife and I were invited by the Countess of Waltz- 
 away (a distant relation of my spouse) to pass the win- 
 ter in town. Thinking no harm, and our girls being 
 come to a marriageable (or, as they call it, marketabk) 
 age, and having besides a Chancery suit inveterately 
 entailed upon the family estate, we came up in our old 
 chariot, — of which, by the by, my wife grew so much 
 ashamed in Uws than a week, that I was obliged to 
 buy a second-hand baroiiche, of which I might mount 
 the box, Mrs. H. says, if I could drive, but never see 
 the inside — that place being reserved for the Honor- 
 able Augustus Tiptoe, her partner-general and opera- 
 knight. Hearing great praises of Mrs. H.'s dancing, 
 (she was famous for birthidght minuets in the latter 
 end of the last century,) I unbooted, and went to a ball 
 at the Countess's, expecting to see a country dance, or, 
 at most, cotillions, reels, and all the old paces to tho 
 newest tunes. But, judge of my surprise, on arriving, 
 to see poor dear Mrs. Hornem with her arms half round 
 the loins of a huge hussar-looking gentleman I never 
 Bet eyes on before ; and his, to say truth, rather more 
 than half round her waist, turning round, and round, 
 
 and round, to a d d see-saw uji-and-down sort of 
 
 tune, that reminded me of the " Black-joke," only more 
 " afft'tuoso," till it made me quite giddy with wonder- 
 ing they were not so. By-and-bv they stopped a bit, 
 and I thought tliey would sit or fall down : — but no ; 
 with Mrs. H.'s hand on his shoulder, " quam familiar- 
 iter,"' (as Terence said, when I was at school,) they 
 walked about a minute, and then at it again, like two 
 
 cockchafers spitted on the same bodkin. I asked what 
 all this meant, when, with a loud laugli, a child no older 
 than our Wilhelmina (a name I never heard but in the 
 Vicar of Wakefield, though her mother would call her 
 aft(!r the Princess of Swappenbach) said, " Lord ! Mr. 
 Hornem, can't you see they are valtzing '?" or waltzing, 
 (I forgot which ;) and then up she got, and her mother 
 and sister, and away they went, and round-abouted it 
 till supper-time. Now that I know what it is, I like 
 it of all things, and so does Mrs. H., (though I have 
 broken my shins, and four times overturned Mrs. Horn- 
 em's maid, in practising the preliminary steps in a 
 morning.) Indeed, so mucli do I like it, that having a 
 turn for rhyme, tastily displayed in some election t>al- 
 lads, and songs in honor of all the victories, (but till 
 lately I have had little practice in that way.) I sat 
 down, and with the aid of William Fitzgerald, Esq., 
 and a few hints from Dr. Bu.^by, (whose recitations I 
 attend, and am monstrous fond of Master Busby's man- 
 ner of delivering his father's late successful " Drury 
 Lane Address,") I composed the following hymn, 
 wherewithal to make my sentiments known to the 
 public ; whom, nevertheless, I heartily despise, as well 
 
 as the critics. 
 
 I am. Sir, yours, etc., etc., 
 
 HORACE HORNEM. 
 
 ' Slate of the poll, Oast day,) 5. 
 
 3 M> Latin is all forgotten, if a man can be said to have forgot- 
 ten what he le-er remembered ; but I bought iny lltle-page motto 
 ■>r a Calliulit i:iie9t for a three-shilling bank token, alter much 
 
 THE WALTZ. 
 
 Mdse of the many-twinkling feet !" whose cliarms 
 Are now extended up from legs to arms ; 
 Teqjsichore ! — too long misdeem'd a maid- 
 Reproachful term— bestow'd but to upbraid — 
 ncnceforth in all the bronze of brightness shine, 
 The least a vestal of the virgin Nine. 
 Far be from thee and thine the name of prude ; 
 
 haggling for the even sixpence. I grudged the money to a papist 
 being ail for the memory of Perceval and " No popery," and quit* 
 regretting the downfall of the pope, because we can't bum bta 
 any more, 
 s " Glance their many-twinkllng feet."— Obat. 
 
THE WALTZ. 
 
 455 
 
 Mock'd, yet triumphant ; sneer'd at, unsubdued ; 
 
 Thy legs must move to conquer as they fly, 
 
 If but thy coats are reasonably high ; 
 
 Thy breast — if bare enough — requires no shield ; 
 
 Dance forth — suns armor thou shalt take the field, 
 
 And own — impregnable to most assaults. 
 
 Thy not too lawfully begotten " Waltz." 
 
 Hail, nimble nymph ! to whom the young hussar, 
 The whisker'd votary of waltz and war. 
 His night devotes, despite of spur and boots ; 
 A sight unmatch'd since Orpheus and his brutes : 
 Hail, spirit-stirring Waltz ! — beneath whose banners 
 A modern hero fought for modish manners ; 
 On Hounslow's heath to rival WeUesley's' fame, 
 Cock'd — fired — and miss'd his man — but gain'd his 
 
 aim ; 
 Hail, nioviug Muse ! to whom the fair one's breast 
 Gives all it can, and bids us take the rest. 
 Oh ! for the flow of Busby, or of Fitz, 
 The latter's loyalty, the former's wits, 
 To " energize the object I pursue,"^ 
 And give both Belial and his dance their due ! 
 
 Imperial Waltz ! imported from the Rhine, 
 (Famed for the growth of pedigrees and wine,) 
 Long be thine import from all duty free. 
 And hock itself be less esteem'd than thee : 
 In some few qualities alike — for hock 
 Improves our cellar — thou our living stock. 
 The head to hock belongs — thy subtler art 
 Intoxicates alone the heedless heart : 
 Through the full veins thy gentler poison swims, 
 And w'akes to wantonness the willing Umbs. 
 
 1 To rival Lord WeUesley's, or his nephew's, as the reader 
 pleases ; — the one joined a pretty woman, whom he deserved, by 
 fighting for ; and the other has been tighting in the Peninsula 
 many a long day, " by Shrewsbury clock." without gaining any- 
 thing in tliai country but the tille of " the Great Lord," and " the 
 Lord ;" which savors of profanation, having been hitherto applied 
 only to that Being to whom " Te Deujjis " for carnage are the 
 rankest blasphemy. — It is to be presumed the general will one day 
 return to his Sabine farm ; there 
 
 "To tame the genius of the stubborn plain, 
 Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain I" 
 The Lord Peterborough conquered continents in a summer ; we 
 do more — we contrive both to conquer and lose them in a shorter 
 season. If the " great Lord's " Vincinnufian progress in agricul 
 ture he no speedier than the proportional average of time in 
 Pi.pe's couplet, it will, according to the farmers' proverb, be 
 " ploughing with dogs." 
 
 By the by— cne of this illustrious person's new titles is forgot- 
 ten — it is, liowever, worth remembering—" Sdlvador del mundo .'" 
 credite! posteHI If this be the appellati(m annexed by the 
 Inhabitants of the Peninsula to ihe name of a man who has not 
 yet saved them — query — are they v.'orth saving, even in this world ? 
 for, according to the mildest mc^i-Iications of ar.y Christian creed, 
 those three words make the odde much against th<'m in the next. 
 ' Saviour of the world." quotha ! — it -nere to be wished that he. 
 jr any one else, could ssfve a comer of it — his country. Yet this 
 Btupid misnomer, although it shows the near connection between! 
 anperstition and impiety, so far hiis Us U3C Lhat 11 proves there 
 
 Oh, Germany ! how much to thee we owe, 
 As heaven-born Pitt can testify below. 
 Ere cursed confederation made thee France's, 
 
 And only left us thy d -d debts and dances 1 
 
 Of subsidies and Hanover bereft. 
 We bless thee stiU — for George the Third is left 1 
 Of kings the best — and last, not least in worth, 
 For graciously begetting George the Fourth. 
 To Germany, and highnesses serene. 
 Who owe us millions — don't we owe the queen ? 
 To Germany, what owe we not besides ? 
 So oft bestowing Brunswickers and brides ; 
 Who paid for vulgar, with her royal blood. 
 Drawn from the stem of each Teutonic stud : 
 Who sent us — so be pardon'd all her faults — 
 A dozen dukes, some kings, a queen — and Waltz. 
 
 But peace to her — her emperor and diet. 
 Though now transferr'd to Buonaparte's " fiat 1" 
 Back to my theme — O Muse of motion ! say, 
 How first to Albion found thy Waltz her way ? 
 
 Borne on the breath of hyjjerborean gales. 
 From Hamburg's port, (while Hamburg yet had 
 Ere yet unlucky Fame — compcH'd to creep [maila^ 
 To Snowy Gottenburg — was chill'd to sleep ; 
 Or, starting from her slumbers, deign'd arise, 
 Heligoland 1 to stock thy mart with lies ; 
 While unburnt Moscow' yet had news to send, 
 Nor owed her fiery exit to a friend. 
 She came — Waltz came — and with her certain sets 
 Of true despatches, and as true gazettes ; 
 Then flamed of Austerlitz the bless'd despatch, 
 Which Moniteur nor Morning Post can match ; 
 And — almost crush'd beneath the glorious news — 
 
 can be little to dread from those Catholics (inquisitorial Catholics 
 too) who can confer such an appellation on a Protestant. I sup- 
 pose next year he will be entitled the " Virgin Mary :" if so, Lord 
 George Gordon himself would have nothing to object to such 
 libei-al bastards of our Lady of Babylon. 
 
 - [Among the addresses sent in to the Drury Lane Committee 
 was one by Dr. Busby, which began by asking— 
 " WTien energizing objects men pursue. 
 What are the prodigies they cannot do ?""] 
 
 3 The patriotic arson of oar amiable allies cannot be sufficiently 
 commended— nor subscribed for. Amongst other details omitted 
 in the various despatches of our eloquent ambassador, he did not 
 state ^being too much occupied with the exploits of Colonel 
 
 C , in swimming rivers frozen, and galloping over roads 
 
 impassable) that one entire province perished by famine in the 
 most melancholy manner, as follows : — In General Uostopchin's 
 consummate conll.agration, the consumption of tallow and train 
 oil was so great, that the market was inadequate to the demand ; 
 and thus one hundred and thirty-three thousand persons were 
 starved to death, by being reduced to wholesome diet ! The lamp- 
 lighters of London have since subscribed a pint (of oil) a piece, 
 and the tallow-chandlers have unanimously voted a quantity of 
 best molds (four to the pound) to the relief of the surviving 
 Scylnians ;— The scarcity will soon, by such exertions, and a 
 proper attention to the quality rather than the quantity of pro- 
 vision, be totally alleviated. It is said, in return, tlmt the un- 
 touched Ukraine has subscribed sixty thousand beeves for a day'B 
 meal to our suffering manufacturers. 
 
156 
 
 BTROXS' WORKS. 
 
 Ten plays, and forty talcs of Kotzebue's ; 
 
 One envoy's letters, six composers' airs, 
 
 And loads from Frankfort and from Leipsic fairs ; 
 
 Meincr's four volumes upon womankind, 
 
 Like Lapland witehes to ensure a wind ; 
 
 Bmnck's lieariest tome for l>allast, and to back it, 
 
 Of Heyne, such as should not sink the packet. 
 
 Fraufjlit with this cargo — and her fiiirest freight, 
 Delijrhtful Waltz, on tiptoe for a mate, 
 The welcome vessel reach'd the genial strand, 
 And round her flock'd the daughters of the land. 
 Not decent David, when, before the ark. 
 His grand pas-seul excited some remark ; 
 Not love-lorn (Jnixote, when his Sancho thought 
 The knight's fandango friskier than it ought : 
 Not soft llerodias, when, with winning tread, 
 Her nimljle feet danced off another's head ; 
 Not Cleopatra on her galley's deck, 
 Display'd so much of leg, or more of nccl; 
 Than thou, ambrosial Waltz, when first the moon 
 Beheld thee twirling to a Saxon tune ! 
 
 To you, ye husbands of ten years ! whose brows 
 Ache with the annual tributes of a spouse ; 
 To you of nine years less, who only bear 
 The budding sprouts of those that you shall wear, 
 With added ornaments around them roll'd 
 Of native brass, or law-awarded gold ; 
 To you, ye matrons, ever on the watch 
 To mar a son's, or make a daughter's, match ; 
 To you, ye children of — whom chance accords — 
 Always the ladies, and sometimes their lords ; 
 To you, ye single gentlemen, who seek 
 Torments for life, or pleasures for a week ; 
 As Love or Hymen your endeavors guide. 
 To gain your own, or snatch another's bride ; — 
 To one and all flu; lovely stranger came. 
 And every Ijall-room echoes with her name. 
 
 Endearing Waltz — to thy more melting tune 
 BoV Irish jig, and ancient rigadoon. 
 Scotch reels, avaunt ! and country-dance, forego 
 Your fiitiu'e claims to each fantastic toe ! 
 Waltz — Waltz alone — both legs -and arms demands. 
 Liberal of feet, and lavish of her hands ; 
 Hands which may freely range in public sig-ht 
 
 * DaDcini^ jxirls— who do for liire wliat \A'alt2 doth gratis. 
 
 2 It cannot tie complained now, as in the Lady Baussifcre's time, 
 of tlic " Sicnr de la Croix." tliat there be " no wllisiiord :" but 
 how far thetie are indicationp of valor in the fleld, or elsewhere, 
 Diay Kflll be questionable. Much may be. and hath been avouched 
 on both sides. In the olden time philosophers had whiskers, and 
 Boldiers none — Scipio himself was shaven — Hannibal thought his 
 one *jye handsome enouj^li without a heard : but .\driau, the em- 
 peror, wore a beard (havin;,' warts on his chin, which neither the 
 empress Sabina nor even the courtiers could abide)— Turenne bad 
 wliiskers. Mnrlb.;)rough none— Bonaparte is unwhiskercd, tlic lie- 
 fer* wliiskcred ; " argaV^ gi'eatness of mind and wliiskors mav 
 
 Wliere ne'er before— but — pray " put out the light." 
 Methinks the glare of yonder chandelier 
 Shines much too far — or I am much too near ; 
 And true, though strange — Waltz whispers tl.is re- 
 " My slippery steps are safest in the dark I" [mark, 
 But here the Muse with due decorum halts, 
 And lends her longest petticoat to Waltz. 
 
 Observant travellers of every time ! 
 Te quartos publish'd upon every clime 1 
 Oh say, shall dull Roiuaika's heavy round, 
 Fandango's wriggle, or Bolero's bound ; 
 Can Egypt's Almas' — tantalizing group- 
 Columbia's caperers to the warlike whoop -- 
 Can aught from cold Kamsehatka to CajJC Horn 
 With Waltz compare, or after Waltz be borne ? 
 Ah, no ! from Morier's pages down to Gait's, 
 Each tourist pens a paragraph for " Waltz." 
 
 Shades of those belles whose reign 1)egan of yore, 
 With George the Third's — and ended long before ! — 
 Though in your daughters' daughters yet you thrive, 
 Burst from your lead, and be yourselves alive ! 
 Back to the ball-room speed your spectred host: 
 Fool's Paradise is dull to that you lo.st. 
 No treacherous powder bids conjecture quake; 
 No stifl-starch'd stays make meddling fingers ache 
 (Transferr'd to those ambiguous things that ape 
 Goats in their visage,^ women in their shape;) 
 No damsel faints when rather closely press'd, 
 But more caressing seems when most caress'd ; 
 Superfluous hartshorn, and reviving salts. 
 Both lianish'd by the sovereign cordial " Waltz." 
 
 Seductive Waltz I — though on thy native shore 
 Even Werter's self proclaim'd thee half a whore ; 
 Werter — to decent vice though much inclined, 
 Yet warm, not wanton ; dazzled, but not blind — 
 Though gentle Genlis, in her strife with Stiiel, 
 Would even proscribe thee from a Paris ball ; 
 The fashion hails — from countesses to queens, 
 And maids and valets waltz behind the scenes ; 
 Wide and more wide thy witching circle spreads, 
 And turns — if nothing else — at least our hcaih ; 
 With thee even clumsy cits attempt to bounce, 
 And cockneys practise what they can't pronounce. 
 
 or may not ;;o tofrether : but certainly the different octi.rrenf«9, 
 since the t;rowlh of the last mentioned, go furtlier in behalf of 
 whiskers than the anathema of Ansolm'did again.^1 ions hair In 
 the reign of Henry I.— Formerly, red was a favorite color. Se« 
 Lodowlck liarrey's comedy of Ram Alley, lOtll ; Act I. Scene 1. 
 
 " '/'affeta. Now for a wager— What colored bejird comes next 
 by the window ? 
 
 " Aiiriana. A black man's, I think. 
 
 " Taffeta. I think not so: I think red. for that is most In 
 fashion." 
 
 Tliere is " nothing new under the sun ;" liut red, then a favor- 
 ite, has now subsided into a favorite's color. 
 
THE WALTZ. 
 
 457 
 
 Gods ! how the glorious theme my strain exiilts, 
 And rhyme fmds partner rhyme in praise of " Waltz !" 
 
 Bless"d was the time Waltz chose for her debut: 
 The court, the Regent, like herself were new ;' 
 New face for fiiends, for foes some new rewards ; 
 New ornaments for black and royal guards ; 
 New laws to hang the rogues that roar'd for bread; 
 New coins (most new)" to follow those that fled ; 
 New victories — nor can we prize them less. 
 Though Jenky wonders at his own success ; 
 New wars, because the old succeed so weO, 
 That most survivors envy those who fell ; 
 New mistresses — no, old — and yet 'tis true, 
 Though they be old, the thing is something new ; 
 Each new, quite new — (escejjt some ancient tricks,)^ 
 New white-sticks, gold-sticks, broomsticks, all new 
 Witli vests or ribands — deck'd alike in hue, [sticks ! 
 New troopers strut, new turncoats lilush in blue ; 
 So saith the Muse : my — - — ,' what say you ? 
 Such was the time when Waltz might best maintain 
 Her new preferments in this novel reign ; 
 Such was the time, nor ever yet was such ; 
 Hoops are no more, and petticoats not much : 
 Morals and minuets, virtue and her stays. 
 And tell-tale powder — all have had their days. 
 The ball begins — the honors of the house 
 First duly done by daughter or by sjjouse. 
 Some potentate — or royal or serene — 
 With Kent's gay grace, or sapient Gloster's mien. 
 Leads forth the ready dame, whose rising flush 
 Might once have been mistaken for a blush. 
 Prom where the garb just leaves the bosom free, 
 That spot where hearts^ were once supposed to be ; 
 Round all the confines of the yielded waist. 
 The strangest hand may wander undisplaced ; 
 The lady's in return may grasp as much 
 As princely paunches offer to her touch. 
 Pleased round the chalky floor how well they trip. 
 One hand reposing on the royal hip ; 
 The other to the shoulder no less royal 
 
 ^ An anachronism— Waltz and the "battle of .\iisterlitz are be- 
 fore said to have opened the ball together: the bard means, (if he 
 means any thin^.) Waltz was not so much in vojpie till the Rei^ent 
 Ettained the acme of his popularity. Waltz, the comet, whiskers, 
 and the new ^'overnment, illuminated heaven and earth, in all 
 their glory, much about the same time ; of these the comet only 
 has disappeared ; the other three continue to astonish us still. — 
 Printer's Devil. 
 
 - .\m0n5gt others a new ninepence — a creditable coin now forth- 
 coming, worth a pound, in paper, at the fairest calculation. 
 
 ^ "Oh, that right should thus overcome mifjiur' Who docs 
 not remember the "delicate investigation " in the " Merry Wives 
 o( Windsor?"— 
 
 ■^Ford. Pray you, come near: if I suspect without cause, why 
 then make sport at me : then let me be your jest ; I desire it. 
 How now ? whither bear you this ? 
 
 "J/r/f. Ford. What have you to do whither they bear ity — ^yoa 
 were best meddle with buck-washing." 
 
 ^ The gentle, or ferocious, reader may fill up the blank as he 
 ii.S 
 
 Ascending with afFection truly loyal 1 
 
 Thus front to front the partners move or stand. 
 
 The foot may rest, but none withdraw the hand ; 
 
 And all in turn a ay follow in their rank. 
 
 The Earl of — Astivisk — and Lady — Blank ; 
 
 Sir — Such-a-one — with those of fashion's host. 
 
 For whose bless'd surnames — vide " Morning Post," 
 
 (Or if for that impartial print too late, 
 
 Search Doctors' Commons sis months from my date), 
 
 Thus all and each, in movement swift or slow, 
 
 The genial contact gently undergo ; 
 
 TiU some might marvel, with the modest Turk, 
 
 If "nothing follows all this palming work ?"" 
 
 True, honest Jlirza ! — you may trust my rhyme — 
 
 Something does follow at a fitter time ; 
 
 The breast thus publicly resign'd to man, 
 
 In piivate may resist him if it can. 
 
 O ye who loved our grandmottiers of yore, 
 Fitzpatrick, Sheridan, and many more ! 
 And thou, my Prince ! whose sovereign taste and 
 It is to love the lovely beldames still ! [will 
 
 Thou ghost of Queensbury ! whose judging sprite 
 S.atan may spare to peep a single night. 
 Pronounce — if ever in your days of bliss 
 Asmodeus struck so Viright a stroke as this ? 
 To teach the young ideas how to rise, 
 Flush in the cheek, and languish in the eyes ; 
 Rush to the heart, and lighten through the frame, 
 With half-told wish and ill-dissembled flame : 
 For prurient nature still ^ill storm the breast — 
 H7(«, tempted thus, can answer for the rest ? 
 
 But ye — who never felt a single thought 
 For what our morals are to be, or ought ; 
 Who wisely wish the charms you view to reap, 
 Say — would you make those beauties quite so cheap ? 
 Hot from the hands promisouoiisly applied. 
 Round the slight waist, or down the glowing side, 
 Where were the rapture then to clasp the form. 
 From this lewd grasp and lawless contact warm ? 
 
 pleases — there are several dissyllabic names at his service, (being 
 already in the Re;?ent's .", it would not be fair to back any pecu- 
 liar initial against the alphabet, as every month will add to the 
 list now entered for the sweepstakes : — a distinguished consonant 
 is said to be the favorite, much against the wishes of the know- 
 ing ones. 
 
 * "We have changed all that," says the Mock Doctor — 'tis all 
 gone— .\smodeu3 knows where. After all, it is of no great im- 
 portance how women's hearts are disposed of; they have nature's 
 privilege to distribute them as absurdly as possible. But there 
 are also some men with hearts so thoroughly bad, as to remind 
 us of those phenomena often mentioned in natural history ; viz. 
 a mass of solid stone — only to be opened by force — and when di- 
 vided, you discover a toad in the centre, lively, and with the repu- 
 tation of being venomous. 
 
 " In Turkey a pertinent, here an impertinent and superfluous, 
 question— literally put, as in the text, by a Persian to Morier, on 
 seeing a waltz in Pcra — Vide Morier s Travels. 
 
t58 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 At once love's most endearing thought resign, 
 To i^ress the liand so press'd by none but thine ; 
 To gaze upon that eye which never met 
 Anotlicr's ardent look without regret ; 
 Approach the lip which all, T\ithout restraint. 
 Come near enough — if not to touch — to taint ; 
 If such thou lovest — love her then no more. 
 Or give — like her— caresses to a score ; 
 Her mind with these is gone, and with it go 
 The little left behiini it to bestow. 
 
 Voluptuous AValtz ! and dare I thus blaspheme f 
 Thy bard forgot thy praises were his theme 
 Terpsichore, forgive ! — at every ball 
 My wife nnu) waltzes — and my daughters shall , 
 My son — (or stop — 'tis needless to inquire — 
 These little accidents should ne'er transpire ; 
 Some ages hence our genealogic tree 
 Will wear as green a Ijuugh for him as me) — 
 "Waltzing shall rear, to make our name amends, 
 Grandsons for me — in heirs to all his friends. 
 
 ODE TO NAPOLEON BONAPAIITE, 
 
 " Expende Annibalem : — quot librae in dace eummo 
 Invenies !" Juvenal, Sat. x. 
 
 " The Emperor Nepos was acknowledged by the Senate, by the Italiang, and by the Provincials of Gaul ; his moral vlrtnes and 
 
 military taliMits were loudly celebrated ; and those who derived any private benefit from his government announced in prophetic 
 
 strains the restoration of jmblic felicity. 
 
 ********* 
 ********* 
 
 $y this shameful abdication, he protracted his life a few years, in a very ambi^fuous state, between an Emperor and an Exile 111] 
 
 ' ."—Gibbon's Decline and Fall, vol. vi., p. 250. 
 
 'Tis done — but yesterday a King ! 
 
 And arm'd v/ith Kings to strive — 
 And now thou art a nameless thing : 
 
 So abject — yet alive ! 
 Is this the man of thousand thrones. 
 Who strew'd our earth with hostile bones 
 
 And can he tluis survive ? 
 Since he, miscall'd the Morning Star, 
 Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far. 
 
 Ill luinded man ! why scourge thy kind 
 
 Who bow'd so low the knee ? 
 By gazing on thyself grown blind, 
 
 Thou taught'st the rest to see. 
 With might unquestion'd, — power to save,- 
 Thine only gift hath been the grave. 
 
 To tliose that worshipp'd thee ; 
 Nor till thy fall could mortals guess 
 Ambition's less than littleness ! 
 
 Tlumks for that lesson — it will teach 
 
 To aftcr-wari'iors more 
 Than high Philosophy can preach. 
 
 And vainly pre.ich'd before. 
 That spell upon the minds of men 
 Breaks never to unite again, 
 
 That led them to adore 
 Those Paged things of sabre sway, 
 With fronts of brass, and feet of clay. 
 
 The triumph, and the vanity. 
 The rapture of the strife — ' 
 
 ' "Certaminis gau(Ha"—ttxc expression of Attila in his ha- 
 rangue to his army .«eviou8 to the battle of Chalons, given in 
 Caseiodorus. 
 
 The earthquake voice of Victory, 
 
 To thee the breath of life ; 
 Tlie sword, the sceptre, and that sway 
 Which man seejn'd made but to obey, 
 
 Wherewith renown was rife — 
 All queird I — Dark Sjjirit ! what must be 
 The madness of thy memory I 
 
 The Desolator desolate ! 
 
 The Victor ovcrtlirown ! 
 The Arbiter of others' fate 
 
 A Suppliant for his own ! 
 Is it some yet imperial hope, 
 That with such change can calmly cope ? 
 
 Or dread of death alone ? 
 To die a prince — or live a slave — 
 Thy choice is most ignobly brave I 
 
 He who »f old would rend the oak, 
 Dreani'd not of the rebound ; 
 
 Chaiu'd by tlie trunk he vainly broke — 
 Alone — how look'd lie round ? 
 
 Thou, in the sternness of thy strength, 
 
 An equal deed hast done at length. 
 And darker fate hast found : 
 
 He fell, the forest prowlers' prey ; 
 
 Hut thou must eat tliy heart away 1 
 
 The Roman, when his burning heart 
 Was slaked with blood of Rome, 
 
 Threw down the dagger — dared depart, 
 In savage grandeur, home — 
 
 He dared depart in utter scorn 
 
 Of men that such a yoke had borne, 
 Yet left him s if)i a doom ' 
 
ODE TO NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 459 
 
 His only glorv ts-as that hour 
 Of sell-upbeld ai.audon'd power. 
 
 The Spaniard, wht-n the lust of sway 
 
 Had lost its quicKening spell, 
 Cast crowns for roaaries away, 
 
 An emijire for a cs(l ; 
 A strict accountant of his beads, 
 A subtle disputant on creeds. 
 
 His dotage trifled well : 
 Yet better had he neither known 
 A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne. 
 
 But thou — from thy reluctant hand 
 
 The thunderbolt is wrung — 
 Too late thou leav'st the high command 
 
 To which thy weakness clung • 
 AU Evil Spirit as thou art. 
 It is enough to grieve the heart 
 
 To see thine own unstrung ; 
 To think that God's fiir world hath been 
 The footstool of a thing so mean : 
 
 And Earth hath spilt her blood for hira, 
 
 Wlio thus can hoard his own ! 
 And Monarchs bow'd the trembling limb. 
 
 And thank'd him for a throne ! 
 Fair Freedom ! we may hold thee dear, 
 When thus tliy mightiest foes their fear 
 
 In humblest guise have shown. 
 Oh, ne'er may tyrant leave beliind 
 A brighter name to lure mankind 1 
 
 Thine evil deeds are writ in gore. 
 
 Nor written thus in vain — 
 Thy triumphs tell of fame no more, 
 
 Or deepen every stain : 
 If thou hadst died as honor dies, 
 Some new Napoleon might arise, 
 
 To shame the world again — 
 But wh'. would soar the solar height. 
 To set in such a starless night ? 
 
 Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust 
 
 Is vile as vulgar clay ; 
 Thy scales, Mortality ! are just 
 
 To all that pass away : 
 But yet methought the living great 
 Some higher sparks should animate. 
 
 To dazzle and dismay : 
 Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make mirth 
 Of these, the Conquerors of the earth. 
 
 And she, proud Austria's mournful flower, 
 
 [Dionysius the Younger, esteemed a greater tyrant than his 
 jiwer, on being for the second time banished from Syracuse, re- 
 tirv>i to Corinth, where he was obliged to tnm schoolmaster for a 
 BobelKteuce.l 
 
 Thy still imperial bride ; 
 How bears her breast the torturing houi \ 
 
 StiU clings she to thy side ? 
 Must she too bend, must she too share 
 Thy late repentance, long despair, 
 
 Thou throneless Homicide ? 
 If still she loves thee, hoard that gem ; 
 'Tis worth thy vanish'd diadem ! 
 
 Then haste thee to thy suUen Isle, 
 
 And gaze upon the sea ; 
 That element may meet thy smile — 
 
 It ne'er was ruled by thee ! 
 Or trace with thine all idle hand. 
 In loitering mood upon the sand. 
 
 That Earth is now as free ! 
 That Corinth's pedagogue' hath now 
 Transferred his by-word to thy brow. 
 
 Thou Timour ! in his captive's cage' 
 What thoughts will there be tlune, 
 While brooding in thy prison'd rage ? 
 
 But one — " The world was mine I" 
 Unless, Uke he of Babylon, 
 All sense is with thy sceptre gone. 
 
 Life will not long confine 
 That spirit pour'd so widely forth — 
 So long obey'd — so little worth ! 
 
 Or, like the thief of fire from heaven,' 
 
 Wilt thou withstand the shock ? 
 And share with him, the unforgiven. 
 
 His vulture and his rock ! 
 Foredoom'd by God — by man accursed, 
 And that last act, though not thy worst, 
 
 The very Fiend's arch mock ;• 
 He in his fall preserved his pride. 
 And, if a mortal, had as proudly died 1 
 
 There was a day — there was an hour. 
 
 While earth was Gaul's — Gaul thine— 
 When tliat immeasurable power 
 
 Unsated to resign 
 Had been an act of purer fame, 
 Than gathers round Marengo's name. 
 
 And gilded thy decline, 
 Tlirough the long twilight of all time. 
 Despite some passing clouds of crime. 
 
 But thou forsooth must be a king. 
 
 And don the purple vest, — 
 As if that foolish robe could wring 
 
 ' The cage of Bajazet, by order of Tamerlane. 
 ' Prometheus. 
 
 * *' The very fiend's arch mocK — 
 
 To lip a wanton, and suppose her chaste." — Shakspearb 
 
■ICO 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Remembrance from thy breast. 
 
 When gazing on the Great ; 
 
 Where is that faded garment ? where 
 
 Where neither guilty glory glows, 
 
 The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear, 
 
 Nor despicable state ? 
 
 The star— tlic string — the crest ? 
 
 Yes — one — the first — the last — the best — 
 
 Vain froward eliild of empire ! sa_v, 
 
 The Cincinnatus of the West, 
 
 Are all thy playthings snatch'd away ? 
 
 Wliom envy dared not hate, 
 
 
 Bequeath the name of Washington, 
 
 Where may the wearied eye repose, 
 
 To make man blush there was but One 1 
 
 HEBREW MELODIES. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The subsequent poems were written at the request 
 of my friend, the Hon. Douglas Kiunaird, for a Selec- 
 tion of Hebrew Meloilies, and have been published, 
 with the music, axi'anged by Mr. Braham and llr. 
 Nathan. 
 
 Jaouary, 1815. 
 
 SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. 
 
 She walks in beauty, like the night 
 Of cloudless climes and starry skies; 
 
 And all that's best of dark and bright 
 Meet in her aspect and her eyes : 
 
 Thus mellovv'd to that tender light 
 Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 
 
 One shade the more, one ray the less. 
 Had half impair'd the nameless grace 
 
 Wiich waves in every raven tress, 
 Or softly lightens o'er her face ; 
 
 Where thoughts serenely sweet express. 
 How pure, how dear their dwelling-iilace. 
 
 And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, 
 
 So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 
 The smiles that win, the tints that glow. 
 
 But tell of days in goodness spent, 
 'A mind at peace with all below, 
 
 A heart whose love is innocent 1 
 
 THE HARP THE MONARCH MINSTREL 
 SWEPT. 
 
 The harp the monarch minstrel swept. 
 The King of men, the loved of Heaven, 
 
 Wliich Music hallow'd while she wept 
 O'er tones her heart of hearts had given. 
 Redouble ' bo her tears, its chords are riven I 
 
 It soften'd men of iron mould. 
 
 It gave them virtues not their own; 
 No ear so dull, no soul so cold. 
 That felt not, fired not to the tone, 
 Till David's lyre grew mightier than his throne. 
 
 It told the triumphs of our King, 
 
 It wafted glory to our God 1 
 It made our gladden'd valleys ring, 
 
 The cedars bow, the mountains nod; 
 
 Its sound aspired to Heaven and there abode I 
 Since then, though heard on earth no more, 
 
 Devotion and her daughter Love, 
 Still bid the bursting spirit soar 
 
 To sounds that seem as from above. 
 
 In dreams thatdav's broad lightcannotremove 
 
 IP THAT HIGH WORLD. 
 
 Ip that high world, which lies beyond 
 
 Our own, sur\'iving Love endears ; 
 If there the cherish'd heart be fond. 
 
 The eye the same, except in tears — 
 How welcome those untrodden spheres 1 
 
 How sweet this very hour to die ! 
 To soar fi-om earth and find all fears 
 
 Lost in thy light — Eternity 1 
 
 It must be so : 'tis not for self 
 
 That we so tremble on the brink ; 
 And striving to o'crleap the gulf, 
 
 Yet cling to Being's severing link. 
 Oh 1 in the future let us think 
 
 To hold each heart tlie heart that shares; 
 With them the immortal waters drink. 
 
 And soul in soul grow deathless theirs 
 
 THE WILD GAZELLE. 
 
 The wild gazelle on .ludah's hills 
 
 Exulting yet may bound. 
 And drink from all the living riUs 
 
 That gush on holy ground ; 
 Its airy step and glonous eye 
 May glance in tameless transport by • 
 
 A step as fleet, an eye more liright, 
 Hath Judah wituess'd tliere ; 
 
HLBREW MELODIES. 
 
 4G1 
 
 And o'er her scenes of lost delight 
 
 Inliabitants more fair. 
 The cedars ware on Lebanon, 
 Bet Judah's statelier maids are gone ' 
 
 More bless'd each jjalm that shades those plains 
 
 Than Israel's scatter'd race ; 
 For, taking root, it there remains 
 
 In sohtary grace : 
 It cannot quit its place of birth, 
 It will not live in other earth. 
 
 But we must wander witheringly, 
 
 In other lands to die ; 
 And where our fathers' ashes be, 
 
 Our 0(vn may never lie ; 
 Our temple hath not left a stone, 
 And Mockery aits on Salem's throne. 
 
 OH! WEEP FOR THOSE. 
 
 Oh ! weep for those that wept by Babel's stream. 
 Wliose shrines are desolate, whose land a dream ; 
 Weep for the haqD of .Judah's broken shell ; 
 Mourn — where their God hath dwelt the eodleijg 
 dweU ! 
 
 And where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet ? 
 And when shall Zion's songs again seem sweet ? 
 And Judah's melody once more rejoice 
 The hearts that leaij'd before its heavenly voice ? 
 
 Tril>es of the wandering foot and weary breast, 
 How shall ye flee away and be at rest ! 
 The wild-dove hath her nest, the fox his cave, 
 Mankind their country — Israel but the grave ! 
 
 ON JORDAN'S BANKS. 
 
 Ox Jordan's banks the Arab's camels stray, 
 
 On Sion's hill the False One's votaries pray. 
 
 The Baal-adorer bows on Sinai's steep — 
 
 Yet there — even there — Oh God I thy thunders sleep : 
 
 There — where thy finger scorch'd the tablet stone ! 
 There — where thy shadow to thy people shone, 
 Thy glory shrouded in its garb of fire 
 Thyself —none living see and not expire ! 
 
 Oh ! in the lightning let thy glance apjjcar ; 
 Sweep from his shiver'd hand the oppressor's spear : 
 How long by tyrants shall thy land be trod I 
 How long thy temple worshipless, O God ! 
 
 JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Since our country, our God — oh, my sire ! 
 Demand that thy daughter expire : 
 
 Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow- 
 
 Strike the bosoui that's bared for thee now t 
 
 And the voice of my mourning is o'er, 
 j'uid the moimtains behold me no more • 
 If the hand that I love lay me low. 
 There cannot be pain in the blow ! 
 
 And of this, oh, my father ! be sure— 
 That the blood of thy child is as pure 
 As the blessing I beg ere it flow, 
 And the last thought that soothes me below. 
 
 Though the virgins of Salem lament, 
 Be the judge and the hero unbent ! 
 I have won the great battle for thee, 
 And my father and country are free ! 
 
 When this blood of thy giving hath gush'd, 
 When the voice that thou lovest is hush'd, 
 Let my memory still be thy pride. 
 And forset not I smiled as I died 1 
 
 OH ! SNATCH'D AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM, 
 
 Oh ! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom. 
 On thee shall press no ponderous tomb ; 
 But on thy turf shall roses rear 
 Their leaves, the earliest of the yeai , 
 And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom : 
 
 And oft by yon blue gushing stream 
 Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, 
 
 And feed deep thought with many a dream. 
 And lingering pause and lightly tread; 
 Fond wTetch ! as if her step disturb'd the dead 1 
 
 Away ! we know that tears are vain. 
 That death nor heeds nor hears distress • 
 
 Will this unteach us to complain ? 
 Or make one mourner weep the less ? 
 And thou— who tell'st me to forget, 
 Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. 
 
 MY SOUL IS DARK. 
 
 My soul is dark — ■ oh ! quickly string 
 
 The harp I yet can brook to hear ; 
 And let thy gentle fingers fling 
 
 Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. 
 If in this heart a hope be dear. 
 
 That sound shall charm it forth ,again : 
 If in these eyes there lurk a tear, 
 
 'Twill flow, and cease to bum my braia 
 
 But bid the strain be wild and deep, 
 Nor let thy notes of joy be first 
 
462 
 
 BTRON 'S WORKS. 
 
 I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep, 
 Or else tliis hea\'y heart will burst; 
 
 For it hath been l)y sorrow nursed, 
 And ached in sleepless silence long ; 
 
 And now 'tis doom'd to know the worst, 
 And break at once — or yield to song. 
 
 I SAW THEE WEEP. 
 
 I SAW thee weep — the big bright tear 
 
 Came o'er that eye of blue ; 
 And then methought it did appear 
 
 A violet dropping dew : 
 I saw thee smile — the sapjjhii-e's blaze 
 
 Beside thee ceased to shine ; 
 It could not match the living rays 
 
 That fiU'd that glance of thine. 
 
 As clouds from yonder sun receive 
 
 A deep and mellow dye, 
 Which scarce the shade of coming eve 
 
 Can banish from the sky, 
 Those smiles unto the moodiest mind 
 
 Their own pure joy impart ; 
 Their sunshine leaves a glow behind 
 
 That lightens o'er the heart. 
 
 THY DATS ARE DONE. 
 
 Thi' days are done, thy fame begun ; 
 
 Thy country's strains record 
 The triumphs of her chosen Son, 
 
 The slaughters of his sword ! 
 The deeds he did, the fields he won, 
 
 The freedom he restored ! 
 
 Though thou art fall'n, while we are free 
 Thou shalt not taste of death ! 
 
 The generous blood that flow'd from thee 
 Disdain'd to sink beneath : 
 
 Within our veins its currents be. 
 Thy si)irit on our breath 1 
 
 Thy name, our charging hosts along 
 
 Shall be the Ijattle-word ! 
 Thy fall, the theme of choral song 
 
 From virgin voices pour'd ! 
 To weep would do tliy glory wrong ; 
 
 Thou sUalt not Ijc deplored. 
 
 SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST 
 BATTLE. 
 W AURioRS and chiefs ! should the shaft or the sword 
 Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord, 
 Ilecd not the cors?, though a king's, in your path, 
 Bury your steel in tlie bosoms of Gath ! 
 
 Thou who art bearing my buckler and oow, 
 
 Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe 
 Stretch me that moment in blood at thy feet 1 
 JGne be the doom which they dared not to meet 
 
 Farewell to others, but never we part, 
 Heir to my royalty, son of my heart 1 
 Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway, 
 Or kingly the death, which awaits us to-day I 
 
 SAUL. 
 
 Thou whose spell can raise the dead, 
 
 Bid the prophet's form appear. 
 " Samuel, raise tliy buried head ! 
 King, behold the phantom seer !" 
 
 Earth yawn'd ; he stood the centre of a cloud . 
 
 Light changed its hue, redring from his shroud. 
 
 Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye ; 
 
 His hand was wither'd. and his veins were dry ; 
 
 His foot, in bony whiteness, glitter'd there. 
 
 Shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare ; 
 
 From lips that moved not, and unbreathing frame, 
 
 Like cavern'd winds, the hollow accents came. 
 
 Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak, 
 
 At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke. 
 " Why is my sleep disquieted? 
 Who is he that calls the dead ? 
 Is it thou, O King ? Behold, 
 Bloodless are these limbs, and cold . 
 Such are mine ; and such shall be 
 Thine to-morrow, when with me : 
 Ere the conring day is done. 
 Such shalt thou be, such tliy son. 
 Fare thee well, but for a day, 
 Then we mix our mouldering clay. 
 Thou, thy race, lie pale and low. 
 Pierced by shafts of many a bow ; 
 And the falchion by thy side 
 To thy heart thy hand shall guide : 
 Crownless, breathless, headless fall, 
 Son and sire, the house of Saul !" 
 
 "ALL IS VANITY, SAITH THE PREACHER." 
 
 Fame, wisdom, love, and power were mine. 
 
 And health and youth possess'd me; 
 My goblets blusli'd from every vine. 
 
 And lovely forms caress'd me ; 
 I sunn'd my heart in beauty's eyes. 
 
 And felt my soul grow tender ; 
 MX earth can give, or mortal prize.. 
 
 Was mine of regal splendor. 
 
 I strive to number o'er what days 
 
 Remembrance can discover, 
 Wliich all that life or earth displays 
 
HEBREW MELODIES. 
 
 463 
 
 ■Would lure me to lire over. 
 There rose no day, there roll'd no hour 
 
 Of pleasure unembitter'd ; 
 And not a trapping deck'd my power 
 
 That gall'd not while it glitter'd. 
 
 The serpent of the field, by art 
 
 And spells, is won from harming ; 
 But that which coils around the heart, 
 
 Oh ! who hath power of charming ? 
 It will not list to wisdom's lore, 
 
 Nor music's voice can lure it ; 
 But there it stiugs for evermore 
 
 The soul that must endure it. 
 
 WriEN COLDNESS WRAPS THIS SUFFER- 
 ING CLAY. 
 
 When coldness wraps this suffering clay. 
 
 Ah ! whither strays the immortal mind ? 
 It cannot die, it cannot stay. 
 
 But leaves its darken'd dust behind. 
 Then, unembodied, doth it trace 
 
 By steps each planet's heavenly way ? 
 Or fill at once the realms of space, 
 
 A thing of eyes, that all survey ? 
 
 Eternal, boundless, undecay'd, 
 
 A thought imseen, but seeing all, 
 AH, all in earth, or skies display'd, 
 
 Shall it survey, shall it recall : 
 Each fainter trace that memory holds 
 
 So darkly of departed years, 
 !n one broad glance the soul beholds, 
 
 And all, that was, at once appears. 
 
 efore Creation peopled earth. 
 
 Its eye shaU roll through chaos back ; 
 And where the furthest heaven had birth. 
 
 The spirit trace its rising track. 
 And where the future mars or makes, 
 
 Its glance dilate o'er all to be, 
 While sun is quench'd or system breaks, 
 
 Fix'd in its own eternity. 
 
 Abovs or Love, Hope, Hate, or Fear, 
 
 It lives all passionless and pure : 
 An age shall fleet like earthly year ; 
 
 Its years as moments shall endure. 
 Away, away, without a wing. 
 
 O'er all, through all, its thought shall fly ; 
 A nameless and eternal thing. 
 
 Forgetting what it was to die. 
 
 A thousand bright lamps shone 
 O'er that high festival. 
 
 A thousand cups of gold. 
 In .ludah deem'd divine — 
 
 Jehovah's vessels hold 
 
 The godless Heathen's win }. 
 
 In that same hour and hall, 
 
 The fingers of a hand 
 Came forth against the wall, 
 
 And wrote as if on sand : 
 The fingers of a man ; — 
 
 A solitary hand 
 Along the letters ran. 
 
 And traced them like a wand. 
 
 The monarch saw, and shook, 
 
 And bade no more rejoice ; 
 All bloodless wax'd his look, 
 
 And tremulous his voice. 
 " Let the men of lore appear. 
 
 The wisest of the earth. 
 And exijoimd the words of fear, 
 
 Which mar our royal mirth." 
 
 Chaldea's seers are good. 
 
 But here they have no skill ; 
 And the unknown letters stood 
 
 Untold and awful still. 
 And Babel's men of age 
 
 Are wise and deep in lore ; 
 But now they were not sage, 
 
 They saw— but knew no more 
 
 A captive in the land, 
 
 A stranger and a youth, 
 He heard the king's command, 
 
 He saw that writing's truth, 
 The lamps around were bright, 
 
 The prophecy in -view ; 
 He read it on that night, — 
 
 The morrow proved it true. 
 
 " Belshazzar's grave is made. 
 
 His kingdom pass'd away. 
 He, in the balance weigh'd, 
 
 Is light and worthless clay. 
 The shroud, his robe of state. 
 
 His canopy the stone : 
 The Slede is at his gate ! 
 
 The Persian on his throne '" 
 
 VISION OF BELSHAZZAR. 
 
 The King was on his throne. 
 The Satraps tlirong'd the haU ; 
 
 SUN OF THE SLEEPLESS? 
 
 StTN of the sleepless ! melancholy star ! 
 Wliose tearful beam glows treuuilously far, 
 That show'st the darkness thou canst not dispeL 
 
4CI 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 How liUc art thou to joy remember'd well ! 
 Po irlcams tlic past, the liglit of other flays, 
 Which shines, but warms not with its powerless rays. 
 A night-beam Sorrow watcheth to behold, 
 Distinct, but distant — clear — but oh, how cold ! 
 
 WERE MY BOSOM AS FALSE AS THOU 
 DEEM'ST IT TO BE. 
 
 Were my bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be, 
 
 I need not have wander'd from far Galilee ; 
 
 It was but .abjuring my creed to efface 
 
 The curse which, thou say'st is the crime of my race : 
 
 If the bad never triumph, then God is with thee ! 
 If the slave only sin, thou art spotless and free I 
 If the exile on earth is an outcast on high. 
 Live on in thy faith, but in mine I will die. 
 
 I have lost for that faith more than thou canst bestow. 
 As the God who permits thee to prosper doth know ; 
 In his hand is my heart and my hope — and in thine 
 The land and tlie life which for Him I resign. 
 
 HEROD'S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNE. 
 
 On, Mariamne ! now for thee 
 
 The heart for which thou bled'st is bleeding, 
 Revenge is lost in agony, 
 
 And wild remorse to rage succeeding. 
 Oh, Mariamne I where art thou ? 
 
 Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading. 
 Ah ! couldst thou — thou wouldst pardon now. 
 
 Though Heaven were to my prayer unheeding. 
 
 And is she dead ? — and did they dare 
 
 Obey my jjhrensy's jealous raving ? 
 My wrath luit iloom'd my ovra despair : 
 
 The sword that smote her 's o"er me waving. — 
 But thou art cold, my murdcr'd love ! 
 
 And this dark heart is vainly craving 
 For her who soars alone above. 
 
 And leaves my soul unworthy saving. 
 
 She's gone, who shared my diadem ; 
 
 She sunk, ^wth her my joys entombing ; 
 I swept that flower from Judah's stem. 
 
 Whose leaves for me alone were blooming ; 
 And mine's the guilt, and mine the hell, 
 
 This bosom's desolation dooming; 
 And I have earned those tortures well, 
 
 Wiiich uneonsumed are still consuming ! 
 
 'Twas thy last sun went down,andtheflamcsof thy fall 
 Flash'd back on the last glance I gave to thy wall. 
 
 I look'd for thy temple, I look'd for my home, 
 And forgot for a moment my bondage to come ; 
 I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy fane, 
 And the fast fetter'd hands that made vengeance in 
 vain. 
 
 On many an eve, the high spot whence I gazed 
 Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed ; 
 Wliile I stood on the height, and beheld the decline 
 Of the rays from the mountain that shone on thy 
 shrine. 
 
 And now on that mountain I stood on that day, 
 But I m.irk"d „.^t the twilignt beam melting away; 
 Oh 1 would that the lightning had glared in its stead, 
 And the thunder) lolt burst on the conquerers head 1 
 
 But the gods of the Pagan shall never profane 
 The shrine where Jehovah disdain'd not to roign ; 
 And scatter'd and scorn'd as thy people may be 
 Our worship, Father, is only for thee. 
 
 ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION 
 JERUSALEM BY TITUS. 
 
 OP 
 
 BY' 
 
 THE RIVERS OF BABYXON WE 
 DOWN AND WEPT. 
 
 We sat down and wept by the waters 
 Of Bal)el, and thought of the day 
 
 When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters, 
 Made Salem's high places his prey ; 
 
 And ye, O her desolate daughters 1 
 Were scatter'd all weeping away. 
 
 Wliile sadly we gazed on the river 
 Which roll'd on in freedom below. 
 
 They demanded the song; but, oh never 
 That triumph the stranger shall knowl 
 
 May this right hand be withcr'd forever, 
 Ere it string our high harp for the foe ! 
 
 On the willow that harp is suspended, 
 O Salem 1 its sound should be free; 
 
 And the hour when thy glories were ended 
 But left me that token of thee : 
 
 And ne'er shall its soft tones bo blended 
 With the voice of the spoiler by me ! 
 
 SAT 
 
 From the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome 
 I beheld thee, () Sion ! when render'd to Rome: 
 
 THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 
 
 The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold. 
 And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; 
 And the sheen of their spears was like stars on tlic 
 
 sea, 
 When the blue wave rolls uinhtly on deep Galilee. 
 
DOMESTIC PIECES. 
 
 405 
 
 Like the leavfs of the forest when Summer is green, 
 That host with their banners at sunset were seen : 
 Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath 
 
 blown, 
 That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown. 
 
 For the Angei of Death spread his wings on the blast, 
 And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd ; 
 And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, 
 And their heart but once heaved, and forever grew 
 still! 
 
 And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, 
 But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride : 
 And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
 And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 
 
 And there lay the rider distorted and pale. 
 With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail ; 
 And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
 The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 
 
 And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail. 
 And the idols are broke ia the temple of Baal ; 
 And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword 
 Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord I 
 
 A SPIRIT PASS'D BEFORE ME. 
 
 FROM JOB. 
 
 A SPTRIT pass'd before me : I beheld 
 
 The face of immortality unveil'd — 
 
 Deep sleep came down on every eye save mine — 
 
 And there it stood, — aU formless — but divine : 
 
 Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake ; 
 
 And as my damp hair stiffen'd, thus it spake : 
 
 " Is man more just than God ? Is man more pure 
 Than He who deems even Seraphs insecure ? 
 Creatures of clay — vain dwellers in the dust ! 
 The moth survives you, and are ye more just ? 
 Tilings of a day ! you wither ere the night, 
 Hee(Jles3 and blind to Wisdom's wasted light !" 
 
 DOMESTIC PIECES.-i816 
 
 FARE THEE WELL. 
 
 '* Alas ! they have been friends in youth ; 
 But whispering tongues can poison truth. 
 And constancy lives in realms above ; 
 And life is thorny ; and youth is vain : 
 And to be wroth with one we love. 
 Doth work like madness in the bcain ; 
 ******* 
 
 But never either found another 
 
 To free the hollow heart from painin,^ — 
 
 They stood aloof, the scars remaining, 
 
 Like clilTs, which had been rent asunder. 
 
 A dreary sea now ilows between, 
 
 But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, 
 
 Shan wholly do away. I ween, 
 
 The marks of that which once hath been." 
 
 Coleridge's Christabd. 
 
 Fake thee weU ! and if forever, 
 
 Still forever, fare thee well : 
 Even though unforgiving, never 
 
 '(Jainst thee shall my heart rebel. 
 
 Woukl that breast were bared before thee 
 Where thy head so oft hath lain, 
 
 ■\Vliile that placid sleep came o'er thee 
 Which thou ne'er canst know again : 
 
 Would thai oreast, by thee glanced over. 
 
 Every inmost thought could show! 
 Tlien thou wouldst at last discover 
 
 'Twas not well to spurn it so. 
 69 
 
 Though the world for this commend thee— 
 Though it smile upon the blow. 
 
 Even its praises must offend thee, 
 Founded on another's wo : 
 
 Though my many faults defaced me, 
 
 Could no other arm be found, 
 Than the one which once embraced me, 
 
 To inflict a cureless wound ? 
 
 Tet. oh yet, thyself deceive not; 
 
 Love may sink by slow decay ; 
 But by sudden wrench, believe not 
 
 Hearts can thus be torn away : 
 
 Still thine own its life retaineth— 
 
 Still must mine, thought bleeding, beat; 
 
 And the undying thought which paineth 
 Is — that we no more may meet. 
 
 These are words of deeper sorrow 
 Than tlie wail above the dead ; 
 
 Both shall live, but every morrow 
 Wake us from a widow'd bed. 
 
 And when thou would solace gather, 
 Wlien our child's first accents flow. 
 
 Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!" 
 Though his care she must forego? 
 
*ip 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 When her little hands shall press thee, 
 AVlR'n her lip to thine is press'd, 
 
 Think oi'him whose prayer shall bless thee, 
 Think of him thy love had bless'd 1 
 
 Should her lineaments resemble 
 Those thou never more niayestsee, 
 
 Then thy heart will softly tremble 
 With a pulse yet true to me. 
 
 AH my faults perchance thou knowest, 
 All my madness none can know ; 
 
 All my hopes, where'er thou goest. 
 Wither, yet witli l/ice they go. 
 
 Every feeling hath been shaken ; 
 
 Pride, which not a world could bow, 
 Bows to thee — by thee forsaken. 
 
 Even my soul forsakes me now : 
 
 But 'tis done — all words are idle — 
 Words from me are vainer still ; 
 
 But the thoughts we cannot bridle 
 Force their way without the will. — 
 
 Fare thee well ! — thus disunited. 
 
 Torn from every nearer tic, 
 Sear'd in heart, antl lone, and Ijlighted, 
 
 More than this I scarce can die. 
 
 March n, 1818. 
 
 A SKETCH. 
 
 " Honest I honest lago ! 
 If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee." 
 
 SOAKBrEABS. 
 
 Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred, 
 
 Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head ; 
 
 Next — for some gracious service unexpress'd, 
 
 And from its wages only to bo guess'd — 
 
 Raised from the toilet to the table, — where 
 
 IJer wondering betters wait behind her chair. 
 
 With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash'd, 
 
 She dines from otF the ])late she lately wash'd. 
 
 Qu'ck with the tale, and ready with the lie — 
 
 The genial confidante, and general spy — 
 
 Who coidd, ye gods ! her next employment guess — 
 
 An only infant's earliest governess ! 
 
 She tauglit the child to read, and taught so well, 
 
 That she herself, by teaching, Icarn'd to spell. 
 
 An adept next in penmanship she grows. 
 
 As many a nameless slander deftly shows : 
 
 ■Wliat she liad made the jjupil of her art. 
 
 None know — but that high Soul secured the heart, 
 
 And 2)anted for the truth it could not hear, 
 
 With longing breast and undeluded oar. 
 
 Foil'd was perversion by that youthful mind, 
 
 AV'hich F'attery fooVd not — Baseness could not blind, 
 
 Deceit infect not — nor Contagion soil — 
 
 Indulgence weaken — nor Example spoil — 
 
 Nor master'd Science tempt her to look down 
 
 On humbler talents with a pitying fruwn — 
 
 Nor Genius swell — nor Beauty render vain — 
 
 Nor Envy ruffle to retaliate pain — 
 
 Nor Fortune change — Pride raise — nor Passion bow 
 
 Nor Virtue teach austerity — till now. 
 
 Serenely purest of her sex that live. 
 
 But wanting one sweet weakness — to forgive, 
 
 Too shock'd at faults her soul can never know, 
 
 She deems that all could be like her below : 
 
 Foe to all \'ice, yet hardly Virtue's friend. 
 
 For Virtue pardons those she would amend. 
 
 But to the theme : — now laid aside too long, 
 The baleful burden of this honest song — 
 Though all her former functions are no more, 
 She rules the circle which she served before. 
 If mothers — none know why — before her quake ; 
 If daughters dread her for the mother's sake ; 
 If early habits — those false links, which bind 
 At times the loftiest to the meanest mind — 
 Have given her power too deeply to instil 
 The angry essence of her deadly will ; 
 If like a snake she steal within your walls. 
 Till tlie black slime betray her as she crawls ; 
 If like a viper to the heart she wind, 
 And leave the venom there she did not find ; 
 Wliat marvel that this hag of hatred works 
 Eternal evil latent as she lurks. 
 To make a Pandemonium where she dwells, 
 And reign the Hecate of domestic hells ? 
 Skill'd by a touch to deepen scandal's tints 
 With all the kind mendacity of hints, [smiles— 
 Wliile mingling truth with falsehood — sneers with 
 A thread of candor with a web of wiles ; 
 A plain blunt show of brielly-spoken seeming, 
 To hide her bloodless heart's soul-harden'd schem- 
 A lip of lies — a face form'd to conceal ; [ing • 
 
 And, without feeling, mock at all who feel : 
 With a vile mask the Gorgon would disown ; 
 A cheek of parchment — and an eye of stone. 
 Hark, how the channels of her yellow blood 
 Ooze to her skin, and stagnate there to mud, 
 Cased like the centipede in saflron mail, 
 Or darker greenness of the scorpion's scale — 
 (For drawn from reptiles only may we trace 
 Congenial colors in that soul or face) — 
 Look on her features ! and behold her mind 
 As in a mirror of itself defined : 
 Look on the picture ! deem it not o'ercharged — 
 There is no trait which might not be enlarged : 
 Yet true to " Nature's journeymen," who made 
 This monster when their mistress left oft' trade — 
 This female dog-star of her little sky, 
 Where all beneath her influence droop or die. 
 
DOMESTIC PIECES. 
 
 467 
 
 Oh ! wretcli without a tear — without a thought, 
 Save joy above the ruin thou hast wrought — 
 The time shall come, nor long remote, when thou 
 Shalt feel far more than tliou infiictest now ; 
 Feel for thy vile self-lo\-iug self in vain, 
 And turn thee howling in unpitied jjain. 
 Sray the strong curse of crush'd affections light 
 Back on thy bosom with reflected blight ! 
 And make thee in thy leprosy of mind 
 As loathsome to thyself as to mankind ! 
 Till all thy self-thoughts curdle into hate. 
 Black — as thy will for others would create : 
 Till thy hard heart be calcined into dust, 
 And thy soul welter in its hideous crust. 
 Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as the bed — 
 The widow'd couch of fire, that thou hast spread I 
 Then, when thou fain wouldst weary Heaven with 
 
 prayer. 
 Look on thine earthly victims — and despair ! 
 Down to the dust ! — and, as thou rott'st away. 
 Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay. 
 But for the love I bore, and still must bear. 
 To her thy malice from all ties would tear — 
 Thy name — thy human name — to every eye 
 The cUmax of all scorn should hang on high, 
 Exalted o'er thy less abhorr'd compeers — 
 And festering in the infamy of years. 
 
 March 29, 1816. 
 
 STANZAS TO AUGUSTA. 
 
 Whek all around grew drear and dark, 
 And reason half withheld her ray — 
 
 And hope but shed a dring spark 
 Which more misled my lonely way ; 
 
 In that deep midnight of the mind. 
 And that internal strife of heart. 
 
 When dreading to be deem'd too kind, 
 The weak despair — the cold depart ; 
 
 When fortune changed — and love fled far. 
 And hatred's shafts flew thick and fast, 
 
 Thou wert the solitary star 
 Which rose, and set not to the last. 
 
 Oh ! bless'd be thine unbroken light ! 
 
 That watch'd me as a seraph's eye. 
 And stood between me and the night. 
 
 Forever shining sweetly nigh. 
 
 And when the cloud upon us came, 
 
 Wliich strove to blacken o'er thy ray — 
 
 Then puier spread its gentle flame. 
 And dash'd the darkness all away. 
 
 Still may thy sjiirit dwell on mine, 
 
 And teach it what to brave or brook — 
 
 There's more in one soft word of thine 
 Than in the world's defied rebuke. 
 
 Thou stood'st, as stands a lovely tree. 
 That still unbroke, though gently bent. 
 
 Still waves with fond fidelity 
 Its boughs above a monument. 
 
 The winds might rend — the skies might pour, 
 But there thou wert — and still wouldst be, 
 
 Devoted in the stormiest hour 
 
 To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me. 
 
 But thou and thine shall know no blight, 
 
 WTiatever fate on me may fall ; 
 For heaven in sunshine will requite 
 
 The kind— and thee the most of all. 
 
 Then let the ties of baffled love 
 Be broken — thine wiU never break ; 
 
 Thy heart can feel — but will not move ; 
 Thy soul, though soft, will never shake. 
 
 And these, when aU was lost beside. 
 
 Were found and still are fix'd in thee ; — 
 
 And bearing stiU a breast so tried, 
 Earth is no desert — ev'n to mo. 
 
 STANZAS TO AUGUSTA. 
 
 Though the day of my destiny 's over, 
 
 And the star of my fate hath declined. 
 Thy soft heart refused to discover 
 
 The faults which so many could find ; 
 Though thy soul ^-ith my grief was acquainted. 
 
 It shrunk not to share it with me. 
 And the love which my spirit hath painted 
 
 It never hath found but in thee. 
 
 Then when nature around me is smiling, 
 
 The last smile which answers to mine, 
 I do not beheve it beguiling. 
 
 Because it reminds me of thine ; 
 And when winds are at war with the ocean, 
 
 As the breasts I beheve in with me. 
 If their billows excite an emotion. 
 
 It is that they bear me from thee. 
 
 Though the rock of my last hope is shiver'd, 
 
 And its fragments are sunk in the wave, 
 Though I feel that my soul is deliver'd 
 
 To pain — it shall not be its slave. 
 There is many a pang to pursue me : 
 
 They may crush, but they sb ill not contema- • 
 They may torture, but shall not subdue me — 
 
 'Tis of thee that I think — not of there. 
 
468 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Though human, thou didst not deceive me, 
 
 Thousli woman, tliou didst not forsake, 
 Though lovt'd, thou forborcst to grieve me, 
 
 Though slandtr'd, thou never couldst shake, — 
 Though trusted, tliou didst not discUiim me, 
 
 Tliough parted, it was not to fly, 
 Thougli watchful, 'twas not to drfame me. 
 
 Nor mute, that the world might belie. 
 
 Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it, 
 
 Nor the war of the many with one — 
 If my soul was not fitted to prize it, 
 
 'Twas folly not sooner to shun : 
 And if dearly that error hath cost me, 
 
 And more than I once could foresee, 
 I have found that, whatever it lost me. 
 
 It could not deprive me of thee. 
 
 From the wreck of the past, which hath perish'd. 
 
 Thus much I at least may recall. 
 It hath taught me that what I most cherish'd 
 
 Deserved to be dearest of all : 
 In the desert a fountain is springing. 
 
 In the wide waste there still is a tree. 
 And a bird in the solitude singing, 
 
 Which speaks to my sjjirit of thee. 
 
 Jvly 24, 1816. 
 
 EPISTLE TO AUGUSTA. 
 
 My sister ! my sweet sister I if a name 
 Dearer and purer were, it shouLl be thine. 
 Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim 
 No tears, but tenderness to answer mine ; 
 Go where I will, to me thou art the same — 
 A loved regret which I would not resign. 
 There yet are two things in my destiny, — 
 & world to roam through, and a home with thee. 
 
 The first were nothing — had I still the last. 
 It were the haven of my happiness ; 
 But other claims and other ties thou hast. 
 And mine is not the wish tomake them less. 
 A strange doom is thy father's son's, and jjast 
 Keealling, as it lies beyond redress ; 
 Re'teraed for him our grandsire's fate of yore,— 
 He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore. 
 
 If my inheritance of storms hath been 
 In other elements, and on the rocks 
 Of perils, overlook'd or unforeseen, 
 I have sustain'd my share of worldly shocks, 
 The fault was mine ; nor do I seek to screen 
 Jly errors with defensive jiaradox ; 
 I Ljve ))een cuniiinif in mine overthrow, 
 The careful pilot of my proper wo. 
 
 Mne were my faults, and mine be their reward, 
 My whole life was a contest, since the day 
 That gave me being, gave me that which marr'd 
 The gift, — a fate, or will, that walk"d astray ; 
 And I at times have found the struggle hard, 
 And thought of shaking oil" my bonds of clay . 
 But now I fain would for a time survive, 
 If but to see what ne.xt can well arrive. 
 
 Kingdoms and empires in my little day 
 I have outlived, and yet I am not old ; 
 And when I look on this, the petty spray 
 Of my own years of trouble, which have roll'd 
 Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away: 
 Something — I know not what — does still uphold 
 A s])irit of slight patience ; — not in vaiu. 
 Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain. 
 
 Perliaps the workings of defiance stir 
 Within me, — or perhaps a cold desjiair, 
 Brought on when ills habitually recur, — 
 Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air, 
 (For even to this may eliange of soul refer, 
 And with light armor we may learn to bear,) 
 Have tauglit me a strange quiet, which was not 
 The chief companion of a calmer lot. 
 
 I feel almost at times as I have felt 
 In happy childhood ; trees, and flowers, and brooks 
 Which do remember me of where I dwelt 
 Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books. 
 Come as of yore ujjon me, and can melt 
 My heart with recognition of their looks ; 
 And even at moments I could think I see 
 Some living thing to love — but none like thee. 
 
 Here are the Alpine landscapes which create 
 A fund for contemplation ; — to admire 
 Is a brief feeling of a trivial date ; 
 But something worthier do such scenes inspire : 
 Here to be lonely is not desolate. 
 For much I view wliieh I could most desire, 
 And, above all, a lake I can behold 
 Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old. 
 
 Oh ! that tliou wert but with me 1 — but I gro^ 
 The fool of my own wishes, and forget 
 The solitude which I have vaunted so 
 Has lost its praise in this but one regret ; 
 There may be others which I less may show — 
 I am not of tlie plaintive mood, and yet 
 I feel an ebb in my philosopliy, 
 And the tide rising in my alter'd eye. 
 
 I did remind thee of our own dear Lake,' 
 By the old Hall which may lie mine no more. 
 
 ' The Lake of Newstcad Abbey. 
 
 * 
 
DOMESTIC PIECES. 
 
 469 
 
 Leman's is fair ; but tbink net I forsake 
 The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore : 
 Sad havoc Time must with my memorj- make, 
 Ere that or thou can fade these eyes Ijefore ; 
 Though, like all things which I have loved, they 
 Resign'd forever, or divided far. [are 
 
 The world is all before me ; I but ask 
 Of Natm-e that mth which she will comply — 
 It is but in her summer's sun to bask. 
 To mingle with the quiet of her sky, 
 To see her gentle face without a mask, 
 And never gaze on it with apathy. 
 She was my early friend, and now shall be 
 My sister — till I look again on thee. 
 
 I can reduce all feelings but this one ; 
 
 ■ And that I would not ; — for at length I see 
 Such scenes as those wherein my life begun 
 The earliest — even the only paths for me — 
 Had I but sooner leam'd the crowd to shun, 
 I hail been better than I now can be ; 
 The passions which have torn me would have 
 
 / had not sufier'd, and thou hadst not wept, [slept ; 
 
 With folse Ambition what had I to do ? 
 Little with Love, and least of all wdth Fame ; 
 And yet thej' came unsought, and with me grew, 
 And made me all which they can make — a name. 
 Yet this was not the end I did pursue ; 
 Surely I once beheld a nobler aim. 
 But all is over — I am one the more 
 To baffled millions which have gone before. 
 
 And for the future, this world's future may 
 From me demand but little of my care ; 
 I have outlived myself hy many a day ; 
 Having survived so many things that were ; 
 My years have been no slumber, but the prey 
 Of ceaseless vigils ; for I had the share 
 Of life which might have fill'd a century, 
 Before its fourth in time had pass'd me by. 
 
 And for the remnant which may be to come 
 I am content ; and for the past I feel 
 Not thankless, — for within the crowded sum 
 Of struggles, happiness at times would steal, 
 And for the present, I would not benumb 
 My feelings farther. — Nor shall I conceal 
 That with all this I still can look around, 
 And i\ orship Nature with a thought profound. 
 
 For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy heart 
 I know myself secure, as thou in mine ; 
 We were and are —I am, even as thou art — 
 Beings who nc'ei each other can resign ; 
 
 It is the same, together or apart. 
 From Ufe's commenceuient to its slow decline 
 We are entwined — let death come slow or fast 
 The tie which bound the first endures the last ! 
 
 LINES 
 
 ON HEAEING THAT LADY BTBON WAS ILL. 
 
 Aot) thou wcrt sad — yet I was not with thee ! 
 
 And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near ; 
 Jlethought that joy and health alone could be 
 
 Where I was not — and jjain and sorrow here 
 ^Vnd is it thus ? — it is as I foretold. 
 
 And shall be more so ; for the mind recoils 
 Upon itself, and the wi-eck'd heart lies cold, 
 
 While heaviness collects the shatter'd spoils 
 It is not in the storm nor in the strife 
 
 We feel benumb'd, and wish to be no more. 
 
 But in the after-silence on the shore, 
 When all is lost, except a little life. 
 
 I am too well avenged ! — but 'twas my right ; 
 
 Whate'er my sins might be, tliou wert not sent 
 To be the Nemesis who should requite — 
 
 Nor did Heaven choose so near an instrument. 
 Mercy is for the merciful — if thou 
 Hast been of such, 'twill be accorded now. 
 Thy nights are banish'd from the realms of sleep ! — 
 
 Yes ! they may flatter thee, but thou shalt feel 
 
 A hollow agony which will not heal. 
 For thou art pillnw'd on a curse too deep ; 
 Thou hast sown in my sorrow, and must reap 
 
 The bitter harvest in a wo as real ! 
 I have had many foes, but none like thee ; 
 
 For 'gainst the rest myself I could defend. 
 
 And be avenged, or turn them into friend ; 
 But thou in safe implacability [shielded, 
 
 Hadst naught to dread — in thy own weakness 
 And in my love, which hath but too much j-ielded. 
 
 And spared, for thy sake, some I should not sjiare — 
 And thus upon the world — trust in thy truth — 
 And the wild fame of my ungovern'd youth— 
 
 On things that were not, and on things that are- 
 Even upon such a basis hast thou built 
 A monument, whose cement hath been guilt ! 
 The moral Clytemnestra of thy lord. 
 And hew'd down, with an unsuspected sword. 
 Fame, peace, and hope — and all the Ijetter life 
 
 Which, but for this cold treason of thy heart, 
 Might still have risen from out the grave of strife, 
 And found a nobler duty than to part. 
 But of thy virtues didst thou make a vice. 
 
 Trafficking with them in a purjwse cold. 
 
 For present anger, and for future gold — 
 And buying other's grief at any price. 
 And thus once cnter'd into crooked ways. 
 
470 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS, 
 
 The early truth, which was thy proper praise, 
 Did not still walk beside thee — but at times, 
 And with a breast unknowing its own crimes, 
 Deceit, averments incompatible, 
 Equivocalions, and the thoughts which dwell 
 
 In Jauus-spirits^the significant eye 
 Which learns to lie with silence — the pretext 
 
 Of Prudence, with advantages annex'd — 
 The acquiescence in all things which tend, 
 No matter how, to the desired end— 
 
 All found a place in thy philosojil.y. 
 The means were worthy, and the end is won- 
 I would not do by thee as thou hast done I 
 
 September, 1816. 
 
 MONODY 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. R. B. SHERIDAN. 
 
 SPOKEN AT DRUUT-LANE TUEATRE. 
 
 When the last sunshine of expiring day 
 
 to summer's twilight weeps itself away, 
 
 Who liatli not felt the softness of the hour 
 
 Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower ? 
 
 With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes 
 
 While Nature makes that melancholy pause, 
 
 Her breathing moment on the bridge where Time 
 
 Of light and darkness forms an arch sublime, 
 
 Who hath not shared that calm so still and deeiJ, 
 
 The voiceless thought which would not speak but 
 
 A holy concord — and a bright regret, [weep 
 
 A glorious sympathy with suns that set ? 
 
 'Tis not harsh sorrow — but a tenderer wo. 
 
 Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below. 
 
 Felt without bitterness — but full and clear, 
 
 A sweet dejection — a transparent tear, 
 
 Unmix'd with worldly grief or selfish stain. 
 
 Shed without shame — and secret without pain. 
 
 Even as the tenderness that hour instils 
 When Summer's day declines along the hills. 
 So feels the fulness of our heart and eyes, 
 When all of Genius which can perish dies. 
 A mighty Spirit is eclipsed — a Power 
 Hath pass'd from day to darkness — to whose hour 
 Of light no likeness is bequcath'd — no name. 
 Focus at once of all the rays of Fame ! 
 The flash of Wit— the bright Intelligence, 
 The beam of Song — the blaze of Eloquence, 
 Set with their Sun — but still have left behind 
 The enduring proiluce of immortal Mind ; 
 Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon, 
 A deathless part of him who died too soon. 
 But small that portion of the wondrous whole, 
 These sparkling segments of that circling soul. 
 Which all embraced — and lightened over all. 
 To cheer — to pierce — to please — or to appal. 
 From the charra'd council to the festive board. 
 Of human feelings the unbounded lord ; 
 In whoHc acclaim the loftiest voices vied, [pride. 
 Ti e praised — the proud — ^who made his praise their 
 
 When the loud cry of trampled Hindostan 
 Arose to Heaven in her appeal from man, 
 His was the thunder — his the avenging rod. 
 The wratli— the delegated voice of God ! [blazed 
 Which shook the nations through his lips — and 
 Till vanquish'd senates trembled as they praised. 
 
 And here, oh ! here, where yet all young and warm, 
 The gay creations of his spirit charm. 
 The matchless dialogue — the dcatliless wit, 
 Which know not what it was to intermit ; 
 The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring 
 Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring 
 These wondrous beings of his Fancy, wrought 
 To fulness by the fiat of his thought. 
 Here in their first abode you still may meet. 
 Bright with the hues of his Promethean hea* • 
 A halo of the light of other days, 
 Which still the splendor of its orb betrays. 
 
 But should tliere l)c to whom the fatal blight 
 Of failing Wisdom jdelds a base delight. 
 Men who exult when minds of heavenly tone 
 Jar in the music which was bom their own. 
 Still let there pause — ah ! little do they know 
 That what to them seem'd Vice might be but W» 
 Hard is his fate on whom the j)uMic gaze 
 Is fix'd forever to detract or jjraise ; 
 Repose denies her requiem to his name. 
 And Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame. 
 The secret enemy whose sleepless eye 
 Stands sentinel — accuser — judge — and spy. 
 The foe — the fool — the jealous — and the vain. 
 The envious who l)ut breathe in others' pain, 
 Behold the host ! delighting to deprave. 
 Who track the stejis of Glory to the grave. 
 Watch every fault that daring Genius owes 
 Half to the ardor which its birth bestows, 
 Distort the truth, accumulate the lie. 
 And pile the pyramid of Calumny ! 
 These are his portion — but if join'd to these 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 471 
 
 Gaunt Poverty should league with deep Disease, 
 If the high Spirit must forget to soar, 
 And stoop to strive with Misery at the door. 
 To soothe Indignity — and face to face 
 Meet sordid Kage — and wrestle with Disgrace, 
 To find in Hope but the renew'd caress. 
 The serpent-fold of further Faithlessness : — 
 If such may be the ills which men assail. 
 What marvel if at last the mightiest fail ? 
 Breasts to whom all the strength of feeling given 
 Bear hearts electric — charged with fire from Heaven, 
 Black with the rude coUisiou, inly torn, 
 By clouds surrounded, aud on whirlwinds borne. 
 Driven o'er the lowering atmosphere that nursed 
 Thoughts which have turn'd to thunder — scorch — 
 and burst. 
 
 But far from us and from our mimic scene 
 Such things should be^if such have ever been ; 
 Ours be the gentler wisli, the kinder task. 
 To give the tribute Glory need not ask. 
 
 To mourn the vanish'd beam — and add our mite 
 Of praise in payment of a long delight. 
 Ye Orators ! whom yet our councils yield, 
 Mourn for tha veteran Hero of your field 1 
 The worthy rival of the wondrous Thrre ! 
 Whose words were sparks of Immortality I 
 Ye Bards ! to whom the Drama's Muse is dear, 
 He was your Master — emulate him here ! 
 Ye men of wit and social eloquence ! 
 He was your brother — bear his ashes hence. 
 While Powers of mind almost of boundless range. 
 Complete in kind — as various in their change, 
 While Eloquence — Wit— Poesy — and Mirth, 
 That humbler Harmonist of care on Earth, 
 Survive within our souls — -while lives our sense 
 Of pride in Merit's proud jjre-eminence. 
 Long shall we seek his likeness — long in vain. 
 And turn to all of him which may remain, 
 Sighing that Nature form'd Init one such man, 
 And broke the die — in moulding Sheridan. 
 
 DiODATi, July 17, 1816. 
 
 THE DREAM 
 
 Ocu life is twofold : Sleep hath its own world, 
 A boundary between the things misnamed 
 Death and existence : Sleep hath its own world. 
 And a wide realm of wild reality. 
 And dreams in their development have breath. 
 And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy ; 
 They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts. 
 They take a weight from ofl" our waking toils. 
 They do divide our being ; they become 
 A portion of ourselves as of our time. 
 And look Hke heralds of eternity ; 
 They pass like spirits of the past, — they speak 
 Like sibyls of the future ; they have power — 
 The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ; 
 They make us what we were not — what they wiU, 
 And shake us with the vision that's gone by, 
 The dread of vanish'd shadows — Are they so ? 
 Is not the past all shadow ? What are they ? 
 Creations of the mind ? — The mind can make 
 Substance, and people planets of its own 
 With Iteings brightei- than have been, aud give 
 A breath to forms which can outlive aU flesh. 
 [ would recall a vision which I dream'd 
 Perchance in sleep — for in itself a thought, 
 A slumbering thought, is capable of years. 
 And curdles a long life into one hour. 
 
 II. 
 I saw two beings in the hues of youth 
 Btanding upon a hill, a gentle hill. 
 
 Green and of mild declivity, the last 
 As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such, 
 Save that there was no sea to lave its base, 
 But a most living landscape, and the wave 
 Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men 
 Scatter'd at intervals, and wreathing smoke 
 Arising from such rustic roofs ; — the hill 
 Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem 
 Of trees, in circular array, so fis'd. 
 Not by the sport of nature, but of man : 
 These two, a maiden and a youth, were there 
 Gazing — the one on all that was beneath 
 Fair as herself — but the boy gazed on her ; 
 And lioth were young, and one was beautiful : 
 And Ijoth were young — yet not ahke in youth. 
 As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge. 
 The maid was on the eve of womanhood ; 
 The boy had fewer summers, but his heart 
 Had far outgrown his years, and to his eyfe 
 There was but one beloved face on earth. 
 And that was shining on him ; he had look'd 
 Upon it till it could not jiass away ; 
 He had no breath, no being, but in hers : 
 She was his voice ; he did not speak to her, 
 But trembled on her words : she was his sight, 
 For his eye follow'd hers, and saw with hers, 
 Which color'd all his objects : — he had ceased 
 To live within himself; she was his life, 
 The ocean to the river of his thoughts. 
 Which terminated all : upon a tone, 
 A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow. 
 
4V2 
 
 BYRON 'S WORKS. 
 
 And his cheek change tempestuonsly — his heart 
 
 Unknowing of its cause of agony. 
 
 Biit she in those fond feelings had no share : 
 
 Her sighs were not for liim ; to her ho was 
 
 Even as a brother — but no more ; 'twas much, 
 
 For brotherless she was, save in the name 
 
 Her infant friendship had bestow'd on him ; 
 
 Herself the solitary scion left 
 
 Of a timc-honor'd race. — It was a name [why ? 
 
 Wliich pleased him, and yet pleased him not — and 
 
 Time taught liim a deep answer — when she loved 
 
 Another ; even nuti:' she loved another, 
 
 And on the summit of that hill she stood 
 
 Looking af\ir if yet her lover's steed 
 
 Kept pace wth her expectancy, and flew. 
 
 III. 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 There was an ancient mansion, and before 
 Its walls there was a steed caparison'd : 
 Within an antique oratory stood 
 The Boy of whom I spake ; — he was alone. 
 And pale, and pacing to and fro : anon 
 Hi' sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced 
 Words which I could not guess of; then he lean'd 
 His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 'twere 
 With a convulsion — then arose again, 
 And with his teetli and quivering hands did tear 
 What he had written, but he shed no tears. 
 And he did calm himself, and fi.\' his brow 
 Into a kind of quiet : as he paused, 
 The Lady of his love re-enter'd there ; 
 She was serene and smiling then, and yet 
 She knew she was by him beloved, — she knew 
 For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart 
 Was darken'd with her shadow, and she saw 
 That he was wretched, but she saw not all. 
 He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp 
 He took her hand ; a moment o'er his face 
 A tablet of unutterable thoughts 
 W58 traced, and then it faded, as it came : 
 He dropjj'd the hand he held, and with slow steps 
 Itetir'd, but not as bidding her adieu, 
 For they did part with mutual smiles ; he pass'd 
 From out the massy gate of that old Hall, 
 And mounting on his steed he went his way ; 
 And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold more. 
 
 IV. 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 The Boy was sprung to manhood : in the wilds 
 Of fiery climes he made himself a home, 
 And his soul drank their sunbeams : he was girt 
 With str.auge and dusky aspects ; he was not 
 Iliuiself like what he had been ; on the sea 
 .Vnd on the shore he was a wanderer ; 
 There was a mass of many images 
 Crowded Uke waves upon me, but he was 
 
 A part of all ; and in the last he lay 
 Reposing from the noontide sultriness, 
 Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade 
 Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names 
 Of those who rear'd them ; by his sleeping side 
 Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds 
 Were fasten'd near a fountain ; and a man 
 Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while, 
 Wliile many of his tribe slumber'd around : 
 And they were canopied by the blue sky, 
 So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful. 
 That God alone was to be seen in Heaven. 
 
 V. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream 
 The Lady of his love was wed witli one 
 Who did not love her better : — in her home, 
 A thousand leagues from his, — lier native home, 
 She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy, 
 Daughters and sons of Beauty, — but behold I 
 Upon her face there was the tint of grief, 
 The settled shadow of an inward strife. 
 And an unquiet drooping of the eye. 
 As if its lid were charged with unshed tears. 
 What could her grief be ? — she had all she loved, 
 And he who had so loved her was not there 
 To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, 
 Or ill-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts. 
 What could her grief be ? — she had loved him not 
 Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved, 
 Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd 
 Upon her mind — -a spectre of the past. 
 
 VI 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 
 The wanderer was return'd. — I saw him stand 
 
 Before an altar — with a gentle bride ; 
 
 Her face was fair, but was not that which made 
 
 The starlight of his boyhood ; — as he stood 
 
 Even at the altar, o'er his brow there cam» 
 
 The selfsame aspect, and the quivering shock 
 
 That in tlie antique oratory shook 
 
 His bosom in its solitude ; and then — 
 
 As in that hour — a moment o'er his face 
 
 Tlie tablet of unutterable thoughts 
 
 Was traced — and then it faded as it came. 
 
 And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 
 
 The fitting vows, but heard not his own words, 
 
 And all tlungs reel'd around him ; he could sec 
 
 Not that which was, nor that which sliould have 
 
 But tlie old mansion, and the accustom'd hall, [been— 
 
 And the remember'd chambers, and the place. 
 
 The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade, 
 
 All things pertaining to that place and hour, 
 
 And her who was his destiny, came back 
 
 And thrust themselves between him and the light; 
 
 What business had they there at such a time ? 
 
 I 
 
THE LAMENT OF TASSO. 
 
 473 
 
 Til. 
 A change came o'er the sjiirit of my dream. 
 The Lady of his love ; — Oh ! she was- changed, 
 As by the sickness of the soul ; her mind 
 Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes. 
 They had not their own lustre, but the look 
 Which is not of the earth ; she was become 
 The queen of a fantastic realm ; her thoughts 
 Were coral linatious of disjointed things ; 
 And forms impalpable and unijcrccived 
 Of others' siglit familiar wei-e to hers. 
 Ana this the world caUs phrenzy ; but tiie wise 
 Have a far deeper madness, and the glance 
 Of melancholy is a fearful gift ; 
 What is it but the telescope of truth ? 
 Which strips the distance of its fantasies. 
 And brings life near in utter nakedness. 
 Making the cold reality too real ! 
 
 YIII. 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 The Wanderer was alone as heretofore. 
 The beings which surrounded him were gone. 
 
 Or were at war with him ; he was a mark 
 
 For blight and desolation, compass'd round 
 
 With Hatred and Contention ; Pain was mix'd 
 
 In all which was served up to him, imtil, 
 
 Like to the Pontic monarch of old days. 
 
 He fed on poisons, and they had no power. 
 
 But were a kind of nutriment ; he hved 
 
 Through that which had been death to many men, 
 
 And made him friends of mountains : with the star* 
 
 And the quick Spirit of the L'niverse 
 
 He held his dialogues ! and they did teach 
 
 To him the magic of their mysteries ; 
 
 To him the book of Night was open'd wide, 
 
 i\jid voices from the deep abyss reveal'd 
 
 A marvel and a secret — Be it so. 
 
 I.X 
 My dream was past ; it had no further change. 
 It was of a strange order, that the doom 
 Of these two creatures should be thus traced out 
 Almost like a reality — the one 
 To end in madness — both in misery. 
 
 July, IGtC. 
 
 THE LAMENT OF TASSO 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 A T Ferrara, in the Library, arc preserved the origi- 
 nal MSS. of Tasso's Gierusalcmme and of Guarini's 
 Pastor Fido, Avith letters of Tasso, one from Titian to 
 Ariosto, and the inkstand and chair, the tomb and the 
 house, of the latter. But, as misfortune has a greater 
 interest for posterity, and little or none for the cotemp- 
 orary, the cell where Tasso was confined in the hospi- 
 tal of St. Anna attracts a more fixed attention than the 
 residence or the monument of Ariosto — at least it had 
 this effect on me. There are two inscriptions, one on 
 the outer gate, the second over the cell itself, inviting, 
 unnecessarily, the wonder and the indignation of the 
 spectator. Ferrara is much decayed, and depopidated ; 
 the castle still exists entire ; and I saw the court where 
 Parisina and Hugo were beheaded, according to the 
 annal of Gibbon. 
 
 THE LAMENT OF TASSO. 
 I. 
 
 Long years ! — It tries the thrilling frame to bear 
 And eagle-spirit of a child of Song — 
 Long years of outrage, calunmy, and wrong ; 
 Imputed madness, prison'd solitude. 
 And the mind's canker in its savage mood. 
 When the imijatient thirst of light and air 
 Parches the heart ; and the abhorred grate. 
 Marring the sunbeams vi \th its hideous shade, 
 GO 
 
 Works through the throbbing eyeball to the brain, 
 
 With a hot sea'se of heaviness and pain ; 
 
 And bare, at once. Captivity display'd 
 
 Stands scoffing through the never-open'd gate. 
 
 Which nothing through its liars admits, save day, 
 
 And tasteless food, which I have eat alone 
 
 Till its unsocial bitterness is gone ; 
 
 And I can banquet Uke a boast of prey, 
 
 SuUen and lonely, couching in the cave 
 
 Which is my lair, and — it may be — my grave. 
 
 AU this hath somewhat worn me, and may wear, 
 
 But must be borne. I stoop not to despair ; 
 
 For I have battled with mine agony. 
 
 And made me wings wherewith to overfly 
 
 The narrow circus of my dungeon wall, 
 
 And freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall ; 
 
 And reveird among men and things divine, 
 
 And pour'd my spirit over Palestine, 
 
 In honor of the sacred war for Him, 
 
 The God who was on earth and is in heaven. 
 
 For he has strengthen'd me in heart and limb. 
 
 That through this sufl'erance I might he forgiven, 
 
 I have emi^loy'd my penance to record 
 
 How Salem"s shrine was won and how adored. 
 
 But this is o'er — my pleasant task is done : — 
 My long-sustaining friend of many years I 
 If I do blot thy final page with tears. 
 
474 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Know, tliat my sorrows have wrung from me none. 
 
 Cut thou, my youug creation ! my souVs child ! 
 
 Wliich ever playing round me came and smiled, 
 
 And woo'd nic from myself with thy sweet sight, 
 
 Thou too art gone — and so is my delight : 
 
 And therefore do I weep and inly bleed 
 
 With this last bruise upon a broken reed. 
 
 Thou too art ended — what is left me now ? 
 
 For I have anguisli yet to bear — and how ? 
 
 I know not that — liut in the innate force 
 
 Of my own spirit shall be found resource. 
 
 I have not sunk, lor I had no remorse, 
 
 Nor cause for such : they call'd me mad — and why ? 
 
 Oh, Leonora ! wilt not tliou reply ? 
 
 I was indeed delirious in my heart 
 
 To lift my love so lofty as thou art ; 
 
 But still my phrcuzy was not of the mind ; 
 
 I knew my fault, and feci my punishment 
 
 Not less because I suffer it unbent. 
 
 That thou wert beautiful, and I not blind. 
 
 Hath been the sin which shuts me fi-om mankind ; 
 
 But let them go, or torture as they will. 
 
 My heart can multiply thine image still ; 
 
 Successful love m;iy sate itself away. 
 
 The wretched are the faithful ; 'tis their fate 
 
 To have all feeling save the one decay. 
 
 And every passion into one dilate, 
 
 As rapid rivers into ocean pour ; 
 
 But ours is fathomless, and hath no shore. 
 
 III. 
 
 Above me, hark ! the long and maniac cry 
 
 Of minds and bodies in captivity. 
 
 And hark ! the lash and the increasing howl, 
 
 And the half-inarticulate blasphemy ! 
 
 There be some here with worse than phrenzy foul, 
 
 Some who do still goad on the o'er-labor'd mind. 
 
 And dim the little light that's left behind 
 
 Witli needless torture, as their tyrant will 
 
 Is wound up to the lust of doing ill : 
 
 With these and with their victims am I class'd, 
 
 'Mid sounols and sights like these long years have 
 
 pass'd ; 
 'Mid sights and sounds like these my life may close : 
 So let it be — for then I shall reijose. 
 
 IV. 
 I hnve been patient, let me be so yet ; 
 I had forgotten half I would forget, 
 But it reWves — Oh, would it were my lot 
 To be forgetful as I am forgot ! — 
 Feel I not wroth with those who bade me dwell 
 In this vast lazar-house of many woes ? 
 Where laughter is not mirth, nor thought the mind, 
 Nor words a language, nor ev'n men mankind ; 
 Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows, 
 Xud each is tortured in his separate hell — 
 
 For -we are crowded in our solitudes- 
 Many, Vut each divided by the wall, 
 Which eciioes Madness in her babbling moods ; — 
 Wliile all can hear, none heed his neighbor's call — 
 None ! save that one, the veriest wretch of aU, 
 WTio was not made to be the mate of these. 
 Nor bound between Distraction and Disease. 
 Feel I not wroth with those who placed me here f 
 WHio have debased me in the minds of men, 
 Debarring me the usage of my own. 
 Blighting ray life in best of its career, 
 Branding my thoughts as things to shun and leal 
 Would I not pay them back these pangs again. 
 And teach them inward Sorrow's stifled groan ? 
 The struggle to be calm, and cold distress. 
 Which imdermines our stoical success ? 
 No ' — still too j)roud to be vindictive — I 
 Have pardon'd princes' insults, and would die. 
 Yes, Sister of my Sovereign ! for thy sake 
 I weed all bitterness from out my breast, 
 It hath no business where thou art a guest ; 
 Thy brother hates — but I can not detest; 
 Tliou pitiest not — but I can not forsake. 
 
 V. 
 Look on a love which knows not to desjjair. 
 But all unqucnch'd is still my better part, 
 Dwelling deep in my shut and silent heart. 
 As dwells the gather'd lightning in its cloud, 
 Eneorap.'vss'd with its dark and rolling shroud. 
 Till struck, — forth flies the all-ethereal dart ! 
 And thus at the collision of thy name 
 The vivid thought still flaslics through my frame, 
 And for a moment all things as they were 
 Flit by me ; — they are gone — I am the same. 
 And yet my love without ambition grew ; 
 I knew thy state, my station, and I knew 
 A princess was no love-mate for a bard ; 
 I told it not, I breathed it not, it was 
 Sufficient to itself, its own reward ; 
 And if my eyes reveal'd it, they, alas ! 
 Were punish'd by the silentness of thine. 
 And yet I did not venture to repine. 
 Thou wert to me a crystal-girded shrine, 
 Worshipp'd at holy distance, and around 
 Ilallow'd and meekly kiss'd the saintly ground; 
 Not for thou wert a princess, but that Love 
 Had robed thee with a glory, and array'd 
 Thy lineaments in beauty that dismay'd — 
 Oh ! not disnuiy'd — but awed, like One above ! 
 And in that sweet severity there was 
 A something which all softness did surj)!»s3 — 
 I know not how — thy genius mastcr'd mine — 
 My star stood still before thee : — if it were 
 Presumptuous thus to love without design, 
 That sad fatality hath cost me dear ; 
 But thou art dearest still, and I should be 
 
THE LAMENT OF TASSO. 
 
 475 
 
 Fit for this cell, which wrougs me — but for thee. 
 The very love which lock'd me to my chain 
 Hath lighten'd half its weight ; and for the rest, 
 Though heavy, lent me vigor to sustain, 
 And look to thee with undivided breast, 
 And foil the ingenuity of Pain. 
 
 VI. 
 
 It IS no marvel — from my very birth 
 
 My soul was drunk with love, — which did pervade 
 
 And mingle with whate'er I saw on eartli ; 
 
 Of objects all inanimate I made 
 
 Idols, and out of wild and lonely flowers. 
 
 And rocks, whereby they grew, a paradise, 
 
 Where I did lay me do\vn within the shade 
 
 Of waving trees, and dream'd uncounted hours. 
 
 Though I was chid for wandering ; and the wise 
 
 Shook their white aged heads o'er me, and said 
 
 Of such materials wretched men were made. 
 
 And such a truant boy would end in wo, 
 
 And that the only lesson was a blow ; — 
 
 And then they smote me, and I did not weep, 
 
 But cursed them in my heart, and to my haunt 
 
 Return'd and wept alone, and dream'd again 
 
 The \'isions which arise without a sleep. 
 
 And with my years ni}' soul began to jjant 
 
 With feelings of strange tumult and soft pain ; 
 
 And the whole heart exhaled into one want, 
 
 But undefined and wandering, till the day 
 
 I found the thing I sought — and that was thee ; 
 
 And then I lost my being all to be 
 
 Absorb'd in thine — the world was pass'd away — 
 
 Tfwu didst annihilate the earth to me ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 I loved all Solitude — but little thought 
 To spend I know not what of life, remote 
 From all communion with existence, save 
 The maniac and his tyrant ; — had I been 
 Their fellow, many years ere this had seen 
 My mind like theirs corrupted to its grave, 
 But who hath seen me writhe, or heard me rave ? 
 Perchance in such a cell we suffer more 
 Than the wreck'd sailor on his desert shore ; 
 The world is all before him — mine is hcre^ 
 Scarce twice the space they must accord my bier. 
 Wliat though /('■ perish, he may lift his eye 
 And with a dying glance upbraid the sky — 
 I will not raise my own in such rejiroof. 
 Although 'tis clouded by my dungeon roof. 
 
 Vlll. 
 
 Vet do I feel at times my mind decline, 
 Bui with a sense of its decay : — I see 
 Unwonted ligl ts along my prison shine, 
 And a strange lemon, who is vexing me 
 
 With pilfering pranks and petty pains, below 
 The feeling of the heahhful and the free ; 
 But much to one, who long hath suffer'd so, 
 Sickness of heart, and narrowness of place. 
 And all that may be borne, or can debase. 
 I thought mine enemies had been but Man, 
 But Spirits may be leagued with them — all Earth 
 Abandons — Heaven forgets me ; — in the dearth 
 Of such defence the Powers of Evil can. 
 It may be, tempt me further, — and prevail 
 Against the outworn creature they assail. 
 Why in this furnace is my spirit proved 
 Like steel in tempering fire ? because I loved ? 
 Because I loved w hat not to love, and see, 
 Was more or less than mortal, and than me. 
 
 IX. 
 
 I once was quick in feeling — that is o'er ; — 
 My scai-s are callous, or I should have dasli'd 
 My brain against these bars, as the sun flash'd 
 In mockery through them ; — If I bear and bore 
 The much I have recounted, and the more 
 Which hath no words, — 'tis that I would not die 
 And sanction with self-slaughter the dull lie 
 Which snared me here, and with the brand of shame 
 Stamp Madness deep into my memory. 
 And woo Comjjassion to a I'lighted name. 
 Sealing the sentence whic:h my foes jjroclaim. 
 No — it shall lie immortal ! — and I make 
 A future temple of my present cell. 
 Which nations yet shall visit for my sake. 
 While thou, Ferrara ! when no longer dwell 
 The ducal chiefs within thee, shalt fall down, 
 And crumbling piecemeal view thy hearthless halls, 
 A poet's wreath shall be thine only crown, — 
 A poet's dungeon thy most far renown, 
 "Wliile strangers wonder o'er th}' uujjcopled walls ! 
 And thou, Leonora ! — thou — who wert ashamed 
 That such as I could love — who blush'd to hear 
 To less than monarchs that thou couldst be dear, 
 Go ! tell thy brother, that my heart, untamed 
 By grief, years, weariness — and it may be 
 A taint of that he would imj)utc to me — • 
 From long infection of a den like this. 
 Where the mind rots congenial with the abyss. 
 Adores thee still ; — and add — that when the towers 
 And battlements which guard his .joyous houre 
 Of banquet, dance, and revel, arc forgot. 
 Or left untended in a dull repose. 
 This — this — shall be a consecrated s])ot I 
 But thou— when all that birth and beauty thro\T« 
 Of magic round thee is extinct — shalt have 
 One half the laurel which o'ershades my grave. 
 No power in death can tear our names aj)art. 
 As none in life could rend thee from my lieart. 
 Yes. Leonora ! it shall be our fate 
 To be entwined forever — but too late 1 
 
476 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ODE ON VENICE 
 
 Oh, Venice ! Venice ! when thy marble walls 
 
 Are level with the waters, there shall be 
 A. cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls, 
 
 A loud lament along the sweeping sea ! 
 If I, a nortliern wanderer, weep for thee, 
 What should thy sous do ? — anything but weep : 
 And yet they only murmur in their sleep. 
 In contrast with their fathers — as the slime. 
 The dull green ooze of the receding deep. 
 Is with the dashing of the spring-tide foam. 
 That drives the sailor shipless to his home. 
 Are they to those that were ; and thus they creep. 
 Crouching and crab-like, through their sapping 
 Oh ! agony — that centuries should reap [streets. 
 No mellower harvest ! Thirteen hundred years 
 Of wealth and glory turu'd to dust and tears ; 
 And every monument the stranger meets, 
 Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets : 
 And even the Lion all subdued appears, 
 And the harsh sound of the barbarian drum, 
 With dull and daily dissonance, repeats 
 The echo of thy tyrant's voice along 
 The soft waves, once all musical to song. 
 That heaved lieneath the moonlight with the throng 
 Of gondolas — and to the busy hum 
 Of cheerful creatures, whose most sinful deeds 
 Were but the overheating of the heart. 
 And flow of too much hapjiiness, which needs 
 The aid of age to turn its course apart 
 From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood 
 Of sweet sensations, battling with the blood. 
 But these are better than the gloomy errors, 
 The weeds of nations in their last decay. 
 When Vice walks forth with her unsoften'd terrors, 
 And Mirth is madness, and but smiles to slay ; 
 And Hope is nothing but a false delay. 
 The sick man's lightning half an hour ere death. 
 When faintness, the last mortal birth of Pain, 
 And apathy of limb, the dull beginning 
 Of the cold staggering race which Death is winning, 
 Steals vein Ijy vein and pulse by pulse away ; 
 Yet so relieving the o'er-tortured clay. 
 To him appears renewal of his breath, 
 And freedom the mere numbness of his chain; — 
 And then he talks of life, and how again 
 He feels his spirits soaring — albeit weak, 
 And of the fresher air, which lie would seek; 
 An ;l as he whispers knows not that he gasps. 
 That his thin finger feels not what it clasps, 
 And 80 the film comes o'er him— and the dizzy 
 
 Chamber swims round and round — md shadows 
 
 busy. 
 At which he vainly catches, flit and g cam. 
 Till the last rattle chokes the strangled scream, 
 And all is ice and blackness, — and the earth 
 That which it was the moment ere our birth. 
 
 II. 
 
 There is no hope for nations ! — Search the page 
 
 Of many thousand years — the daily scene, 
 The flow and ebb of each recurring age. 
 The everlasting to he which hath hccii. 
 Hath taught us naught or little : still we lean 
 On things that rot beneath our weight, and wear 
 Our strength away in wrestling with the air; 
 For 'tis our nature strikes us down : the beasts 
 Slaughtered in hourly hecatombs for feasts 
 Are of as high an order — they must go [slaughter. 
 Even where their driver goads them, though to 
 Ye men, who pour your blood for kings as water, 
 What have they given your children in return ? 
 A heritage of servitude and woes, 
 A blindfold bondage, where your hire is blows. 
 What ! do not yet the red-hot ploughshares bum, 
 O'er which you stumble in a false ordeal. 
 And deem this proof of loyalty the real ; 
 Kissing the hand that guides you to your scars. 
 And glorjing as you tread the glowing bars? 
 All that your sires have left you, all that Time 
 Bequeaths office, and History of suljliiuc. 
 Spring from a dillerent theme! — Ye see and read, 
 Admire and sigh, and then succumb and bleed! 
 Save the few sj)irits, who, despite of all. 
 And worse than all, the sudden crimes engender'd 
 By the down thundering of the prison wall. 
 And thiret to swallow the sweet waters tender'd, 
 Gushing from Freedom's fountains — when the 
 
 crowd, 
 Madden'd with centuries of drought, are loud, 
 And trample on each other to obtain 
 The cup which brings ol)livion of a chain 
 Heavy and sore, — in which long yoked they plough'd 
 The sand, — or if there sprung the yellow grain, 
 'Twas not for them, their necks were too much bow'd 
 And their dead palates chew'd the cud of pain : — 
 Yes ! the few spirits — who despite of deeds 
 Which they abhor, confound not with the cause 
 Those momentary starts fiom Nature's laws, 
 Wliich, like the pestilence and eartliquakc, smite 
 But for a term, then pass, and leave the earth 
 With all h r seasons to repair tlie blight 
 
 I 
 
I-' pi 
 
 ' S S n 
 
 ■ ^ E 3 
 6 g £ 
 
 ^5 ^ 
 
 
 
MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 
 
 4^: 
 
 With a few summers, and again put forth 
 Cities and generations — fair vhen free — 
 For, Tyranny, there blooms no bud for thee 1 
 
 III. 
 Glory and Empire ! once upon tlies ; towers 
 
 With Freedom — godlike Triad ! liow ye sate ! 
 The league of mightiest nations, in those hours 
 
 When Venice was an ciivy. miglit abate, 
 
 But did not quench, her spirit — in her fiite 
 All were enwrapp'd : the feasted monarchs knew 
 
 And loved their hostess, nor could learn to hate, 
 Although they humbled — with the kingly few 
 The many felt, for from all days and climes 
 She was the voyager's worship; — even her crimes 
 Were of the softer order — bom of Love, 
 8he drank no blood, nor fatten'd on the dead, 
 But gladden'd where her harmless conquests spread; 
 For these restored the Cross, that from above 
 Hallow'd her sheltering banners, which incessant 
 Flew between earth and the unholy Crescent, 
 ■\Vliich, if it waned and dwindled, Earth may thank 
 The city it has clothed in chains, which clank 
 Now, creaking in the ears of tlioso who owe 
 The name of Freedom to her glorious struggles ; 
 Yet she but shares with them a common wo, 
 And call'd the " kingdom " of a conquering foe, — 
 But knows what aU — and, most of all, tee know — 
 With what set gilded terms a tyrant juggles ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 The name of Commonwealth is pass'd and gone 
 O'er the three fractions of the groaning globe ; 
 Venice is erush'd, and Holland deigns to own 
 
 A sceptre, and endures the purple robe; 
 
 If the free Switzor yet bestrides alone 
 
 His chainless mountains, 'tis but for a time. 
 
 For tyranny of late is cunning grown. 
 
 And in its own good season tramples down 
 
 The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime, 
 
 Wliose -^agorous offspring by dividing ocean 
 
 Are kept aj^art and nursed in the devotion 
 
 Of Freedom, which their fathers fought for, and 
 
 Bcqueatii'd — a heritage of heart and hand, 
 
 And proud distinction from each other land. 
 
 Whose sons must liow them at a monarch's motion, 
 
 As if his senseless sceptre were a wand 
 
 Full of the magic of exploded science — 
 
 Still one great clime, in full and free defiance. 
 
 Yet rears her crest, unconqucr'd and sublime. 
 
 Above the far Atlantic ! — She has taught 
 
 Her Esau-brethren that the haughty flag. 
 
 The floating fence of Alliion's feebler crag. 
 
 May strike to those whose red right hands have bought 
 
 Rights cheaply eam'd with blood. — StiU, still, forever 
 
 Better, though each man's life-blood were a river. 
 
 That it should flow, and overflow, than creep 
 
 Through thousand lazy channels in our veins, 
 
 Damm'd like the dull canal with locks and chain!. 
 
 And mo\'ing, as a sick man in his sleep. 
 
 Three paces, and then faltering : — better be 
 
 Where the extinguish'd Spartans still are free, 
 
 In their proud charnel of Thermopylae, 
 
 Than stagnate in our marsh, — or o'er the deep 
 
 Fly, and one current to the ocean add. 
 
 One spirit to the souls our fathers had. 
 
 One freeman more, America, to thee I 
 
 THE MORGANTE MAGGIORE 
 
 OF PULCI. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 The Morgante Maggiore, of the first canto of which 
 this translation is offered, divides with the Orlando 
 Innamorato the honor of having formed and suggested 
 the style and story of Ariosto. The great defects of 
 Boiardo were his treating too seriously the narratives 
 of chivalry, and his harsh style. Ariosto, in his con- 
 tinuation, by a judicious mixture of the gayety of 
 Pulci, has avoided the one ; and Berni, in his refonna- 
 tion of Boiardo's poem, has corrected the other. Pidci 
 may be considered as the precursor and model of Berni 
 altogethf^r, as he has partly been to Ariosto, however 
 inf'i^rior to l)oth his copyists. He is no less the founder 
 of a new style of poetry very lately sprung up in England. 
 I allude t'l rliat of the iuguiuous Wliistlecraft. The 
 serious poems on Ronccsvalles in the same language, 
 and more jiarticularly the excellent one of Mr. Merivale 
 B'.e to be traced to 1he same source. It has never yet 
 
 been decided entirely whether Pulci's intention was or 
 was not to deride the religion which is one of his fa- 
 vorite topics. It appears to mo, that such an intention 
 would have been no less hazardous to tlie poet than to 
 the priest, particularly in that age and country ; and 
 the permission to publish the poem, and its reception 
 among the classics of Italy, prove that it neither was 
 nor is so interpreted. Tliat he intended to ridicule the 
 monastic life, and suffered his ima<iinati<m to play with 
 the simple dullness of his converted giant, seems evi- 
 dent enough ; but surely it were as unjust to accuse 
 him of irreligion on this account, as to denounce Field- 
 ing for his Parson Adams, Barnabas, Thwackum, Sup- 
 ple, and tlie Ordinary in Jonathan Wild, — or Scott, for 
 the exquisite us-e of his Covenanters in the " Tales of 
 my Landlord." 
 
 In the following translation 1 have used the liberty of 
 the original with the proper names ; as Pulci uses Gan, 
 
478 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Qanellon, or Qanellone ; Carlo, Carlomagno, or Carlo- 
 tnano ; Hondel, or Roiidello, etc., as it suits his conve- 
 nienco ; so lias the translator. In other respects the 
 version is faithful to the best of the translator's ability 
 in combining his interpretation of the one language 
 with the not very easy task of reducing it to the same 
 versification in the other. Tlie reader, on comparing 
 it with the orijriual, is requested to remember that the 
 anticjuated language of Piilci, however pure, is not easy 
 to the generality of Italians themselves, from its great 
 mixture of Tuscan proverbs ; and he may therefore be 
 more indulgent to the ])resent attempt. How far the 
 translator has succeeded, and whether or no he shall 
 continue the work, are questions which the public will 
 decide. lie was Induced to make the experiment partly 
 by his love for, and partial intercourse with, the Italian 
 language, of which it is so easy to iicquire a slight 
 knowledge, and with which it is so nearly impossible 
 for a foreigner to become accurately conversant. The 
 Italian language is like a capricious beauty, who 
 accords her smiles to all, her favors to few, and some- 
 times least to those who have courted her longest. The 
 translator wished also to present in an English dress a 
 part at least of a poem never yet rendered into a 
 northern hmgiiago ; at the same time that it has been 
 the original of some of the most celebrated productions 
 on this side of the Alps, as well as of those recent ex- 
 periments in poetry in England which have been al- 
 ready mentioned. 
 
 THE MORGAl^TE MAGGIORE. 
 
 CANTO THE FffiST. 
 
 I. 
 
 In the beginning was the Word next God ; 
 
 God was the Word, the Word no less was he : 
 This was in the beginning, to my mode 
 
 Of thinking, and without him naught could be : 
 Therefore, just Lord ! from out thy high abode, 
 
 Benign and pious, bid an angel flee, 
 One only, to be my companion, who 
 Shall help my foraous, wortliy, old song through. 
 
 11 
 And thou, O Virgin ! daughter, mother, bride 
 
 Of the same Lord, who gave to you each key 
 Of heaven, and hell, and every thing beside. 
 
 The day thy Gabriel s.aid " All hail !" to thee. 
 Since to thy servants pity 's ne'er denied, 
 
 With flowing rhymes, a pleasant style and free, 
 Be to my verses then benignly kind. 
 And tj the end illuminate my mind. 
 
 III. 
 'Twas in the season when sad Philomel 
 
 Weeps with her sister, who remembers and 
 Deplores the ancient woes whic^' both befell. 
 
 And makes the nymphs enamor'd, to the hand 
 Of Phaeton by Phoebus loved so well 
 
 His car (but temper'd by liis sire's command) 
 Was given, and on the horizon's verge just now 
 Appear'd, so that Tithonus scratch'd his brow 
 
 IV. 
 When I prepared my bark first to obey. 
 
 As it should still oljey. the helm, my mind, 
 And carry prose or rhyme, and tliis my lay 
 
 Of Charles the Emperor, whom you will find 
 By several pens already praised ; Ijut they 
 
 Who to difliise his glory were inclined, 
 For all that I can see in prose or verse, 
 Have understood Charles badly, and wrote worsp 
 
 V. 
 Leonardo Aretino said already, 
 
 That if, like Pepin, Charles had had a writer 
 Of genius quick, and diligently steady. 
 
 No hero would in history look l)rigliter ; 
 He in the cabinet being always ready. 
 
 And in the field a most ^dctorious fighter. 
 Who for the church and Christian faith had wrought 
 Oertes far more than yet is said or thought. 
 
 VI. 
 You still may see at Saint Liberatore 
 
 The abbey, no great way from Manopell, 
 Erected in the Abruzzi to his glory. 
 
 Because of the great battle in which fell 
 A pagan king, according to the story. 
 
 And felon peojjle whom Charles sent to hell : 
 And there are bones so many, and so many, 
 Near them Giusafl'a's would seem few, if any. 
 
 VII. 
 But the world, blind and ignorant, don't prize 
 
 His virtues as I wish to see them : thou, 
 Florence, by his great bounty don't arise. 
 
 And hast, and may have, if thou wilt allow. 
 All jiropcr customs and true courtesies : 
 
 Whate'er thou hast acquired from them till now 
 Witii knightly courage, treasure, or the lance. 
 Is sprung from out the noble blood of France. 
 
 VIII. 
 Twelve paladins had Charles in court, of whom 
 
 The wisest and most famous was Orlando ; 
 Him traitor Gau conducted to the tomb 
 
 In Ronccsvalles, as the villain plann'd too. 
 While the horn rang so loud, and knell'd the doom 
 
 Of their sad rout, though he did all knight can do 
 And Dante in his comedy has given 
 To him a happy scat with Charles in heaven. 
 
 IX. 
 'Twas Christmas day ; in Paris all his court 
 Charles held ; the chief, I say, Orlando was, 
 
MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 
 
 4 79 
 
 Tlie Dane ; Astolfo there too did resort, 
 
 Also Ausuigi, the gay time to pass 
 In festival and in triumphal sport, 
 
 The much-renown'd St. Dennis being the cause ; 
 Angiolin of Bayonue, and Oliver, 
 And gentle Belinghieri too came there : 
 
 X. 
 Avolio, and Arino, and Othone 
 
 Of Normandy, and Richard Paladin, 
 Wise Hamo, and the ancient Salamone, 
 
 Walter of Lion's Mount and Baldovin, 
 Who was the son of the sad Ganellone, 
 
 Were there, exciting too much gladness in 
 The son of Pepin : — wlien his knights came hither, 
 He groan'd with joy to see them altogether. 
 
 XI. 
 
 But watchful Fortune, lurking, takes good heed 
 Ever some bar 'gainst our intents to bring : 
 
 While Charles reposed him thus, in word and deed 
 Orlando ruled court, Charles, and every thing ; 
 
 Cursed Gan, with envy bursting, had such need 
 To vent his spite, that thus with Charles the king 
 
 One day he openly began to say, 
 
 " Orlando must we always then obey ? 
 
 XII. 
 
 " A thousand times I've been about to say, 
 Orlando too presumptuously goes on ; 
 
 Here are we, counts, kings, dukes, to own thy sway, 
 Hamo, and Otho, Ogier, Solomon, 
 
 Each have to honor thee and to obey ; 
 
 But he has too much credit near the throne, 
 
 Which we won't suffer, but are quite decided 
 
 By such a boy to be no longer guided. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " And even at Aspramont thou didst begin 
 To let him know he was a gallant knight. 
 
 And by the fount did much the day to win ; 
 But I know icho that day had won the fight 
 
 If it had not for good Gherardo been : 
 The victory was Almonte's else ; his sight 
 
 He kept upon the standard, and the laurels 
 
 In fact and fairness are his earning, Charles. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " If thou remembcrest being in Gascony, 
 
 Wlien there advanced the nations out of Spain, 
 
 The Christian cause had suffer'd shamefully. 
 Had not his valor driven them back again. 
 
 Best speak the truth when there's a reason why: 
 Know then, O emperor ! that all complain : 
 
 As for myself, I shall repass the mounts 
 
 O'ej which I cross'd I'ith two and sixty counts. 
 
 XV. 
 " 'Tis fit thy grandeur should dispense relief. 
 So that each here may have his proper part, 
 For the whole court is more or less in grief: 
 
 Perhaps thou deem'st this lad ii Mars in heart ?" 
 Orlando one day heard this siseech in brief. 
 
 As by himself it chanced he sate apart : 
 Displeased he was with Gan because he said it. 
 But much more still that Charles should give hiir 
 credit. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 And with the sword he would have murder'd Gan, 
 But Oliver thrust in between the pair, 
 
 And from his hand extracted Durlindan, 
 And thus at length they separated were. 
 
 Orlando, angry too with Carloman, 
 Wanted but little to have slain him there ; 
 
 Then forth alone from Paris went the chief, 
 
 And burst and madden'd with disdain and grief. 
 
 XVII. 
 From Ermollina, consort of the Dane, 
 
 He took Cortana, and then took Rondell, 
 And on towards Brara prick'd him o'er the plain ; 
 
 And when she saw him coming, Aldabclle 
 Strcteh'd forth her arms to clasp her lord again : 
 
 Orlando, in whose brain all was not well, 
 As " Welcome, my Orlando, home," she said. 
 Raised up his sword to smite her on the head, 
 
 XVIII. 
 Like him a fury counsels ; his revenge 
 
 On Gan in that rash act he seem'd to take, 
 Which Aldabella thought extremely strange ; 
 
 But soon Orlando found himself awake ; 
 And his spouse took his liridlc on this change. 
 
 And he dismounted from his horse, and spake 
 Of every thing which pass'd without demur. 
 And then reposed himself some days with her. 
 
 XIX. 
 Then full of wrath departed from the place, 
 
 And far as pagan countries roam'd astray, 
 And while he rode, yet still at every pace 
 
 The traitor Gan remember'd by the way ; 
 And wandering on in error a long space. 
 
 An abbey which in a lone desert lay, 
 'Midst glens oliscure, and distant lands, he found, 
 Which form'd the Christian's and tlie pagan's bound 
 
 XX. 
 
 The abbot was call'd Clermont, and by blood 
 Descended from Auglaute : under cover 
 
 Of a great mountain's brow the abbey stood. 
 But certain savage giants look'd him over ; 
 
 One Passaniont was foremost of the brood. 
 And Alal)aster and Morgante hover 
 
 Second and third, with certain slings, and thro* 
 
 In daily jeopardy the place below. 
 
480 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 XXI. 
 The monks could pass tlie couvent gate no more, 
 
 Nor leave their cells for water or for wood ; 
 Orlando knoclv'd, but none would ope, before 
 
 Unto the prior it at Icnatth seem'd good ; 
 EntcrVl, he said that he was taught to adore 
 
 Him \^'ho was born of Mary's holiest blood. 
 And was baptized a Cliristian ; and then sUow'd 
 How to the abbey he had found his road. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Said the abbot, " You are welcome ; what is mine 
 We give you freely, since that you believe 
 
 With us in JIary Mother's Son divine ; 
 And that you may not, cavalier, conceive 
 
 The cause of our delay to let you in 
 To be rusticity, you shall receive 
 
 The reason why our giite was barr'd to you : 
 
 Thus those who in suspicion Uve must do. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 " Wlien hither to inhalnt first we came 
 
 These mountains, albeit that they are obscure, 
 
 As you perceive, yet without fear or blame 
 They seem'd to promise an asylum sure : 
 
 From savage brutes alone, too fierce to tame, 
 'Twas fit our quiet dwelling to secure ; 
 
 But now, if here we'd stay, we needs must guard 
 
 Against domestic beasts with watch and ward. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 ' These make us stand, in fact, upon the watch ; 
 
 For late there have appear'd three giants rough ; 
 Wliat nation or what kingdom bore the batch 
 
 I know not, but they are all of savage stuft'; 
 When force and maUce with some genius match. 
 
 You know, they can do all — jrc are not enough : 
 Ajid these so much our orisons derange, 
 I know not what to do, till matters change. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 " Our ancient fathers li^^ng the desert in, 
 For just and holy works were duly fed ; 
 
 Think not they lived on locusts sole, 'tis certain 
 That manna was raiu'd down from heaven instead ; 
 
 But here 'tis fit we keep on the alert in [bread, 
 
 Our bounds, or taste the stones shower'd down for 
 
 From off yon mountain daily raining faster, 
 
 i^nd flung by Passaraont and Alabaster. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 ' The third, Morgante, 's savagest by far ; he 
 Plucks up pines, beeches, poplar-trees, and oaks, 
 
 And flings them, our community to bury ; 
 And all that I can do but more provokes." 
 
 While thus they parley in the cemetery, 
 A stone from one of their gigantic strokes, 
 
 Which nearly crush'd Rondcll, came tumbling over, 
 So that he took a long leaj) under cover. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 " For God-sake, cavalier, come in with speed ; 
 
 The manna "s falling now," the abbot cried. 
 " This fellow does not wish my horse should feed, 
 
 Dear abbot," Roland unto him replied. 
 " Of restiveness he'd cure him had he need ; 
 
 Tliat stone seems with good will and aim applied.' 
 The holy father said, " I don't deceive ; 
 They'll one day fling the mountain, I believe." 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Orlando bade them take care of BondeUo, 
 And also made a breakfast of his o^^^l : 
 
 " Abbot," he said, " I want to find that fellow 
 Who flung at my good horse yon corner stone." 
 
 Said the alibot, " Let not my advice seem shallow ; 
 As to a l>roth(y dear I sj)eak alone ; 
 
 I would dissuade you, baron, from this strife. 
 
 As knowing sure that you will lose your life. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 " That Passamont has in his hand three darts — 
 Such slings, clubs, balUist-stones, that yield yoi 
 must ; 
 
 You know that giants have much stouter hearts 
 Than us, with reason, in proportion just : 
 
 If go you will, guard well against their arts, 
 For these are very barbarous and robust." 
 
 Orlando answer'd, " This I'll see, be sure, 
 
 And walk the wild on foot to be secure." 
 
 XXX. 
 
 The alibot sign'd the great cross on his front, 
 " Then go you with God's benison and mine :" 
 
 Orlando, after he had scaled the mount. 
 As the abbot had directed, kept the line 
 
 Right to the usual haunt of Passamont ; 
 Who, seeing him alone in this design, 
 
 Survey'd him fore and aft with eyes observant, 
 
 Then ask'd him, " If he wish'd to stay as serrant ?" 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 And promised him an oflice of groat ease ; 
 
 But, said Orlando, " Saracen insaae ! 
 I come to kill you, if it shall so please 
 
 God, not to serve as footljoy in your train ; 
 You with his monks so oft have broke the peac&- 
 
 Vile dog ! 'tis jjast his patience to sustain." 
 The giant ran to fetch his arms, quite furious. 
 When he received an answer so injurious, 
 
 XXXII. 
 And being return'd to where Orlando stood, [ing 
 Who had not moved him from the spot, and '•r ing- 
 
 1 
 
MORGAXTi; MAGGIORE. 
 
 481 
 
 Tlie cord, he hurl'd a stone with strength so rude, 
 As show'd a sample of his skill in slinging ; 
 
 It roU'd on Count Orlando's helmet good 
 
 And head, and set both head and helmet ringing, 
 
 So that he swoon'd with pain as if he died. 
 
 But more than dead, he seem'd so stupefied. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Then Passamont, who thought him slain outright, 
 Said, '• I will go, and while he lies along, 
 
 Disarm me : why such craven did I fight ?" 
 But Christ his servants ne'er abandons long, 
 
 Especially Orlando, such a knight 
 
 As to desert would almost be a wrong. 
 
 While the giant goes to put off his defences, 
 
 Orlando has rccall'd his force and senses : 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 And loud he shouted, " Giant, where dost go ? 
 
 Thou thought'st me doubtless for the bier outlaid ; 
 To the right about — without wings thou'rt too slow 
 
 To fly my vengeance — currish renegade ! 
 'Twas but by treachery thou laid'st me low :" 
 
 The giant his astonishment betray'd, 
 And turn'd aliout, and stopp'd his journey on, 
 And then he stooj)'d to pick up a great stone. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Orlando had Cortana bare in hand ; 
 
 To split the head in twain was what he schemed : 
 Cortana clave the skull like a true brand. 
 
 And pagan Passamont died unredeem'd. 
 Yet harsh and haughty, as he lay he bann'd, 
 
 And most devoutly Macon still blasjihemed ; 
 But while his crude, rude blasphemies he heard, 
 Orlando thank'd the Father and the Word, — 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Saying, " What grace to me thou 'st this day given ! 
 
 And I to thee, O Lord 1 am ever bound. 
 I know my life was saved by thee from heaven, 
 
 Since by the giant I was fairly down'd. 
 All things by thee are measured just and even ; 
 
 Our power without thine aid would naught be 
 I pray thee take heed of me, till I can ' [found : 
 At least return once more to Carloman." 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 And having said thus much, he went his way ; 
 
 And Alabaster he found out below. 
 Doing the very best that in him lay 
 
 To root from out a bank a rock or two. 
 OrUndo, when he reach'd him, loud 'gan say, 
 
 "How think'st thou, glutton, such a stone to 
 Wlien Alabaster heard his deep voice ring, [throw ?" 
 He suddenly betook him to his sling, 
 fil 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 And hurl'd a fragment of a size so large. 
 That if it had in fact fulflll'd its mission, 
 
 And Roland not avail'd him of his targe. 
 
 There would have Iieen no need of a physician. 
 
 Orlando set himself in turn to charge. 
 And in his bulky bosom made incision 
 
 With aU his sword. The lout fell ; but o'erthro-wn, 
 
 However by no means forgot Macone. [he 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Morgante had a palace in his mode. 
 
 Composed of 1>ranches, logs of wood, and earth. 
 And stretch'd himself at ease in this abode, 
 
 And shut himself at night within his berth. 
 Orlando knock'd, and knock'd again, to goad 
 
 The giant from his sleep ; and he came forth 
 The door to open, like a crazy thing, 
 For a rough dream had shook him slumbering. 
 
 XL. 
 
 He thought that a fierce sequent had attack'd him ; 
 
 And Mahomet he call'd ; but Mahomet 
 Is nothing worth, and not an instant back'd him ; 
 
 But praying blessed Jesu, he was set 
 At liberty from all the fears which rack'd him ; 
 
 And to the gate he came with great regret — 
 " Wlio knocks here ?" grumbling all the while, said 
 " That," said Orlando, " you will quickly see. [he. 
 
 XLI. 
 " I come to preach to you, as to your brothers, 
 
 Sent by the miserable monks — repentance ; 
 For Providence divine, in you and others. 
 
 Condemns the evil done my new acquaintance, 
 'Tis writ on high — your wrong must pay another's , 
 
 From heaven itself is issued out this sentence. 
 Know then, that colder now than a pilaster 
 I left your Passamont and Alabaster." 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Morgante said, " Oh, gentle cavalier ! 
 
 Now by thy God say me no villany ; 
 The favor of your name I fain would hear, 
 
 And if a Christian, speak for courtesy." 
 Replied Orlando, " So much to your ear 
 
 I by my faith disclose contentedly ; 
 Christ I adore, who is the genuine Lord, 
 And, if you please, by you may be adored." 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 The Saracen rcjoin'd in humble tone, 
 " I have had an extraordinary vision ; 
 
 A savage serpent fell on me alone. 
 
 And Macon would not pity my condition ; 
 
 Hence to thy God, who for ye did atone 
 Upon the cross, preferr'd I my petition , 
 
482 
 
 B T R X' S WORKS. 
 
 Hii) timely succor set me safe and free, 
 And I a Christian am disposed to be." 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 Orlando answer'd, " Baron just and pious, 
 If this sood wish your heart can really move 
 
 To the true God, you will not then deny us 
 Eternal honor, you will go above, 
 
 And, if you please, as friends we will ally us, 
 And I will love you with a jjerfect love, 
 
 Your idols are vain liars, full of fraud : 
 
 The only true God is the Christian's God. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 " The Lord descended to the virgin breast 
 Of Mary Mother, sinless and divine ; 
 
 If you acknowledge the Redeemer bless'd. 
 Without whom neither sun nor star can shine, 
 
 Abjure bad Macon's false and felon test. 
 Your renegado god, and worship mine, — 
 
 Baptize yourself with zeal, since you repent." 
 
 To which Morgante answer'd, " I'm content." 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 And then Orlando to embrace him flew, 
 And made much of his convert, as he cried, 
 
 " To the abbey I will gladly marshal you." 
 To whom Morgante, " Let us go," replied ; 
 
 " I to the friars have for peace to sue." 
 Which thing Orlando heard with inward pride. 
 
 Saying, " My brother, so devout and good. 
 
 Ask the abbot jiardon, as I wish you would : 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 " Since God has granted your illumination. 
 Accepting you in mercy for his own, 
 
 Humility should be your first oblation." 
 
 Morgante said, " For goodness' sake, make known. 
 
 Since that your God is to be mine — your station. 
 And let your name in verity be shown ; 
 
 Then will I every thing at your command do." 
 
 On which the other said, he was Orlando. 
 
 LXVIir. 
 
 " Then," quoth the giant, " blessed be Jesu 
 A thousand times with gratitude and praise ! 
 
 Oft, perfect baron 1 have I heard of you 
 Through all the dift'erent periods of my days : 
 
 And, as I said, to be your vassal too 
 
 I wish, for your great gallantry always." 
 
 Thus reasoning, they continued much to say. 
 
 And onwards to the abbey went their way. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 And by the way about the giants dead 
 Orlando with Morgante reason'd : " Be, 
 
 For their decease, I pray you, comforted ; 
 And, since it is God's pleasure, pardon me ; 
 
 A thousand wrongs unto the monks they bred 
 
 And our true Scripture soundcth oi)enl5 
 Good is rewarded, and rluistised the ill, 
 Wliich the Lord never faileth to fuKill : 
 
 " Because his love of justice unto all 
 Is such, he wills his judgment siiould devoor 
 
 All who have sin, however great or small ; 
 But good he well remembers to restore. 
 
 Nor without justice holy could we call 
 Him, whom I now require you to adore. 
 
 All men must make his will their ^^•ishes sway, 
 
 And quickly and spontaneously obey. 
 
 LI. 
 
 " And here our doctors are of one accord. 
 
 Coming on this point to the same conclusion,- 
 
 That in their thoughts who praise in heaven the 
 If pity e'er was guilty of intrusion [Lord. 
 
 For their unfortunate relations stored 
 In heU below, and damn'd in great confusion, — 
 
 Their happiness would be reduced to naught. 
 
 And thus unjust the Almighty's self be thought. 
 
 LIT. 
 " But they in Christ have firmest hope, and all 
 
 Which seems to him, to them too must appear 
 Well done ; nor could it otherwise befall : 
 
 He never can in any purpose err. 
 If sire or mother suffer endless thrall. 
 
 They don't disturb themselves for him or her; 
 What pleases God to them must joy insjiire ; — 
 Such is the observance of the eternal choir." 
 
 LIU. • 
 
 " A word vmto the wise," Morgante said, 
 " Is wont to be enough, and you shall see 
 
 How much I grieve about my brethren dead ; 
 And if the will of God seem good to me, 
 
 Just, as you tell me, 'tis in heaven obey'd- 
 Ashes to ashes, — merry let us be 1 
 
 I will cut ofl" the hands from both their trunks, 
 
 And carry tliem unto the holy monks. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 " So that all persons may be sure and certain 
 That they are dead, and have no further fear 
 
 To wander solitary this desert in, 
 
 And that they may perceive my spirit clear 
 
 By the Lord's grace, who hath withdra\TO the curtain 
 Of darkness, making his bright realm appear." 
 
 He cut his brethren's hands ofl' at these words, 
 
 And left them to the savage beasts and birds. 
 
 LV. 
 
 Then to the abbey they went on together, 
 Wlicre waited them the abbot in great doubt 
 
 I 
 
MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 
 
 483 
 
 The monks, wlio knew not yet the fact, ran thither 
 To their superior, all in breathless rout. 
 
 Saying with tremor, " Please to tell us whether 
 You wish to have this person in or out ?" 
 
 The abbot, looking through upon the giant, 
 
 Too greatly feard, at first, to be compliant. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 Orlando, seeing him thus agitated, 
 
 Said quickly, " Abbot, be thou of good cheer ; 
 He Christ believes, as Christian must be rated. 
 
 And hath renounced his Macon false ;" which 
 Morgante ^-ith the hands corroborated, [liere 
 
 A proof of both the giants' fate quite clear : 
 Thence, with due thanks, the abbot God adored, 
 Saying, " Thou hast contented me, O Lord I" 
 
 LYII. 
 
 He gazed ; Jlorgante's height he calculated. 
 And more than once contemplated his size ; 
 
 And then he said, "Oh, giant celebrated ! 
 Know, that no more my wonder will arise, 
 
 How you could tear and fling the trees you late did, 
 "Wlien I behold your form with my own eyes. 
 
 You now a true and perfect friend will show 
 
 Yoxirself to Christ, as once you were a foe. 
 
 LVIIl. 
 
 " And one of our apostles, Saul once named, 
 Long persecuted sore the faith of Christ, 
 
 Till, one day, by the Spirit being inflamed, 
 
 ' "Why dost thou persecute me thus V said Christ ; 
 
 And then from his offence he was reclaim'd, 
 And went forever after preaching Christ, 
 
 And of the faith became a trump, whose sounding 
 
 O'er the whole earth is echoing and rebounding. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 " So, my jlorgantc, you may do likewise ; 
 
 He who repents — thus writes the Evangelist — 
 Occasions more rejoicing in the skies 
 
 Than ninety-nine of the celestial list. 
 You may be sure, should each desire arise 
 
 "With just zeal for the Lord, that you'll exist 
 Among the happy saints for evermore ; 
 But you were lost and damn'd to hell before !" 
 
 LX. 
 
 And thus great honor to Morgante paid 
 The abbot : many days they did repose. 
 
 One day, as with Orlando they both stray'd. 
 And saunter'd here and there, where'er they chose. 
 
 The abl)ot show'd a chamber, where array'd 
 Much armor was, and hung up certain bows ; 
 
 And one of these Morgante for a whim 
 
 Girt on, though useless, he believed, to him. 
 
 LXI. 
 There being a want of water in the place, 
 
 Orlando, like a worthy brother, said, 
 " Morgante, I could wish you in this case 
 
 To go for water." " You shall be obey'd 
 In all commands," was the reply, " straightwaj b." 
 
 Upon his shoulder a great tub he laid, 
 And went out on his way unto a fountain, 
 "Where he was wont to drink below the mountain^ 
 
 LXI I. 
 
 Arrived there, a prodigious noiso he hears, 
 "Which suddenly along the forest spread ; 
 
 "Wliereat from out his quiver he prepares 
 An arrow for his bow, and lifts his head ; 
 
 And lo ! a monstrous herd of swine ajipears, 
 And onward rushes with tempestuous tread, 
 
 And to the fountain's brink precisely pours ; 
 
 So that the giant 's join'd by all the boars. 
 
 LXIII. 
 Morgante at a venture shot an arrow, 
 
 AVhich pierced a pig precisely in the ear, 
 And pass'd unto the other side quite thorough ; 
 
 So that the boar, defunct, lay tripp"d up near. 
 Another, to revenge his fellow farrow. 
 
 Against the giant rush'd in fierce career, 
 And reach'd the passage with so swift a foot, 
 Morgante was not now in time to shoot. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 Perceiving that the pig was on him close, 
 He gave him such a punch upon the head, 
 
 As floor'd him so that he no more arose. 
 Smashing the very bone ; and he fell dead 
 
 Next to the other. Having seen such blows, 
 The other pigs along the valley fled ; 
 
 Morgante on his neck the Imcket took, [shook. 
 
 Full from the spring, which neither swerved nol 
 
 bXV. 
 
 The tun was on one shoulder, and there were 
 The hogs on t' other, and he brush'd apace 
 
 On to the abbey, tliough by no means near. 
 Nor spiH'd one drop of water in his race. 
 
 Orlando, seeing him so soon appear 
 "With the dead boars, and with that brimful vase 
 
 MarvelVd to see his strength so very great ; 
 
 So did the abbot, and set wide the gate. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 The monks, who saw the water fresh and good, 
 Rejoiced, luit much more to perceive the pork ; — 
 
 All animals are glad at sight of food : 
 
 They lay their breviaries to sleep, and work 
 
 "With greedy pleasure, and in such a mood. 
 That the flesh needs no salt beneath '■heir fork 
 
184 
 
 BYKON'S WORKS. 
 
 Of rankness and of rot there is no fear, 
 For all the fasts are now left in arrear. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 As though they wish'd to burst at once, they ate ; 
 
 And gorged so that, as if the bones had been 
 In water ; sorely grieved tlie dog and cat, 
 
 Perceiving that they all were pick'd too clean. 
 The abbot, who to all did honor great, 
 
 A few days after this convivial scene, 
 Gave to Morgante a fine horse, well train'd, 
 Which he long time had for himself maintain'd. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 The horse Morgante to a meadow led, 
 To gallop, and to jjut him to the proof, 
 
 Thinking that he a back of iron had, 
 Or to skim eggs unbroke was light enough ; 
 
 But the horse, sinking with the pain, fell dead, 
 And burst, while cold on earth lay head and hoof. 
 
 Morgante said, " Get up, thou sulky cur !" 
 
 And still continued pricking with the sjiur. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 But finally he thought fit to dismount, • 
 And said, " I am as light as any feather, 
 
 And he has biirst ; — to tliis what say you, count ?" 
 Orlando answer'd, " Like a ship's mast rather 
 
 You seem to me, and with the truck for front : — 
 Let him go ; Fortune wills that we together 
 
 Should march, but you on foot Jlorgantc still." 
 
 To which the giant answer'd, " So I will. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 " Wlicn there shall be occasion, you will see 
 How I approve my courage in the fight." 
 
 Orlando said, " I really think you'll be, 
 If it should prove God's will, a goodly knight ; 
 
 Nor will you napping there discover me. 
 
 But never mind your horse, though out of sight 
 
 ■"Twcre best to carry liim into some wood. 
 
 If but the means or way I understood." 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 The giant said, " Then carry him I will, 
 Since that to carry me he was so slack — 
 
 To render, as the gods do, good for ill ; 
 
 But lend a hand to place him on my back." 
 
 Orlando answer'd, " If my counsel still 
 May weigh, l\Iorgantc, do not undertake 
 
 To lift or carry this dead courser, who. 
 
 As you have done to him, will do to you. 
 
 lA'XII. 
 
 ' Take care he don't revenge himself, though dead, 
 As Nessus did of old beyond all cure. 
 
 i don't know if the fact you've heard or read ; 
 But he will make you burst, you may l)e sure." 
 
 "But help him on my back," Morgante said, 
 
 "And you shall see what weight I can endure. 
 In place, my gentle Soland, of this palfrey, 
 With all the bells, I'd carry yonder belfry." 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 The abbot said, "The steeple may do well. 
 But, for the bells, you've broken them, I wot." 
 
 Morgante answer'd, " Let them pay in hell 
 The penalty who lie dead in yon grot ;" 
 
 And hoisting up the horse from where he fell, 
 He said, " Now look if I the gout have got, 
 
 Orlando, in the legs — or if I have force ;" — 
 
 And then he made two gambols with the horse. 
 
 LXX IV. 
 
 Morgante was like any mountain framed : 
 
 So if he did this, 'tis no prodigy ; 
 But secretly himself Orlando blamed, 
 
 Because he was one of his family ; 
 And fearing that he might be hurt or maim'd. 
 
 Once more he bade him Lay his burden by : 
 " Put down, nor liear him further the desert in," 
 Morgante said, "I'll carry him for certain." 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 He did ; and stow'd him in some nook away, 
 And to the abbey then retum'd with speed. 
 
 Orlando said, " Why longer do we stay ? 
 Morgante, here is naught to do indeed." 
 
 The aliliot by the hand he took one day. 
 And said, with great respect, he had agreed 
 
 To leave his reverence ; but for this decision 
 
 He wish'd to have his pardon and permission. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 The honors they continued to receive 
 Perhaps exceeded what his merits claim'd 
 
 He said, " I mean, and quickly, to retrieve 
 The lost days of time past, which may be blamed 
 
 Some days ago I should have ask'd your leave, 
 Kind father, but I really was ashamed. 
 
 And know not how to show my sentiment. 
 
 So much I see you with our stay content. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 " But in my heart I bear through every clime, 
 The abbot, abbey, and this solitude — 
 
 So much I love you in so short a time : 
 
 For me, from heaven reward you with all good 
 
 The God so true, the eternal Lord sublime ! 
 Wiose kingdom at the last hath open stood. 
 
 Meantime we stand expectant of your blessing, 
 
 And recommend us to your prayers with pressing." 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 Now when the a1)bot Coimt Orlando heard, 
 His heart grew soft with inner tenderness. 
 
THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 
 
 486 
 
 Such fervor in his boaom bred each word ; 
 
 And, " Cavalier," he said, " if I have less 
 Courteous and kind to your great worth ajjpear'd, 
 
 Thau fits me for such gentle blood to express, 
 I know I have done too little in this case ; 
 But blame our ignorance, and this poor place. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 ■' We can indeed but houor you with masses. 
 
 And sermons, thanksgivings, and pater-nosters, 
 Hot suppers, dinners, (fitting other places 
 
 In verity much rather than the cloisters ;) 
 But such a love for you my heart embraces. 
 
 For thousand virtues which your bosom fosters, 
 That wheresoe'er you go I too shall be, 
 And, on the other pait, you rest with me. 
 
 LXXX. 
 " This may involve a seeming contradiction ; 
 
 But you I know are sage, and feel, and taste. 
 And understand my speech with full conviction. 
 
 For your just pious deeds may you he graced 
 With the Lord's great reward and benediction. 
 
 By whom you were directed to this waste : 
 To his high mercy is our freedom due. 
 For which we render thanks to him aud you. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 " You saved at once our Ufe and soul : such fear 
 The giants caused us, that the way was lost, 
 
 By which we could pursue a fit career 
 In search of Jesus and the saintly host ; 
 
 And youi- departure breeds such sorrow here. 
 That comfortless we aU are to our cost ; 
 
 But months and years you would not stay in sloth, 
 
 Nor are you form'd to wear our sober cloth ; 
 
 LXXXII. 
 " But to bear arms, and wield the lance ; indeed. 
 
 With these as much is done as with this cowl ; 
 In proof of which the Scripture you may read. 
 
 This giant up to heaven may bear his soul 
 By your compassion : now in peace proceed. 
 
 Your state and name I seek not to unroll ; 
 
 But, if I'm ask'd, this answer shall be givea. 
 That here an angel was sent down from heaven. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 " If you want armor or aught else, go in, 
 
 Look o'er the wardrobe, and take what you choose 
 And cover with it o'er this giant's skin." 
 
 Orlando answer'd, " If there should He loose 
 Some armor, ere our journey we begin, 
 
 Which might be turn'd to ray companion's use, 
 The gift would be accejjtable to me." 
 The abbot said to him, " Come iu and see." 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 And in a certain closet, where the wall 
 
 Was cover'd with old armor like a crust, 
 The abbot said to them, " I give you all." 
 
 Morgante rummaged piecemeal trom the dust 
 The whole, which, save one cuirass, was too small, 
 
 And that too had the mail inlaid with rust. 
 They wonder'd how it fitted him exactly. 
 Which ne'er had suited others so compactly. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 'Twas an immeasurable giant's, who 
 
 By the great Milo of Agrante feU, 
 Before the abbey many years ago. 
 
 The story on the wall was figured well 
 In the last moment of the abbey's foe. 
 
 Who long had waged a war implacable : 
 Precisely as the war occurr'd they drew him, 
 And there was Milo as he overthrew Mm. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 Seeing this history. Count Orlando said 
 
 In his own heart, " Oh, God, who in the sky 
 
 Know'st all things ! how was Milo hither led ? 
 Wlio caused the giant in this place to die ?" 
 
 And certain letters, weeping, then he read, 
 So that he could not keip his visage dry, — 
 
 As I will tell in the ensuing story. 
 
 From e^dl keep you the high King of glory I 
 
 THE PEOPHECY OF DANTE. 
 
 ' 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, 
 And coming events cast their shadows before." 
 
 -Campbell. 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 Lady ! if for the cold and cloudy clime 
 
 Where I was bom, Init where I would not die. 
 Of the great Poet-Sire of Italy 
 
 I dare to build the imitative rhyme, 
 Harsh Runic copy of the South's sublime, 
 Tnon art the cause ; and howsoever I 
 Fall short of his immortal harmony, 
 
486 
 
 BYRON 'S WORKS. 
 
 rhy gentle heart will pardon me the crime, 
 rhcu, in the jjride of Beauty and of Youth, 
 
 Spakest ; and for thee to sijcak and l)e obcy'd 
 Are one ; but only in the sunny South 
 
 Such sounds arc uttor'd, and such charms display'd. 
 So sweet a language from so fail' a mouth — 
 
 Ah ! to what ellbrt would it not persuade 3 
 
 Ravensa, June 21, 1819. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 In the course of a visit to the city of Ravenna in 
 Bummer of 1819, it was suggested to the author the 
 tliat having composed something on the subject of 
 Tasso's confinement, he should do the same on Dante's 
 exile, — the tomb of the pcjet forming one of the prin- 
 cipal objects of interest in that city, both to the native 
 and to the stranger. 
 
 " On this hint I spake," and the result has been the 
 following four cantos, in terza rima, now oftered to the 
 reader. If they are understood and approved, it is my 
 purpose to continue the i)ocm in various other cantos, 
 to its natural conclusion in tlie present age. The 
 reader is request(^d to sujipose that Dante addresses 
 him in the interval between the conclusion of the 
 Diviua Coramedia and his death, and shortly before 
 the latter event, foretelling the fortunes of Italy in 
 general in the ensuing centuries. In adopting this 
 plan I have had in my mind the Cassandra of Lyco- 
 phron, and the Proi)hecy of Nereus by Horace, as well 
 as the Prophecies of Holy Writ. The measure adopted 
 is the terza rima of Dante, which I am not aware to 
 liave seen hitherto tried in our language, except it may 
 be by Mr. Hayley, of whose translation I never saw but 
 one extract, quoted in the notes to Caliph Vathek ; so 
 that — if I do not err — tlds poem may be considered as 
 a metrical experiment. The cajitos are short, and 
 about the same length of those of the poet, whose 
 name I have borrowed, and most probably taken in 
 vain. 
 
 Amongst the inconveniences of authors in the pres- 
 ent day, it is dillicult for any who have a name, good 
 or bad, to escape translation. I have had the fortune 
 to see the fourth canto of Childe Harold translated into 
 Italian versi sciolti. — that is, a poem written in the 
 Sptnserc/ni stanza into Uunk terse, without regard to 
 tlie natural divisions of the stanza or of the sense. If 
 the present poem, being on a national topic, should 
 jhance to undergo the same fate, I would request the 
 Italian reader to remember that when I have failed in 
 (111! imitation of his great " Padre Aligln(;r," I have 
 tailed in imitating tliut which all study and few under- 
 stand, since to this very day it is not 3'et settled what 
 was the meaning of the allegory in the first canto of 
 the Inferno, unless Count Marchetti's ingenious and 
 probable conjecture may bo considered as having de- 
 cided the question. 
 
 He may also pardon my failure the more, as I am 
 not quite sure that lie would be pleased with my suc- 
 cess, since the I slians, witli a ]iardonable nationality, 
 kI .■ iparticularl-v ualous of all that is left them as a 
 
 nation — their literature ; and in the present bitterness 
 of the classic and romantic war, are but ill-disposed to 
 permit a foreigner even to approve or imitate them, 
 witliout finding some fault with his ultramontane pre- 
 sumption. I can easily enter into all this, knowing 
 what would be thought in England of an Italian imi- 
 tator of Milton, or if a translation of Monti, or Pinde- 
 monte, or Arici, should be lield u]i to the rising genera- 
 tion as a model for their future poetical essays. But I 
 perceive that I am deviating into an address to the 
 Italian reader, when my business is with the English 
 one ; and be they few or many, I must take my leave 
 of both. 
 
 THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 
 
 CANTO THE FIRST. 
 
 Once more in man's frail world I which I Iiad left 
 So long that 'twas forgotten ; and I feel 
 The weight of clay again, — too soon bereft 
 
 Of the immortal vision w hich could heal 
 My earthly sorrows, and to God's own skies 
 Lift me from that deep gulf without repeal, 
 
 Where late my ears rung with the daumed cries 
 Of souls in hopeless bale ; and from tliat place 
 Of lesser torment, whence men may arise 
 
 Pure from the tire to join the angelic race ; 
 Midst wdioni my own briglit Beatrici' bless'd 
 My spirit with her light ; and to the base 
 
 Of the eternal Triad ! first, last, best, 
 Mysterious, three, sole, infinite, great God ! 
 Soul universal ! led the mortal guest, 
 
 Unblasted by the glory, though he trod 
 
 From star to star to reach the almighty throne. 
 Oh, Beatrice ! wdiose sweet limlis the sod 
 
 So long hath press'd, and the cold marble stone, 
 Thou sole pure seraph of my earliest love, 
 Love so ineffable, and so alone, 
 
 That naught on earth could more my bosom move, 
 And meeting thee in heaven was but to meet 
 That without wdiich my soul, like the arkless dove 
 
 Had wander'd still in searcli of, nor her feet 
 
 Relieved her wing till found ; without thy Ught 
 My paradise had still been incomplete. 
 
 Since my tenth sun gave summer to my sight 
 Thou wert my life, the essence of my thought, 
 Loved ere I knew the name of love, and bright 
 
 Still in these dim old eyes, now overwrought 
 
 With tlie world's war, and years, and banishment, 
 An<l tears for thee, by other woes untaught ; 
 
 For mine is not a nature to be bent 
 
 By tjTannous faction, and the brawling crowd, 
 And though the long, long conflict hath been spent 
 
 In vain, and never more, save when the cloud 
 
 ' The reader is requested to adopt the Italian pron inc ation ot 
 Beatrice, sounding all the syllables. 
 
THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 
 
 487 
 
 'WTiich overhangs the Apennine, my mind's eye 
 Pierces to fancy Florence, once so proud 
 
 Of me, can I return, though but to die, 
 Unto my native soil, they have not yet 
 Quench'd the old exile's si^irit, stern and high. 
 
 But the sun, though not overcast, must set, 
 And the night cometh ; I am old in days, 
 And deeds, and contemjjiation, and have met 
 
 Destruction face to face in all his ways. 
 
 The world hath left me, what it found me, pure, 
 And if I have not gather'd yet its praise, 
 
 I sought it not by any baser lure ; 
 Man wrongs, and Time avenges, and my name 
 May form a monument not all oliscure. 
 
 Though such was not my ambition's end or aim, 
 To add to the vain-glorious list of those 
 Who dabble in the pettiness of fame. 
 
 And make men's fickle breath the wind that blows 
 Their sail, and deem it glory to be class'd 
 With conquerors, and %-irtue's other foes. 
 
 In bloody chronicles of ages past. 
 I would have had my Florence great and free : 
 Oh, Florence ! Florence ! unto me thou wast 
 
 Like that Jerusalem which the Almighty He 
 Wept over, " but thou wouldst not ;'' as the bird 
 Gathers its young, I would have gather'd thee 
 
 Beneath a parent pinion, hadst thou heard 
 My voice ; but as the adder, deaf and fierce. 
 Against the breast that cherish'd thee was stirr'd 
 
 Thy venom, and my state thou didst amerce, 
 And doom this body forfeit to the fire.' 
 Alas ! how bitter is his country's curse 
 
 To him who for that country would expire. 
 But did not merit to expire hy her, 
 And loves her, loves her even in her ire. 
 
 The day may come when she will cease to err. 
 The day may come she would be proud to have 
 The dust she dooms to scatter, and transfer 
 
 Of him, whom she denied a home, the grave. 
 But this shall not be granted ; let my dust 
 Lie where it falls ; nor shall the soil which gave 
 
 Me breath, but in her sudden fury thrust 
 Me forth to breathe elsewhere, so reassume 
 My indignant bones, because her angry gust 
 
 Forsooth is over, and repeal'd her doom ; 
 
 No, — she denied me what was mine — my roof, 
 And shall not have what is not hers — my tomb. 
 
 Too long her armed wrath hath kept aloof [heart 
 The breast which would have bled for her, the 
 That beat, the mind th.it was temptation proof. 
 
 The man who fought, toil'd, travell'd, and each part 
 Of a true citizen fulfill'd, and saw 
 For his reward the GuelTs ascendant art 
 
 ' " Ut si quie predictorum nllo tempore \a fortiam dicti com- 
 mnnis pervenerit, talis pervenlem ignt com/mro/tir. si'- rpiod 
 rmriaturr Second sentence of FlorBDce a^Tiinst Dante, and 
 the four'een accused mth him. 
 
 Pass his destruction even into a law. 
 These things are not made for forgetfulness, 
 Florence shall be forgotten ILrst ; too raw 
 
 The wound, too deep the wrong, and the distress 
 Of such endurance too prolong'd to make 
 My pardon greater, her injustice less, 
 
 Though late repented ; yet — yet for her sake 
 I feel some fonder yearnings, and for thine. 
 My own Beatricii, I would hardly take 
 
 Vengeance upon the land which once was mine, 
 And still is hallow'd by thy dust's return, 
 
 Which would protect the murderess like a shrine 
 
 And save ten thousand foes by thy sole urn. 
 
 Though, like old Marius from jMiatumie's marsh 
 And Carthage ruins, my lon( breast may bum 
 
 At times with evil feelings hot and harsh. 
 And sometimes the last pangs of a vile foe 
 Writhe in a dream before me, and o'erarch 
 
 My brow with hopes of triumph, — let them go 1 
 Such are the last intirmitics of those 
 Who long have sufl'er'd more than mortal wo, 
 
 And yet being mortal still, have no repose 
 But on the pillow of Revenge — Revenge, 
 Who sleeps to dream of blood, and waking glows 
 
 With the oft-baffled, slakeless thirst of change. 
 When we shall mount again, and they that trod 
 Be trampled on, while Death imd Ate range 
 
 O'er humbled heads and scvcr'd necks — Great God I 
 Take these thoughts from me- -to thy hands I yield 
 My many wrongs, and thine almighty rod 
 
 Will fall on those who smote me, — be my shield ! 
 As thou hast been in peril, and in jiain, 
 In turbulent cities, snd the tented field — 
 
 In toil, and many troubles borne in vain 
 For Florence. I appeal from her to Thee ! 
 Thee, whom I late saw in thy loftiest reign, 
 
 Even in that glorious vision, which to see 
 And live was never granted until now, 
 And yet thou hast permitted this to me. 
 
 Alas ! with what a weight upon my brow 
 
 The sense of earth and earthly things come back, 
 Corrosive passions, feelings dull and low. 
 
 The heart's quick throb upon the mental rack, 
 Long day, and dreary night ; the retrospect 
 Of half a century bloody and black. 
 
 And the frail few years I may yet expect 
 Hoary and hopeless, but less hard to bear. 
 For I have been too long and deeply wreck'd 
 
 On the lone rock of desolate Despair, 
 To lift my eyes more to the passing sail 
 Which shuns that reef so horrible and bare ; 
 
 Nor raise my voice — for who would heed my wail I 
 I am not of this people, nor this age, 
 And yet my harpings will unfold a tale 
 
 Wliich shall preserve these times when not a jiaga 
 Of their perturbed annals could attract 
 An eye to gaze upon their civil rage. 
 
488 
 
 BTROX'S WORKS, 
 
 Did not my veise embalm fuU many an act 
 
 Worthless as they who wrought it : 'tis the doom 
 Of spirits of ray order to be rackVl 
 
 In life, to wear their hearts out, and consume 
 Their daj'S in endless strife, and die alone; 
 Then future thousands crowd around their tomb, 
 
 And pilgrims come from climes where they have 
 kno\vn 
 The name of him — who now is but a name, 
 And wasting homage o'er the sullen stone, 
 
 Bprend his — by him unheard, unheeded — fame ; 
 And mine at least hath cost me dear: to die 
 Is notliing ; Init to wither thus — to tame 
 
 My mind down from its own infinity — 
 To live in narrow ways with little men, 
 A common sight to every common eye, 
 
 A wanderer, while even wolves can find a den, 
 Ripp'd from all kindred, from all home, all things 
 That make communion sweet, and soften pain — 
 
 To feel me in the solitude of kings 
 
 Withoutthe powerthat makes them bear a crown — 
 To envy every dove his nest and wings 
 
 Which waft him where the Apennine looks down 
 On Arno, till he perches, it may be. 
 Within my all inexorable town, 
 
 Wlicre yet my boys are, and that fatal she, 
 Their mother, the cold partner who hath brought 
 Destruction for a dowry — this to see 
 
 And feel, and know without repair, hath taught 
 A bitter lesson ; but it leaves me free : 
 I have not vilely found, nor basely sought, 
 
 They made an exile — not a slave of me. 
 
 CANTO THE SECOND, 
 
 The Spirit of the fervent days of old, [thought 
 
 When words were things that came to pass, and 
 Flash'd o'er the future, bidding men behold 
 
 Their children's children's doom already brought 
 Forth from the abyss of time which is to be, 
 The chaos of events, where lie half-wrought 
 
 Shapes that must undergo mortality ; 
 What the groat Seers of Israel wore within, 
 That spirit was on them, and is on me. 
 
 And if, Cassandra-like, amidst the din 
 
 Of conflict none will hear, or hearing heed 
 This voice from out the Wilderness, the sin 
 
 Be theirs, and my own feelings be my meed, 
 The only guerdon I have ever known. 
 Hast thou not bled ? and hast thou still to bleed, 
 
 Italia? Ah 1 to me such things, foreshown 
 With dim sepulchral light, bid me forget 
 In thine irreparable wrongs my own ; 
 
 We can have but one country, and even yet 
 Thou'rtniine -my bones shall be within thy breast, 
 
 My soul within thy language, which once set 
 
 With our old Roman sway in the w)<le West. 
 But I will make another tongue arise 
 As lofty and more sweet, in which express'a 
 
 The hero's ardor, or the lover's sighs. 
 
 Shall find alike sueli sounds for every theme 
 That every word, as brilliant as thy skies, 
 
 Shall realize a poet's proudest dream. 
 And make thee Europe's nightingale of song, 
 So that all present s|X'eeh to thine shall seem 
 
 The note of meaner birds, and every tongue 
 
 Confess its barbarism when compared with thine. 
 This shalt thou owe to him thou didst so wrong. 
 
 The Tuscan Bard, the banish'd Ghibelline. 
 Wo 1 wo I the veil of coming centuries 
 Is rent, — a thousand years which yet supine 
 
 Lie like the ocean waves ere winds arise, 
 Heaving in dark and sullen undulation, 
 Float from eternity into these eyes ; 
 
 The storms yet sleep, the clouds still keep their station, 
 The unborn earthquake yet is in the womb, 
 The bloody chaos yet expects creation. 
 
 But all things are disposing for thy doom ; 
 The elements await but for the word, 
 " Let there be darkness !" and thou grow'st a tomb. 
 
 Yes 1 thou, so beautiful, shalt feel tlie s^vo^d, 
 Thou, Italy ! so fiiir that Paradise, 
 Revived in thee, blooms forth to man restored : 
 
 Ah ! must the sons of Adam lose it twice ? 
 Thou, Italy ! whose ever golden fields, 
 Plough'd by the sunbeams solely, would suffice 
 
 For the world's granary ; thou, whose sky heaven 
 gilds 
 With brighter stars, and robes with deeper blue ; 
 Thou, in whose pleasant places Summer builds 
 
 Her palace, in whose cradle Enii)ire grew, 
 And form'd the Eternal City's ornaments 
 From spoils of kings whom freemen overthrew 
 
 Birthplace of heroes, sanctuary of saints. 
 
 Where earthly first, then heavenly glory made 
 Her home ; thou, all which fondest fancy paints, 
 
 And fin<ls her jirior vision but portray'd 
 
 In feeljle colors, when tlie eye — from the Alp 
 Of horrid snow, and rock, and shaggy sliade 
 
 Of desert-loving pine, whose emerald scalp 
 Nods to the storm — dilates and dotes o'er thee. 
 And wistfully implores, as 'twere, for help 
 
 To see thy sunny fields, my Italy, 
 Nearer and nearer yet, and dearer still 
 The more approach'd, and dearest weie tney free. 
 
 Thou — thou must wither to each tyrant's will : 
 
 The Goth hath been— the German, Frank, and Hun 
 Are yet to come, — and on the imi)erial hill 
 
 Ruin, already proud of the deeds done 
 
 By the old barbarians, there awaits the new, 
 Throned on the Palatine, while lost and won 
 
 Rome at her feet lies bleeding; and Mic hue 
 
THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 
 
 489 
 
 Of human sacrifice and Roman slaughter 
 Trouliles the clotted air, of late so blue, 
 
 And deepens into red the saflron water 
 Of Tiller, thick with dead : the helpless priest, 
 And still more helpless nor less holj- daughter, 
 
 Vow'd to their God, have shrieking fled, and ceased 
 Their ministry : the nations take their prey, 
 Iberian, Almain, Lombard, and the beast 
 
 And bird, wolf, vulture, more humane than they 
 Are ; these but gorge the flesh and lap the gore 
 Of the departed, and then go their way ; 
 
 But those, the human savages, explore 
 All paths of torture, and insatiate yet, 
 With UgoUno hunger prowl for more. 
 
 Nine moons shall rise o'er scenes like this and set; 
 The chiefless army of the dead, which late 
 Beneath the traitor Prince's banner met, 
 
 Hath left its leader's ashes at the gate ; 
 Had but the royal Rebel lived, perchance 
 Thou hadst been sirared, but his involved thy fate. 
 
 Ob ! Rome, the spoiler or the spoil of France, 
 From Brennus to the Bourbon, never, never 
 Shall foreign standard to thy walls advance. 
 
 But Tiber shall become a mournful river. 
 Oh ! when the strangers pass the Alps and Po, 
 Crush them, ye rocks ! floods whelm them, and 
 
 Why sleep the idle avalanches so, [forever I 
 
 To topple on the lonely pilgrim's head ? 
 Why doth Eridanus but overflow 
 
 The peasant's harvest from his turbid bed ? 
 Were not each barbarous horde a nobler prey ? 
 Over Cambyses' host the desert spread 
 
 Her sandy ocean, and the sea waves' sway 
 
 Roll'd over Pharaoh and his thousands, — why. 
 Mountains and waters, do ye not as they ? 
 
 And you, ye men ! Romans, who dare not die, 
 Sons of the conquerors who overthrew 
 Those who o'erthrew proud Xerxes, where yet lie 
 
 The dead whose tomb Oblivion never knew, 
 Are the Alps weaker than Thermopylae ? 
 Their passes more alluring to the view 
 
 Of an invader ? is it they, or ye. 
 That to each host the mountain-gate unbar. 
 And leave the march in peace, the passage free ? 
 
 Why, Nature's self detains the victor's car. 
 And makes your land impregnable, if earth 
 Could be so ; but alone she will not war. 
 
 Yet aids the warrior worthy of his birth 
 
 In a soil where the mothers bring forth men : 
 Not so with those whose souls are Uttle worth ; 
 
 for them no fortress can avail, — the den 
 t)f the poor reptile which preserves its sting 
 Is more secure than walls of adamant, when 
 
 The hearts of those i\ithin are quivering. 
 
 Are ye not brave ? Yes, yet the Ausonian soil 
 Ilath hearts, and hands, and arms, and hosts to 
 
 Against Oppression ; but how vain the toil, [bring 
 62 
 
 While still Division sows the seeds of wo 
 And weakness, till the stranger reaps the spoil. 
 
 Oh ! my own beauteous land ! so long laid low, 
 So long the grave of thy own children's hojjes, 
 When there is but required a single blow 
 
 To break the chain, yet — yet the Avenger stops, 
 And Doubt and Discordstep 'twixt thine and thee 
 And join their strength to that which with thee, 
 coiDes ; 
 
 What is there wanting then to set thee free, 
 And show thy lieauty in its fullest light ? 
 To make the Alps impassable ; and we. 
 
 Her sous, may do this with one deed Unite. 
 
 CANTO THE THIRD. 
 
 From out the mass of never-dying ill. 
 
 The Plague, the Prince, the Stranger and the 
 Vials of wrath but emjjtied to refill [Sword, 
 
 And flow again, I cannot all record 
 
 That crowds on my prophetic eye : the earth 
 And ocean written o'er would not afl'ord 
 
 SiJace for the annal, yet it shall go forth ; 
 Yes, all, though not by human pen, is graven. 
 There where the farthest suns and stars have birtk; 
 
 Spread like a banner at the gate of heaven. 
 The bloody scroll of our millennial wrongs 
 Waves, and the echo of our groans is driven 
 
 Athwart the sound of archangelic songs. 
 And Italy, the martvr'd nation's gore, 
 Will not in vain arise to where belongs 
 
 Omnipotence and mercy evermore : 
 Like to a harjjstring stricken by the wind 
 The sound of her lament shall, rising o'er 
 
 The seraph voices, touch the Almighty Mind. 
 Meantime I, humblest of thy sons, and of 
 Earth's dust by immortality refined 
 
 To sense and suffering, though the vain may scofl^ 
 And tyrants threat, and meeker ■\'ictims bow 
 Before the storm because its breath is rough, 
 
 To thee, my country ! whom before, as now, 
 I loved and love, devote the mournful lyre 
 And melancholy gift high powers allow 
 
 To read the future ; and if now my fire 
 Is not as once it shone o'er thee, forgive ! 
 I but foretell thy fortunes — then expire ; 
 
 Think not that I would look on them and live. 
 A spirit forces me to see and speak, 
 And for my guerdon grants iiot to survive ; 
 
 My heart shall be pour'd over thee and break : 
 Yet for a moment, ere I must resume 
 Thy sable web of sorrow, let me take 
 
 Over the gleams that fiash athwart thy gloom 
 A softer glimpse ; some stars shine through thy 
 And many meteors, and aljove thy tomb [night, 
 
 Leans sculptured Beauty, which Death cannot blight 
 
490 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS 
 
 And from tliine ashes boundless spirits rise 
 To give thee honor, and the earth delight ; 
 
 Thy soil shall still be pregnant with the wise, 
 The gay, the learn'd, the generous, and the brave, 
 Native to thee as summer to thy skies, 
 
 Conquerors on foreign shores, and the far wave," 
 Discoverers of new worlds, which take their name;' 
 For thee alone they have no arm to save, 
 
 Ajid all thy recompense is in their fame, 
 A noble one to them, but not to thee — 
 Shall they be glorious, and thou still the same ? 
 
 Oh ! more than these illustrious far shall be 
 The being — and even yet he may be born — 
 The mortal saviour who shall set them free. 
 
 And see thy diadem, so changed, and worn 
 By fresh barbarians, on thy brow rei^laccd : 
 And the sweet sun replenishing thy morn. 
 
 Thy moral morn, too long with clouds defiiced. 
 And noxious vapors from Avernus risen, 
 Such as all they must breathe who are debased 
 
 By ser\-itudc, and have the mind in prison. 
 Yet through this centuried eclipse of wo 
 Some voices shall be heard, and earth shall listen ; 
 
 Poets shall follow in the path I show, 
 And make it broader ; the same brilliant sky 
 Which cheers the birds to song shall bid them 
 
 And raise their notes as natural and high ; [glow, 
 Tuneful shall be their numbers ; they shall sing 
 Many of love, and some of liberty. 
 
 But few shall soar upon that eagle's wing. 
 And look in the sun's face with eagle's gaze, 
 All free and fearless as the feather'd king. 
 
 But fly more near the earth ; how many a phrase 
 Sublime shall lavish'd be on some small prince 
 In all the prodigality of jiraise ! 
 
 And language, eloquently false, evince 
 The harlotry of genius, which, like beauty, 
 Too oft forgets its own self-reverence. 
 
 And looks on prostitution as a duty. 
 He who once enters in a tyrant's hall' 
 ^s guest is slave, his thoughts become a booty. 
 
 And the first day which sees the chain inthral 
 A captive, sees his half of manhood gone — * 
 The soul's emasculation saddens all 
 
 His spirit ; thus the bard too near the throne 
 Quails from his inspiration, bound to please, — 
 How servile is the task to please alone 1 
 
 To smooth the verse to suit his sovereign's ease 
 And royal leisure, nor too much prolong 
 Aught save his eulogy, and find, and seize, 
 
 Or force, or forge fit argument of song ! [trebles, 
 Thus trammell'd, thus C(mdemn'd to Flattery's 
 He toils through all, still trembling to be wrong : 
 
 For fear some noble thoughts, like heavenly rebels, 
 
 Should rise up in high treason to his brain, 
 He sings, as the Athenian spoke, with pebbles 
 
 In 's mouth, lest truth should stammnt thro' bin 
 But out of the long file of sonneteers [strain. 
 
 There sliall be some who will not sing in vain. 
 
 And he, their prince,' shall rank among my peers, 
 And love shall be his torment ; but his grief 
 Shall make an immortality of tears. 
 
 And Italy shall hail him as the Chief 
 Of Poet-lovers, and his higher song 
 Of Freedom wreathe him with as green a leat 
 
 But in a farther age shall rise along 
 
 The banks of Po two greater still than he ; 
 
 The world which smiled on him shall do them 
 
 Till they are ashes, and repose with me. [wrong 
 
 The first will make an epoch with his lyre, 
 And flU the earth with feats of chivalry: 
 
 His fancy like a rainbow, and his fire. 
 Like that of Heaven, immortal, and his thought 
 Borne onward with a wing that cannot tire: 
 
 Pleasure shall, like a butterfly new caught. 
 Flutter her lovely pinions o'er his theme. 
 And Art itself seem into Nature wrought 
 
 By the transparency of his bright dream.- 
 The second, of a tenderer, sadder mood. 
 Shall pour his soul out o'er Jerusalem ; 
 
 He, too, shall sing of arms, and Christian blood 
 Shed where Christ bled forman ; and his high harp 
 Shall, by the willow over Jordan's flood. 
 
 Revive a song of Sion, and the sharjj 
 Conflict, and final triumph of the brave 
 And pious, and the strife of hell to warp 
 
 Their hearts from their great purjjose, until wave 
 The red-cross banners where the first red Cross 
 Was crimson'd from liis veins who died to save. 
 
 Shall be his sacred argument; the loss 
 Of years, of favor, freedom, even of fame 
 Contested for a time, while the smooth gloss 
 
 Of courts would slide o'er his forgotten name, 
 And call captivity a kindness, meant 
 To shield him from insanity or shame. 
 
 Such shall be his meet guerdon ! who was sent 
 To be Christ's Laureate — they reward him well I 
 Florence dooms me but death or jumishment, 
 
 Ferrara him a j)ittanco and a ceU, 
 
 Harder to bear and less deserved, for I 
 
 Had stung the factions which I strove to quell ; 
 
 But this meek man, who with a lover's eye 
 
 Will look on earth and heaven, and who will 
 
 deign 
 To embalm with his celestial flattery 
 
 As poor a thing as e'er was spawn'd to reign. 
 What will he do to merit such a doom ? 
 
 ^ Alexantlei of Parma, Spiiiolrt, Teecara, Eugcuc of Savoy, 
 Uoutecucco. 
 " Coluuibus, Americas Vesoao'us, Sebaslian Cabot. 
 
 > A Terse ft-om the Greek ha^eilians, with which Pompey too It 
 leave of Coraelia on entering tlie Iroat in wliirh lie was slain. 
 •* The verse and sentiment are taken from llomer. 
 ' Petrarch. 
 
THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 
 
 •191 
 
 Perhaps he'll love, and is not love in vain 
 
 Torture enough without a living tomb? 
 Yet it will be so — he and his compeer, 
 The Bard of Chivalry, -n-ill both consume 
 
 In penury and pain too many a year, 
 And, dj-ing in despondency, bequeath 
 To the kind world, which scarce will yield a tear, 
 
 A. heritage enriching all who breathe 
 "With the wealth of a genuine poet's soul, 
 And to the country a redoubled wreath 
 
 Uumatch'd by time ; not Hellas can unroll 
 
 Through her olympiads two such names, though one 
 Of hers be mighty ; — and is this the whole 
 
 Of such men's destiny beneath the sun ? 
 Must all the finer thoughts, the thrilling sense. 
 The electric blood with which their arteries run, 
 
 Their body's self turned soul with the intense 
 Feeling of that which is, and fancy of 
 That which should be, to such a recompense 
 
 Conduct ? shall their bright i)lumage on the rough 
 Storm be still scatter'd ? Tes, and it must be; 
 For, form'd of far too penetrable stuff, 
 
 These birds of Paradise but long to flee 
 Back to their native mansion ! soon they find 
 Earth's mist with their pure pinions not agree. 
 
 And die or are degraded ; for the mind 
 Succumbs to long infection, and despair, 
 And vulture passions, flnng close behind, 
 
 Await the moment to assail and tear ; 
 And when at leilgth the wringed wanderers stoop, 
 Then is the prey-birds' triumph, then they share 
 
 The spoil, o'erpower'd at length by one fell swoop. 
 Yet some have been untouch'd who learn'd to bear. 
 Some whom no power could ever force to droop, 
 
 Who could resist themselves even, hardest care 1 
 And task most hopeless; but some such have 
 And if my name amongst the number were, [been, 
 
 That destiny austere, and yet serene, 
 
 Were prouder than more dazzling fame unbless'd; 
 The Alp's snow summit nearer heaven is seen 
 
 Than the volcano's fierce eruptive crest. 
 Whose splendor from the black abyss is flung , 
 While the scorch'd mountain, from whose burning 
 
 A temjiorary torturing flame is wrung, [breast 
 
 Shines for a night of terror, then repels 
 Its fire back to the hell from whence it sprimg. 
 
 The hell which in its entrails ever dwells. 
 
 CANTO THE FOURTH. 
 
 Many are poets who have never penn'd 
 Their inspiration, and perchance the best : 
 They felt, and loved, and died, but would not lend 
 
 Their thoughts to meaner beings ; they compress'd 
 The god ^vithin thera, and rejoin'd the stars 
 Unlaiirel'd upon earth, but far more bless'd 
 
 1 The CttDOla of St. Peter's. 
 
 Than those who are degraded by the jars 
 Of jjassion, and their frailties link'd to fame, 
 Conquerors of high renown, but full of scars. 
 
 Many are poets, but, without the name, 
 For what is poesy but to create 
 From overfeeling good or ill ; and aim 
 
 At an external life beyond our fate. 
 And be the new Prometheus of new men, 
 Bestomng fire from heaven, and then, too late. 
 
 Finding the pleasure given rejiaid with pain, 
 And viiltures to the heart of the bestower. 
 Who, having lavish'd his high gift in vain. 
 
 Lies chain'd to his lone rock by the sea-shore ? 
 So be it : we can bear. — But thus all they 
 Whose intellect is an o'ermastering power 
 
 Whicli still recoils from its encumbering clay 
 Or lightens it to spirit, w'hatsoe'er 
 The form which their creations may essay. 
 
 Are bards ; the kindled marble's bust may wear 
 Blore poesy upon its speaking brow 
 Than aught less than the Homeric page may bear 
 
 One noble stroke with a whole life may glow. 
 Or deify the canvas till it shine 
 AVitli beauty so surjjassing all below. 
 
 That they who kneel to idols so divine 
 
 Break no commandment, for high heaven is thera 
 Transfused, transfigurated : and the line 
 
 Of poesy, which peoples but the air 
 With thought and beings of our thought reflected, 
 Can do no more : then let the artist share 
 
 The palm, he shares the peiil, and dejected 
 Faints o'er the lal)or unapproved — Alas ! 
 Despair and GcTiius are too oft connected. 
 
 Within the ages which before me pass 
 Art shall resume and equal even the sway 
 Which with Apelles and old Phidias 
 
 She held in Hellas' unforgotten day. 
 Ye shall be taught by liuin to revive 
 The Grecian forms at least from their decay, 
 
 And lioman souls at last again shall live 
 In Homan works wrought liy Italian hands, 
 And temples, loftier than the old temples, give 
 
 New wonders to the world ; and while still stands 
 The austere Pantheon, into heaven shall soar 
 A dome,' its image, while the base expands 
 
 Into a fane surpassing all before, 
 
 Such as all flesh shall flock to kneel in : ne'er 
 Such sight hath been unfolded Ijy a door 
 
 As this, to which all nations shaU repair. 
 
 And lay their sins at his huge gate of heaven. 
 And the bold Architect mito whose care 
 
 The daring charge to raise it shall be given, 
 Wliom all arts shall acknowledge as their lord, 
 Whether into the marble chaos driven 
 
 His chisel bid the Hebrew," at whose word 
 
 2 The statue of Moses on the monument of Julius II. 
 
492 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS, 
 
 Israel left Egypt, stop the waves in stone, 
 
 Or hues of Hell be by his pencil pour'd 
 
 Over the damn'd before the Judgment-throne,' 
 Such as I saw them, such as all shall see, 
 Or fanes be built of grandeur yet unknown, [me," 
 
 The stream of his great thoughts shall spring from 
 The Ghibelline, who traversed the three realms 
 Which form the empire of eternity. 
 
 Amidst the clash of swords, and clang of helms, 
 The age which I anticipate, no less 
 Shall be the Age of Beauty, and while whelms 
 
 Calamity the mitions with distress. 
 The genius of my country shall arise, 
 A cedar towering o'er the wilderness. 
 
 Lovely in all its Ijranches to all eyes, 
 Fragrant as fair, and recognized afar. 
 Wafting its native incense through the skies. 
 
 Sovereigns shall pause amidst their sport of war, 
 Wean'd for an liour from blood, to turn and gaze 
 On canvass or on stone ; and they who mar 
 
 All beauty upon earth, compell'd to praise, 
 
 Shall feci the i)ower of that which they destroy; 
 And Art's mistaken gratitude shall raise 
 
 To tyrants who but take her for a toy 
 Emlilems and monuments, and prostitute 
 Her charms to pontiffs proud,'' who but employ 
 
 The man of genius as the meanest brute 
 To bear a burden, and to serve a need. 
 To sell his labors, and his soul to boot. 
 
 Wlio toils for nations may be poor indeed. 
 
 But free ; who sweats for monarchs is no more 
 Than the gilt chamberlain, who, clothed and fee'd. 
 
 Stands sleek and slav-ish, bowing at his door. 
 O Power that rulest and inspirest ! how 
 Is it that they on earth, whose earthly power 
 
 Is likest thine in heaven in outward show, 
 Least like to thee in attributes divine. 
 Tread on the universal necks that bow. 
 
 And then assure us that their rights are thine ? 
 And how is it that they, the sons of fame. 
 Whose inspiration seems to them to shine 
 
 Trom higli, they whom the nations oftest name, 
 Must pass their days in penury or pain. 
 Or step to grandeur through the paths of shame, 
 ind wear a deeper brand and gaudier chain ? 
 Or if their destiny be born aloof 
 From lowliness, or tempted thence in vain, 
 
 ' The Last Judgment, In the Sistine Chapel. 
 
 ' I have read Bomewhere {if I do not err, for I cannot recollect 
 where) that Dante wat* bo sreat a favorite of Slichael Angelo's, 
 
 In their own souls sustain a harder proof, 
 The inner war of passions deep and fierce ? 
 Florence ! when thy harsh sentence razed my roof 
 
 I loved thee ; but the vengeance of my verse, 
 The hate of injuries which every year 
 Slakes greater, and accumulates my curse, 
 
 Shall live, outli^ang all thou boldest dear, 
 
 Thy pride, thy wealth, thy freedom, and even thai 
 The most infernal of all evils here. 
 
 The sway of jJetty tyrants in a state ; 
 For such sway is not limited to kings. 
 And demagogues yield to them but in date, 
 
 As swept oS' sooner ; in all deadly things 
 
 Which ma ke men hate themselves, and one anotV ei 
 In discord, cowardice, cruelty, aU that springs 
 
 From Death the Sin-born's incest with his mothe* 
 In rank oppression in its rudest shape, 
 The faction Chief is but the Sultan's brother, 
 
 And the worst despot's far less human ape : 
 Florence ! when this lone spirit, which so long 
 Yearn'd as the captive toiling at escape. 
 
 To fly back to thee in despite of wrong. 
 An exile, saddest of all prisoners. 
 Who has the whole world for a dungeon strong. 
 
 Seas, mountains, and the horizon's verge for liars. 
 Which shut him from the sole small spot of earth 
 Where — whatsoe'er his fate — he still were hers, 
 
 His country's, and might die where he had birth — 
 Florence ! when this lone spirit shall return 
 To kindred spirits, thou wilt feel my worth, 
 
 And seek to honor with an empty urn 
 The ashes thou shalt ne'er obtain — Alas 1 
 " What have I done to thee, my peojile?" Stera 
 
 Are all thy dealings, but in this they pass 
 The limits of man's common malice, for 
 All that a citizen could be I was ; 
 
 Baised by thy will, all thine in peace or war, 
 
 And for this thou hast warr'd with me. — 'Tis done 
 I may not overleap the eternal bar 
 
 Built up between us, and will die alone. 
 Beholding with the dark eye of a seer 
 The evil days to gifted souls foreshown. 
 
 Foretelling them to those who will not hear. 
 As in the old time, till the hour be come 
 When Truth shall strike their eyes through many 
 a tear. 
 
 And make them own the Prophet in his tomb. 
 
 that he had designed the whole of the Divina Commedia ; hul 
 that the volume containing these studies was loBt hy J^ea. 
 
 5 Sec the treatment of Michael Angelo hy Julius IT., and hli 
 neglect by Leo X. 
 
FRANCESCA OF RIMINI. 
 
 493 
 
 FRANCESCA OF RIMINI. 
 
 FROM THE INFERNO OF DANTE. 
 
 " The land where I Tvas bom sits by the seas, 
 Upon that shore to which the Po descends, 
 With all his followers, in search of peace. 
 
 Love, which the gentle heart soon apprehends, 
 Seized him for the fair person which was ta'en 
 From me, and me even yet the mode offends. 
 
 Love, who to none beloved to love again 
 Remits, seized me vdfh wish to please, so strong, 
 That, as thou seest, yet, yet it doth remain. 
 
 Love to one death conducted us along, 
 But Cain a waits for him our life who ended :" 
 These were the accents utter'd by her tongue. — 
 
 Since I first listen'd to these souls ofiended, 
 I bow'd my visage, and so kept it till — • 
 " What think'st thou ?" said the bard ; when I un- 
 bended. 
 
 And recommenced : " Alas ! unto such ill 
 How many sweet thoughts, what strong ecstasies. 
 Led these their evil fortune to fulfil !" 
 
 And then I turn'd unto their side my eyes, 
 And said, " Francesca, thy sad destinies 
 Have made me sorrow till the tears arise. 
 
 But tell me, in the season of sweet sighs. 
 By what and how thy love to passion rose, 
 So as his dim desires to recognize ?" 
 
 Then she to me : " The greatest of all waes 
 Is to remind us of our happy days 
 In misery, and that thy teacher knows. 
 
 But if to learn our passion's first root preys 
 Upon thy spirit -with such sympathy, 
 I will do even as he who weeps and says. — 
 
 We read one day for pastime, seated nigh. 
 Of Lancilot, how love enchain'd him too. 
 We were alone, quite unsuspicioiisly. 
 
 But oft our eyes met, and our cheeks in hue 
 All o'er discolor'd by that reading were ; 
 But one point only wholly us o'erthrew ; 
 
 When we read the long-sigh'd-for smile of her, 
 To be thus kiss'd by such devoted lover. 
 He who from me can be di^^ded ne'er 
 
 Kiss'd my mouth, trembling in the act all over. 
 Accursed was the book and he who wrote ! 
 That day no further leaf we did uncover." — 
 
 Wliile thus one spirit told us of their lot. 
 The other wept, so that with pity's thralls 
 I swoon'd as if by death I had been smote, 
 
 And fell down even as a dead body falls. 
 
 THE BLUES: 
 
 A LITERARY ECLOGUE, 
 
 "Niminm ne crede colon."— Vikgil. 
 O trust not, ye beantifol creatnree, to hne. 
 Though your /lair were 83 red as your stockings are blue. 
 
 ECLOGUE FIRST. 
 
 Ztmdon — Before the Door of a Lecture Room. 
 
 Enter Tbact, meeting Inkel. 
 
 Inlc. You're too late. 
 
 Tra. Is it over ? 
 
 Tnk. Nor will be this hour. 
 
 But the benches are cramm'd, like a garden in tlower. 
 With the pride of our belles, who have made it the 
 fashion; [passion" 
 
 So, instead of " beaux arts," we may say " la hdU 
 For learning, which lately has taken the lead in 
 The world, and set all the fine gentlemen reading. 
 
 Trn. I know it too well, and have worn ont my 
 patience 
 With studying to study your new publications. 
 There's Vamp, Scamp, and Mouthy, and Wordswords 
 With their damnable [and Co. 
 
 Inl. Hold, my good friend, do you know 
 
 Wliom you speak to ? 
 
 Trn. Right well, boy, and so does "the Row :' 
 You're an author — a poet — 
 
 I»k. And think you that I 
 
 Can stand tamely in silence to hear you decry 
 The Muses ? 
 
 Tra. Excuse me : I meant no oflence 
 
494 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 To the Nine ; through the number who make some 
 pretence 
 
 To their favors is such but the subject to drop, 
 
 I am just piping hot from a publisher's shop, 
 (Next door to the pastry-cook's ; so that when I 
 Cannot find tlie new volume I wanted to buy 
 On the bililiopole's s elves, it is only two paces, 
 As one finds every author in one of those places :) 
 Where I just had been skimming a charming critique. 
 So studded with wit, and so sprinkled with Greek 1 
 Where your friend — you know who-- has just got 
 
 such a threshing. 
 That it is, as the phrase goes, extremely " refreshing.'''' 
 Wliat a beautiful word 1 
 
 Inl: Very true ; 'tis so soft 
 
 And so cooling — they use it a little too oft ; 
 And the papers have got it at last — but no matter. 
 So they've cut up our friend then ? 
 
 Tra. Not left him a tatter- 
 
 Not a rag of his present or past reputation. 
 Which they call a disgrace to the age and the nation. 
 Ink. I'm sorry to hear this ! for friendship, you 
 
 know [so. 
 
 Our poor friend ! — but I thought it would terminate 
 Our friendship is such, I'll read nothing to shock it. 
 You don't happen to have the Review in your 
 pocket ? 
 Tra. No ; I left a round dozen of authors and 
 others 
 (Very sorry, no doubt, since the cause is a brother's) 
 All scrambling and jostling, like so many imps. 
 And on fire with impatience to get the next glimpse. 
 Inh. Let us join them. 
 
 Tra. What, won't you return to the lecture ? 
 
 Inh. Why, the place is so cramm'd, there's not 
 room for a spectre. 
 Besides, our friend Scamp is to-day so absurd — 
 Tra. How can you know that till you hear him ? 
 Inl: I heard 
 
 Quite enough ; and, to tell you the truth, my retreat 
 Was from his vile nonsense, no less than the heat. 
 Tra. I have had no great loss then ? 
 Inl: Loss ! — such a palaver 1 
 
 I'd inoculate sooner my wife with the slaver 
 Of a dog when gone ni1>i(i, than listen two hours 
 To the torrent of trash which around him he pours, 
 Pump'd up with such effort, disgorged with such 
 labor, 
 
 That come — do not make me speak ill of one's 
 
 Tra. /make you I [neighbor. 
 
 InTc. Yes, you ! I said nothing until 
 
 You compell'd me, by speaking the truth — 
 
 Tra. To speal ill ? 
 
 Ib that your deduction ? 
 
 Inh. Wlien speaking of Scamp ill, 
 
 I certainly /«/?ow, not set an example. 
 Th« fellow's a fool, an impostor, a zany. 
 
 Tra. And the crowd of to-day shows that one foo 
 But we two will be wise. [makes many 
 
 Ink. Pray, then, let us retire. 
 
 Tra. I would, but 
 
 Inl: There must be attraction much highei 
 
 Than Scamp, or tlic Jews' harp he nicknames hia 
 To call you to this hotbed. Ws^^i 
 
 Tra. I own it — 'tis true — 
 
 A fair lady 
 
 Inh. A spinster ? 
 
 Tra. Miss Lilac ! 
 
 /«^-. The Blue I 
 
 The heiress ? 
 
 Tra. The angel ! 
 
 Inh. The de\-il ! why, man ! 
 
 Pray get out of this hobble as fast as you can. 
 You wed with Jliss Lilac ! 'twould be your perdi- 
 She's a poet, a chymist, a mathematician. [tion : 
 
 Tra. I say she's an angel. 
 
 Inh. Say rather an angle. 
 
 If you and she marry, you'll certainly wrangle. 
 I say she's a Blue, man, as blue as the ether. 
 
 Tra. And is that any cause for not coming to- 
 gether ? [ance 
 
 Inh. Humph 1 I can't say I know any happy alli- 
 Which has lately sprung up from a wedlock with 
 
 science. 
 She's so Icam'd in all things, and fond of concerning 
 Herself in all matters connected with learning, 
 That 
 
 Tra. What ? 
 
 Inh. I jjerhaps may as well hold my tongue ; 
 
 But there's five hundred people can tell you you're 
 wrong. 
 
 Tra. You forget Lady Lilac's as rich as a Jew. 
 
 Inh. Is it miss or the cash of mamma you pursue ? 
 
 Tra. Why, Jack, I'll be frank with you — some- 
 The girl's a fine girl. [tiling of both. 
 
 Inh. And you feel nothing loth 
 
 To her good lady-mother's reversion ; and yet 
 Her life is as good as your own, I will bet. 
 
 Tra. Let her live, and as long as she likes ; I de- 
 mand [hancL 
 Nothing more than the heart of her daughter and 
 
 Iiih. Why, that heart's in the inkstank — that hand 
 on the pen. 
 
 Tra. A propos — Will you write me a song now 
 
 Inh. To what purpose ? [and then ? 
 
 Tra. You know, my dear friend, that in prose 
 My talent is decent, as far as it goes ; 
 But in rhj'mc 
 
 Inl: You're a terrible stick, to be sure. 
 
 Tra. I own it ; and yet, in these times, there's no 
 For the heart of the fair like a stanza or two ; [lur« 
 And so, as I can't, will you furnish a few ? 
 
 Inh. In your name ? 
 
 2'ra. In my name. I will copy them out, 
 
THE BLUES. 
 
 495 
 
 To slip into her hand at the very next rout. 
 
 Inl: i\je you sc far advanced as to hazard this ? 
 
 Tra. Why, 
 
 Do you think me subdued by a Blue-stocking's eye, 
 So far as to tremble to tell her in rhyme 
 What I've told her in prose, at the least as sublime ? 
 
 Ink. As suliUme ! If it be so, no need of my Muse. 
 
 Trn. But consider, dear Inkel, she's one of the 
 " Blues." 
 
 Ink. As sublime ! — ^Mr. Tracy — I've nothing to say. 
 
 Stick to prose — As sublime ! ! — but I wish you good 
 
 day. [wrong ; 
 
 Trn. Nay, stay, my dear fellow — consider — I'm 
 I own it ; but, prithee, compose me the song. 
 
 Ink. As sublime ! ! 
 
 Tra. I but used the expression in haste. 
 
 Inli. That may be, Jlr. Tracy, but shows damn'd 
 bad taste. 
 
 Tra. I own it — I know it — acknowledge it — what 
 Can I say to you more ? 
 
 Ink. I see what you'd be at : 
 
 You disparage my parts with insidious abuse, [use. 
 Till you think you can tiuTi them best to your own 
 
 Tra. And is that not a sign I respect them ? 
 
 Ink. Why that 
 
 To be sure makes a difference. 
 
 Tra. I know what is what : 
 
 And you, who're a man of the gay world, no less 
 Than a poet of t' other, may easily guess 
 That I never could mean, by a word, to offend 
 A genius like you, and moreover my friend. 
 
 Ink. No doubt; you by this time should know 
 what is due 
 To a man of but come — let us shake hands. 
 
 Tra. You knew. 
 
 And you knoie, my dear feUow, how heartily I, 
 Whatever you pulilish, am ready to buy. 
 
 Ink. That 's my Ijookseller's business ; I care not 
 Indeed the best poems at first rather fail, [for sale, 
 There were Renegade's epics, and Botherby's plays,' 
 And my own grand romance 
 
 Trn. Had its full share of praise. 
 
 I myself saw it pufF'd in the " Old Girl's Review ;" 
 
 Ink. Wliat Review ? 
 
 Tra. 'Tis the English " Journal de Trevoux ;" 
 A clerical work of our Jesuits at home. 
 Have you never yet seen it ? 
 
 Ink. That pleasure 's to come. 
 
 Tra. Make haste then. 
 
 Ink. Why so ? 
 
 Tra. I have heard people say 
 
 That it threaten'd to give up the (jhost t' other day. 
 
 Ink. Well, that is a sign of some s^^irit. 
 
 Tra. No doubt. 
 
 Shall you be at the Countess of Fiddlecome's rout ? 
 
 {Mo»srs Southey aud Sotheby.l 
 
 Ink. I've a card and shall go : Init at present, as soon 
 As friend Scamp shall be pleased to step down from 
 
 the moon, 
 (Where he seems to be soaring in search of his wits.) 
 And an interval grants from his lecturing fits, 
 I'm engaged to the Lady Blucliottie's collation. 
 To partake of a luncheon and learn'd conversation : 
 'Tis a sort of reunion for Scamj), on the days 
 Of his lecture, to treat him with cold tongue and 
 
 praise. 
 And I own, for my own part, that 'tis not unpleasant. 
 Will you go ? There 's Miss I.ilac wiU also be pres- 
 
 Tra. That " metal 's attractive.'' [ent. 
 
 Ink. No doubt — to the pocket. 
 
 Tra. You should rather encourage my passion than 
 shock it. 
 But let us proceed ; for I think by the hum 
 
 Jnk. Very true ; let us go, then, before they can come, 
 Or else we'll be kept here an hour at their levy. 
 On the rack of cross questions, by aU the blue bevy. 
 Hark ! Zounds, they'll be on us ; I know by the 
 Of old Botherby's spouting ex-cathedra tone, [drone 
 Ay ! there he is at it. Poor Scamp ! better join 
 Your friends, or he'll pay you back in your own coin. 
 
 Tra. All fair ; 'tis but lecture for lecture. 
 
 Ink. That 's clear. 
 
 But for God's sake let 's go, or the Bore wiU be here. 
 Come, come : nay, I'm off. [Exit Ikkel. 
 
 Tra. You are right, and I'U follow ; 
 
 'Tis high time for a ".SVc me scrravit Apollo." 
 And yet we shall have the whole crew on our kibes, 
 Blues, dandies, and dowagers, and second-hand 
 
 scribes, 
 All flocking to moisten their exquisite throttles 
 With a glass of Madeira at Lady Bluebottle's. 
 
 - [Exit Tbacy. 
 
 ECLOGUE SECOND. 
 
 An Apartment in the House of L.\dt BLirBBOTTLE — 
 A Tahl-e Prepared. 
 
 SiK Richard Bluebottle solus. 
 
 Was there ever a man who was married so sorry ? 
 Like a fool, I must needs do the thing in a hiury. 
 My life is reversed, and my quiet destroy'd ; 
 My days, which once pass'd in so gentle a void. 
 Must now, every hour of the twelve, be employ'd : 
 The twelve, do I say ? — of the whole twenty-four. 
 Is there one which I dare call my own any more ? 
 Wliat with driving and visiting, dancing and dining, 
 What with learning and teaching, aud scribbling 
 
 and shining 
 In science and art, I'D be cursed if I know 
 Myself from my wife ; for although we are two. 
 Yet she somehow contrives that all things shall ba 
 In a style which proclaims us eternally one. [done 
 But the thing of all things which listresses me more 
 
496 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Than the bills of the week, (thonffh they trouble me 
 Is the numerous, humorous, backbitin<j crew [sore,) 
 Of scribblers, wits, lecturers, white, black, and blue, 
 Who are brought to my house as an inn, to my cost — 
 For the bill here, it seems, is defray'd by the liost — 
 No pleasure ! no leisure 1 no thought for my pains. 
 But to hear a vile jargon which addks my brains : 
 As matter and chatter, gleaned out of reviews, 
 By the rag, tag, and bobtail, of those tliey call 
 " Blues ;" 
 
 A rabble who know not But soft, here they come I 
 
 Would to God I were deaf I as I'm not, I'll be dumb. 
 
 Enter Lady Bhiebottle, Miss Lilac, Lady Bltje- 
 MorwT, Mr. Botherby, Inkel, Tracy, Miss 
 SIazarine, and others, with Scamp the Lecturer, 
 etc., etc. 
 
 Lady Bhicb. Ah ! Sir Richard, good morning ; I've 
 brought you some friends. 
 
 Sir liich. (fimcs, and afterwards aside.) If friends, 
 they're the first. 
 
 Lady Blucb. But the luncheon attends. 
 
 I pray ye be seated, sans ceremonie. 
 Mr. Scamp, you're fatigued ; take your chair there, 
 next me. [ They all sit. 
 
 Sir Rich, (aside.) If he does, his fatigue is to come. 
 
 Lady Blueh. Mr. Tracy — 
 
 Lady Bluemount — Miss Lilac — be 'pleased, pray, to 
 And you, Mr. Botherby — [place ye ; 
 
 Buth. Oh, my dear lady 1 
 
 I obey. 
 
 Lady Bhieh. Mr. Inkel, I ought to upbraid ye : 
 You were not at the lecture. 
 
 Ink. Excuse me, I was ; 
 
 But the heat forced me out in the best part — alas 1 
 And when — 
 
 Lady Blueh. To be sure it was broiling : but then 
 You have lost such a lecture ! 
 
 Bo<//. The best of the ten. 
 
 Tra. How can you know that ? there are two more. 
 
 BotJi. Because 
 
 I defy him to beat this day's wondrous applause. 
 The very walls shook. 
 
 Ink. Oh, if that be the test, 
 
 I allow our frieod Scamp hath this day done his best. 
 Miss Lilac, jjcrmit me to help you; — a wing? 
 
 Miss. Lil. No more, sir, I thank you. Wlio lec- 
 
 Both. Dick Dunder. [tures next spring ? 
 
 Ink. That is, if he lives. 
 
 Miss Lil. And why not ? 
 
 Ink. No reason whatever, save that he 's a sot. 
 Lady Bluemount ! a glass of Madeira ? 
 
 Lady Bliicm. With pleasure. 
 
 ink. How does your friend Wordswords, that Win- 
 dermere treasure ? 
 
 ' [Mr. Wordsworth was collector of stampa for Cumberland and 'Grange l», orwaa, a famous pastry-cook and Piilterer In Pic 
 Westmurcluud. I • cadlUy. 
 
 Does he stick to his lakes, like the leeches he sing*, 
 And their gatherers, as Homer sung warriors and 
 
 Lady Blueh. He has just got a place. [kings ? 
 
 Ink. As a footman ? 
 
 Lady Bhicm. For shame ! 
 
 Nor profane with your sneers so poetic a name. 
 
 Ink. Nay, I meant him no evil, but pitied his mas- 
 For tlic poet of pedlers 'twere, sure, no disaster [ter ; 
 To wear a new livery ; the more, as 'tis not [coat. 
 The first time he has turn'd both his creed and his 
 
 Lady Bluem. For shame ! I repeat. If Sir George 
 could but hear 
 
 Lady Blued). Never mind our friend Inkel ; we all 
 'Tis his way. [know, my dear, 
 
 Sir Rich. But this place 
 
 Ink. Is perliaps like friend Scamp's, 
 
 A lecturer's. 
 
 Lady Blueh. Excuse me — 'tis one in "the Stamps ;" 
 He is made a collector.' 
 
 Tra. Collector I 
 
 Sir Rich. How ? 
 
 Miss Lil. What ? 
 
 Ink. I shall think of him oft when I buy a new 
 There his works will appear [hat 
 
 Lady Bleum. Sir, they reach to the Ganges. 
 
 Ink. I sha'n't go so far — I can have them at 
 
 Lady Blueb. Oh, fie ! [Grange's.' 
 
 Miss Lil. And for shame 1 
 
 Lady Bluem. You're too bad. 
 
 Both. Very good I 
 
 Lady Bluem. How good ? 
 
 Lady Blueh. He means naught — 'tis his phrase. 
 
 Lady Bluem. He grows rude. 
 
 Lady Blueb. He means nothing ; nay, ask him. 
 
 Lady Bluem. Pray, sir ! did you mean 
 
 What you say ? 
 
 Ink. Never mind if he did ; 'twill be seen 
 
 That whatever he means won't alloy what he says. 
 
 Both. Sirl 
 
 Ink. Pray be content with your portion of praise; 
 'Twas in your defence. 
 
 Both. If you please, with submission, 
 
 I can make out my own. 
 
 Ink. It would be your perdition. 
 
 While you live, my dear Botherby, never defend 
 Yourself or your works ; but leave both t' a friend. 
 A propos — Is your play then accepted at ast ? 
 
 Both. At last ? [pass'd 
 
 Ink. Why I thought — that's to say — there had 
 A few green-room whispers, which hinted — you 
 That the taste of the actors at best is so so. [know, 
 
 Both. Sir, the green-room 's in rajrture, and so 's 
 the committee. [" pity 
 
 Ink. Ay — yours are the plays for exciting our 
 And fear," as the Greek says ; for " purging the mind," 
 
THE BLUES. 
 
 497 
 
 I doubt if you'll leave 'is an equal beliind. 
 
 Both. I have ■nrittcn the prologue, and meant to 
 have pray'd 
 For a spice of your vrit in an epilogue's aid. 
 
 Till: Well, time enough yet, when the play 's to be 
 Is it cast yet ? [play'd. 
 
 Both. The actors are fighting for j)arts, 
 
 A8 is usual in that most litigious of arts. 
 
 Lady Bhul). We'll all make a party, and go the 
 first night. 
 
 Tra. And you promised the epilogue, Inkel. 
 
 Lil: Not quite. 
 
 However, to save my friend Botherby trouble, 
 I'll do what I can, though my pains must bo double. 
 
 Tra. Why so? 
 
 Inlc. To do justice to what goes before. 
 
 Both. Sir, I'm happy to say, I have no fears on 
 Your parts, itr. Inkle, are [that score. 
 
 Inl: Never mind mine ; 
 
 Stick to those of your play, which is quite your own 
 line. [of rhymes ? 
 
 Lady Bluem. You're a fugitive writer, I think, sir, 
 
 Inl: Yes, ma'am ; and a fugitive reader sometime-s. 
 On Wordswords, for instance, I seldom alight. 
 Or on Mouthey, his friend, without taking to flight. 
 
 Lady Bluem. Sir, your taste is too common : but 
 time and posterity 
 Will right these great men, and this age's severity 
 Become its reproach. 
 
 Inlc. I've no sort of objection, 
 
 So I'm not of the party to take the infection. 
 
 ^■ady Blueh. Perhaps they have doubts that they 
 ever will talce ? 
 
 L>1: Not at all ; on the contrary, those of the lake 
 Have taken already, and still will continue 
 To take — what they can, from a groat to a guinea. 
 Of pension or place; — but the subject 's a bore. 
 
 Lady Bluem. Well, sir, the time's coming. 
 
 Inl: Scamp ! don't you feel sore ? 
 
 What say you to this ? 
 
 •%:amp. They have merit, I own ; 
 
 Though their system's absurdity keeps it unknown. 
 
 Ink. Then why not unearth it in one of your 
 lectures ? [my strictures. 
 
 Scamp. It is only time past which comes under 
 
 Lady Blueh. Come, a truce with all tartness : — 
 the joy of my heart 
 Is to see Nature's triumph o'er all that is art. 
 Wild Nature ! — Grand Shakspeare ! 
 
 Both. And down Aristotle 1 
 
 Lady Bhiem. Sir George- thinks exactly with Lady 
 Bluebottle ; 
 
 ' [The late Sir George Beaumont— a constant friend of Mr. 
 ■Wordsworth.] 
 
 ^ [It was not the present Earl of Lonsdale, hut James, the first 
 earl, who offered to huild, and completely furuish and man, a ship 
 9f seventy-four guns, towards the close of the American war, for 
 63 
 
 And my Lord Seventy-four,' who protects our dear 
 
 Bard, 
 And who gave him his place, has the greatest regard 
 For the poet, who, singing of pedlers and asses. 
 Has found out the way to dispense with Parnassus. 
 
 Tra. And you, Scamp ! — 
 
 Scamp. I needs must confess I'm embarrass'd. 
 
 Inh. Don't call upon Scamp, who's already so 
 
 harass'd [aU sehooh. 
 
 With old .ichools, and new sehooh, and no schools, and 
 
 Tra. Well, one thing is certain, that so7ne must be 
 I should like to know who. [fools- 
 
 Inl: And I should not be sorry 
 
 To know who are not : — it would save us some worry. 
 
 Lady Bhieb. A truce with remark, and let nothing 
 control 
 This " feast of our reason, and flow of the soul." 
 Oh ! my dear Mr. Botherby ! sympathize ! — I 
 Now feel such a rapture, I'm ready to fly, 
 I feel so elastic — ".w Jmnyant — so huoyaid 1''^' 
 
 Iiih. Tracy! open the window. 
 
 Tra. I wish her much joy on't. 
 
 Both. For God's sake, my Lady Bluebottle, check 
 This gentle emotion, so seldom our lot [not 
 
 Upon earth. Give it way; 'tis an impulse which lifts 
 Our spirits from earth ; the sublimest of gifts ; 
 For which poor Prometheus was chain'd to his moun- 
 tain; 
 'Tis the source of all sentiment — feeling's true foun- 
 tain : 
 'Tis the vision of Heaven upon Earth ; 'tis the gas 
 Of the soul : 'tis the seizing of shades as they pass, 
 And making them substance : 'tis something divine : 
 
 hil: Shall I help you, my friend, to a little more 
 wine ? 
 
 Both. I thank you ; not any more, sir, till I dine. 
 
 Ink. A propos — Do you dine with Sir Humphry* 
 to-day ? 
 
 Tra. I should think with Dulcs Humphry was 
 more in your way. 
 
 Ink. It might be of yore ; but we authors now look 
 To the knight, as a landlord, much more than the 
 
 Duke. 
 The truth is, each writer now quite at his ease is. 
 And (except with his publisher) dines where he 
 
 jjleases. 
 But 'tis now nearly five, and I must to the Park. 
 
 Tra. And I'll take a turn with you there till 'tis 
 And you, Scamp — [dark. 
 
 Smmp. Excuse me ; I must to my notes, 
 
 For my lecture next week. 
 
 I7ik.. He must mind whom he quotes 
 
 Out of '• Elegant Extracts." 
 
 Berrice of his count:;-, at his own expense;— hence the scjirig-mt 
 in the text.] 
 
 s Fact from life, with the irorrFs. 
 
 • [The late Sir Humphry Davy. President of the Hoyal Sociclv.l 
 
498 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Lady Blueh. Well, now wc break up ; 
 
 But remember Miss Didrtle' invites us to sup. [again, 
 
 Inle. Then at two hours past midnight we all meet 
 For the sciences, sandwiclieg, hock, and champagne ! 
 
 Tra. And the sweet lobster salad ! 
 
 Both. I honor that meal ; 
 
 For 'tis then that our feelings most genuinely — feel. 
 
 Ink. True ; feeling is truest tltcn, far beyond 
 question ; 
 
 ' [The late Miss Lydia Wtite, whose hospitable functions have 
 not yet been supplied to the circle of London artists and literati — 
 an accomplished, clever and truly amiable, but very eccentric lady. 
 
 I wish to the gods 'twas the same with digestion I 
 Lady Bluch. Pshaw ! — never mind that ; for one 
 moment of feeling 
 Is worth — God knows what. 
 Ijd: 'Tis at least worth concealing 
 
 For itself, or what follows But here comes your 
 
 carriage. 
 Sir Eich. (nsidr.) I wish all these people were 
 d d with my marriage 1 [BxcutU. 
 
 The name in the text couM only have been suggested by the jing 
 ling resemblance it bears to Zydia.] 
 
 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT, 
 
 BY QUEVEDO REDIVIVUS. 
 
 SnOaSBTED BY THE COMPOSITION SO ENTITLED BT THE AUTHOR OF " WAT TYLEB." 
 
 ■' A Daniel come to judgment I yea, a Daniel ! 
 I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word." 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 It hath been wisely said, that " One fool makes 
 many ;" aud it liath been poetically observed, 
 
 "That fools rush in where angels fear to tread." — J^p€. 
 
 If Mr. Southey had not rushed in where he had no 
 business, and where he never was before, and never 
 will be again, the following poem would not have been 
 written. It is not iiupossible that it may be as good as 
 his own, seeing that it cannot, by any species of stupid- 
 ity, natural or acquired, be tcorse. The frross flattery, 
 the dull impudence, the renegado intolerance and im- 
 piotis cant, of the poem l)y the author of " Wat Tyler," 
 are something so stupendous as to form the sublime of 
 himself — containing the quintessence of his own attri- 
 butes. 
 
 So much for his poem — a word on his preface. In 
 this preface it has pleased the magnanimous Laureate 
 to draw tiie picture of a stipposed " Satanic School," the 
 which he doth recommend to the notice of the legisla- 
 ture ; thereby adding to his other laurels the ambition 
 of those of an informer. If there exists anywhere, ex- 
 cepting in his imagination, such a School, is he not 
 BuiBciently armed against it by his own intense vanity 1 
 The truth is, that there are certain writers whom Mr. 
 S. imagines, like Scrub, to have " talked of /(/;»./ for 
 they laughed consumcdly." 
 
 I think I know enough of most of the writers to 
 whom he is supposed to allude, to assert, that they, in 
 their individual capacities, have done more good, in the 
 charities of life, to their fellow-creatures in any one 
 year, than Mr. Southey has done harm to himself by 
 his absurdities in his vvliole life ; and this is Ba}ing a 
 great deal. But I liuve a feiv ij nest ions to ask. 
 
 Istly, Is Mr. Southey the author of " Wat Tyler V ' 
 
 2dly, Was he not refused a remedy at law Ijy the 
 highest judge of his beloved England, because it wag 
 a blasphemous and seditious publication 1 
 
 'Sd\r, Was he not entitled by William Smith, in full 
 parliament, " a rancorous renegado ?" 
 
 4thly, Is he not poet laureate, with his own lines on 
 JIartin the regicide staring him in the face? 
 
 And, 5thly, Putting the four preceding items to- 
 gether, with what conscience dare he call the attention 
 of the laws to the publications of others, bo they what 
 they may ? 
 
 I say nothing of the cowardice of such a proceeding , 
 its meaness speaks f(U- itself; but I wish to touch upon 
 the mntioe, which is neither more nor less than that 
 Mr. S. has been laughed at a little in some recent publi- 
 cations, as he was of yore in the " Anti-jacobin " by liis 
 present patrons. Hence all this " skimblescamble stuff" 
 about " Satanic," and so forth. However, it is worthy 
 of him — " qvalin ah iiicepto." 
 
 If there is any thing obnoxious to the political opin- 
 ions of a portion of the public in the following poem, 
 they may thank Mr. .Southey. He might have written 
 hexameters, as lie has written every thing else, foi 
 aught that the writer cared — had they been upon 
 another subject. But to attempt to canonize a monarch 
 who, whatever were his household virtues, was neither 
 a successful nor a patriot king, — inasintich as several 
 years of his reign passed in war with America and Ire- 
 land, to say nothiiifr of the aggression upon France, — 
 like all other cxagfjeration, necessarily l»;gets opposi- 
 tion. In whateviT manner he may be spoken of in 
 this new " Vision," his jjuhlir career will not be more 
 favorablj' transmitted by history. Of his private virtues 
 
THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 49t 
 
 (although a little expensive to the natioiil there can be 
 no iloubt. 
 
 With regard to the supernatural personages treated 
 of, I can only say that I know as much about them, 
 and (as an honest man) have a better right to talk of 
 them, than Robert Southey. I have also treated them 
 more tolerantly. The way in which that poor insane 
 creature, the Laureate, deals about hi» judgments in 
 the next world, is like his own judgment in this. If 
 it was not completely ludicrous, it would be something 
 worse. I don't think that there is much more to say 
 at present. 
 
 QUEVEDO EEDrVTVUS. 
 
 P. S. — It is possible that some readers may object, in 
 these objectionable times, to the freedom with which 
 saints, angels, and spiritual persons discourse in this 
 " Vision." But, for precedents upon such points, I must 
 refer him to Fielding's "Journey from this World to 
 to the next," and to the Visions of myself, the said 
 Quevedo, in Spanish or translated. The reader is also 
 requested to observe, that no doctrinal tenets are insist- 
 ed upon or discussed ; that the person of the Deity is 
 carefully withheld from sight, which is more than can 
 be said for the Laureate, who hath thought proper to 
 make him talk, not " like a school divine," but like the 
 unscholarlike Mr. Southey. The whole action passes 
 on the outside of heaven ; and Chaucer's Wile of Bath, 
 Pulci's Morgante Maggiore, Swift's Tale of a Tub, and 
 the other works above referred to, are cases in point of 
 the freedom with which saints, etc., may be permitted 
 >o converse in works not intended to be serious. 
 
 Q. E. 
 
 ^t*jf Mr. Southey being, as he says, a good Chris- 
 tian and vindictive, threatens, I understand, a reply to 
 this our answer. It is to be hoped that his visionary 
 faculties will in the mean time have acquired a little 
 more judgment, properly so called : otherwise he will 
 get himself into new dilemmas. These apostate jaco- 
 bins furnish rich rejoinders. Let him take a specimen : 
 Jlr. Southey laudeth grievously " one Mr. Landor," 
 who cultivates much private renown in the shape of 
 Latin verses ; and not long ago, the poet laureate 
 dedicated to him, it appeareth, one of his fugitive 
 lyrics, upon the strength of a poem called Oehir. Who 
 could suppose, that in this same Gebir the aforesaid 
 Savage Landor (for such is his grim cognomen ) putteth 
 into the infernal regions no less a person than the hero 
 of his friend Mr. Southey's heaven,— yea, even George 
 the Tliird ! See also how personal Savage becomcth, 
 when he hath a mind. The following is his portrait of 
 our late gracious sovereign : — 
 
 (Prince Gebir liaving descended into the infernal regions, the 
 shades of bis royal ancestors are, at his request, called up to his 
 . view ; and he esclaims to his ghostly guide) — 
 
 " An>ar, what wretch that nearest us? what wretch 
 Is that with eyebrows while and slanting brow? 
 Listen I him yonder, who. bound down supine, 
 Shrinks yelling from that sword there, engine-hang f 
 He too amongst my ancesters ! I hate 
 The despot, but the dastard 1 despise. 
 Was he our countrvman ?" 
 
 ''Alas, O king I 
 Iberia bore him, bat the breed accursed 
 Inclement winds blew lighting from northeast.'* 
 " He was a warrior then, nor fear'd the gods V 
 " Gebir. he fear'd the demons, not the gods. 
 Though them indeed his daily face adored ; 
 And was no warrior, yet the thousand lives 
 Squander'd, as stones to exercise a sling, 
 And the tame cruelty and cold caprice — 
 Oh, madness of mankind I address'd, adored 1" — 
 
 GMr, p. 28. 
 
 I omit noticing some edifying Itliyphallics of Sa- 
 vagius, wishing to keep the proper veil over them, it 
 his grave but somewhat indiscreet worshipper wiU suf 
 fer it ; but certainly these teachers of " great moral 
 lessons " are apt to be found in strange company. 
 
 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 I. 
 Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate : 
 
 His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull, 
 So little trouble bad laeen given of late ; 
 
 Not that the place by any means was full, 
 But since the Gallic era "eighty-eight " 
 
 The devals had ta'en a longer, stronger puU, 
 And " a pull all together," as they say 
 At sea — which drew most souls another way. 
 
 II. 
 
 The angels all were singing out of tune. 
 And hoarse with having little else to do. 
 
 Excepting to wind up the sim and moon, 
 Or curb a runaway young star or two, 
 
 Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon 
 Broke out of bounds o'er the ethereal blue, 
 
 Splitting some planet with its beautiful tail. 
 
 As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale. 
 
 TIL 
 The guardian seraphs had retired on high. 
 
 Finding their charges past all care below; 
 Terrestrial business fiU'd naught in the sky 
 
 Save the recording angel's black bureau ; 
 Who found, indeed, the facts to multiply 
 
 With such rapidity of vice and wo. 
 That he had stripp'd off both his wings in quflls. 
 And yet was in arrear of human ills. 
 
 IV. 
 
 His business so augmented of late years. 
 
 That he was forced, against his wiU no doub% 
 
 (Just like those cherubs, earthly ministers,) 
 For some resource to turn himself about. 
 
 And claim the help of his celestial peers. 
 To aid him ere he should be quite wcrn out 
 
 By the increased demand for his remarks ; 
 
 Six angels and twelve saints were named his clerKs 
 
500 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 This was a handsome board — at least for heaven; 
 
 And yet tbey had even tlien enough to do, 
 So many conquerors' cars were daily driven, 
 
 So many kingdoms fitted up anew ; 
 Each day too slew its thousands six or seven, 
 
 Till at the crowning carnage, Waterloo, 
 They threw their pens down in divine disgust — 
 The page was so besmear'd with blood and dust. 
 
 VI 
 Tills liy the way ; 'tis not mine to record 
 
 What angels shrink from : even the very devil 
 On this occasion his own work abhorr'd, 
 
 So surfeited with the infernal revel : 
 Though he himself had sharj^en'd every sword, 
 
 It almost quench'd his innate thirst of evil. 
 (Here Satan's sole good work deserves insertion — 
 'Tis, that he has both generals in reversion.) 
 
 VII. 
 Let's skip a few short years of hollow peace, 
 
 Wliich peopled earth no better, heU as wont, 
 Aaid heaven none — they form the tyrant's lease. 
 
 With notliing but new names subscribed upon 't : 
 Twill one day finish : meantime they increase, 
 
 " With seven heads and ten horns," and all in front 
 Like Saint .John's foretold beast ; but ours are bom 
 Less formidal)le in the head than horn. 
 
 VIII. 
 In the first year of freedom's second dawn' 
 
 Died George the Third ; although no tyrant, one 
 Wlio shielded tvTants, till each sense withdrawn 
 
 Left him nor mental nor external sun ; 
 A better farmer ne'er brush'd dew from la\^Ti, 
 
 A worse king never left a rcialm undone ! 
 He died — but left his subjects still beliind, 
 One half as mad — and t' others no less blind. 
 
 IX. 
 He died ! — his death made no great stir on earth ; 
 
 His burial made some pomp ; there was some 
 profusion 
 Of velvet, gilding, lirass, and no great dearth 
 
 Of aught but tears — save those shed by collusion. 
 For these things may be Ijought at their true worth ; 
 
 Of elegy there was the due infusion — 
 Bought also ; and the torches, cloaks, and banners, 
 Heralds, and relics of old Gothic manners, 
 
 X. 
 
 Form'd a sepulchral melodrame. Of all 
 
 The fools who flockVl to swell or see the show, 
 Wlio cared about the corpse ? The funeral 
 
 1 [George III. died the »th of .lannary, 1840,— a year in which 
 iie revolutionary spirit broke out p.U over the gonth of Europe.] 
 
 Made the attraction, and the black the wo. 
 There throbb'd not there a thought which pierced 
 the pall; 
 
 And when tlie gorgeous coffin was laid low, 
 It Beem'd the mockery of hell to fold 
 The rottenness of eighty years in gold. 
 
 XI. 
 So mix his body with the dust ! It might 
 
 Return to what it 7uniit fur sooner, were 
 The natural compound left alone to fight 
 
 Its way back into earth, and fire, and air ; 
 But the unnatural balsams merely blight 
 
 Wliat nature made him at his birth, as bare 
 As the mere million's base unmummied clay 
 Yet all liis spices but jirolong decay. 
 
 XII. 
 He's dead — and upper earth with him has done; 
 
 He's buried ; save the undertaker's bill, 
 Or lapidary scrawl, the world is gone 
 
 For him, unless he left a German will ; 
 But Where's the proctor who will ask his son ? 
 
 In whom his qualities are reigning still. 
 Except that household virtue, most uncommon, 
 Of constancy to a bad, ugly woman. 
 
 XIII. 
 " God save the king !" It is a large economy 
 
 In God to save the like ; but if he wiU 
 Be saving, all the better ; for not one am I 
 
 Of those who think damnation better still: 
 I hardly know too if not quite alone am I 
 
 In this small hope of bettering future ill 
 By circumscribing, with some slight restriction, 
 The eternity of hell's hot jurisdiction. 
 
 XTV. 
 
 I know this is unpopular ; I know 
 
 'Tis blasphemous ; I know one may be damn'd 
 For hoping no one else may e'er be so ; 
 
 I know my catechism ; I know we are cramm'd 
 With the best doctrines till we quite o'erflow ; 
 
 I know that all save England's church havi 
 shamm'd, 
 And that the other twice two hundred churches 
 And synagogues have made a dainH\l bad purchase 
 
 XV. 
 
 God help us all ! God help me too ! I am, 
 God knows, as helpless as the devil can wish, 
 
 And not a whit more difficult to damn, 
 
 Than is to bring to land a late hook'd fish. 
 
 Or to the butcher to pur\'ey tlie lamb ; 
 Not that I'm fit for such a nol>le dish 
 
 As one day will be tluit ininiortal fry, 
 
 Of almost evcTvbodv born to die. 
 
 I 
 
 
THE VISION OF JUDG3IENT. 
 
 50] 
 
 XVI. 
 Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate, 
 
 And nod led o'er his keys ; Tylien, lo ! there came 
 A. wondl•ou^ noise he had not heard of late — 
 
 A rushing sound of wind, and stream, and flame; 
 In short, a roar of things extremely great. 
 
 Which would have made aught save a saint exclaim ; 
 But he, with first a start and then a wink, 
 Said, " There 's another star gone out, I think !" 
 
 XVII. 
 But ere he could return to his repose, 
 
 A cherub flajjp'd his right wing o'er his eyes — 
 At which Saint Peter ya^vii'd, and rubb'd his nose. 
 
 '• Saint porter," said the angel, " prithee rise !" 
 Waving a goodly wing, which glow'd, as glows 
 
 An earthly peacock's tail, with heavenly dyes ; 
 To which the saint replied, " "Well, what's the matter ? 
 Is Lucifer come back with all this clatter ?" 
 
 XVIII. 
 " No," quoth the cherub ; " George the Third is 
 dead." [apostle ; 
 
 " And who is George the Third ?" replied the 
 " fV/,ai Georye? what Thirdr "The king of 
 England," said 
 The angel. " Well ! he won't find kings to jostle 
 Him on his way ; but does he wear his head ? 
 
 Because the last we saw here had a tustle, 
 /^d ne'er would have got into heaven's good graces, 
 Had he not flung his head in all our faces. 
 
 XIX. 
 " He was, if I remember, king of France ;' 
 
 That head of his, which could not keep a crown 
 On earth, yet ventured in my face to advance 
 
 A claim to those of martyrs — like my own : 
 If I had had my sword, as I had once 
 
 When I cut ears oft", I had cut him do^-n ; 
 But having but my /cy.i, and not my brand, 
 I only knock'd his head from out his hand. 
 
 XX. 
 
 "And then he set up such a headless howl, 
 
 That all the saints came out and took him in ; 
 And tliere he sits by St. Paul, cheek by jowl ; 
 
 ' [Louis XVI., CTiilolined in January, 17!13.] [pavement 
 
 '["Tlien I bch?Id the King. From a cloud whicli cover'd the 
 
 His reverend form uprose ; lieavenward his face was directed. 
 
 Heavenward his eyes were raised, and heavenward his arms 
 
 were extended, 
 Presently one approach'd to greet him with joyful obeisance ; 
 He of whom, in an hour of wo. the assassin l)ereavGd us 
 Wheuhis councils most, and his resolute virtue, was needed. 
 Thoul said the Monarch, here? Thou, P«rM!)(ri summon u 
 
 before me?— 
 Then, as his wakeu d mind to the weal of the country reverted, 
 What of his soli, h( -jsU'd, what course by the Prince had been 
 
 foUow'd? 
 
 That fellow Paul — the parvenu ! The bkin 
 Of saint Bartholomew, which makes his cowl 
 
 In heaven, and npon earth redeem'd his sin, 
 So as to make a martyr, never sped 
 Better than did this weak and wooden head. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " But had it come ujj here upon its shoulders, 
 There would have been a different tale to tell : 
 
 The fellow-feeling in the saints beholders 
 Seems to have acted on them b'ke a sijell ; 
 
 And so this very foolish head heaven solders 
 Back on its trunk : it may be very well, 
 
 And seems the custom here to overthrow 
 
 Whatever has been wisely done below." 
 
 XXII. 
 The angel answer'd, " Peter ! do not pout : 
 
 The king who comes has head and all entire, 
 And never knew much what it was about — 
 
 He did as doth the puppet — by its wire. 
 And will be judged like all the rest, no doubt: 
 
 My business and your own is not to inquire 
 Into such matters, but to mind our cue — 
 Which is to act as we are bid to do." 
 
 XXITI. 
 Wliile thus they spake, the angelic caravan. 
 
 Arriving like a rush of mighty wind. 
 Cleaving the fields of space, as doth the swan 
 
 Some silver stream, (say Ganges, Nile, or Inde, 
 Or Thames, or Tweed,) and 'midst them an old man 
 
 With an old soul, and both extremely blind, 
 Halted before the gate, and in his shroud 
 Seated their fellow-traveller on a cloud.'' 
 
 XXIV. 
 But bringing up the rear of this bright host 
 
 A Spirit of a difterent aspect waved 
 His wings, like thunder-clouds above some coast 
 
 Whose barren beach with frequent wrecks is 
 paved ; 
 His brow was like the deep when tempest- toss'd ; 
 
 Fierce and unfiithomablo thoughts engraved 
 Eternal wrath on his immortal face, 
 And where he gazed a gloom pervaded space. 
 
 Right in his father's steps hath the Regent trod, was the 
 
 answer : 
 Firm hath he proved and wise, at a time when weakness or 
 
 error 
 Would have sunk us in shame and to ruin have hurlM us 
 
 headlong. — 
 Peace is oblain'd then at last, with safety and honor ! the 
 
 Monarch 
 Cried, and he clasp'd his hands,— I thank thee. O mercifiL 
 
 Father 1 
 Peace hath been won by the sword, the faithful misister 
 
 answer'd. 
 Paris hath," Sic—Soutkey.] 
 
602 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 xxv. 
 As he drew near, be gazed upon the gate 
 
 Ne'er to be enter'd more by him or Sin, 
 With siicli a glance of supiTnatural hate, 
 
 As made Saint Peter wish himself within ; 
 lie pattcr'd with his keys at a great rate. 
 
 And sweated through his apostolic skin : 
 Of course his perspiration was but ichor, 
 Or some such other spiritual liquor. 
 
 X.XVI. 
 The very cherubs huddled all together. 
 
 Like birds when soars the falcon ; and they felt 
 A tingling to the tip of every feather. 
 
 And form'd a circle like Orion's belt 
 Around their poor old charge ; who scarce knew 
 whither 
 
 His guards had led him, though they gently dealt 
 With royal manes, (for by many stories, 
 And true, we learn the angels are all Tories.) 
 
 XXVII. 
 As things were in this posture, the gate flew 
 
 Asunder, and the flashing of its hinges 
 Flung over sjjace a universal hue 
 
 Of many-color'd flame, until its tinges 
 Reach'd even our speck of earth, and made a new 
 
 Aurora borealis spread its fringes 
 O'er the North Pole ; the same seen, when ice-bound. 
 By Captain Parry's crew, in " Mehdlle's Sound.'" 
 
 XXVIII. 
 And from the gate thrown open issued beaming 
 
 A beautiful and mighty Thing of Light,' 
 Kadiant with glory, like a banner streaming 
 
 Victorious from some world-o'erthrowing fight : 
 My poor comparisons must needs be teeming 
 
 With earthly likenesses, for here the night 
 (If clay obscures our best conceptions, saving 
 Johanna Southcote, or Bob Southey raving. 
 
 XXIX. 
 'Twas the archangel Mchael : all men know 
 The make of angels and archangels, since 
 
 ' [See Captain Sir Edward Parry's Voyage, in 1819-50, for the 
 Discovery of a Northwest pa6t-a;^e. — '* I believe it is almost im- 
 possible for words to give an idea of the beauty and variety which 
 this masuillcent phenomenon displayed. The luminous arch had 
 broken into irregular masses, streaming with much rapidity in 
 dilTercnt directions, varjiny continually in shape and interest, and 
 extending themselves from north, by the east, to north. Atone 
 lime a part of the arch near the /.enitli was bent into convolutions 
 resembling those of a snake in motion, and undulating rapidly, 
 an appearencc which we had not before observed. The end 
 lowards tlie north was also bent like a shepherd's crook. The 
 usual pale light of the aurora strongly resembled thjit produced 
 by the combustion of phosphorus ; a very slight tinge of red was 
 noticed on this occasion, when the aurora was most ^ivid, but no 
 other colors were visible." P. 135.] 
 
 ' [•■ Thus as he spake, melhougbt the surrounding space dilated ; 
 Over head I beheld the infinile ether; beneath us 
 l,av •.he solid expanse of the llrmament spread like a pavement, 
 
 There's scarce a scribbler has not one to show. 
 From the fiends' leader to the angels' prince; 
 
 There also are some altar-pieces, though 
 I really cau't say they much evince 
 
 One's inner notions of immortal spirits, 
 
 But let the connoisseurs explain their merits 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Michael flew forth in glory and in good; 
 
 A goodly work of Him from whom all glory 
 And good arise ; the portal pass'd — he stood ; 
 Before him the young cherubs and saints hoary — 
 (I say yomuj, begging to be understood 
 
 By looks, not years; and should be very sorry 
 To state, they were not older than St. Peter, 
 But merely that they seem'd a Utile sweeter.) 
 
 XXXI. 
 The chenibs and the saints bow'd down before 
 
 That arch-angelic hierarch, the first 
 Of essences angelical, who wore 
 
 The aspect of a god ; but this ne'er nursed 
 Pride in his heavenly bosom, in whose core 
 
 No thought, save for his JIaker's service, durst 
 Intrude, however glorified and high ; 
 He knew him but Uie viceroy of the sky. 
 
 xxxn. 
 He and the sombre silent Spirit met- 
 
 They knew each other both for good and ill: 
 Such was their ])owcr, that neither could forget 
 
 His former friend and future foe ; but still 
 There was a high, immortal, proud regret 
 
 In cither's eye, as if 'twere less their will 
 Than destiny to make the eternal years 
 Their date of war, and their "champ clos" th« 
 sjiheres. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 But here they were in neutral space : we know 
 
 From Jol), that Satan hath the power to pay 
 A heavenly visit thrice a year or so ; 
 
 And th.at "the sons of God," like those of clay, 
 
 Wlieresoevcr I look'd, there was light and glory aronnd mo ; 
 Brightest it seem'd in the East, where the New Jerusalem 
 
 glitter'd. 
 Eminent on a hill, then; stood the Celestial City ; 
 Beaming afar it shone ; its towers and cupolas rising 
 nigh in the air serene, with the brightness of gold in thi 
 
 furnace. 
 Where on their breadth the splendor lay intense and quiescent . 
 Part with a drier glow, and a short quick tremulous mot ion. 
 Like the burning pyropus; and turrets and pinuaclcs sparkled 
 Playing in jets of light, with a diamond-like giorj- coruscanl. 
 Drawing near, 1 beheld what over the portal was written : 
 This is the Gate," etc.— Seu^ftey.] 
 
 » [Johanna Southcote, the aged lunatic, who fancied herecii. 
 and was believed by many thousand followers, to be with child oi 
 a new Messiah, died in 1^!.'). The™ is a full account of her in the 
 ijuartcrly Keview, vol. xxiv. p. ■1116.] 
 
THE VISION OF JUDGMENT, 
 
 503 
 
 Must keep him company ; and we mit;ht show 
 
 From the same book, in how polite a way 
 The dialogue is held between the Powers 
 Of Good and E\-il — but 'twould take up hours. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 And this is not a theologic tract, 
 
 To jjrove with Hebrew and with Arabic, 
 If Job be allegory or a fact. 
 
 But a true narrative ; and thus I pick 
 From out the whole but such an such an act. 
 
 As sets aside the slightest thought of trick. 
 'Tis every tittle true, beyond suspicion, 
 And accurate as any other vision. 
 
 XXXV. 
 The spirits were in neutral space, before 
 
 The gate of heaven ; like eastern thresholds is 
 The place where Death's grand cause is argued o'er, 
 
 And souls despatch'd to that world or to this ; 
 And therefore Jlichael and the other wore 
 
 A civil asj^ect : though they did not kiss. 
 Yet still between his Darkness and his Brightness 
 There pass'd a mutual glance of great politeness. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 The Archangel bow'd, not like a modern beau 
 
 But 'n'ith a graceful oriental bend. 
 Pressing one radiant arm just where below 
 
 The heart in good men is supjKised to tend. 
 He turn'd as to an equal not too low, 
 
 But kindly ; Satan met his ancient friend 
 With more hauteur, as might an old Castilian 
 Poor noble meet a mushroom rich civiUan. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 He merely bent liis diabolic brow 
 
 An instant ; and then raising it, he stood 
 In act to assert his right or wrong, and show 
 Cause why King George by no means could or 
 should 
 Make out a case to be exempt from wo 
 
 Eternal, more than other kings, endued 
 With better sense and hearts, whom history mentions. 
 Who long have " paved hell with their good inten- 
 tions."' 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 Michael began : " Wliat wouldst thou with this man, 
 
 Now dead, and brought before the Lord ? What iU 
 H ith he wrought since his mortal race began, 
 
 That thou canst claim him? Speak! anddothywill, 
 li it be just : if in his earthly span 
 
 He hath been greatly failing to fulfil 
 
 ' [No sa.nt in Ihe course of his rcli^ous warfare was more sen- 
 Bible of the unhappy faihire of pious resolves than Dr. .Tohnson : 
 he said one day, talking to an acqaaintance on this subject, ' Sir, 
 
 His duties as a king and mortr.l, say. 
 
 And he is thine ; if not, let him have way." 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 "Jlichael!" replied the Prince of Air, "even here, 
 Before the Gate of Him thou servest, must 
 
 I claim my subject : and will make appear 
 That as he was my worshipper in dust, 
 
 So shall he be in spirit, although dear 
 
 To thee and thine, because nor wine nor lust 
 
 Were of his weaknesses ; yet on the throne 
 
 He reign'd o'er millions to serve me alone. 
 
 XL. 
 " Look to our earth, or rather mine ; it was, 
 
 0/1 cc, more thy Master's : but I triumph not 
 In this poor planet's conquest ; nor, alas ! 
 Need He thou servest envy me my lot : 
 With all the myriads of liright worlds which pass 
 
 In worship round Him, He may have forgot 
 Yon weak creation of such paltry things : 
 nation 
 
 XLI. 
 
 " And these but as a kind of quit-rent, to 
 Assert my right as lord ; and even had 
 
 I such an inclination, 'twere (as you 
 
 Well know) superfluous ; they are grown so bad, 
 
 That hell has nothing better left to do 
 
 Than leave them to themselves : so much more mad 
 
 And evil by their own internal curse, 
 
 Heaven cannot make them better, nor I worse. 
 
 XLII. 
 " Look to the earth, I said, and say again, [worm 
 
 When this old, blind, mad, helpless, weak, poor 
 Began in youth's first bloom and flush to reign, 
 
 The world and he both wore a diflferent form. 
 And much of earth and all the watery plain 
 
 Of ocean call'd him king : through many a storm 
 His isles had floated on the abyss of time ; 
 
 For the rough vii'tues chose them for their clini<;, 
 
 XLIII. 
 " He came to his sceptre young : he leaves it old. 
 
 Look to the state in which he found his realm, 
 And left it ; and his annals too behold. 
 
 How to a minion first he gave the helm ; 
 How grew upon his heart a thirst for gold. 
 
 The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm 
 The meanest hearts ; and for the rest, but glance 
 Thine eye along America and France. 
 
 XLIV. 
 " 'Tis true, he was a tool from first to last, 
 
 hell is paved with good intentions.' 
 1835.] 
 
 "—Boswell -tl. T. p. 305, cd. 
 
504 
 
 iJYRON 'S WORKS. 
 
 (I liave the workmen safe;) but as a tool 
 So let him be consumed. From out the past 
 
 Of ages, since mankind have knon-n the rule 
 Of monarclis — from tlie bloody rolls amass'd 
 
 Of sin and slaughter — from the Ca;sars' school, 
 Take the worst pujjil ; and produce a reign [slain. 
 More drencU'd with gore, more cumber'd with the 
 
 XLV. 
 " He ever warr'd with freedom and the free : 
 
 Nations as men, home subjects, foreign foes, 
 So they that utter'd the word ' Liberty !' 
 
 Found George the Third their first opponent. 
 History was ever stain'd as his will be [Whose 
 
 Witli national and individual woes ? 
 I grant his household al)stinence ; I grant 
 His neutral virtues, which most monarchs want ; 
 
 XLVI. 
 " I know he was a constant consort ; own 
 
 He was a decent sire, and middling lord. 
 All this is much, and most upon a throne ; 
 
 As temperance, if at Apicius' board, 
 Is more than at an anchorite's supjDer shown. 
 
 I grant him .all the kindest can accord ; 
 And this was well for him, but not for those 
 Millions who found him what opjjression chose. 
 
 XLVII. 
 " The New World shook him ofi"; the Old yet groans 
 
 Beneath what he and his prepared, if not 
 Completed : he leaves heirs on many thrones 
 
 To all his vices, without what begot 
 Compas-ion for him — his tame virtues ; drones 
 
 Wlio sleep, or despots who have now forgot 
 A lesson which shall be re-taught them, wake 
 Upon the thrones of earth : but let them quake ! 
 
 XI.VIIF. 
 " Five milliMis of the primitive, who hold 
 
 The faith which makes ye great on earth, implored 
 A part of that vast (ill they held of old, — 
 
 Freedom to worshijj — not alone your Lord, 
 Michael, but you, and you, Saint Peter ! Cold 
 
 Must be your souls, if you have not abhorr'd 
 The foe to Catholic participation 
 In all the license of a Christian nation. 
 
 XLIX. 
 " True ! he allow'd them to pray God : but as 
 
 ' [George III.'s determination against the Catliolic claims.] 
 
 ^ [ *' From the opposite region, 
 
 rT('a\7 and suli)hurous clouds r()ll'd nn, and completed the circle. 
 There with the Spirits accurHed, in congenial darkness* enveloped, 
 Were the Souls ol" the Wicked, who, wilful in guilt and error, 
 Chose the service of sin, and n{)w were ahiding its wages. 
 Change of jijnce t") them hrought no vepriisvai from anguish ; 
 'I'hey in their evil thuu::litfi and desires of impotent malice. 
 
 A consequence of prayer, refused the law 
 Which would have placed them upon the same base 
 
 With those who did not hold the saints in awe." 
 But here Saint Peter started from his place, 
 
 And cried, " You may the prisoner withdraw : 
 Ere heaven sluill ope her portals to tlys Guelph, 
 While I am guard, may I be damu'd myself! 
 
 " Sooner will I with Cerberus exchange 
 
 3Iy office (and his is no sinecure) 
 Than see this royal bedlam bigot range 
 
 The azure fields of heaven, of that be sure !" 
 " Saint I' replied Satan, " you do well to avenge 
 
 The WTongs he made your s.atellites endure ;' 
 And if to this exchange you should be given, 
 ril try to coax our Cerberus up to heaven." 
 
 r,I. 
 Here Michael interposed : " Good saint ! and devil 
 
 Pray, not so fast ; you both outrun discretion. 
 Saint Peter ! you were wont to be more civil : 
 
 Satan ! excuse this warmth of his expression, 
 And condescension to the vulgar's level : 
 
 Even saints sometimes forget themselves in session. 
 Have you got more to say ? — " No." — •" If you please^ 
 I'll trouble you to call your witnesses." 
 
 LII. 
 Then Satan tum'd and waved his swarthy hand, 
 
 Wliich stirr'd with its electric qualities 
 Clouds farther ofl" than we can understand, 
 
 Although V, e find him sometimes in our skies ; 
 Infernal thunder .'shook both sea and land 
 
 In all the planets, and hell's batteries 
 Let off the artillery, which Milton luentions 
 As one of Satan's most sublime inventions.' 
 
 Ull, 
 This was a signal unto such damn'd souls 
 
 As have the privilege of their damnation 
 Extended far beyond the mere controls 
 
 Of worlds past, present, or to come ; no station 
 Is theirs ])articularly in the rolls 
 
 Of liell assign'd ; but where their inclination 
 Or business carries them in search of game, 
 They may range freely — being damn'd the same 
 
 LIV. 
 They are proud of this — as very well they may, 
 
 Envy, and hate, and hlasphemons rage, and remorse unavailing. 
 Carried a hell within, to which all outer atlliction, 
 So it ahstr;icted the sense, might he deem'd a remission of torment. 
 At the edge of the cloud, the Princes of Darkness were marshalPd ; 
 Dindy descried within were wings and truculent faces ; 
 .\nd in the thick ol)scure there struggled a mutinous uproar. 
 Railing, and f\iry, and strife, that the whole deep hody of darkness 
 RoU'd like a Irouhled sea, witii a wide and a manifold motitui." 
 
 [Southev. 
 
THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 505 
 
 It being a sort of knighthood, or gilt key 
 Stuck in their loins ;' or like to an " entre " 
 
 Up the back stairs, or such free-masonry. 
 I borrow my comparisons from clay, 
 
 Being clay myself. Let not those spirits be 
 Offended with such base low likenesses ; 
 We know their jjosts are nobler far than these. 
 
 LV. 
 When the great signal ran from heaven to hell — 
 
 About ten million times the distance rcckou'd 
 From our sun to its earth, as we can teU 
 
 How much time it takes np, even to a second. 
 For every ray that travels to dispel [con'd. 
 
 The fogs of London, through which, dimly bea- 
 The weathercocks are gilt some thrice a year, 
 If that the summer is not too severe :° — 
 
 LVI. 
 I say that I can tell — 'twas half a minute : 
 
 I know the solar beams take up more time 
 Ere, pack'd up for their journey, they begin it ; 
 
 But tben their telegraph is less subUme, 
 And if they ran a race, they would not win it 
 
 'Gainst Satan's comiers bound for their own clime. 
 The sun takes up some years for eveiy ray 
 To reach its goal — the devil not hah" a day. 
 
 LVII. 
 Upon the verge of space, about the size 
 
 Of half-a-crown, a little speck appear'd, 
 (I've seen a something like it in the skies 
 
 In the ^gean, ere a squall ;) it near'd. 
 And, growing bigger, took another guise ; 
 
 Like an atrial ship it tack'd, and steer'd, 
 Or was steer'd, (I am doubtful of the grammar 
 Of the last phrase, which makes the stanza stammer ; — 
 
 LVIII. 
 But take your choice ;) and then it grew a cloud ; 
 
 And so it was — a cloud of witnesses.' 
 But such a cloud ! No land e'er saw a crowd 
 
 Of locusts numerous as the heavens saw these ; 
 They shadow'd with their myriads space ; their loud 
 
 And varied cries were like those of wild geese, 
 (If nations may be liken'd to a goose,) 
 And realized the phrase of " hell broke loose." 
 
 ' [A gold or ijilt key, peeping from below the ekii'ts of the coat, 
 
 iDarks a lord cliamberlaiD.] 
 ^ [An allusion to Horace Walpole's expression in a letter — " Tlie 
 
 Bommer has set in with it^ usual severitf//'] 
 " [" On the cerulean floor by that dread circle su.Tonnded, 
 Stood the soul of the King alone. In fiont was the Presence 
 Veil'd with excess of light ; and behind was the blackness of 
 darkness ; [ation— 
 
 When the trumpet was blown, and the Angel made proclam- 
 liO, where the King appears ! Come forward, ye who arraign him I 
 Forth from the luriil cloud a Demon came at the summons. 
 It was the Spirit by whom his righteous reign had been troubled ; 
 G4 
 
 LIX. 
 Here crash'd a sturdy oath of stout John Bull, 
 
 Who damn'd away his eyes as heretofore . [wuU ?" 
 There Paddy brogued " By Jasus !"— " What's your 
 
 The temperate Scot exclaim'd : the French ghost 
 In certain terms I sha'n't translate in full, [swore 
 
 As the fh-st coachman wiU ; and 'midst the war, 
 The voice of Jonathan was heard to express, 
 " Our president is going to war, I guess." 
 
 LX. 
 Besides there were the Spaniard, Dutch, and Dane ; 
 
 In short, a universal shoal of shades. 
 From Otaheite's isle to S.alisbury Plain, 
 
 Of all climes and professions, years and trades, 
 Ready to swear against the good king's reign, 
 
 Bitter as clubs in cards are against spades : 
 AH summon'd by this grand " subpoena," to 
 Try if kings mayn't be damn'd like me or you. 
 
 LXI. 
 Wlien Michael saw this host, he fii-st grew pale, 
 
 As angels can ; next, like Italian twilight. 
 He turn'd all colors — as a peacock's tail. 
 
 Or sunset streaming through a Gothic skylight 
 In some old abbey, or a trout not stale. 
 
 Or distant Ughtning on the horizon hy night, 
 Or a fresh rainbow, or a grand review 
 Of thirty regiments in red, green and blue. 
 
 LXII. 
 Then he address'd himself to Satan : " Why — ■ 
 
 My good old friend, for such I deem you, though 
 Our different parties make us fight so shy, 
 
 I ne'er mistake you for a pertumal foe ; 
 Our difference \s polillcal, and I 
 
 Trust that, whatever may occur below, 
 You know my great respect for you : and this 
 Makes me regret whate'er you do amiss — 
 
 LXIII. 
 " Why, my dear Lucifer, would you abuse 
 
 My call for witnesses ? I did not mean 
 That you should half of earth and hell produce ; 
 
 ^T\i even superfluous, since two honest, clean, 
 True testimonies are enough : we lose 
 
 Our time, nay, our eternity, between 
 
 Likest in form uncouth to the hideous Idols whom India 
 (Long by guilty neglect to hellish delusions abandon'd.) 
 Worships with horrible rites of self-destruction and torture, 
 llauy-headed and monstrous the Fiend : with numberless facea 
 Numljerless bestial ears erect to all rumors, and restless, [arrows. 
 And xvith numberless mouths which were flUed with lies as with 
 Clamors arose as he came, a confusion of turbulent voices, 
 Maledictions, and blatant tongues, and viperous hisses ; 
 And in the hubbub of senseless sounds the watchwords ol 
 
 faction, — 
 Freedom, Invaded Rights, Corruption, and War, and Oppres- 
 Loudly enounced were heard." — Sovf^iei/.'i [s.on — 
 
506 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 The accusation and defence : if we 
 
 Hear lioth, 'twill stretch our immortality." 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 Satan replied, " To me the matter is 
 
 ludiiTcrent, in a jursonal point of view : 
 
 I can have tifty better souls than this 
 With far less trouble than we have gone through 
 
 Already ; and I merely argued his 
 Late majesty of Britain's case with you 
 
 Upon a point of form : you may dispose 
 
 Of him ; I've kings enough below, God knows !" 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Thus spoke the Bcmon,' (late call'd " multifaeed " 
 By multo-scribbling Southey.) " Then we'll call 
 
 One or two persons of the myriads placed 
 Around our congress, and dispense with all 
 
 The rest," quoth Jlichael : " Who may be so graced 
 As to speak first ? there 's choice enough — who shall 
 
 It be ?" Then Satan answer'd, " Thers are many ; 
 
 But you may choose Jack Wilkes as well as any." 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 A merry, cock-eyed, curious-looking sprite 
 Upon the instant started from the throng, 
 
 Dress'd in a fashiou now forgotten quite ;= 
 For all tile fashions of the flesh stick long 
 
 By people in the next world ; where unite 
 
 All the costumes since Adam's, right or wrong, 
 
 From Eve's fig-leaf down to the petticoat, 
 
 Almost as scanty, of days less remote. 
 
 1 [ " But when he stood in the Presence, 
 
 Then was the Fiend dismay'd, though with impadcnce clothed 
 as a garment ; [ler'd 
 
 And the lying tongues were mute, and the lips, which had scat- 
 -iccueation and slander, were still. No time for evasion (bling 
 This, in the Freseuce he stood : no place for flight ; lor disscm- 
 No possibility there. From the soultj on the edge of the dark- 
 ness, [hade thora 
 Pwo he produced, prime movers and agents of mischief, and 
 Show themaelvcB faithful now to the cause for which they had 
 lulior'd. Lnow 
 Wretched and guilty souN, where now their audacity ? Where 
 Are the insolent tongues so ready of old at rejoinder? 
 Where the lofty pretences of public virtue and freedom ? [vective. 
 Where the gibe, and the jeer, and the threat, the enveuom'd in- 
 Calumny, falsehood, frr.ud, and the whole ammunition of malice ? 
 Wretched and guilty souls, they stood in the face of their Sove- 
 reign, [injured. 
 Conscious and self-coodemn'd ; confronted with him they had 
 At the .ludgment-seat* they stood."— SowWicy.] 
 * [In reference to this part of Mr. Soutbey's poem, the Eclectic 
 Reviewer, we believe the late Hev. Itobcrt Hall, said — "Mr. 
 Southey's ' Vision of Judjruient ' is unquestionably a profane 
 poem. The assertion will stagger those only who do not consider 
 what is the import of the word. Profaneness is the irreverent 
 use of sacred names anj things. A burlesque of things sacred, 
 whether intcnlioiud or not, is profaneuess. To apply the language 
 of Scripture in a IndiCTOUs connection is to profane it. The mum- 
 mery of prayc-T on the stage, though in a serious play, is a gross 
 profanation of sacred things. .\nd all acts which come under the 
 taking of Go<rs nnnie in vain are acts of profaneuess. .\ccording 
 this dellnitiou of the word, the Laureate's ' Vision of Judg- 
 
 LXVII. 
 The spirit look'd arotmd upon the crowds 
 
 Assembled, and exclaim'd, " My friends of all 
 The spheres, we shall catch cold amongst these clouds; 
 
 So let 's to business : why this general call ' 
 If those are freeholders I sec in shrouds, 
 
 And 'tis for an election that they bawl, 
 Behold a candidate with unturn'd coat! 
 Saint Peter, may I count ujjon your vote ?" 
 
 bXVIII. 
 " Sir," replied Michael, " you mistake ; these things 
 
 Are of a former life, and what we do 
 Above is more august ; to judge of kings 
 
 Is the tribunal met : so now you know." 
 " Then I presume those gentlemen with ■iviugs," 
 
 Said Wilkes, " are cherubs ; and that soul below 
 Looks much like George the Third, but to my mind 
 A good deal older — Bless me ! is he blind ?" 
 
 LXIX. 
 " lie is what you behold him, and his doom 
 
 Depends upon his deeds," the Angel said. 
 " If you have aught to arraign in him, the tomb 
 
 Gives license to the humblest beggar's head 
 To lift itself against the loftiest." — " Some," 
 
 S:ii(l Wilkes, " don't wait to see them laid in lead, 
 For such a liberty — and I, for one, 
 Have told them what I thought beneath the sun." 
 
 LXX. 
 
 " Ahoi'e the sun repeat, then, what thou hast 
 
 To urge against him," said the Archangel. " Why," 
 
 ment ' is a poem grossly and unpardonably profane. Mr. Southey'a 
 intention was, we are well persuaded, very far from being iire- 
 ligions ; and, indeed, the profaneuess of the poem partly arises 
 from the ludicrous effect produced by the bad taste and imbecilitj 
 of the performance, for wliich his inleulions are clearly not an 
 Bwerable. Whatever liberties a poet may claim lo lake, in repre* 
 sentjitions partly allegorical, with the invisible realities of the 
 world to come, the ignis fatuus of political zeal has, in this in- 
 Btunce, carried Mr. Southey far beyond any assignable bounds of 
 poetical license. It would have been enough to celebrate the 
 apotheosis of the monarch ; but, wlien he proceeds to traveatie 
 the Ilnal judgment, and to convert the awful tribunal of Heaven 
 into a d-awing-room levee, where he, the Poet Laureate, takes 
 upon himself to play the part of a lord in wailing, presenting one 
 Georgian worthy at'ter anollicr to kiss liands on promotion, — what 
 should be grave is, indeed, turned to farce."] 
 
 ■ 3 [ " Beholding the foremost, 
 
 Him by the cast of /lis eye oblique. I knew as the iirehrand 
 Whom the unthinking populace held for tlieir idol and hero. 
 Lord of Misrule in bis day. But how was that countenance altered 
 Where emotion of fear or of shame had never been wilricss'd ; 
 That invincible forehead abash'd ; and those eyes wherein malice 
 Once had been wont to shiue with wit and liilarily temper'd. 
 Into how deep a gloom their mourid'id expression had settled I 
 Little availed it now that not from a purpose malignant, 
 Not with evil intent, he had chosen the service of evil, 
 But of his own desires the slave, with prolligate impulse. 
 Solely by seltlsliness moved, and reckless of aught that might 
 Could he plead in only excuse a confession of baseness t [follow 
 Could he hide tlie exlcut of his guilt ; or hope to atone for 
 Faction excited at home, when all old feuds were abated ; 
 Insurrection abroad, and the train of woes that luid I'ollow d I 
 
THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 507 
 
 Replied the spirit, " since old score3 are past, 
 Must I turu evidence ? In faith, not I. 
 
 Besides, I beat him hollow at the last. 
 
 With all his Lords and Commons : in the sky 
 
 I don't like ripi^ing uj) old stories, since 
 
 His conduct was but natural in a prince. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 " Foolish, no doubt, and wicked, to oppress 
 A poor unlucky devil without a shilling ; 
 
 But then I blame the man himself much less 
 Than Bute and Grafton, and shall be unwilling 
 
 To see him punish'd here for theii- excess. 
 
 Since they were both damu'd long ago, and still in 
 
 Their place below : for me, I have forgiven, 
 
 And vote his ' habeas corpus ' into heaven." 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 " Wilkes," said the Devil, " I imderstand all this ; 
 
 You turn'd to half a courtier ere you died,' 
 And seem to think it would not be amiss 
 
 To grow a whole one on the other side 
 Of Charon's ferry ; you forget that hix 
 
 /^eign is concluded ; whatsoe'er betide, 
 He won't be sovereign more : you've lost your 
 
 labor. 
 For at the best he will but be your neighbor. 
 
 LXXIir. 
 
 " However, I knew what to think of it, 
 Wlien I beheld you in your jesting way. 
 
 Flitting and whisjjering round about the spit 
 ^Miere Belial, upon duty for the day, 
 
 With Fos's lard was basting William Pitt, 
 His pupil ; I knew what to think, I say : 
 
 That fellow even in hell breeds farther ills ; 
 
 I'll have him ffigg^d — 'twas one of his o"mi bills. 
 
 Disconten-t aufl disloyalty, like the teeth of the dragon. 
 He had sown on the winds ; they had ripen'd heyond the At- 
 Thence in natural hirth, sedition, revolt, revolution, [lantic ;* 
 France had received the seeds, and reap'd the harvest of horrors ; 
 Where — where should the pla2;ue he stay'd? Oh, most to be 
 They of all souls in bale, who see no term to the evil [pitied 
 They by their guilt have raised, no end to their inner upbraid- 
 Him I could not choose but know," etc. — Soulhetj.] [ings 1 
 
 * [" Our new world has generally the credit of having first 
 Kghted the torch which was to illuminate, and soon set in a 
 blaze, the finest part of Europe ; yet I think the first flint was 
 struck, and the first spark elicited, by the patriot John Wilkes, a 
 few ye.irs before. In a time of profound peace, the restless spirit 
 of men, deprived of other objects of public curiosity, seized with 
 avidity on those questions which were then agitated with so much 
 violence in England, touching the rights of the people and of the 
 governn.ent, and the nature of power. The end of the political 
 drama was in favor of what was called, and in some respects was, 
 the liberty of the people. Encouraged by the success of this great 
 comediar. the curtain was no sooner dropped on the scene of Eu- 
 rope, than new actors hastened to raise it again in America, and 
 to give lae world a new play, infinitely m ^^-e interesting and more 
 brilliant than the &!ret."--M. Siiiond.] 
 
 LXXIV. 
 " Call Junius !"= From the crowd a shadow stalk'd. 
 
 And at the name there was a general squeeze, 
 So that the very ghosts no longer walk'd 
 
 In comfort, at their own aerial ease. 
 But were all ramm'd, and jamm'd, (but to be balk'd, 
 
 As we shall see,) and jostled hands and knees. 
 Like wind compress'd and pent within a bladder, 
 Or like a human colic, which is sadder. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 The shadow came — a taU, thin, gray-hair'd figure. 
 That look'd as it had been a shade on earth ; 
 
 Quick in its motions, with an air of vigor. 
 But naught to mark its breeding or its birth : 
 
 Now it was'd little, then again grew bigger. 
 With now an air of gloom, or savage mirth ; 
 
 But as you gazed upon its features, they 
 
 Changed every instant — to tohat, none could say. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 The more intently the ghosts gazed, the less 
 
 Could they distinguish whose the features were ; 
 
 The Devil himself seem'd puzzled even to guess ; 
 They varied like a dream — now here, now there ; 
 
 And several people swore from out the press. 
 They knew him perfectly ; and one could swear 
 
 He was his father : upon which another 
 
 Was sure he was his mother's cousin's brother : 
 
 Lxxvn. 
 
 Another, that he was a duke, or knight. 
 
 An orator, a lawyer, or a priest, 
 A nabob, a man-midwife :' but the wight 
 
 Mysterious changed his countenance at least 
 As oft as they their minds : though in full sight 
 
 He stood, the jjuzzle only was increased ; 
 
 ' [For the political history of John Wilkes, who died chambei 
 lain of the city of London, we must refer to any history of the 
 reign of George m. His profligate personal character is abun- 
 dantly displayed in the collection of his letters, published by kis 
 daughter! since his death.] 
 
 - [" Who might the other be, his comrade in guilt and in sutfeiing. 
 Brought to the proof like him, and shrinking like him from tho 
 
 trial ? 
 Nameless the Libeller lived, and shot his arrows in darkness ; 
 Undetected he pass'd to the grave, and, leaving behind him 
 Noxious works on earth, and the pest of an evil example. 
 Went to the world beyond, where no oflences are hidden. 
 Mask'd had he been in his life, and now a visor of iron, 
 Riveted round his head, had abolish'd his features forever. 
 Speechless the slanderer stood, and turn'd his face from the 
 Iron-bound as it was, ... so insupportably dreadful [Monarch, 
 Soon or late to conscious gnilt is the eye of the injured." 
 
 Sovthey.} 
 ' [Among the various persons to whom the Letters of .Junius 
 have been attributed we find the Duke of Portland, Lord Georga 
 Sackville. Sir Philip Francis, Mr. Burke. Mr. Dunning, the Rev. 
 John Home Tooke, Mr. Hugh Boyd, Dr. Wilmot, etc.] 
 
508 
 
 BYROX'S WORKS. 
 
 The man was a phantasmagoria in 
 Himself — he was so volatile and thin.' 
 
 LXXYIII. 
 The moment that you had pronounced him one, 
 
 Presto ! his face changed, and he ■vvas another ; 
 And when that change was hardly well put on, 
 
 It varied, till I don't think his own mother 
 (If that he had a mother) would her son 
 
 Have known, he shifted so from one to t' other ; 
 Till guessing from a pleasure grew a task, 
 At this epistolary " Iron mask."" 
 
 LXXIX. 
 For sometimes he like Cerberus would seem — 
 
 " Three gentlemen at once," (as sagely says 
 Good Jlrs. Malaprop ;) then you might deem 
 
 That he was not even one ; now many rays 
 Were flashing round him ; and now a thick steam 
 
 Hid from sight — like fogs on London days : 
 Now Burke, now Tooke, he grew to people's fancies, 
 And certes often like Sir Philip Francis.' 
 
 LXXX. 
 I've an hypothesis — 'lis quite my own ; 
 
 I never let it out till now, for fear 
 Of doing people harm about the tlir<uie, 
 
 And injuring some uiinisler or peer, 
 On whom the stigma might perhaps be blown : 
 
 It is — my gentle public, lend thine ear ! 
 'Tis that what .Junius we are wont to call 
 Was really, truly, nobody at all. 
 
 I.XXXI. 
 I don't see wherefore letters should not be 
 
 Written without hands, since we daily view 
 Them written without heads ; and books, we see, 
 
 Are fiU'd as well without the latter too : 
 And really till we fix on somebody 
 
 For certain sure to claim them as his due. 
 Their author, like the Niger's mouth, will bother 
 The w;orld to say if there be mouth or author. 
 
 ' [" I don't know what to think. Why should Junius be dead ? 
 If suddenly apoplexcd, would he rest in his ^'rave without send- 
 ing hi- fidij'/.ov to shout in the ears of posterity * Junius was X. 
 y. Z., Esq., buried in the parish of * * * * *.' Repair his monu- 
 ment, ye churchwardens I Print a new edition of his Letters, ye 
 booksellers ! Impossible, — the man mi//>7 be alive, and will never 
 die without the disclosure. I like him ;— he was a good hater."— 
 Bi/ron Diary, Nov. 23, 1813. Sir Philip Francis died in Dec. 1818.] 
 
 '■' [The mystery of " Phoinme au masque dc fer," the everlast- 
 ing puzzle of the last century, has at lensjth, in general opinion, 
 been cleared up, by a French work published in 18-25, and which 
 formed the Ita^is of an entertaining one in ICnglish by Lord Dover. 
 See Quarterly Review, vol. sxxiv. p. 11).] 
 
 ' [That the work entitled "The Identity of Junius with a Dis- 
 tinguished Living Character established." proves Sir Philip Fran- 
 cis to be Junius, we will not affirm ; but tliis we can safely assert; 
 that it accumulates such a mass of circumstantial evidence as ren- 
 ders it extremely didlcult to believe he is not, and that, if so many 
 coincidences shall be found to have misled us in tliis case, our 
 fialrh in all conclusions drawn from proofs of a similar kind may 
 Ueuceforlb b" •^hnWen — SIackintosu.I 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 "And who and what art thou ?" the Archangel said 
 " For that you may consult my title-page," 
 
 Replied this mighty shadow of a shade : 
 " If I have kei)t my secret half an age, 
 
 I scarce shall tell it now." — '' Canst thou upl>raid," 
 Continued Jlichael, " George Rex, or allege 
 
 Aught further ?" Junius answer'd, " You had bettel 
 
 First ask him for // /s answer to my letter : 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 " My charges upon record will outlast 
 The brass of both his epitaph and tomb." 
 
 " Repent'st thou not," said ilichael, " of some past 
 Exaggeration ? something which may doom 
 
 Thyself if false, as him if true ? Thou w'ast 
 Too bitter — is it not so ? — in thy gloom 
 
 Of passion ?" — " Passion !" cried the phantom dim, 
 
 " I loved my country, and I hated him." 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 " "What I have written, I have written : let 
 The rest be on his head or mine !" So spoke 
 
 Old " Nominis Umbra ;'" and while speaking yet, 
 Away he melted in celestial smoke.' 
 
 Then Satan said to Michael, " Don't forget [Tooke, 
 To call George Washington," and John Horn* 
 
 And Franklin ;" — but at this time there was heard 
 
 A cry for room, though not a phantom stirr'd. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 At length with jostling, elbowing, and the aid 
 
 Of cherubim appointed to that post, 
 The devil Asmodeus to the circle made 
 
 His way, and look'd as if his journey cost 
 Some trouble. Wlien his burden down he laid, 
 
 " What 's this ?" cried Michael ; " why, 'tis not l 
 "I know it," quoth the incul)us ; " but he [ghost?' 
 Shall be one, if you leave the affair to me. 
 
 « The well-known motto of Jonius is, " Slat TwminU M»nirs."j 
 
 * [" Caitifls, are ye dumb ? cned the mnltifacod Demon in anger : 
 Think ye then by shame to shorten the term of your penance ? 
 Back to your penal dens I — ^>jid with horrible grasp gigant'c 
 Seizing the guilty pair, he swung them aloft, and in vengcan^,€ 
 Hurl'd them all abroad, far into the sulphurous darkness. 
 Sons of ihction, be warn'd ! .\nd ye, ye Slanderers ! learn ye 
 Justice, and bear in mind that after death there is jiulgment. 
 Whirling, away they Hew 1 Nor long himself did he tarry. 
 Ere from the ground where he stood, caught np by a vehemem 
 whirlwind, [thundci 
 
 ne too was hurried away : and the blast with lightning and 
 Volleying aright and aleft amid the accumulate blackness, 
 Scatter'd its inmates accursed, and beyond the limits of ether 
 Drove the hireine host obscene, they howling and groaning 
 Fell precipitate down to their dolorous place of endurauce." — 
 
 [Southey. 
 
 « [ " The roll of the thunder [adamantine 
 
 Ceased, and all sounds were hushVl, till again from the gat* 
 Was the voice of the Angel heard through the silence of Heaven 
 Ho 1 he e.tclaim'd King f^enrge of England staudcth in judgment 
 
THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 505 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 Conf )und tlie renegado ! I have sprain'd 
 Jly left wiug, he "s so heavy ; one would think 
 Some of his works about his neck were chain'd. 
 
 But to the point ; while hovering o'er the brink 
 Of Skiddaw,' (where as usual it still rain'd,) 
 
 I saw a taper, far below me, wink, 
 And stooping, caught this fellow at a libel — 
 No less on history than the Holy Bible. 
 
 LXXXYII. 
 "The former is the devil's scripture, and 
 
 The latter yours, good Michael ; so the affair 
 Belongs to all of us, you understand. 
 
 I snatch'd him up just as you see him fliere. 
 And brought him off for sentence out of hand : 
 
 I've scarcely been ten minutes in the air — 
 At least a quarter it can hardly be : 
 I dare say that his wife is still at tea." 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 Here Satan said, "I know this man of old, 
 
 And have expected him for some time here ; 
 A sillier fellow you will scarce behold, 
 
 Or more conceited in his petty sphere : 
 But surely it was not worth while to fold 
 
 Such trash below your wing, Asmodeus dear : 
 We had the poor wretch safe (without licing bored 
 With carriage) coming of his own accord. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 " But since he 's here, let 's see what he has done." 
 " Done !"' cried Asmodeus, " he anticipates 
 
 The very business you are now upon, 
 
 And scribbles as if head clerk to the Fates. 
 
 Who knows to what his ribaldry may run, 
 When such an ass as this, like Balaam's, prates ?" 
 
 Hell hath bven dumb in his presence. Te who on earth arraign'd 
 
 him, 
 Come ye before him now, and here accuse or absolve him I 
 
 . . . . From the Souls of the Blessed, 
 Some were there then who advanced ; and more from the skirts 
 
 of the meeting, 
 Spirits who had not yet accomplished their purification, 
 Tot being cleansed from pride, from faction and error dclivcr'd. 
 Purged of the film wherewith the eye of the mind is clouded, 
 
 They, in their better state, saw all things clear 
 
 One alone remain'd, when the rest had retired to their station. 
 Silently he had stood, and still unmoved and in silence. 
 With a steady mien, regarded the face of the Monarch. 
 Thoughtful awhile he gazed : — 
 
 * Here then at the Gate of Keaven we are met 1' said the Spirit; 
 ' King of Kngland ! albeit in life opposed to each other, 
 Here we meet at last. Not unprepared for the meeting 
 Ween I ; for we had both outlived all enmity, rendering 
 Each to each that justice which each from each had withholdeii. 
 In the course of events, to thee I seem'd as a Rebel, [truly. 
 Thou a Tyrant to me ; — so strongly doth circumstance rule men 
 During evil days, when right and wrong are confounded I" 
 'Washington !' said the Monarch, 'well hast thou spoken, and 
 Just to thyself and to me. On them is the guilt of the contest 
 Who, for wicked ends, with foul arts of faction aud falsehood, 
 Kirdled snd fed the dame ; but verily they have their guerdon. 
 Thou anr: I are free from olTeuce.'— 
 
 "Let 's hear," quoth Michael, "what he has ti say ; 
 Tou know we're boimd to that in every way.'' 
 
 XC. 
 Now the bard, glad to get an audience, which 
 
 By no means often was his case below. 
 Began to cough, and hawk, and hem, and pitch 
 
 His voice into that awful note of wo 
 To all unhaiDpy hearers within reach 
 
 Of poets when the tide of rhyme 's in flow ; 
 But stuck fast with his first hexameter. 
 Not one of all whose gouty feet would stir. 
 
 XCI. 
 But ere the spavin'd dactyls could be spurr'd 
 
 Into recitative, in great dismay, 
 Both cherubim and serajihim were heard 
 
 To murmur loudly through their long array ; 
 And Jlichael rose ere he could get a word 
 
 Of all his founder'd verses under way, [best — 
 And cried, " For God's sake, stop, my friend ! 'twere 
 M>n Bi, non hn7>unes — you know the rest 1"" 
 
 XCII. 
 A general bustle spread throughout the throng, 
 
 ■WTiich seem'd to hold all verse in detestation ; 
 The angels had of course enough of song 
 
 Wlien upon service ; and the generation 
 Of ghosts had heard too much in life, not long 
 
 Before, to profit by a new occasion ; [what I' 
 
 The monarch, mute till then, exclaim'd "Wliat! 
 Pi/e' come again ? No more — no more of that !" 
 
 XCIII. 
 The tumult grew ; a universal cough 
 
 Convulsed the skies, as during a debate, 
 When Castlereagh has been up long enough, 
 
 (Before he was first minister of state. 
 
 When that Spirit withdrew, the Monarch around the assembly 
 Looked, but none else came forth," etc. — JOi<l.] 
 ^ [Mr. Southey's residence is on the shore of Derwentwatei 
 near the mountain Skiddaw.] 
 
 2 [ " Mediocribus esse poelis 
 
 Non Di, non homines, non concessere cohimn:c." — Horace.'] 
 
 3 [The king's trick of repeating bis words in this way was b 
 fertile source of ridicule to Peter Pindar, (Dr. Wolcot ;) for ex 
 ample — 
 
 " The conquering monarch, stopping to take breath 
 Amidst the regiments of death, 
 
 Now tum'd to Whitbrcad with complacence round ; 
 And, merry, thus address'd the man of beer ; — 
 ' Whitbread, is 't true ? I hear. 1 hear. 
 
 You're of an ancient family— renown'd — 
 What 7 What ? I'm told that you're a limb 
 Of Pyra, the famous fellow Pym : 
 ^\'hat, Whitbread, is it true what people say? 
 Son of a roundhead are you 5 ba? ? \ix ? ha) ? 
 Thirtieth of January don't you feed ? 
 Yes, yes, you eat calf's head, you eat calf's head !' " ^ 
 * [Henry James Pye, the predecessor of Mr. Southev ID the 
 poet-laureateship, died in 1S13. He was the author of many works, 
 besides his official Odes, among others, "Alfred," an ejuc poem- 
 all of which have been long since defunct. Pye was a ni:m of 
 good family in Berkshire, sat some time in Parliament, and waa 
 eminently respectable in every thing but his poetry.] 
 
510 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 I mean the — tlie slnves hear noio ;) some cried, " Off, 
 As at a farce, till, grown quite desperate, [off !" 
 Tlie bard 8aint Peter prayVl to interpose 
 (Himself an antlior) onh- for liis prose. 
 
 XCIV. 
 
 The varlet was not an ill-favor'd knave ; 
 
 A good deal lik(! a viiltiire in the face. 
 With a hook nose and a liawk's eye, which gave 
 
 A smart and sharper-looking sort of grace 
 To his whole aspect, which, though rather grave, 
 
 Was by no means so ugly a? his case ; 
 But that indeed was hoi>elcss as can be, 
 Quite a jjoetic felony '' dc se." 
 
 XCV. 
 
 Then Michael blew his trump, and still'd the noise. 
 With one still greater, as is yet the mode 
 
 On earth besides ; except some grumbling voice. 
 Which now and then will make a slight inroad 
 
 Upon decorous silence, few will tmce 
 Lift up their lungs when fairly overcrow'd ; 
 
 And now the bard could plead his own bad cause, 
 
 With all the attitudes of self-applause. 
 
 XCVI. 
 
 He said — (I only give the heads) — ^he said. 
 
 He meant no harm in scribbling ; 'twas his way 
 
 Upon all topics ; 'twas, besides, his bread, 
 
 Of which he butter'd both sides ; 'twould delay 
 
 Too long the assembly, (he was pleased to dread,) 
 And take up rather more time than a day. 
 
 To name his works — he would but cite a few — [loo." 
 
 "Wat Tyler"— "Rhymes on Blenheim "—" Water- 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 He had written praises of a regicide ; 
 
 He had written praises of all kings whatever ; 
 He had written for republics far and wide, 
 
 Apd then against them bitterer than ever ; 
 For pantisocracy he once had cried 
 
 Aloud, a scheme less moral than 'twas clever; 
 Then grew a hearty anti-jacobin — 
 Had turn'd his coat — and would have turn'd his skin. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 He had sung against all battles, and again 
 In their high praise and glory ; he had call'd 
 
 Reviewing' "the ungentle er.aft," and then 
 Become as base a critic as e'er crawl'd — 
 
 Fed, paid, and i)amper'd by the very men 
 By whom his muse .and morals had been maul'd : 
 
 He had written much blank verse, and blanker prose, 
 
 And more of both than anvbodv knows. 
 
 ' See "Life of Henry Kirke WTiite." 
 
 XCIX. 
 He had written Wesley's life : — here turning round 
 
 To Satan, " Sir, I'm ready to write yours. 
 In two octavo volumes, nicely bound. 
 
 With notes and preface, all that most allures 
 The pious purchaser ; and there 's no ground 
 
 For fear, for I can choose my own reviewers : 
 So let me have the proper documents 
 That I may add you to my other saints." 
 
 c. 
 Satan bow'd, and was silent. " Well, if you, 
 
 With amiable modesty, decline 
 My offer, what says Michael ? There are few 
 
 'SMiose memoirs could be render'd more divine. 
 Mine is a pen of all work ; not so new 
 
 As it was once, but I would make you shine 
 Like your own trumpet. By the way, my own 
 Has more of brass in it, and is as well blown. 
 
 CI. 
 " But talking about trumpets, here 's my Vision ! 
 
 Now you shall judge, all people ; yes, you shall 
 Judge with my judgment, and by my decision 
 
 Be guided who shall enter heaven or fall. 
 I settle aU these things by intuition, 
 
 Times present, past, to come, heaven, hell, and all. 
 Like king Alfonso. When I thus see double, 
 I save the Deity some worlds of trouble." 
 
 CI I. 
 He ceased, and drew forth an JIS. ; and no 
 
 Persuasion on the part of devils, or saints. 
 Or angels, now could stoj) the torrent ; so 
 
 He read the first three lines of the contents ; 
 But at the fourth, the whole spiritual show 
 
 Had vanish'd, with variety of scents, 
 Ambrosial and sulphureous, as they sprang, 
 Like lightning, ofl'fi-om his "melodious twang." 
 
 cm. 
 
 Those grand heroics acted as a spell ; [ions ; 
 
 The angels stopp'd their ears and j)lied their pin- 
 The devils ran howling, deafen'd, down to hell ; 
 
 The ghosts fled, gibbering, for their own domin- 
 (For 'tis not yet decided where they dwell, [ions — 
 
 And I leave every man to his opinions ;) 
 Michael took refuge in his trump — but, lo ! 
 His teeth were set on edge, he could not blow 1 
 
 CIV. 
 Saint Peter, who has hitherto been known 
 
 For an impetuous saint, upraised his keys. 
 And at the tifth line knock <l the poet down ; 
 
 Who fell like Phaeton, but more at ease, 
 Into his lake, for there he did not drown ; 
 
 A different web being ))y the Destinies 
 Woven for the Laureate's final wreath, whene'er 
 Reform shall liai)pen either here or there. 
 
THE AGE OF BRONZE. 
 
 511 
 
 CT. 
 He first sank to the bottom — like his works, 
 
 But soon rose to the surface — like himself; 
 For all corrupted things are buoy'd like corks, 
 
 By their otto rottenness, light as an elf, 
 Or wisp that flits o'er a morass : he lurks, 
 
 It may be, still, like dull books on a shelf. 
 In his own den, to scrawl some "Life" or "Vision," 
 As Welborn says — " the devil tuin'd precisian." 
 
 CVI. 
 As for the rest, to come to the conclusion 
 
 Of this true dream, the telescope is gone 
 Which kej}t my optics free from all delusion. 
 
 And show'd me what I in my turn have shown ; 
 All I saw farther, in the last confusion, 
 
 "Was, that King George slipp'd into heaven for 
 And when the tumult dwindled to a calm, [one ; 
 I loft him practising the hundredth psalm. 
 
 THE AGE OF BRONZE: 
 
 OR, CARMEN SECULARE ET ANNUS HAUD MIRABILIS. 
 
 " Impar Congressiis Achilli.' 
 
 r. 
 
 The "good old times" — all times when old are 
 
 good — 
 Are gone ; the present might be if they would ; 
 Great things hf.ve been, and are, and greater still 
 Want little of mere mortals but their will : 
 A wider space, a greener field, is given 
 To thvise who play their " tricks before high heaven." 
 I know not if the angels weep, but men 
 Have wept enough — for what ? — to weep again ! 
 
 II. 
 All is exploded — be it good or bad. 
 Reader ! — remember when thou wert a lad. 
 Then Pitt was all ; or, if not all, so much, 
 His very rival almost deem'd him such. 
 We, we have seen the intellectual race 
 Of giants stand, like Titans, face to face — 
 Athos and Ida, with a dashing sea 
 Of eloquence between, which flow'd all free. 
 As the deep billows of the .lEgean roar 
 Betwixt the Hellenic and the Phrygian shore. 
 But where are they — the rivals ! a few feet 
 Of sullen earth divide each winding sheet. 
 How peaceful and how powerful is the grave, 
 Wliich hushes all ! a calm, unstormy wave. 
 Which ovcrsweeps the world. The theme is old 
 Of " dust to dust ■" but half its tale untold : 
 Time tempers not its terrors — still the worm 
 Winds its cold folds, the tomb preserves its form. 
 Varied above, but still alike below ; 
 The urn may shine, the ashes will not glow, 
 Though Cleopatra's mummy cross the sea 
 O'er which from empire she lured Antony ; 
 Though Alexander's urn a show be grown. 
 On shores he wept to conquer, though unknown — 
 
 How vain, how worse than vain, at length appear 
 The madman s wisn, t'ne Macedonian's tear ! 
 He wept for worlds to conquer — half the earth 
 Knows not his name, or but his death, and birth, 
 And desolation ; while his native Greece 
 Hath all of desolation, save its peace. 
 He " v.'cpt for worlds to conquer !" he who ne'er 
 Conceived the globe, he panted not to spare ! 
 Witli even the busy Northern Isle unknown. 
 Which holds his urn, and never knew his throne. 
 
 III. 
 But where is he, the modern, mightier far, 
 Who, born no king, made monarchs draw his car ; 
 The new Sesostris, whose nnharness'd kings. 
 Freed from the bit, believe themselves with -nnngs. 
 And spurn the dust o'er which they crawl'd of late, 
 Chain'd to the chariot of the chieftain's state ? 
 Yes ! where is he, the champion and the child 
 Of all that 's great or little, mse or wild ? [thrones ? 
 Wliose game was empires, and whose stakes were 
 Whose table earth — whose dice were human boives ? 
 Behold the grand result in yon lone isle. 
 And, as thy nature urges, weep or smile. 
 Sigh to behold the eagle's lofty rage 
 Reduced to nibble at his narrow cage ; 
 Smile to survey the quellcr of the nations 
 Now daily squabbling o er disputed rations ; 
 Weep to perceive him mourning, as he dines, 
 O'er curtail'd dishes and o'er stinted wines ; 
 O'er petty quarrels upon petty things. 
 Is this the man who scourged or feasted kings 1 
 Behold the scales in which his fortune hangs, 
 A surgeon's statement, and an earl's harangues I 
 A bust delay'd, a book refused, can shake 
 The sleep of him who kept the world awake. 
 
612 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 I8 this indeed the tamer of the great, 
 
 Now slave of all could tease and imtate — 
 
 The paltry jailer and the prying spy, 
 
 The staring stranger with his note-book nigh ? 
 
 PI iinged in a dungeon, he had still been great ; 
 
 IIow low, how little was this middle state, 
 
 Between a prison and a palace, where 
 
 How few could feel for what he had to bear 1 
 
 Vain his complaint, — my lord presents his bill, 
 
 His food and wine were doled out duly stiU : 
 
 Vain was his sickness, never was a clime 
 
 So free from homicide — to doubt 's a crime ; 
 
 And the stiff surgeon, who maintain'd his cause. 
 
 Hath lost his place, and gaiu'd the world's applause. 
 
 But smile— tliough all the pangs of brain and heart 
 
 Disdain, defy, the tardy aid of art ; 
 
 Though, save the few fond friends and imaged face 
 
 Of that fair boy his sire shall ne'er embrace, 
 
 Kone stand by his low bed — though even the mind 
 
 Be waviring, which long awed and awes mankind ; 
 
 Smile — for tlie fctter'd eagle breaks his chain, 
 
 And higher worlds than this are his again. 
 
 IV. 
 
 How, if that soaring spirit still retain 
 
 A conscious twilight of his blazing reign, 
 
 How must he suiile, on lookiug dowTi, to see. 
 
 The little that he was and sought to be I 
 
 What though his name a wider empire found 
 
 Than his ambition, though with scarce a bound ; 
 
 Though first in glory, deepest in reverse, 
 
 He tasted empire's blessings and its curse ; 
 
 Though kings, rejoicing in their late escape 
 
 From chains, would gladly be t/ieir tyrant's ape ; 
 
 How must he smile, and turn to yon lone grave, 
 
 The proudest sea-mark that o'ertops the wave 1 
 
 Wliat though his jailer, duteous to the last, 
 
 Scarce deem'd the coffin's lead could keep him iiist, 
 
 Refusing one poor line along the lid. 
 
 To date the birth and death of all it hid ; 
 
 Tlmt name shall hallow the ignoble shore, 
 
 A talisman to all save him who l3ore : 
 
 The fleets that sweep before the eastern blast 
 
 Shall hear their sea-boys hail it from the mast ; 
 
 When Victory's Gallic column shall but rise. 
 
 Like Pompey's pillar, in a desert's skies. 
 
 The rocky isle that holds or held his dust 
 
 Shall crown the Atlantic like the hero's bust. 
 
 And mighty nature o'er his obsequies 
 
 Do more than niggard envy still denies. 
 
 But what are these to him ? Can Gloiy's lust 
 
 Touch the freed spirit or the fetter'd dust ? 
 
 Small care hath he of what his ton\b consists ; 
 
 Naught if he sleeps — nor more if ho exis-ta : 
 
 Alike the better-seeing shade wiU smile 
 
 On the rude cavern of the rocky isle, 
 
 As if Ills ashes found their latest home 
 
 In Rome's Pantheon or Gaul's mimic dome. 
 
 He wants not this ; but Trance shall feel the want 
 
 Of this last consolation, though so scant ; 
 
 Her honor, fame, and faith demand his bones 
 
 To rear above a pyramid of thrones ; 
 
 Or carried onward in the battle's van, 
 
 To form, like Guesdin's dust, her talisman. 
 
 But be it as it is — the time may come 
 
 His name shall beat the alarm, like Ziska's drum. 
 
 V. 
 
 Oh, heaven ! of which ho was in power a feature ; 
 
 Oh, earth ! of which ho was a noble creature ; 
 
 Thou isle ! to be remember'd long and well. 
 
 That saw'st the unfledged eaglet chip his shell ! 
 
 Te Alps, which view'd him in his dawning flights 
 
 Hover, the victor of a hundred fights ! 
 
 Thou Rome, who saw'st thy Ca-sar's deeds outdone I 
 
 Alas ! why pass'd he too the Rubicon — 
 
 The Ruliicon of man's awakcn'd rights. 
 
 To herd with vulgar kings and parasites ? 
 
 Egypt ! from whose all dateless tombs arose 
 
 Forgotten Pharaohs from their long repose, 
 
 And shook within their pyramids to hear 
 
 A new Cambyses thundering in their ear ; 
 
 While the dark shades of forty ages stood 
 
 Like startled giants by Nile's famous flood ; 
 
 Or from the pyramid's tall pinnacle 
 
 Beheld the desert peopled, as from hell. 
 
 With clashing hosts, who strew'd the barren sand 
 
 To re-manure the uncultivated land ! 
 
 Spain ! which, a moment mindless of the Cid, 
 
 Beheld his banner flouting thy JIadrid ! 
 
 Austria ! v.hich saw thy twiee-ta'en capital 
 
 Twice spared to be the traitress of his fall ! 
 
 Ye race of Frederic ! — Frederics but in name 
 
 And falsehood — heirs to all except his fame ; 
 
 Who, crush'd at Jena, crouch'd at Berlin, fell 
 
 First, and l)ut rose to follow ! Ye who dwell 
 
 Wlicre Kosciusko dwelt, remembering yet 
 
 The unpaid amount of Catherine's bloody debt I 
 
 Polanil ! o'er which the avenging angel pass'd, 
 
 But left thee as he found thee, still a waste. 
 
 Forgetting all thy still enduring claim. 
 
 Thy lotted people and extinguish'd name. 
 
 Thy sigh for freedom, thy long flowing tear. 
 
 That sound that crashes in the t\Tant"s ear- 
 
 Kosciusko ! On — on — on — the thirst of war 
 
 Gasps for the gore of serfs and of their czar. 
 
 The half barbaric JIoscow's minarets 
 
 Gleam in the sun, but 'tis a sun that sets I 
 
 Moscow ! thou limit of his long career. 
 
 For which rude Charles had wept his frozen tear 
 
 To see in vain — /i<: saw thee — how ? with spire 
 
 And palace fuel to one common fire. 
 
 To this the soldier lent his kindling match. 
 
 To this the i)easant gave his eottairc tliateh. 
 
THE AGE OF B R O X Z E. 
 
 513 
 
 To this the mercliant flung liis hoarded store, 
 
 The prince his hall — and JIdscow was no more ! 
 
 Subh"mest of volcanoes ! Etna's flame 
 
 Pales before thine, and quenchless Hecla 's tame ■ 
 
 Vesuvius shows his blaze, a usual sight 
 
 For gaj)iiig tourists, from his hackney'd height ; 
 
 Thou stand'st alone unrivaird, till the fire 
 
 To come, in which all empires shall expire. 
 
 Thou other element ! as strong and stem, 
 To teach a lesson conquerors will not learn ! — 
 Whose icy wing flajjp'd o'er the faltering foe. 
 Till fell a hero with each flake of snow ; 
 How did thy numbing beak and silent fang 
 Pierce, till hosts perish'd with a single pang. 
 In vain shall Seine look up along his banks 
 For the gay thousands of his dashing ranks ! 
 In vain shall France recall beneath her vines 
 Her youth — their blood flows faster than her wines ; 
 Or stagnant in their human ice remains 
 In frozen mummies on the Polar plains. 
 In vain will Italy's broad sun awaken 
 Her offspring chill'd ; its beams are now forsaken. 
 Of all the trophies gather'd from the war. 
 What shall return ? — the conqueror's broken car ! 
 The conqueror's yet unbroken heart ! Again 
 The horn of Roland sounds, and not in vain. 
 Lutzen, where fell the Swede of victory,' 
 Beholds him conquer, but, alas ! not die : 
 Dresden sur\-eys three despots fly once more 
 Before their sovereign — sovereign as before ; 
 But there exhausted Fortune quits the field. 
 And Leipsic's treason bids the unvanquish'd yield ; 
 The Saxon jackal leaves the lion side 
 To turn the bear's, and wolf's, and fox's guide ; 
 And backward to the den of his despair 
 The forest monarch shrinks, but finds no lair 1 
 
 Oh, ye ! and each, and all '. Oh, France ! who found 
 Thy long fair fields, plough'd up as hostile ground, 
 Disputed foot by foot, till treason, stiU 
 His only victor, from Montmartre's hiU 
 Look'd down o'er trampled Paris ! and thou Isle,' 
 Which see'st Etruria from thy ramparts smile. 
 Thou momentary shelter of his pride, 
 Till woo'd liy danger, his yet weeping bride ! 
 Oh, France ! retaken by a single march, 
 Whose path was through one long triumphal arch ! 
 Oh, bloody and most bootless Waterloo ! 
 Which proves how fools may have their fortune too, 
 Won half by blunder, half by treachery : 
 Oh, dull Saint Helen ! with thy jailer nigh — 
 
 ' [Gnstavns Adolphiis fell at the great battle of Lntzen, in No- 
 Tember. 1632.] 
 
 ^ [The Isle nf Elba. 1 
 
 * I ref(;r the reader 1o the fip^t address of Prometheus in ^«chy- 
 lue, when he is left alone by his aiteiulauts, and before the arrival 
 of the Choms of Sea-nymplis. 
 6.T 
 
 Hear ! hear Prometheus' from his rock appeal 
 
 To earth, air, ocean, aU that felt or feel 
 
 His power and glory, all who yet shall hear 
 
 A name eternal as the rolling year ; 
 
 He teaches them the lesson taught so long, 
 
 So oft, so vainly — learn to do no wrong ! 
 
 A single step into the right had made 
 
 This man the Washington of worlds betray'd . 
 
 A single step into the wrong has given 
 
 His name a doubt to aU the ^-inds of heaven ; 
 
 The reed of Fortune, and of thrones the rod, 
 
 Of Fame the Moloch or the demigod ; 
 
 His country's Cresar, Europe's Hannibal, 
 
 Without their decent dignity of fall. 
 
 Tet Vanity herself had better taught 
 
 A surer path even to the fame he sought. 
 
 By pointing out on history's fruitless page 
 
 Ten thousand conquerors for a single sage. 
 
 While Franklin's quiet memory climbs to heaven, 
 
 Calming the lightning which he thence hath riven. 
 
 Or drawing from the no less kindled earth 
 
 Freedom and peace to that which boasts his birth ; 
 
 Wliile Washington's a watchword, such as ne'er 
 
 Shall sink while there 's an echo left to air : 
 
 Wliile even the Spaniard's thirst of gold and war 
 
 Forgets Pizarro to shout Bolivar ! 
 
 Alas ! why must the same Atlantic wave 
 
 Which wafted freedom gird a tyrant's grave — 
 
 The king of kings, and yc t of slaves the slave, 
 
 Who bursts the chains of millions to renew 
 
 The very fetters which his arm broke through, 
 
 And crush'd the rights of Europe and his own. 
 
 To flit between a dimgeon and a throne ? 
 
 VI. 
 
 But 'twill not be — the spark 's awakcn'd — lo ! 
 
 The swarthy Spaniard feels his former glow ; 
 
 The same high spirit which beat back the Moor 
 
 Througli eight long ages of alternate gore 
 
 Re^dves — and where ? in that avenging clime 
 
 Wliere Spain was once synonymous with crime, 
 
 Wliere Cortes' and Pizarro's banner flew. 
 
 The infant world redeems her name of " New." 
 
 'Tis the oJif aspiration breathed afresh. 
 
 To kindle souls ivithin degraded flesh. 
 
 Such as repulsed the Persian from the shore fmore. 
 
 'VNliere Greece icas — No ! she still is Greece once 
 
 One common cause makes myriads of one breast. 
 
 Slaves of the east, or helots of the west ; 
 
 On Andes' and on Athos' peaks unfurl'd, 
 
 The self-same standard streams o'er either world : 
 
 The Athenian wears again Harmodius' sword :* 
 
 - [The famous hymn, ascribed to Callistrattis : — 
 " Covered with myrtJe-wreaths. Til wear my sword 
 Like brave ILirmodiiis, and his patriot friend, 
 Aristotreiton, who the laws restored. 
 The tyrant slew, and bade op' veseion end," etc] 
 
;i4 
 
 BTROX 'S WORKS. 
 
 Tlie Chili eliief abjures his foreign lord ; 
 
 The Sp;irt;in knows himself once more a Greek, 
 
 Young Freedom plumes the crest of each cacique ; 
 
 Debating despots, hemm'd on either shore, 
 
 .Shrink vainly from the roused Atlantic's roar ; 
 
 Through Calpe's strait the rolling tides advance, 
 
 Sweep slightly l\v the haU-tained land of France, 
 
 Dash o'er the old Spaniard's cradle, and would fain 
 
 Unite Ausouia to the mighty main : 
 
 But driven from thence awhile, yet not for aye, 
 
 Break o'er th' ^gean, mindful of the day 
 
 Of Salamis ! — there, there the waves arise, 
 
 Not to be lull'd by tyi-ant victories. 
 
 Lone, lost, abandon'd in their utmost need 
 
 By Christians, unto whom tliey gave their creed, 
 
 The desolated lands, the rav.iged isle, 
 
 The foster'd feud encouraged to beguile, 
 
 The aid evaded, and the cold delay, 
 
 Prolong'd but in the hope to make a prey ;' — 
 
 These, these shall tell the tale, and Greece can show 
 
 The false friend worse than the infuriate foe. 
 
 But tills is well ; Greeks only should free Greece, 
 
 Not the barbarian, with his mask of peace. 
 
 How should the autocrat of Ijondage be 
 
 The king of serfs, and set the nations free ? 
 
 Better still serve the haughty Mussulman, 
 
 Than swell the Cossaque's prowling caravan ; 
 
 Better still toil for masters, than await, 
 
 The slave of slaves, before a Russian gate, — 
 
 Number'd Ijy hordes, a human capital, 
 
 A live estate, existing but for thrall, 
 
 Lotted by thousands, as a meet reward 
 
 For the first courtier in the Czar's regard ; 
 
 Wliile their immediate owner never tastes 
 
 His sleep, sans dreaming of Siberia's wastes ; 
 
 Better succuml) even to their own despair. 
 
 And drive the camel than purvey the bear. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But not alone within the hoariest cUme 
 
 Where Freedom dates her birth with that of 
 
 Time, 
 And not alone where, plunged in night, a crowd 
 Of Incas darken to a dubious cloud. 
 The dawn revives : renown'd, romantic Spain 
 Holds back the invader from her soil again. 
 Not now the Roman tribe nor Punic horde 
 Demand her fields as lists to prove the sword ; 
 Not now the Vandal or the Visigoth 
 Pollute the plains, alike alihorring both ; 
 Nor old I'elayo on his mountain rears 
 The warlike fathers of a thousand years. 
 That seed is sown and rejip'd, as oft the Moor 
 
 ' [For the first authentic account of tlie IJusf^ian intrigues in 
 «)rccce, in the year alluded to, eee " Gordon's History of the Greek 
 Revolution, (18:t-y vol. i.] 
 
 laej 
 
 theii 
 
 Siglis to remember on his dusky shore. 
 Long in the peasant's song or poet's page 
 Has dwelt the memory of Abencerrage ; 
 The Zegri, and the captive victors, tiung 
 Back to the barbarous realm from whence 
 
 sprung. 
 But these are gone — their faitli, their swords. 
 
 sway. 
 Yet left more anti-Christian foes than tbey : 
 The bigot monarch and the butcher piiest, 
 The Inquisition, with Iter burning feast, 
 The faith's red " auto," fed with human fuel, 
 While sate the Catholic Moloch, calmly cruel, 
 Enjoying, with inexorable eye. 
 That fiery festival of agony ! 
 The stem or feel)le sovereign, one or both 
 By turns ; the haughtiness whose pride was sloth : 
 The long degenerate noble ; the debased 
 Hidalgo, and the peasant less disgraced, 
 But more degraded ; the unpeopled realm ; 
 The once proud navy which forgot the helm ; 
 The once impervious phalanx disarray'd ; 
 The idle forge that form'd Toledo's Ijlade ; 
 The foreign wealth that flow'd on ev'ry shore, 
 Save hers who eam'd it with the natives' gore ; 
 The very language which might vie with Rome's, 
 And once was known to nations like their homes, 
 Neglected or forgotten : — such was Spain ; 
 But such she is not, nor shall be again. 
 These worst, these home invaders, felt and feel 
 The now Numantine soul of old Castile. 
 Up ! up again ! undaunted Tauridor 1 
 The bull of Phalaris renews his roar ; 
 Mount, chivalrous Hidalgo ! not in vain 
 Revive the cry — " Ltgo ! and close Spain I'" 
 Yes, close her with your armed bosoms round. 
 And form the barrier which Napoleon found, — 
 The exterminating war, the desert plain. 
 The streets without a tenant, save the slain ; 
 The wild sierra, with its wilder troop 
 Of vulture-plumed guerrillas, on the stoop 
 For their incessant prey ; the desperate wall 
 Of Saragossa, mightiest in her fall ; 
 The man nerved to a spirit, and the maid 
 Waving lier more than Amazonian blade ; 
 The knife of .Vragon,' Toledo's steel ; 
 The famous lance of chivalrous Castile ; 
 The unerring rifle of the Catalan ; 
 The Andalusian courser in the van ; 
 The torch to make a Moscow of Madrid ; 
 And in each heart the spirit of the Cid : — 
 Such have been, such shall be, such are. Advance, 
 And win — not Spain, but thine own freedom, France 
 
 ' [" Santiago y serra Espafia I" the old Spanish war-cry.] 
 ' The Aragonians are peculiarly dexterous in Ihe use of liv. 
 weapon, and displayed it particularly in former French wars. 
 
THE AGE OF BRONZE. 
 
 513 
 
 VIII 
 But, lo ! a Congress ! ' "Wliat ! that hallo-n "d name 
 Wliich freed tl'f Atlantic ? May we hope the same 
 For outworn Europe ? With the sound arise, 
 Like Samuel's shade to Saul's monarchic eves, 
 The propliets of young Freedom, summon'd far 
 From climes of Washington and Bolivar ; 
 Henry, the forest-born Demostlienes, 
 Whose thunder shook the Philip of the seas ;' 
 And stoic Franklin's energetic shade, 
 Robed in the lightnings which his hand allay'd ; 
 And Washington, the tyrant-tamer, wake, 
 To bid us blusli for these old chains, or break. 
 But tr^io compose this senate of the few 
 That should redeem the many ? Who renew 
 This consecrated name, till now assign'd 
 To councils held to benefit mankind ? 
 Who now assemble at the holy call ? 
 The blest Alliance, which says three are all ! 
 An earthly trinity ! which wears the shape 
 Of heaven's, as man is mimick'd by the ape. 
 A pious unity ! in purpose one — 
 To melt three fools to a Napoleon. 
 Why, Egypt's gods were rational to these ; 
 Their dogs and oxen knew their own degrees, 
 And, quiet in their kennel or their shed, 
 Cared little, so that they were duly fed ; 
 But these, more hungry, must have something more, 
 The power to bark and bite, to toss and gore. 
 Ah ! how much happier were good ^sop's frogs 
 Than we ! for ours are animated logs. 
 With ponderous malice swaying to and fro, 
 And crushing nations with a stupid blow ; 
 All duly anxious to leave little work 
 Unto the revolutionary stork. 
 
 IX. 
 Thrice blest Verona ! since the holy three 
 With their imperial presence shine on thee ; 
 Honor'd by them, thy treacherous site forgets 
 The vaunted tomb of " all the Capulets ;" 
 Thy Scaligers — for what was " Dog the Great," 
 " Can Grande," (which I venture to translate,) 
 To these sublimer pugs ? Thy poet too, 
 Catullus, whose old laurels yield to new ; 
 Thine amphitheatre, where Romans sate ; 
 And Dante's exile shclter'd by thy gate ; 
 Thy good old man, whose world was aU within 
 Thy wall, nor knew the coimtry held him in : 
 Would that the royal guests it girds about 
 Were so far like, as never to get out ! 
 Ay, shout '. inscribe ! rear monuments of shame, 
 To tell Oppression that the world is tame I 
 
 * [The Confess of the Sovereigns of Rnssia. Austria, Prnssia, 
 etc., etc.. which assembled at Verona, in the autnmn of 18*22.] 
 
 - [Patrick Henry, of Virginia, a leading member of the Ameri- 
 can Con'.TCSs. died in Jane, ITJVT. Lord BjTon alludes to Ms fa- 
 mous speech in ITG't. in -rhich, on saying. "CiEsar had hip Brutna 
 
 Crowd to the theatre with loyal rage. 
 
 The comedy is not upon the stage ; 
 
 The show is rich in ribandry and stars. 
 
 Then gaze upon it throvigh thy dungeon bars ; 
 
 Clap thy permitted palms, kind Italy, 
 
 For thus much still thy fetter'd hands are free ! 
 
 X. 
 
 Resplendent sight I Behold the coxcomb Czar, 
 
 The autocrat of waltzes and of war ! 
 
 As eager for a plaudit as a realm. 
 
 And just as fit for flirting as the helm ; 
 
 A Calmuck beauty with a Cossack wit. 
 
 And generous spirit, when 'tis not frost-bit ; 
 
 Now half dissolving to a liberal thaw, 
 
 But harden'd back whene'er the morning 's raw ; 
 
 With no objection to true liberty. 
 
 Except that it would make the nations free. 
 
 How well the imperial dandy prates of peace ! 
 
 How fain, if Greeks would be his slaves, fi-ee Greece 
 
 How nobly gave he back the Poles their Diet, 
 
 Then told pugnacious Poland to be quiet ! 
 
 How kindly would he send the mild Ukraine, 
 
 With all her pleasant pulks, to lecture Spain ! 
 
 How royally show off in proud Madrid 
 
 His goodly person, from the South long hid ; 
 
 A blessing cheaply purchased, the world knows. 
 
 By having Muscovites for fiiends or foes. 
 
 Proceed, thou namesake of great Philip's son ! 
 
 La Harpe, thine Aristotle, beckons on ; 
 
 And that which Scvthia was to him of yore 
 
 Find with thy Scythians on Iberia's shore. 
 
 Yet think upon, thou somewhat aged youth. 
 
 Thy predecessor on the banks of Pruth ; 
 
 Thou hast to aid thee, should his lot be thine, 
 
 Many an old woman, but no Catherine. 
 
 Spain, too, hath rocks, and rivers, and defiles — 
 
 The bear may rush into the lion's toils. 
 
 Fatal to Goths are Xeres' sunny fields ; 
 
 Think'st thou to thee Napoleon's victor yields ? 
 
 Better reclaim thy deserts, turn thy swords 
 
 To ploughshares, shave and wash thy Bashkir hordes 
 
 Redeem thy realms from slavery and the knout. 
 
 Than follow headlong in the fatal route, 
 
 To infest the clime whose skies and laws are pm-e 
 
 With thy foul legions. Spain wants no manure : 
 
 Her soil is fertile, but she feeds no foe ; 
 
 Her vultures, too, were gorged not long ago ; 
 
 And wouldst thou furnish them with fresher prey ? 
 
 Alas ! thou wilt not conquer, but purvey. 
 
 I am Diogenes, though Russ and Hun 
 
 Stand between mine and many a myriad's sun ; 
 
 —Charles the First had his Cromwell— and Geoi^c the Third " 
 
 Henrj- was interrupted with a shout of "Treason ! treason 1 1"— 
 but coolly finished the Hmtence with -" Geoi-ge the Tk'rd may 
 projit by their exarnpU.'^l 
 
516 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 But were I not Diogenes, I'd wander 
 RatluT a worm tlian mch an Alexander ! 
 Be slaves who will, the cynic shall be free ; 
 His tub hath toucher walls than Sinope : 
 StiU will he hold his lantern up to scan 
 The face of monarclis for an " honest man." 
 
 XI. 
 And what doth Gaul, the all-prolific land 
 Of ne plus ultra ultras and their band 
 Of mercenaries ? and her noisy chambers 
 And tribune, which each orator first clambers 
 Before he finds a voice, and when 'tis found. 
 Hears "the lie" echo for his answer round ? 
 Our British Commons sometimes deign to "hear !" 
 A Gallic senate hath more tongue than ear ; 
 Even Constant, their sole master of debate, 
 Must fight next day his speech to vindicate. 
 But this costs little to true Franks, who had rather 
 Comliat than listen, were it to their father. 
 What is the simple standing of a shot, 
 To listening long, and interrupting not ? 
 Though this was not tlie method of old Rome, 
 When TuUy fulmined o'er each vocal dome, 
 Demosthenes has sanction'd the transaction, 
 In saying eloquence meant " Action, action !" 
 
 XII 
 But where 's the monarch ? hath he dined ? or yet 
 Groans beneath indigestion's heavy debt ? 
 Have revolutionary patrs risen. 
 And turn'd the royal entrails to a prison 2 
 Have discontented movements stirr'd the troops ? 
 Or have no movements follow'd traitorous soups ? 
 Have Carbonaro cooks not carbonadoed 
 Each course enough ? or doctors dire dissuaded 
 Repletion ? Ah ! in thy dejected looks 
 I read all France's treason in lier cooks ! 
 Good classic Louis ! is it, canst thou say, 
 Desirabli! to be the Desire'' ? 
 Why wouldst thou leave calm Hartwell's green 
 
 abode,' 
 Apician table, and Horatian ode, 
 To r\ile a people who will not be ruled. 
 And love much rather to be scoitrgcd than school'd? 
 Ah ! thine was not the temper or the taste 
 For thrones ; thee table sees the better placed ; 
 A mild Ei)icurean, form'd, at best, 
 To be a kind host and as good a guest, 
 To talk of letters, and to know by heart 
 One half the poet's, all the gourmand's art ; 
 A scholar always, now and then a wit. 
 And gentle when digestion may permit ; — 
 But not to govern lands enslaved or free ; 
 The g'^ut was martyrdom enough for thee. 
 
 XIII. 
 Shall noble Albion pass without a phrase 
 Prom a bold Briton in her wonted praise ? [isles — 
 "Arts — arms — and George — and glory — and the 
 And happy Britain— wealth — and Freedom's smiles, 
 White cliffs, that held invasion far aloof — 
 Contented subjects, all alike tax-proof — 
 Proud Wellington, with eagle beak so curl'd. 
 That nose, the hook where he suspends the world \'' 
 
 And Waterloo — and trade — and (liush ! not yet 
 
 A syllable of imposts or of debt) 
 
 And ne'er (enough) lamented Castlereagh, 
 Whose penknife slit a goose-quill t' other day — 
 And ' pilots who have weatlicr"d every storm " — 
 (But, no, not even for rhyme's sake, name Reform.") 
 These are the themes thus sung so oft liefore, 
 Methiuks we need not sing them any more ; 
 Found in so many volumes far and near, 
 There 's no occasion you sliould find them here. 
 Yet something may remain perchance to chime 
 With reason, and, what "s stranger still, with rliynKs, 
 Even this thy genius, Canning ! may pennit, 
 Who, Ijred a statesman, still was born a wit, 
 And never, even in that dull House, eouldst tame 
 To unleaven'd prose thine own poetic flame ; 
 Our last, our best, our only orator, 
 Even I can praise thee — Tories do no more : 
 Nay, not so much ; — they hate thee, man, because 
 Thy spirit less upholds them than it awes. 
 The hounds -nill gather to their huntsman's hallo, 
 And where he leads the duteous pack will follow ; 
 But not for love mistake their yelling cry ; 
 Their yelp for game is not a eulogy ; 
 Less faithful far than the four-footed pack, 
 A duliious scent would lure the bipeds back. 
 Thy saddle-girths are not yet qviite secure, 
 Nor royal stallion's feet extremely sure ; 
 The unwieldly old white horse is ajrt at last 
 To stumble, kick, and now and then stick fast 
 With his great self and rider in the mud; 
 But what of that ? the animal shows blood. 
 
 XIV. 
 Alas, the country ! how shall tongue or pen 
 Bewail her now »/?;country gentlemen ? 
 The last to bid the cry of warfare cease, 
 The first to make a m.alady of peace. 
 For what were all these country patriots bom t 
 To hunt, .and vote, and raise the price of com? 
 But corn, like every mortal thing, nnist fall. 
 Kings, conquerors, and markets most of all. 
 And must ye fall with every ear of grain ? 
 Why would you trouble Bonaparte's reign ? 
 
 ' [Hartwell, In Biickinghamsblre— the residence of Louis XVHI., 
 Suring the lalter years of the Eniignition.! 
 
 3 '' Naao piispendit adunco."— iJorflce. 
 
 The Homan applies it to one who merely was imperious to his ao 
 qualntance. 
 
 ' ["The Pilot that wcathcr'd the storm," Is the huidcn of a 
 song, is honor of I'itI, by Mr. i anning.] 
 
THE AGE OF BROXZE. 
 
 51V 
 
 He "was j-our great Triptolemus ; liis vices 
 Destroy'd but realms, and still maintain'd your 
 He amplified to every lord's content [prices, 
 
 The grand agrarian alchymy, high rent. 
 Why did the tyrant stumble on the Tartars, 
 And lower wheat to such desponding quarters ? 
 Why did you chain liim 0:1 yon isle so lone 2 
 The man was worth much more ujjon his throne. 
 True, blood and treasure boundlessly were spilt. 
 But what of that ? tlie Gaul may bear the guilt ; 
 But bread was high, the farmer paid his way, 
 And acres told upon the appointed day. 
 But where is now the goodly audit ale ? 
 The purse-proud tenant, never known to fail ? 
 The farm which never yet was left on hand ? 
 The marsh reclaim'd to most improving land ? 
 The imjjatient hope of the expiring lease ? 
 The doubling rental ? What an evil 's peace ! 
 In vain the prize excites the ploughman's skill, 
 In vain the Commons pass their patriot bill ; 
 The hinded interest — (you may understand 
 The phrase much better leaving out the land) 
 The land self-interest groans from shore to shore, 
 For fear that jjlenty should attain the poor. 
 Up, up again, ye rents ! exalt your notes, 
 Or else the ministry will lose their votes, 
 And patriotism, so delicately nice, 
 Her loaves will lower to the market price ; 
 For ah ! " the loaves and fishes," once so high, 
 Are gone — their oveu closed, their ocean dry, 
 And naught remains of all the millions spent. 
 Excepting to grow moderate and content. 
 They who are not so, hud their turn — and turn 
 About still flows from Fortune's equal urn ; 
 Now let their virtue lie its own reward. 
 And share the blessings which themselves prepared. 
 See these inglorious Cinciunati swarm, 
 Farmers of war, dictators of the fiirm ; 
 Their ploughshare was the sword in hireling hands. 
 Their fields manured by gore of other lauds ; 
 Safe in their bams, these Sabine tillers sent 
 Their brethren out to battle — why ? for rent ! 
 Year after year they voted cent, per cent., [rent 1 
 Blood, sweat, and tear-wrung millions — why ? for 
 They roar'd, they dined, they drank, they swore they 
 
 meant 
 To die for England — why then live ? — for rent I 
 The peace has made one general malecontent 
 Of these high-market patriots ; war was rent ! 
 Their love of country, millions all misspent, 
 How reconcile ? by reconciling rent ! 
 And will they not repay the treasures lent ? 
 No : down with every thing, and up with rent ! 
 Their good, ill, health, wealth, joy, or discontent, 
 Being, end, aim, religion — rent, rent, rent ! 
 Thou sold" ?t thy birthright, Esau ! for a mess ; 
 Tl:)u shou dst have gotten more, or eaten less ; 
 
 Now thou hast swill'd thy pottage, thy demands 
 Are idle ; Israel says the bargain stands. 
 Such, landlords ! was your appetite for war, 
 And, gorged with blood, you grumble at a scar ! 
 What ! would they spread their earthquake even 
 
 o'er cash ? 
 And when land crumbles, bid firm paper crash ? 
 So rent may rise, bid bank and nation fall. 
 And found on 'Change a Fuiidling Hospital ? 
 Lo ! Mother Church, while all religion writhes, 
 Like Niobe, weeps o'er her ofispring. Tithes ; 
 The prelates go to — where the saints have gone, 
 And jjroud pluralities subside to one ; 
 Church, state, and faction wrestle in the dark, 
 Toss'd by the deluge in their common ark. 
 Shorn of her bishojis, banks, and dividends. 
 Another Babel soars — but Britain ends 
 And why ? to jiamjoer the self-seeking wants, 
 And prop the hill of these agrarian ants. 
 " 60 to these ants, thou sluggard, and be wise ;" 
 Admire their patience through each sacrifice. 
 Till taught to feel the lesson of their pride. 
 The jirice of taxes and of homicide ; 
 Admire their justice, which would fain deny 
 The debt of nations : — pray who made it high f 
 
 XV. 
 Or turn to sail between those shifting rocks. 
 The new Symplcgades — the crushing Stocks, 
 Where Midas might again his wish behold 
 In real paper or imagined gold. 
 That magic palace of Alcina shows 
 More wealth than Britain ever had to lose. 
 Were all her atoms of unleaven'd ore, 
 And all her pebbles from Pactolus' shore. 
 There Fortune plays, while Rumor holds the stako 
 And the world trcmliles to bid brokers break. 
 How rich is Britain ! not indeed in mines. 
 Or peace or plenty, corn or oils, or wines ; 
 No land of Canaan, full of milk and honey. 
 Nor (save in paper shekels) ready money : 
 But let us not to own the truth refuse, 
 Was ever Christian land so rich in Jews ? 
 Those parted with their teeth to good King John, 
 And now, ye kings ! they kindly draw your own ; 
 All states, all things, all sovereigns they control. 
 And waft a loan " from Indus to the pole." 
 The banker — broker — baron — brethren, speed 
 To aid these bankrupt tyrants in their need. 
 Nor these alone ; Columbia feels no less 
 Fresh speculations follow each success ; 
 And philanthropic Israel deigns to drain 
 Her mild per-ccntage from exhausted Spain. 
 Not without Al)raliam's seed can Russia march ; 
 'Tis gold, not steel, that rears the conqueror's arcl: 
 Two Jews, a chosen people, can command 
 In every realm their scripture-promised land : — 
 
518 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Two Jews keep down the Romans, and uphold 
 The accursed Hun, more brutal than of old : 
 Two Jews — but not Samaritans — direct 
 The world, with all the spirit of their sect. 
 What is the happiness of earth to them ? 
 A congress forms their '" New Jerusalem," 
 Where baronies and orders both invite — 
 Oh, holy Abraham ! dost thou see the sight ? 
 Thy followers mingling with these royal swine, 
 Who spit not " on their Jewish gaberdine," 
 But honor them as portion of the show — 
 (Where now, oh, pi)i)e ! is thy forsaken toe ? 
 Could it not favor Judah with some kicks 2 
 Or has it ceased to " kick against the pricks ?") 
 On IShylock's shore behold them stand afresh, 
 To cut from nations' hearts their "pound of flesh." 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Strange sight this Congress ! destined to unite 
 
 All that '3 incongruous, all that 's opposite. 
 
 I sijcak not of the Sovereigns — they're alike, 
 
 A common coin as ever mint could strike : 
 
 But those who sway the puppets, pull the strings, 
 
 Have more of motley than their heavy kings. 
 
 Jews, authors, generals, charlatans, combine. 
 
 While Europe wonders at the vast design : 
 
 There Metternich, power's foremost parasite. 
 
 Cajoles ; there Wellington forgets to tight ; 
 
 There Chateaubriand forms new books of martyrs ; 
 
 And subtle CTreeks- intrigue for stupid Tartars ; 
 
 There Montmorenci, the sworn foe to charters,' 
 
 Tunis a diplomatist of great eclat, 
 
 To furnish articles for the " Debats ;" 
 
 Of war so certain — yet not quite so sure 
 
 As his dismissal in the "Moniteur." 
 
 Alas ! how could his cabinet thus err ? 
 
 Can peace be worth an ultra-minister ? 
 
 He falls indeed, perhaps to rise again, 
 
 " Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain.'" 
 
 XVII. 
 Enough of this — -a sight more mournful woos 
 The averted eye of the reluctant muse. 
 The imperial daughter, the imperial bride, 
 The imperial victim — sacrifice to pride ; 
 The mother of the hero's hope, the boy, 
 The young Astyauax of modern Troy ;' 
 
 ' Monsieur Cliateanbriand, who has not forgotten the author in 
 the minislei', received a handsome compliment at Verona from a 
 .iterary sovereiy:n : " .\h ! Monsieur C. arc you related to that 
 Chateaubriand who— wlio— who has written somdhlng ?" (ccrit 
 qndq'u^ chose .') It is said that the autlior of Atida repented him 
 for a moment of his lefjitimacy. 
 
 " [Count Capo d'lslrias— afterwards President of Greece. The 
 tount was murdered in September, 1831, by the brother and son 
 of a Mainote chief whom he had imprisoned.] 
 
 > [The Duke de Montmorenci-Laval.] 
 
 * [From Pope's verses on Lord Peteri)orough.]— 
 " And he, whose li^blning pierced llie Iberian lines, 
 Now forma my quincunx, and now raulvs my vines, 
 
 The stiU pale shadow of the loftiest queen 
 
 That earth has yet to see, or e'er hath seen ; 
 
 She flits amidst the phantoms of the hour, 
 
 The theme of pity, and the wreck of power. 
 
 Oh, cruel mockery ! C'^uld not Austria spare 
 
 A daughter ? What did France's widow there I 
 
 Her fitter i)lace was by St. Helen's wave, 
 
 Her only throne is in Napoleon's grave. 
 
 But, no, — she still must hold a petty reign, 
 
 Flank'd by her formidable chamberlain ; 
 
 The martial Argus, whose not hundred eyes 
 
 Must watc^h her through these paltry pageantries ;• 
 
 What though she share no more, and shared in vain, 
 
 A sway surpassing that of Charlemagne, 
 
 Which swept from Moscow to the southern seas ; 
 
 Yet still she rules the pastoral realm of cheese, 
 
 Where Parma views the traveller resort. 
 
 To noje the trappings of her mimic court. 
 
 But she appears ! Verona sees her shorn 
 
 Of all her beams — while nations gaze and mourn — 
 
 Ere yet her husl)and's ashes have had time 
 
 To cliill in their inhospitable clime ; 
 
 (If e'er those awful ashes can grow cold ; — 
 
 But, no, — their embers soon will burst the mould ;) 
 
 She comes ! — the Andromache, (but not Racine's, 
 
 Nor Homer's,) — Lo ! on Pyrrhus' arm she leans ! 
 
 Yes ! the right arm, yet red from Waterloo, 
 
 Which cut her lord's half-shatter"d sceptre through, 
 
 Is ofi'er'd and accepted ! Could a slave 
 
 Do more ? or less ? — and he in his new grave ! 
 
 Her eye, her cheek, betray no inward strife. 
 
 And the ej'-empress grows as ex a wife ! 
 
 So much for human ties in royal breasts ! 
 
 Whysjjare men's feelings, when their own are jests 1 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 But, tired of foreign follies, I turn home. 
 
 And sketch the group— the picture 's yet to come. 
 
 My muse 'gan weep, but, ere a tear was spilt. 
 
 She caught Sir William Curtis in a kilt 1 
 
 While throug'd the chiefs of every Highland clan 
 
 To hail their brother, Vich Ian Alderman 1 
 
 Guidhall grows Gael, and echoes with Erse roar, 
 
 While all the Common Council cry " Claymore I" 
 
 To see jiroud Albyn's tartans as a belt 
 
 Gird the gross sirloin of a city Celt,' 
 
 Or tames tlie genius of the stubborn plain, 
 Almost as quickly as he conquered Spain."] 
 
 " Napoleon Fran?ois Charles .Joseph, Duke of Beichstadt, died 
 at the palace of SchOnbrunn, .Tuly Si, 183-i, having just attained 
 his twenty-flrst year.] 
 
 ' [Count Neippers. chamberlain and second husband to Maria- 
 Louisa, had but one eye. The count died in 1831.] 
 
 » [George tlie Fourth is said to have lieen somewhat annojed, 
 on entering tile levee-rotmi at Ilolyrood (.August, ISSS.) in flUI 
 Stuart tarlan, to see only one ligure similarly atlircd (and of similar 
 bulk)— that of Sir William Cnrtis. The cily luiight bad every 
 tblng complete-even the knife stuck in the garter. He aakcd tb« 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES. 
 
 519 
 
 She burst into a laughter so extreme, 
 That I awoke — and lo 1 it was no dream ! 
 
 King, if he did not tliink him well dressed. " Yes I" replied his 
 Majesty, "only you have no spoon inyourAese." The devourer 
 
 Here, reader, will we jjause : — if there 's no harm in 
 This first — you'll have, perhaps, a second " Carmen." 
 
 of turtle had a fine engraving executed of himself in his Celtic 
 attire.] 
 
 OCCASIONAL PIECES. 1807-1824. 
 
 THE ADIEU. 
 
 WRITTEN UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT THE 
 AUTHOR WOULD SOON DIE. 
 
 Adieu, thou Hill ! ' where early joy 
 
 Spread roses o'er my brow ; 
 Where Science seeks each loitering boy 
 
 With knowledge to endow. 
 Adieu, my youthful friends or foes, 
 Partners of former bliss or woes ; 
 
 No more tlirough Ida's paths we stray ; 
 Soon must I share the gloomy cell. 
 Whose ever-slumbering inmates dwell 
 
 Unconscious of the day. 
 
 Adieu, ye hoary Regal Fanes, 
 
 Ye spires of Granta's vale, 
 Where Learning robed in sable reigns, 
 
 And Melancholy pale. 
 Te comrades of the jovial hour, 
 Ye tenants of the classic bower. 
 
 On Cama's verdant margin placed, 
 Adieu ! while memory still is mine. 
 For, offerings on Oblivion's shrine. 
 
 These scenes must be effaced. 
 
 Adieu, ye mountains of the clime 
 
 Wliere grew my youthful years ; 
 Where Lnch na Garr in snows sublime 
 
 His giant summit rears. 
 Why did my childhood wander forth 
 From you, ye regions of the North, 
 
 With sons of pride to roam ? 
 Why did I quit my Higliland cave, 
 Marr's dusky heath, and Dee's clear wave, 
 
 To seek a Sotheron home ? 
 
 Hall of my Sires 1 a long farewell — 
 
 Yet why to thee adicni ? 
 Thy vaults will echo back my knell. 
 
 Thy towers my torn!) will \'iew : 
 The faltering tongue which sung thy fall, 
 The former glories of thy Hall, 
 
 Forgets its wonted simple note — 
 But yet the Lyre retains the strings, 
 
 ' [Harrow.] 
 
 ' [The river Grete, at Southwell.] 
 
 And sometimes, on jEoUan wings. 
 In dying strains may float. 
 
 Fields, which surround yon rustic cot. 
 
 While yet I linger here. 
 Adieu ! you are not now forgot, 
 
 To retrospection dear. 
 Streamlet ! '■' along whose rippling surge. 
 My youthful limbs were wont to urge 
 
 At noontide heat their pliant course ; 
 Plunging with ardor from the shore. 
 Thy springs will lave these limbs no more, 
 
 Deprived of active force. 
 
 And shall I here forget the scene, 
 
 Still nearest to ipy breast ? 
 Rocks rise, and rivers roll between 
 
 The spot which passion bless'd ; 
 Yet, Mai-y,^ all thy beauties seem 
 Fresh as in Love's bewitching dream, • 
 
 To me in smiles display'd ; 
 TiU slow disease resigns his prey 
 To Death, the pareut of decay, 
 
 Thine image cannot fade. 
 
 And thou, my Friend !* whose gentle love, 
 
 Yet thrills my bosom's chords. 
 How much thy friendship was above 
 
 Description's power of words ! 
 StiU near my breast thy gift I wear 
 Which sjiarkled once with Feeling's tear, 
 
 Of Love the pure, the sacred gem ; 
 Our souls were equal, and our lot 
 In that dear moment quite forgot ; 
 
 Let Pride alone condemn ! 
 
 All, all is dark and cheerless now ! 
 
 No smile of Love's deceit 
 Can warm my veins with wonted glow, 
 
 Can bid Life's pulses beat : 
 Not e'en the hope of future iiime. 
 Can wake my faint, exhausted frame. 
 
 Or crown with fancied wreaths my head. 
 Mine is a short inglorious race, — 
 
 I [Mary Duff.] 
 
 ' [Eddlcstone, the Cambridge chorister.] 
 
520 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 To liuralile in the dust my face, 
 
 For all the follies thou hast said 
 
 And ininglu with the dead. 
 
 Of those who spoke but to beguile. 
 
 Oh, Fiime ! tliou goddess of my heart; 
 
 Vain girl ! thy lingering woes are nigh, 
 
 On liim who gains thy praise, 
 
 If thou believ'st what striplings say : 
 
 Pointless must fall the Spectre's dart, 
 
 Oh, from the deep temptation fly. 
 
 Consumed in Glory's blaze ; 
 
 Nor fall the specious spoiler's prey. 
 
 But me she beckons from the earth. 
 
 
 My name obscure, unmark'd my birth, 
 
 Dost thou repeat, in childish boast, 
 
 My life a short and vulgar dream ; 
 
 The words man uttei-s to deceive J 
 
 Lost in the dull, ignolile crowd. 
 
 Thy peace, thy hope, thy all is lost. 
 
 My hojiea recline within a shroud, 
 
 If thou canst venture to believe. 
 
 My fate is Lethe's stream. 
 
 
 
 While now amongst thy female peers 
 
 When I repose beneath the sod, 
 
 Thou tell'st again the soothing tale, 
 
 Unheeded in the clay. 
 
 Canst thou not mark the rising sneers 
 
 Where once my playful footsteps trod, 
 
 Duplicity in vain would veil ? 
 
 Where now my head must lay ; 
 
 
 The meed of pity will be shed 
 
 These tales in secret silence hush. 
 
 Li dew-drops o'er my narrow bed. 
 
 Nor make thyself the pulilic gaze : 
 
 By niglitly skies, and storms alone ; 
 
 What modest maid without a blush 
 
 No mortal eye will deign to steep 
 
 Recounts a flattering coxcomb's praise t 
 
 With tears the dark sepulchral deep 
 
 
 Which hides a name unknown. 
 
 Will not the laughing boy despise 
 
 
 Her who relates each fond conceit— 
 
 Forget this world, my restless sprite, 
 
 Who, thinking Heaven is in her eyes. 
 
 Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heaven : 
 
 Yet cannot see the slight deceit ? 
 
 There must thou soon direct thy flight, 
 
 
 If errors are forgiven. 
 
 For she who takes a soft delight 
 
 To bigots and to sects imknown, 
 
 These amorous nothings in revealing, 
 
 Bow down beneath the Almighty's Throne ; 
 
 Must credit all we say or write. 
 
 To Ilini addre&s thy trembling prayer : 
 
 While vanity prevents concealing. 
 
 He, who is merciful and just. 
 
 
 Will not reject a child of dust. 
 
 Cease, if you prize your beauty's reign I 
 
 Although his meanest care. 
 
 No jealousy bids me reprove : 
 
 
 One, who is thus from nature vain, 
 
 Father of Light ! to Thee I call, 
 
 I pity, but I cannot love. 
 
 My soul is dark within : 
 
 January 15, 1807. [First published, 1832.] 
 
 Thou, who canst mark the sparrow's fall. 
 Avert the death of sin. 
 , Tliou, who canst guide the wandering star, 
 
 
 TO ANNE. 
 
 Who calm'st the elemental war. 
 
 Oh, Anne ! your offences to me have been grievous ; 
 
 Whose mantle is yon boundless sky, 
 
 I thought from my wrath no atonement co'ild 
 
 My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive ; 
 
 save you ! 
 
 And, since I soon must cease to live. 
 
 But woman is made to command and deceive us — 
 
 Listruct me how to die. 
 
 I look'd in your face, and I almost forgave you. 
 
 1SU7. [First published, 1832.] 
 
 
 
 I vow'd I could ne'er for a moment respect you, 
 
 Yet thought that a day's separation was long : 
 Wlien we met, I determined again to suspect you — 
 
 TO A VAIN LADY. 
 
 Ah, heedless girl 1 why thus disclose 
 
 Your smile soon convinced me suspicion was w rong. 
 
 What ne'er was meant for other ears : 
 
 
 Why thus destroy thine own repose. 
 
 I swore, in a transport of yoimg indignation. 
 
 And dig the source of future tears ? 
 
 With fervent contempt evermore to disdain you ; 
 
 
 I saw you — my anger became admiration ; 
 
 Ob, thou wilt weep, imjirudent maid, 
 
 And now, all my wish, all my hope, 's to regain 
 
 Wliile lurking envious foes will smile. 
 
 you. 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES. 
 
 521 
 
 With beauty like yours, oli, how vain the contention 1 
 Thus lowly I sue for forgiyeness be/ore you ; — 
 
 A.t once to conclude such a fruitless dissension, [you ! 
 
 Be false, my sweet Anne, when I cease to adore 
 
 January 16, 1807. [First poklislied, 1833.] 
 
 TO THE SAjVIE. 
 
 On, say not, sweet Anne, that the fates have, decreed. 
 The heart which adores you should wit.li to dis- 
 sever ; 
 
 Such Fates were to me most unkind ones indeed ; — 
 To bear me from love and from beauty forever. 
 
 Tour fro\\'us, lovely girl, are the Fates which alone 
 Could bid uie from fond admiration refrain ; 
 
 By these, every hope, every wish were o'ertlirown, 
 Tin smiles should restore me to raptiue again. 
 
 As the ivy and oak, in the forest entwined. 
 The rage of the tempest united must weather, 
 
 My love and my life were by nature design'd 
 To flourish alike, or to perish together. 
 
 Then say not, sweet Anne, that tlie Fates have de- 
 Your lover should bid you a lasting adieu ; [creed 
 
 Till Fate can ordain that his bosom shall bleed. 
 His soul, his existence, are centred in you. 
 
 1807. [First published, 1832.] 
 
 TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET BEGIliNING, 
 
 " ' SAD IS MY VERSE,' YOU SAY, ' AND YET NO TEAK.' " 
 
 Thy verse is '" sad " enough, no doubt : 
 A devilish deal more sad than mtty ! 
 
 Why we should weep I can't find out. 
 Unless for thee we weep in pity. 
 
 Yet there is one I pity more ; 
 
 And much, alas ! I thiuk he needs it : 
 For he, I'm sure, wiU suffer sore. 
 
 Who, to his own misfortune, reads it. 
 
 Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic. 
 May once be read — but never after : 
 
 Yet their effect 's by no means tragic. 
 Although by far too dull for laughter. 
 
 But would you make our bosoms l:)leed. 
 And of no common pang complain — - 
 
 If you would make us weep indeed, 
 TeU us, you'll read them o'er again. 
 
 March 8, 1807. [First published, 1832.] 
 
 ON FINDING A FAN. 
 
 In one who felt as once he felt, 
 
 This might, perliaps, have fann'd the flame ; 
 But now his heart no more will melt. 
 
 Because tliat heart is not the same. 
 00 
 
 As when the ebbing flames are low. 
 
 The aid which once improved their light, 
 
 And bade them bum witli fiercer glow. 
 Now quenches all theii- blaze in night. 
 
 Thus has it been with passion's fires — 
 As many a boy and girl remembers — 
 
 Wliile every hope of love expires, 
 Extinguish'd with the dying embers. 
 
 The Jinf^ though not a spark survive. 
 Some careful hand may teach to bum ; 
 
 The last, alas ! can ne'er survive ; 
 No touch can bid its warmth return. 
 
 Or, if it chance to wake again. 
 
 Not always doom'd its heat to smother, 
 
 It sheds (so wayward fates ordain) 
 Its former warmth around another. 
 
 1807. [First published, 1832.] 
 
 FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. 
 
 Thou Power ! who hast ruled me through infancy's 
 days, [part ; 
 
 Young offspring of Fancy, 'tis time we should 
 Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays. 
 
 The coldest effusion which springs fi-om my heart. 
 
 This bosom, responsive to rajiture no more, 
 
 Shall hush thy wild notes, nor imijlore thee to sing ; 
 
 The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar, 
 Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing. 
 
 Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre, 
 Yet even these themes are departed forever ; 
 
 No more beam the eyes which my dream could inspire. 
 My visions are flown, to return, — alas, never ! 
 
 When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl, 
 How vain is the eflbrt delight to prolong ! 
 
 When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul, 
 What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song ? 
 
 Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone, 
 
 Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign ? 
 
 Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown ? 
 Ah, no ! for those hours can no longer be mine. 
 
 Can they speak of the friends that I live but to love ? 
 
 Ah, surely afl'ection ennobles the strain ! 
 But how can my numbers in sympathy move. 
 
 When I scarcely can hope to behold them again ? 
 
 Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done, 
 And raise my loud harp to the fame of my Sires 3 
 
 For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone ! 
 For Heroes' exploits how unequal my fires I 
 
522 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 L'ntouch'd. then, ray Lyre shall reply to the blast — 
 'Tis hush'd ; and my freble endeavors are o'er ; 
 
 And those who have heard it will pardon the past, 
 When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate no 
 more. 
 
 And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot, 
 
 Since early affection and love are o'ercast : 
 Oh ! bless'tl had my fate been, and happy my lot, 
 
 Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the 
 last! 
 
 [meet ; 
 Farewell, my young Muse ! since we now can ne'er 
 
 If bur songs have been languid, they surely are few ; 
 Let U8 hope that the 2)rescnt at least will be sweet — 
 
 The present — which seals our eternal Adieu. 
 
 1807. [First published, 1832.] 
 
 TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD. 
 
 yotWQ Oak ! when I planted thee deep in the ground, 
 I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine ; 
 
 Tiiat thy dark -waving branches would flourish 
 around. 
 And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. 
 
 Such, such was my hope, when, in infancy's years. 
 On the land of my fathers I rear'd thee with pride : 
 
 They are past, and I water thy stem witli my tears, — 
 Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can 
 hide. 
 
 I left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour, 
 A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire ; 
 
 Till manhood shall crown me, not mine is the power, 
 IJut his, whose neglect may have bade thee expire. 
 
 Oh I hardy thou wert — even now little care 
 Slight revive thy young head, and thy wounds 
 gently heal : 
 
 15 ut thou wert not fated affection to share — 
 
 For who could suppose that a Stranger would feel ? 
 
 All, droop not, my Oak ! lift thy head for a while ; 
 
 Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall run. 
 The hand of thy Master will teach thee to smile, 
 
 ^V'hen Infancy's years of jjrobation are done. 
 
 oh, live then, my Oak I tow'r aloft from the weeds. 
 That clog thy young growth, and assist thy decay, 
 
 For still in thy bosom arc life's early seeds. 
 And still may thy branches their beauty display. 
 
 Oh ! yet, if maturity's years may be thine. 
 
 Though / shall lie low in the cavern of death, 
 
 On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine, 
 Uninjured by time, or the rude winter's breath. 
 
 ' Some years ago, wlieii at Harrow, a friend of the author en- 
 graved on a pnrticiil.ir ypot the names of botli, with a few addi- 
 ;inDul worda. as a nicnorial. Ariorward:?. on receiviu-:- some real 
 
 For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave 
 O'er the corse of thy lord in thy canopy laid ; 
 
 While the liranches thus gratefully shelter his grave, 
 The chief who survives may recline in thy shade. 
 
 And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot. 
 He will tell them in whispers more softly to tread. 
 
 Oh ! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot : 
 Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead. 
 
 And here, will they say, when in life's glowing prime, 
 Perhajja he has pour'd forth his young simple lay. 
 
 And here must he sleep, till the moments of time 
 Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day. 
 
 1807. [First published, 1832.] 
 
 ON REVISITING HARROW.. 
 
 Heue once engaged the stranger's view 
 Young Friendship's record simply traced; 
 
 Few were her words, — but yet, though few, 
 Resentment's hand the line defaced. 
 
 Deeply she cut — but not erased. 
 
 The characters were stiU so plain. 
 That Friendshiij once rctum'd, and gazed, — 
 
 Till Memory haii'd the words again. 
 
 Repentance placed them as before ; 
 
 Forgiveness join'd her gentle name ; 
 So fair tlie inscription seem'd once more 
 
 That Friendship thought it stiU the same. 
 
 Thus might the Record now have been ; 
 
 But, ah, in spite of Hope's endeavor. 
 Or Friendship's tears. Pride rush'd between, 
 
 And blotted out the line forever. 
 
 September, 1807. 
 
 EPITAPH ON JOHN ADAJVIS, OF SOUTH- 
 WELL, 
 
 A CARnrER, WnO died of DRtlNKENKESS. 
 
 John Adajis lies here of the parish of Southwell, 
 A Carrier who carried his can to his mouth well ; 
 He carried so much, and he carried so fast, 
 He could carry no more — so was carried at last ; 
 For, the liquor he drank, being too much for one. 
 He could not carry off, — so he 's now carri-on. 
 
 SepUmber, 1807. 
 
 TO MY SON. 
 
 TuosE flaxen locks, those eyes of blue, 
 Bright as thy mother's in their hue ; 
 Those rosy lips, whose dimples jilay 
 And smile to steal tlie heart away, 
 Recall a scene of former joy. 
 And touch thy father's heart, my Boy I 
 
 or imagined injury, the author destroyed the frail record before he 
 left narrow. On revisitinij the place in 1807, lie wrote under it 
 these stauzrte. 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES. 
 
 523 
 
 And tliou canst lisp a father's name — 
 Ah, William, were thine own the same, — 
 No self-reproach — but, let me cease — 
 My care for thee shaU purchase peace ; 
 Thy mother's shade shall smile in joy, 
 And pardon all the past, my Boy ! 
 
 Her lowly grave the turf has press'd, 
 And thou hast known a stranger's breast. 
 Derision sneers upon thy birth. 
 And yields thee scarce a name on earth ; 
 Yet shall not these one hope destroy, — 
 A Father's heart is thine, my Boy ! 
 
 Why, let the world unfeeling frown, 
 Must I fond Xatiu-e's claim disown ? 
 Ah, no — though moralists reprove, 
 I hail thee, dearest child of love, 
 Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joy — 
 A Father guards thy birth, my Boy ! 
 
 Oh, 'twill be sweet in thee to trace, 
 Ere age has wrinkled o'er my face. 
 Ere half my glass of life is run, 
 At once a brother and a son ; 
 And all my wane of years employ 
 In justice done to thee, my Boy ! 
 
 Although so young thy heedless sire. 
 Youth will not damp parental fire ; 
 And, wert thou still less dear to me. 
 While Helen's form revives in thee. 
 The breast, which beat to former joy. 
 Will ne'er desert its pledge, my Boy ! 
 
 ISO:. [First published, 1&30.] 
 
 FARE'^TELL! IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER. 
 
 Fakewell ! if ever fondest prayer 
 
 For other's weal avail'd on high. 
 Mine will not all be lost in air. 
 
 But waft thy name beyond the sky. 
 'Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh : 
 
 Oh ! more than tears of blood can tell. 
 When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, 
 
 Are in that word — Farewell ! — Farewell ! 
 
 These lips are mute, these eyes are dry : 
 
 But in my breast and in my brain. 
 Awake the pangs that pass not by, 
 
 The thought that ne'er shaU sleep again. 
 My soul nor deigns nor dares complain. 
 
 Though grief and passion there rebel : 
 1 only know we loved in vain — 
 
 I only feel — Farewell ! — Farewell I 
 
 1S03. 
 
 BRIGHT BE THE PLACE OF THY SOUL. 
 
 Bright be the place of thy soul ! 
 
 No lovelier sj)irit than thine 
 E'er burst from its mortal control, 
 
 In the orbs of the blessed to shine. 
 
 On earth thou wert all but divine. 
 As thy soul shall immortally be ; 
 
 And our sorrow may cease to rejjine, 
 
 When we know that thy God is with thee. 
 
 Light be the turf of thy tomb ! 
 
 May its verdure Uke emeralds be : 
 Tlicre should not be the shadow of gloom 
 
 In aught that reminds us of thee. 
 
 Young flowers and an evergreen tree 
 May spring from the spot of thy rest : 
 
 But nor cyjjress nor yew let us see ; 
 For why should we mourn for the bless d ? 
 
 WHEN ^TE TWO PARTED. 
 
 When we two parted 
 
 In silence and tears. 
 Half broken-hearted 
 
 To sever for years, 
 Pale grew thy cheek and cold. 
 
 Colder thy kiss ; 
 Truly that hour foretold 
 
 Sorrow to this. 
 
 The dew of the morning 
 
 Sunk chill on my brow — 
 It felt like the warning 
 
 Of H'hat I feel now. 
 Thy vows are all broken. 
 
 And light is thy fame ; 
 I hear thy name spoken. 
 
 And share in its shame. 
 
 They name thee before me, 
 
 A kneU to mine ear ; 
 A shudder comes o'er me — 
 
 Why wert thou so dear ? 
 They know not I knew thee. 
 
 Who knew thee too well : — 
 Long, long shall I rue thee, 
 
 Too deeply to telL 
 
 In secret we met — 
 
 In silence I grieve. 
 Thy heart could forget. 
 
 Thy spirit deceive. 
 
624 
 
 BYRON 'S WORKS. 
 
 If I should meet thee 
 
 Such is the common lot of man : 
 
 After loug years, 
 
 Can we then 'scape from folly free f 
 
 Dow should I greet thee ? — 
 
 Can we reverse the general plan. 
 
 With silence and tears. 
 
 1808. 
 
 Nor be what all in turn must be ? 
 
 
 No ; for myself, so dark my fate 
 
 TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND. 
 
 Through every turn of life hath been; 
 
 Few years have pass'd since thou and I 
 
 Man and the world so much I hate, 
 
 Were firmest friends, at least in name, 
 
 I care not when I quit the scene. 
 
 And childhood's gay sincerity 
 
 
 Preserved our feelings long the same. 
 
 But thou, with spirit frail and light, 
 
 
 Wilt shine awhile, and pass away ; 
 
 But now, like me, too well thou know'st 
 
 As glow-worms sparkle through the night, 
 
 What trifles oft the heart recall ; 
 
 But dare not stand the test of day. 
 
 And those who once have loved the most 
 
 
 Too soon forget they loved at aU. 
 
 Alas ! whenever folly calls 
 
 
 Wliere parasites and princes meet, 
 
 And such the change the heart displays, 
 
 (For cherish'd first in royal halls. 
 
 So frail is early friendship's reign, 
 
 The welcome vices kuidly greet,) 
 
 A month's brief lapse, perhaps a day's. 
 
 
 Will view thy mind estranged again. 
 
 Ev'n now thou'rt nightly seen to add 
 
 
 One insect to the fluttering crowd ; 
 
 If so, it never shall be mine 
 
 And still thy trifling heart is glad 
 
 To mourn the loss of such a heart ; 
 
 To join the vain, and court the proud. 
 
 The fault was Nature's fault, not thine, 
 
 
 Which made thee fickle as thou art. 
 
 There dost thou glide from fair to fair, 
 
 
 StiU simpering on with eager haste. 
 
 
 As flies along the gay parterre. 
 
 As rolls the ocean's changing tide. 
 
 That taint the flowers they scarcely tastt 
 
 So human feelings ebb and flow ; 
 
 And who would in a breast confide. 
 
 But say, what nymph will prize the flame 
 
 Where stormy passions ever glow ? 
 
 Which seems, as marshy vapors move, 
 
 
 To flit along from dame to dame, 
 
 It boots not that, together bred. 
 
 An ignis-fatuus gleam of love ? 
 
 Our childish days were days of joy, 
 
 
 My spring of life has quickly fled ; 
 
 Wliat friend for thee, howe'er inclined. 
 
 Thou, too, hast ceased to be a boy. 
 
 Will deign to own a kindred care ? 
 
 
 Who will debase his manly mind, 
 
 And when we bid adieu to youth, 
 
 For friendship every foul may share ? 
 
 Slaves to the specious world's control. 
 
 
 We sigh a long farewell to truth ; 
 
 In time forbear ; amidst the throng 
 
 That world corrupts the noblest souL 
 
 No more so base a thing be seen ; 
 
 
 No more so idly pass along : 
 
 Ah, joyous season ! when the mind 
 
 Be something, any thing, but — mean. 
 
 Dares all things boldly but to lie ; 
 
 1808, 
 
 When thought ere spoke is unconfined, 
 
 
 And sparkles in the placid eye. 
 
 LINES INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED 
 
 
 FROM A SKULL. 
 
 Not so in Man's maturer years. 
 
 Start not — nor deem my spirit fled : 
 
 When Man himself is but a tool ; 
 
 In me behold the only skull. 
 
 Wlien interest sways our hopes and fears, 
 
 From which, unUke a living head, 
 
 And all must love and hate by rule. 
 
 Whatever flows is never duU. 
 
 With fools in kindred vice the same, 
 
 I lived, I loved, I quafl''d, like thee: 
 
 We learn at length our faults to blend ; 
 
 I died : let earth my liones resign : 
 
 And those, and those alone, may claim 
 
 Fill up — thou canst not injure nie ; 
 
 The pnstituted name of friend. 
 
 The worm luith fouler lips than thine. 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES. 
 
 525 
 
 Better to hold the sparkling grape, 
 
 Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood ; 
 
 Afld circle in the goblet's shape 
 The drink of gods, than reptile's food. 
 
 Wliere once my ivit, perchance, hath shone, 
 
 In aid of others" let me shine ; 
 And ■when, alas ! our brains are gone, 
 
 What nobler substitute than wine ? 
 
 Quaff while thou canst : another race, 
 When thou and thine. Uke me, are sped, 
 
 May rescue thee from earth's embrace. 
 And rhyme and revel T\'ith the dead. 
 
 VThv no — since through life's little day 
 Our heads such sad effects produce ? 
 
 Rndeem'd from worms and wasting clay, 
 This chance is theirs, to be of use. 
 
 Newstead Abbey, 1S( 
 
 WELL! THOU ART HAPPY. 
 
 Well ! thou art happy, and I feel 
 That I should thus be happy too ; 
 
 For still my heart regards tliy weal 
 Warmly, as I was wont to do. 
 
 Thy husband 's liless'd — and 'twill impart 
 Some pangs to view his happier lot : 
 
 But let them pass — Oh ! how my heart 
 Would hate him, if he loved thee not ! 
 
 Wlien late I saw thy l\ivorite child, 
 
 I tliought my jealous heart would break ; 
 
 But when the unconscious infant smiled, 
 I kiss'd it for its mother's sake. 
 
 I kiss'd it, — and repress'd my sighs, 
 
 Its father in its face to see ; 
 But then it had its mother's eyes. 
 
 And they were all to love and me. 
 
 Mary, adieu ! I must away : 
 
 While thou art bless'd I'U not repine ; 
 Rut near thee I can never stay ; 
 
 My heart would soon again be thine. 
 
 I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride 
 Had quench'd at length my boyish flame ; 
 
 Nor knew, tiU seated Ijy thy side, 
 My heart in all, — save hope, — ^the same. 
 
 yet was I calm : I knew the time 
 My breast would thrill before thy look ; 
 
 But now to tremble were a crime — 
 We uiet, — and not a nerve was shook 
 
 I saw thee gaze upon my face. 
 Yet met with no conftision there : 
 
 One only feeling couldst thou trace ; 
 The sullen calmness of despair. 
 
 Away ! away ! my early dream 
 Remembrance never must awake : 
 
 Oh, where is Lethe's fabled stream ? 
 My foolish heart, be still, or break. 
 
 NmembeT 2, 1S08. 
 
 mSCRIPTION OX THE MONUMENT OF A 
 NEWFOUNDLAND DOG. 
 
 When some proud son of man retiu-us to earth. 
 
 Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth. 
 
 The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of wo, 
 
 And storied urns record who rests below ; 
 
 When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, 
 
 Not what he was, but what he should have been : 
 
 But the poor dog, in life the firmest fKend, 
 
 The first to welcome, foremost to defend. 
 
 Whose honest heart is still his master's own, 
 
 Wlio labors, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, 
 
 Unhonor'd falls, unnoticed all his worth, 
 
 Deuied in heaven the soul he held on earth : 
 
 While man, vain insect ! hopes to be forgiven. 
 
 And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven. 
 
 Oh, man ! thou feeble tenant of an hour, 
 
 Debased by slavery, or corrupt by poww. 
 
 Wlio knows thee weU must quit thee with disgust, 
 
 Degraded mass of animated dust ! 
 
 Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat. 
 
 Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit ! 
 
 By nature vile, ennobled but by name. 
 
 Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame 
 
 Ye 1 who perchance behold this simple urn. 
 
 Pass on — it honors none you -srish to mouru : 
 
 To mark a friend's remains these stones arise ; 
 
 I never knew but one, — and here he lies. 
 
 Nbwsteab Abbey, November 30, 1808. 
 
 TO A LADY. 
 
 OK BEtNG ASKED MT REASON FOR QUITTING ENG- 
 LAND IN THE SPRING. 
 
 When Man, expell'd from Eden's bowers, 
 A moment linger'd near the gate. 
 
 Each scene recall'd the vanish'd hours. 
 And bade him curse his futiu^e fate. 
 
 But, wandering on through distant climes, 
 He learnt to bear his load of grief ; 
 
 Just gave a sigh to other times, 
 jVnd found in busier scenes relief. 
 
520 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 
 
 Thus, lady ! will it be with me, 
 
 TIIKRE WAS A TDIE. I NEED NOT NAME 
 
 And I must view tby charms no more : 
 
 
 For, while I linger near to thee, 
 
 There was a time, I need not name, 
 
 I sigh for all I knew before. 
 
 Since it will ne'er forgotten be. 
 
 
 When all our feelings were the same 
 
 In flight I shall be surely wise, 
 
 As still my soul hath been to thee. 
 
 Escaping from temptation's snare ; 
 
 
 I cannot view my paradise 
 
 And from that hour when first thy tongue 
 
 Without the wish of dwelling there. 
 
 Confess'd a love which cquall'd mine. 
 
 Deamber 3, 1808. 
 
 Though many a grief my heart hath wrung, 
 
 
 Unknown and thus unfelt by thine, 
 
 
 None, none hath sunk so deep as this — 
 To think how all that love hath flovra ; 
 
 REfflND ME NOT, REfflND ME NOT. 
 
 Remind me not, remind me not. 
 
 Transient as every taitldess kiss. 
 
 Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours, 
 
 But transient in thy breast alone. 
 
 When all my soul was given to thee ; 
 
 
 Hours that may never be forgot, 
 
 And yet my heart some solace knew, 
 
 Till time unnerves our vital powers. 
 
 When late I heard thy lips declare. 
 
 And thou and I shall cease to be. 
 
 In accents once imagined true, 
 
 
 Remembrance of the days that were. 
 
 Can I forget — canst thou forget, 
 
 Yes ; my adored, yet most unkind ! 
 
 When plaj-ing with thy golden hair, 
 
 Though thou wilt never love again. 
 
 How quick thy fluttering heart did move ? 
 
 To me 'tis doubly sweet to find 
 
 Oh, by my soul, I see thee yet. 
 
 Remembrance of that love remain. 
 
 With eyes so languid, breast so fair, 
 
 
 And lips, though silent, breathing love. 
 
 Yes I 'tis a glorious thought to me, 
 
 
 Nor longer sliall my soul repine, • 
 
 When thus reclining on my breast, 
 
 Wliate'er thou art or e'er shalt be, 
 
 Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet, 
 
 Thou hast been dearly, solely mine. 
 
 As half reproach'd yet rais'd desire. 
 And still we near and nearer press'd. 
 
 
 
 And still our glowing lips would meet, 
 
 AND WILT THOU WEEP WHEN I AM LOW J 
 
 As if in kisses to expire. 
 
 
 
 And wilt tliou weep when I am low ? 
 
 And then those pensive eyes would close, 
 
 Sweet lady ! speak those words again : 
 
 And bid their lids each other seek. 
 
 Yet if they grieve thee, say not so — 
 
 Veiling the azure orljs below ; 
 
 I would not give that bosom pain. 
 
 While their long lashes' darken'd gloss 
 
 
 Secm'd stcaUng o'er thy brilliant cheek, 
 
 My heart is sad, my hopes are gone, 
 
 Like raven's jjlumage smooth'd on snow. 
 
 My blood runs coldly through my breast ; 
 
 
 And when I perish, thou alone 
 
 
 Wilt sigh above my place of rest. 
 
 I dreamt last night our lote retum'd, 
 
 
 And, sooth to say, that very dream 
 
 And yet, mcthinks, a gleam of peace 
 
 Was sweeter in its fantasy. 
 
 Doth through my cloud of anguish shine 
 
 Than if for other hearts I burn'd. 
 
 And for awhile my sorrows cease. 
 
 For eyes that ne'er like thine could beam 
 
 To know thy heart hath felt for mine. 
 
 In rapture's wild reality. 
 
 
 
 Oh, lady ! blessed be that tear- 
 
 Then tell me not, remind me not. 
 
 It falis for one who cannot weep : 
 
 Of hours which, though forever gone, 
 
 Such precious drops arc doubly dear 
 
 Can still a pleasing dream restore, 
 
 To those whose eyes no tear may steep. 
 
 T.il thou and I shall be forgot. 
 
 
 And senseless as the mouldering stone 
 
 Sweet lady ! once my heart was warm 
 
 Which tells that we shall be no more. 
 
 With evcrv ficlius soft as thine ; 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES. 
 
 527 
 
 But beauty's self hath ceased to charm 
 A wretch created to repine. 
 
 Yet wilt thou weep when I am low ? 
 
 Sweet lady ! speak those words again ; 
 Yet if they grieve thee, say not so — 
 
 I would not give that bosom pain. 
 
 FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN. 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 Ffll the goblet again ! for I never before [core ; 
 Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its 
 Let us drink ! — who would not ? — since, through 
 
 life's varied round. 
 In the goblet alone no deception is found. 
 
 I have tried in its turn all that life can supply ; 
 I have bask'd in the beam of a dark-rolling eye ; 
 I have loved ! — who has not ? — but what heart can 
 
 declare. 
 That pleasure existed while passion was there ? 
 
 In the days of my youth, when the heart 's in its 
 
 spring. 
 And dreams that affection can never take wing, 
 I had friends ! — who has not ? — but what tongue 
 
 will avow, 
 That friends, rosy wine ! are so faithful as thou ? 
 
 The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange, 
 Friendship shifts with the sunbeam — thou never 
 
 canst change : 
 Thou grow'st old — who docs not ? — but on earth- 
 
 what appears, [years 3 
 
 Wliose virtues, like thine, still increase with its 
 
 Yet if bless'd to the utmost that love can bestow, 
 Should a rival bow down to our idol below, [alloy ; 
 We are jealous ! — who 's not ? — thou liast no such 
 For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy. 
 
 Then the season of youth and its vanities pass'd, 
 For refuge we fly to the goblet at last ; 
 There we find — do we not ?^n the flow of the soul. 
 That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. 
 
 Wlien the box of Pandora was opcn'd on earth. 
 And Jlisery's triumph commenced over Mirth, [kiss, 
 Hope was left, — was she not ? — but the goblet we 
 And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss. 
 
 Long life to the grape ! for when summer is flown, 
 Tlic age of our nectar shall gladden our own : 
 '^Vc nni'st die — who shall not i — May our sins be for- 
 jVnd Ileljo shall never bo idle in heaven. [given, 
 
 STANZAS TO A LADY ON LEAVING 
 ENGLAND. 
 
 'Tis done — and shivering in the gale 
 The bark unfurls her snowy sail ; 
 And whistling o'er the bending mast, 
 Loud sings on high the fresh'ning blast ; 
 And I must from this land be gone, 
 Because I cannot love but one. 
 
 But could I be what I have been. 
 And could I see what I have seen — 
 Could I repose upon the breast 
 Which once my wannest wishes bless'd ■ 
 I should not seek another zone 
 Because I cannot love but one. 
 
 'Tis long since I beheld that eye 
 Wliich gave me bliss or misery ; 
 And I have striven, but in vain, 
 Never to think of it again : 
 For though I fly from Albion, 
 I still can only love but one. 
 
 As some lone bird, without a mate, 
 My weary heart is desolate ; 
 I look around, and cannot trace 
 One friendly smile or welcome face, 
 And ev'n in crowds am still alone. 
 Because I cannot love but one. 
 
 And I will cross the whitening foam, 
 And I will seek a foreign home ; 
 Till I forget a false fair face, 
 I ne'er shall find a resting-place ; 
 My own dark thoughts I cannot shun. 
 But ever love, and love but one. 
 
 The poorest, veriest wretch on earth 
 Still finds some hospitable hearth, 
 Where friendship's or love's softer glow 
 May smile in joy or soothe in wo ; 
 But friend or leman I have none. 
 Because I cannot 1 )ve but one. 
 
 I go — but wheresoe'er I flee. 
 There 's not an eye will weep for me ; 
 There 's not a kind congenial he.art, 
 Wliere I can claim the meanest part ; 
 Nor thou, who hast my hopes imdone, 
 Wilt sigh, although I love but one. 
 
 To think of every early scene, 
 
 Of what we are, and what we've been. 
 
 Would whelm some softer hearts with WB— 
 
 But mine, alas ! has stood the blow ; 
 
 Yet still beats on as it begun, 
 
 And never truly loves but one. 
 
52ft 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 And who that dear loved one may be 
 Is not for vulgar eyes to see, 
 And why that early love was cross'd, 
 Thou know'st the best, I feel the most ; 
 But few thiit dwell beneath the sun 
 Have loved so long, and loved l)ut one. 
 
 I've tried another's fetters too, 
 With charms perchance as fair to view ; 
 And I would fain have loved as well, 
 But some unconquerable spell 
 Forbade my bleeding breast to own 
 A kindred care for aught but one. 
 
 'Twould soothe to take one lingering view. 
 
 And Viloss thee in my last adieu ; 
 
 Yet wish I not, those eyes to weep 
 
 For him that wanders o'er the deep ; 
 
 His home, his liope, his youth are gone. 
 
 Yet still he loves, and loves but one. laoo. 
 
 LINES TO MR. HODGSON. 
 
 WRITTEN ON BOARD THE LISBON PACKET. 
 
 Huzza ! Hodgson, we are going, 
 
 Our embargo 's off" at last ; 
 Favorable breezes blowing 
 
 Bend the canvass o'er the mast. 
 From aloft the signal 's streaming. 
 Hark ! the farewell gun is fired ; 
 Women screeching, tars blaspheming, 
 Tell us that our time 's expired. 
 Here 's a rascal 
 Come to task all. 
 Prying from the custom-house ; 
 Trunks unpacking 
 Cases cracking. 
 Not a comer for a mouse 
 'Scapes unsearch'd amid the racket, 
 Ere we sail on board the Packet. 
 
 Now our Ijoatmen quit their mooring. 
 
 And all hands must ply the oar ; 
 Baggage from the quay is lowering. 
 We're impatient, — put from shore. 
 " Have a care ! that case holds liquor — 
 
 Stop the boat — I'm sick — O Lord 1'' 
 " Sick, ma'am, damme, you'll be sicker. 
 Ere you've been an hour on board." 
 Thus are screaming 
 Men and women, 
 Gemmen, ladies, servants. Jacks ; 
 Here entangling. 
 All are wr.angling. 
 Stuck together close as wax. 
 Bucli the general noise and racket. 
 Ere we n.'ach the Lisbon Packet. 
 
 Now we've rcach'd her, lo I the captain, 
 
 Gallant Kidd, commands the crew ; 
 Passengers their berths are clapp'd in, 
 
 Some to grumble, some to spew. 
 " Hey day ! call you that a cabin ? 
 
 Why 'tis hardly three feet square ; 
 Not enough to stow Queen Mab in — 
 Who the deuce can harbor there ?" 
 " Who, sir ? plenty- 
 Nobles twenty 
 Did at once my vessel fill." — 
 "Did they ? Jesus, 
 How you squeeze us ! 
 Would to God they did so still : 
 Then I'd 'scape the heat and racket 
 Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet." 
 
 Fletcher ! JIurray ! Bob ! where are you I 
 
 Stretch'd along the deck like logs — 
 Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you ! 
 
 Here 's a rope's end for the dogs. 
 Hobhouse muttering fearful curses. 
 As the hatchway down he rolls. 
 Now his breakfast, now his verses. 
 Vomits forth — and damns our souls. 
 " Here 's a stanza 
 On Braganza — 
 Help !"— " A couplet !"— "No, a cup 
 Of warm water — " 
 " What's the matter ?" 
 " Zounds ! my liver 's coming up ; 
 I shall not survive the racket 
 Of this brutal Lislion Packet." 
 
 Now at length we're off for Turkey, 
 
 Lord knows when we shall come back[ 
 Breezes foul and tempests murky 
 
 May unship us in a crack. 
 But, since life at most a jest is, 
 
 As philoso])hcrs allow. 
 Still to laugh by f;>r the best is, 
 Then laugh on — as I do now. 
 Laugh at all things. 
 Great and small things, 
 Sick or well, at sea or shore ; 
 While we're quaffing. 
 Let 's have laugliing — 
 Who the devil cares for more f — 
 Some good wine ! and who would lack it, 
 Ev'n on board the Lisbon Packet ? 
 
 Falmouth Koads, Jvne 30. 18119 
 [First published, 1830.] 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. AT 
 M.VLTA 
 
 As o'er the cold sepulchral stone 
 Some name arrests the passer-bv 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES. 
 
 529 
 
 Thus, when thou view'st this page alone, 
 May mine attract thy pensive eye 1 
 
 And when by thee that name is read, 
 Perchance in some suceeeding year, 
 
 Reflect on me as on tlie dead, 
 And think my heart is buried here. 
 
 September 14, 1809. 
 
 TO FLORENCE. 
 
 Oh, Lady ! when I left the shore. 
 
 The distant shore which gave me birth, 
 
 I liardly thought to grieve once more. 
 To quit another spot on earth : 
 
 Yet here, amidst this Darren isle, 
 
 Where pantirg Nature droops the head. 
 
 Where only thou art seen to smile, 
 I view my parting hour with dread. 
 
 Though far from Albin's craggy shore. 
 
 Divided by the dark blue main ; 
 A few, brief, rolling seasons o'er. 
 
 Perchance I view her cliffs again : 
 
 But wheresoe'er I now may roam, 
 
 Through scorching clime, and varied sea, 
 
 Though Time restore me to my home, 
 I ne'er shall bend mine eyes on thee : 
 
 On thee, in whom at once conspire 
 
 All charms which heedless hearts can move, 
 Whom but to see is to admire. 
 
 And, oh ! forgive the word — to love. 
 
 Forgive the word, in one who ne'er 
 With such a word can more offend ; 
 
 And since thy heart I cannot share, 
 Believe me, what I am, thy friend. 
 
 And who so cold as look on thee. 
 Thou lovely wand'rcr, and be less ? 
 
 Nor be, what man should ever be. 
 The friend of Beauty in distress ? 
 
 Ah ! who would think that form had pass'd 
 Through Danger's most destructive path. 
 
 Had braved the death-wing'd tempest's blast. 
 And 'scaped a tyran+"<: fiercer wrath ? 
 
 Lady ! when I shall view the walls 
 Wliere free Byzantium once arose, 
 
 And Stamboul's Oriental halls 
 
 The Turkish tyrants now enclose ; 
 
 Though mightiest in the lists of fame, 
 That glorious city still shall be ; 
 67 
 
 On me 'twill hold a dearer claim, 
 As sjaot of thy nativity : 
 
 And though I bid thee now farewell, 
 'When I behold that wondrous scene. 
 
 Since where thou art I may not dwell, 
 'Twill soothe to be where thou hast been. 
 
 September, 1809. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 COMPOSED DUEING A THUNDER-STORlf. 
 
 Chtll and mirk is the nightly blast. 
 
 Where Pindus' mountains rise. 
 And angry clouds are pouring fast 
 
 The vengeance of the skies. 
 
 Our guides are gone, our hope is lost, 
 
 And lightnings, as they play. 
 But show where rocks our path have crciss'd, 
 
 Or gild the torrent's spray. 
 
 Is yon a cot I saw, though low ? 
 
 When lightning broke the gloom — 
 How welcome were its shade ! — ah, no I 
 
 'Tis but a Turkish tomb. 
 
 Through sounds of foaming waterfalls, 
 
 I hear a voice exclaim — 
 My way-worn countryman, who calls 
 
 On distant England's name. 
 
 A shot is fired — by foe or friend ? 
 
 Another — 'tis to teU 
 The mountain peasants to descend, 
 
 And lead us where they dwell. 
 
 Oh ' who in such a night will dare 
 
 To tempt the vrildemess ? 
 And who 'mid thunder peals can hear 
 
 Our signal of distress ? 
 
 And who that heard our shouts would rise 
 
 To try the dubious road ? 
 Nor rather deem from nightly cries 
 
 That outlaws were abroad. 
 
 Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour I 
 
 More fiercely pours the storm ! 
 Tet here one thought has still the power 
 
 To keep my bosom warm. 
 
 Wliile wand'ring through each broken path. 
 
 O'er brake and craggy brow ; 
 TMiile elements exhaust their wrath, 
 
 Sweet Florence, where art thou ? 
 
530 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Not on the sea, not on tlie sea, 
 Thy bark hatli long been gone : 
 
 Oh, may tlie storm tliat jjours on me, 
 Bow down my licad alone 1 
 
 Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc, 
 
 When last I prcss'd thy lip ; 
 And long ere now, with foaming shock, 
 
 Impell'd thy gallant ship. 
 
 Now thou art safe ; nay, long ere now 
 Hast trod the shore of Spain ; 
 
 'Twere hard if aught so fair as thou 
 Should linger on the main. 
 
 And since I now remember thee 
 
 In darkness and in dread. 
 As in those hours of revelry 
 
 Which mirth and music sped ; 
 
 Do thou, amid the fair white walls, 
 
 If Cadiz yet be fi-ee. 
 At times from out her latticed halls 
 
 Look o'er the dark blue sea ; 
 
 Then think upon Calypso's isles, 
 
 Endear'd by days gone by ; 
 To others give a thousand smiles, 
 
 To me a single sigh. 
 
 And when the admiring circle mark 
 
 The paleness of thy face, 
 A half-form'd tear, a transient spark 
 
 Of melancholy grace. 
 
 Again thou'lt smile, and blushing shun 
 
 Some coxcomb's raillery ; 
 Nor own for once thou, thought'st on one. 
 
 Who ever thinks on thee. 
 
 Though smile and sigh alike are vain. 
 
 When scver'd hearts rejjine. 
 My spirit flies o'er mount and main. 
 
 And mourns in search of thine. 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 WRITTEN IN PASSING THE ASIBRACIAN GULP. 
 
 Through cloudless skies, in silvery sheen, 
 Full beams the moon on Aetium's coast ; 
 
 And on these waves, for Egypt's queen. 
 The ancient world was won and lost. 
 
 And now upon the scene I look. 
 The azure grave of many a Roman ; 
 
 Where stern Ambition once forsook 
 TTis wavering crown to follow woman. 
 
 Florence ! whom I will lo^e as well 
 
 As ever yet was said or sung, 
 (Since Orpheus sang his spouse from hell,J 
 
 Whilst thou art fair and I am young ; 
 
 Sweet Florence 1 those were pleasant times, 
 When worlds were staked for ladies' eyes . 
 
 Had bards as many realms as rhymes. 
 Thy charms might raise new Antonies. 
 
 Though Fate forbids such things to be 
 Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curl'd ! 
 
 I cannot lose a world firr thee. 
 
 But would not lose thee for a world. 
 
 November 14, 1808 
 
 THE SPELL IS BROKE, THE CHARM IS 
 FLOWN ! 
 
 WRITTEN AT ATHENS, JANUARY 10, 1810. 
 
 The spell is broke, the charm is flown ! 
 
 Thus is it with life's fitful fever : 
 We madly smile whea we should groau ; 
 
 Delirium is our best deceiver. 
 
 Each lucid interval of thought 
 
 Recalls the woes of Nature's charter, 
 
 And he that acts as wise men ought, 
 But lives, as saints have died, a martyr. 
 
 WRITTEN AFTER SWBOHNG FROM 
 SESTOS TO ABYDOS. 
 
 If, in the month of dark December, 
 Leandcr, wlio was nightly wont 
 
 (Wliat maid will not the tale remember ?) 
 To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont 1 
 
 If, when the wintry tempest roar'd. 
 
 He sped to Hero, nothing loth. 
 And thus of old thy current pour'd. 
 
 Fair Venus ! how I pity both 1 
 
 For me, degenerate modern wretch. 
 Though in the genial month of May, 
 
 My dripping limbs 1 faintly stretch. 
 And think I've done a feat to-day. 
 
 But since he cross'd the rapid tide. 
 According to the doubtful story. 
 
 To woo, — and — Lord knows what beside. 
 And swam for Love, as I for Glory ; 
 
 'Twere hard to say who fared the best : 
 Sad mortals I thus the gods still plagu 
 
 He lost liis labor, 1 my jest ; 
 For he was drown'd, and I've 'he agui 
 
 UayV 
 
 you 
 
MAID OF ATHENS. ERE WE PART , 
 GIWEOH.GIVE ME BACK MYHEy*.RT' 
 OE.SINOE THAT HAS UEFT MY BREAST, 
 KEEP IT NOW. AND TAKE THE PEST: 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES. 
 
 531 
 
 T.mES WRITTEN IN THE TRAVELLERS' 
 
 MY EPITAPH. 
 
 BOOK AT ORCHOSIENUS. 
 
 Youth, Nature, and relenting Jove, 
 
 IN THIS BOOK A TRAVELLEU H.\D WRITTEN : 
 
 To keep my lamp in strongly strove ; 
 
 " Fair Albion, smiling, sees her son depart 
 
 But Romanelli was so stout. 
 
 To trace the birth and nursery of art : 
 
 He beat all three— and Mew it orU. 
 
 Noble liis object, glorious is his aim ; 
 
 ■ T Jill 11 *j1* 44 
 
 (kt., I8ia 
 
 He comes to Athens, and he writes his name." 
 
 
 BENEATH WHICH LORD BTRON INSERTED THE 
 
 SUBSTITUTE FOR AN EPITAPH. 
 
 FOLLOWING : — 
 
 Kind Reader ! take your choice to cry or laugh ; 
 
 The modest bard, like many a bard unknown, 
 
 Here Harold lies— but where 's his Epitaph ? 
 
 Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own ; 
 
 If such you seek, try Westminster, and view 
 
 But yet, whoe'er he be, to say no worse, 
 
 His name would bring more credit than his verse. 
 
 Ten thousand just as fit for him as you. 
 
 Athens. 
 
 1810, 
 
 
 
 LINES WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE. 
 
 MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART. 
 
 
 
 Dear object of defeated care ! 
 
 Zw?/ [iov^ cd(; dyaTTu. 
 
 Though now of Love and thee bereft, 
 
 >L\n) of Athens, ere we part. 
 
 To reconcile me with despair. 
 
 Give, oh, give me back my heart I 
 
 Thine image and my tears are left. 
 
 Or, since that has left my breast, 
 
 
 Keep it now, and take the rest ! 
 
 'Tis said with Sorrow Time can cope ; 
 
 Hear my vow before I go. 
 
 But this I feel can ne'er be true ! . 
 
 7.U17] fiov, (7af uyairu). 
 
 For by the death-blow of my Hope 
 
 By those tresses unconflned. 
 
 My Memory immortal grew. 
 
 "Woo'd by each ^gean wind ; 
 
 Athens, January^ 1811. 
 
 By those lids whose jetty fringe 
 
 
 Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge; 
 
 TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GREEK 
 
 By those wild eyes like the roe. 
 
 WAR SONG, 
 
 Xl)Tj flov, (TUf ((70— (J, 
 
 
 
 *' Aevre TratJff Tutv 'E?. Aiyvwv," 
 
 By that lij) I long to taste ; 
 
 Sons of the Greeks, arise ! 
 
 By that zone-encircled waist ; 
 
 The glorious hour 's gone forth, 
 
 By aU the token-flowers that tell 
 
 And, worthy of such ties. 
 
 Wliat words can never speak so well ; 
 
 Display who gave us birth. 
 
 By love's alternate joy and wo, 
 
 
 . 
 
 chorus. 
 
 ZuTj jiov, G<i^ aya-jC). 
 
 
 
 Sons of Greeks ! let us go 
 
 Maid of Athens ! I am gone : 
 
 In arms against the foe, 
 
 Think of me, sweet ! when alone. 
 
 Till their hated blood shall flow 
 
 Though I fly to Istambol, 
 
 In a river past our feet. 
 
 Athens hold my heart and soul : 
 
 
 Can I cease to love thee ? No ! 
 
 Then manfully despising 
 
 ZoiT? fiov, ad^ ilyaTvC). 
 
 The Turkish tyrant's yoke, 
 
 Athenb, 1810. 
 
 Let your country see you rising. 
 
 
 And all her chains are broke. 
 
 TRANSLATION 
 
 Brave shades of chiefs and sages, 
 
 f>F THE NTKSE'S DOLE IN THE MEDEA OF EURIPIDES. 
 
 Behold the coming strife ! 
 
 On, how I wish that an embargo 
 
 Hellenes of past ages. 
 
 Had kept in port the good ship Argo ! 
 
 Oh, start again to life ! 
 
 Wlio, still unlaunch'd from Grecian docks, 
 
 At the sound of my trumpet, breaking 
 
 Had ni vcr pass'd the Azure rocks ; 
 
 Your sleep, oh, join with me ! 
 
 But now I fear her trip will be a 
 
 And the seven-hill'd city seeking, 
 
 Damn'd business for my ^Miss Medea, etc., etc. 
 
 Fight, conquer, till we're free. 
 
 June. 1810. 
 
 Sons of Greeks, etc 
 
632 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Sparta, Sparta, why in slumbers 
 
 Lethargic dost thou lie ? 
 Awake, and join thy numbers 
 
 Witli Athens, old ally I 
 Loonidas recalling. 
 
 That chief of ancient song. 
 Who saved ye once from falling, 
 
 The terrible ! the strong ! 
 Who made that bold diversion 
 
 In old ThermopyUie, 
 And warring with the Persian 
 
 To keep his country free ; 
 With his three hundred waging 
 
 The battle, long he stood. 
 And like a lion raging. 
 
 Expired in seaa of blood. 
 
 Sons of Greeks, etc. 
 
 There Flora all wither'd reposes. 
 
 And mourns o'er thine absence with me 
 
 FRANSLATION OF THE ROJUAIC SONG. 
 
 "MTTfVLi /iff 'rcr' -f'ptfioAi 
 'QpaioraTTi XaT/SI)," &c. 
 I ENTEn thy garden of roses, 
 
 Beloved and fair HaidCe, 
 Eacli morning where Flora reposes, 
 
 For surely I see her in thee. 
 Oh, Lovely ! thus low I implore thee, 
 
 Receive tliis fond truth from my tongue, 
 Wliich utters its song to adore thee, 
 
 Yet trembles for what it has sung ; 
 As the branch, at tlie bidding of Nature, 
 
 Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree, 
 Through her eyes, through her every feature, 
 
 Shines the soul of the young Haid6e. 
 
 But the loveliest garden grows hateful 
 
 When Love has abandon'd the bowers ; 
 Bring me hemlock — since mine is ungrateful, 
 
 That herb is more fragrant than flowers. 
 The poison, when pour'd from the chalice, 
 , Will dee]>ly embitter the bowl ; 
 But wlicn drunk to escape from thy malice, 
 
 Tlie draught shall 1)C sweet to my soul. 
 Too cruel I in vain I implore thee 
 
 My heart from tliese horrors to save : 
 Will naught to my bosom restore thee J 
 
 Then open the gates of the grave. 
 
 As the chief who to combat advances 
 
 Secure of his conquest before. 
 Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances, 
 
 Ilast pierced through my heart to its core. 
 Ah, tell me, my soul ! must I perish 
 
 By pangs which a smile would dispel ? 
 Would the hope, which tliou once bad'st me cher- 
 
 For torture repay me too well ? [ish. 
 
 Now sad is the garden of roses. 
 
 Beloved but fal!'-' Haidfie ! 
 
 ON PARTING. 
 
 The kiss, dear maid 1 thy lip has left 
 
 Shall never part from mine. 
 Till happier hours restore the gift 
 
 Untainted back to thine. 
 
 Thy parting glance, which fondly beams. 
 
 An equal love may see : 
 Tlie tear that from thine eyelid streams 
 
 Can weep no change in me. 
 
 I ask no jjledge to make me blest 
 
 In gazing when alone ; 
 Nor one memorial for a breast. 
 
 Whose thoughts are all thine own. 
 
 Nor need I write — to tell the tale 
 
 My pen were doubly weak : 
 Oh ! wliat can idle words avail. 
 
 Unless the heart could speak ? 
 
 By day or night, in weal or wo. 
 
 That lieart, no longer free, 
 Must bear the love it cannot show, 
 
 And silent, ache for thee. 
 
 March, ISll 
 
 EPITAPH FOR JOSEPH BLACKETT, 
 
 L.\TE POET AXD SHOEMAKEK. 
 
 Stranger ! behold, interr'd together, 
 
 The souls of learning and of leather. 
 
 Poor Joe is gone, but left his all : 
 
 You'll find his relics in a stall. 
 
 His works were neat, and often found 
 
 Well stitclfd, and -n-ith mnrocrn bound. 
 
 Tread lightly — wliere the bard is laid 
 
 He cannot mend tlic shoe he made ; 
 
 Yet is he happy in his hole. 
 
 With verse immortal as his sole. 
 
 But still to business he held fast. 
 
 And stuck to Phoebus to the last. 
 
 Then who shall say so good a fellow 
 
 Was only " leather and prunella ?" 
 
 For character — he did not lack it ; 
 
 And if he did, 'twere shame to " Black-it." 
 
 Malta. J/ay IC, 1811 
 
 FAREWELL TO MALTA. 
 
 Adieu, ye joys of La Valettc 1 
 
 Adieu, sirocco, sun, and sweat! 
 
 Adieu, thou palace rarely enter'd ! 
 
 Adieu, ye mansions where — I've ventured I 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES. 
 
 533 
 
 Adieu, ye cursed streets of stairs ! 
 
 (How surel)' he who mounts you swears !) 
 
 Adieu, ye merchants often failing ! 
 
 Adieu, thou mob forever railing ! 
 
 Adieu, ye packets — without letters ! 
 
 Adieu, ye fools — ^wiio ape your betters ! 
 
 Adieu, thou damnedest quarantine. 
 
 That gave me fever, and the spleen ! 
 
 Adieu that stage which makes us yawn. Sirs, 
 
 Adieu his Excellency's dancers ! 
 
 Adieu to Peter — whom no fault 's in, 
 
 But could not teach a colonel waltzing ; 
 
 Adieu, ye females fraught with graces ! 
 
 Adieu red coats, and redder faces I 
 
 Adieu the supercilious air 
 
 Of all that strut •• en militaire !" 
 
 I go — but God knows when, or why, 
 
 To smoky towns and cloudy sky. 
 
 To things (the honest truth to say) 
 
 As bad — but in a diflerent way. 
 
 Farewell to these, but not adieu, 
 Triumphant sons of truest blue ! 
 While either Adriatic shore. 
 And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more. 
 And nightly smiles, and daily dinners. 
 Proclaim you war and women's winners. 
 Pardon my JIuse, who apt to prate is. 
 And take my rhyme — because 'tis " gratis." 
 
 And now I've got to Jlrs. Fraser, 
 Perhaps you think I mean to jiraise her — 
 And were I vain enough to think 
 lly praise was worth this drojj of ink, 
 A line — or two — were no hard matter, 
 As here, indeed, I need not flatter : 
 But she must be content to shine 
 In better praises than in mine. 
 With lively air, and open heart, 
 And fashion's ease, without its art ; 
 Her hours can gayly glide along. 
 Nor ask the aid of idle song. 
 
 And now, O Malta ! since thou 'st got us, 
 Thou little military hothouse ! 
 I'U not ofi'end with words uncivil. 
 And wish tliee rudely at the Devil, 
 But only stare from out my casement, 
 And ask, for what is such a place meant 3 
 Then, in my solitary nook. 
 Return to scribbling, or a book. 
 Or take my physic while I'm able, 
 (Two spoonfuls hourly by the label,) 
 Prefer my nightcap to my beaver. 
 And bless the gods — I've got a fever ! 
 
 May 26, 1811 . [First published, 183S.1 
 
 TO DIVES. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Unhappy Dives ! in an evil hour 
 'Gainst Nature's voice seduced to deeds accr.rscd ! 
 Once Fortune's minion, now thou feel'st her power 
 Wrath's vial on thy lofty head hath burst. 
 In Wit, in Genius, as in Wealth the tirst, 
 How wondrous bright thy blooming mom arose ! 
 But thou wert smitten with th' unhallowd thirst 
 Of Crime unnamed, and thy sad noon must close 
 In scorn, and solitude unsought, the worst of woes. 
 ISll. [First publislied, ISJa.] 
 
 ON MOORE'S LAST OPERATIC FARCE, OR 
 FARCICAL OPERA. 
 Good i)lays are scarce. 
 So Moore writes farce : 
 The poet's fame grows brittle — 
 We kne\^ before 
 That Little 's Moore, 
 But now 'tis Moore that 's little. 
 
 Sept. 14, 1811. [First published, 1S80.] 
 
 EPISTLE TO A FRIEND, 
 
 IN ANSWER TO SOME LINES ESHOKTING THE A'r^TPPB 
 TO BE CHEERFUL, AND TO " BANISH CARE. ' 
 
 " Oh ! banish care " — such ever be 
 The motto of thy revelry 1 
 Perchance of miiic, when wassail nights, 
 Renew those riotous delights. 
 Wherewith the children of Despair 
 Lull the lone heart, and " banish care." 
 But not in morn's reflecting hour, 
 When present, past, and future lower, 
 ■When all I loved is changed or gone. 
 Mock with such taunts the woes of one, 
 Whose every thought — but let them pa-ss- 
 Thou know'st I am not what I was. 
 But, above all, if thou wouldst hold 
 Place in a heart that ne'er was cold, 
 By all the powers that men revere, 
 By all unto thy bosom dear. 
 Thy joys below, thy hopes above, 
 Speak — speak of any thing but love 
 
 'Twere long to teU, and vain to bear, 
 The tale of one who scorns a tear ; 
 And there is little in that tale 
 Wliich better bosoms would bewail ; 
 But mine has suft'er'd more than weL 
 'Twould suit philosophy to tell. 
 I've seen my bride another's bride, — 
 Have seen her seated by his side, — 
 
i>34 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS, 
 
 Have seen the infant, wbich she bore, 
 Wear the sweet smile the mother wore. 
 Wlien she and I in youth have smiled, 
 As fond and faultless as her child ; — 
 Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain, 
 Ask if I felt no secret pain ; 
 And /have acted well my part, 
 And made my cheek belie my heart, 
 Return'd the freezing glance she gave, 
 Yet felt the while tliat woman's slave ; — 
 Have kiss'd, as if without design, 
 The babe which ought to have lieen mine ; 
 And show'd, alas ! in each caress 
 Time had not made me love the less. 
 
 But let this pass — I'll whine no more, 
 Nor seek again an eastern shore ; 
 The world befits a busy brain, — 
 111 hie me to its haunts again. 
 But if, in some succeeding year, 
 When Britain's " May is in the sere," 
 Thou hear'st of one, whose deepening crimes 
 Suit with the sablcst of the times ; 
 O f one, whom love nor pity sways, 
 Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise ; 
 One, who in stern ambition's pride. 
 Perchance not blood shall turn aside ; 
 One rank'd in some recording page 
 With the worst anarchs of the age ; — 
 Him wilt thou l-now — and knowing pause. 
 Nor with the effect forget the cause. 
 
 Newstead .\bbey, Oct. 11, 1811. 
 [First poblished, 1830.] 
 
 TO THYRZA. 
 
 WrrnouT a stone to mark the spot. 
 And say, what Truth might well have said, 
 
 By all, save one, perchance forgot, 
 Ah ! wherefore art thou lowly laid ? 
 
 By many a shore and many a sea 
 
 Divided, yet beloved in vain ; 
 The past, the future fled to thee, 
 
 To bid us meet — no — ne'er again ! 
 
 Could this have been — a word, a look, 
 
 That softly said, " Wo part in peace," 
 Had taught my bosom how to brook. 
 With fiinter signs, thy soul's release. 
 
 And didst thou not, since Death for thee 
 Prepared a light and pangless dart. 
 
 Once long for him thou ne'er shalt see. 
 Who held, and holds thee in his heart ? 
 
 Oh I who like him had watch'd thee here I 
 
 Or sadly mark'd thy glazing eye, 
 
 In that dread hour ere death appear, 
 
 Wlien silent sorrow fears to sigh. 
 
 Till all was past ! But when no more 
 'Twas thine to reck of human wo, 
 
 Afl'ection's heart-drops, gushing o'er, 
 Had flow'd as fast — as now they flow. 
 
 Shall they not flow, when many a day 
 In these, to me. deserted towers, 
 
 Ere call'd Init for a time away, 
 
 Afl'ection's mingling tears were ours ? 
 
 Ours too the glance none saw beside ; 
 
 The smile none else might understand ; 
 The whispcr'd thought of hearts allied, 
 
 The pressure of the thrilling hand ; 
 
 The kiss, so guiltless and refined. 
 
 That Love each warmer wish forbore ; 
 
 Those eyes proclaim'd so pure a mind. 
 Even passion blush'd to plead for more. 
 
 The tone, that taught me to rejoice. 
 When prone, unlike thee, to repine ; 
 
 The song, celestial from thy voice. 
 
 But sweet to me from none but thine ; 
 
 The pledge we wore — I wear it still. 
 
 But where is thine ? — Ah ! where art thou I 
 
 Oft have I liorne the weight of ill. 
 But never bent beneath till now ! 
 
 Well hast thou left in life's best bloom 
 
 The cup of wo for me to drain. 
 If rest alone be in the tomb, 
 
 I would not wish thee here again ; 
 
 But if in worlds more blest than this 
 
 Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere, 
 Impart some portion of thy bliss. 
 
 To wean me from mine anguish here. 
 
 Teach me — too early taught by thee I 
 To bear, forgiving and forgiven : 
 
 On earth thy love was such to me ; 
 It fain would form my hope in heaven 
 
 October V . 1811 
 
 AWAY, AWAY, YE NOTES OF WO I 
 
 4. WAT, away, ye notes of wo ! 
 
 Be silent, thou once soothing strain. 
 Or I must flee Irom hence — for, oli ! 
 
 I dare not trust those sounds again. 
 To me they speak of brighter days — 
 
 But lull the chords, for now, alas I 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES. 
 
 53fl 
 
 I must not think, I may not gaze, 
 Ou -what I am — on what I was. 
 
 The voice that made tliose sounds more sweet 
 
 Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled ; 
 And now their softest notes repeat 
 
 A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead ! 
 Yes, Thyrza ! yes, they breathe of thee, 
 
 Beloved dust ! since dust thou art ; 
 And all that once was harmony 
 
 Is worse than discord to my heart ! 
 
 'Tis silent all ! — but on my ear 
 
 The well-remember'd echoes thriU ; 
 I hear a voice I would not hear, 
 
 A voice tliat now might well be still : 
 Tet oft my doubting soul 'twill shake ; 
 
 Even slumber owns its gentle tone, 
 Till consciousness will vainly wake 
 
 To listen, though the dream be flown. 
 
 Sweet Thvrza ! waking as in sleep. 
 
 Thou art but now a lovely dream ; 
 A star that trembled o'er the deep, 
 
 Then turn'd from earth its tender beam. 
 But he who through life's dreary way 
 
 Must pass, when heaven is veil'd in wrath. 
 Will long lament the vanish'd ray 
 
 That scatter' d gladness o'er his path. 
 
 December 6, 1811. 
 
 ONE STRUGGLE MORE, AND I AM. FREE. 
 
 One struggle more, and I am free 
 
 From pangs that rend my heart in twain ; 
 One last long sigh to love and thee, 
 
 Then back to liusy life again. 
 It suits me well to mingle now 
 
 With things that never pleased before : 
 Though every joy is fled below, 
 
 WTiat future grief can touch me more ? 
 
 Then bring me wine, the banquet bring ; 
 
 Man was not form'd to live alone : 
 I'll be that light, unmeaning thing, 
 
 That smiles with all, and weeps with none. 
 It was not thus in days more dear. 
 
 It never would have been, but thou 
 Hast fled, and left me lonely here ; 
 
 Thou 'rt nothing, — all are nothing now. 
 
 In vain my lyre would lightly breathe ! 
 
 The smile that sorrow fain would wear 
 But mocks the wo that lurks beneath, 
 
 Like roses o'er a sepulchre. 
 Though gay companions o'er the bowl 
 
 Dispel awhile the sense of ill ; 
 
 Though pleasure fires the maddening souL 
 The heart — the heart is lonely still ! 
 
 On many a lone and lovely night 
 
 It soothed to gaze ujjon the sky ; 
 For then I deem'd tlie heavenly light 
 
 Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye : 
 And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon. 
 
 When sailing o'er the ^Egean wave, 
 " Now ThT,Tza gazes on that moon — " 
 
 Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave ! 
 
 When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed. 
 And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins 
 
 " 'Tis comfort still," I faintly said, 
 " That Thyrza cannot know my pains :" 
 
 Like freedom to the time-worn slave, 
 A boon 'tis idle then to give. 
 
 Relenting Nature vainly gave 
 
 My life, when Thyrza ceased to live 1 
 
 My Thyrza's pledge in better days. 
 
 When love and life alike were new ! 
 How diflerent now thou meet'st my gaze '. 
 
 How tinged 1:iy time with sorrow's hue I 
 The heart that gave itself with thee 
 
 Is silent — ah, were mine as stiU ! 
 Though cold as e'en the dead can be, 
 
 It feels, it sickens with the cliill. 
 
 Thou bitter pledge ! thou mournful token I 
 
 Though painful, welcome to my brcaSt ! 
 Still, still, preserve that love unbroken. 
 
 Or break the heart to which thou'rt pr'-as'd 
 Time tempers love, but not removes. 
 
 More hallow'd when its hope is fled : 
 Oh ! what are thousand living loves 
 
 To that which cannot quit the dead ? 
 
 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 When Time, or soon or late, shall bring 
 The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead. 
 
 Oblivion ! may thy languid wing 
 Wave gently o'er my dying bed! 
 
 No band of friends or heirs be there. 
 
 To weep or wish the coming blow . 
 No maiden, with dishevell'd hair. 
 
 To feel, or feign, decorous wo. 
 
 But silent let me sink to earth. 
 With no ofiicious mourners near : 
 
 I would not mar one hour of mirth, 
 Nor startle friendship with a tear. 
 
 Tet Love, if Love in such an hour 
 Could nobly check its useless sighs, 
 
536 
 
 BTHON'S WORKS. 
 
 Slight tlien exert its latest power 
 In lier who lives and him who dies. 
 
 'Twere sweet, my Psyche ! to the last 
 
 Thy features still serene to see : 
 Forgetful of its struggles past. 
 
 E'en Pain itself should smile on thee 
 
 But vain the wish — for Beauty stif. 
 
 Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath ; 
 And woman's tears, produced at wiU, 
 
 Deceive in life, unman in death. 
 
 Then lonely be my latest hour, 
 Without regret, without a groan ; 
 
 For thousands Death hath ceased to lower, 
 And pain been transient or unknown. 
 
 " Ay, but to die, and go," alas ! 
 
 Where all have gone, and all must go I 
 To be the nothing that I was 
 
 Ere born to life and living wo ! 
 
 Count oVr the joys thine hours have seen. 
 Count o'er thy days from anguish free, 
 
 And know, \Yhatever thou hast been, 
 'Tis something better not to be. 
 
 AND THOU ART DEAD, 
 AS FAIR. 
 
 AS YOUNG 
 
 ** neu, qnanto minus est cum reliquis versari qaam tul 
 nieminisse I" 
 
 And thou art dead, as young and fair 
 
 As aught of mortal birth ; 
 And form so soft, and charms so rare. 
 
 Too soon rcturn'd to Eartli ! 
 Though Earth received them in her bed, 
 And o'er the spot the crowd may tread 
 
 In carelessness or mirth. 
 There is an eye which could not brook 
 A moment on that grave to look. 
 
 I will not ask where thou licst low. 
 
 Nor gaze upon the spot ; 
 There flowers or weeds at will may grow, 
 
 So I behold them not : 
 It is enough for me to prove 
 That what I loved, and long must love, 
 
 Like common earth can rot ; 
 To me there needs no stone to tell, 
 'Tis Nothing that I loved so well. 
 
 Yet did t love thee to the last 
 
 As fervently as thou. 
 Who didst not change through all the past. 
 
 And canst not alter now. 
 
 The love where Death has set his seal, 
 Nor age can chiU, nor rival steal, 
 
 Nor falsehood disavow : 
 And, what were worse, thou caust not see 
 Or wrong, or change, or fault in me 
 
 The better days of life were ours ; 
 
 The worst can be but mine : 
 The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers^ 
 
 Shall never more be thine. 
 The silence of tliat dreamless sleep 
 I envy now too much to weep ; 
 
 Nor need I to repine 
 That all those charms have pass'd away 
 I might have watch'd through long decay. 
 
 The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd 
 
 Must fall the earliest prey ; 
 Though by no hand untimely snatch'd, 
 
 The leaves must drop away : 
 And yet it were a greater grief 
 To watch it withering, leaf by leaf. 
 
 Than see it pluck'd to-day ; 
 Since earthly eye but ill can bear 
 To trace the change to foul from fair. 
 
 I know not if I could have borne 
 
 To see thy lieauties fade ; 
 The night that folio w'd such a mom 
 
 Had worn a deeper shade : 
 Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd, 
 And thou wert lovely to the hist ; 
 
 Extiuguish'd, not decay "d ; 
 As stars that shoot along the skv 
 Shine brightest as they fall from high. 
 
 As once I vrept, if I could weep. 
 
 My tears might well be shed, 
 To think I was not near to keep 
 
 One vigil o'er thy bed ; 
 To gaze, how fondly ! on thy face. 
 To fold thee in a faint embrace. 
 
 Uphold thy drooping head ; 
 And show that love, however vain. 
 Nor thou nor I can feel again. 
 
 Yet how much less it were to gain, 
 
 Tliough thou hast left me tree. 
 The loveliest things that still remain. 
 
 Than thus remember thee ! 
 The all of thine that cannot die 
 Through dark and dread Eternity 
 
 Returns again to me. 
 And more thy buried love endears 
 Than aught, except its living years. 
 
 Februarv, IStl 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES. 
 
 637 
 
 CP SO>IETDIES m THE BLiUNTS OF MEN. 
 Lf sometimes in tlie haunts of men 
 
 Thine image from my breast may fade, 
 The lonely hour presents again 
 
 The semblance of thy gentle shade : 
 And now that sad and silent hour 
 
 Thus much of thee can still restore, 
 And sorrow unobserved may pour 
 
 Tlie plaint she dare not speak before. 
 
 Oh, jjardon that in crowds awhile 
 
 I waste one thought I owe to thee, 
 And, self-condemn'd, appear to smile, 
 
 Unfaithful to thy memory ! 
 Nor deem that memory less dear. 
 
 That then I seem not to repine ; 
 I would not fools should overhear 
 
 One sigh that should be wholly tliine. 
 
 If not the goblet pass unquatf' d, 
 
 It is not drain'd to banish care ; 
 The cup must hold a deadlier draught. 
 
 That brings a Lethe for despair. 
 And could Oblivion set my soul 
 
 From all her trouljled %d3ions free, 
 I'd dash to earth the sweetest bowl 
 
 That drown'd a single thought of thee. 
 
 For wert thou vanishVl from my mind. 
 
 Where could my vacant bosom turn ? 
 And who would then remain behind 
 
 To honor thine abandon'd Urn ? 
 No, no — it is my sorrow's jiride 
 
 That last dear duty to fulfil ; 
 Though all the world forget beside, 
 
 'Tis meet that I remember still. 
 
 For well I know, that such had been 
 
 Tliy gentle care for him, who now 
 Unmourn'd shall quit this mortal scene, 
 
 Where none regarded him, but thou : 
 And, oh, I feel in tknt was given 
 
 A blessing never meant for me ; 
 Thou wert too like a dream of Heaven, 
 
 For earthly Love to merit tliee. 
 
 March 14, 1812. 
 
 ON A CORNELL^N HEART WHICH WAS 
 BROKEN. 
 
 Ill-fated Heart ! and can it be. 
 
 That thou shouldst thua be rent in twain ? 
 
 Have yenrs of care for thine and thee 
 Alike been all employed in vain ? 
 
 Yet precious seems each shatter'd part, 
 And every fragment dearer grown, 
 68 
 
 Since he who wears thee feels thou art 
 A fitter emblem oi his own. 
 
 March IC, 1818. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH. 
 
 ^GLE, beauty and poet, has two little crimes ; 
 She makes her own face, and does not make hel 
 rhymes. 
 
 LINES TO A LADY WEEPING. 
 
 Weep, daughter of a royal line, 
 A Sire's disgrace, a realm's decay ; 
 
 Ah ! happy if each tear of thine 
 Could wash a father's fault away 1 
 
 Weep — for thy tears are Virtue's tears — 
 Auspicious to these suflering isles ; 
 
 And be each drop in future years 
 Repaid thee by thy people's smiles ! 
 
 March, ISia 
 
 THE CHAIN I GAVE. 
 
 From the Turkish. 
 
 The chain I gave was fair to view. 
 The lute I added sweet in sound ; 
 
 The heart that ofFcr'd both was true, 
 And ill deserved the fate it found. 
 
 These gifts were charm'd by secret spell, 
 
 Thy truth in absence to divine ; 
 And they have done their duty well, — 
 
 Alas ! they could not teach thee thine. 
 
 That chain was firm in every link. 
 But not to bear a stranger's touch ; 
 
 That lute was sweet — tiU thou couldst think 
 In other hands its notes were such. 
 
 Let him, who from tliy neck unbound 
 The chain which shiver'd in his grasj). 
 
 Who saw that lute refuse to sound, 
 Restring the chords, renew the clasp. 
 
 When thou wert changed, they alter'd too ; 
 
 The chain is broke, the music mute. 
 'Tis past — to them and thee adieu — 
 
 False heart, frail chain, and silent lute. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN 'ON A BLANK LEAF op 
 THE "PLEASURES OF MEMORY." 
 
 Absent or present, still to thee, 
 
 My friend, what magic spells belong I 
 
 As all can tell, who share, like me. 
 In turn thy converse, and thy song. 
 
r.:{8 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS, 
 
 Rut wlipn the drearlefl hour sliall come 
 By Friendship ever deem'd too niirli, 
 
 And "Memoky" o'er her Druid's tomb 
 Sliall weep that aught of thee can die, 
 
 How fondly will she then repay 
 
 Thy homage offer'd at her shrine, 
 And lilend, while ages roll away, 
 llci- name immortally with thine! 
 
 April 19, 1812. 
 
 iVDDRESS, 
 
 SPOKEN AT TITE OPENING OF DRURY-LANE THEATRE, 
 SATnUDAT, OCTOBER 10, 1813. 
 
 Ln one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd, 
 Bow'd to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride ; 
 In one short hour beheld the blazing fane, 
 Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign. 
 
 Ye who beheld, (oh, sight admired and moum'd. 
 Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn'd !) 
 Through clouds of tire the massy fragments riven. 
 Like Israel's ijillar, chase the night from heaven ; 
 Saw the long coluum of revolving flames 
 Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames, 
 While thousands, throng'd around the burning dome. 
 Shrank back appall'd and trembled for their home, 
 As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone 
 The skies, with lightnings awful as their own, 
 Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall 
 Usurp'd the Jluse's realm, and mark'd her fall ; 
 Say — shall this new, nor less aspiring pile, 
 Kear'd where once rose the mightiest in our isle, 
 Know the same favor which the former knew, 
 A shnue for Shakspeare — worthy Mm and you f 
 
 Yea — it sliaU be — the magic of that name 
 Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame ; 
 On the same spot still consecrates the scene, 
 And bids the Drama be where she hath been : 
 This fabric's birth attests the potent speU — 
 Indulge our honest pride, and say, JIow well ! 
 
 As soars this fane to emulate the last. 
 Oh ! might we draw our omens from the past. 
 Some hour propitious to our prayera may boast 
 Names such as hallow still the dome we lost. 
 On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art 
 O'erwhelm'd the gentlest, storm'd the sternest heart. 
 Ou Drury, Gareick's latest laurels grew ; 
 Here your last tears retiring Koscius drew, 
 Sigh'd his List thanks, and wept his last adieu : 
 But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom. 
 That only waste their odors o'er the tomb. 
 6u('- Drury claim'd and claims — nor you refuse 
 One tribute to renve his slumbering muse ; 
 
 With garlands deck your own Menander's head I 
 Nor hoard your honors idly for the dead I 
 
 Dear are the days which made our annals bright, 
 Ere Garrick fled, or Briusley ceased to write. 
 Heirs to their labors, like all high-bom heirs, 
 Vain of our ancestry as they of thcira ; 
 While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo's glass 
 To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass, 
 And we the mirror holil, where imaged shine 
 Immortal names, emblazon'd on our line. 
 Pause — ere their feebler offspring you condemn, 
 Reflect how hard the task to rival them ! 
 
 Friends of the stage ! to whom both Players anc; 
 !Must sue alike for pardon or for praise, [Plays 
 
 AVhose judging voice and eye alone direct 
 The boundless power to cherish or reject ; 
 If e'er frivolity has led to fame, 
 And made us blush that you forbore to blame ; 
 If e'r the sinking stage could condescend 
 To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend, 
 jVH past reproach may present scenes refute, 
 And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute ! 
 Oh ! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws, 
 Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause ; 
 So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers, 
 And reason's voice be eclio'd back by ours ! 
 
 This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obcy'd, 
 The Drama's homage by her herald paid, 
 Hcceivo our welcome too, whose every tone 
 Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your 
 The curtain rises — may our stage unfold [own. 
 
 Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old ! 
 Britons our judges. Nature for our guide. 
 Still may we please — long, long may yon preside I 
 
 PARENTHETICAL ADDRESS. 
 
 BY DR. PLAGIARY. 
 
 Ba\f stolen, with ncknoivlcdgmcnts, to be spoken in an inartien- 
 iate voice by Master P. at the opening of the nest new theatre. 
 Stolen parts marked with the inverted commas of quotation— 
 thus " ". 
 
 " When energizing objects men pursue," 
 Then Lord knows what is writ by Lord knows who 
 " A modest monologue you here survey," 
 Hiss'd from the theatre the " other day," 
 As if Sir Fretful wrote " the slumberous" verse, 
 And gave his son " the rubbish " to rehearse. 
 "Yet at th. thi«g you'd never be amazed," 
 Knew you the rumpus which the author raised ; 
 '■Nor ev%n here your smi'es would be repress'd," 
 Knew you these lines — the badness of the best. 
 " Flame ! flre ! and flame ! 1" (words borrow'd frora 
 Lucretius,) 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES. 
 
 539 
 
 ■•' Dread metaplinrs which open wounds" like issues ! 
 
 " And sleeping pangs awake — and — but away," 
 
 (Confound me if I know what next to say.) 
 
 "Lo Hope reviving re-expands lier wings," 
 
 And Master G — recites what Doctor Busby sings ! 
 
 " If mighty things with small we may compare," 
 
 (Translated from the grammar for the fair !) 
 
 Dramatic '■ spirit drives a conquering car," 
 
 And burn'd poor Moscow like a tub of '' tar." 
 
 " This spirit Wellington lias shown in Spain," 
 
 To furnish melodrames for Drury Lane. 
 
 " Another Marlborough points to Blenheim's story," 
 
 And George and I will dramatize it for ye. 
 
 "In arts and sciences our isle hath shone," 
 
 (This deep discovery is mine alone.) 
 
 " Oh, British poesy, whose powers insjjire " 
 
 My verse — or I'm a fool — and Fame 's a liar, 
 
 "Thee we invoke, your sister arts implore" 
 
 With " smiles," and " lyres," and " pencils," and 
 
 much more. 
 These, if we win the Graces, too, we gain 
 Disgraces, too \ '■ inseparable train !" [Cupid," 
 
 "Three who have stolen their witching airs from 
 (You all know what I mean, unless you're stupid :) 
 " Harmonious throng" that I have kept iu petto. 
 Now to produce in a " divine ses'etto " .' .' 
 " While Poesy," with these delightful doxies, 
 " Sustains her part" in all the " upper" boxes ! 
 " Thus lifted gloriously, you'll soar along," 
 Borne in the vast balloon of Busby's song ; 
 " Shine in your farce, masque, scenery, and play," 
 (For this last line George had a holiday.) 
 " Old Drury never, never soar'd so high," 
 So says the manager, and so say I. 
 " But hold, you say, this self-complacent boast ;" 
 Is this the poem w'hich the public lost ? 
 "True — true — that lowers at once our mounting 
 But lo 1 — the papers print what you deride, [pride ;" 
 " 'Tis ours to look on you — you hold the prize," 
 'Tis (loeidy gvineax, as they advertise ! 
 "A double blessing your rewards impart" — 
 I wish I had them, then, with all my heart. 
 " Our twofold feeling otcns its twofold cause," 
 Why son and I both beg for your applause. 
 "Wlien in your fostering beams you bid us Uve," 
 My nest subscription Ust shall say how much you 
 
 give ! 
 
 October, 1812. 
 
 VERSES FOUND IN A SU3DIER-HOUSE 
 AT HALES-OWEN. 
 
 When Dryden's fool, "unknowing what He sought," 
 His hours in whistling spent, " for want of thought," 
 Tliis guiltless oaf his vacancy of sense 
 Sujiplied, and amply too, by innocence ; 
 
 Did modern swains, posscs3'd of Cymon's powers, 
 In Cymon's manner waste their leisure hours, 
 Th' offended guests would not, with blushing, see 
 These fair green walks disgraced by infomy. 
 Severe the fate of modem fools, alas ! 
 When vice and folly mark them as they pass. 
 Like noxious reptiles o'er the whiten'd wall. 
 The filth they leave still points out where they crawl 
 
 REMEMBER THEE! REJIEMBER THEE 
 
 REME^rBEK thee ! remember thee ! 
 
 Till Lethe quench hfe's burning stream 
 Remorse and shame shall cling to thee, 
 
 And haunt thee like a feverish dream I 
 
 Remember thee ! Ay, doubt it not. 
 Thy husband too shall think of thee : 
 
 By neither shait thou be forgot. 
 
 Thou /ate to him, t\iQ\i. fiend to me 1 
 
 TO TIME. 
 
 TntE ! on whose arbitrary wing 
 The varjdng hours must flag or fly, 
 
 Wliose tardy winter, fleeting sjjring, 
 But drag or drive us on to die — 
 
 Hail thou ! who on my birth bestow'd 
 Those boons to all that know thee kncwn ; 
 
 Yet better I sustain thy load. 
 For now I bear the weight alone. 
 
 I would not one fond heart should share 
 The bitter moments thou hast given ; 
 
 And pardon thee, since thou couldst spare 
 All that I loved, to peace or heaven. 
 
 To them be joy or rest, on me 
 
 Thy future ills shall press in vain : 
 
 I nothing owe but years to thee, 
 A debt already paid in pain. 
 
 Yet even that pain was some rehef ; 
 
 It felt, but still forgot thy power : 
 The active agony of grief 
 
 Retards, but never counts the hour. 
 
 In joy I've sigh'd to think thy flight 
 Would soon subside from s-n-ift to slow; 
 
 Thy cloud could overcast the light. 
 But could not add a night to wo ; 
 
 For then, however drear and dark. 
 
 My soul was suited to thy sky ; 
 One star alone shot forth a spark 
 
 To prove thee — not Etei Aity. 
 
S'lO 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 That beam hath sunk, and now thou art 
 A bhiiik ; a thinj^ to count and curse, 
 
 Through eacli dull tedious trifling part, 
 Which all regret, yet all rehearse. 
 
 One scene even thou canst not deform ; 
 
 The limit of thy sloth or speed 
 "When future wanderers bear the storm 
 
 Which we shall sleej^ too sound to heed : 
 
 And I can amile to think how weak 
 Thine eflorts shortly shall be shown, 
 
 When all the vengeance thou canst wreak 
 Must fall upon — a nameless stone. 
 
 TRANSLATION OP A ROMAIC LOVE SONG. 
 
 An ! Love was never yet without 
 The pang, the agony, the doubt, 
 Wliich rends ray heart with ceaseless sigh, 
 Wliile day and night roll darkling by. 
 
 Without one friend to hear my wo, 
 I faint, I die beneath the blow. 
 That Love liad arrows, well I knew ; 
 Alas 1 I lind them poison'd too. 
 
 Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net 
 Which Love around j'our haunts hath set ; 
 Or, circled by his fatal tire. 
 Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire. 
 
 A bird of free and careless wing 
 Was I, through many a smiling spring ; 
 But caught within the subtle snare 
 I burn, and feebly flutter there. 
 
 Wlio ne'er have loved, and loved in vain, 
 Can neither feel nor pity pain, 
 The cold repulse, the look askance. 
 The lightning of Love's angry glance. 
 
 In flattering dreams I deem'd thee mine ; 
 Now hope, and he who hoped, decline ; 
 Like melting wax, or withering flower, 
 I feel my passion, and thy power. 
 
 My light of life ! ah ! tell me why 
 
 That pouting lip, and alter'd eye ? 
 
 My bird of love ! my beauteous mate 1 
 
 And art thou changed, and canst thou hate ? 
 
 Mine eyes like wintry streams o'crflow : 
 What wretch with me would barter wo ? 
 My bird I relent : one note could give 
 A oliarm. to l)id thy lover live. 
 
 My curdling blood, my madd'ning brain, 
 In silent anguish I sustain ; 
 And still thy heart, without partaking 
 One pang, exults — while mine is breaking. 
 
 Pour me the poison ; fear not thou ! 
 Thou canst not murder more than now : 
 I've lived to curse my natal day, 
 And Love, that thus can lingering slay. 
 
 My wounded soul, my bleeding breast, 
 Can patience preach thee into rest ? 
 Alas ! too late, I dearly know 
 That joy is harbinger of wo. 
 
 THOU ART NOT FALSE, BUT THOU 
 ART FICKLE. 
 
 Thou art not false, but thou art fickle, 
 To those thyseb'so fondly sought ; 
 
 The tears that thou hast forced to trickle 
 Are doubly Ijitter from that thought : 
 
 'Tis this which breaks the heart thou grievest, 
 
 Too well thou lov'st — too soon thou leavest. 
 
 The wholly false the heart despises. 
 
 And spurns deceiver and deceit ; 
 But she who not a thought disguises. 
 
 Whose love is as sincere as sweet, — 
 When she can change who loved so truly. 
 It feels what mine has felt so bewly. 
 
 To dream of joy and wake to sorrow 
 Is doom'd to all who love or live ; 
 
 And ii^ when conscious on the morrow. 
 We scarce our fancy can forgive. 
 
 That cheated us in slumber only, 
 
 To leave the waking soul more lonely. 
 
 Wiat must they feel whom no false vision, 
 But truest, tenderest passion warm'd ? 
 
 Sincere, but swift in sad transition ; 
 As if a dream alone had charm'd ? 
 
 Ah ! sure such grief is fancy's scheming, 
 
 And all thy change can be but dreaming 1 
 
 ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE 
 "ORIGIN OF LOVE." 
 
 The " Origin of Love !" — Ah I why 
 
 That cruel question ask of me, 
 Wlien thou mayst read in many an eye 
 
 lie starts to life on seeing thee ? 
 
 And shouldst thou seek his end to know : 
 My heart forbodes, my fears foresee. 
 
 He'll linger long in silent wo ; 
 But live — until I cease to be. 
 
^^i^- /-/i<r*^ a-c 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES. 
 
 541 
 
 REJIEMBER HIM. WHOM PASSION'S 
 POWER. 
 
 Remember him, wliom passion's poiver 
 Severely, deeply, vainly pi'oved : 
 
 Remember thou that dangerous hour 
 
 WTien neither fell, though both were loved. 
 
 That yielding breast, that melting eye, 
 Too much invited to be bless.'d : 
 
 That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh, 
 The wilder wish reproved, repress'd. 
 
 Oh ! let me feel that all I lost 
 
 But saved thee all that conscience fears ; 
 And blush for every pang it cost 
 
 To spare the vain remorse of years. 
 
 Yet think of this when many a tongue, 
 Whose busy accents whisper blame. 
 
 Would do the heart that loved thee wrong. 
 And brand a nearly blighted name. 
 
 Think that, whate'cr to others, thou 
 
 Hast seen each seltish thought subdued : 
 
 I bless thy purer soul even now, 
 Even now, in midnight solitude. 
 
 O God ! that we had met in time. 
 
 Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free ; • 
 When thou hadst loved without a crime. 
 
 And I been less unworthy thee ! 
 
 For may thy days, as heretofore. 
 From this our gaudy world be pass'd ! 
 
 And that too bitter moment o'er, 
 Oh, may such trial be thy last ! 
 
 This heart, alas ! perverted long. 
 Itself destroy'd might there destroy ; 
 
 To meet thee in the glittering throng. 
 Would wake Presumption's hope of joy. 
 
 Then to the things whose bliss or wo. 
 Like mine, is wild and worthless all. 
 
 That world resign — such scenes forego. 
 Where those who feel must surely faU. 
 
 Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness. 
 Thy soul from long seclusion pure ; 
 
 From what even here hath pass'd, may guess 
 What here thy bosom must endure. 
 
 Oh ! pardon that imploring tear, 
 Since not liy Virtue shed in vain. 
 
 My phrenzy drew from eyes so dear ; 
 For me they shall not weep again. 
 
 Though long and mournful must it be. 
 The thought that we no more may meet ; 
 
 Yet I deserve the stern decree. 
 
 And almost deem the sentence sweet 
 
 Still, had I loved thee less, my heart 
 Had then less sacrificed to thine ; 
 
 It felt not half so much to part, 
 As if its guilt had made thee mine. 
 
 181f 
 
 ON LORD THURLOW'S POEMS. 
 
 When Thurlow this damn'd nonsense sent, 
 
 (I hope I am not violent,) 
 
 Nor men nor gods knew what he meant. 
 
 And since not ev'n our Rogers' praise 
 To common sense his thoughts could raise — 
 Why icould they let him print his lays ? 
 ***** 
 
 ^ 3|C ^ ^ 3f; 
 
 To me, divine Apollo, grant — O ! 
 Ilermi Ida's first and second canto, 
 I'm fitting up a new portmanteau ; 
 
 And thus to furnish decent lining. 
 
 My own and others' bays I'm twining — 
 
 So, gentle Thuriow, throw me thine in. 
 
 TO LORD THURLOW. 
 
 " I lay my branch of laurel down, 
 Then thus to form .\po]Io's crown 
 Let every other bring his own." 
 
 Lord Thurtow's lines to Mr. jRogen. 
 
 " / Jay my branch of laurel down." 
 Thoit "lay thy branch of laurel down !" 
 
 Wliy, what thou'st stole is not enow ; 
 And, were it lawfully thine own. 
 
 Does Rogers want it most, or thou ? 
 Keep to thyself thy wither'd bough. 
 
 Or send it back to Doctor Donne : 
 Were justice done to both, I trow. 
 
 He'd have but little, and thou — none. 
 
 ■'•Then thus to form ApoUo^a crown.* 
 A crown ! why, twist it how you will. 
 Thy chaplet must lie foolscap stiU. 
 When next you visit Delphi's town, 
 
 Inquire amongst your fellow-lodgers. 
 They'll tell you Pha?bus gave his crown. 
 
 Some years before your birth, to Rogers. 
 
 "ic< etei-y other l/riiiij his oion." 
 When coals to Newcastle are carried, 
 And owls sent to Athens, as wonders, 
 
fi42 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 F'om his spouse when the Regent 's unmarried, 
 Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blunders ; 
 
 "Wlicn Tories and Wliigs cease to quarrel, 
 When Castlereagir* wife has an heir. 
 
 Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel. 
 And thou shalt have plenty to spare. 
 
 TO THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 WKITTEN TUB EVENING BEFORE HIS VISIT TO MR. 
 LEIGH HUNT IN HORSEMONGER-LANE JAIL, MAT 
 19, 1813. 
 
 you, who in all names can tickle the town, 
 Anacreon, Tom Little, Tom Moore, or Tom Brown, — 
 For hang me if I know of which you may most 
 
 brag, [R!ig ; 
 
 Your Quarto two-pounds, or your Two-penny Post 
 
 But now to my letter, — to yonr-'t 'tis an answer — 
 To-morrow l>e with me, as soon as you can, sir. 
 All ready and dress'd for proceeding to spunge on 
 (According to compact) the wit in the dungeon — 
 Pray Phwlms at length our political malice 
 May not get us lodgings within the same palace ! 
 
 1 suppose tliat to-night you're engaged with some 
 
 codgers. 
 And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sam Rogers; 
 And I, though with cold I have nearly my death got. 
 Must put on my breeches, and wait on the Heathcote, 
 But to-morrow, at four, we will both play the Sciirra, 
 And you'll be Catullus, the Regent Jlnmurra. 
 
 [First published 1830.] 
 
 IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND. 
 
 When, from the heart where Sorrow sits. 
 
 Her dusky shadow mounts too high. 
 And o'er the changing aspect flits. 
 
 And clouds the brow, or fills the eye ; 
 Heed not that gloom, which soon shall sink : 
 
 My thoughts their dungeon know too well ; 
 Back to my breast the wanderers shrink. 
 
 And droop within their silent cell. 
 
 September, 1813. 
 
 SONNET TO GENEVRA. 
 
 Thine eyes' blue tenderness, Ihy long fair hair. 
 And the wan lustre of thy features — caught 
 From contemplation — where serenely wrought, 
 
 Seems Sorrow's softness charm'd from its despair — 
 
 Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air. 
 That — but I know thy blessed bosom fraught 
 With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thought — 
 
 I should have deem'd thee dooni'd to earthly care. 
 
 With such an aspect, by his colors blent, 
 
 When from his beauty-breathing pencil born, 
 
 (Except that thou hast nothing to repent,) 
 
 The Magdalen of Guido saw the mom — 
 Such seem'st thou — -but how mucli more excellent I 
 With naught Remorse can claim — nor Virtue scorn 
 
 December 17, 1818. 
 
 SONNET, TO THE SAME. 
 
 Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from wo, 
 And yet so lovely, that if Jlirth could flush 
 Its rose of whiteness with the lirightest blush. 
 
 My heart would wish away that ruder glow : 
 
 And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes — but, oh ! 
 While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush. 
 And into mine my mother's weakness rush. 
 
 Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow. 
 
 For, through thy long dark lashes low depending 
 The soul of melancholy Gentleness 
 
 Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending, 
 Above all pain, yet pitying all distress ; 
 
 At once such majesty with sweetness blending, 
 I worship more, but cannot love thee less. 
 
 December 17, 1818. 
 
 FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 
 
 "TU MI CHAMAS.'' 
 
 In moments to delight devoted, 
 
 " My life !" with tenderest tone, you cry ; 
 
 Dear words ! on which my heart had doted, 
 If youth could neither fade nor die. 
 
 To death even hours like these must roll, 
 Ah ! then repeat those accents never ; 
 
 Or change " my Ufe !" into " my soul I" 
 Which, Uke my love, exists forever. 
 
 ANOTHER VERSION. 
 
 You call me still your life. Oh, change the word- 
 Life is as transient as the inconstant sigli : 
 
 Say rather I'm your soul ; more just that name, 
 For, like the soul, my love can never die. 
 
 THE DEVIL'S DRIVE. 
 
 AN UNFINISHED RHAPSODY. 
 
 The Devil return'd to hell liy two. 
 
 And he stay'd at home till five ; 
 Wlien he dined on some homicides done in rayoilt 
 
 And a rebel or so in an Trisfi stew, 
 And sausages made of a self-slain Jew — 
 And bethought himself what ne.xt to do, 
 
 "And," quoth he, "I'll take a drive. 
 I walk'd in the morning, I'll ride to-night , 
 In darkness my children take most deliulit. 
 
 And I'll see how my favorites thrive. 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES. 
 
 543 
 
 •And what shall I ride in ?" quoth Lucifer then — 
 
 " If I foUow'd ray taste, indeed, 
 I should mount in a wagon of vrounded men, 
 
 And smile to see them bleed. 
 But these will be furnisli'd again and again, 
 
 And at present my purpose is speed ; 
 To see my manor as much as I may, 
 And watch that no souls shall be poach'd away. 
 
 "I have a state-coach at Carlton House, 
 
 A chariot in Seymour Place ; 
 But they're lent to two friends, who make me amends 
 
 By driving my favorite pace ; 
 And they handle their reins with such a grace, 
 I have something for both at the end of their race. 
 
 " So now for the earth to take my chance." 
 
 Then up to the earth sprung he ; 
 And making a jump from Moscow to France, 
 
 He stepp'd across the sea, 
 And rested his hoof on a turnpike road. 
 No very great way from a bishop's abode. 
 
 But first as he flew, I forgot to say. 
 That he hover'd a moment upon his way 
 
 To look upon Leipsic plain ; 
 And so sweet to his eye was its sulphury glare, 
 And so soft to his ear was the cry of despair, 
 
 That he perch'd on a mountain of slain; 
 And he gazed with delight from its growing height, 
 Nor often on earth had he seen such a sight. 
 
 Nor his work done half so well : 
 For the field ran so red with the blood of the dead. 
 
 That it blushed like the waves of hell ! 
 Then loudly, and wildly, and long laugh'd he : 
 " Methinks thev have here little need of me. ? " 
 
 But the softest note th.at soothed his ear 
 
 Was the sound of a widow sighing : 
 And the sweetest sight was th.e icy tear, 
 Wliich horror froze in the blue eye clear 
 
 Of a maid by her lover lying — 
 As round lier fell her long fair hair ; 
 And she look'd to heaven with that phrenzied air. 
 Which scem'd to ask if a God were there ! 
 And, stretch'd by the wall of a ruin'd hut. 
 With its hollow cheek, and eyes half shut, 
 
 A child of famine dying : 
 And the carnage begun, when resistance is done. 
 
 And the fall of the v.iinlv flving ! 
 
 But the Devil has reach'd our cliffs so white. 
 And what did he there, I pray ? 
 
 If his eyes were good, he but saw by night 
 Wliat we see even lav : 
 
 But he made a tour, and kept a journal 
 
 Of all the wondrous sights nocturnal. 
 
 And he sold it in shares to the Men of the Roir, 
 
 AVlio bid pretty well — but they cheated him, though ! 
 
 The Devil first saw, as he thought, the Mail, 
 
 Its coachman and his coat ; 
 So instead of a pistol he cock'd his tail, 
 
 And seized him by the throat : 
 " Aha !'' quoth he, " what have we here ? 
 'Tis a new barouche, and an ancient peer I" 
 
 So he sat him on his box again, 
 
 And bade him have no fear. 
 But be true to his club and stanch to his rein, 
 
 His brothel, and his beer ; 
 " Next to seeing a lord at the council board, 
 I would rather see him here." 
 
 ****** 
 
 The Devil gat next to Westminster, 
 
 And he turned to " the room" of the Commons; 
 But he heard, as he purposed to enter there, 
 
 That " the Lords " had received a summons ; 
 And he thought, as a " quoniJnm aristocrat," 
 He might peep at the peers, though to hear them 
 
 were flat ; 
 And he walk'd up the house so like one of our own, 
 That they say that he stood pretty near the throne. 
 
 He saw the Lord Liverpool seemingly wise. 
 
 The Lord Westmoreland certainly silly. 
 And Johnny of Norfolk — a man of some size — 
 
 And Chatham, so like his fi-icnd Billy ; 
 And he saw the tears in Lord Eldon's eyes, 
 Because the Catholics would not rise, 
 In<!pite of his prayers and his prophecies ; 
 And he heard — which set Satan himself a staring — 
 A certain Chief Justice say something like sweoxing ; 
 And the Devil was shock'd — and quoth he, " I must 
 For I find we have much better manners below : [go, 
 If thus he harangues when he passes my border. 
 I shall hint to friend 3Ioloch to call him to order." 
 
 WINDSOR POETICS. 
 
 Lines composed on the occasion of his Eoyal Hig:hness the 1 tree 
 Rcg:cnt being seen standing between the Collins of Henry MX 
 and Ciiarles I., in the royai vault at Windsor. 
 
 FAjfFD for contemptuous breach of sacred ties, 
 By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies ; 
 Between them stands another sceptred thing — 
 It moves, it reigns — in all but name, a king ; 
 
 Charles to his people. Henry to his wife, 
 — In him the doulilc tyrant starts to life : 
 Justice and death have mix'd th; ir dust in ain. 
 
>44 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS, 
 
 Each royal vampire wakes to life again. 
 
 All, what can tombs avail I — since these disgorge 
 
 The blood and dust of both — to mould a Georga. 
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 
 
 I SPEAK not, I trace not, I l)reathe not thy name, 
 There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the 
 fame : [part 
 
 But the tear whicli now burns on my cheek may im- 
 The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of heart. 
 
 Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace 
 Were those hours — can their joy or their bitterness 
 cease ? [chain, — 
 
 We repent — we alijure — we will break from our 
 We will part, — we will fly to — unite it again ! 
 
 Oh, thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt ! 
 Forgive me, adored one ! — forsake, if thou wilt ; — 
 But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased, 
 And man shall not lireak it — whatever thou mayst. 
 
 And stem to the haughty, but humble to thee, 
 
 This soul, in its bitterest blackness, shall be ; 
 
 And our days seem as swiff, and our moments more 
 
 sweet, 
 AVith thee by my side, than with worlds at our feet. 
 
 One sigli of thy sorrow, one look of thy love, 
 Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove ; 
 And the heartless may wonder at all I resign— 
 Thy lip shall reply, not to them, but to minr. 
 
 May, 1814. 
 
 ADDRESS INTENDED TO BE RECITED AT 
 THE CALEDONIAN MEETING. 
 
 Who hath not glow'd above the page where fame 
 Hath fix'd high Caledon's unconquer'd name ; 
 The mountain-land which spurn'd the Roman chain. 
 And liaffled back the fiery-crcst«d Dane, 
 Whose briglit claymore and hardihood of hand, 
 No foe could tame— no tyrant could cammand ? 
 That race is gone — but still their children breathe, 
 And glory crowns them with redouljlcd wreath : 
 O'er Gael and Saxon mingling banners shine. 
 And, England ! add their stubborn strength to thine. 
 The blood which flow'd with Wallace flows as free, 
 But now 'tis only shed for fame and thee 1 
 Oh ! pass not by the northern veteran's claim. 
 But give support— the world hath given him fame 1 
 
 The humbler ranks, the lowly brave, who bled 
 WTiile cheerly following where the mighty led— 
 
 Who sleep beneath the undlstinguish'd sod 
 Wliere happier comiadcs in their triumph trod, 
 To us bequeath — "tis all their fate allows — 
 The sireless oflspring and the lonely spouse : 
 She on high Albyn's dusky hills may raise 
 The tearful eye in melancholy gaze, 
 Or view, while shadowy auguries disclose 
 The Highland seer's anticipated woes. 
 The bleeding pliantom of each martial form 
 Dim in tlie cloud, or darkling in the storm ; 
 While sad, she chants the solitary song. 
 The soft lament for him who tarries long — 
 For him, whose distant relics vainly crave 
 The Coronach's wild requiem to the brave ! 
 
 'Tis Heaven — not man — must charm away the wo, 
 Which bursts when Nature's feeUngs newly flow ; 
 Yet tenderness and time may rob the tear 
 Of half its bitterness for one so dear ; 
 A nation's gratitude perchance may spread 
 A thornlcss pillow for the widow'd head ; 
 May lighten well her heart's maternal care, 
 And wean from penury the soldier's heir. 
 
 May, 1814. 
 
 FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE TO THOMAS 
 MOORE. 
 
 " WuAT say /.'" — not a syllable further in prose; 
 I'm your man " of aU measures," dear Tom, — so 
 
 here goes ! 
 Here goes, for a swim on the stream of old Time, 
 On those buoyant sujjporters, tlie bladders of rhyme. 
 If our weiglit breaks them down, and we sink in 
 
 the flood. 
 We are smother'd, at least, in respectable mud, 
 Where the Divers of Bathos lie drown'd in a hoap, 
 And Southey's last Ptean has pillow'd his sleep ; [sey, 
 That " Felo de se " who, half drunk with his n.ahn- 
 Walk'd out of his depth and was lost in a calm sea. 
 Singing " Glory to God " in a spick and span svanza. 
 The like (since Tom Stemhold was choked) never 
 
 man saw. 
 
 Tlie papers have told you, no doubt, of the fusses, 
 The fetes, and the gapings to get at these R isses,— 
 Of his Majesty's suite, up from coachman to Het- 
 
 man, — 
 And what dignity decks the flat face of the great man. 
 I saw him, last week, at two balls and a party,— 
 For a prince, his demeanor was rather too hearty. 
 You know, iK are used to quite dillerent graces, 
 
 * -H * * * * . 
 
 The Czar's look, I own, was much brighter and 
 
 But then he is sadly deficient in whisker ; [brisker. 
 
 And wore l>ut a starless blue coat, and in kersoy- 
 
 -mcre breeches whisk'd round, in a waltz with tha 
 
 Jersey, 
 
OCCASIOlSrAL PIECES. 
 
 545 
 
 Who, lovely as ever, seem'd just as delighted 
 With majesty's presence as those she invited. 
 
 » * 
 
 » * 
 
 June, 1814. 
 
 CONDOLATORY ADDRESS 
 
 ro SAItAH COUXTESS OF JERSEY, ON THE PRrNCE 
 regent's RETURNESG her picture to MRS. MEE. 
 
 When the vain triumph of the imperial lord, 
 Whom servUe Rome obey'd, and yet abhorr'd, 
 Gave to the vulgar gaze each glorious bust, 
 That left a likeness of the brave, or just ; 
 Wliat most admired each scrutinizing eye 
 Of all that drck'd that jwssing pageantry ? 
 What spread from face to face that wondering air ? 
 The thought of Brutus — for his -n-as not there ! 
 That absence proved his worth, — that absence flx'd 
 His memory on the longing mind, unmix'd ; 
 And more decreed his glory to endure, 
 Than all a gold Colossus could secure. 
 
 If thus, fair Jersey, our desiring gaze 
 Search for thy form, in vain and mute amaze. 
 Amidst those pictured charms, whose loveliness. 
 Bright though they be, thine own had render'd less ; 
 If he, that vain old man, whom truth admits 
 Heir of his father's crown, and of his wits, 
 If his corrupted eye, and wither'd heart, 
 Could with thy gentle image bear depart ; 
 That tasteless shame be /i/s, and ours the grief, 
 To gaze on Beauty's band without its chief: 
 Yet comfort still one seitish thought imparts, 
 We lose the portrait, but preserve our hearts. 
 
 WTiat can his vaulted gallery now disclose ? 
 A garden with all flowers — except the rose ; — 
 A fount that only wants its living stream ; 
 A night, with every star, save Dian's beam. 
 Lost to our eyes the present forms shall be. 
 That turn from tracing tliem to dream of thee ; 
 And more on that recall'd resemblance pause. 
 Than all he shall not force on our applause. 
 
 Long may thy yet meridian lustre shine, 
 With all that Virtue asks of Homage thine : 
 The symmetry of youth — the grace of mien — 
 The eye that gladdens — and the brow serene ; 
 The glossy darkness of that clustering hair, [fair ! 
 Which shades, yet shows that forehead more than 
 Each glance that wins us, and the life that throws 
 A'epell which will not let om- looks repose, 
 But turn to gaze again, and find anew 
 Some charm that well rewards another view. 
 Tiiese are not lessen'd, these are still as bright. 
 Albeit too dazzling for a dotard's sight ; 
 And I'liose must wait till ev'ry charm is gone. 
 To please the paltry heart that pleases none : — 
 Tliat dull, cold sensualist, whose sickly eye 
 In envious dimness pass'd the portrait by ; 
 69 
 
 Who rack'd his Ettle spirit to combine 
 Its hate of FrcedorrCs loveliness, and thine. 
 
 Augutt, 1S14, 
 
 TO BELSHAZZ.\R. 
 
 Belshazzar ! from the banquet turn 
 
 Nor in thy sensual fulness fall ; 
 Behold I while yet before thee bum 
 
 The graven words, the glowing wall. 
 Many a despot men miscall 
 
 Crown'd and anointed from on high ; 
 But thou, the weakest, worst of all — - 
 
 Is it not written, thou must die ? 
 
 Go ! dash the roses from thy brow — 
 
 Gray hairs but poorly wreathe with them'. 
 Youth's garlands misbecome thee now, 
 
 More than thy very diadem. 
 Where thou hast tarnish'd every gem : — 
 
 Then throw the worthless bauble by, 
 Which, worn by thee, ev'n slaves contemn ; 
 
 And learn like better men to die ! 
 
 Oh ! early in the balance weigh'd. 
 
 And ever light of word and worth. 
 Whose soul expired ere youth decay'd. 
 
 And left thee but a mass of earth. 
 To see thee moves the scorner's mirth : 
 
 But tears in Hope's averted eye 
 Lament that even thou hadst birth — 
 
 Unfit to govern, live, or die. 
 
 ELEGIAC STANZAS ON THE DEATH OP 
 SIR PETER PARKER, BART. 
 
 There is a tear for all that die, 
 
 A mourner o'er the humblest grave ; 
 
 But nations swell the funeral cry, 
 
 And Triumph weeps above the brave. 
 
 For them is Sorrow's purest sigh 
 O'er Ocean's heaving bosom sent : 
 
 In vain their bones imburied lie. 
 All earth becomes their monument I 
 
 A tomb is theirs on every page, 
 
 An epitaph on every tongue : 
 The present hours, the future age, 
 
 For them bewail, to them belong. 
 
 For them the voice of festal mirth 
 
 Grows hush'd, their 7i(ime the only sound} 
 
 Wliile deep Remembrance pours to Worth 
 The goblet's tributary round. 
 
546 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 A theme to crowds that knew them not, 
 
 Lamented by admiring foes — 
 Wlio would not sliare their glorious lot ; 
 
 Who would not die the death they chose ? 
 
 And, gallant Parker ! thus enshrined 
 Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be ; 
 
 And early valor, glowing, find 
 A model in thy memory. 
 
 But there are breasts that bleed with thee 
 
 In wo, that glory cannot quell ; 
 And shuddering hear of victory, 
 
 Wliere one so dear, so dauntless, fell. 
 
 Wliere shall they turn to mourn thee less ? 
 
 Wlicn cease to heat thy cherish'd name ? 
 Time cannot teach forgetfulness, 
 
 While Grief's full heart is fed by Fame. 
 
 Alas I for them, though not for thee, 
 They cannot choose but weep the more ; 
 
 Deep for the dead the grief must be. 
 Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before. 
 
 Oclobtr 1814. 
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 
 
 " O Lachrymamm fons, tencro eacros 
 Diicentinm ortiie ex animo : quater 
 Felix 1 in imo qui scatentem 
 Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit." 
 
 Gbat's Poemata. 
 
 There 's not a joy the world can give like that it 
 
 takes away, 
 Wlicn the glow of early thought declines in feeling's 
 
 dull decay; 
 'Tis nut on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, 
 
 which fades so fast, 
 But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth 
 
 itself be past. 
 
 Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of 
 happiness 
 
 Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of ex- 
 cess : 
 
 The magni't of their course is gone, or only points 
 in vain 
 
 The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never 
 stretch again. 
 
 Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death 
 
 itself comes down ; 
 It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its 
 
 own ; 
 That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our 
 
 tears. 
 And though the eve may sparkle still, 'tis where the 
 
 ice appears. 
 
 Though wit may Sash from fluent lips, and mirth 
 
 distract the breast. 
 Through midnight hours that yield no more their 
 
 former hope of rest ; 
 'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreath, 
 All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and 
 
 gray beneath. 
 
 Oh, could I feel as I have felt, — or be what I have 
 
 been. 
 Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a van 
 
 ish'd scene ; 
 As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish 
 
 though they be. 
 
 So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would 
 
 flow to me. 
 
 March, 1816. 
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 
 
 There be none of Beauty's daughters 
 
 With a magic like thee ; 
 And Uke music on the waters 
 
 Is thy sweet voice to me : 
 When, as if its sound were causing 
 The charmed ocean's pausing. 
 The waves lie still and gleaming, 
 And the lull'd winds seem dreaming. 
 
 And the midnight moon is weaving 
 Her bright chain o'er the deep ; 
 
 Whose breast is gently heaving. 
 As an infant's asleep : 
 
 So the spirit bows before thee, 
 
 To listen and adore thee ; 
 
 With a full but soft emotion, 
 
 Like the swell of Summer's ocean. 
 
 ON NAPOLEON'S ESCAPE FROM ELBA. 
 
 Once fairly set out on his party of pleasure. 
 Taking towns at his liking, and crowns at his leisure, 
 From Elba to Lyons and Paris he goes. 
 Making balh for the ladies, and howa to his foes. 
 
 ilarch 27, 181S. 
 
 ODE FROM THE FRENCH. 
 I. 
 
 We do not curse thee, Waterloo ! 
 Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew J 
 There 'twas shed, but is not sunk — 
 Rising from each gory trunk. 
 Like the water-spout from ocean. 
 With a strong and growing motion — 
 It soars, and mingles in the air. 
 With that of lost Labedovere — 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES. 
 
 With that of him whose honor'd grave 
 Contains the " bravest of the brave." 
 A crimson cloud it spreads and glows, 
 But shall return to whence it rose ; 
 When 'tis full "twill burst asunder— 
 Never yet was heard such thunder 
 As then shall shake the world with wonder- 
 Never yet was seen such lightning 
 As o'er heaven shall then be hright'ning 1 
 Like the Wormwood Star foretold 
 By the sainted Seer of old, 
 Show'ring dovrn a fiery flood, 
 Turning rivers into blood. 
 
 The c!.ief has follen, but not by you. 
 
 Vanquishers of Waterloo ! 
 
 When the soldier citizen 
 
 Sway'd not o'er his fellow-men — 
 
 Save in deeds that led them on 
 
 Wliere Glory smiled on Freedom's son — 
 
 Who, of ah the despots banded. 
 
 With that youthful chief competed ? 
 
 ■WTio could boast o'er France defeated, 
 Till lone Tyranny commanded ? 
 Till, goaded by ambition's sting, 
 The Hero sunk into the King ? 
 Then he fell :— so perish all, 
 ^Tio would men by man enthrall ! 
 
 III. 
 
 And thou, too, of the snow-white plume 1 
 Whose realm refused thee ev'n a tomb ; 
 
 Better hadst thou still been leading 
 
 France o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding. 
 
 Than sold thyself to death and shame 
 
 For a meanly royal name ; 
 
 Such as he of Naples wears. 
 
 Who thy blood-bought title bears. 
 
 Little didst thou deem, when dashing 
 On thy war-horse through the ranks 
 Like a stream which burst its banks, 
 
 Wliile helmets cleft, and sabres clashing, 
 
 Shone and shiver'd fast around thee — 
 
 Of the fate at last which found thee : 
 
 Was that haughty plume laid low 
 
 By a slave's dishonest blow ? 
 
 Once— as the Moon sways o'er the tide, 
 
 It roU'd in air, the warrior's guide ; 
 
 Through the smoke-created night 
 
 Of the black and sulphurous fight, 
 
 The sokUer raised his seeking eye 
 
 To catch that crest's ascendency — 
 
 (Lad as it onward rolling rose, 
 
 So moved his heart upon our foes. 
 
 rhere, where death's brief pang was quickest, 
 
 ^d the battle's wreck lay thickest, 
 
 Strew'd beneath the advancing banner 
 
 Of the eagle's burning crest — 
 (There with thunder-clouds to fan her, 
 Who could then her wing arrest — 
 
 Victory beaming from her breast ?) 
 While the broken line enlarging 
 
 Fell, or fled along the plain ; 
 There be sure was Jlurat charging 1 
 
 There he ne'er shall charge again 1 
 
 IV. 
 O'er glories gone the invaders march. 
 Weeps Triumph o'er each levell'd arch- 
 But let Freedom rejoice. 
 With her heart in her voice ; 
 Put her hand on her sword. 
 Doubly shaU she be adored ; 
 France hath twice too well been taught 
 The " moral lesson " dearly bought — 
 Her safety sits not on a throne, 
 With Capet or Napoleon ! 
 But in equal rights and laws. 
 Hearts and hands in one great cause — 
 Freedom, such as God hath given 
 Unto all beneath his he.aven, 
 With their breath, and from their birth. 
 Though Guilt would sweep it from the earth ; 
 With a fierce and lavish hand 
 Scattering nations' wealth like sand ; 
 Pouring nations' blood like water. 
 In imperial seas of slaughter ! 
 
 But the heart and the mind. 
 And the voice of mankind, 
 Shall arise in communion — 
 And who shall resist that proud union ? 
 The rime is past when swords subdued — 
 Man may die — the soul 's renew'd : 
 Even in this low world of care 
 Freedom ne'er shall want an heir ; 
 Millions breathe but to inherit 
 Her forever bounding spirit — 
 When once more her hosts assemble. 
 Tyrants shall believe and tremble. 
 Smile they at this idle threat ? 
 Crimson tears wUl follow yet. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH. 
 Must thou go, my glorious Chief, 
 
 Sever'd from thy faithful few ? 
 Who can tell thy warrior's grief. 
 
 Maddening o'er that l<mg adieu ? 
 Woman's love, and friendship's zeal, 
 
 Dear as Ijoth have liecn to me — 
 What are they to all I feel. 
 
 With a soldier's faith for thee ) 
 
■•46 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Idol of the solder's soul ! 
 
 First in fight, but mightiest now : 
 Many could a world control ; 
 
 Thee alono no doom can bow. 
 By thy side for years I dared 
 
 Death ; and envied those who fell, 
 Wlien their dying shout was lieard. 
 
 Blessing him they served so well. 
 
 Would that I were cold with those, 
 
 Since this hour I live to see ; 
 When the douljts of coward foes 
 
 Scarce dare trust a man with thee. 
 Dreading each should set thee free 1 
 
 Oh 1 although in dungeons pent. 
 All their chains were light to me, 
 
 Gazing on thy soul unbent. 
 
 Would the sycophants of him 
 
 Now so deaf to duty's prayer. 
 Were his l)orrow"d glories dim. 
 
 In his native darkness share ? 
 Were that world this hour his own, 
 
 All thou calmly dost resign. 
 Could he purchase with that throne 
 
 Hearts like those which still are thine ? 
 
 My chief, my king, my friend, adieu 1 
 
 Never did I droop before ; 
 Never to my sovereign sue. 
 
 As his foes I now imijlore : 
 All I ask is to divide 
 
 Every peril he must brave ; 
 Sharing V)y the hero's side 
 
 His fall, his exile, and his grave. 
 
 ON THE STAR OF "THE LEGION OF 
 HONOR." 
 
 FROM THE FKBNCH. 
 
 Star of the brave !— whose beam hath shed 
 
 Such glory o'er the quick and dead — 
 
 Thou radiant and adored deceit I 
 
 Which millions rusli'd in arms to greet, — 
 
 Wild meteor of immortal birth I 
 
 Why rise in Heaven to set on Earth ? 
 
 Souls of slain heroes form'd thy rays ; 
 Eternity flasli'd through thy blaze ; 
 The music of tliy martial sphere 
 Was fame on liigh and honor here ; 
 And thy light broke on human eyes, 
 Like a volcano of the skies. 
 
 Like lava roU'd thy stream of blood. 
 And swept down empires with its flood ; 
 
 Earth rock'd beneath thee to her base, 
 As thou didst lighten through all space ; 
 And the shorn Sun grew dim in air, 
 And set while thou wcrt dwelling there. 
 
 Before thee rose, and with thee grew, 
 
 A rainljow of tlie loveliest hue. 
 
 Of three bright colors, each divine. 
 
 And fit for that celestial sign ; 
 
 For Freedom's hand had blended them, 
 
 Like tints in an immortal gem. 
 
 One tint was of the sunbeam's dyes ; 
 One, the blue depth of Seraph's eyes ; 
 One, the pure Spirit's veil of white 
 Had robed in radiance of its light : 
 The three so mingled did beseem 
 The texture of a heavenly dream. 
 
 Star of the brave I thy ray is pale. 
 And darkness must again prevail ! 
 But, oh, thou Rainbow of the free I 
 Our tears and blood must flow for thee. 
 Wlien thy bright promise fades away, 
 Our life is but a load of clay. 
 
 And Freedom hallows with her tread 
 The silent cities of the dead ; 
 For beautiful in death are they 
 Who proudly fall in her array ; 
 And soon, oh, Goddess I may we be 
 For evermore with them or thee I 
 
 NAPOLEON'S FAREWELL. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH. 
 
 Farewell to the Land, where the gloom of my Qlorj 
 Arose and o'ershadow'd the earth with her name — 
 She abandons me now — but the page of her story. 
 The brightest or blackest, is fill'd with my fame. 
 I have warr'd with a world which vanquish'd me only 
 Wlien the meteor of conquest allured me too far ; 
 I have coped with the nations which dread me thus 
 The last single Captive to millions in war. [lonely, 
 
 Farewell to thee, France ! when thy diadem crown'd 
 
 me, 
 I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth, — 
 But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found 
 Decay'd in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth, [thee, 
 Oh ! for the veteran hearts that were wasted 
 In strife with the storm, when their battles were 
 
 won — [blasted, 
 
 Then the Eagle, whose gaze in that moment wa« 
 Had still soar'd with eyes fix'd on victory's sun ' 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES. 
 
 649 
 
 Farewell to thee, France ! — but when Liberty rallies 
 Once more in thy regions, remember me then — 
 The violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys ; 
 Though wither' tl, thy tear will unfold it again — 
 Yet, yet, I may baffle the hosts that surround us, 
 And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice — • 
 There are links which must break in the chain that 
 
 has bound us. 
 Then turn thee and call on the Chief of thy choice I 
 
 ENDORSEMENT TO THE DEED OF SEPARA- 
 TION, IN THE APRIL OF 1816. 
 
 A TEAR ago you swore, fond she ! 
 
 " To love, to honor," and so forth ; 
 Such was the vow you pledged to me. 
 
 And here 's exactly what 'tis worth. 
 
 DARKNESS. 
 
 I HAD a dream, which was not all a dream 
 
 The bright sun was estinguish'd, and the stars 
 
 Did wander darkling in the eternal space, 
 
 Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth 
 
 Swung blind and blackening iu tli£ moonless air ; 
 
 Mom came and went — and came, and brought no 
 
 And men forgot their passions in the dread [day, 
 
 Of this their desolation ; and all hearts 
 
 Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light : 
 
 And they did live by watchfires — and the thrones, 
 
 The palaces of crowned kings — the huts, 
 
 The habitations of all th oigs which dwell, 
 
 Were burnt for beacons ; cities were consumed. 
 
 And men were gather'd round their blazing homes 
 
 To look once more into each other's face ; 
 
 Hajjpy were those who ciwelt within the eye 
 
 Of the volcanoes, and their mountain-torch : 
 
 A fearful hope was all the world contained ; 
 
 Forests were set on fire — but hour by hoiu- 
 
 They fell and faded — and the crackling trunks 
 
 Extinguish'd with a crash — and all was black. 
 
 The brows of men by the despairing light 
 
 Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits 
 
 The flashes fell upon them ; some lay down 
 
 And hid their eyes and wept ; and some did rest 
 
 Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled ; 
 
 And others hurried to and fro, and fed 
 
 Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up 
 
 With mad disquietude on the dull sky. 
 
 The pall of a past world ; and then again 
 
 With curses cast them down upon the dust, 
 
 And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd : the wild birds 
 
 And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, [shriek'd, 
 
 And flap their useless wings ; the wildest brutes 
 
 Ca?no tame and tremulous ; and vipers crawl'd 
 
 And twined themselves among the multitude. 
 
 Hissing, but stingless — they were slain for fooQ. 
 And AVav, which for a moment was no more, 
 Did glut himself again ; — a meal was bought 
 With blood, and each sate sullenly apart 
 Gorging himself in gloom : no love was left ; 
 j AH earth was but one thought — and that was death 
 Immediate and inglorious ; and the pang 
 Of famine fed upon all entrails — men 
 Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh ; 
 The meager by the meager were devour'd, 
 Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one. 
 And he was faithful to a corse, and kept 
 The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay, 
 Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead 
 Lured their lank jaws ; himself sought out no food, 
 But with a piteous and perpetual moan. 
 And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand 
 Which answer'd not with a caress — he died. 
 The crowd was famish'd by degrees ; but two 
 Of an enormous city did survive. 
 And they were enemies : they met beside 
 The dying embers of an altar-place 
 Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things 
 For an unholy usage ; they raked up, 
 And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton 
 The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath [hands 
 Blew for a little Ufe, and made a flame 
 Which was a mockery ; then they lifted up 
 Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld 
 Each other's asjjects — saw, and shriek'd, and died — 
 Even of their mutual hideousness they died, 
 Unkno^^•ing who he was upon whose brow 
 Famine had written Fiend. The world was void. 
 The jjopulace and the powerful was a lump, 
 Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless — 
 A lump of death, — a chaos of hard clay. 
 The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still. 
 And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths ; 
 Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea. 
 And their masts fell down piecemeal; as they dropp":! 
 They slept on the abyss without a surge — 
 The waves were dead ; the tides were in their grave 
 The Moon, their mistress, had expired before ; 
 The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air, 
 And the clouds perish'd ! Darkness had no neea 
 Of aid from them — She was the Universe. 
 
 DioDATi, July^ 181' 
 
 CHURCHILL'S GRAVE. 
 
 I STOOD beside the grave of him who blazed 
 
 The comet of a season, and I saw 
 The kumblest of all sepulchres, and gazed 
 
 With not the less of sorrow and of awe 
 On that neglected turf and quiet stone. 
 With name no clearer than the names unknowc 
 Which lay unread aroupd it ; and I ask'd 
 
550 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 The gardner of that grouud, why it might be 
 Tliat for tliis plant strangers his memory task'd 
 
 Throiigli tlie thick deaths of half a century? 
 And thus he answer'd — " We!l, I do not know 
 Why frequent travelers turn to pilgrims so ; 
 lie died before my day of Sextonship, 
 
 And 1 had not the digging of this grave." 
 And is this all ? I thought, — and do we rip 
 
 The veil of Immortality ? and crave 
 I know not what of honor and of light 
 Through unborn ages, to endure this blight ? 
 So soon, and so successless ? As I said, 
 Tlie Architect of all on which we tread. 
 For earth ia but a tombstone, did essay 
 To extricate remembrance from the clay, 
 Whose miuglings might confuse a Newton's thought, 
 
 Were it not that all life must end in one, 
 Of which we are but dreamers ; — as he caught 
 As 'twere the twilight of a former sun, 
 Tlius spoke he, — "I believe the man of whom 
 You wot, who lies in this selected tomb. 
 Was a most famous writer in his day, 
 And therefore travelers step from out their way 
 To pay him honor, — and myself whate'er 
 
 Your honor pleases," — then most pleased I shook 
 From out my pocket's avaricious nook 
 Some certain coins of silver, which as 'twere 
 Perforce I gave this man, tliough I could spare 
 So much but inconveniently : — Ye smile, 
 I see ye, ye profane ones ! all the while. 
 Because my homely phrase the truth would tell. 
 You are the fools, not I — for I did dwell 
 With a deep thouglit, and with a soften'd eye, 
 ()u that old Sexton's natural homily 
 In which there was Obscurity and Fame, — 
 The Glory and the Notliing of a Name. 
 
 DiODATI, 1816. 
 
 PROMETHEUS. 
 
 Titan I to whose immortal eyes 
 
 The sufterings of mortality, 
 
 Seen in their sad reality, 
 Were not as things that gods despise ; 
 What was thy pity's recompense 2 
 A silent sutl'ering, and intense ; 
 The rock, the vulture, and the chain. 
 All that the proud can feel of pain, 
 The agony they do not show 
 The suffocating sense of wo, 
 
 Which speaks but in its loneliness, 
 And then is jealous lest tile sky 
 Should have a listener, nor will sigh 
 
 Until its voice is echoless. 
 
 Titan ! to thee the strifi; was given 
 Between the sulVerinj sad the will, 
 
 Which torture where they cannot kil^ 
 And the inexorable Heaven, 
 And the deaf tyranny of Fate, 
 The ruling principle of Hate, 
 Which for its jileasure doth create 
 The things it may annihilate, 
 Refused thee even the boon to die : 
 The wretched gift eternity 
 Was thine — and thou hast borne it well. 
 All that the Thunderer wrung from thee 
 Was but the menace which Hung back 
 On him the torments of thy rack ; 
 The fate thou didst so well foresee, 
 But would not to appease him tell ; 
 And in thy Silence was his Sentence, 
 And in his Soul a vain repentance. 
 And evil dread so ill dissembled, 
 That in his band the lightnings trembled. 
 
 Thy godlike crime was to be kind, 
 
 To render with thy precepts less 
 
 The sum of human wretchedness. 
 And strengthen Jlan with his own mind ; 
 But baffled as thou wcrt from high, 
 Still in thy patient energy, 
 In the endurance, and repulse 
 
 Of thine impenetrable Spirit, 
 Which Earth and Heaven could not convuUa 
 
 A mighty lesson we inherit : 
 Thou art a symbol and a sign 
 
 To Mortals of their fate and force; 
 Like thee, Jlan is in part divine, 
 
 A trouliled stream from a pure source ; 
 And Man in portions can foresee 
 His own funereal destiny ; 
 His wretchedness, and his resistance, 
 And his sad unallied existence : 
 To which his Spirit may oppose 
 Itself — and equal to all woes. 
 
 And a firm will, and a deejj sense, 
 Which even in torture can descry 
 
 Its own concentred recompense, 
 Triuin[)hant where it dares defy. 
 And making Death a Victory. 
 
 DioDATi, July 18l{ 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 CotJLD I remount the river of my years 
 
 To the first fountain of our smiles and tears, 
 
 I would not trace again the stream of hom-s 
 
 Between their outworn banks of wither'd flowers, 
 
 But bid it flow as now — until it glides 
 
 Into the number of the nameless tides. * * * 
 
 Wbat is this Death ?— a quiet of the heart f 
 The whole of that of which we are a part ? 
 
OCCASIOXAL PIECES. 
 
 551 
 
 For life is but a vision — "what I see 
 
 From Elvira's gates to those 
 
 Of all which lives alone is life to me. 
 And being su — the absent are the dead, 
 
 Of Bivarambla on he goes. 
 
 Wo is me. Alhama ! 
 
 Who haunt us from tranquillity, and spread 
 
 
 A. dreary shroud around us, and invest 
 
 Letters to the monarch tell 
 
 With sad remembrancers our hours of rest. 
 
 How Alhama's city fell : 
 
 The absent are the dead — for they are cold, 
 
 In the fire the scroll he threw, 
 
 And ne'er can be what once we did behold ; 
 
 And the messenger he slew. 
 
 And they are changed, and cheerless, — or if yet 
 
 Wo is me, Alhama ! 
 
 The unforgotten do not all forget, 
 
 
 Since thus divided — equal must it be 
 
 He quits his mule, and mounts his horse, 
 
 If the deej) barrier be of earth, or sea ; 
 
 And through the street directs his course 
 
 It may be both — but one day end it must 
 
 Through the street of Zacatin 
 
 In the dark union of insensate dust. 
 
 To the Alhambra spurring in 
 
 The under-earth inhabitants — are they 
 
 Wo is me, Alhama I 
 
 But mingled millions decomposed to clay ? 
 
 
 The ashes of a thousand ages spread 
 
 When the Alhambra walls hcgain'd. 
 
 Wherever man has trodden or shall tread ? 
 
 On the moment he ordain'd 
 
 Or do they in their silent cities dwell 
 
 That the trumpet straiglit should sound 
 
 Each in his inoonirauniciitive cell ? 
 
 With the silver clarion round. 
 
 Or have they their own language ? and a sense 
 
 Wo is me, Alhama ! 
 
 Of breathless being ? — darken'd and intense 
 
 
 As midnight in her solitude ? — Earth ! 
 
 And when the hollow drums of war 
 
 Where are the past ?— and wherefore had they birth ? 
 
 Beat the loud alarm afar. 
 
 The dead are thy inheritors — and we 
 
 Tiiat the Moors of town and plain 
 
 But bubljles on thy surface ; and the key 
 
 Might answer to the martial strain, 
 
 Of thy jirofundity is in the grave. 
 
 Wo is me, Alliama 1 
 
 The ebon portal of thy peopled cave. 
 
 
 Where I would walk in spirit, and behold 
 
 Then the Moors, by this aware 
 
 Our elements resolved to things untold. 
 
 That bloody Mars recall'd them there, 
 
 And fathom hidden wonders, and exjilore 
 
 One by one, and two by two, 
 
 The essence of great bosoms now no more. * * * 
 
 To a mighty squadron grew. 
 
 DioDATi, July, 1816. 
 
 Wo is me, Alhama 1 
 
 SONNET TO LAKE LEMAN. 
 
 Out then spake an aged Moor 
 
 Rousseau — Voltaire — our Gibbon^and De Stael — 
 
 In these words the king before, 
 
 Leman ! these names are worthy of thy shore. 
 
 " Wherefore call on us, King ? 
 
 Thy shore of names like these ! wert thou no more, 
 
 What may mean this gathering ?" 
 
 Their memory thy remembrance would recall : 
 
 Wo is me, Alhama I 
 
 To them thy banks were lovely as to all. 
 
 
 But they have made them lovelier, for the lore 
 
 " Friends ! ye have, alas ! to know 
 
 Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core 
 
 Of a most disastrous blow. 
 
 Of human hearts the ruin of a waU 
 
 That the Christians, stern and bold, 
 
 Wliere dwelt the wise and wondrous ; but by thee, 
 
 Have obtain'd Alhama's hold." 
 
 How much more. Lake of Beauty 1 do we feel, 
 
 Wo is me, Alhama I 
 
 In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea, 
 
 
 The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal. 
 
 Out then spake old Alfaqui, 
 
 WTiich of the heirs of immortality 
 
 With his beard so white to see. 
 
 Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real ! 
 
 "Good King ! thou art justly served, 
 
 DioDATi, July^ 1816. 
 
 Good King ! this thou hast deserved. 
 
 
 Wo is me, Alhama 1 
 
 A VERY MOURKFUL BALLAD 
 
 
 
 " By thee were slain, in evil hour. 
 
 ON THE SIEGE AND CONQUEST OP ALHAMA, 
 
 The Abencerrage, Granada's flower; 
 
 Which, in the Arabic language. Is to the following purport. 
 
 And strangers were received by thee 
 
 The Moorish King rides up and down 
 
 Of Cordova the Chivalry. 
 
 Through Granada's royal town ■ 
 
 Wo is me, Alhama 1 
 
652 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 "And for this, O King ! is sent 
 On thee a double cliastisemcnt : 
 Thee and lliiuc, tliy crown and realm, 
 One last wreck shall overwlielin. 
 
 Wo is me, AlUama t 
 
 •■ He who holds no laws in awe, 
 He must pei'ish by the law ; 
 And Granada must be won. 
 And thysell'with her imdone." 
 
 Wo is me, Alhama I 
 
 Fire flash'd from out the old Moor's eyes. 
 The Monarch's wrath began to rise, 
 Because he answcr'd, and because 
 He spake exceeding well of laws. 
 
 Wo is me, Alhama I 
 
 " There is no law to say such things 
 As may disgust the ear of kings :" — 
 Thus, snorting with his choler, said 
 The Moorish King, and doom'd him deaa. 
 AVo is me, Alhama i 
 
 Moor Alfaqui ! Moor Alfaqui 1 
 Though thy beard so hoary be. 
 The King hath sent to have thee seized, 
 For Alhama's loss displeased. 
 
 Wo is me, Alhama ! 
 
 And to fix thy head upon 
 High Alhambra.'s loftiest stone ; 
 That this for thee should be the law, 
 And others tremble when they saw. 
 
 Wo is me, Alhama ! 
 
 " Cavalier, and man of worth ! 
 Let these words of mine go forth ; 
 Let the Moorish Monarch know. 
 That to him I nothing owe. 
 
 Wo is me, Alhama I 
 
 " But on my soul Alhama weighs, 
 And on my inmost spirit jireys ; 
 And if the King his land hath lost. 
 Yet others may have lost the most. 
 
 Wo is me, Alhama I 
 
 " Sires have lost their children, wives 
 Their lords, and valiant men their lives ; 
 One what best his love might claim 
 Hath lost, another wealth, or fame. 
 
 Wo is me, Alhama 1 
 
 " 1 lost a damsel in that hour. 
 
 Of all the lai'd the loveliest flower; 
 
 Doubloons a humlred I would pay. 
 And think her ransom cheap ^hat daj ." 
 Wo is me, Alhama ! 
 
 And as these things the old Moor said, 
 They sc rer'd from the trunk his head ; 
 And to the Alhamlira's wall with speed 
 'Twas carried, as the King decreed. 
 
 Wo is me, Alhama ! 
 
 And men and infants tlierein weep 
 Their loss, so heavy and so deep : 
 Granada's ladies, all she roars 
 Within her walls, burst into tears. 
 
 Wo is me, Alhama 1 
 
 And from the windows o'er the walls 
 The sable web of mourning falls ; 
 The King weeps as a woman o'er 
 His loss, for it is much and sore. 
 
 Wo is me, Alhama 1 
 
 TRANSLATION FROM VITTORELLL 
 
 ON A NUN. 
 
 Sonnet compoped In the name of a father, whose daughter had 
 recently died shortly after her marria;^e ; and addressed to th« 
 fether of her who had lately taken the veil. 
 
 Of two fair virgins, modest, though admired. 
 
 Heaven made us happy, and now, wretched sires ; 
 
 Heaven for a nobler doom their worth desires. 
 
 And gazing upon either, both required. 
 Mine, while the torch of Hymen newly fired 
 
 Becomes e.xtinguish'd, soon — too soon — expires ; 
 
 But thine, within the closing grate retired. 
 
 Eternal captive, to her God aspires. 
 But thnu at least from out the jealous door. 
 
 Which shuts between your never-meeting eyes, 
 
 Mayst hear her sweet and pious voice once more : 
 I to the marljle, where vni daughter lies. 
 
 Rush, — the swoln flood of bitterness I pour, [plies. 
 
 And knock, and knock, and knock — but none r»- 
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 
 
 Bright be the place of thy soul I 
 
 No lovelier spirit than thine 
 E'er burst from its mortal control. 
 
 In the orbs of the blessed to shine. 
 On earth thou wert all but di^-ine. 
 
 As thy soul shall immortally be ; 
 And our sorrow may cease to repine 
 
 When we know that thy God is with theei 
 
 Light be the turf of thy tomb I 
 May its verdure like emeralds be 1 
 
 There should not be the shadow of gloom. 
 In aught that reminds us of thee 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES. 
 
 653 
 
 Young flowers and an evergreen tree 
 May spring from the spot of tliy rest : 
 
 But nor cyiiress nor yew let us see ; 
 For why should we mourn for the bless'd ? 
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 
 
 Thet s.-.y that Hope is happiness ; 
 
 But genuine Love must prize the past, 
 And Memory wakes the tlioughts that bless : 
 
 They rose the lirst — they set the last ; 
 
 And all that Memory loves the most 
 
 Was once our only Hope to be, 
 And all that Hope adored and lost 
 
 Hath melted into Memory. 
 
 Alas ! it is delusion all : 
 
 The future cheats us from afar, 
 Nor can we be what we recall. 
 
 Nor dare we think on what we are. 
 
 TO THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 My boat is on the shore. 
 
 And my bark is on the sea ; 
 But, before I go, Tom Moore, 
 
 Here 's a double health to thee ! 
 
 Here 's a sigh to those who love me. 
 And a smile to those who hate ; 
 
 And, whatever sky 's above me, 
 Here 's a heart for every fate. 
 
 Though the ocean roar around me, 
 
 Yet it still shall bear me on ; 
 Though a desert should surround me, 
 
 It hath springs that may be won. 
 
 "Were 't the last drop in the well, 
 
 As I gasp'd upon the brink, 
 Ere my fainting spirit fell, 
 
 'Tis to thee that I would drink. 
 
 With that water, as this wine, 
 
 The libation I would pour 
 Should be — peace with thine and mine. 
 
 And a health to thee, Tom Moore ! 
 
 Jvly, 1817. 
 
 ON THE BUST OF HELEN, BY CANOVA. 
 
 In this beloved marble view. 
 
 Above the works and thoughts of man, 
 What nature could, but would, not, do, 
 
 And beauty and Canova can ! 
 Beyond imagination's power. 
 
 Beyond the Bard's defeated art, 
 70 
 
 With immortality her dower. 
 Behold the Ileleii of the heart ! 
 
 November, 1816> 
 
 SONG FOR THE LUDDITES. 
 
 As the Liberty lads o'er the sea 
 Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blood, 
 So we, boys, we 
 Will die fighting, or live free. 
 And down with all kings but King Ludd 1 
 
 When the web that we weave is complete. 
 And the shuttle exchanged for the sword, 
 
 We will fling the winding-sheet 
 
 O'er the despot at our feet. 
 And dye it deep in the gore he has pour'd. 
 
 Though black as his heart its hue, 
 Since his veins are corrupted to mud. 
 
 Yet this is the dew 
 
 Which the tree shall renew 
 Of Liberty, planted by Ludd 1 
 
 SccemUr, Igli 
 
 TO TH03IAS MOORE. 
 
 What are you doing now, 
 
 Oh, Thomas Moore ? 
 What are you doing now, 
 
 Oh, Thomas Moore ? 
 Sighing or suing now. 
 Rhyming or wooing now, 
 Billing or cooing now. 
 Which, Thomas Moore ? 
 
 But the Carnival 's coming, 
 
 Oh, Thomas Moore ! 
 The Carnival 's coming, 
 
 Oh, Thomas Moore ! 
 Masking and humming. 
 Fifing and drumming, 
 Guitarring and strumming. 
 Oh, Thomas Moore 1 
 
 SO 
 
 WE'LL GO NO MORE A RO"VrrNa. 
 
 So, we'll go no more a roving 
 
 So late into the night, 
 Though the heart be still as loving, 
 
 And the moon be still as bright. 
 
 For the sword outwears its sheath, 
 And the soul wears out the breast, 
 
 And the heart must pause to breatl e. 
 And love itself have rest 
 
654 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Though the night was made for loving, 
 And the day returns too soon, 
 
 Yet we'll go no more a roving 
 ?y the light of the moon. 
 
 1817. 
 
 VERSICLES. 
 
 I READ the " Christabel ;" 
 
 Very well : 
 I read the " Missionary;" 
 
 Pretty — very : 
 I tried at " Ilderini :" 
 
 Ahem ! 
 I read a sheet of " Marg'ret of Anjou ;" 
 
 Can you? 
 I turn'd a page of Scott's " Waterloo ;" 
 
 Pooh ! pooh ! 
 I look'd at Wordsworth's milk-white " Rylstone 
 
 Hillo ! • [Doe :" 
 
 Etc., etc., etc. 
 
 March, 1817. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 To hook the reader, you, John Murray, 
 Have publish'd " Anjou's Margaret," 
 Whicli won't be sold off in a hurry, 
 (At least, it has not been as yet ;) 
 And then, still further to bewilder em. 
 Without remorse you set up " Ilderim ;" 
 
 So mind you don't get into debt. 
 Because as how, if you should fail, 
 These books would be but baddish bail. 
 
 And mind you do not let escape 
 These rhymes to Morning Post or Perry, 
 Which would be t'ert/ treacherous — very, 
 
 And get me into such a scrape ! 
 For, firstly, I should have to sally. 
 All in my little boat, against a Oalley ; 
 
 • And, should I chance to slay the Assyrian wight, 
 Have next to combat with the female knight. 
 
 March 33, 1817. 
 
 EPISTLE FROM MR. MURRAY TO DR. 
 POLIDORI. 
 
 Deak Doctor, I have read your play. 
 Which is a good one in its way, — 
 Purges the eyes and moves the bowels, 
 Antl drenches handkerchiefs like towels 
 With tears, that, in a flux of grief, 
 Att'ord hysterical relief 
 To shatter'd nerves and quicken'd pulses. 
 Which your catastrophe convulses. 
 
 I like your moral and machinery ; 
 Your plot, too, has such scope for scenery ; 
 
 Your dialogue is apt and smart ; 
 
 The play's concoction full of art ; 
 
 Your hero raves, your heroine cries, 
 
 All stab, and everybody dies. 
 
 In sliort, your tragedy would be 
 
 The very thing to hear and see ; 
 
 And for a piece of pubUcation, 
 
 If I decline on this occasion. 
 
 It is not that I am not sensible 
 
 To merits in themselves ostensible. 
 
 But — and I grieve to speak it— jjlays 
 
 Are drugs — mere drugs, sir — now-a-day». 
 
 I had a heavy loss by " Mftnnel," — 
 
 Too lucky if it prove not annual, — 
 
 And Sotheby, with his " Orestes," 
 
 (Which, by the by, the author's best is,j 
 
 Has lain so very long on hand. 
 
 That I despair of all demand. 
 
 I've advertised, but see my books. 
 
 Or only watch my shopman's looks ; — 
 
 Still Ivan, Ina, and such lumber. 
 
 My back-shop glut, my shelves encumber. 
 
 There 's Byron, too, who once did better 
 Has sent me, folded in a letter, 
 A sort of — it 's no more a drama 
 Than Darnley, Ivan, or Kehama : 
 So alter'd since last year his pen is, 
 I think he 's lost his wits at Venice. 
 In short, sir, what with one and t'other, 
 I dare not venture on another. 
 I write in haste ; excuse each blunder; 
 The coaches through the street so thunder 
 My room 's so full — we've Gifford here 
 Reading MS., with Ilookham Frere, 
 Pronouncing on the nouns and pailicles 
 Of some of our forthcoming Articles. 
 
 The Quarterly — Ah, sir, if you 
 Had but the genius to review ! — 
 A smart critique upon St. Helena, 
 Or if you only would but tell in a 
 
 Short compass but, to resume : 
 
 As I was saying, sir, the room — 
 
 The room 's so full of wits and bards, 
 
 Crabbes, Campbells, Crokers, Frercs, tnd War Ja 
 
 And others, neither bards nor wits • 
 
 My humble tenement admits 
 
 All persons in the dress of gent.. 
 
 From Mr. Hammond to Dog Dent. 
 
 A party dines with me to-day. 
 All clever men, who make their way ; 
 Crabbe, Malcolm, Hamilton, and Chantrey, 
 Are all partakers of my pantry. 
 They're at this moment in discussion 
 On poor De Stael's late dissolution. 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES. 
 
 55 B 
 
 Her book, they say, was in advance — 
 Pray Heaven, she tell the truth of France 1 
 Thus run our time and tongues away. — 
 But, to return, sir, to your play : 
 Sorry, sir, but I can not deal. 
 Unless 'twere acted by O'Neill. 
 My hands so full, my head so busy, 
 I'm almost dead, and always dizzy ; 
 And so, with endless truth and hurry. 
 Dear Doctor, I am yours, 
 Augiiet,181'!. JOHS MdeBAY. 
 
 EPISTLE TO UK. MURRAY. 
 My dear Mr. Murray, 
 You're in a damn'd hurry 
 
 To set up this ultimate Canto ; 
 But (if they don't rob us) 
 You'll see Mr. Hobhouse 
 
 Will bring it safe in his portmanteau. 
 
 For the .Journal you hint of, 
 As ready to print off, 
 
 No doubt you do right to commend it ; 
 But as yet I have writ oif 
 The devil a bit of 
 
 Our " Beppo :" — when cojjied, I'll send it. 
 
 Then you've * * * * 'g Tour, — 
 No great things, to be sure, — ■ 
 
 You could hardly begin with a less work ; 
 For the pompous rascallion. 
 Who don't speak Italian 
 
 Nor French, must have scribbled by guesswork. 
 
 You can make any loss up 
 With " Spence" and his gossip, 
 
 A work which must surely succeed ; 
 Tlien Queen Mary's Epistle-craft, 
 With the new "Fytte" of " Whistlecraft," 
 
 Must make people purchase and read. 
 
 Then you've General Gordon, 
 Who girded his sword on, 
 
 To serve ^-ith a Muscovite master ; 
 And heljj him to polish 
 A nation so owlish. 
 
 They thought shaving their beards a disaster. 
 
 For the man, " poor and shrewd," 
 With whom you'd conclude 
 
 A compact without more delay, 
 Perhaj^s some such pen is 
 Still extant in Venice ; 
 
 But please, sir, to mention your pay. 
 
 Venice, January 8, 1818. 
 
 TO mi. MURRAY. 
 
 Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of the times, 
 Patron and puljlisher of rhymes. 
 For thee the bard up Pindus climbs, 
 My Murray. 
 
 To thee, with hope and terror dumb, 
 The unfledged MS. authors come ; 
 Thou printest all — and sellcst some — 
 My Murray. 
 
 Upon thy table's baize so green 
 The last new Quarterly is seen, — 
 But where is thy new Magazine, 
 My Murray ? 
 
 Along thy sprucest bookshelves shine 
 The works thou deemest most divine — 
 The " Art of Cookery," and mine, 
 My Murray. 
 
 Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist. 
 And Sermons to thy mill bring grist ; 
 And then thou hast the " Navy List," 
 My Murray. 
 
 And Heaven forbid I should conclude 
 Without " the Board of Longitude," 
 Although this narrow paper would. 
 My Murray. 
 
 Venice, March 25, 1818 
 
 ON THE BIRTH OP JOHN "WILLIAM 
 RIZZO HOPPNER. 
 
 His father's sense, his mother's grace. 
 In him, I hope, will always fit so ; 
 
 With — still to keep him in good case — 
 The health and appetite of Rizzo. 
 
 Fabrucnj, 181 S 
 
 STANZAS TO THE PO. 
 
 River, that rollest by the ancient walls. 
 
 Where dwells the lady of my love, when she 
 
 Walks by thy brink, and there perchance recalls 
 A faint and fleeting memory of me ; 
 
 ■What if thy deep and ample stream should be 
 A mirror of my heart, where she may read 
 
 The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee. 
 Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed ! 
 
 "What do I say — a mirror of my heart ? 
 
 Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong 1 
 Such as my feelings were and arc, thou art ; 
 
 And such as thou art were my passions long. 
 
656 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Time may have somewhat tamed them, — not forever ; 
 
 Thou ovcrflow'st thy banks, and not for aye 
 Thy bosom overboils, congenial river ! 
 
 Thy floods subside, and mine have sunk away. 
 
 But left long wrecks behind, and now again, 
 Bome in our unchanged career, we move ; 
 
 Thou tcndc'st wildly onwards to the main, . 
 And I — to loving une I should not love. 
 
 The current I behold will sweep beneath 
 Her native walls, and murmur at her feet ; 
 
 Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe 
 The twilight air, unharm'd by summer's heat. 
 
 She will look on thee, — I have look'd on thee, 
 Full of that thought : and, from that moment, 
 
 Thy waters could I dream of, name, or see, [ne'er 
 Without the in:<eparable sigh for her I 
 
 Iler bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream — 
 Yes 1 they will meet the wave I gaze on now : 
 
 Mine cannot witness, even in a dream. 
 That hajjpy wave repass me in its flow I 
 
 The wave that bears my tears returns no more : 
 Will she return by whom that wave shall sweep ? — 
 
 Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy shore, 
 I by thy source, she by the dark-blue deep. 
 
 But that which keepeth us apart is not 
 Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth, 
 
 But the distraction of a various lot, 
 As various as the climates of our birth. 
 
 A stranger loves the lady of the land, 
 
 Bom far beyond the mountains, but his blood 
 
 Is all meridian, as if never facn'd 
 
 By the black wind that chills the jjolar flood. 
 
 My blood is all meridian ; were it not, 
 i had not left my clime, nor should I be, 
 
 In spite of tortures, ne'er to be forgot, 
 A slave again of love, — at least of thee. 
 
 'Tis vain to struggle — let me perish young — 
 Live as I lived, and love as I have loved ; 
 
 To dust if I return, from dust I sprung. 
 And then, at least, my heart can ne'er be moved. 
 
 ApHl, 1819. 
 
 SONNET TO GEORGE THE FOURTH, 
 
 ON THE ■REPEAL OF LORD EDWARD FITZGERAliD's 
 FORFEITURE. 
 
 To be the father of the fatherless, 
 To stretch the hand from the throne's height, and 
 Ilis oli'sj)riug, who expire i in other days [raise 
 
 To make thy sire's sway by a kingdom less, — 
 This is to be a monarch, and repress 
 
 En\'y into unutterable praise. 
 
 Dismiss thy guards, and trust thee to such traita, 
 For who would Uft a hand, except to bless ? 
 
 Were it not easy, sir, and is 't not sweet 
 
 To make thyself beloved ? and to be 
 Omnipotent by mercy's means ? for thus 
 
 Thy sovereignty would grow but more complete 
 A despot thou, and yet thy people free. 
 
 And by the heart, not hand, enslaving as. 
 
 BoLOONA, August 12, 1819. 
 
 EPIGRAM. 
 
 PROM THE PKENCH OP RT7L1IIEBE8. 
 
 If, for silver or for gold. 
 
 You could melt ten thousand pimples 
 
 Into half a dozen dimples, 
 Then your face we might behold. 
 
 Looking, doubtless, much more snugly ; 
 
 Yet even tlien 'twould be d d ugly. 
 
 August 12, ISltl 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 CoiTLD Love forever 
 Run like a river. 
 And Time's endeavor 
 
 Be tried in vain — 
 No other pleasure 
 With this could measure ; 
 And like a treasure 
 
 We'd hug the chain. 
 But since our sighing 
 Ends not in dying, 
 And, form'd for flying, 
 
 Love plumes his wing ; 
 Then for this reason 
 Let 's love a season ; 
 But let that season be only Spring. 
 
 When lovers parted 
 Feel broken-hearted. 
 And, all hopes thwarted, 
 
 Exjject to die ; 
 A few years older. 
 Ah ! how much colder 
 They might behold her 
 
 For whom they sigh I 
 When link'd together. 
 In every weather. 
 They jaluck Love's feather 
 
 From out his wing — 
 He'll stay forever, 
 But sadly shiver 
 Without his plumage, when past the Spring 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES. 
 
 557 
 
 Like Chiefs of Faction, 
 His life is action — 
 A formal paction 
 
 That curbs his reign, 
 Obscures his glory, 
 Despot uo more, he 
 Such territory 
 
 Quits with disdain. 
 Still, still advancing, 
 With banners glancing. 
 His power enhancing. 
 
 He must move on — 
 Repose but cloys him, 
 Retreat destroys him, 
 Love brooks not a degraded throne. 
 
 "Wait not, fond lover 1 
 Till years are over. 
 And then recover, 
 
 As from a dream. 
 While each bewailing 
 The other's failing, 
 With wrath and railing, 
 
 All hideous seem — 
 While tirst decreasing, 
 Yet not quite ceasing, 
 AVait not till teasing 
 
 AU passion blight : 
 If once diminish'd 
 Love's reign is flnish'd — 
 Then part in friendship,- and bid good-night 
 
 So shall Affection 
 To recollection 
 The dear connection 
 
 Bring back vdth joy : 
 You had not waited 
 Till, tired or hated. 
 Your passions sated 
 
 Began to cloy. 
 Your last embraces 
 Leave no cold traces — 
 The same fond faces 
 
 As through the past : 
 And eyes, the mirrors 
 Of your sweet errors 
 Rellect but rapture — not least though last. 
 
 True, separations 
 
 Ask more than patience ; 
 
 What desperations 
 
 From such have risen ! 
 But yet remaining, 
 What is 't but chaining 
 Hearts which, once waning. 
 
 Beat 'gainst their prison ? 
 Time can but cloy love. 
 
 And use destroy love : 
 The winged boy, Love. 
 
 Is but for boys — 
 You'll find it torture 
 Though sharper, shorter. 
 To wean, and not wear out your jiiys. 
 
 1819 
 
 ON 3IY WEDDING-DAY. 
 
 Here 's a happy new year ! but with reason 
 
 I'll beg you'll permit me to say — 
 Wish me man (/returns of the seaso7i, 
 
 But as few as you please of the day. 
 
 January 2. 1880 
 
 EPITAPH FOR WILLIAM PITT. 
 
 With death doom'd to grapple. 
 
 Beneath this cold slab, he 
 Wlio Ued in the Chapel 
 
 Now lies in the Abbey. 
 
 January, 1880 
 
 EPIGRAM. 
 
 In digging up your bones, Tom Paine, 
 
 Will. Cobbett has done well : 
 
 You visit him on earth again. 
 
 He'll visit you in hell. 
 
 January, 1820. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 When a man hath no freedom to fight for at home 
 Let him combat for that of his neighbors ; 
 
 Let him think of the glories of Greece and of Rome 
 And get knock'd on the head for his labors. 
 
 To do good to mankind is the chivalrous plan, 
 
 And is always as nobly requited ; 
 Then battle for freedom wherever you can. 
 
 And, if not shot or liang'd, you'll get knighted. 
 
 Nmember, IS-JO 
 
 EPIGRAM, 
 
 The world is a bundle of hay. 
 Mankind are the asses who puU ; 
 
 Each tugs it a dilferent way. 
 
 And the greatest of all is John Bull 
 
 THE CHARITY BALL. 
 
 What matter the pangs of a husband and fatlier 
 If his sorrows in exile be great or be small. 
 
 So the Pharisee's glories around her she gather. 
 And the saint patronizes her " charity ball "' 
 
558 
 
 BYKOX'S V^^ORKS. 
 
 WTiat matters — a heart which, tliough faulty, was 
 feeling. 
 Be driven to excesses which once could appal — 
 rhat the sinner should suffer is only fair dealing, 
 A3 the saint keeps her charity back for "the 
 ball I" ' 
 
 EPIGRAM ON JIY WEDDING-DAT. 
 
 TO PENELOPE. 
 
 This day, of all our days, has done 
 
 The worst for me and you : — 
 
 'Tis just «/.r years since we were one. 
 
 And Jive since we were two. 
 
 January 2, 18S1. 
 
 ON MY THIRTY-THIRD BIRTH-DAY. 
 JANUARY 23, 1821. 
 
 TrrROUGH life's dull road, so dim and dirty, 
 I have dragg'd to three and thirty. 
 What have these years left to me ? 
 Nothing — except thirty-three. 
 
 EPIGRAM, 
 
 ON THE BEAZIEIIS' COMP^VNT HAVING RESOI/VED TO 
 PRESENT AN ADDRESS TO QUEEN CAROLINE. 
 
 The braziers, it seems, are preparing to pass 
 An address, and present it themselves all in brass ; — 
 A superfluous pageant — for, by the Lord Harry ! 
 They'll find where they're going much more than 
 they carry. 
 
 MARTIAL, Lib. I. Epio. 1. 
 
 " Hie est, quem legie, ille. quem reqniris, 
 Tola notus In orbe Mnrtialis," etc. 
 
 He unto whom thou art so partial. 
 Oh, reader ! is the well-known Martial, 
 The Epigrammatist : while living. 
 Give him the fame thou wouldst be giving ; 
 So shall he hear, and feel, and know it — 
 Post-obits rarely reach a poet. 
 
 BOWLES AND CASIPBELL. 
 
 To the tune of " ^^^ly, bow now, saucy jade P" 
 Why, how now, saucy Tom ? 
 
 If you thus must ramble, 
 I will publish some 
 
 Remarks on Mister Campbell. 
 
 ANSWER. 
 Why, how now, Billy Bowles ? 
 Sure the priest is maudlin ! 
 
 * These linea were written on reading in the newspapers, that 
 Lady liyron had been patronesB of a ball in aid of eome charity 
 \i Hincidey 
 
 {To the public) How can you, d- 
 Listcn to his twaddling ! 
 
 -n your souls I 
 
 February. 22, 1821 
 
 EPIGRAMS. 
 
 Oh, Castlereagh ! thou art a p.atriot now ; 
 Cato died for his country, so didst thou : 
 He perish'd rather than see Rome enslaved, 
 Thou cutt'st thy throat that Britain may be saved 
 
 So Castlereagh has cut his throat I — The worst 
 Of this is, — that his own was not the first. 
 
 So lie has cut his throat at last !— He 1 Who ? 
 The man who cut his country's long ago. 
 
 EPITAPH. 
 
 Posterity will ne'er survey 
 A nobler grave than this : 
 
 Here lie the bones of Castlereagh : 
 Stop, traveler . 
 
 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 Who kill'd John Keats ? 
 
 " I," says the Quarterly, 
 So savage and Tartarly : 
 
 " 'Twas one of my feats." 
 
 Who shot the arrow ? 
 
 " The poet-priest Milman, 
 (So ready to kill man,) 
 
 Or Southey or Barrow." 
 
 July, 1821. 
 
 THE CONQUEST. 
 
 [This fragment was found among Lord Byron's papers, aftcf 
 his departm-e from Geno.i for Greece.] 
 
 March 8-9, 1823. 
 
 The Son of Love and Lord of War I sing ; 
 
 Him who bade England bow to Normandy, 
 And left the name of conqueror more than king 
 
 To his unconquerable dynasty. 
 Not fann'd alone by Victorj-'s fleeting wing. 
 
 He rcar'd his bold and brilliant throne on high 
 The Bastard kept, like lions, his prey fast. 
 
 And Britain's bravest victor was the l^t. 
 
 TO JIR. MURRAY. 
 
 For Orford and for Waldegrave 
 
 You give much more than me you gave ; 
 
 Which is not fairly to behave. 
 
 My Murray. 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES. 
 
 659 
 
 Because if a live dog, 'tis said, 
 Be worth a lion fairly sped, 
 A lice lord must be worth tii>o dead. 
 My Murray. 
 
 And if, as the opinion goes. 
 Verse hath a better sale than prose, — 
 Certes, I should have more than those. 
 My Murray. 
 
 But now this sheet is nearly cramm'd, 
 So, a yon. will, /shan't be shamm'd, 
 And if you wonH, you may be damm'd, 
 My Murray. 
 
 THE IRISH AVATAR. 
 
 "And Ireland, like a bastinadoed elephant, kneeling to receive 
 the paltry rider." — Curran. 
 
 Ebb the daughter of Brunswick is cold in her grave. 
 And her ashes still iloat to their home o'er the 
 tide, 
 Lo ! George the triumphant speeds over the wave. 
 To the long-cherish'd isle which he loved like 
 his — bride. 
 
 True, the great of her bright and brief era are gone, 
 The rainbow-like epoch where Freedom cotild 
 
 For the few little years, out of centuries won, [pause 
 Which betray'd not, or crush'd not, or wept not 
 her cause. 
 
 True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his rags, 
 The castle still stands, and the senate 's no more. 
 
 And the famine which dwelt on her frecdomless 
 Is extending its steps to her desolate shore, [crags 
 
 To her desolate shore — where the emigrant stands 
 For a moment to gaze ere he flies from his hearth ; 
 
 Tears fall on his chain, tliough it drops from his 
 hands. 
 For the dimgeon he quits is the place of his birth. 
 
 But he comes ! the Messiah of royalty comes ! 
 
 Like a goodly Leviathan roll'd from the waves ! 
 Then receive him as best such an advent becomes. 
 
 With a legion of cooks, and an army of slaves ! 
 
 He comes in the promise and bloom of threescore. 
 To perform in the pageant the sovereign's part — 
 
 But long hve the shamrock which shadows him o'er ! 
 Could the green in his hat be transferr'd to his 
 heart ! 
 
 Could that long-wither'd spot but be verdant again, 
 And a new spring of noble aflFecticus arise- 
 
 Then might freedom forgive thee this dance in thy 
 
 chain, [fkies. 
 
 And this shout of thy slavery which saddens the 
 
 Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee non- ? 
 
 Were he God — as he is but the commonest clay. 
 With scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his brow — 
 
 Such servile devotion might shame him away. 
 
 Ay, roar in his train ! let thine orators lash 
 Their fanciful spirits to pamper his pride 
 
 Not thus did thy Grattan indignantly flash 
 
 His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied. 
 
 Ever glorious Grattan ! the best of the good 1 
 So simple in heart, so sublime in the rest ' 
 
 With all which Demosthenes wanted endued, 
 And his rival or victor in all he possess'd. 
 
 Ere Tully arose in the zenith of Rome, [gun — 
 
 Though unequall'd, preceded, the task was be- 
 But Grattan sprung up like a god from the tomb 
 Of ages, the first, last, the saviour, the one ! 
 
 With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute ; 
 
 With the fire of Prometheus to kindle mankind ; 
 Even Tyranny Ustening sate melted or mute. 
 
 And Corruption shrunk scorch'd from the fiance 
 of his mind. 
 
 But back to our theme ! Back to despots and 
 slaves ! 
 
 Feasts furnish'd by Famine ! rejoicings by Pain I 
 True freedom but wc/comi's, while slavery still raves. 
 
 When a week's saturnalia hath loosen'd her chain. 
 
 Let the poor squalid splendor thy wreck can aflbrd 
 (As the bankrupt's profusion his ruin would hide) 
 
 Gild over the palace, Lo 1 Erin, thy lord ! [nied ! 
 Kiss his foot with thy blessing, his blessings dc- 
 
 Or if freedom past hope be extorted at last, 
 If the idol of brass find his feet are of clay, 
 
 Must what terror or policy wring forth be class'd 
 With what monarchs ne'er give, but as wolvea 
 yield their prey ? 
 
 Each brute hath its natiu-e, a king's is to reign,— 
 To leirjn ! in that word see, ye ages, comprised 
 
 The cause of the curses all annals contain, 
 
 From Cfesar the dreaded to George the despised 1 
 
 Wear, Fingal, thy trapping I O'Connell, proclaim 
 His accomplishments ! His ! ! ! and thy country 
 
 convince 
 Half an age's contempt was an error of fame. 
 
 And that " Hal is the rascaliest, sweetest youn^ 
 
 prince I" 
 
SCO 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Will thy yard of blue riband, poor Fingal, recall 
 The fetters from millions of Catholic limbs ? 
 
 Or, has it not bound thee the fastest of all [hymns ? 
 The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with 
 
 Ay ! " Build him a dwelling !" let each give his mite! 
 
 Till, Uke Babel, the new royal dome hath arisen I 
 Let thy beggars and helots their pittance unite — 
 
 And a palace bestow for a poorhouse and prison ! 
 
 Spread — spread, for Vitellius, tlic royal repast. 
 Till the gluttonous despot be stufi'Vl to the gorge 1 
 
 And the roar of his drunkards proclaim him at last 
 The Fourth of the fools and oppressors calVd 
 " George 1" 
 
 Let the tables be loaded with feasts till they groan I 
 Till they groan like the people, through ages of wo I 
 
 Let the wine flow around the old Bacchanal's throne, 
 Like their blood which has flow'd, and which yet 
 has to flow. 
 
 But let not hix name be thine idol alone — 
 On his right hand behold a Scjanus appears I 
 
 Tldne own Castlereagh 1 let him still be thine own 1 
 A wretch never named but with curses and jeers i 
 
 Till now, when the isle which should blush for his 
 
 birth, 
 
 Deep, deep as the gore which he shed on her soil, 
 
 Seems proud of the reptile which crawl'd from her 
 
 earth, [smile. 
 
 And for murder repays him with shouts and a 
 
 Without one single ray of her genius, without 
 The fancy, the manhooil, the fire of her race — 
 
 The miscreant who well might plunge Erin in doubt 
 If «/(e ever gave birth to a being so base. 
 
 If she did — let her long-boasted proverb l)e hush'd, 
 Which proclaims that from Erin no reptile can 
 spring — 
 
 See the cold-blooded serpent, with venom full flush'd. 
 Still warming its fo'ds in the breast of a king ! 
 
 Shout, drink, feast, and flatter ! Oh, Erin ! how low 
 Wert thou sunk by misfortune and tyranny, till 
 
 Thy welco.ne of tyrants hath plunged thee below 
 The depth of thy deep in a deeper gulf still. 
 
 My voice, lU jugh but humble, was raised for thy right. 
 My vote, i-s a freeman's, still voted thee free, 
 
 This hand, tuough but feeble, would arm in thy fight. 
 And tliis heart, though outworn, had a throb still 
 for the' ! 
 
 Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not my 
 
 land, [sons, 
 
 I have known noble hearts and great souls in thy 
 
 And I wept with the world o'er the patriot band 
 Who are gone, but I weep them no longer as one* 
 
 For happy are they now reposing afar, — 
 Thy Grattan, thy Curran, thy Sheridan, all 
 
 Wlio, for years, were the chiefs in tlie eloquent war 
 And redeem'd, if they have not retarded, thy faU 
 
 Yes, happy are they in their cold English graves ) 
 Their shades cannot start to thy shouts of to-day — 
 
 Nor the steps of enslavers and chain-kissing slaves 
 Be stamp'd in the turf o'er their fetterless clay 
 
 Till now I had envied thy sons and their shore. 
 Though their virtues were hunted, their liberties 
 fled, [core 
 
 There was something so warm and sublime in the 
 Of an Irishman's heart, that I envy — thy dead. 
 
 Or, if aught in my bosom can quench for an hour 
 
 My contempt for a nation so servile, though sore. 
 Which though trod like the worm will not turn 
 upon power, 
 'Tis the glory of Grattan, and genius of Moore I 
 
 StptiinbeTy 1821. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 WBITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN FLOKEKCB 
 AKD PISA. 
 
 Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story, 
 The days of our youth are the days of our glory ; 
 And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty 
 Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. 
 
 Wliat are garlands and crowns to the brow that ia 
 
 wrinkled ? 
 'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled. 
 Then away with all such from the head that is hoary I 
 What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory 1 
 
 Fame'! — if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 
 'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, 
 Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover 
 She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. 
 
 There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee 
 Her glance was the best of the rays that surrounj 
 
 thee ; 
 When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in mj 
 
 1 knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. [story 
 
 NovembtT, 1831. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 TO A HINDOO Ain. 
 
 On ! — my lonely — lonely — lonely — Pillow I 
 Where is my lover ? whore is my lover ? 
 
Canto i. 
 
 OCCASIONAL PIECES. 
 
 561 
 
 [s it his bark which my dreary dreams discover ? ON THIS DAY I COJIPLETE JIT THIRTY 
 
 Far — far away ! and alone along the billow ? 
 
 Oh ! — my lonely — loiely — lonely — Pillow ! 
 VYhy must my head ache where his gentle brow lay ? 
 How the long night Hags lovelessly and slowly, 
 
 And my head droops over thee like the willow ! 
 
 Oh, thou, my sad and solitary Pillow ! [ing, 
 
 Bend me kind dreams to keep my heart from break- 
 [ 1 return for the tears I shed upon thee waking ; 
 
 Let me not die till he comes back o'er the billow. 
 
 Then if thou wilt — no more my loneJij Pillow, 
 [n one embrace let these arms again enfold him, 
 A-nd then expire of the joy^but to behold him ! 
 
 Oh, my lone bosom ! — oh, my lonely Pillow ! 
 
 DIPROJIPTU. 
 
 Bexeath Blessington's eyes 
 
 The reclaim'd Paradise 
 Should be free as the former from e\\\ ; 
 
 But, if the new Eve 
 
 For an Apple should grieve, 
 What mortal would not play the Devil ? 
 
 1K3. 
 
 TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON 
 
 Yoc have ask'd for a verse : — the request 
 In a rhymer 'twere strange to deny ; 
 
 But my Hippocrene was but my breast. 
 And my feelings (its fountain) are dry. 
 
 Were I now as I was, I had sung 
 
 Wliat Lawrence has painted so well ; 
 
 But the strain would expire on my tongue, 
 And the theme is too soft for my shell. 
 
 I am ashes where once I was fire. 
 And the bard in my bosom is dead ; 
 
 What I loved I now merely admire. 
 And my heart is as gray as my head. 
 
 My life is not dated by years — 
 
 There are moments which act as a plough ; 
 And there is not a furrow appears 
 
 But is deep in my soul as my brow. 
 
 Let the yoimg and the brilliant aspire 
 
 To sing what I gaze on in vain ; 
 For sorrow has torn from my lyre 
 
 The string which was worthy the strain. 
 
 71 
 
 SIXTH YEAR. 
 
 'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, 
 
 Since others it has ceased to move : 
 Yet, though I cannot be beloved, 
 Still let me love ! 
 
 My days are in the yellow leaf; 
 
 The flowers and fruits of love are gone ; 
 The worm, the canker, and the grief 
 Are mine alone ! 
 
 The fire that on my bosom preys 
 
 Is lone as some volcanic isle ; 
 
 No torch is kindled at its blaze — 
 
 A funeral pile. 
 
 The hope, the fear, the jealous care, 
 
 The exalted portion of the pain 
 And power of love, I cannot share, 
 But wear the chain. 
 
 But 'tis not th'is — and 'tis not here— 
 
 Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor nom 
 Where glory decks the hero's bier. 
 Or binds his brow. 
 
 The sword, the banner, and the field. 
 Glory and Greece, around me see ! 
 The Spartan, borne upon his shield. 
 Was not more free. 
 
 Awake 1 (not Greece — she is awake !) 
 
 Awake, my spirit ! Think through tnhom 
 Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake. 
 And then strike home ! 
 
 Tread those reviving passions down. 
 
 Unworthy manhood ! — unto thee 
 Indifferent should the smile or frown 
 Of beauty be. 
 
 If thou regret'st thy youth, why lire ? 
 
 The land of honorable death 
 Is here : — up to the field, and give 
 Away thy breath I 
 
 Seek out — ^less often sought than found — 
 
 A soldier's grave, for thee the best ; 
 Then look around, and choose thy ground, 
 And take thy rest. 
 
 MissoLONGHi, Januari ^, IbM 
 
862 
 
 BYRON'S vv ORKS. 
 
 Canto i. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 "Difficile est propriii communia dicere." — HoR. 
 " Dopt thou fhii \ yecnuBe thou crt virtuous, there thall be do more Cakes and Ale ?— YcB, by Saint Anno, and Glnsur shall be bol 
 ' the mouth, too I '— Sbakspeake, Twelfth JfiglU, or What You yVill. 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 I. 
 Bob Sodthet ! You're a poet — Poet-laureate, 
 
 And representative of all the race, 
 Although 'tis true that you turn'd out a Tory at 
 
 Last, — yours has lately been a common case, — 
 And now, my Epic Renegade ! what are ye at ? 
 
 'tt'ith all the Lakers, in and out of place ? 
 A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye 
 Like " four and twenty Blackbirds in a pye ; 
 
 11. 
 
 " AYliicli pye being open'd they began to sing," 
 (This old song and new simile holds good,) 
 
 "A dainty dish to sot before the King," 
 
 Or Kegent, who admires such kind of food ; — 
 
 And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing. 
 But like a hawk encumber'd with his hood, — 
 
 Explaining mctapliysics to the nation — 
 
 I wish he would explain his E.xplanalion. 
 
 III. 
 You, liob ! UK rather insolent, you know. 
 
 At being disappointed in your wish 
 To supersede all warliler.s here below, 
 
 And be the only Blackbird in the disli ; 
 And then you overstrain yourself, or so. 
 
 And tumble downward like the flying fish 
 JSasping on deck, because you soar too high. Bob, 
 And fall, for lack of moisture, quite a-dry. Cob ! 
 
 IV. 
 And Wordsworth, in a rathet long " Excursion," 
 
 (I think the quarto holds five hundred pages,) 
 Has given a sample frotn the vasty version 
 
 Of his new system to perplex the sages ; 
 "Tis poetry — at least by his assertion. 
 
 And may appear so when the dog-star rages — 
 And he who understands it would be able 
 To add a story to the Tower of Babel. 
 
 You —Gentlemen ! by dint of long seclusion 
 From better company, have kept your own 
 
 • Wordsworth^s plncc inay be in the Customs— it is, I think, in 
 (hat of the Excise— besides another at Lord Lonsdale's table, 
 where this poetical charlatan and political parasite licks up the 
 
 At Keswick, and, through still continued fusion 
 Of one another's minds, at last have grown 
 
 To deem as a most logical conclusion, 
 That Poesy has i;\Teaths for you alone : 
 
 There is a narrowness in such a notion, [ocean 
 
 Which makes me wish you'd change your lakes foi 
 
 VI. 
 I would not imitate the petty thought, 
 
 Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice. 
 For all the glory your conversion brought. 
 
 Since gold alone should not have been its price. 
 You have your salaiy ; was "t for that you wrought ? 
 
 And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise.' 
 You're shabby fellows — true — but poets still. 
 And duly seated on the immortal hill. 
 
 V[I. 
 Your bays may hide the baldness of your brows — 
 
 Perhaps some virtuous blushes ; — let them go — 
 To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs — 
 
 And for the fame you would engross below, 
 The field is universal, and allows 
 
 Scope to all such as feel the inherent glow : 
 Scott, Rogers, Caiiq)bell, ^Moore, and Crabbe, will ry 
 'Gainst you the question with posterity. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 For me, who, wandering with pedestrian Muses. 
 
 Contend not with you on the winged steed, 
 I wish your fate may yield ye, when she choosf. 
 
 The fame you envy, and the sluU you need ; 
 And recollect a poet nothing loses 
 
 In giving to his l)rethren their full meed 
 Of merit, and comiilaint of present days 
 Is not the certain path to future praise. 
 
 IX. 
 
 lie that reserves his laurels for posterity 
 
 (Who does not often claim the bright reversion) 
 
 Has generally no great crop to spare it, he 
 Being only injured by his own assertion ; 
 
 And although here and there some glorious rarity 
 Arise like Titan from the sea's immersion. 
 
 cnnnbs with a hardened alacrity ; the converted Jacobin having 
 long subsided into the clovpnish sycophant of the worst prejudice* 
 of the aristocracy. 
 
Canto i. 
 
 DOJSr JUAN, 
 
 563 
 
 The major part of such appellants go 
 
 To — God knows where — for no one else can know. 
 
 X. 
 
 If, fallen in evil days on evil tongues, 
 Milton appeal'd to the Avenger, Time, 
 
 If Time, the Avenger, execrates his wrongs, 
 And makes the word " Miltouic " mean sublime, 
 
 He deign'd not to belie his soul in songs, 
 Nor turn his very talent to a crime ; 
 
 He did not loathe the Sire to laud the Son, 
 
 But closed the tyrant-hater he begun. 
 
 XI. 
 Think'st thou, could he — the blind Old Man — arise 
 
 Like Samuel from the grave, to freeze once more 
 The blood of monarchs with his prophecies. 
 
 Or be ahve again — again aU hoar 
 With time and trials, and those helpless eyes. 
 
 And heartless daughters — worn — and pale' — and 
 Would lie adore a sultan ? he obey [poor ; 
 
 The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh V 
 
 XII. 
 Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid miscreant ! 
 
 Dabbling its sleek young hands in Erin's gore, 
 And thus for wider carnage taught to pant, 
 
 Transferr'd to gorge upon a sister shore. 
 The vulgarest tool that Tyranny could want. 
 
 With Just enough of talent, and no more, 
 To lengthen fetters by another fix'd. 
 And oti'er poison long already mix'd. 
 
 XIII. 
 An orator of such set trash of phrase 
 
 Ineftably — legitimately vile. 
 That even its grossest flatterers dare not praise, 
 
 Nor foes — all nations — condescend to smile,— 
 Nor even a sprightly blunder's spark can blaze 
 
 From that Ixion grindstone's ceaseless toil, 
 That tur)-,s and turns to give the world a notion 
 Of endless torments and j^erpetual motion. 
 
 XIV. 
 A bungler even in its disgusting trade. 
 
 And botching, patching, leaving still behind 
 Something of which its masters are afraid. 
 
 States to be curb'd, and thoughts to be confined. 
 Conspiracy or Congress to be made — 
 
 Cobbling at manacles for all mankind — 
 
 1 " Pale, but not cadaverous ;" — Milton's two elder daughters 
 are said to have robbed bim of hi? books, besides cheating and 
 plaguing him in the economy of hie house, etc., etc. His feelings 
 on such an outrage, both as a parent and a scholar, must have 
 been singularly painfu'. Havley compares him to Lear. See pert 
 third, Life of Milton, by \V. Hayley, (or Hailey, as spelt in the 
 edition before me.) 
 
 s Or,— 
 " Wou.d he subside into a hackney Laureate— 
 A scribbling, self-sold, soul-hired, scom'd Iscariot ?" 
 ( doubt if " Laureate " and " Iscariot " be good rhymes, but mast 
 
 A tinkering slave-maker, who mends old chains, 
 With God's and man's abhorrence for its gaiuR 
 
 XV. 
 If we may judge of matter by the mind. 
 
 Emasculated to the marrow. It 
 Hath but two objects, how to serve, and bind. 
 
 Deeming the chain it wears even men may fit, 
 Eutrojjius of its many masters," — blind 
 
 To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit. 
 Fearless — because no feeling dwells in ice. 
 Its very courage stagnates to a vice. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Wliere shall I turn me not to vieir its bonds, 
 
 For I wiU never feel them ; — Italy ! 
 Thy late reviving Rom.iu soul desponds [thee — 
 
 Beneath the lie this State-thing br...ithed o'ei 
 Thy clanking chain, and Erin's yet green wounds, 
 
 Have voices — tongues to cry aloud for me. 
 Europe has slaves — allies — kings — armies still. 
 And Southey lives to sing them very ill. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Meanrime — Sir Laureate — -I proceed to dedicate. 
 In honest simple verse, this song to you. 
 
 And if in flattering strains I do not predicate, 
 'Tis that I still retain my " buff and blue ;" 
 
 My politics as yet are all to educate : 
 Apostacy 's so fashionable, too. 
 
 To keep one creed 's a task grown quite Herculean ; 
 
 Is it not so, my Tory, ultra-Julian ?' 
 
 Venice, Sept. 16, 1818. 
 
 DON JUAX. 
 
 CANTO THE FIRST. 
 I. 
 
 I WANT a hero : an uncommon want, 
 
 Wlien every year and month sends forth a new 
 Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant. [one, 
 
 The age discovers be is not the true one ; 
 Of such as these I shruld not care to vaunt, 
 
 I'll therefore take our ancient friend Don .Juan — 
 We all have seen him, in the pantomime. 
 Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time. 
 
 say, as Ben Jonson did to Sylvester, who challenged him to rhym* 
 with — 
 
 " I, John Sylvester, 
 Lay with your sister." 
 Jonson answered — " I, Ben Jonson, lay with your wife." Sylve* 
 tcr answered. — " That is not rhyme." — " No," said Ben Jonson : 
 " but It is tTuey 
 
 s For the character of Eutropius, the eunuch and uinisfer al 
 the court of Arcadius, see Gibbon. 
 
 * I allude not to our friend Landor's hero, the traitor Coait 
 Julian, but to Gibbon's hero, vulgarly yclept " The Apostate." 
 
564 
 
 liTRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto i 
 
 11. 
 
 Vernoii, the Dutch ^ Cumberland,^ Wolfe,' Ilawke/ 
 Pnnco Fordinand, Granby,' Burtfoyne/ Keppel," 
 
 EtII and good, have had their tithe of talk, [ Howe,' 
 And iill'd their signposts then, like Wellesley now; 
 
 Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs stalk, 
 Followers of fame. " nine farrow " of that sow : 
 
 France, too, had Buonaparte and Dumourier 
 
 Ri'corded in the Moniteur and Courier. 
 
 III. 
 
 Baruave,!" Brissot," Condorcet," Mirabeau," 
 
 Petion,'* Clootz," Danton," Marat," La Fayette," 
 
 Were French, and famous people, as we know ; 
 And there were others, scarce forgotten yet, 
 
 Jiiubert,'" Hoche," Marceau,^' Lannes," Desaix,2» 
 Witli many of the military set, [Moreau,"' 
 
 ' r.^tliniral Vernon, who served with considerate distinction in 
 the navy, particularly in the capture of Porto Bello. died in ]7.")7.] 
 
 - [Second son of Gcori;e II., distinguished himself at the bat- 
 tles of Dottingen and Koiitcnoy, and still more so at that of Cul- 
 lodcn, where he defeated the Chevalier, in 1746. The Duke, how- 
 ever, obscured his fame by the cruel abuse which he made, or 
 sulVered his soldiers to make, of the victory. He died in 1705.] 
 
 ' [tJenoral Wolfe, the brave commander of tbe expedition 
 Bgainst Qtiebec, terminated lii^ career in the moment of victory, 
 whilst lighting against the French in 17,>9.] 
 
 • [In 1730, Admiral Lord Hawke totally defeated the French 
 fleet equipped at Brest for the invasion of England. In 170,") he 
 was appointed First Lord of the Admiralty ; and died, ftill of 
 honors, in 1781.] 
 
 ' [Ferdinand, Duke of Brunswick, who g,ained the victory of 
 Minden, In 1763, he drove the French out of Ilesse. He died in 
 1792,] 
 
 " [Son of the third Duke of Rutland— signalized himself in 
 1745, on the invasion by Prince Charloii : and was constituted, in 
 1759, commander of the British forces in Germany, He died in 
 1770.] 
 
 ' [An English general officer and dramatist, who distinguished 
 himself in the defence of Portugal, in 1703, against tbe Spaniards, 
 and also in America by the capture of Ticonderoga ; but was at 
 last obliged to surrender, with his army, to General Gates. Died 
 in 1793.) 
 
 ^ [Second son of the Earl of Albemarle. Placed at the head of 
 the Ch.annel fleet, he partially engaged, in 1778, the French fleet 
 off Ush,ant, which contrived to escape : he was, in consequence. 
 Vied by a court-martial, and honorably acquitted. He died in 
 1780.] 
 
 " [Lord Howe distinguished himself on many occasions during 
 the American war. Ou the breaking out of the French war, he 
 took the command of the English fleet, and, bringing the enemy 
 to an action ou the 1st of June, 1794, obtained a splendid victory. 
 He died in 1799.] 
 
 "' Bamave, one of the most active promoters of the French 
 revolution, was in 1791 appointed president of the Constituent 
 Assembly. On the flight of the royal family, he was sent to con- 
 duct them to Paris, He was guillotined, Nov. 1793,] 
 
 " [HrisBot de Warville, at the age of twenty, published several 
 tracts, for one of which he was, in 1784, thrown into the Bastile. 
 He was one of the principal instigators of the revolt of the fhamp 
 fle Mars, in July, 17S9. He was led to the guillotine, Oct., 1793.] 
 
 '■J [Condorcet was, in 1793, appointed president of the Legisla- 
 tive Assembly. Having, in 1793, attacked the new Constitution, 
 he was denounced. Being thrown into prison, he was on the fol- 
 lowing moridng found dead, apparently from poison, His works 
 are i;nllccled in twenty-one volumes.] 
 
 " [Mirabeau, so well known as one of the chief promoters of 
 and actors in, the French revolution, died In 1791.] 
 
 Exceedingly remarkable at times, 
 But not at all adapted to my rhymes. 
 
 IV. 
 Nelson was once Britannia's god ot war. 
 
 And still should be so, but the tide is tum'd ; 
 There 's no more to be said of Trafalgar, 
 
 'Tis with our hero quietly inurn'd ; 
 Because the army 's grown more popular. 
 
 At which the naval people are concern'd ; 
 Besides, the prince is all for the land-service. 
 Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and .lervis. 
 
 Brave men were living before Agamemnon 
 
 And since, exceeding valorous and sage, [none 
 
 A good deal like him too, though quite the sam* 
 But then they shone not on the poet's page, 
 
 " [Petion, mayor of Paris in 1791, took an active part in the im- 
 prisonment of the king. Becoming, in 1793, an object of sub- 
 jjicion to Robespierre, he took refuge in the department of the 
 Calvados ; where his body was found in a lield. half-devoured by 
 wolves.] 
 
 ■' [John Baptiste (better known under the appellation of Ana- 
 charsis) Clootz. In 1790, at the bar of the National Convention, 
 he described himself as " the orator of the human race." Beiug 
 suspected by Robespierre, he was, in 1791, condemned to death. 
 On the scaftbid he begged to be decapitated the last, as he wished 
 to make some observations essential to the establishment of cer- 
 tain principles, while the heads of the others were falling ; a re- 
 quest obligingly complied with.] 
 
 '" [Danton played a very important part during the first years of 
 the French revolution. After the fall of the king, he was made 
 Minister of Justice. His violent measures led to the bloody 
 scenes of September, 1793. Being denounced to the Committee 
 of Safety, he ended his career on the guillotine, in 1794.] 
 
 " [This wretch figured among the actors of the 10th .\ngust, and 
 in the assassinations of September, 1793. In .M,ay, 1793, he was 
 denounced, and delivered over to the revolutionary tribunal, which 
 acquitted him ; but his bloody career was arrested by the knife of 
 an assassin, in the person of Charlotte Corde. 
 
 i"^ [Of all these " famous people," the General was the last sur- 
 vivor. He died in isa4.] 
 
 '» [.Joubert distinguished himself at the engagements of Laono, 
 Montenotte, Millesimo, Cava, Montebello, Kivoli, and especially 
 in the Tyrol. Ho was afterwards opposed to Suwarrow, and was 
 killed, in 1799, at Novi.] 
 
 -" [In 1790, Iloche was appointed to the command of the ex- 
 pedition against Ireland, and sailed in December from Brest ; but, 
 a storm dispersing the fleet, the plain failed, A''ter his return, he 
 received the command of the array of the Sambrc and Meuse; 
 but died suddenly, in September, 1797, it was supposed of poison. 
 
 " [General Marceau first distinguished himself ir. La Vendiie, 
 He was killed by a rifle-b.iU at .Mterkercben.] 
 
 -• [Lanncs, Duke of Montebello, distinguished himself at Mil 
 lesimo, Lodi, .Mioukir. .^cre, Montebello, Austerlitz, Jena, Pnl 
 tusk, Preuss Eylau, Friedland, Tudela, Saragossa, Echmuhl, and, 
 lastly, at Ealing : where, in May, 1809, he was killed by a cannon- 
 shot.] 
 
 2' (At the taking of Malta, and at the battles of Chebreiss and 
 of the Pyramids, Desaix displayed the greatest bravery. He was 
 mortally wounded by a cannon-ball at Marengo, Juet as victory 
 declared for the French.] 
 
 ■-< [One of the most distinguished of the republican generals. 
 In 1813, on hearing of the reverses of Napoleon in Russia, he 
 joined the allied armies. He was struck by a cannon-ball at the 
 battle o.f Dresden, in 1*1 i.] 
 
Canto i. 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 565 
 
 And so have lieen fora;ottcn : — I condemn none, 
 
 But can't find any in the present age 
 Fit for my po^m, (that is, for my new one ;) 
 So, as T said, I'll take my friend Don Juan. 
 
 YI. 
 
 Most f.pic poets plunge " in niedias res," 
 
 (Horace makes this the heroic turnpike road,) 
 
 And then your hero tells, whene'er you please, 
 What went before — by way of episode, 
 
 "While seated after dinner at his ease. 
 Beside his mistress in some soft abode, 
 
 Palace, or garden, paradise, or cavern, 
 
 Which serves the happy couple for a tavern. 
 
 VII. 
 
 That is the usual method, but not mine — 
 My way is to begin with the beginning ; 
 
 The regularity of my design 
 
 Forbids all wandering as the worst of sinning. 
 
 And therefore I sliall open with a line 
 
 (Although it cost me half an hour in spinning) 
 
 Narrating somewhat of Don Juan's father, 
 
 And also of his mother, if you'd rather. 
 
 VI IT. 
 
 In Seville was he bom, a pleasant city, 
 
 Famous for oranges and women — he 
 Wlio has not seen it vnl\ be much to pity. 
 
 So says the proverlj — and I quite agree ; 
 Of all the Spanish towns is none more pretty, 
 
 Cadiz perhaps — but that you soon may see ; — 
 Don Juan's parents lived beside the river, 
 A noble stream, and call'd the Guadalquivir. 
 
 IX. 
 
 His father's name was Jose — Don, of course, 
 A true Hidalgo, free from every stain 
 
 Of Moor or Hebrew blood, he traced his source 
 Through the most Gothic gentlemen of Spain ; 
 
 A better cavalier ne'er mounted horse. 
 Or, being mounted, e'er got down again. 
 
 Than Jose, who begot our hero, who 
 
 Begot — but tliat 's to come WeU, to renew : 
 
 X. 
 
 His mother was a learned lady, famed 
 For every branch of every science known — 
 
 In every Christian language ever named, 
 With virtues eriuall'd by lier wit alone 
 
 She made the cleverest people quite ashamed. 
 And even the good with inward envy groan. 
 
 Finding themselves so very much exceeded 
 
 In their own way by all the things that she did. 
 
 ' fProfcspor Feinajle. of Baden, who. in 1S13, under the eepe- 
 tial patronage of the " Blues," delivered a conree of lecturee at 
 (he Royal Institution, on Mnemonics.] 
 
 XI. 
 
 Her memory was a mine : she knew by heart 
 All Caldcron and greater part of Lope, 
 
 So that if any actor miss'd his part 
 
 She could have served him for the promplei i 
 
 For her Feinagle's were a useless art,i [copy ; 
 
 And he himself ubKged to shut up shop — he 
 
 Could never make a memory so fine as 
 
 That which adoru'd the brain of Donna Inez. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Her favorite science was the mathematical, 
 Iler noblest virtue was her magnanimity. 
 
 Her wit (she sometimes tried at wit) was Attic all, 
 Her serious sayings darken'd to sublimity ; 
 
 In short, in all things she was fairly what I call 
 A prodigy — her morning dress was dimity. 
 
 Her evening silk, or, in the summer, muslin, 
 
 And other stufl's, with which I won't stay puzding. 
 
 XIII. 
 She knew the Latin — that is, " the Lord's prayer," 
 
 And Greek — the alphabet — I'm nearly sure ; 
 She read some French romances here and there, 
 
 Although her mode of speaking was not pure ; 
 For native Spanish she had no great care 
 
 At least her conversation was obscm'e ; 
 Her thoughts were theorems, her words a problem, 
 As if she deem'd that mystery would ennoljle 'em. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 She liked the English and the Hebrew tongue. 
 And said there was analogy between 'era ; 
 
 She proved it somehow out of sacred song, 
 But I must leave the proofs to those who've seen 
 
 But this I heard her say, and can't be wrong, ['em, 
 
 And all may think which way their judgments 
 
 lean 'em, [am,' 
 
 " 'Tis strange — the Hebrew noun which means 
 
 The English always use to govern d — n.'' 
 
 XV. 
 
 Some women use their tongues — she looPd a lecture, 
 Each eye a sermon, and her brow a homily, 
 
 An all-in-all sufficient self-director. 
 
 Like the lamented late Sir Samuel Romilly,^ 
 
 The Law's expounder, and the State's corrector, 
 Wliose suicide was almost an anomaly — 
 
 One sad example more, that " All is vanity," — 
 
 (The jury brought their verdict in " Insanity.") 
 
 XVI. 
 In short, she was a walking calculation. 
 
 Miss Edgewortli's novels stejJijing from then 
 Or Mrs. Trimmer's books on education, [covers. 
 
 Or " Coolebs' Wife " set out in quest of lovers, 
 
 = [Sir Samuel Romilly lost his lady on the 'jnth of October, a^d 
 committed suicide on the 2d of Novemhcr, 1818. 
 s [Hannah Moore's " Coclebe -n Search of a Wife," etc. 
 
K06 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS 
 
 CA-\T0 L 
 
 Morality's prim personification, 
 
 In wliich not Envy's self a flaw discovers ; 
 To otliers' share let " female errors fall," 
 For she had not even one — the worst of all. 
 
 XVII. 
 Oh ! she was perfect past all parallel — 
 
 (^f any modern female saint's comparison; 
 rio fir above the cunnintr powers of hell. 
 
 Her guardian angel had given up his garrison ; 
 Even her minutest motions went as well 
 
 As those of the best time-piece made by Harrison : 
 In virtue nothing earthly could surpass her, 
 Save thine " incomparable oil," Macassar ! 
 
 xvin 
 Perfect she was, but as perfection is 
 
 Insipid in this naughty world of ours. 
 Where our first parents never learn'd to kiss 
 
 Till they were exiled from their earlier bowers, 
 WTiere all was peace, and innocence, and bliss, 
 
 (I wonder how they got through the twelve hours,) 
 Don Jose, like a lineal son of Eve, 
 Went plucking various fruit without her leave. 
 
 XTX. 
 
 He was a mortal of the careless kind, 
 
 With no great love for learning, or the leam'd. 
 
 Who chose to go where'er he had a mind. 
 And never dream'd his lady was concem'd ; 
 
 The world, as usual, wickedly inclined 
 To see a kingdom or a house o'erturn'd, 
 
 Whispcr'd he had a mistress, some said two ; 
 
 But for domestic quarrels <»ie will do. 
 
 XX, 
 
 Now Donna Inez had. with all her merit, 
 A great opinion of her own good qualities ; 
 
 Neglect, indeed, requires a saint to bear it. 
 And such, indeed, slie was in her moralities ; 
 
 But then she had a devil of a spirit, 
 -And sometimes mix'd up fancies with realities. 
 
 And let few opportunities escape 
 
 Of getting her liege lord into a scrape. 
 
 XXI. 
 This was an easy matter with a man 
 
 Oft in the wrong, and never on his guard ; 
 And even the wisest, do the best they can. 
 
 Have moments, hours, and days, so unprepared. 
 That you might " lirain them with their lady's fan ;" 
 
 And sometimes ladies hit exceeding hard. 
 And fans turn into falchions in fair hands. 
 And why and wherefore no one understands. 
 
 XXII. 
 Tis pity learnpfl virgins ever wed 
 With persons of no sort of education, 
 
 Or gentlemen who, though well Iwrn and bred, 
 Grow tired )f scientific conversation : 
 
 I don't choose to say much upon this bead, 
 I'm a plain man, and in a single station. 
 
 But — Oh 1 ye lords of ladies intellectual. 
 
 Inform us truly, have they not hen-peck'd you all J 
 
 XXIII. 
 Don Juse and his lady quarrell'd — trin/. 
 
 Not any of the many could divine. 
 Though several thousand people chos^j to try, 
 
 'Twas surely no concern of theirs nor mine ; 
 I loathe that low vice — curiosity ; 
 
 But if there 's any thing in which I shine, 
 'Tis in arranging all my fi-iends' aflairs, 
 Not haWng, of my own, domestic cares. 
 
 XXIV. 
 And so I interfered, and with the best 
 
 Intentions, but their treatment was not kind ; 
 I think the foolish people were possess'd, 
 
 For neither of them could I ever find, 
 Although their porter afterwards confess'd — 
 
 But that 's no matter, and the worst 's behind, 
 For little Juan o'er me threw, down stairs, 
 A pail of housemaid's water unawares. 
 
 XXV. 
 A little eurly-headed, good-for-nothing. 
 
 And mischief-making monkey from his birth ; 
 His parents ne'er agreed except in doting 
 
 Ujjon the most unquiet imp on earth ; 
 Instead of quarrelling, had they been but both in 
 
 Their senses, they'd have sent young master fo'lh 
 To school, or had him soundly whipp'd at home, 
 To teach him mannere for the time to come. 
 
 XXVI. 
 Don Jiise and the Donna Inez led 
 
 For some time an unhappy sort of life, 
 Wishing each other, not divorced, but dead ; 
 
 They lived respectably as man and wife, 
 Their conduct was exceedingly well-bred. 
 
 And gave no outward signs of inward strifo 
 Until at length the smother'd fire broke out. 
 And put the business past all kind of doubt. 
 
 XXVII. 
 For Inez call'd some druggists, and physici.'ms, 
 
 And tried to prove her loving lord was mad. 
 But as he had some lucid intermissions. 
 
 She next decided he was only had ; 
 Yet when they ask'd her for her depositions, 
 
 No sort of ex])lanation could be had, 
 Save that her duty both to man and God 
 Required this conduct — which seem'd very odd. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 She kept a journal, where his faults were notetl. 
 And open'd certain trunks of books and letters, 
 
Canto i. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 567 
 
 AH wliioli might, if occasion served, be quoted : 
 And then she had all Seville for abettors, 
 
 Besides her good old grandmother, (who doted ;) 
 The hearers of her case became repeaters, 
 
 Then advocates, inquisitors, and judges, 
 
 Some for amusement, others for old grudges. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 And then this best and meekest woman bore 
 With such serenity her husband's woes. 
 
 Just as the Spartan ladies did of yore. 
 Who saw their spouses kill'd, and nobly chose 
 
 Never to say a word about them more — 
 Calmly she heard each calumny that rose. 
 
 And saw JiU agonies with such sublimity. 
 
 That all the world esclaim'd, "What magnanimity !" 
 
 XXX. 
 
 No doubt this patience, when the world is damning 
 Is philosophic in our former friends : [us, 
 
 'Tis also pleasant to be deem'd magnanimous, 
 The more so in obtaining our own ends ; 
 
 And what the lawyers can a " malus animus''^ 
 Conduct like this by no means comprehends ; 
 
 Revenge in pereon 's certainly no virtue, 
 
 But then 'tis not my fault, if others hurt you. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 And if our quarrels should rip up old stories. 
 And help them with a lie or two additional, 
 
 /'m not to blame, as you well know — no more is 
 Any one else — they were become traditional ; 
 
 Besides, their resurrection aids our glories [all : 
 
 By contrast, which is what we just were wishing 
 
 And science profits by this resurrection — 
 
 Dead scandals form good subjects for dissection. 
 
 XSXIl. 
 
 Their friends had tried at reconciliation. 
 Then their relations, who made matters worse 
 
 ('Twere hard to tell upon a like occasion 
 To whom it may be best to hare recourse — 
 
 I can't say much for friend or yet relation :) 
 The la^^^yers did their utmost for divorce, 
 
 But scarce a fee was paid on either side 
 
 Before, unluckily, Don Juse died. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Ife died : and most unluckily, because, 
 According to all hints I could collect 
 
 From counsel learned in those kind of laws, 
 
 (Although their talk 's obscure and circumspect,) 
 
 His death contrived to spoil a charming cause ; 
 A thousand pities also with respect 
 
 To pulilic feeling, which on this occasion, 
 
 Was manifested in a jreat sensation. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 But, ah ! he died ; and buried with him lay 
 
 The public feeling and the lawyere' fees : 
 His house was sold, his servants sent away 
 
 A Jew took one of his two mistresses, 
 A priest the other — at least so they say : 
 
 I ask'd the doctors after his disease — 
 He died of the slow fever call'd the tertian, 
 And left his widow to her own aversion. 
 
 XXXV. 
 Yet Jose was an honorable man, 
 
 That I must say, who knew him very well ; 
 Therefore his frailties I'll no further scan. 
 
 Indeed there were not many more to tell : 
 And if his passions now and then outran 
 
 Discretion, and were not so peacable 
 As Numa's (who was also named Pompilius,) 
 He had been ill brought up, and was born liilious. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 Whate'er might be his worthlessness or worth, 
 
 Poor fellow ! he had many things to woimd him. 
 Let' s own — since it can do no good on earth — 
 
 It was a trying moment that which found him 
 Standing alone beside his desolate hearth. 
 
 Where aU his household gods lay shiver'd round 
 No choice was left his feelings or his pride, [him. 
 Save death or Doctors' Commons — so he died. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 Dying intestate, Juan was sole heir 
 
 To a chancery suit, and messuages, and lauds, 
 Which, with a long minority and care. 
 
 Promised to turn out well in proper hands : 
 Inez became sole guardian, which was fair. 
 
 And answer'd but to nature's just demands ; 
 An only son left with an only mother 
 Is brought up much more wisely than another. 
 
 X.X.XVIII. 
 Sagest of women, even of widows, she 
 
 Resolved that Juan should be quite a paragon. 
 And worthy of the noble pedigree : 
 
 (His sire was of Castile, his dame from Aragon.) 
 Then for accomplishments of chivalry, 
 
 In case our lord the king should go to war agaie 
 He leam'd the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery. 
 And how to scale a fortress— or a nunnery 
 
 XXXIX. 
 But that which Donna Inez most desired, 
 
 jVnd saw into herself each day before all 
 The learned tutors whom for him she hired, 
 
 Was, that his breeding should he strictly moral 
 Much into aU his studies she inquired, 
 
 And so they were submitted first to her, all. 
 Arts, sciences, no branch was made a mystery 
 To Juan's eyes, excepting natural history. 
 
568 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto l 
 
 XL. m 
 
 The languages, especially the dead, 
 
 The sciences, and most of all the abstruse, 
 The arts, at least all such as could be said 
 
 To be the most remote from common use, 
 In all these he was much and deeply read ; 
 
 But not a page of any thing that 's loose, 
 Or hints continuation of the species, 
 Was ever sufler'd, lest lie should grow -s-icious. 
 
 XLI. 
 His classic studies made a little puzzle, 
 
 Because of filthy loves of gods and goddesses, 
 Who in the earlier ages raised a bustle, 
 
 But never put on pantaloons or bodices ; 
 His reverend tutors had at times a tussle. 
 
 And for their /Eneids, Iliads, and Odysseys, 
 Were forced to make an odd sort of apology, 
 For Donna Inez dreaded the Mythology. 
 
 XLII. 
 Ovid 's a rake, as half his verses show him, 
 
 Anacreon's morals are a still worse sample, 
 Catullus scarcely has a decent poem, 
 
 I don't think Sapjjho's Ode a good example, 
 Although Longinus tells us there is no hymn 
 
 Where the sublime soars forth on wings more ample ; 
 But Virgil's songs are pure, except that hoi-rid one 
 Beginning irith " Formosum Pastor Corydon." 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 Lucretius' irreliy-ion is too strong 
 
 For early stomachs, to prove wholesome food • 
 I can't help thinking .Juvenal was wrong. 
 
 Although no doubt his real intent was good, 
 For speaking out so plainly in his song, 
 
 So much indeed as to be downright rude ; 
 And then what projjer person can be partial 
 To all those nauseous epigrams of Martial ? 
 
 xuv. 
 
 Juan was taught from out the best edition 
 Fxpurgat(Ml by learned men, who place, 
 
 Judiciously, ii'om out the schoolboy's vision. 
 The grosser parts ; but, fearful. to deface 
 
 Too mucli their modest bard by this omission, 
 And pitying sore his mutilated case. 
 
 They only add them all in an appendix,' 
 
 Which saves, in fact, the troulfle of an index ; 
 
 XI.V. 
 For there we have them all "at one fell swoop," 
 Instead of being scatter'd through the pages ; 
 
 ' Fact 1 There is, or was, such an edition, with all the 
 obnoxious epigrams of Martial placed by thcnieclvcs at the 
 eud. 
 
 • Sec hl6 Confespions, 1. i. c. is. By the representation which 
 St. Augustine iiives of himself in his youth, it is easy to see that lie 
 
 They stand forth marshall'd in a handsome troop, 
 To meet the ingenuous youth of future ages, 
 
 Till some less rigid editor shall stoop 
 
 To call them back into their separate cages, 
 
 Instead of standing staring all together. 
 
 Like garden gods — and not so decent either. 
 
 XLVI. 
 The Missal too (it was the family Jlissal) 
 
 Was ornamented in a sort of way 
 ^\'Tiich ancient mass-books often are, and this all 
 
 Kinds of grotesques illumined ; and how they, 
 Who saw those figures on the margin kiss all, 
 
 Could turn their optics to the text and pray. 
 Is more than I know — But Don .Juan's mother 
 Kept this herself, and gave her son another 
 
 XLVII. 
 Sermons he read, and lectures he endured, 
 
 And homilies, and lives of all the saints ; 
 To Jerome and to Chrysostom inured. 
 
 He did not take such studies for restraints ; 
 But how faith is acquired, and then ensured, 
 
 So well not one of the aforesaid paints 
 As Saint Augustine in his fine Confessions, 
 Which make the reader envy his transgressions." 
 
 XLVIII. 
 This, too, was a seal'd book to little Juan — 
 
 I can't but say that his mamma was right, 
 If such an education was the true one. 
 
 She scarcely trusted him from out her sight ; 
 Her maids were old, and if she took a new one, 
 
 You might be sure she was a perfect fright, 
 She did this during even her husband's lifo- 
 I recommend as much to every wife. 
 
 XLTX. 
 Young Juan wax'd in goodliness and grace ; 
 
 At six a charming child, and at eleven 
 With all the promise of as fine a face 
 
 As e'er to man's maturer growth was given : 
 He studied steadily, and grew apace, 
 
 And seem'd, at least, in the right road to heaven, 
 For half his days were pass'd at church, the other 
 Between his tutors, confessor, and mother. 
 
 At six, I said, he was a charming child, 
 At twelve he was a fine, but quiet boy ; 
 
 Although in infancy a little wild, 
 
 They t.amed hiiu down amongst them : to destroy 
 
 Ilis natural spirit not in vain they toil'd. 
 At least it seem'd so ; and his mother's joy 
 
 wa9 what we should call a rake. lie avoided the school as the 
 plu;^ie ; he loved nothing but gaming and public shows ; he 
 robbed his father of every thing he could find ; he invented a 
 thousand lies to escape the rod, which they were obliged to 
 make use ol to punish his irregularities. 
 
Canto . i. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 569 
 
 Was to declare how sage, and still, and steady, 
 Her young philosopher was grown already. 
 
 LI. 
 
 I had my doubts, perhaps I have them still. 
 But what I say is neither here nor there : 
 
 I knew his father well, and have some skill 
 In character — but it would not be fair 
 
 From sire lo sou to augm- good or ill : 
 He and his wife were an ill-sorted pair — 
 
 But scandal 's my aversion — I protest 
 
 Against all e\-il speaking, even in jest. 
 
 LI I. 
 For my part I say nothing — nothing — but 
 
 This I will say — my reasons are my own — 
 That if I had an only son to put 
 
 To school, (as God be praised that I have none,) 
 'Tis not with Donna Inez I would shut 
 
 Him up to learn his catechism alone, 
 No — no — I'd send him out betimes to college. 
 For there it was I pick'd up my own knowledge. 
 
 LIU. 
 For there one learns — 'tis not for me to boast. 
 
 Though I acquired — but I pass over that, 
 A 9 well as all the Greek I since have lost : 
 
 I say that there 's the jjlace — but " Vei-bum sat," 
 J thick I pick'd up too, as well as most. 
 
 Knowledge of matters — but no matter what — 
 I never married — but, I think, I know 
 That sons should not be educated so. 
 
 LIV. 
 Young Juan now was sixteen years of age. 
 
 Tall, handsome, slender, but well knit : he seem'd 
 Active, though not so sprightly, as a page ; 
 
 And everybody but his mother deem'd 
 Him almost man ; but she flew in a rage 
 
 And bit her lips (for else she might have scream'd) 
 If any said so, for to be precocious 
 Wa.s in her eyes a thing the most atrocious. 
 
 LV. 
 Amongst her numerous acquaintance, all 
 
 Selected for discretion and devotion, 
 There was the Donna Julia, whom to caU 
 
 Pretty were but to give a feeble notion 
 Of many charms in her as natura 
 
 As sweetness to the flower, or salt to ocean 
 Her zone to Venus, or his bow to Cupid, 
 (But this last simile is trite and stupid.) 
 
 LVI. 
 The darkness of her Oriental eye 
 
 Accorded with her Moorish' origin ; 
 (Her blood was not all Spanish, by the by ; 
 
 In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin.) 
 
 When proud Granada fell, and, forced to fly, 
 Boabdil v,ept, of Donna Julia's kin 
 i Some went to Africa, some stay'd in Spain, 
 Her great-great-grandmamma chose to remain. 
 
 LVII. 
 I She married (I forget the pedigree) 
 
 With an Hidalgo, who transmitted do«Ti 
 His blood less noble than such blood should be ; 
 
 At such alliances his sires would frown, 
 In that point so precise in each degree 
 
 That they bred in and in, as might be shown. 
 Marrying their cousins — nay, their aunts, and nieces, 
 Which always spoils the breed, if it increases. 
 
 LVIII. 
 This heathenish cross restored the breed again, 
 
 Ruin'd its blood, but much improved its flesh ; 
 For from a root the ugliest in Old Spain 
 
 Sprung up a branch as beautiful as fresh ; 
 The sons no more were short, the daughters plain : 
 
 But there 's a rumor which I fain would hush, 
 'Tis said that Donna Julia's grandmamma 
 Produced her Don more heirs at love than law 
 
 LIX. 
 However this might be, the race went on 
 
 Improving still through every generation. 
 Until it centred in an only son, 
 
 Wlio left an only daughter ; my nairation 
 May have suggested that this single one 
 
 Could be but Julia, (whom on this occasion 
 I shaU have much to speak about,) and she 
 Was married, charming, chaste, and twenty-three. 
 
 LX. 
 Her eye (I'm very fond of handsome eyes) 
 
 Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire 
 Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise 
 
 Flash'd an expression more of pride than ire, 
 And love than either ; and there would arise 
 
 A something in them which was not desire, 
 But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul 
 Which struggled through and chasten'd down tlia 
 whole. 
 
 LXI. 
 Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow 
 
 Bright with intelligence, and fair, and smooth ; 
 Her eyel_>row's shape was like the aerial bow. 
 
 Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth, 
 Mounting, at times, to a transparent glow. 
 
 As if her veins ran lightning ; she, in sooth, 
 Possess'd an air and grace by no means commcu 
 Her stature tall — I hate a dumpy woman. 
 
 LXIL 
 Wedded she was some years, and to a man 
 Of fifty, and such husbands are in plenty ; 
 
E70 
 
 BYRON S ATOKKS, 
 
 Canto t 
 
 And yet, I think, instead of such a one 
 
 'Tvvere better to have two of iive-and-twenty, 
 
 Especially in countries near the sun : 
 And now I think on 't, " mi vien in inente," 
 
 Ladies even of the most uneasy virtue 
 
 Prefer a spouse whose age is sliort of thirty. 
 
 lAIII. 
 'Tis a sad thing, I cannot choose but say, 
 
 And all the fault of that indecent sun, 
 Wlio cannot leave alone our helpless clay. 
 
 But will keep baking, liroiling, burning on, 
 That howsoever pccple fast and pray, 
 
 The flesh is frail, and so the soul undone : 
 WTiat men caU gallantry, and gods adultery. 
 Is much more common where the climate 's sultry. 
 
 LXIV. 
 Happy the nations of the moral North ! 
 
 Where all is virtue, and the winter season 
 Sends sin, without a rag on, shivering forth, 
 
 ('Twas snow that brought St. Anthony' to reason ;) 
 Wliere juries cast up what a wife is worth, 
 
 By laying whate'er sum, in mulct, they please on 
 The lover, who must pay a handsome price, 
 Because it is a marketable vice. 
 
 I.XV. 
 Alfouso was the name of .luliu's lord, 
 
 A man well looking for his years, and who 
 Was neither much beloved nor yet abhorr'd : 
 
 They lived together as most people do, 
 Suffering each other's foibles by accord, 
 
 And not exactly either one or two — 
 Vet he was jealous, though he did not show it, 
 For jealousy dislikes the world to know it. 
 
 LXVI. 
 Julia was — yet I never could see why — 
 
 With Donna Inez quite a favorite friend ; 
 Between their tastes there was small sympathy, 
 
 .For not a line had Julia ever penn'd : 
 Some people whisper (but, no doubt they lie, 
 For malice still imp\ites some private end) 
 That Inez had, ere Don Alfonso's marriage. 
 Forgot with him her very prudent carriage ; 
 
 LXVII. 
 And that still keeping up the old connection, 
 
 Which time had lately render'd much more chaste. 
 She took his lady also in affection, 
 
 And certainly this course was much the best : 
 She flatter'd Julia with her sage protection, 
 
 And complimented Don Alfonso's taste ; 
 And if she could not (who can ?) silence scandal, 
 At least she left it a more slender handle. 
 
 ' For tho particulnrn of St. Anthony's recipe for hot blood in 
 sold weather, sec Mr. .\lban liutler'e '• Lives of the Saints." 
 
 LXVIII. 
 I can't tell whether Julia saw the affair 
 
 With other people's eyes, or if her own 
 Discoveries made, but none could be aware 
 
 Of this, at least no symptom e'er was sho\in ; 
 Perhaps she did not know, or did not care, 
 
 Indifferent from the first, or callous grown : 
 I'm really puzzled what to think or say, 
 She kept her counsel in so close a way. 
 
 LXIX. 
 Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child, 
 
 Caress'd him often — such a tiling might be 
 Quite innocently done, and harmless styled, 
 
 When she had twenty years, and thirteen he ; 
 But I am not so sure I should have smiled 
 
 When he was si.xteen, Julia twenty-three ; 
 These few sliort years make wondrous alterationB, 
 Particularly amongst sunburnt nations. 
 
 I.XX. 
 
 Whate'er the cause might be, they had become 
 Changed; for the dame grew distant, thcyouth shy 
 
 Their looks cast down, their greetings almost dumb 
 And much embarrassment in either e3-e ; 
 
 There surely will be little doubt with some 
 That Douua Julia knew the reason why, 
 
 But as for Juan, he had no more notion 
 
 Than he who never saw the sea of ocean. 
 
 I.XXI. 
 
 Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind, 
 And tremulously gentle her small hand 
 
 Withdrew itself from his, but left behind 
 A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland 
 
 And slight, so very slight, that to the mind 
 'Twas but a doubt ; but ne'er magician's wand 
 
 Wrought change with all .Vrmida's fairy art 
 
 Like what this light touch left on Juan's heart. 
 
 LXXII. 
 And if she met him, though she smiled no more, 
 
 She look'd a sadness sweeter than her smile, 
 As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store 
 
 She must not own, but eherish'd more the while 
 For that compression in its burning core ; 
 
 Even innocence itself has many a wile. 
 And will not dare to trust itself with truth, 
 And love is taught hypocrisy from youth. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 But passion most dissembles, yet betrays 
 Even by its darkness ; as the blackest sky 
 
 Foretells the heav'est temfxist, it c isplays 
 
 Its workings through the vainly guarded eye, 
 
 And in whatever aspect it arrays 
 Itself, 'tis still the same hypocrisy ; 
 
 Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate, 
 
 Arc masks it often wears, and still too Icte. 
 
Canto i. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 57] 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 Then there were sighs, the deeper for suppression, 
 And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft, 
 
 A.nd burning blushes, though for no transgression. 
 Tremblings when met, and restlessness when left : 
 
 A.11 these are little preludes to possession, 
 Of which young passion cannot be bereft, 
 
 A.nd merely tend to show how great love is 
 
 Embarrass'd at fii'st starting with a no^ace. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 Poor Julia's heart was in an awkward state ; 
 
 She felt it going, and resolved to make 
 The nolilest eflbrts for herself and mate, 
 
 For honor's, pride's, religion's, virtue's sake 
 Her resolutions were most truly great. 
 
 And almost might have made a Tarquin quake : 
 She pray'd the Virgin Mary for her grace, 
 As being the best judge of a lady's case. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 She vow'd she never would see Juan more, 
 And next day paid a visit to his mother, 
 
 And look'd extremely at the opening door, 
 Wliich, by the Virgin's grace, let in another ; 
 
 Grateful she was, and yet a little sore — 
 Again it ojjens, it can be no other, 
 
 'Tis surely Juan now — No ! I'm afraid 
 
 That night the Virgin was no further pray'd. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 She now determined that a virtuous woman 
 Should rather face and overcome temptation, 
 
 Tliat flight was base and dastardly, and no man 
 Should ever give her heart the least sensation ; 
 
 That is to say, a thought beyond the common 
 Preference, that we must feel ujjon occasion, 
 
 For people who are pleasanter than others, 
 
 But then they only seem so many brothers. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 And even if by chance — and who can tell ? 
 
 The devil 's so very sly — she should discover 
 That all within was not so very well. 
 
 And, if stiU free, that such or such a lover 
 Might please perhaps, a virtuous wife can quell 
 
 Such thoughts, and be the better when they're 
 And if the man should ask, 'tis but denial : [over ; 
 I recommend young ladies to make trial. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 And then there are such things as love divine. 
 Bright and immaculate, unmix'd and pure. 
 
 Such as the angels tliink so very tine. 
 And matrons, who would be no less secure, 
 
 Platonic, perfect, "just such love as mine ;" 
 Thus Julia said — and thought so, to be sure ; 
 
 And so I'd have her think, were I the man 
 On whom her reveries celestial ran. 
 
 LXXX. 
 Such love is innocent, and may exist 
 
 Between young persons without any danger. 
 A hand may fii-st, and then a lip be kiss'd ; 
 
 For my part, to such doings I'm a stranger, 
 But hear these freedoms form the utmost list 
 
 Of all o'er which such love may be a ranger 
 If people go beyond, 'tis quite a crime, 
 But not my fault — I tell them all in time. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 Love, then, but love -n-ithin its proper limits, 
 
 Was .lulia's innocent determination 
 In young Don Juan's favor, and to him its 
 
 Exertion might be useful on occasion ; 
 And, hghted at too pure a shrine to dim its 
 
 Ethereal lustre, with what sweet persuasion 
 He might be taught, by love and her together — 
 I really don't know what, nor JuUa either. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 Fraught with this line intention, and well fenced 
 
 In mail of proof — her purity of soul. 
 She, for the future of her strength convinced, 
 
 And that her honor was a rock, or mole. 
 Exceeding sagely from that hour dispensed 
 
 With any kind of troublesome control ; 
 But whether Julia to the task was equal 
 Is that which must be mention'd in the sequel. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 Her plan she deem'd both innocent and feasible, 
 
 And, surely, with a stripling of sixteen 
 Not scandal's fangs could fix on much that's seizableij 
 
 Or if they did so, satisfied to mean 
 Nothing but what was good, her breast was peace- 
 
 A quiet conscience makes one so serene ! [able — • 
 Christians have laurnt each other, quite jiersuaded 
 That all the Ajjostles would have done as they did. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 And if in the mean time her husliand died, [cross 
 
 But Heaven forbid that such a thought should 
 Her brain, though in' a dream ! (and then she sigh'd) 
 
 Never could she survive that common loss ; 
 But just suppose that moment should lietide, 
 
 I only say suppose it — inter nos. 
 (This should be entre nouii, for Julia thought 
 In French, but then the rhyme would go for naught.) 
 
 LXXXV. 
 I only say, suppose this supposition : 
 
 Juan being then grown up to man's estate 
 Would fully suit a widow of condition. 
 
 Even seven years hence it flould not bo loo late 
 
672 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto l 
 
 And in the interim (to pursue this vision) 
 
 The niiscliief, after all, could not be great, 
 For lie would leurn the rudiments of love, 
 I mean the seraph way of those above. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 So laueh for Julia. Now we'll turn to Juan. 
 
 Poor little fellow ! he had no idea 
 Of his own case, and never hit the true one ; 
 
 In feelings quick as Ovid's Miss Medea,' 
 He puzzled over what he found a new one. 
 
 But not as yet imagined it could be a 
 Thing quite in course, and not at all alarming. 
 Which, with a little patience, might grow charming. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 Silent and pensive, idle, restless, slow. 
 
 His home deserted for the lonely wood, 
 Tormented with a wound he could not know. 
 
 His, like all deep grief, plunged in solitude : 
 I'm fond myself of solitude or so, 
 
 But then, I beg it may be understood, 
 By solitude I mean a sultan's, not 
 A hermit's, with a harem for a grot. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 " Oh, Love ! in such a wilderness as this, 
 
 Wliere transport and security entwine. 
 Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss, 
 
 And here thou art a god indeed divine." 
 The bard I quote from does not sing amiss," 
 
 With the exeejition of the second line, 
 For that same twining "transport and security" 
 Are twisted to a phrase of some obscurity. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 The poet meant, no doubt, and thus appeals 
 To the good sense and senses of mankind, 
 
 The very thing which everybody feels, 
 As all have found on trial, or may find. 
 
 That no one likes to be disturb'd at meals 
 Or love. I won't say more about " entwined" 
 
 Or " transport," as we know all that liefore, 
 
 But beg "Security" will bolt the door. 
 
 XC. 
 Young Juan wander'd by the glassy brooks. 
 
 Thinking unutterable things ; he threw 
 Himself at length within the leafy nooks 
 
 Where the wild branch of the cork forest grew; 
 There poets find materials for their books. 
 
 And every now and tlien we read them through. 
 
 ' Sco OvW. (le Art. Ainand. I. ii. 
 
 "■' Campheirs (Jertnide of Wyoming— (I tliink) — the opening of 
 Canto Second— but quote from memory. 
 
 [^ .Tuan Boscau Almogava, of Barceiona, died about the year 
 l.M:i. In concert witli his friend Garcilasso, he introduced the 
 Italian stylo into Castilian poetry, and commenced his labors by 
 writing sonnets in tho miuner of Petraicl ] 
 
 So that their plan and prosody are eligible. 
 Unless, like Wordsworth, they prove unintelligible. 
 
 XCI. 
 
 He, Juan, (and not Wordsworth,) so pursued 
 His self-communion with his own high soul, 
 
 Until his mighty heart, in its great mood, 
 Had mitigated part, though not the whole 
 
 Of its disease ; he did the best he could 
 With things not very subject to control, 
 
 And turn'd, without perceiving his condition, 
 
 Like Coleridge, into a metaphysician. 
 
 XCII. 
 
 He thought about himself, and the whole earth. 
 Of man the wonderful, and of the stars, 
 
 And how the deuce they ever could have birth ; 
 And then he thought of earthquakes, and of wars, 
 
 How many miles the moon might have in girth, 
 Of air-balloons, and of the many bars 
 
 To perfect knowledge of the boundless skies ; — 
 
 And then he thought of Donna Julia's eyes. 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 In thoughts like these true wisdom may discern 
 Longings sublime, and aspirations high, 
 
 Which some are born with, but the most part learn 
 To plague themselves withal, they know not why; 
 
 'Twas strange that one so young should thus con- 
 His brain about the action of the sky ; [cem 
 
 It yon think 'twas philosophy that this did, 
 
 I can't help thinking puberty assisted. 
 
 XCIV. 
 He pored upon the leaves, and on the flowers. 
 
 And heard a voice in all the winds ; and then 
 He thought of wood-nymphs and immortal bowers, 
 
 Aiid how the goddesses came down to men : 
 He miss'd the pathway, he forgot the hours. 
 
 And when he look'd upon his watch again. 
 He found how much old Time had been a winner- 
 He also found that he had lost his dinner. 
 
 XCV. 
 
 Sometimes he turn'd to gaze upon his liook. 
 
 Boscan,' or Garcilasso ;* — by the wind 
 Even as the page is rustled while we look, 
 
 So by the poesy of his own mind 
 Over the mystic leaf his soul was shook, 
 
 As if 'twere one whereon magicians bind 
 Their spells, and give them to the passing gale, 
 According to some good old woman's tale. 
 
 [< Garcilasso de la Vega, of a noble family at Toledo, was a war 
 rior as well as a poet. After serving with distinction in Germany 
 Africa, and Provence, he was killed, in l.'iSii, by a ^tonc thrown 
 from a tower, which fell upon his head as ho was leading on liii 
 battalion.J 
 
-- -■^. ^ */^/^'^/ ^/////.^/.^ (__ ^^;. 
 
 HF ^r ■-::"? 
 
Ca-sto I. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 513 
 
 xct:, 
 
 Tims would he while his lonely hours away 
 Dissatisfied, nor knowing what he wanted ; 
 
 Nor glowing revery, nor poet's lay, 
 
 Could yield his spirit that for which it panted, 
 
 A bosom whereon he his head might lay, 
 And hear the heart beat with the love it granted. 
 
 With several other things, which I forget, 
 
 Or which, at least, I need not mention yet. 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 Those lonely walks, and lengthening reveries. 
 Could not escape the gentle Julia's eyes ; 
 
 She saw that Juan was not at his ease ; 
 But that which chiefly may, and must surprise. 
 
 Is, that the Donna Inez did not tease 
 Her only son with question or surmise ; 
 
 Whether it was she did not see, or would not. 
 
 Or. like aU very clever people, could not. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 This may seem strange, but yet 'tis very common ; 
 
 For instance — gentlemen, whose ladies take 
 Leave to o'erstep the written rights of woman, 
 
 And break the Which commandment is "t they 
 
 (I have forgot the number, and think no man [break ? 
 
 Should rashly quote, for fear of a mistake.) 
 I say, when these same gentlemen are jealous. 
 They make some blunder, which their ladies tell us. 
 
 XCIX. 
 A real husband always is suspicious. 
 
 But still no less suspects in the wrong place. 
 Jealous of some one who had no such wishes. 
 
 Or pandering blindly to his own disgrace. 
 By harboring some dear friend extremely vicious ; 
 
 The last indeed 's infallibly the case : 
 And when the spouse and friend are gone off wholly. 
 He wonders at their vice, and not his folly. 
 
 C. 
 Thus parents also are at times short-sighted : 
 
 Though watchful as the lyn.K, they ne'er discover, 
 The while the wicked world beholds delighted, 
 
 Young Hopeful's mistress, or Jliss Fanny's lover, 
 TiU some confounded escapade has blighted 
 
 The plan of twenty years, and all is over ; 
 And then the mother cries, the fatlier swears, 
 And wonders why the devil he got heirs. 
 
 CI 
 But Inez was so anxious, and so clear 
 
 Of sight, that I must think, on this occasion, 
 Slie had some other motive much more near 
 
 For Icanng Juan to this new temptation. 
 Rut what diat motive was, I sha'n't say here ; 
 
 Perhaps to finish Juan's education, 
 
 Perhaps to open Don Alfonso's eyes. 
 
 In case h j thought his wife too great a prize. 
 
 ClI. 
 It was upon a day, a summer's day ; — 
 
 Summer 's indeed a very dangerous season, 
 And so is spring about the end of Jlay ; 
 
 The sun, no doubt, is the prevailing reason ; 
 But whatsoe'er the cause is, one may say. 
 
 And stand convicted of more truth than treason. 
 That there are months which nature grows mort 
 
 merry in, — 
 March has its hares, and Jlay must have its heroine. 
 
 cm. 
 
 'Twas on a summer's day^the sixth of June . 
 
 I like to be particular in dates. 
 Not only of the age, and year, but moon ; 
 
 They are a sort of post-house, where the Fates 
 Change horses, making history change its tune, 
 
 Then spur away o'er empires and o'er states, 
 Leaving at last not much besides chronology, 
 Excepting the post-obits of theology. 
 
 CIV. 
 
 'Twas on the sixth of June, about the hour 
 Of lialf-past six — perhaps still nearer seven — 
 
 When Julia sate within as pretty a bower 
 As e'er held houri in that heathenish heaven 
 
 Described by ^lahomet, and Anacreon Jloore, 
 To whom the lyre and laurels have been given. 
 
 With all the trophies of triumphant song — 
 
 He won them well, and may he wear them long 1 
 
 CV. 
 She sate, but not alone ; I know not well 
 
 How this same interview had taken place. 
 And even if I knew, I should not tell — 
 
 People should hold their tongues in any case ; 
 No matter how or why the thing befell. 
 
 But there were she and Juan, face to face — 
 Wlien two such faces are so, 'twould be wise, 
 But very difficult, to shut their eyes. 
 
 CVI. 
 
 How beautiful she look'd I ker conscious heart 
 Glow'd in her cheek, and yet she felt no wrong. 
 
 Oh, Love ! how perfect is thy mystic art. 
 
 Strengthening the weak, and trampling on the 
 
 How self-deceitful is the sagcst part [strong, 
 
 Of mortals whom th_v lure hath led along — 
 
 The precipice she stood on was immense. 
 
 So was her creed in her own innocence. 
 
 CVII. 
 She thought of her own strength, and Juan's youth. 
 And of the folly of all prudish fears, 
 
574 
 
 BYROX'S WORKS. 
 
 Cantc 
 
 Victorious virtue, and domestic truth, 
 And tlien of Don Alfonso's fifty years : 
 
 I wish these last liad not occurr'd, in sooth, 
 Because that number rarely much endears, 
 
 And throujih all climes, the snowy and the sunny, 
 
 Sounds ill in love, whate'er it may in money. 
 
 CVIII. 
 
 Wlien people siy, "I've told you Jifty times." 
 They mean to scold, and very often do ; 
 
 Wlien poets say, "I've written ^aV?,'/ rhymes," 
 They make you dread that they'll recite them too; 
 
 In gangs aijifty, thieves commit their crimes ; 
 htjifly love for love is rare, 'tis true. 
 
 But then, no douljt, it equally as true is. 
 
 A good deal may be bought tor Jifty Louis. 
 
 CIX. 
 Julia had honor, virtue, truth, and love 
 
 For Don Alfonso ; and she inly swore 
 By all the vows below to powers above. 
 
 She never would disgrace the ring she wore, 
 Nor leave a wisli which wisdom might reprove ; 
 
 And while she ponder'd this, besides much more. 
 One hand en .Tuan's carelessly was thrown. 
 Quite by mistake — she thought it was her own ; 
 
 ex. 
 
 Unconsciously she lean'd upon the other. 
 
 Which play'd within the tangles of her hair ; 
 
 And to contend with thoughts she could not smother 
 She seem'd, by the distraction of her air. 
 
 'Twas surely very wrong in Juan's mother 
 To leave together this imprudent pair, 
 
 She who for many years had watch'd her son so — 
 
 I'm very certain miiic woiild not have done so. 
 
 CXI 
 
 The hand which still lu'ld Juau's, by degrees 
 Gently, but palpably contirm'd its grasp. 
 
 As if it said, " Detain me, if you jjlease ;" 
 
 Yet there 's no doubt she only meant to clasp 
 
 His fingers with a pure Platonic squeeze ; 
 
 She would have shrunk as from a toad, or asp, 
 
 Had she imagined such a thing could rouse 
 
 A feeling dangerous to a prudent spouse. 
 
 CXII. 
 I cannot know what .Juan thought of this, 
 
 But what he did, is much what you would do ; 
 His young lip thank'd it vritn a grateful kiss, 
 
 And then abash'd at its o^vn joy, withdrev 
 In deep despair, lest he had done amiss, — 
 
 Love is so very timid when 'tis new : 
 She blush'd, and frown'd not, but she strove to speak, 
 And held her tongue, her voice was grown so weak. 
 
 CXIII. 
 
 The sun set, and up rose the yellow moon : 
 The devil 's in the moon for mischief; they 
 
 Who call'd her chaste, nuthinks, began too soon 
 Their nomenclature ; there is not a day. 
 
 The longest, not the twenty-first of June, 
 Sees half the business in a wicked way, 
 
 On which three single hours of moonshine smile — 
 
 .\nd then she looks so modest all tlic while ! 
 
 CXIV. 
 
 There is a dangerous silence in that hour, 
 A stillness, which leaves room for the fuU soul 
 
 To open all itself, without the power 
 Of calling wholly back its self-control ; 
 
 The silver light whieh, hallowing tree and tower. 
 Sheds beauty and deep softness o'er tlie whole. 
 
 Breathes also to the heart, and o'er it throws 
 
 A loving languor, which is not repose. 
 
 CXV. 
 
 And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced 
 And half retiring from the glowing arm, 
 
 Whieh trembled like the bosom where 'twas placed ; 
 Yet still she must have tliought there was no harm 
 
 Or else 'twere easy to withdraw her waist ; 
 But then the situation had its ehann. 
 
 And then God knows what next — I can't go en 
 
 I'm almost sorry that I e'er begun. 
 
 CXVI. 
 
 Oh, Plato ! Plato ! you have paved the way, 
 With your confounded fantasies, to more 
 
 Immoral conduct by the fancied sway 
 
 Your system feigns o'er the controlless core 
 
 Of human hearts, than all the long array 
 Of poets and romancers : — You're a bore, 
 
 A charlatan, a coxcomb — and have been, 
 
 At best, no better than a go-between. 
 
 CXVII. 
 And Julia's voice was lost, cxcejit in sighs. 
 Until too late for useful conversation ; 
 The tears were gushing from her gentle eyes, 
 
 I wish, indeed, they had not had occasion ; 
 But who, alas ! can love, and then be wise ? 
 
 Not that remorse did not oppose temptation ; 
 A little still she strove, and much repented, 
 And whispering "I will ne'er consent" — eonsen ed 
 
 CXVIII. 
 'Tis said that Xerxes oflfcr'd a reward 
 
 To those who could invent him a new pleasure : 
 Methinks, the requisition 's rather hard, 
 
 And must have cost his majesty a treasure : 
 For my ])art, I'm a moderate-minded bard, 
 
 Fond of a little love, (which I call leisure j) 
 
Canto t. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 575 
 
 I care Bot for new pleasures, as the old 
 Are quite enough for me, so they but hokl. 
 
 CXIX. 
 Oh, Pleasure ! you are indeed a pleasant thing, 
 
 Although one must be daran'd for you, no doubt ! 
 I make a resolution every spring 
 
 Of reformation, ere the year run out, 
 But somehow, this my vestal vow takes wing. 
 
 Yet still, I trust, it may be kept throughout : 
 I'm very sorry, very much ashamed. 
 And mean, next winter, to be quite reclaim'd. 
 
 CXX. 
 
 Here my chaste Muse a liberty must take — 
 
 Start not ! still chaster reader — she'll be nice hence- 
 Forward, and there is no great cause to quake ; 
 
 This liberty is a poetic license, 
 Which some irregularity may make 
 
 In the design, and as I have a high sense 
 Of Aristotle and the Rules, 'tis fit 
 To beg his pardon when I err a bit. 
 
 C'XXI. 
 This license is to hope the reader will 
 
 Suppose from June the sixth, (the fatal day, 
 Without whose epoch my poetic skill 
 
 For want of facts would all be thrown away,) 
 But keeping Julia and Don Juan still 
 
 In sight, that several months have pass'd ; we'll 
 'Twas in November, but I'm not so sure [say 
 
 About the day — the era 's more obscure. 
 
 CXXII. 
 We'll talk of that anon.^'Tis sweet to hear 
 
 At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep 
 The song and oar of Adria's gondolier. 
 
 By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep : 
 'Tis sweet to see the evening star appear ; 
 
 'Tis sweet to listen as the night-winds creep 
 From leaf to leaf; 'tis sweet to view on high 
 The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky. 
 
 CXXIII. 
 'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark 
 
 Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home ; 
 'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark 
 
 Our coming, and look brighter when we come ; 
 'Tis sweet to be awaken'd by the lark. 
 
 Or lull'd by falling waters ; sweet the hum 
 Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds. 
 The lisp of children, and their earliest words. 
 
 CXXIV. 
 Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes 
 
 In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth, 
 Purple and gushing : sweet are our escapes 
 
 From ci\-ic revelry to ruril mirth ; 
 
 Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps, 
 
 Sweet to the father is his first-bom's birth, 
 Sweet is revenge — especially to women, 
 Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen. 
 
 cxxv. 
 
 Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet 
 The unexpected death of some old lady, 
 
 Or gentleman of seventy years complete, 
 
 Who've made " us youth " wait tec — too long ai 
 
 For an estate, or cash, or country soat, [ready 
 
 Still breaking, but with stamina so steady, 
 
 That all the Israelites are fit to mob its 
 
 Next owner for their double-damn'd post-obits. 
 
 CXXVI. 
 'Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels. 
 
 By blood or ink ; 'tis sweet to put an end 
 To strife : 'tis sometimes sweet to have our quarrels, 
 
 Particularly with a tiresome friend : 
 Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels ; 
 
 Dear is the helpless creature we defend 
 Against the world ; and dear the schoolboy spot 
 We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot. 
 
 CXXVII. 
 But sweeter still than this, than these, than aU. 
 
 Is first and passionate love — it stands alone, 
 Like Adam's recoOection of his fell ; 
 
 The tree of knowledge has been pluck'd — all's 
 And life yields nothing further to recall [known — 
 
 Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown. 
 No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven 
 Fire wliich Prometheus filch'd for us from heaven. 
 
 cxxYin. 
 
 Man 's a strange animal, and makes strange use 
 Of liis own nature, and the various arts. 
 
 And likes particularly to produce 
 
 Some new experiment to show liis parts ; 
 
 This is the ace of oddities let loose. 
 
 Where di2"erent talents find their difl^erent marts . 
 
 You'd best begin with truth, and when you've lost 
 
 Labor, there 's a sure market for imposture, [your 
 
 CXXIX. 
 Wliat opposite discoveries we have seen ; 
 
 (Signs of true genius, and of empty pockets.) 
 One makes new noses, one a guillotine. 
 
 One breaks your bones, one sets them in their 
 But vaccination certainly has been [socket! • 
 
 A kind antithesis to Congreve's rockets. 
 With which the Doct.jr paid off' an old pox. 
 By borrowing a new one from an ox. 
 
 cxxx. 
 
 Bread has been made (indifferent) from potatoes 
 And galvanism has set some corpses grinning, 
 
o76 
 
 BYROX'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto l 
 
 But has not answerVl like the apparatus 
 
 Of the Humane Society's beginning, 
 By wliicli men are unsuffocated gratis : 
 
 What wondrous new machines have late been spin- 
 I said the sniall-pox has gone out of late ; [ning ! 
 Perhaps it may be foUow'd by the great. 
 
 CXXXI. 
 
 'Tis said the great came from America ; 
 
 Perhaps it may set out on its return, — 
 The poj)i;Iation there so spreads, they say 
 
 'Tis grown liigh time to tliin it in its turn, 
 With war, or plague, or famine, any way, 
 
 So that civilization they may learn ; 
 And which in ravage the more loathsome evil is — 
 Their real lues, or our pseudo-syphilis ? 
 
 CXXXIT. 
 
 This is the patent age of new inventions 
 For killing bodies, and for saving souls, 
 
 All propagated with the best intentions 
 
 Sir llumi)liry Davy's lantern, by which coals 
 
 Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions, 
 Tombuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles 
 
 Are ways to benefit mankind, as true, 
 
 Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo. 
 
 CXXXIII. 
 Man 's a phenomenon, one knows not what, 
 
 And wonderful beyond all wondrous measure ; 
 'Tis pity though, in tliis sublime world, that 
 
 Pleasure 's a sin, and sometimes sin 's a pleasure ; 
 Few mortals know what end they would be at. 
 
 But whether glory, power, or love, or treasure, 
 Tlie jjath is througli perplexing ways, and when 
 The goal is gain'd, we die, you know — and then 
 
 CXXXIV. 
 
 Wliat then ? — T do not know, no more do you — 
 ^nd so goo<l night. Return we to our story : 
 
 'Twas in Noven>V)er, when fine days are few. 
 And the far mountains wax a little lioary, 
 
 And clap a white cape on their mantles blue : 
 And the sea dashes round the promontory, 
 
 And the loud breaker boils against the rock, 
 
 And sober suns must set at live o'clock. 
 
 CXXXV. 
 
 'Twas, as the w.atchmcn say, a cloudy night ; 
 
 No moon, no stars, the wind was low or loud 
 By gusts, and many a sparkling hearth was bright 
 
 With the piled wood, round which the family crowd ; 
 There's something cheerful in that sort of light, 
 
 Even as a summer sky's wi ,hout a cloud : 
 Pm fond of Arc, and cricket's and all that, 
 A lobster salad, and champagne, and chat. 
 
 CXXXVI. 
 'Twas midnight — Donna .lulia was in bed. 
 
 Sleeping, most probably, — when at her door 
 .\rosc a clatter might awake the dead, 
 
 If they had never Ijeen awoke before. 
 And that they have been so we all have read, 
 
 And are to be so, at the least, once more ; — 
 The door was fasten'd, but with voice and fist [hist I 
 First knocks were heard, then "Madam — Madam — 
 
 CXXXVII. 
 
 " For God's sake, Madam — ^ladam — here's my mas- 
 With more than half the city at his back — [ter, 
 
 Was ever heard of such a cursed disaster ! 
 'Tis not my fault — I kept good watch — Alack I 
 
 Do pray undo the bolt a little faster — 
 They're on the stair just now, and in a crack 
 
 Will all be here ; perhaps he yet may fly — 
 
 Surely the window's not so very high !" 
 
 CXXXVIII. 
 
 By this time Don Alfonso was arrived, 
 
 With torches, friends, and servants in great num- 
 The major p.art of them had long been wived, [ber; 
 
 And therefore paused not to disturb the slumber 
 Of any wicked woman, who contrived 
 
 By stealth her husband's temples to encumber : 
 Examples of this kind are so contagious, 
 Were one not punish'd, all would be outrageous. 
 
 CXXXIX. 
 
 I can't tell how, or why, or what suspicion 
 Could enter into Don Alfonso's head ; 
 
 But for a cavalier of his condition 
 It surely was exceedingly ill-lired. 
 
 Without a word of jwevious admonition. 
 To hold a levee round his lady's bed, 
 
 And summon lackeys, arm'd with fire and ^word, 
 
 To prove himself the thing he most abhorr'd. 
 
 CXL. 
 
 Poor Donna Julia ! starting as from sleep, 
 (Mind — that I do not say — she had not slept,) 
 
 Began at once to scream, and yawn, and weep ; 
 Her maid Antonia, who was an adept, 
 
 Contrived to fling the bedclothes in a heap. 
 As if slie had just now from out them crept: 
 
 I can't tell why she should take all this trouble 
 
 To prove her mistress had been sleeping double. 
 
 CXLI. 
 
 But .Julia mistress, and Antonia maid, 
 
 Appear'd like two poor harmless women, who 
 
 Of goblins, but still more of men afraid. 
 
 Had thought one man might be deterr'd by two, 
 
 And therefore side by side were gently laid. 
 Until the hours of absence should run through, 
 
Canto i. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 ail 
 
 And truant h asband should return, and say, 
 " My dear, I was the first wlio came away." 
 
 CXLII. 
 
 Now Julia found at length a voice, and cried, 
 
 " In heaven's name, Don Alfonso, what d' ye mean ? 
 
 Has madness seized you ? would that I had died 
 Ere such a monster's victim I had been ! 
 
 Wliat may this midnight violence betide, 
 A sudden fit of drunkenness or sjileen ? 
 
 Dare you suspect me, whom the thought would kiU? 
 
 Search, then, the room !" — Alfonso said, " I will." 
 
 CXLIII. 
 
 He search'd, thetj search'd, and rummaged every- 
 where, 
 
 Closet and clothes' press, chest and window-seat, 
 And found much linen, lace, and several pair 
 
 Of stockings, sUppers, brushes, combs, complete, 
 "With other articles of ladies fair. 
 
 To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat : 
 Arras they prick'd and curtains with their swords, 
 And wounded several shutters, and some boards. 
 
 CXLIV. 
 
 Under the bed they search"d, and there they found — 
 No matter what — is was not that tbey sought; 
 
 They open'd windows, gazing if the ground 
 Had signs or footmarks, but the earth said naught ; 
 
 And then they stared each others' faces round : 
 'Tis odd, not one of all these seekers thought, 
 
 And seems to me almost a sort of blunder. 
 
 Of looking in the bed as well as under. 
 
 CXLV. 
 
 During this inquisition, Julia's tongue [cried, 
 
 Was not asleep — "Yes, search and search," she 
 
 " Insult on insult heap, and wrong on wrong ! 
 It was for this that I became a bride 1 
 
 For this in silence I have suft'er'd long 
 A husband like Alfonso at my side ; 
 
 But now I'll bear no more, nor here remain, 
 
 If there be law or lawyers in aU Spain. 
 
 CXLVI. 
 " Yes, Don Alfonso ! husband now no more, 
 
 If ever you indeed deserved the name. 
 Is 't worthy of your years ? — you have threescore — 
 
 Fifty, or sixty, it is all. the same — 
 Is 't wise or fitting, causeless to explore 
 
 For facts against a virtuous woman's fame ? 
 Ungrt^jful, perjured, barbarous Don Alfonso, 
 Ho^ dare you think your lady would go on so ? 
 
 ' The Spanish " Cortcjo " is much the same ss the Italian " Cay- 
 \ller Ser\-entc." 
 ' Donna Julia here made a mistake. Cotint O'Reilly did not 
 
 73 
 
 CXLYII. 
 "Is it for this I have disdain'd to hold 
 
 The common privileges of my sex ? 
 That I have chosen a confessor so old 
 
 And deaf, that any other it would vex, 
 And never once he has had cause to scold. 
 
 But found my very innocence perplex 
 So much, he always doubted I was married — 
 How sorry you will be when I've miscarried I 
 
 CXLVIII. 
 "Was it for this that no Cortejo' e'er 
 
 I yet have chosen from out the youth of Seville ! 
 Is it for this I scarce went anj'where, 
 
 Except to bull-fights, mass, play, rout, and revel ? 
 Is it for this, whate'er my suitors were, 
 
 I favor'd none — nay, was almost uncivil ? 
 Is it for this that General Count O'Reilly, 
 Who took Algiers,'' declares I used him vilely ? 
 
 CXLIX. 
 
 " Did not the Italian Musico Cazzani 
 
 Sing at my heart six months at least in vain ? 
 
 Did not his countryman. Count Comiani, 
 Call me the only virtuous wife in Spain ? 
 
 Were there not also Russians, English, many ? 
 The Count Strongstroganoff I put in jsain. 
 
 And Lord Mount Coffeehouse, the Irish peer, 
 
 Who kill'd himself for love (with wine) last year. 
 
 CL. 
 " Have I not had two bishops at my feet ? 
 
 The Duke of Ichar, and Don Fernan Nunez ; 
 And is it thus a faithful wife you treat ? 
 
 I wonder in what quarter now the moon is : 
 I praise your vast forbearance not to beat 
 
 Me also, since the time so opportune is — 
 Oh, valiant man ! with sword drawn and cock'd trig- 
 Now, tell me, don't you cut a pretty figure ? [ger, 
 
 CLI. 
 " Was it for this you took your sudden journey, 
 
 Under pretence of business indispensable 
 Witli that sublime of rascals your attorney, 
 
 Whom I see standing there, and looking sensible 
 Of having play'd the fool ? though both I spurn, he 
 
 Deserves the worst, his conduct 's less defensible, 
 Because, no doubt, 'twas for his dirty fee, 
 And not from any love to you or me. 
 
 C'LII. 
 " If he comes here to take a deposition. 
 
 By all means let the gentleman proceed ; 
 You've made the apartment in a fit condition : — 
 
 There's pen and ink for you, sir, when you need — 
 
 take Algiers— but Alg^iers very nearly took him : he and his army 
 and fleet retreated w th great loss, and not much credit, fiom be 
 fore that city, in tht year 1775. 
 
678 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS 
 
 CAirro t 
 
 Let every thing be noted with precision, 
 
 I would not you for nothing should be fee'd — 
 But, as mymaid's undrcss'd,i)rayturnyourspies out." 
 ■'Oh !" sohb'd Antonia, "I could tear their eyes out." 
 
 CLIII. 
 "There is the closet, there the toilet, there 
 
 The antechamber — search them under, over ; 
 There is the sofa, there the great arm-chair. 
 
 The chimney — which would really hold a lover. 
 I wish to sleep, and beg you will take care 
 
 And make no further noise, till you discover 
 The secret cavern of this lurking treasure — 
 And when 'tis found, let mc, too, have that pleasure. 
 
 CUV. 
 " And now, Hidalgo ! now that you have thrown 
 
 Doubt ujjon me, confusion over all, 
 Pray have the courtesy to make it known 
 
 Who is the man you search for ? how d' ye call 
 Him ? what's his lineage ? let him but be shown — 
 
 I hope he's young and handsome — is he tall ? 
 Tell mc — and be assured, that since you stain 
 My honor thus, it shall not be in vain. 
 
 OLV. 
 " At least, perhaps, he has not sixty years. 
 
 At that age he would be too old for slaughter. 
 Or for so young a husband's .jealous fears — 
 
 (Antonia ! let me have a glass of water.) 
 I am ashamed of having shed these tears, 
 
 They are unworthy of my father's daughter ; 
 My mother dream'd not in my natal hour, 
 That I should fall into a monster's power. 
 
 CLVI. 
 " Perhaps 'tis of Antonia you are jealous, 
 
 You saw that she was sleeping by my side, 
 Wlien you liroke in upon us with your fellows : 
 
 Look where you please — we've nothing, sir, to 
 Only another time, I trust, you'll tell us, [hide ; 
 
 'Or for the sake of decency abide 
 A moment at the door, that we may be 
 Dress'd to receive so much good company. 
 
 CLYII. 
 " And now, sir, I have done, and say no more ; 
 
 The little [ have said may serve to show 
 The guileless heart in silence may grieve o'er 
 
 The wrongs to whose exposure it is slow : — 
 I leave you to your conscience as before, 
 
 'Twill one day ask you tdi;/ you used me so 2 
 God grant you feel not then the bitterest grief! — 
 Ar/'^nia ! where's my pocket-handkerchief ?" 
 
 CLVIII. 
 She ceased, and turn'd upon her pillow ; pale [tears, 
 She lay, her dark eyes flashing through their 
 
 Like skies that rain and lighten ; as a veil, 
 
 Waved and o'ershading her wan cheek, appears 
 
 Her streaming hair ; the black curls strive, but fiul 
 To hide the glossy shoulder, which uprears 
 
 Its snow through all ; — her soft lips lie apart, 
 
 And louder than her breathing beats her heart. 
 
 CLIX. 
 
 The Senhor Don Alfonso stood confused ; 
 
 Antonia bustled round the ransaek'd room, 
 And, turning up her nose, with looks abused 
 
 Her master, and his myrmidons, of whom 
 Not one, except the attorney, was amused ; 
 
 He, like Achates, faithful to the tomb. 
 So there were quarrels, cared not for the cause, 
 Knowing they must be settled by the laws. 
 
 CLX. 
 
 With prying snub-nose, and small eyes, he stood, 
 Following Antonia's motions here and there, 
 
 With much suspicion in his attitude ; 
 For reputations ho had little care ; 
 
 80 that a suit or action were made good, 
 Small pity had he for the young and fair. 
 
 And ne'er believed in negatives, till these 
 
 Were proved by competent false witnesses. 
 
 CLXI. 
 
 But Don Alfonso stood with downcast looks. 
 And, truth to say, he made a foolish iiguro ; 
 
 When, after searching in live hundred nooks, 
 And treating a young wife with so much rigor, 
 
 He gain'd no point, except some self-rebukes, 
 Added to these his lady with such vigor 
 
 Had pour'd upon him for the last half hour. 
 
 Quick, thick, and heavy — as a thunder-shower. 
 
 CLXII. 
 
 At first he tried to hammer an excuse, 
 
 To which the sole reply was tears, and sobs. 
 
 And indications of hysterics, whose 
 
 Prologue is always certain throes, and throbs, 
 
 Gasps, and whatever else the owners choose : 
 Alfonso saw his wife, and thought of Job's; 
 
 He saw too, in persjiective, her relations. 
 
 And then he tried to muster all his patience. 
 
 CLXIII. 
 
 He stood in act to speak, or rather stannncr, 
 But sage Antonia cut him short before 
 
 Tlie anvil of his speech received the hammer. 
 With " I'ray, sir, leave the room, and say no more 
 
 Or madam dies." — .\lfonso mutter'd, '• D— n her," 
 But nothing else, the time of words was o'er; 
 
 He cast a rueful look or two, and did. 
 
 He knew not wlierefore, that which he was bid. 
 
Canto i. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 579 
 
 CLSIV. 
 
 With him retired his '■'■posse co-milaUis" 
 The attorney last, who linger'd near the door 
 
 Reluctantly, still tarrying there as late as 
 Antonia let him — not a little sore 
 
 A-t this most strange and imcxplain'd "Iiiatvs"' 
 In Don Alfonso's facts, which just now wore 
 
 An awkward look ; as he revolved the case, 
 
 The door was fasten'd in his legal face. 
 
 CLXV. 
 
 No sooner was it bolted, than — Oh shame ! 
 
 Oh sin ! Oh sorrow ! and Oh womankind ! 
 How can you do such things and keep your fame. 
 
 Unless this world, and t'other too, be blind ? 
 Nothing so dear as an unfilch'd good name ! 
 
 But to proceed — for there is more behind : 
 With much heartfelt reluctance be it said, 
 Young Juan slipp'd half-smotber'd, from the bed. 
 
 CLXVI. 
 
 He had been hid — I don't pretend to say 
 How, nor can I indeed dcscrilie the where — 
 
 Young, slender, and pack'd easily, he lay. 
 No doubt, in little compass, round or square ; 
 
 But pity him I neither must nor may 
 His suffocation by that pretty pair ; 
 
 'Twero better, sure, to die so, than be shut 
 
 With maudlin Clarence in his Malmsey butt. 
 
 CLXVII. 
 
 And, secondly, I pity not, because 
 
 He had no business to commit a sin, 
 Forbid by heavenly, fined by human laws, 
 
 At least 'twas rather early to begin ; 
 But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws 
 
 So much as when we call our old debts in 
 At sixty years, and draw the accounts of evil, 
 And find a deuced balance with the devil. 
 
 CLXVIII, 
 Of his position I can give no notion : 
 
 'Tis written in the Hebrew Chronicle, 
 How the physicians, leaving pill and potion, 
 
 Prescribed, by way of blister, a young belle, 
 Wlien old King Da^■id's blood grew dull in motion, 
 
 And that the medicine answer'd very well ; 
 Perhaps 'twas in a different way applied, 
 For David lived, but Juan nearly died. 
 
 CLXIX. 
 Wliat's to be done 5 Alfonso will be back 
 
 The moment he has sent his fools away. 
 Antonia's skill was put upon the rack. 
 
 But no device could be brought into play — 
 ^nd how to parry the renew'd attack ? 
 
 Besides, it wanted but few hours of day : 
 
 Antonia puzzled ; Julia did not speak, 
 
 But press'd her bloodless lip to Juan's check. 
 
 CLXX. 
 
 He turn'd his lip to hers, and with his hand 
 CaU'd back the tangles of her wandering hair ; 
 
 Even then their love they could not all command, 
 And half forgot their danger and despair : 
 
 Antonia's patience now was at a stand — 
 
 " Come, come, 'tis no time now for fooling there,' 
 
 She whisper'd, in great wrath — " I must deposite 
 
 This pretty gentleman within the closet : 
 
 CLXXI. 
 "Pray, keep your nonsense for some luckier night— 
 
 Who can have put my master in this mood ? 
 What will become on 't — I'm in such a fright, 
 
 The devil 's in the urchin, and no good — 
 Is this a time for giggling ? this a plight ? 
 
 Why, don't you know that it may end in blood S 
 You'll lose your life, and I shall lose my place. 
 My mistress all, for that half-girlish face. 
 
 CLXXII. 
 " Had it but been for a stout cavalier 
 
 Of twenty-five or thirty — (come, make haste) 
 But for a child, what piece of work is here ! 
 
 I really, madam, wonder at your taste — 
 (Come, sir, get m) — my master must be near : 
 
 There, for the present, at the least, he's fast, 
 And if we can but till the morning keep 
 Our counsel — (Juan, mind, you must not sleep.)" 
 
 CLXXIII. 
 Now, Don Alfonso entering, but alone. 
 
 Closed the oration of the trusty maid : 
 She loitcr'd, and he told her to be gone, 
 
 An order somewhat sullenly obey'd ; 
 However, present remedy was none, 
 
 And no great good seem'd answer'd if she stay'd 
 Regarding both with slow and sidelong view. 
 She snuff'd the candle, curtsied, and withdrew. 
 
 CLXXIV. 
 Alfonso paused a minute — then begun 
 
 Some strange excuses for his late proceeding ; 
 He would not justify what he had done. 
 
 To say the best, it was extreme ill-breeding ; 
 But there were ample reasons for it, none 
 
 Of which he specified in this his pleading : 
 His speech was a fine sample, on the whole. 
 Of rhetoric, which the learn'd call '^rigmarole." 
 
 CLXXV. 
 Julia said nau jht ; though aU the while there rose 
 
 A ready answer, which at once enables 
 A matron, who her husband's foible knows, 
 
 By a few timely words to turn the tables, 
 
580 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto l 
 
 WTiicb, if it does not silence, still must pose, — 
 Even if it sliould comprise a pack of fiblcs ; 
 'Tis to retort with finiincss, and when he 
 Suspects with one, do you reproacli with three. 
 
 CLXXVI, 
 Julia, in fact, had tolerable grounds, — 
 
 Alfonso's loves with Inez were well known ; 
 But whether 'twas that one's own guilt confounds — 
 
 But that can't be, as has been often shown, 
 A. lady with apologies abounds ; — 
 
 It might be that her silence sprang alone 
 From delicacy to Don Juan's ear, 
 To whom she knew his mother's fame was dear. 
 
 CLXXVII. 
 There might be one more motive, which makes two ; 
 
 Alfonso ne'er to Juan had alluded — 
 Mention'd his jealousy, but never who 
 
 Had been the happy lover, he concluded, 
 Conccal'd amongst his premises ; 'tis true, 
 
 riis mind the more o'er this its mystery brooded ; 
 To speak of Inez now were, one may say. 
 Like throwing Juan in Alfonso's way. 
 
 CLXXVIII. 
 A hint, in tender cases, is enough ; 
 
 Silence is best, besides there is a f/yf — 
 (Tliat modern phrase appears to me sad stuff, 
 
 But it will serve to keep my verse compact — ) 
 Which keeps, when push'd by questions rather rough, 
 
 A lady always distant from the fact : 
 The charming creatures lie with such a grace, 
 There's nothing so becoming to the face. 
 
 CLXXIX. 
 They blush, and we believe them ; at least I 
 
 Have always done so ; 'tis of no great use. 
 In any case, attempting a reply. 
 
 For then their eloquence grows quite profuse ; 
 And when at length they're out of breath, they sigh, 
 
 And cast their languid eyes down, and let loose 
 A tear or two, and then we make it up ; 
 And then — and then — and then — sit down and sup. 
 
 CbXXX. 
 
 Alfonso closed his speech, and begg'd her pardon. 
 Which Julia half withheld, and then half granted, 
 
 And laid conditions he thought very hard on, 
 Denying several little things he wanted : 
 
 He stood like Adam lingering near his garden, 
 With useless penitence jicrplex'd and haunted. 
 
 Beseeching she no I'urther would refuse, 
 
 When, lo ! he stumbled o'er a pair of shoes. 
 
 CI.XXXI. 
 4 pair of shoes ! — what then ? not much, if they 
 Are such as fit with ladies' feet, but these 
 
 (No one can tell how much I grieve to say) 
 Were masculine ; to see them, and to seize, 
 
 Was but a moment's act. Ah ! well-a-day I 
 My teeth begin to chatter, my veins freeze 1 
 
 Alfonso first exannned well their fashion. 
 
 And then flew out into another passion. 
 
 CLXXXII. 
 
 He left the room for his relinquish'd jword, 
 
 And Julia instant to the closet flew. 
 "Fly, Juan, fly ! for heaven's sake — not a vtord — 
 
 The door is open — you may yet slip through 
 The passage you so often have explored — 
 
 Here is the garden-key — Fly — fly — .Vdieu ! 
 Haste — haste ! I hear Alfonso's hurrying feet — 
 Day has not broke — there's no one in the street." 
 
 CLXXXIII. 
 
 None can sa^- that this was not good advice, 
 The only mischief was, it came too late ; 
 
 Of all experience 'tis the usual price, 
 A sort of income-tax laid on liy fate : 
 
 Juan had reach'd the room-door in a trice. 
 And might have done so by the garden-gate. 
 
 But met Alfonso in his dressing-go^vn. 
 
 Who threaten'd death — so Juan knock'd him down 
 
 CLXXXIV. 
 
 Dire was the scuffle, and out went the light ; 
 
 Antonia cried out " Kapc I" and Julia " Fire !" 
 But not a servant stirr'd to aid the fight. 
 
 Alfonso, pommell'd to his heart's desire, 
 Swore lustily he'd be revenged this night ; 
 
 And Juan, too, blasphemed an octave higher; 
 His blood was up : tliough young, he was a Tartar 
 And not at all disjjosed to prove a martyr. 
 
 CLXXXV. 
 
 Alfonso's sword had dropp'd ere he could draw it, 
 And they continued battling hand to hand. 
 
 For Ju.an very luckily ne'er saw it ; 
 
 His tem])cr not being under great command. 
 
 If at that moment he had clianced to claw it, 
 Alfonso's days had not been in the land 
 
 Much longer. — Think of husbands', lovers' lives ! 
 
 And how ye may be doubly widows — wives 1 
 
 CLXXXVI. 
 
 Alfon-so grappled to detain the foe. 
 And Juan throttled him to get away. 
 
 And blood ('twas from the nose) began to flow , 
 At last, as they more faintly wrestling lay, 
 
 Juan contrived to give an awkward blow. 
 And then his only garment quite gave way : 
 
 He fled, like Joseph, leaving it ; but there, 
 
 I doubt, all likeness ends between tUe nair. 
 
Canto i. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 :31 
 
 CLXXXVII. 
 
 liights came at lengtli, and men, and maids, who 
 An awkward spectacle tlieir eyes before ; [found 
 
 Ajitouia iu liysterics, Julia swoon'd, 
 Alfonso leaning, breathless, by the door ; 
 
 Some half-torn drapery scatter'd on the ground, 
 Some blood, and several footsteps, but no more : 
 
 Juan the gate gaiu'd, turn'd the key about, 
 
 And liking not the inside, lock'd the out. 
 
 CLXVXVIII. 
 
 Here ends this canto.- NTecd I sing, or say, 
 How Juan, naked, favor'd by the night, 
 
 WTio fiivors what she slmuld not, found his way, 
 And reach'd his home in an unseemly plight ? 
 
 The pleasant scandal which arose next day. 
 
 The niue days' wonder wliich was brought to 
 
 And how Alfonso sued for a divorce, [liglit, 
 
 Were in the English newspapers, of course. 
 
 CLXXXIX. 
 
 [f you would like to see the whole proceedings, 
 The depositions, and the cause at full, 
 
 The names of all the witnesses, the pleadings 
 Of counsel to nonsuit, or to annul. 
 
 There's more than one edition, and the readings 
 Are various, but they none of them are dull 
 
 Tlie best is that in short-hand ta'en by Gurney, 
 
 Who to Madrid on pui-pose made a journey. 
 
 CXC. 
 
 But Donna Inez, to divert the train 
 Of one of the most circulating scandals 
 
 That had for centuries been known in Spain, 
 At least since the retirement of the Vandals, 
 
 First vow'd Cand never had she vow'd in vain) 
 To Virgin Mary several pounds of candles : 
 
 And then, by the advice of some old ladies. 
 
 She sent her son to be shipp'd off from Cadiz. 
 
 CXCI. 
 
 She had resolved that he should travel through 
 
 All European climes, by land or sea. 
 To mend his former moral:, and get new. 
 
 Especially in France and Italy, 
 (At least this is the thing most people do.) 
 
 Julia was sent into a convent : she 
 Grieved, but, perhaps, her feelings may be better 
 Shown in the following copy of her Letter : — 
 
 CXCII, 
 " They tell me 'tis decided ; you depart ; 
 
 'Tis wise — "tis well, but not the less a pain ; 
 I have no further claim on your young heart, 
 
 Mine is the victim, and would be again ; 
 To love too much has been the only art 
 
 I used ; — I vnite in haste, and if a stain 
 
 Be on this sheet, 'tis not what it appears ; 
 My eyeballs bum and throb, but have no tears. 
 
 CXCIII. 
 '• I loved, I love you, for this love have lost 
 
 State, station, heaven, mankind's, my own esteem. 
 And yet can not regret what it hath cost, 
 
 So dear is stiU the memory of that dream ; 
 Yet, if I name my guilt, 'tis not to boast. 
 
 None can deem harshlier of me than I deem : 
 I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest — 
 I've nothing to reproach, or to request. 
 
 CXCIV. 
 " Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 
 
 'Tis woman's whole existence ; man may range 
 The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart. 
 
 Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange 
 Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart, 
 
 And few there are whom these cannot estrange ; 
 Men have all these resources, we but one. 
 To love again, and be again undone. 
 
 CXCV. 
 " You will proceed in pleasure, and in pride, 
 
 Beloved and loving many ; all is o'er 
 For me on earth, excejjt some years to hide 
 
 My shame and sorrow deep in my heart's core 1 
 These I could bear, but cannot cast aside 
 
 The passion which still rages as before, — 
 And so farewell — forgive me, love me — No, 
 That word is idle now — but let it go. 
 
 CXCVI. 
 " My breast has been all weakness, is so yet ; 
 
 But still I think I can collect my mind ; 
 My blood still rushes where my spirit 's set, 
 
 As roll the waves before the settled wind ; 
 My heart is feminine, nor can forget — 
 
 To all, except one image, madly blind ; 
 So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole, 
 As vibrates my fond heart to my fis'd souL 
 
 CXCVII. 
 " I have no more to say, but linger still, 
 
 An d dare not set my seal upon this sheet. 
 And yet I may as well the task fulfil. 
 
 My misery can scarce be more complete ; 
 I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill ; 
 
 Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would 
 And I must even survive tliis last adieu, [meet. 
 
 And bear with life, to love and pray for you !" 
 
 CXCVIII. 
 This note was written upon gilt-edged paper 
 
 With a neat little crow-quill, slight and new; 
 Her small white hand could hardly reach the taj)er. 
 
 It trembled as magnetic needles do, 
 
582 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Caitto I 
 
 And ret she did not let one tear escape her ; 
 
 The seal a sun-flowor ; ''■EHe voits suit parlout" 
 The motto cut upon a wliite cornelian ; 
 The wax was superfiup, its hue vermillion. 
 
 CXCIX 
 This was Don Juan's earliest scrape ; but whether 
 
 I shall proceed with his adventure is 
 Dependent on the pulilic altogether ; 
 
 We'll see, however, what they say to this. 
 Their favor in an author's cap 's a feather. 
 
 And no great mischief's done by their caprice ; 
 And if their approbation we experience, 
 Perhaps they'll have some more about a year hence. 
 
 CC. 
 
 My poem 's epic, and is meant to be 
 
 Divided in twelve books ; each book containing. 
 With love, and war, a lieavy gale at sea, 
 
 A list of ships, and captains, and kings reigning. 
 New characters ; the episodes are three : 
 
 A panoramic view of hell 's in trai ning, 
 After the style of Virgil and of ITomer, 
 So that my name of Epic 's no misnomer. 
 
 CCI. 
 
 All these things will be specified in time. 
 With strict regard to Aristotle's rules. 
 
 The Vado Merum of the true sublime. 
 Which makes so many poets, and some fools : 
 
 Prose poets like blank-verse, I'm fond of rhyme, 
 Good workmen never quarrel with their tools ; 
 
 I've got new mythological machinery, 
 
 And very handsome supernatural scenery. 
 
 ecu. 
 
 There 's only one slight difference between 
 Me and my epic brethren gone before, 
 
 And here the advantage is my own, I ween ; 
 (Not that I have not several merits more. 
 
 Bat this will more peculiarly be seen ;) 
 They so embellish, that 'tis quite a bore 
 
 Their labyrinth of fables to thread through. 
 
 Whereas this story 's actually true. 
 
 CCIII. 
 
 If any person doubt it, I appeal 
 
 To history, tradition, and to facts, 
 To newspa])ers, whose truth all know and feel, 
 
 To plays in five, and oiieras in three acts ;' 
 All these confirm my statement a good deal. 
 
 But that which more completely faith exacts 
 Is, that myself, and several now in Seville, 
 Saw Juan's last elopement with the devil. 
 
 ■ I" To newspapers, to sermons, which the zeal 
 
 Ofiilnus men have puhlishcd on hia acts."— MS.] 
 
 CCIV. 
 
 If ever I should condescend to prose, 
 
 I'll write poetical commandments, which 
 
 Shall supersede beyond all doubt all those 
 That went before ; in these I shall enrich 
 
 My text with many things that no one know», 
 And carry pi'ecept to the highest pitch : 
 
 I'll call the work " Longinus o'er a Bottle, 
 
 Or, Every Poet his oirii Aristotle." 
 
 (•CV. 
 
 Thou shalt believe in Milton, Dryden, Pope ; 
 
 Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, Coleridge 
 Because the first is crazed beyond all hope, [Southey; 
 
 The second drunk, the third so quaint and mouthy; 
 With Crabbe it may be difficult to cope. 
 
 And Campbell's Ilippocrene is somewhat drouthy : 
 Thou shalt not steal from Samuel Rogers, nor 
 Commit — flirtation with the muse of Moore. 
 
 CCVI. 
 
 Thou shalt not covet 3Ir. Sotheby's Muse, 
 Ilis Pegasus, nor any thing that 's his ; 
 
 Thou shalt not bear false witness like " the Blues"— 
 (There's one, at least, is very fond of this ;) 
 
 Thou shalt not write, in short, but what I choose : 
 This is true criticism, and you may kiss — 
 
 Exactly as you please, or not, — the rod ; 
 
 But if you don't, I'll lay it on, by G — d ! 
 
 ccvn. 
 
 If .any person should presume to assert 
 
 This story is not moral, first, I pray. 
 That they will not cry out before they're hurt, 
 
 Then that they'll read it o'er .again, and say, 
 (Kut, doubtless, nobody will be so pert,) 
 
 That this is not.a moral tale, though gay : 
 Besides, in Canto Twelfth, I mean to show 
 The very place where wicked people go. 
 
 CCVIII. 
 
 If, after all, there shoidd be some so blind 
 To their own good this warning to despise, 
 
 Led by some tortuosity of mind. 
 Not to believe my verse and their own eyes, 
 
 And cry that they "the moral cannot find," 
 I tell him, if a clergyman, he lies ; 
 
 Should captains the remark, or critics, make. 
 
 They also lie too — under a mistake. 
 
 CCIX. 
 
 The public approbation I expect, 
 
 And beg they'll take my word al)0ut the moral, 
 Which I with their amusement will connect, 
 
 (So children cutting teeth receive a coral ;) 
 Meantime they'll doubtless please to recollect 
 
 My epical pretensions to the laurel : 
 
CA^TO I. 
 
 DON JUAX 
 
 583 
 
 For foar som j prudish readers should grow skittish, 
 IVe bribed my grandmother's review — the British. 
 
 CCX. 
 I sent it in a letter to the Editor, 
 
 Wlio thank'd me duly by return of post — 
 I'm for a handsome article his creditor ; 
 
 Yet, if my gentle Muse lie please to roast, 
 And break a promise after having made it her. 
 
 Denying the receipt of what it cost, 
 And smear his page with gall instead of honey, 
 All I can say is — that he had the money. 
 
 CCXI. 
 I think that with this holy new alliance 
 
 I may ensure the public, and defy 
 All other magazines of art or science, 
 
 Daily, or monthly, or three monthly ; I 
 Have not essay'd to multiply their clients, 
 
 Because they tell me 'twere in vain to try, 
 And that the Edinburgh Review and Quarterly 
 Treat a dissenting author very martyrly. 
 
 CCXII. 
 
 " JVb;i ego hoc ferrcni caUda juventa 
 
 Consule Planco." Horace said, and so 
 Say I ; by which quotation there is meant a 
 
 Hint that some sis or seven good years ago 
 (Long ere I dreamt of dating Irom the Brenta) 
 
 I was most ready to return a blow. 
 And would not brook at all this sort of thing 
 In my hot youth — when George the Third was King. 
 
 CCXIII. 
 But now at thirty years my hair is gray — 
 
 (I wonder what it will be like at forty ? 
 I thought of a peruke the other day — ) 
 
 My heart is not much greener ; and, in short, I 
 Have squander'd my whole summer while 'twas May, 
 
 And feel no more the spirit to retort ; I 
 Have spent my life, both interest and principal, 
 And deem not, what I deem'd, my soul invincible. 
 
 CCXIV. 
 No more — no more — Oh ! never more on me 
 
 The freshness of the heart can fall like dew, 
 Which out of all the lovely things we see 
 
 Extracts emotions beautiful and new. 
 Hived in our bosoms like the bag o' the bee, 
 
 Think'st thou the honey with those objects grew? 
 Alas I 'twas not in them, but in thy power 
 To double even the sweetness of a flower. 
 
 CCXV. 
 
 No more — no more — -Oh I never more, my heart, 
 Canst thou be my sole world, my universe ! 
 
 Once all in all, but now a thing apart, 
 Tbou canst uot be my blessing or my curse : 
 
 The illusion 's gone forever, and thou art 
 Insensible, I trust, but none the worse, 
 And in thy stead I've got a deal of judgment, 
 Though heaven knows how it ever found a lodgment, 
 
 CCXVI. 
 My days of love are over ; me no more 
 
 The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow, 
 Can make the fool of which they made before, — 
 
 In short, I must not lead the life I did do ; 
 The credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er. 
 
 The copious use of claret is forbid too, 
 So for a good old-gentlemanly vice, 
 I think I must take up with avarice. 
 
 CCXVII. 
 Ambition was my idol, which was broken 
 
 Before the shrines of Sorrow, and of Pleasure ; 
 And the two last have left me many a token. 
 
 O'er which reflection may be made at leisure : 
 Now, like Friar Bacon's brazen head, I've spoken, 
 
 " Time is. Time was, Time 's past :" — a chymio 
 treasure 
 Is glittering youth, which I have spent betimes — 
 My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes. 
 
 CCXVIII. 
 
 What is the end of Fame ? 'tis but to fill 
 A certain portion of uncertain paper : 
 
 Some liken it to climbing up a hill, 
 Wliose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapor ; 
 
 For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill, 
 And bards bum what they call their " midnight 
 
 To have, when the original is dust, [taper," 
 
 A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust. 
 
 CCXIX. 
 
 What are the hopes of man ? Old Egypt's King 
 
 Cheops erected the first pyramid 
 And largest, thinking it was just the thing 
 
 To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid ; 
 But somebody or other rummaging 
 
 Burglariously broke his coffin's lid : 
 Let not a monument give you or me hopes, 
 Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops. 
 
 CCXX. 
 But I being fond of true philosophy. 
 
 Say very often to myself, " Alas ! 
 All things that have been born were bom to die, 
 
 And flesh (which Death mows down to hayj is 
 You've pass'd your youth not so unjileasantly, [grass ; 
 
 And if you had it o'er again — 'twould pass — 
 So thank your stars that matters are no worae. 
 And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse.'' 
 
 CCXXI. 
 
 But for the present, gentle reader ! apd 
 
 Still gentler purchaser ! the bard — that B I— 
 
684- 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Caxto u. 
 
 Must, with permission, shake you by tlie hand, 
 And so your liuiuljlc servant, and good-b'ye ! 
 
 We meet again, if we slioukl understand 
 Each other ; and if not, I sliall not try 
 
 Your patieuce further than by tliis short sample — 
 
 'Twere well if others foUow'd my examjjle. 
 
 CCXXII. 
 " Go, little book, from this my solitude ! 
 
 I cast thee on the waters — go thy ways ! 
 And if, as I believe, thy vein be good, 
 
 The world will find thee after many days." 
 When Southey 's read and Wordsworth understood, 
 
 I can't help ])utting in my claim to praise — 
 The four first rhymes arc Southey's every line : 
 For God's sake, reader ! take them not for mine. 
 
 DON JUAN, 
 
 CANTO THE SECO.S'D. 
 
 I. 
 
 Oh, ye ! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations, 
 Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain, 
 
 I pray ye Hog them upon all occasions. 
 
 It mends their morals, never mind the pain : 
 
 The best of mothers and of educations 
 In Juan's case were but employ'd in vain. 
 
 Since, in a way that's rather of the oddest, he 
 
 Became divested of his native modesty. 
 
 II. 
 
 Had he but been placed at a pulilie school. 
 In the tliird form, or even in the fourth. 
 
 His daily task had kept his fancy cool, 
 At least, had he been nurtured in the north ; 
 
 Spain may prove an exception to the rule. 
 But then exceptions always prove its worth — 
 
 A lad of sixteen causing a divorce 
 
 Puzjled his tutors very much, of course. 
 
 III. 
 I can't say that it puzzles me at all. 
 
 If all things be considered : first, there was 
 Ilis lady-Miother, mathematical, 
 
 A never mind ; — his tutor, an old ass ; 
 
 4. pretty woman — (that's quite natural. 
 
 Or else the thing had hardly came to pass ;) 
 A husband rather old, not much in unity 
 With his young wife — a time, and opportunity. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Well — well, the world must turn upon its axis. 
 And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails. 
 
 And live and die, make love and pay our taxes, 
 And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails ; 
 
 The king commands us, and the doctor quacks ua, 
 The priest instructs, and so our life exhales, 
 , A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame, 
 j Fighting, devotion, dust, — perhaps a name. 
 
 ! ^• 
 
 I said, that Juan bad been sent to Cadiz — 
 
 A pretty to\\'n, I recollect it well — 
 'Tis there the mart of the colonial trade is, 
 
 (Or was, before Peru learn'd to rebel,) 
 And such sweet girls — I mean, such graceful ladies, 
 
 Their very walk would make j'our bosom swell; 
 I can't describe it, though so much it strike, 
 Nor liken it — I never saw the like : 
 
 VI. 
 An Arab horse, a stately stag, a barb 
 
 New broke, a cameleopard, a gazelle. 
 No — none of these will do ; — and then their garb ! 
 
 Their veil and petticoat — Alas ! to dwell 
 Upon such things would very near absorb 
 
 A canto — then their feet and ankles, — well, 
 Thank Heaven I've got no metaphor quite ready, 
 (And so, my sober Muse — come, let's be steady — 
 
 VII. 
 Chaste Muse ! — well, if you must, you must) — the veil 
 
 Thrown back a moment with the glancing hand, 
 While the o'erpowering eye, that turns you pale. 
 
 Flashes into the heart : — All sunny land 
 Of love ! when I forget you, may I fail 
 
 To say my prayers — but never was there plann'd 
 
 A dress through which the eyes give such a volley, 
 Excepting the Venetian Fazzioli. 
 
 Mil. 
 But to our tale : the Donna Inez sent 
 
 Her son to Cadiz only to embark ; 
 To stay there had not answer'd her intent. 
 
 But why ? — we leave the reader in tlie dark — 
 'Twas for a voyage that the young man was meant, 
 
 As if a Spanish ship were Noah's ark. 
 To wean him from the wickedness of earth. 
 And send him like a dove of promise forth. 
 
 I.X. 
 Don Juan bade his valet pack his things 
 
 Accoreliug to direction, then received 
 A lecture and some money : for four springs 
 
 He was to travel ; and though Inez grieved, 
 (As every kind of parting has its stings,) 
 
 She hoped he would improve — perhaps believed 
 A letter, too, she gave (he never read it) 
 Of good advice — and two or three of credit. 
 
 X. 
 
 In the mean time, to pass her hours away. 
 Brave Inez now set up a Sunday school 
 
Canto ii. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 585 
 
 For naughty cliildren, who -n-ould rather play 
 (Like truant rogues) the devil, or the fool ; 
 
 Infants of three years old were taught that day, 
 Dunces were Tvhipp'd, or set upon a stool : 
 
 The great success of Juan's education, 
 
 Spurr'd her to teach another generation. 
 
 XI 
 
 Juan embark'd — the ship got under way, 
 The wind was foir, the water passing rough : 
 
 A devil of a sea roUs in that bay, 
 
 As I, who've cross'd it oft, know well enough ; 
 
 And standing upon the deck, the dashing spray 
 Flies in one's face, and makes it weather-tough. 
 
 And there he stood to take, and take again. 
 
 His first — perhaps his last — farewell of Spain. 
 
 XII^ 
 
 I can't but say it is an awkward sight 
 To see one's native land receding through 
 
 The growing waters ; it unmans one quite. 
 Especially when life is rather new : 
 
 I recollect Great Britain's coast looks white, 
 But almost every other country 's blue, 
 
 When gazinnf on them, mystified by distance, 
 
 We enter on our nautical existence. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 So Juan stood, bewilder'd on the deck 
 
 The wind suu<i, cordage strain'd. and sailors swore. 
 And the ship crcak'd, the town became a speck, 
 
 From which away so fair and fast they bore. 
 The best of remedies is a beef-steak 
 
 Against sea-sickness : try it, sir, before 
 You sneer, and I assure you this is true. 
 For I have fount! it answer — so may you. 
 
 XIV. 
 Don Juan stood, and, gazing from the stem, 
 
 Beheld his native Spain receding far : 
 First partings form a lesson hard to learn. 
 
 Even nations feel this when they go to war ; 
 There is a sort of uncxpress'd concern, 
 
 A kind of shock that sets one's heart ajar : 
 At leaving even the most unpleasant people 
 And places, one keeps looking at the steeple. 
 
 XV. 
 
 IJut Juan had got many things to leave, 
 Ilis mother, and a mistress, and no wife. 
 
 Bo that he had much better cause to grieve, 
 Than many persons more advanced in life ; 
 
 And if we now and then a .sigh must heave 
 At quitting even those we quit in strife, 
 
 No doubt we weep for those the heart endears — 
 
 That is, till deeper griefs congeal our tears. 
 74 
 
 XVI. 
 
 So Juan wept, as wept the captive Jews 
 By Babel's waters, still remembering Sion : 
 
 I'd weep, — but mine is not a weeping Muse, 
 And such light griefs are not a thing to die on ; 
 
 Young men should travel, if but to amuse 
 
 Themselves ; .and the next time their servants tie 
 
 Behind their carriages their new portmanteau, [on 
 
 Perhaps it may he lined with this my canto. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 And Juan wept, and much he sigh'd and thought, 
 While his salt tears dropp'd into the salt sea, 
 
 " Sweet to the sweet ;" (I like so much to quote ; 
 You must excuse this extract, — 'tis where she, 
 
 The Queen of Denmark, for Ophelia brought 
 Flowers to the grave ;) and, sobbing often, he 
 
 Reflected on his present situation. 
 
 And seriously resolved on reformation. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 "Farewell, my Spain ! a long farewell I" he cried, 
 " Perhaps I may revisit thee no more. 
 
 But die, as many an exiled heart hath died, 
 Of its own thirst to see again thy shore : 
 
 Farewell, where Guadalquivir's waters glide ! 
 Farewell, my mother ! and, since aU is o'er, 
 
 Farewell, too, dearest Julia ! — (here he drew 
 
 Her letter out again, and read it through.) 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " And, oh ! if e'er I should forget, I swear — 
 But that's impossible, and cannot be — 
 
 Sooner shall this blue ocean melt to air. 
 Sooner shall earth resolve itself to sea. 
 
 Than I resign thine image, oh, my fair ! 
 Or think of any thing excepting thee ; 
 
 A mind diseased no remedy can physic — 
 
 (Here the ship gave a lurch, and he grew sea-sick.) 
 
 XX. 
 
 " Sooner shall heaven kiss earth — (liere he fellsicktr] 
 Oh, Julia ! what is every other wo ? — 
 
 (For God's sake let me have a glass of liquor ; 
 Pedro, Battista, help me down below.) 
 
 Julia, my love ! — (^you rascal, Pedro, quicker) — 
 Oh, Julia ! — (this cursed vessel pitches so) — 
 
 Beloved Julia, hear me still beseeching !" 
 
 (Here he grew inarticulate with retching.) 
 
 XXI. 
 
 He felt that chilling heaviness of heart. 
 Or rather stomach, which, alas ! attends, 
 
 Beyond the best apothecary's art. 
 
 The loss of love, the treachery of friends. 
 
 Or death of those we dote on, when a part 
 Of us dies with them as each fond hope ends 
 
.'186 
 
 BTROX'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto n. 
 
 No doubt he would have been ^uch more pathetic, 
 Hut the sta acted as a strong emetic. 
 
 XXII. 
 '..ove 's a capricious power : I've known it hold 
 
 Out throufth a fever caused by its own heat, 
 But be much puzzled by a cough and cold. 
 
 And find a quinsy very hard to treat ; 
 Against all noble maladies he 's bold, 
 
 But vulgar illnesses don't like to meet, 
 Nor that a sneeze should interrupt his sigh. 
 Nor iutlamniations redden his bUnd eye. 
 
 XXIII. 
 But worst of all is nausea, or a pain 
 
 About the lower region of the bowels ; 
 Love, who heroically breathes a vein, 
 
 Shrinks from the application of hot towels. 
 And purgatives are dangerous to his reign, 
 
 Sea-sickneas death : his love was perfect, how else 
 Could .Juan's jjassion, while the billows roar. 
 Resist his stomach, ne'er at sea before ? 
 
 XXIV. 
 The ship, call'd the most holy " Triuidada," 
 
 Was steering duly for the port Leghorn ; 
 For there the Spanish family Moncada 
 
 Were settled long ere Juan's sire was born : 
 They were relations, and for them he had a 
 
 Letter of iutroduction, which the morn 
 Of his departure had been sent hin. by 
 Hio Si^nr-i^l; friends for those in Italy. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 His suite consisted of three servants and 
 
 A tutor, the licentiate Pedrillo, 
 Who several languages did understand, 
 
 But now lay sick and speechless on his pillow. 
 And, rocking in his hammock, long'd for land, 
 
 nis headache being increased by every billow ; 
 And the waves oozing througli the port-hole made 
 His berth a liltle damp, and him afraid. 
 
 XXVI. 
 'Twas not without some reason, for the wind 
 
 Increased at night, until it blew a gale ; 
 And though 'twas not much to a naval mind. 
 
 Some landsmen would have look'd a little pale, 
 For sailors are, in fact, a different kind : 
 
 At svmset they began to take in sail, 
 For the sky show'd it would come on to blow. 
 And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so. 
 
 XXVII. 
 At one o'clock the wind with sudden shift 
 
 Threw the ship right into the trough of the sea, 
 Wliich struck her aft, and made an awkward rift. 
 
 Started the stern-post, also shattered the 
 
 Wliole of her stem-frame, and, ere she could lift 
 
 Herself from out her present Jeopardy, 
 The rudder tore away : 'twas time to sound 
 The puuips, and there were four feet water found. 
 
 XXVIir. 
 One gang of people instantly was put 
 
 Upon the pumps, and the remaiuikT set 
 To get up part of the cargo, and what not; 
 
 But they could not come at the leak as yet ; 
 At last they did get at it really, but 
 
 Still their salvation was an even bet : 
 The water rush'd through in a way quite puzzling, 
 While they thrust sheets, shirts, jackets, bales of 
 muslin, 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Into the opening ; Imt all such ingredients [down. 
 Would have been vain, and they must have gone 
 
 Despite of all the efforts and expedients. 
 
 But for tlic pumps ; I'm glad to make them known 
 
 To all the brotlier tars who may have need hence, 
 For fifty tons of water were upthrown 
 
 By them per hour, and they had all been undone, 
 
 But for the maker, ^Ir. Mann, of London. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 As day advanced the weather seem"d to al>ate, 
 Antl tlien the leak they reckon'd to reduce. 
 
 And keep the sliip afloat, though three feet yet 
 Kept two hand and one chain pump still in use 
 
 The wind blew fresh again : as it grew late 
 
 A squall came on, and while some guns broke loose, 
 
 A gust — which all descriptive power transcends — 
 
 Laid with one blast the ship on her beam ends. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 They she lay, motionless, and seem'd upset ; 
 
 The water left the hold, and waslfd the decks, 
 And made a scene men do not soon forget ; 
 
 For they remember battles, fires, and wrecks. 
 Or any other thing that brings regret. 
 
 Or breaks their hopes, or hearts, or heads, or necks 
 Thus drownings arc much talk'd of by the divers, 
 And swiuimers, who may chance to be survivors. 
 
 XXXIl. 
 Immediately the masts were cut away. 
 
 Both main and mizcn ; Ih-st the mizen went, 
 The maiunuist follow'd ; but tlie ship still lay 
 
 Like a mere log, and baffled our intent. 
 Foremast and bowsprit were cut down, and they 
 
 Eased her at last, (although we never meant 
 To part with all till every hope was blighted,) 
 And then with violence the old ship righted. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 It may be easily supposed, while this 
 
 Was going on, some people were imquiet. 
 
Casto II. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 53^ 
 
 That passengers would find it much amiss 
 To lose their lives, as wcU as spoil their diet ; 
 
 That even the able seaman, deeming his 
 Days nearly o'er, might be disposed to riot, 
 
 As upon such occasions tars will ask 
 
 For grog, and sometimes drink rum from the cask. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 There's naught, no doubt, so much tlie spirit calms 
 As rum and true religion : thus it was, [psahns, 
 
 Some plunder'd, some drank spirits, some sung 
 The high wind made the treble, and as bass [qualms 
 
 The hoarse harsh waves kept time ; friglit cured the 
 Of all the luckless landsmen's sea-sick maws ; 
 
 Strange sounds of wailing, blasphemy, devotion, 
 
 Clamor'd in chorus to the roaring ocean. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Perhaps more mischief had been done, but for 
 Our Juan, who, T\-ith sense beyond his years. 
 
 Got to the spirit-room, and stood before 
 It with a pair of pistols ; and their fears, 
 
 As if Death were more dreadful by his door 
 Of fire than water, spite of oaths and tears, 
 
 Kept still aloof the crew, who, ere they sunk. 
 
 Thought it would be becoming to die drunk. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 " Give us more grog," they cried, " for it will be 
 All one an hour hence." Juan answer'd, " No ! 
 
 'Tis true that death awaits both you and me. 
 But let us die like men, not sick below 
 
 Like brutes :" — and thus his dangerous post kept he, 
 And none liked to anticipate the blow ; 
 
 And even PedriUo, his most reverend tutor, 
 
 Was for some rum a disappointed suitor. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 The good old gentleman was quite aghast. 
 
 And made a loud and pious lamentation ; 
 Repented aU his sins, and made a last 
 
 Irrevocable vow of reformation ; 
 Nothing should tempt him more (this peril pass'd) 
 
 To quit his academic occupation, 
 In cloisters of the classic Salamanca, 
 To follow Juan's wake, like Sancho Panca. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 But now there came a flash of hope once more ; 
 
 Day broke, and the wind lull'd : the masts were 
 gone. 
 The leak increased ; shoals round her, but no shore. 
 
 The vessel swam, yet still she hekl her own. 
 Tliey tried the pumps again, and though before 
 
 Their desperate eflbrts scem'd all useless grown, 
 iV glimpse of sunshine set some bands to bale — 
 The stronger pump'd, the weakei thrumm'd a sail 
 
 XXXIX. 
 Under the vessel's keel the sail was pass'd. 
 
 And for the moment it had some effect ; 
 But with a leak, and not a stick of mast, 
 
 Nor rag of canvass, what coukl they expect ? 
 But still 'tis best to struggle to the last, 
 
 'Tis never too late to be who'Jy wreck'd : 
 And though 'tis true that man can only die once, 
 'Tis not so pleasant in the Gulf of Lyons. 
 
 XL. 
 There winds and waves had hurl'd them, and froro 
 thence. 
 
 Without their wiU, they carried them away ; 
 For they were forced v^-ith steering to dispense, 
 
 And never had as yet a quiet day 
 On which they might repose, or even commence 
 
 A jurymast or rudder, or could say 
 The ship would swim an hour, which, by good luck 
 Still swam — though not exactly like a duck. 
 
 XLI. 
 The wind, in fact, perhaps, was rather less. 
 
 But the ship labor'd so, they scarce could hope 
 To weather out much longer ; the distress 
 
 Was also great with which they had to cope 
 For want of water, and their solid mess 
 
 Was scant enough : in vain t'ue telescope 
 Was used — nor sail nor shore appear'd in sight, 
 Naught but the heavy sea, and coming night. 
 
 XLII. 
 Again the weather threaten'd, — again blew 
 
 A gale, and in the fore and after hold 
 Water appear'd ; yet, though the people knew 
 
 All this, the most were patient, and some bold. 
 Until the chains and leathers were worn through 
 
 Of all our pumps : — a wreck complete she roll'd, 
 At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are 
 Like human beings dming civil war. 
 
 XLIII. 
 Then came the carpenter, at last, with tears 
 
 In his rough eyes, and told the captain he 
 Could do no more : he was a man in years, 
 
 And long had voyaged through many a stormy sea, 
 And if he wept at length, they were not fears 
 
 That made his eyelids as a woman's be, 
 But he, poor fellow, had a wife and children, — 
 Two things for dying people quite bewildering. 
 
 XLIV. 
 The ship was evidently settling now 
 
 Fast by the head ; and, aU distinction gone, 
 Some went to prayers again, and made a vow 
 
 Of candles to their saints — but there were none 
 To pay them with ; and some look'd o'er the bow ; 
 
 Some hoisted out the boats ; and there was one 
 
B88 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canio n. 
 
 That begg'd Pedrillo for an absolution, 
 
 Wlio told him to be damnd — in bis confusion. 
 
 XI.V. 
 
 Borne lash'd tlicm in their hammocks ; some put on 
 Their best clothes, as if going to a fair ; 
 
 Some cursed the day on which the}' saw the sun, 
 And gnash'd their teeth, and, howling, toie their 
 
 And others went on as they had begun, [Un.'- ; 
 
 Getting the boats out, being well aware. 
 
 That a tight boat will live in a rough sea. 
 
 Unless with breakers close beneath her lee. 
 
 XLVI. 
 The worst of all was, that in their condition. 
 
 Having been several days in great distress, 
 'Twas difficult to get out such provision 
 
 As now might render their long suffering less : 
 Men, even when dying, dislike inanition ; 
 
 Their stock was damaged by the -weather's stress: 
 Two casks of biscuit, and a keg of butter, 
 Were all that could be thrown into the cutter. 
 
 XLVII. 
 But in tlie long-boat they contrived to stow 
 
 Some pounds of bread, though injured by the wet ; 
 Water, a twenty-gallon cask or so ; 
 
 Six flasks of wine ; and they contrived to get 
 A portion of their beef up from below. 
 
 And with a piece of pork, moreover, met, 
 But scarce enough to serve them for a luncheon — 
 Then there was rum, eight gallons in a puncheon. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 The other boats, the yawl and pinnace, had 
 
 Been stove in the beginning of the gale ; 
 And the long-boat's condition was but bad, 
 
 As there were but two blankets for a sail, 
 And one oar for a mast, which a young lad 
 
 Threw in 1.)y good luck over the ship's rail ; 
 And two l)oats could not liold, far less be stored. 
 To save one half the people then on board. 
 
 XLIX. 
 'Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down 
 
 Over the waste of waters ; like a veil. 
 Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown 
 
 Of one whose face is mask'd but to assail. 
 Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown, 
 
 And grimly darkled o'er the faces pale. 
 And the dim desolate deep: twelve days had Fear 
 Been their familiar, and now Death was here. 
 
 L. 
 Some trial had been making at a raft. 
 
 With little hope in such a rolling sea, 
 K sort of thing at which one would have laugh'd. 
 
 If anv 'aughter at sue' times could be, 
 
 Unless with people who too much have quafF'd. 
 
 And have a kind of ^^•ild and horrid glee. 
 Half epileptical, and half hysterical : — 
 Their preservation would have been a miracle. 
 
 LI.. 
 
 At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hencoops, spars, 
 And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose, 
 
 That still could keep afloat the struggling tars, 
 For yet they strove, although of no great use : 
 
 There was no light in heaven but a few stars. 
 The boats put ofi" o'ercrowded with their crews ; 
 
 She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port, 
 
 And, going down head foremost — sunk, in short. 
 
 LII. 
 
 Then rose from sea to sky the \n[(\ farewell — 
 Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave, — 
 
 Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yell, 
 As eager to anticipate their grave ; 
 
 And the sea yawn'd arouna ler like a hell, 
 
 And down she suck'd with her the whirling wave, 
 
 Like one who grapples with his enemy. 
 
 And strives to strangle him before he die. 
 
 LIU. 
 And first one universal shriek there rush'd, 
 
 Ijouder than the loud ocean, like a crash 
 Of echoing thunder ; and then all was liush'd. 
 
 Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash 
 Of billows ; but at intervals there gush'd, 
 
 Accompanied with a convulsive splash, 
 A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry 
 Of some strong swimmer in his agony. 
 
 LIV. 
 The lioats, as stated, had got off before. 
 
 And in them crowded several of the crew ; 
 And yet their present hope was hardly more 
 
 Than what it had been, for so strong it blew. 
 There was slight chance of reaching any shore; 
 
 And then they were too many, though so few — 
 Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat. 
 Were counted in them when they got afloat. 
 
 LV. 
 All the rest perish'd : near two hundred souls 
 
 Had left their bodies ; and what 's worse, alas I 
 When over Catholics the ocean rolls, 
 
 They must wait several weeks before a mass 
 Takes off one peck of purgatorial coals. 
 
 Because, till people know what 's come to pass 
 They won't lay out their money on the dead — 
 It costs three francs for every mass that's said. 
 
 LVI. 
 Juan got into the long-boat, and there 
 Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place ; 
 
Canto ir. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 589 
 
 rt seem'd as if tbcy had exchanged their care, 
 
 For Juan -nore the magisterial face 
 Wliich courage gives, while poor Pedrillo's pair 
 
 Of eyes were crpng for their owner's case : 
 Battista, though, (a name call'd shortly Tita,) 
 Was lost by getting at so^ue aqua-vita. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Pedro, his valet, too, lie tried to save, 
 But the same cause, conducive to his loss. 
 
 Left him so drunk, he jump'd into the wave. 
 As o'er the cutter's edge lie tried to cross, 
 
 A.nd so he found a "Tvine-and-watery grave ; 
 They could not rescue him although so close. 
 
 Because the sea ran higher every minute. 
 
 And for the boat — the crew kept crowding in it. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 1 small old spaniel, — which had been Don Jose's, 
 His father's, whom he loved, as ye may think. 
 
 For on such things the memory reposes 
 With tenderness — stood howling on the brink. 
 
 Knowing, (dogs have such intellectual noses !) 
 No doubt, the vessel was about to sink ; 
 
 And Juan caught him up, and ere he stepp'd 
 
 Off, threw him in, then after him he leap'd. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 He also stuff'd his money where he could 
 About his person, and Pedrillo's too. 
 
 Who let him do, in fact, whate'er he would. 
 Not knowing what himself to say, or do. 
 
 As every rising wave his dread renew'd ; 
 But Juan, trusting they might still get through, 
 
 And deeming there were remedies for any ill. 
 
 Thus re-embark'd his tutor and his spaniel. 
 
 LX. 
 
 'Twas a rough night, and blew so stiffly yet. 
 That the sail was becalm'd between the seas, 
 
 Though on the wave's high top too much to set, 
 They dared not take it in for all the breeze : 
 
 Each sea curl'd o'er the stern, and kept them wet, 
 And made them bale without a moment's ease, 
 
 So that themselves as well as hopes were damp'd. 
 
 And the poor little cutter quickly swamp'd. 
 
 bXI. 
 
 rs'ine souls more went in her : the long-boat still 
 Kept above water, with an oar for mast. 
 
 Two blankets Stitch'd together, answering ill 
 Instead of sail, were to the oar made fast : 
 
 Though every wave roU'd menacing to fill. 
 And present peril all before surpass'd. 
 
 They grieved for those who perish'd with the cutter, 
 
 And aUi) for the biscuit-casks and butter. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 The sun rose red and fiery, a sure sign 
 Of the continuance of the gale : to run 
 
 Before tlie sea until it should grow fine. 
 Was all that for the present could be done : 
 
 A few tea-spoonfuls of their rum and wine 
 Were served out to the people, who begun 
 
 To feint, and damaged bread wet tlirough the bags, 
 
 And most of them had little clothes but rags. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 They counted thirty, crowded in a space 
 
 Wliich left scarce room for motion or exertion ; 
 
 They did their best to modify their case, [sion, 
 
 One half sate up, though numb'd with tlie immer- 
 
 While t'other half were laid down in their place. 
 At watch and watch ; thus, shivering like the ter- 
 
 Ague in its cold fit, they fill'd their boat, [tian 
 
 With nothing but the sky for a great coat. 
 
 LXIV. 
 'Tis very certain the desire of life 
 
 Prolongs it : this is oin-ious to physicians, 
 Wlien patients, neither plagued with friends noi 
 
 Survive through very desperate conditions, [wife, 
 Because they still can hope, nor sliines the knife 
 
 Nor shears of Atropos before their visions : 
 Despair of all recovery spoils longevity. 
 And makes men's miseries of alanning brevity. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 'Tis said that persons living on annuities 
 
 Are longer lived than others, — God knows why, 
 
 Unless to plague the grantors, — yet so true it is. 
 That some, I really think, do never die : 
 
 Of any creditors the worst a Jew it is. 
 
 And that 's their mode of furnishing supply ; 
 
 In my young days they lent me cash that way, 
 
 Which I found very troublesome to pay. 
 
 LXVI. 
 'Tis thus with people in an open boat. 
 
 They live upon the love of life, and bear. 
 More than can be believed, or even thought. 
 
 And stand like rocks the tempest's wear and tear 
 And hardship still has been the sailor's lot. 
 
 Since Noah's ark went cruising here and there ; 
 She had a curious crew as well as cargo, 
 Like the first old Greek privateer, the Argo. 
 
 I.XVU. 
 But man is a carnivorous production. 
 
 And must have meals, at least one meal a day ; 
 He cannot live, like woodcocks, ujion suction, 
 
 But, like the shark and tiger, must have prey : 
 Although his anatomical construction 
 
 Bears vegetables, in a grumbling way, 
 
590 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Cavtc II. 
 
 Your l:iborin<; ])pople think beyond all question, 
 Beef, veal, and mutton, better for digestion. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 And thus it was with this our hapless crew : 
 
 For on the third day there came on a calm, 
 .4.nd thougl) at first their strength it might renew, 
 
 And lying on their weariness like balm, 
 Luird them like turtles sleeping on the blue 
 
 Of orean, when they woke they felt a qualm, 
 And fell all ravenously on their provision. 
 Instead of hoarding it with due precision. 
 
 bXIX. 
 
 The consequence was easily foreseen — 
 They ate up all tliey had, and drank their wine. 
 
 In spile of all remonstrances, and then 
 
 On what, in fact, next day were they to dine ? 
 
 They hopefl tlie wind would rise, these foolish men! 
 And carry them to shore ; these hopes were fine. 
 
 But as they had but one oar, and that brittle. 
 
 It would have been more wise to save their victual. 
 
 lA'X. 
 The fourth day came, but not a breath of air, 
 
 And Ocean slumber'd like an unwean'd child : 
 The fifth day, and I heir boat lay flo.ating there, 
 
 The sea and sky were blue, .and clear, and mild — 
 With their one oar (I wish they had had a pair) 
 
 What could they do ? and hunger's rage grew 
 So Juan's spaniel, spite of his entreating, [wild : 
 Was kill'd, and portion'd out for present eating. 
 
 LXXI. 
 On the sixth d.ay they fed upon his hide. 
 
 And Juan, wlio had still refused, because 
 The creature was his father's dog that died, 
 
 Now feeling all the vulture in his jaws, 
 With some remorse received (though first denied) 
 
 As a great favor one of the fore-paws. 
 Which he di^^ded with Pedrillo, who 
 D^your'd it, longing for the other too. 
 
 LXXII. 
 The seventh day, and no wind — the burning sun 
 
 Blister'd ami scorch'd, and, stagnant on the sea. 
 They lay like carcasses ; and hope was none. 
 
 Save in the lirecze that came not ; savagely 
 They glared upon each other — all was done. 
 
 Water, and wine, and food, — and you might see 
 The longings of the cannilial arise 
 (Although tliey spoke not) in their wolfish eyes. 
 
 lA'XIII. 
 At length one whisper'd his companion, who 
 
 Wliisper'd anotlier, and t!ius it went round. 
 And then into a hoarser murmur grew 
 
 An ominoiis, and wild, and desperate soimd ; 
 
 And when his comrade's thought each sufferer kucw, 
 'Twas but his own. supprc ss"d till now, he found • 
 And out tliey spoke of lots for flesh and l)lood, 
 An,d who should die to be his fellows' food. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 But ere they came to this, they that day shared 
 
 Some leathern caps, and what remain'd of shoes ; 
 And thcn«tlu'y look'd around them, and despair'd, 
 
 And none to l)e the sacrifice would choose ; 
 At length the lots were torn up, and prepared, 
 
 But of materials that much shock the Muse 
 Having no paper, for the want of better. 
 They took by force from Juan Julia's letter. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 The lots were made, and mark'd, and mix'd, and 
 In silent horror, and their distribution [lianded, 
 
 LulI'd even the savage hunger which demanded, 
 Like llie Promethean vulture, this polhition ; 
 
 None in particular had sought or plann'd it, 
 'Twas nature gnaw'd them to this resolution, 
 
 By which none were permitted to be neuter — 
 
 And the lot fell on .Juan's luckless tutor. 
 
 I.XXVI. 
 He Init requested to be bled to death : 
 
 The surgeon had his instruments, and bled 
 Pedrillo, and so gently ebb'd his lireath, 
 
 You hardly could perceive when he was dead. 
 He died as born, a Catholic in faith. 
 
 Like most in the belief in which they 're bred, 
 And first a little crucifix he kiss'd. 
 And then held out his jugular and wrist. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 The surgeon, as there was no other fee. 
 
 Had his first choice of morsels for his pains; 
 
 But being thirstiest at the moment, he 
 
 Preferr'd a draught from the fiist-flowing veins : 
 
 Part was divided, part thro^\Ti in the sea. 
 
 And such things as the entrails and the brains 
 
 Regaled two sharks, who follow'd o'er the billow- 
 
 The sailors ate the rest of jjoor Pedrillo. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 The sailors ate him, all save three or four. 
 
 Who were not quite so fond of animal food ; 
 To these w-as added Juan, who, before 
 
 Kefusing his own spaniel, hardly could 
 Feel now his apjietite increased much more ; 
 
 'Twas not to be expected that he should. 
 Even in extremity of their disaster. 
 Dine with them on his pastor and his master. 
 
 LXXIX, 
 
 'Twas better that he did not ; for, in fact. 
 The consequence was awful in the extreme ; 
 
Oanto II. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 59] 
 
 For tliey, who were most ravenous in tlie act, 
 
 Went raging mad — Lord ! how they tlid l.ilaspheme I 
 
 And foam and roll, with strange convulsions rack'd. 
 Drinking salt-water like a mountain-stream. 
 
 Tearing, and grinning, liowling, screeching, swcar- 
 
 And, with hya;na-laughter, died despairing. [ing 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Their numbers were much thinn'd by this infliction, 
 And all the rest were thin enough. Heaven knows ; 
 
 And some of them had lost their recollection. 
 
 Happier than they who still perceived their woes ; 
 
 But others ponder'd on a new dissection, 
 As if not wam'd sufflciently by those 
 
 Who had already perish'd, suffering madly, 
 
 For having used their appetites so sadly. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 And nest they thought upon the masters mate, 
 As fattest ; but he saved himself, because. 
 
 Besides being much averse from such a fate. 
 There were some other reasons : the first was. 
 
 He had been rather indisposed of late ; 
 
 And that wliich cliiefly proved his saving clause, 
 
 Was a small present made to him at Cadiz, 
 
 By general subscription of the ladies. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 Of jwor Pcdrillo something still remained. 
 But was used sparingly, — some were afraid. 
 
 And others still their appetites constrain'd. 
 Or but at times a little supper made ; 
 
 All except Juan, who throughout abstain'd, 
 Cliewing a piece of bamboo, and some lead ; 
 
 At length they caught two boobies, and a noddy. 
 
 And then they left off eating the dead body. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 And if Pedrillo's fate should shocking be. 
 
 Remember UgoHno condescends 
 To eat the head of his arch-enemy 
 
 The moment after he politely ends 
 His tale : if foes be food in hell, at sea 
 
 'Tis surely feir to dine upon our friends, 
 Wlien shipwreck's short allowanoe grows too scanty. 
 Without being much more horrible than Dante. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 And tuc same night there fell a shower of rain, 
 
 For which their mouths gaped, like the cracks of 
 earth 
 Wlien dried to summer dust ; till taught by pain. 
 
 Men really know not what good water 's worth ; 
 If you had been in Turkey or in Spain, 
 
 Or with a famish'd boat's-crew had your berth. 
 Or in the desert heard the camel's boll. 
 You'd wish yourself whore Truth is— in a well. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 It pour'd down torrents, but they were no richer 
 
 Until they found a ragged piece of sheet, 
 Whicli served them as a sort of sjiongy pitcher. 
 
 And when they deem'd its moisture was complete, 
 They wrung it out, and though a thirsty ditcher 
 
 Might not have thought the scanty draught so 
 As a full pot of porter, to their thinking [sweet 
 
 They ne'er till now had known the joys of drinking. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 And their baked lips, with many a bloody crack, 
 
 Suck'd in the moisture, which like nectar stream'd ; 
 Their throats were ovens, their swoln tongues were 
 black. 
 
 As the rich man's in hell, who vainly scream'd ; 
 To beg the beggar, who could not rain back 
 
 A drop of dew, when every drop had seem'd 
 To taste of heaven — If this be true, indeed, 
 Some Christians have a comfortable creed. 
 
 LXXXYII. 
 There were two fathers in this ghastly crew. 
 
 And with them their two sons, of whom the one 
 Was more robust and hardy to the view, 
 
 But he died early ; and when he was gone. 
 His nearest messmate told his sii-e, who threw 
 
 One glance at him, and said, " Heaven's will De 
 I can do nothing," and he saw liim thrown [done I 
 Into the deep without a tear or groan. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 The other father had a weaklier child. 
 
 Of a soft cheek, and aspect delicate ; 
 But the boy bore uji long, and with a mild 
 
 And i)arient spirit held aloof his fate ; 
 Little he said, and now and then he smiled, 
 
 As if to win a part from off the weight 
 He saw increasing on his father's heart, 
 With the deep deadly thought, that they must part. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised 
 His eyes from off his face, but wiped the foam 
 
 From his pale lips, and ever on him gazed, [come. 
 And when the wish'd-for shower at length was 
 
 And the boy's eyes, which the dull film half glazed, 
 Brighten'd, and for a moment seem'd to roam, 
 
 He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain 
 
 Into his dying child's mouth — but in vain. 
 
 XC. 
 The boy expired — the father held the clay, 
 
 And look'd upon it long, and when at last 
 Death left no doubt, and the dead burden lay 
 
 Stiff on his heart, and pulse and hope were ija.il. 
 He watch'd it wistfully, until away 
 
 'Twas borne by the rude wave wherein 'twast cast ; 
 
BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto ii. 
 
 Then liP liimsdf sunk down all dumb and shiverinjr, 
 And gave no sign of life, sarc his limbs quivering. 
 
 XCI. 
 
 Now overhead a rainbow, bursting through 
 
 The scattering clouds, shone, spanning the dark 
 
 Resting its liright base on the quivering blue; [sea, 
 And all within its arch appcar'd to be 
 
 Clearer tlian tliat without, and its wide hue 
 Wax'd broad and waving, like a banner free. 
 
 Then changed like to a bow that 's bent, and then 
 
 Forsook the dim eyes of these shipwreck'd men. 
 
 XCII. 
 It changed, of course ; a heavenly cameleon. 
 
 The airy child of vapor and the sun. 
 Brought forth in purple, cradled in vermilion, 
 
 Baptized in molten gold, and swathed in dun. 
 Glittering like crescents o'er a Turk's pavilion, 
 
 And blending every color into one. 
 Just like a black eye in a recent scuffle, 
 (For sometimes we must box without the muffle.) 
 
 XCIII. 
 Our shipwreck'd seamen thought it a good omen — 
 
 It is as well to think so, now and then ; 
 'Twas an old custom of the Greek and Roman, 
 
 And may become of great advantage when 
 Folks are discouraged ; and most surely no men 
 
 Had greater need to nerve themselves again 
 Than these, and so this rainbow look'd like hope — 
 Quite a celestial kaleidoscope. 
 
 XCIV. 
 About this time a beautiful white bird, 
 
 AVebfooted, not unlike a dove in size 
 And plumage, (prol)ably it miglit have err'd 
 
 Upon its course,) pass'd oft before their eyes, 
 And tried to perch, althoiv;:h it saw and heard 
 
 The men within the boat, and in this guise 
 It came and went, and flutter'd round them till 
 Night fell : — this seem'd a l.ietter omen still. 
 
 XCV. 
 But in this case I also must remark, 
 
 'Twas well this bird of jjromise did not perch, 
 Because the tackle of oiu- sliatter'd bark 
 
 Was not so safe for roosting as a church ; 
 And had it l>een the dove from Noah's ark, 
 
 Returning there from her successful search, 
 Wliich in tlieir way that moment chanced to fall. 
 They would have cat her, olive-branch and all. 
 
 XCVI. 
 With twilight it again came on to blow. 
 
 But not with violence ; the stars shone out, 
 The boat made way ; yet now they were so low, 
 
 The-y know not where nor what they were about ; 
 
 Some fancied they saw land, and some said "No !" 
 The frequent fog-banks gave thein cause to doubt — 
 Some swore that they heard breakers, others guns, 
 And all mistook about the latter once. 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 As morning broke, the light wind died away, 
 Wlien he who had the watch sung out and swore, 
 
 If 'twas not land that rose with the sun's ray. 
 He wish'd that land he never might see more : 
 
 And the rest rubb'd their eyes and saw a bay. 
 Or thought they saw, and shaped their course for 
 
 For shore it was, and gradually grew [shore ; 
 
 Distinct, and high, and palpable to view. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 And then of these some part burst into tears. 
 
 And others, looking with a stupid stare. 
 Could not yet separate their hopes from fears. 
 
 And seem'd as if they had no further care ; 
 Wliile a few pray'd — (the first time for some years) — 
 
 And at the bottom of the boat three were 
 Asleep : they shook them by the hand and head, 
 And tried to awaken them, but found them dead. 
 
 XCIX. 
 The day before, fast sleeping on the water, 
 
 They found a turtle of the hawk's-bill kind. 
 And by good fortime, gliding softly, caught her, 
 
 Which yielded a day's life, and to their mind 
 Proved even still a more nutritious matter. 
 
 Because it left encouragement behind : 
 They thought that in such perils, more than chance 
 Had sent them this for tlieir deliverance. 
 
 The land appcar'd a high and rocky coast. 
 And higher grew the mountains as they drew, 
 
 Set by a current, toward it : they were lost 
 In various conjectures, for none knew 
 
 To what part of the earth they had been toss'd. 
 So chaugeable had been thft winds that l)lew ; 
 
 Some thought it was Mount JEtna, some the high 
 
 Of Candia, Cyprus, Rhodes, or other islands, [lands 
 
 CI. 
 
 Meantime the current, with a rising gale, 
 Still set them onwards to the welcome shore. 
 
 Like Charon's bark of spectres, dull and pale : 
 Their living freight was now reduced to four. 
 
 And three dead, whom their strength could not avail 
 To heave into the deep with those before. 
 
 Though the two sharks still follow'd them, and 
 
 The spray into their faces as tl ly splash'd. [dash'd 
 
 CTI. 
 Famine, despair, cold, thirst, and heat, h'ld done 
 Their work on them by turns, and thinn'd them to 
 
Canto ii. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 593 
 
 Such things a motlier had not known her son 
 Amidst the skeletons of that gaunt crew ; 
 
 By night chill'd, by day scorch'd, thus one by one 
 They perished, until wither'd to these few, 
 
 But chiefly by a species of self-slaughter, 
 
 In washing down Pedrillo with salt water. 
 
 cm. 
 
 As they drew nigh the land, which now was seen 
 Unequal in its aspect here and there, 
 
 They felt the freshness of its growing green, 
 That waved in forest-tops, and smooth'd the air. 
 
 And fell upon their glazed eyes like a screen 
 From glistening waves, and skies so hot and bare — 
 
 Lovely scem'd any object that should sweep 
 
 Away the vast, salt, dread, eternal deep. 
 
 CIV. 
 
 The shore look'd wild, without a trace of man, 
 And girt by formidaljle waves ; but they 
 
 Were mad for land, and thus their course they ran, 
 Tliough right ahead the roaring breakers lay : 
 
 A reef between them also now began 
 To show its boiling surf and bounding spray, 
 
 But finding no place for their landing better. 
 
 They ran the boat for shore, — and overset her. 
 
 CV. 
 
 But in his native stream, the Guadalquivir, 
 Juan to lave his youthfid limbs was wont ; 
 
 And having learnVl to swim in that sweet river, 
 Had often turn'd the art to some account : 
 
 A better swimmer you could scarce see ever. 
 He could, perhaps, have pass'd the Hellespont, 
 
 As once (a feat on which ourselves we prided) 
 
 Leander, Mr. Ekenhead, and I did. 
 
 cvr. 
 
 So here, though faint, emaciated, and stark. 
 He buoy'd his boyish limbs, and strove to ply 
 
 With the quick wave, and gain, ere it was dark, 
 The beach which lay before him, high and dry : 
 
 The greatest danger here was from a shark. 
 That carried oflf his neighbor by the thigh ; 
 
 As for the other two, they could not swim. 
 
 So nobody arrived on shore but him. 
 
 CVII. 
 
 Nor yet had he arrived but for the oar, 
 Wliich, providentially for him, was wash'd 
 
 'ast as his feeble arms could strike no more, 
 And the hard wave o'erwhclm'd him as 'twas 
 
 Within his grasp , he clung to it, and sore [dash'd, 
 The waters beat while he thereto was lash'd ; 
 
 At last, with swimming, wading, scrambling, he 
 
 RoU'd on the beach, half-senseless, from the sea : 
 15 
 
 CVIII. 
 
 There, breathless, with his digging nails he clung 
 Fast to the sand, lest the returning wave. 
 
 From whose reluctant roar his life he wrung, 
 Should suck him back to her insatiate grave : 
 
 And there he lay, full length, where he was flung. 
 Before the entrance of a clift"-worn cave. 
 
 With just enough of life to feel its pain, 
 
 xind deem that it was saved, perhaps, in vain. 
 
 CIX. 
 
 With slow and staggering efibrt he arose. 
 But sunk again iipon his bleeding knee 
 
 And quivering hand ; and then he lookVl for those 
 Who long had been his mates upon the sea ; 
 
 But none of them appear'd to share his woes, 
 Save one, a cori^se, from out the famish'd three, 
 
 Who died two days before, and now had found 
 
 An unknown barren beach, for burial ground. 
 
 ex. 
 
 And as he gazed, his dizzy brain spun fast. 
 And down he simk ; and as he sunk, the snnd 
 
 Swam round and round, and all his senses pass'd : 
 He fell upon his side, and his stretch'd hand 
 
 Droop'd dripping on the oar, (their jury-mast,) 
 And, like a wither'd lily, on the land 
 
 His slender frame and pallid aspect lay. 
 
 As fair a thing as e'er was form'd of clay. 
 
 CXI. 
 How long in his damp trance young Juan lay 
 
 He knew not, for the earth was gone for liim, 
 And Time had nothing more of night nor day 
 
 For his congealing blood, and senses dim ; 
 And how this heavy faintness pass'd away 
 
 He knew not, till each painful pulse and limb. 
 And tingling vein, seem'd throl)bing back to life, 
 For Death, though vanquish'd, still retired with strife 
 
 CXII. 
 His eyes he open'd, shut, again unclosed. 
 
 For all was doubt and dizziness ; he thought 
 He stiU was in the boat, and had but dozed. 
 
 And felt again with his despair o'erwi'ought, 
 And wish'd it death in which he had reposed, 
 
 And then once more his feelings back were brought 
 And slowly by his swimmuig eyes was seen 
 A lovely female face of ocventeen. 
 
 CXIII. 
 'Twas bending close o'er his, and the small mouth 
 Scem'd almost prying into his for breath ; 
 ' And chafing him, the soft warm hand of youth 
 j Recall'd liis answering spiriis back from death 
 
 And, bathing his chill temples, tried to soothe 
 I Each ijulse to animation, till beneath 
 
594 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto n. 
 
 Its gentle toucli and trembling care, a sigh 
 To these kind droits made a low reply. 
 
 CXIV. 
 
 Tlien was the cordial pour'd, and mantle flung 
 Around his searce-clad limbs ; and the fair arm 
 
 Raised higher the faint head which o'er it hung ; 
 And her transparent cheek, all pure and warm, 
 
 Pillow'd his death-like forelicad ; then she wrung 
 riis dewy curls, long drench'd by every storm ; 
 
 And watch'd with eagerness each throb that drew 
 
 A sigh from his heaved bosom — and hers, too. 
 
 CXV. 
 And lifting him with care into the cave, 
 
 The gentle girl, and her attendant, — one 
 Toung, yet her elder, and of brow less grave, 
 
 And more robust of figure, — then begun 
 To kindle fire, and as the new flames gave 
 
 Light to the rocks that roof'd them, which the sun 
 Had never seen, the maid, or whatsoe'er 
 She was, appear'd distinct, and tall, and fair. 
 
 CXVI. 
 Her brow was overhung with coins of gold. 
 
 That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair. 
 Her clustering hair, whose longer locks were roll'd 
 
 In braids behind ; and though her stature were 
 Even of the highest for a female mould. 
 
 They nearly reaeh"d her heel ; and in her air 
 There was a something which bespoke command. 
 As one who was a lady in the land. 
 
 C.XVII. 
 Her hair, I said, was auburn ; but her eyes 
 
 Were black as death, their lashes the same hue. 
 Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies 
 
 Deepest attraction ; for when to the -s-iew 
 Forth from its raven fringe the full ghmcc flies. 
 
 Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew ; 
 'Tis as the snake late coil'd, who pours his lengtli, 
 Ajdd hurls at once his venom and his strength. 
 
 CXVIII. 
 Her brow was white and low, her cheek's pure dye 
 
 Like twilight rosy still with the set sun ; 
 Short upper lij) — sweet lijis ! that make us sigh 
 
 Ever to have seen such ; for she was one 
 Fit for the model of a statuary, 
 
 A race of mere impostors, when all's done — 
 I've seen much finer women, ripe and real, 
 Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal. 
 
 CXIX. 
 
 I'll tell you why T say so, for 'tis just 
 
 One should not rail without a decent cause ; 
 
 There was au Irish lady, to whose bust 
 I ne'er saw justice done, and yet she was 
 
 A frequent model ; and if e'er she must 
 
 Yield to stern Time and Nature's wrinkling lawB 
 They will destroy a face "vhich mortal thought 
 Ne'er compass'd, nor le;,s mortal chisel wrought. 
 
 cxx. 
 
 And such was she, the lady of the cave : 
 
 Her dress was very diflcrent from the Spanish, 
 
 Simpler, and yet of colors not so grave ; 
 For, as you know, the Spanish women banish 
 
 Bright hues when out of doors, and yet, while wav« 
 Around them (what I hope will never vanish) 
 
 The basquiua and the m.antilla, they 
 
 Seem at the same time mystical and gay. 
 
 CXXI. 
 
 But with our damsel this was not the case : 
 Her dress was many-color'd, finely spun ; 
 
 Her locks curl'd negligently round her face. 
 But through them gold and gems profusely shone 
 
 Her girdle sparkled, and the richest lace 
 
 Flow'd in her veil, and many a precious stone 
 
 Flash "d on her little hand ; l)ut, what was shocking, 
 
 Her small suow feet had slippers, but no stocking. 
 
 cxxn. 
 
 The other female's dress was not unlike 
 
 But of inferior materials : she 
 Had not so many ornaments to strike, 
 
 llor hair had silver only, bound to be 
 Her doTVTy ; and her veil, in form alike. 
 
 Was coarser ; and her air, though firm, less free ; 
 Her hair was thicker, but less long ; her eyes 
 As black, but quicker, and of smaller size. 
 
 cxxin. 
 
 And these two tended him, and cheer'd him both 
 With food and raiment, and those soft attentiona, 
 
 Wliich are — (as I must ovra) — of female growth. 
 And have ten thousand delicate inventions : 
 
 They made a most superior mess of broth, 
 A thing which poesy but seldom mentions. 
 
 But the l)est ilish that e'er was cook'd since Homer'i 
 
 Achilles order'd dinner for new-comers. 
 
 CXXIV. 
 I'll tell you who they were, this female pair, 
 
 Lest they should seem princesses in disguise ; 
 Besides, I hate all mystery, and that air 
 
 Of clap-trap, which your recent poets prize : 
 And BO, in short, the girls they really were 
 
 They shall appear before your curious eyes, 
 Mistress and maid ; the first was only daughter 
 Of an old mau, who lived upon the water. 
 
 cxxv. 
 
 A fisherman he had been in his youth, 
 And still a sort of fisherman was he ; 
 
Canto ii. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 595 
 
 But other speculations were, in sooth, 
 Added to his connection with the sea, 
 
 Perhaps not so respectable, in truth : 
 A little smuggling, and some piracy, 
 
 Left him, at last, the sole of many masters 
 
 Of an ill-gotten niilUon of piastres. 
 
 CXXVI. 
 
 A fisher, therefore, was he, — though of men. 
 Like Peter the Apostle, — and he tish'd 
 
 For wandering merchant-vessels, now and then. 
 And sometimes caught as many as he wish'd ; 
 
 The cargoes he confiscated, and gain 
 
 He sought in the slave-market too, and dish'd 
 
 Full many a morsel for that Turkish trade. 
 
 By which, no doubt, a good deal may be made. 
 
 CXXVII. 
 
 He was a Greek, and on his isle had built 
 (One of the wild and smaller Cyclades) 
 
 A very handsome house from out his guilt, 
 And there he lived exceedingly at ease ; 
 
 Heaven knows what cash he got or blood he spilt, 
 A sad old feUow was he, if vou please ; 
 
 But this I know, it was a spacious building. 
 
 Full of barbaric carving, paint, and gilding. 
 
 CXXYIII. 
 
 He had an only daughter, call'd HaidCe, 
 The greatest heiress of the Eastern Isles ; 
 
 Besides, so very beautiful was she. 
 
 Her do\vry was as nothing to her smiles : 
 
 Still ill her teens, and like a lovely tree, 
 She grew to womanhood, and between whiles 
 
 Rejected several suitors, just to learn 
 
 How to accept a better in his turn. 
 
 CXXIX. 
 
 And walking out upon the beach, below 
 The cliff, towards sunset, on that day she found. 
 
 Insensible, — not dead, but nearly so, — 
 
 Don Juan, almost famish'd, and half drown'd ; 
 
 But being naked, she was shock'd, you know, 
 Yet deem'd herself in common pity bound, 
 
 As far as in her lay, " to take him in, 
 
 A stranger" dj'ing, with so white a skin. 
 
 cxxx. 
 
 But taking him into her father's house 
 Was not exactly the best way to save, 
 
 But like conveying to the cat the mouse. 
 Or |)eople in a trance into their grave ; 
 
 Because the good old man had so much " kouit," 
 Unlike the honest Arab thieves so brave. 
 
 Fie would have hospitably cured the stranger, 
 
 And so]d him instantly when out of danger. 
 
 CXXXI. 
 
 And therefore, with her maid, she thought it best 
 
 (A virgin always on her maid relies) 
 To place him in the cave for present rest : 
 
 And when, at last, he open'd his black eyes, 
 Their charity increased about their guest ; 
 
 And their compassion grew to such a size, 
 It open'd half the turnpike-gates to heaven — 
 (St. Paul says, 'tis the toll wldch must be given.) 
 
 CXXXII. 
 
 They made a fire, — but such a fire as they 
 Upon the moment could contrive with such 
 
 Materials as were cast up round the bay, — 
 
 Some broken planks, and oars, that to the touch 
 
 "Were nearly tinder, since so long they lay 
 A mast was almost crumbled to a crutch ; 
 
 But, by God's grace, here wrecks were in such plenty. 
 
 That there was fuel to have fumish'd twenty. 
 
 CXXXIII. 
 He had a bed of furs, and a pelisse, 
 
 For Haidee stripp'd her sables off to make 
 His couch ; and, that he might be more at ease. 
 
 And warm, in case by chance he should awake, 
 They also gave a petticoat ajjiece, 
 
 She and her maid, — and promised by daybreak 
 To pay him a fresh visit, with a dish 
 For breakfast, of eggs, coffee, bread, and fish. 
 
 CXXXIV. 
 
 And thus they left him to his lone repose : 
 Juan slept like a top, or like the dead. 
 
 Who sleep at last, perhaps, (God only knows,) 
 Just for the present ; and in his luU'd head 
 
 Not even a vision of his former woes 
 
 Throbb'd in accursed dreams, which sometimes 
 spread 
 
 Unwelcome visions of our former years, 
 
 TiU the eye, cheated, opens thick with tears. 
 
 CXXXV. 
 Toimg Juan slept all dreamless : — but tlie maid. 
 
 Who smooth'd his pillow, as she left the den 
 Look'd back upon him, and a moment stay'd, 
 
 And tum'd, believing that he calFd again. 
 He slumber'd ; yet she thought, at least she said, 
 
 (The heart will slip, even as the tongue and pen,) 
 He had pronounced her name — but she forgot 
 That at this moment Juan knew it not. 
 
 CXXXVl. 
 And pensive to her father's house she went, 
 
 Enjoining silence strict to Zoe, who 
 Better than her knew what, in fact, she meant. 
 
 She being mser by a year or two : 
 A year or two 's an age when rightly spent. 
 
 And Zoe spent hers, as most women df, 
 
596 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Oakto ii. 
 
 In gaining all that useful sort of knowledge 
 Which is acquired in Nature's good old college. 
 
 CXXXVII. 
 The morn l)roke, and found Juan slumbering still 
 
 Fast in his cave, and nothing clash'd upon 
 nis rest ; the rushing of the neighl^oring rill, 
 
 And the young beams of the excluded sun, 
 Troubled him not, and he might sleep his fill ; 
 
 And need he had of slumber yet, for none 
 Had suffer'd more — his hardships were comparative 
 To those related in my gran-dad's " Narrative." 
 
 CXXXVIII. 
 Not so IlaidOe : she sadly toss'd and tumbled. 
 
 And started from her sleep, and, turning o'er, 
 Dream'd of a thousand wrecks, o'er which she stum- 
 bled. 
 
 And handsome corpses strew'd upon the shore ; 
 And woke her maid so early that she grumbled, 
 
 And call'd her father's old slaves up, who swore 
 In several oaths — Armenian, Turk, and Greek — 
 They knew not what to think of such a freak. 
 
 CXXXI.X. 
 
 But up she got, and up she made them get. 
 
 With some pretence about the sun, that makes 
 Sweet skies, just when he rises, or is set ; 
 
 And 'tis, no doubt, a sight to see when breaks 
 Bright Phoebus, while the mountains still are wet 
 
 With mist, and every bird with him awakes, 
 And night is flung ott' like a mourning suit 
 Worn for a husband, — or some other brute. 
 
 CXL. 
 I say, the sun is a most glorious sight, 
 
 I've seen hini rise full oft, indeed of late 
 I have sat up on purpose all the night, 
 
 Which hastens, as jjhysicians say, one's fate ; 
 And so all ye, who would be in the right 
 
 In health and purse, begin your day to date 
 From daybreak, and when coffin'd at fourscore, 
 Engrave upon the jjlate, you rose at four. 
 
 CXIJ. 
 And Ilaiddc met the morning fafie to face ; 
 
 Her own was freshest, though a feverish flush 
 Had dyed it with the headlong blood, whose race 
 
 From heart to cheek is curb'd into a blush, 
 Like to a torrent which a moimtain's base. 
 
 That overpowers some Alpine river's rush, 
 Checks to a lake, whose waves in circles spread ; 
 Or the Red Sea — but the sea is not red. 
 
 CXLII. 
 And down the clilf the island virgin came. 
 
 And near the cave her quick light footsteps drew, 
 fVhile the sun smiled on her with his first flame, 
 
 Ajid young Aurora kiss'd her lips with dew, 
 
 Taking her for a sister ; just the same 
 
 Mistake you would have made on seeing the two 
 Although the mortal, quite as fresh and fair, 
 Had all the advantage, too, of not being air. 
 
 CXLIII. 
 And when into the cavern IlaidPe stepp'd 
 
 All timidly, yet rapidly, she saw 
 That like an infant Juan sweetly slept ; 
 
 And then she stopp'd, and stood as if in awe, 
 (For sleep is awful,) and on tiptoe crept 
 
 i\jid wrapp'd him closer, lest the air, too raw. 
 Should reach his blood, then o'er him still as death 
 Bent, with hush'd lips, that drank his scarce-dravn 
 breath. 
 
 CXIJV. 
 And thus like to an angel o'er the dying 
 
 Who die in righteousness, she lean'd ; and there 
 All tranquilly the shipwreck'd boy was lying. 
 
 As o'er him lay the calm and stirless air : 
 But Zoe the mean time some eggs was frying, 
 
 Since, after all, no doubt the youthful pair 
 Must breakfast, and Vjetimes — lest they should ask ■ t, 
 She drew out her provision from the basket. 
 
 CXLV. 
 She knew that the best feelings must have victual, 
 
 And that a shipwreck'd youth would hungry be ; 
 Besides, being less in love, she yawn'd a little, 
 
 And felt her veins chill'd by the neighboring sea 
 And so, she cook'd their breakfast to a tittle ; 
 
 I can't say that she gave them any tea. 
 But there were eggs, fruit, coffee, bread, fish, houo" 
 With Scio ^ane, — and all for love, not money. 
 
 CXLVI. 
 And Zoe, when the eggs were ready, and 
 
 The coflce made, would fain have waken'd Juan ; 
 But Haidee stopp'd her with her quick small hand, 
 
 And without word, a sign her finger drew on 
 Her lip, which Zoe needs must understand ; 
 
 And, the first breakfast spoil'd, prepared a new one. 
 Because her mistress would not let her break 
 That sleep which seem'd as it would ne'er awake. 
 
 CXLV II. 
 For still he lay, and on his thin worn cheek 
 
 A purple hectic play'd like dying day 
 On the snow-tops of distant hills ; the streak 
 
 Of sufferance yet upon his forehead lay, [weak 
 Where the blue veins look'd shadowy, shrunk, anJ 
 
 And his black curls were dewy with the spray, 
 Wliich weigh'd upon them yet, all damp and salt, 
 Mix'd with the stony vapors of the vault. 
 
 CXLVIIT. 
 And she bent o'er him, and he lay beneath, 
 Hush'd as the babe upon its mother's breast, 
 
^^M^s^ i!y/z^/?za^Me^^a^i 
 
 ?,!0^^ 
 
Caxto II. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 597 
 
 Droop'd as the willow when no winds can breathe, 
 Lull'd like the depth of ocean when at rest. 
 
 Fair as the crowning rose of the whole wreath, 
 Soft as the callow cygnet in its nest ; 
 
 In short, he was a very pretty fellow, 
 
 Although his woes had turu'd him rather yellow. 
 
 CXLI.X. 
 
 He woke and gazed, and would have slept again. 
 But the fair face which met his eyes forbade 
 
 Those eyes to close, though weariness and pain 
 Had further sleep a further pleasure made ; 
 
 For woman's fece was never form'd in vain 
 For Juan, so that even when he pray'd 
 
 He torn'd from grisly saints, and martyrs hairy, 
 
 To the sweet jjortraits of the Virgin Mary. 
 
 CL. 
 AJ3d thus upon his elbow he arose. 
 
 And look'd upon the lady, in whose cheek 
 The pale contended with the purple rose, 
 
 As with an eftbrt she began to sjjeak ; 
 Her eyes were eloquent, her words would pose. 
 
 Although she told him, in good modern Greek, 
 With an Ionian accent, low and sweet. 
 That he was faint, and must not talk, but eat. 
 
 CLI. 
 
 Now Juan could not understand a word, 
 Being no Grecian ; but he had an ear, 
 
 And her voice was the warble of a bird. 
 So soft, so sweet, so delicately clear, 
 
 That liner, simpler music ne'er was heard ; 
 The sort of sound we echo with a tear. 
 
 Without knowing why — an overpowering tone, 
 
 Wlience ilelody descends as from a throne. 
 
 CLII. 
 And Juan gazed as one who is awoke 
 
 By a distant organ, doubting if he be 
 Not yet a dreamer, till the spell is broke 
 
 By the watchman, or some such reality, 
 Or by one's early valet's cursed knock ; 
 
 At least it is a heavy sound to me. 
 Who like a morning slumber — for the night 
 Shoivs stars and women in a better light. 
 
 CLIII. 
 
 And Juan, too, was lielp'd oiit from his dream. 
 Or sleeji, or whatsoe'er it was, by feeling 
 
 A most prodigious ajipctite : the steam 
 Of Zoe's cookery no doubt was stealing 
 
 Upon his senses, and the kindling beam 
 Of the new tire which Zoe kept up, kneeling 
 
 To 8tir lier viands, made him quite awake 
 
 In 'I Ion;; for food, but c'liefly a Ijeefsteak. 
 
 CLIV. 
 But beef is rare within these oxless isles ; 
 
 Goat's flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mut' 
 ton ; 
 And, when a holiday upon them smiles, 
 
 A joint upon their barliarous spits they put on ; 
 But this occurs but seldom, between whiles. 
 
 For some of these are rocks with scarce a hut on, 
 Others are fair and fertile, among which 
 This, though not large, was one of the uiost rich. 
 
 CLV. 
 I say that beef is rare, and can't help thinking 
 
 That the old fable of the Minotaur — 
 From which our modern morals, rightly shrinking. 
 
 Condemn the royal lady's taste who wore 
 A cow's shape for a mask — was only (sinking 
 
 The allegory) a mere type, no more. 
 That Pasiphae promoted breeding cattle, 
 To make'tlie Cretans bloodier in battle. 
 
 CLVI. 
 For we all know that English people are 
 
 Fed upon beef — I won't say much of beer, 
 Because 'tis liquor oul}', and being far 
 
 From this my subject, has no business here ; 
 We know, too, they are very fond of war, 
 
 A pleasure — like all pleasures — rather dear ; 
 So were the Cretans — from which I infer. 
 That beef and battles both were owing to her 
 
 CLVII. 
 But to resume. The languid Juan raised 
 
 His head upon his elbow, and he saw 
 A sight on which he had not lately gazed, 
 
 As all his latter meals had been quite raw, 
 Three or four things, for which the Lord be praised, 
 
 And, feeling still the famish'd vulture gnaw. 
 He fell ui)on whate'er was otfer'd, like 
 A priest, a shark, an alderman, or pike. 
 
 CLVIII. 
 He ate, and he was well supplied : and she. 
 
 Who watch'd him like a mother, would have ft.^ 
 Hira past all bounds, because she smiled to see 
 
 Such appetite in one she had deem'd dead : 
 But Zoe, being older than HaidCe, 
 
 Knew (by tradition, for she ne'er had read) 
 That famish'd people must be slowly nursed. 
 And fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst. 
 
 CU.X. 
 And so she took the liljerty to state, 
 
 Kather by deeds than words, because the case 
 Was urgent, that the gentleman, whose fate 
 
 Had made her mistress quit her bed to trace 
 The sea-shore at this hour, must leave his platio, 
 
 Unless he wish'd to die upon the place — 
 
606 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 c/A-NTo n 
 
 She snatch'd it, and refused anotlier morsel, 
 Saj'ing, he had gorged enough to make a horse iU. 
 
 CLX. 
 Next they — he being naked, save a tatter'd 
 
 Pair of scarce decent trousers — went to work. 
 And in the tire liis recent rags they scatter'd. 
 
 And dress'd him, for tlie present, like a Turk, 
 Or Greek — that is, although it not much matter'd, 
 
 Omitting turban, slippers, pistols, dirk, — 
 They I'urnish'd him, entire, except some stitches, 
 With a clean shirt, and very spacious breeches. 
 
 CLXI. 
 And then fair HaidCe tried her tongue at speaking, 
 
 But not a word could Juan comprehend. 
 Although he listen'd so that the young Greek in 
 
 Her earnestness would ne'er have made an end ; 
 .And, as he interrupted not, went eking 
 
 Her speech out to her protegC and friend. 
 Till pausing at the last her breath to take, 
 She saw he did not understand Romaic. 
 
 CLX. I. 
 And then she had recourse to nods, and signs, 
 
 And smiles, and sparkles of the speaking eye, 
 And read (the only book she could) the lines 
 
 Of his fair face, and found, by sympathy. 
 The answer eloquent, where the soul shines 
 
 And darts in one quick glance a long reply ; 
 And thus in every look she saw e.tpress'd 
 A world of words, and things at which she guess'd, 
 
 CLXIII. 
 And now, by dint of lingers and of eyes. 
 
 And words repeated after her, he took 
 A lesson in her tongue ; but by surmise, 
 
 No doubt, less of her language than her look : 
 As he who studies fervently the skies 
 
 Turns oftcner to the stars than to his book. 
 Thus .Juan learn'd his alpha beta better 
 From Ilaidee's glance than any graven letter. 
 
 CLXIV. 
 'Tis pleasing to be school'd in a strange tongue 
 
 By female lips and eyes — that is, I mean, 
 Wieu botli the teacher and the taught are young. 
 
 As was the case, at least, where I have been ; 
 They smile so when one's right, and when one 's wrong 
 
 They smile still more, and then there intcrveuo 
 Pressure of hands, perhaps even a chaste kiss ; — 
 I learn'd the little that I know by this : 
 
 CLXV. 
 That is, some words of Spanish, Turk, and Greek, 
 
 Italian not at all, having no teachers ; 
 Much English I can not pretend to speak. 
 
 Learning that language chiefly from its preachers, 
 
 Barrow, South, Tillotson, whom every week 
 
 I study, also Blair, the highest reachers 
 Of eloquence in piety and prose — 
 I hate your jjoets, so read none of those. 
 
 CLXVI. 
 As for the ladies, I have naught to say, 
 
 A wanderer from the British world of fashion, 
 Wliere I, like other " dogs, have had my day," 
 
 Like other men, too, may have had my passion — 
 But that, like other things, has pass'd away. 
 
 And all her fools whom I cnuhl lay the lash on : 
 Foes, friends, men, women, now are naught to me 
 But dreams of what has been, no more to be. 
 
 CLXVII. 
 
 Return we to Don Juan. He begun 
 
 To hear new words, and to repeat them ; but 
 
 Some feelings, universal as the sun. 
 Were such as could not in his breast be shut 
 
 More than within the bosom of a nun : 
 
 He was in love, — as you would be, no doubt. 
 
 With a young benefactress, — so was she, 
 
 Just in the way we very often see. 
 
 CLXVIII. 
 Ajid every day by daybreak — rather early 
 
 For Juan, who was somewhat fond of rest — 
 She came into the cave, but it was merely 
 
 To see her liird reposing in his nest ; 
 And she would softly stir his locks so curly. 
 
 Without disturbing her yet slumbering guest, 
 Breathing all gently o'er bis cheek and mouth, 
 As o'er a bed of roses the sweet south. 
 
 CLXIX. 
 And every morn his color freshlier came. 
 
 And every day lulpVl on his convalescence ; 
 'Twas well, because health in the human frame 
 
 Is i)leasant, besides being true love's essence, 
 For health and idleness to passion's flame 
 
 Are oil and gunpowder ; and some good lessons 
 Are also learn'd from Ceres and from Bacchus, 
 Without whom Venus wiU not long attack us. 
 
 CLXX. 
 
 While Venus fills the heart, (without heart really 
 Love, though good always, is not quite so good,) 
 
 Ceres presents a plate of vermicelli, — 
 
 For love must be sustain'd like flesh and blood,— 
 
 While Bacchus pours out wine, or hands a jelly : 
 Eggs, oysters, too, are amatory food ; 
 
 But who is their purveyor from above 
 
 Heaven knows, — it may be Neptune, Pan, or Jove. 
 
 CLXXI. 
 
 When Juan woke he found some good things ready 
 A bath, a breakfast, and the finest eyes 
 
Caxio II 
 
 DON JUAX. 
 
 59!> 
 
 That ever made a youthful heart less steady, 
 Besides her maid's, as pretty for their size ; 
 
 But I have spoken of all this already — 
 And reijetitioa "s tiresome and unwise, — ■ 
 
 Well — Juan, after bathing in the sea, 
 
 Came always back to coffee and Haidfie. 
 
 CLXXII. 
 Both were so young, and one so innocent, 
 
 That bathing pass'd for nothing ; Juan soem'd 
 To her, as 'twere, the kind of being sent, 
 
 Of whom these two years she had nightly dream'd, 
 A something to be loved, a creature meant 
 
 To be her happiness, and whom she deem'd 
 To render happy ; all who joy would win 
 Must share it, — Happiness was born a twin. 
 
 CLXXIII. 
 It was such pleasure to behold him, such 
 
 Enlargement of existence to partake 
 Nature with him, to thrill beneath his touch, 
 
 To watch him slumbering, and to see him wake : 
 To live with him forever were too much ; 
 
 But then the thought of parting made her quake : 
 He was her own, her ocean-treasure, cast 
 Like a rich wreck — her first love, and her last. 
 
 CLXXIV. 
 And thus a mo6n rolFd on, and fair Haid6e 
 
 Paid daily visits to her boy, and took 
 Such plentiful precautions, that still he 
 
 Remain'd unknown within his craggy nook ; 
 At last her father's prows put out to sea. 
 
 For certain merchantmen upon the look. 
 Not as of yore to carry off an lo. 
 But three Ragusan vessels, bound for Scio. . 
 
 CLXXV. 
 Tlien came her freedom, for she had no mother, 
 
 So that, her father being at sea, she was 
 Free as a married woman, or such other 
 
 Female, as where she likes may freely pass, 
 Without even the incumbrance of a brother, 
 
 The freest she that ever gazed on glass ; 
 I speak of Christian lands in this comparison. 
 Where wives, at least, are seldom kept in garrison. 
 
 CLXxvr. 
 Now she prolong'd her visits and her talk, 
 
 (For they must talk,) and he had learn'd to say 
 So much as to propose to take a walk, — 
 
 For little had he wander'd since the day 
 On which, like a young flower snapp'd from the 
 stalk, 
 
 Drooping and dewy on the beach he lay, — 
 And thus they walk'd out in the afternoon, 
 A-nd saw the sun set opposite the moon. 
 
 CLXXVII. 
 
 It was a wild and breaker-beaten coast, 
 With cliffs above, and a broad sandy shore, 
 
 Guarded by shoals and rocks as by a host. 
 
 With here and there a creek, whose aspect wore 
 
 A better welcome to the temjaesttoss'd ; 
 
 And rarely ceased the haughty biUow's roar. 
 
 Save on the dead long summer days, which make 
 
 The outstretch'd ocean glitter like a lake. 
 
 CLXXVIII. 
 And the small ripple split upon the beach 
 
 Scarcely o'erj^ass'd the cream of your champagne, 
 Wlien o'er the brim the sparkling bumpers reach, 
 
 That spring-dew of the spirit 1 the heart's rain ! 
 Few things surjsass old wine ; and they may preach 
 
 Who please, — the more because they jireacb ia 
 vain, — 
 Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, 
 Sermons and soda-water the day after. 
 
 CLXXIX. 
 Man, being reasonable, must get drunk ; 
 
 The best of hfe is but intoxication : 
 Glory, the grajse, love, gold, in these are sunk 
 
 The hopes of aU men, and of every nation ; 
 Without their sap, how branchless were the trunk 
 
 Of life's strange tree, so fruitful on occasion : 
 But to return, — Get very drunk ; and when 
 You wake with headache, you shall see what then. 
 
 CLXXX. 
 
 Ring for your valet — bid him quickly bring 
 Some hock and soda-water, then you'll knovy 
 
 A pleasure worthy Xerxes the great king ; 
 
 For not the bless'd sherbet, sublimed with snow 
 
 Nor the first sparkle of the desert-spring. 
 Nor Burgundy in all its sunset glow. 
 
 After long travel, ennui, love, or slaughter. 
 
 Vie with that draught of hock and soda-water. 
 
 CLXXXI. 
 The coast — I think it was the coast that I 
 
 Was just describing — ^Yes, it was the coast - 
 Lay at this period quiet as the sky. 
 
 The sands untumbled, the blue waves untoss'd, 
 And all was stillness, save the sea-bird's cry. 
 
 And dolphin's leap, and little billow crossM 
 By some low rock or shelve, that made it fret 
 Against the boimdary it scarcely wet. 
 
 CLXXXII. 
 And forth they wander'd, her sire being gone, 
 
 As I have said, upon an expedition ; 
 And mother, brother, guardian, she had none. 
 
 Save Zoe, who, although with due precision 
 She waited on her lady with tlic sun, 
 
 Thought daily service was her only mission, 
 
600 
 
 BTROX'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto u. 
 
 Bringing warm water, wreatliing her long tresses, 
 And asking now and then for cast-off dresses. 
 
 CLXXXIII. 
 It was the cooling hour, just when the rounded 
 
 Red sun sinks down behind the azure hill, 
 Which then seems as if the whole earth it bounded. 
 
 Circling all nature, hush'd. and dim, and still, 
 With the far mountain-crescent half surrounded 
 
 On one side, and the deep sea calm and chili 
 Upon the other, and the rosy sky 
 With one star sparkling through it like an eye. 
 
 CLXXXIV. 
 And thus they wander'd forth, and hand in hand. 
 
 Over the shining ijebliles and the shells, 
 Glided along the smooth and harden'd sand. 
 
 And in the worn and wild rccejjtacles 
 Work'd Ijy the storms, yet work'd as it were plann'd, 
 
 In liollow halls, with sjjarry roofs and cells. 
 They turn'd to rest ; and, each clasp'd by an arm, 
 Yieldid to tlie deep twilight's purple charm. 
 
 CLXXXV. 
 They look'd uj) to the sky, whose floating glow 
 
 Spruad like a rosy ocean, vast and bright ; 
 They gazed upon the glittering sea below, 
 
 Wh.;nce the broad moon rose circling into sight ; 
 They heard the waves' splash, and the wind so low. 
 
 And saw each other's dark eyes darting light 
 Into each other — and, beholding this, 
 1'heir lips drew near, and clung into a kiss ; 
 
 CLXXXVI. 
 A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth, and love, 
 
 And beaut}', all concentrating like rays 
 Into one focus, kindled from above ; 
 
 Such kisses as lielong to early days. 
 Where heart, and soul, and sense, in concert move, 
 
 And the blood 's lava, and the pulse a blaze. 
 Each kiss a heart-quake, — for a kiss's strength, 
 I thiuk it must be reckon'd by its length. 
 
 CLXXXYII. 
 By length I mean duration ; theirs en dui'ed [reckon'd ; 
 
 Heaven knows how long — no doubt they never 
 And if they liatl, they could not have secured 
 
 The sum of their sensations to a second : 
 They had not spoken ; but they felt allured, 
 
 As if their souls and lips each other beckon'd, 
 Wiich, being join'd, like swarming bees they clung — 
 Their hearts the flowers from whence the honey 
 sprung. 
 
 {•lAXXVI.I. 
 They were alone, but not alone as they 
 
 Who shut in chambers think it loneliness ; 
 The silent ocean, and the starlit bay. 
 
 The twilight glow, which momently grew less. 
 
 The voiceless sands, and dropping caves, that lay 
 
 Around them, made them to each other press, 
 As if there were no life beneath tlie sky 
 Save theirs, and that their life could never die. 
 
 CLXXXIX. 
 
 They fear'd no eyes nor ears on that lone beach, 
 They felt no terrors from the night, they were 
 
 All in all to each other : though their speech 
 
 Was broken words, they t/iouy/it a language there,— 
 
 And all the burning tongues the passions teach 
 Found in one sigh the best interpreter 
 
 Of nature's oracle — first love, — that aU 
 
 Which Eve has left her daughters since her falL 
 
 cxc. 
 
 Haidee sijoke not of scruples, ask'd no vows, 
 Nor ofler'd any ; she had never heard 
 
 Of plight and promises to be a spouse, 
 Or perils by a loving maid incurr'd ; 
 
 She was all which pure ignorance allows. 
 And flew to her young mate like a young bird; 
 
 And, never having dreamt of falsehood, she 
 
 Had not one word to say of constancy. 
 
 CXCI. 
 She loved, and was beloved — she adored, 
 
 And she was worshipp'd ; after nature's fashion, 
 Their intense souls, into each other ppur'd. 
 
 If souls could die, had perish'd in that passion,— 
 But by degrees their senses were restored, 
 
 Ag.iin to be o'ercome, again to dash on ; 
 And, beating 'gainst his bosom, Haidee's heart 
 Felt as if never more to beat apart. 
 
 CXCII. 
 Alasi they were so young, so beautiful, 
 
 So lonely, loving, helpless, and the hour 
 Was that in which the heart is always full, 
 
 And, having o'er itself no further power, 
 Prompts deeds eteraity can.not annul. 
 
 But pays ofi' moments in an endless shower 
 Of hell fire — all prepared for people giving 
 Pleasure or pain to one another living. 
 
 CXCIII. 
 Alas I for .Juan and IlaidPe ! they were 
 
 So loving and so lovely — till then never, 
 Excepting our first parents, such a pair 
 
 Ilad run the risk of being damn'd forever : 
 And HaidCe, being devout as well as fair. 
 
 Had, doulitless, heard about the Stygian river, 
 And hell and purgatory — but forgot 
 Just in the very crisis she should not. 
 
 CXCIV. 
 They look upon each other, and their eyes 
 
 Gleam in the moonlight ; and her white arm clasps 
 
^ul/m^ Q^^</3>n/ a//2^^ ^yuu^ief/i^ 
 
Caxto II. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 001 
 
 Round Juan's head, and his around her lies 
 Half buried in the tresses which it grasps ; 
 
 Bhe sits upon his knee, and drinks his sighs, 
 He hers, until they end in broken gasps ; 
 
 And thus the}- form a group that 's quite antique, 
 
 Half naked, loving, natural, and Greek. 
 
 CXCV. 
 And when those deep and burning moments pass'd, 
 
 And Juan sunk to sleep within her arms, 
 She slept not, but all tenderly, though fast, 
 
 Sustain'd his head upoc her bosom's charms ; 
 And now and then her eye to heaven is cast, 
 
 And then on the pale cheek her breast now warms, 
 Pillow'd on her o'erflowing heart, which pants 
 With all it granted, and with all it grants. 
 
 CXCVI. 
 An infant when it gazes on a light, 
 
 A child the moment when it drains the breast, 
 A devotee when soars the Host in sight. 
 
 An Aralj with a stranger for a guest, 
 A sailor when the prize has struck in fight, 
 
 A miser filhng his most hoarded chest. 
 Feel rapture ; but not such true joy are reaping 
 As they who watch o'er what they love while 
 sleeping. 
 
 CXCYII. 
 For there it lies so tranquil, so beloved. 
 
 All that it hath of life with us is living ; 
 So gentle, stirless, helpless, and unmoved. 
 
 And all unconscious of the joy 'tis giving ; 
 All it hath felt, inflicted, pass'd, and proved, 
 
 Hush'd into depths beyond the watcher's diving ; 
 There lies the thing we love with all its errors 
 And all its charms, like death without its terrors. 
 
 CXCVIII. 
 The lady watch'd her lover — and that hour 
 
 Of Love's, and Night's, and Ocean's solitude, 
 O'erflow'd her soul with their united power ; 
 
 Amidst the barren sand and rocks so rude 
 She and her wave-worn love had made their 
 bower. 
 
 Where naught upon their passion could intrude, 
 And all the stars that crowded the blue space 
 Saw nothing happier than her glowing face. 
 
 CXCIX 
 Alas ! the love of women ! it is known 
 
 To be a lovely and a fearful thing ; 
 For all of theirs upon that die is thrown. 
 
 And if 'tis lost, Hfe hath no more to bring 
 To them but mockeries of the past alone. 
 
 And their revenge is as the tiger's spring. 
 Deadly, and quick, and crushing ; yet, as real 
 Torture is theirs, what they inflict they feel 
 76 
 
 CC. 
 
 They are right ; for man, to man so oft unjust, 
 Is always so to women ; one sole bond 
 
 Awaits them, treachery is all their trust ; 
 
 Taught to conceal, their bursting hearts despond 
 
 Over their idol, till some wealthier lust 
 
 Buys them in marriage — and what rests beyond 3 
 
 A thankless husband, nest a faithless lover. 
 
 Then di'essing, nursing, prajing, and all 's over. 
 
 CCI. 
 
 Some take a lover, some take drams or prayers, 
 Some mind their household, others dissipation, 
 
 Some run away, and but exchange their cares, 
 Losing the advantage of a virtuous station ; 
 
 Few changes e'er can better their affairs, 
 Theirs being an unnatural situation. 
 
 From the dull palace to the dirty hovel : 
 
 Some j)lay the devil, and then write a novel. 
 
 ecu. 
 
 Haidee was Nature's bride, and knew not this ; 
 
 Haidee was Passion's child, born where the svm 
 Showers triple light, and scorches even the kiss 
 
 Of his gazelle-eyed daughters ; she was one 
 Made but to love, to feel that she was his 
 
 Who was her chosen ; what was said or done 
 Elsewhere was nothing. — She had naught to fear, 
 Hope, care, nor love, beyond, her heart beat kere. 
 
 CCIII. 
 
 And oh ! that quickening of the heart, that beat 1 
 How much it costs us ! yet each rising tlirob 
 
 Is in its cause as its effect so sweet. 
 
 That Wisdom, ever on the watch to rob 
 
 Joy of its alchemy, and to repeat 
 
 Fine truths ; even Conscience, too, has a tough job 
 
 To make us understand each good old maxim, 
 
 So good — I wonder Castlereagh don't tax 'era. 
 
 CCIV. 
 
 And now 'twas done — on the lone shore were pUghted 
 Their hearts ; the stars, their nuptial torches, shed 
 
 Beauty upon the beautiful they lighted : 
 Ocean their witness, and the cave their bed 
 
 By their own feelings hallow'd and united. 
 Their priest was Solitude, and they were wed : 
 
 And they were happy, for to their young eyes 
 
 Each was an angel, and earth paradise. 
 
 CCV. 
 
 Oh, Love ! of whom great Ca-sar was the suitor, 
 
 Titus the master, Antony the slave, 
 Horace, Catullus, scholars, Ovid tutor, 
 
 Sappho the sage blue-stocking, in whose grave 
 All those may leap who rather would be neuter— 
 
 'Leucadia's rock still overlooks the \\ave)^ 
 
602 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto h, 
 
 Oil, Love ! thou art tbe very god of evil, 
 For, after all, we cannot call thee devil. 
 
 CCYI. 
 
 Thou mak'st the chaste connubial state precarious, 
 And jostest 'with the brows of mightiest men : 
 
 Cfesar and Ponipey, Mahomet, Belisarius, 
 
 Have much enijiloy'd the muse of history's pen : 
 
 Their lives and fortunes v.-ere extremely various, 
 Such worthies Time will never see again ; 
 
 Yet to these four in three things the same luck holds, 
 
 They all were heroes, conquerors, and cuckolds. 
 
 CCVII. 
 
 Thou mak'st philosophers ; there 's Epicurus 
 
 And Aristippus, a material crew ! 
 Who to immoral courses would allure us 
 
 By theories quite practicable too ; 
 [f only from the devil they would insure us. 
 
 How i)leasant were the maxim, (not quite new,) 
 ' Eat, drink, and love, what can the rest avail us ?" 
 Bo said the royal sage Sardanapalus. 
 
 CCVIII. 
 
 But Juan ! had he quite forgotten Juha ? 
 
 And sliouUl he have forgotten her so soon ? 
 1 can't Ijut say it seems to me most truly a 
 
 Perplexing question ; but, no doubt, the moon 
 Does these things for us, and whenever newly a 
 
 Palpitation rises, 'tis her boon, 
 Else how the devil is it that fresh features 
 Have such a charm for us poor human creatures ? 
 
 CCIX. 
 
 I hate inconstancy — I loathe, detest, 
 
 Abhor, condemn, abjure the mortal made 
 
 Of such quicksilver clay that in his breast 
 No permanent foundation can be laid ; 
 
 Love, constant love, has Ijcen my constant guest, 
 And yet last night, being at a masquerade, 
 
 I saw the prettiest creature, fi-esh from Milan, 
 
 Which gave me some sensations Uke a villain. 
 
 CCX. 
 
 But soon Philosophy came to my aid, 
 
 And wliisper'd, " Think of every .sacred tie !" 
 
 " I will, my dear Philosophy 1" I said, [eye ! 
 
 " But then her teeth, and then, oh. Heaven 1 her 
 
 I'll just inquire if she be wife or maid. 
 Or neither — out of curiosity." 
 
 " Stop !" cried Philosophy, ivith air so Grecian, 
 
 (Though she was masqued then as a fair Venetian ;) 
 
 CCXI. 
 ' Stop !" so I stopp'd. — But to return : that which 
 Men call inconstancy is nothing more 
 
 Than admiration due where nature's rich 
 Profusion with young beauty covers o'er 
 
 Some favor'd object ; and as in the niche 
 A lovely statue we almost adore, 
 
 This sort of adoration of the real 
 
 Is but a heightening of the " beau ideal." 
 
 CCXII. 
 Tis the perception of the beautiful, 
 
 A fine extension of the faculties, 
 Platonic, universal, wonderful, [skies, 
 
 Drawn from the stars, and filter'd through the 
 Without which life would be extremely dull ; 
 
 In short, it is the use of our own eyes, 
 With one or two small senses added, just 
 To hint vhat flesh is form'd of fiery dust. 
 
 CCXIII. 
 Yet 'ris a painful feeling, and unwilling, 
 
 For surely if we always could perceive 
 In the same object graces quite as killing 
 
 As when she rose upon us like an Eve, 
 'Twould save us many a heartache, many a shilling 
 
 (For we must get them anyhow, or grieve,) 
 Whereas if one sole lady pleased forever, 
 How pleasant for the heart, as well as Uver 1 
 
 CCXIV. 
 The heart is like the sky, a part of heaven. 
 
 But changes night and day, too, like the sky ; 
 Now o'er it clouds and thunder must be driven, 
 
 And darkness and destruction as on high : 
 But when it hath been scorch'd, and pierced, and 
 riven, 
 
 Its storms esjDire in water-drops ; the eye 
 Pours forth at last the heart's blood turu'd to tears 
 Which make the English climate of our years. 
 
 CCXT. 
 The liver is the lazaret of bile, 
 
 But very rarely executes its function, 
 For the first passion stays there such a while, 
 
 That all the rest creep in and form a junction, 
 Like knots of vipers on a dunghill's soil, 
 
 Kage, fear, hate, jealousy, revenge, compunction, 
 So that all mischiefs spring up from this entrail. 
 Like earthquakes from the hidden fire call'd " centraL'' 
 
 CCXVI. 
 In the moan time, without proceeding more 
 
 In this anatomy, I've finish'd new 
 Two hundred and odd stanzas as aefore, 
 
 That being about the number I'll allow 
 Each canto of the twelve, or twenty-four ; 
 
 And, laying dowoi my pen, I make my bow, 
 Leaving Don Juan and Haidfe to plead 
 For them and theirs with all who deign to read. 
 
Canto hi. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 603 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 CANTO THK THIRD. 
 
 Hah., Muse ! it ztlern. — We left Juan sleeping, 
 Pillow'd upon a fair and happy breast, 
 
 And -watch'd by eyes that never yet knew weeping, 
 And loved by a young heart, too deeply bless'd 
 
 To feel the poison througli her sjjirit creeping, 
 Or know who rested there ; a foe to rest 
 
 Had soil'd the current of her sinless years. 
 
 And turn'd her pure heart's purest blood to tears ! 
 
 II. 
 Oh, Love ! what is it in this world of ours 
 
 Which makes it fatal to be loved ? Ah, why 
 With cypress branches hast thou wreathed thy 
 bowers, 
 
 And made thy best interpreter a sigh ? 
 As those who dote on odors pluck the flowers. 
 
 And place tliem on their Ijreast — but 2jlace to die — 
 Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish 
 Are laid within om- bosoms but to perish. 
 
 III. 
 In her first passion woman loves her lover, 
 
 In all tlie others all she loves is love. 
 Which grows a habit she can ne'er get over. 
 
 And fits her loosely — like an easy glove, 
 As you may find, whene'er you like to prove lier : 
 
 One man alone at first her heart can move ; 
 She then prefers him in the plural number. 
 Not finding that the additions much encumber. 
 
 IV. 
 I know not if the fault be men's or theirs ; 
 
 But one thing 's pretty suje ; a woman jDlanted 
 (Unless at once she plunge for life in prayers) — 
 
 After a decent time must be gallanted ; 
 Although, no doubt, her first of love aflairs 
 
 Is that to which her heart is wholly granted ; 
 Yet there aie some, they say, who liave had none, 
 But those who have ne'er end ^\-ith only one. 
 
 V. 
 'Tis melancholy, and a fearful sign 
 
 Of human fi-ailty, folly, also crime. 
 That love and marriage rarely can combine, 
 
 Althougli they both are bom in the same clime • 
 Marriage from love, like vinegar from wine — 
 
 A sad, sour, sober beverage — by time 
 Is sharpen'd from its high celestial flavor 
 Down to a very homely household savor. 
 
 VI. 
 There 's something of antipathy, as 'twere, 
 Between their present and their future state ; 
 
 A kind of flattery that 's hardly fair 
 Is used until the truth arrives too late — 
 
 Yet what can people do, except despair ? 
 The same things change their names at such a rate* 
 
 For instance — passion in a lover 's glorious. 
 
 But in a husband is pronounced uxorious. 
 
 VII. 
 Men grow ashamed of being so very fond ; 
 
 They sometimes also get a little tired, 
 (But that, of course, is rare,) and then despond : 
 
 The same things cannot always be admired. 
 Yet 'tis " so nominated in the bond," 
 
 That both are tied tiU one shall have expired. 
 Sad thought ! to lose the spouse that was adorning 
 Our days, and put one's servants into mourning. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 There 's doubtless something in domestic doings 
 Which forms, in fact, true love's antithesis ; 
 
 Romances paint at full length jieople's wooings 
 But only give a bust of marriages ; 
 
 For no one cares for matrimonial cooings. 
 There 's nothing wrong in a connubial kiss : 
 
 Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife, 
 
 He would have written sonnets all his life ? 
 
 IX. 
 
 All tragedies aj-e finisli'd by a death, 
 AH c araedies are ended by a marriage ; 
 
 The future states of both are left to faith. 
 For authors fear description might disparage 
 
 The worlds to come of both, or fall beneath, [riagu 
 And then both worlds would jjuuish their miscai 
 
 So leaving each their priest and prayer-book ready, 
 
 They say no more of Death or ol the Lady. 
 
 The only two that in my recollection 
 
 Have sung of heaven and hell, or marrLige, are 
 
 Dante and Milton, and of both the afl'ection 
 Was hapless in their nuptials, for some bar 
 
 Of fault or temper ruin'd the connection, 
 
 (Such things, in fact, it don't ask much to mar ;) 
 
 But Dante's Beatrice and Slilton's Eve 
 
 Were not drawn from their siDouses, you conceive. 
 
 XI. 
 Some persons say that Dante meant theology 
 
 By Beatrice, and not a mistress — I, 
 Although my opinion may require apology. 
 
 Deem this a commentator's fantasy, 
 Unless indeed it was from his own knowledge he 
 
 Decided thus, and show'd good reason why ; 
 I think that Dante's more abstruse ecstatics 
 Meant to personify the mathematics. 
 
304 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS, 
 
 Canto m. 
 
 XII. 
 Haidfie and Juan were not married, but 
 
 The fault was theirs, not mine : it is not fair, 
 Chaste reader, then, in an)' wa}' to put 
 
 The bhune on me, unless you wish they were ; 
 Then if you'd have them wedded, please to shut 
 
 The book which treats of this erroneous jiair. 
 Before the consequences grow too awful ; 
 'Tis dangerous to read of loves unlawful. 
 
 XIII. 
 Yet they were happy, — happy in the illicit 
 
 Indulgence of their innocent desires ; 
 But more imprudent grown with every visit, 
 
 naidCe forgot the island was her sire's ; 
 When we have what we like, 'tis hard to miss it. 
 
 At least in the beginning, ere one tires ; 
 Thus she came often, not a moment losing. 
 Whilst her piratical papa was cruising. 
 
 XIV. 
 Let not his mode of raising cash seem strange, 
 
 Although he fleeced the flags of every nation. 
 For into a prime minister but change 
 
 His title, and 'tis nothing but taxation ; 
 But he, more modest, took an humbler range 
 
 Of life, and in an houester vocation 
 Pursued o'er the high seas his watery journey, 
 And merely practised as a sea-attorney. 
 
 XV. 
 The good old gentleman had been detain'd 
 
 By winds and waves, and some important cap- 
 tures ; 
 And, in the hope of more, at sea remain'd, 
 
 Although a squall or two had damp'd his raptures 
 By swamping one of the prizes ; he had chain'd 
 
 His prisoners, dividing them like chapters 
 In number'd lots ; they all had cufls and collars 
 And averaged each from ten to a hundred dollars. 
 
 XVI. 
 Some he disposed of off Cape Matapan, 
 
 Among his friends the Mainots ; some he sold j 
 To his Tunis correspondents, save one man 
 
 Toss'd overlioard unsaleable (being old) ; 
 The rest-— save here and there some richer one. 
 
 Reserved for future ransom in the hold, 
 Were linkM alike, as for the common jieople he 
 Had a large order from the Dey of Tripoli. 
 
 XVII. 
 The merchandise was served in the same way. 
 
 Pieced out for difix'rent marts in the Levant, 
 Except some certain i)ortions of the prey. 
 
 Light classic articles of female want, 
 French stutts, lace, tweezers, toothpicks, teapot, tray, 
 
 Guitars and castanets from Alicant, 
 
 AU which selected from the spoil he gathers, 
 Robb'd for his daughter by the best of fathers. 
 
 XVIIL 
 A monkey, a Dutch mastiff, a mackaw. 
 
 Two parrots, with a Persian cat and kittens, 
 lie chose from several animals lie saw — 
 
 A terrier, too, which once had been a Briton's, 
 Who dying on the coast of Ithaca, [tance : 
 
 The peasants gave the poor dumb thing a piv 
 These to secure in this strong blowing weather, 
 He caged in one huge liamper all together. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Then having settled his marine affairs. 
 
 Dispatching single cruisers here and there, 
 
 His vessel having need of some repairs, 
 
 He shaped his course to where his daughter fair 
 
 Continued still her hospitable cares ; 
 
 But that part of the coast being shoal and bare. 
 
 And rough witli reefs which ran out many a mile, 
 
 His port lay on the other side o' the isle. 
 
 XX. 
 
 And there he went ashore without delay. 
 Having no custom-house or quarantine 
 
 To ask him awkward questions on the way. 
 About the time and place where he had been . 
 
 He left his ship to be hove down next day. 
 With orders to the people to careen ; 
 
 So that all hands were busy beyond measure. 
 
 In getting out goods, ballast, guns, and treasure. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Arriving at the smnmit of a hill 
 
 Wliich overlook'd the white walls of his home, 
 He stopp'd. — What singular emotions All 
 
 Their bosoms who have been induced to roam ! 
 With fluttering doubts if all be well or ill — 
 
 With love for many, and with fears for some ; 
 All feelings which o'erleap the years long lost 
 And bring our hearts back to their starting-post. 
 
 XXII. 
 The approach of home to husbands and to sires, 
 
 After long traveling by land or water. 
 Most naturally some small douI)t inspires — 
 
 A female family 's a serious matter ; 
 (None trusts the sex more, or so much admires — 
 
 But they hate flattery, so I never flatter ;) 
 Wives in their husbands' absences grow subtler, 
 And daughters sometimes run off with the butler 
 
 XXIII. 
 An honest gentleman at his return 
 
 Jlay not liave the good fortune of Ulysses ; 
 Not all lone matrons for their husbands mourn, 
 
 Or show the same dislike to suitors' kisses ; 
 
Canio III. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 e'>5 
 
 The odds are that he finds a handsome urn 
 
 To his memory — and two or three young misses 
 Bom to some friend, who holds his wife and riches — 
 And that his Argus bites him by — the breeches. 
 
 XXIV. 
 If single, probably his plighted fair 
 
 Has in his absence wedded some rich miser ; 
 But all the better, for the happy pair 
 
 May quarrel, and the lady growing wiser, 
 He may resume his amatory care 
 
 As cavalier servente, or despise her ; 
 And that his sorrow may not be a dumb one, 
 Write odes on the Inconstancy of Woman. 
 
 XXV. 
 And oh ! ye gentlemen who have already 
 
 Some chaste liaifion of the kind — I mean 
 An honest friendship with a married lady — 
 
 The only thing of this sort ever seen 
 To last — of all connections the most steady, 
 
 And the true Hymen, (the first 's but a screen) — 
 Yet for all that keep not too long away, 
 I've known the absent wrong'd four times a day. 
 
 XXVI. 
 Lambro, our sea-solicitor, who had 
 
 Much less experience of dry land than ocean. 
 On seeing his own chimney-smoke, felt glad ; 
 
 But not knowing metaphysics, had no notion 
 Of the true reason of his not being sad. 
 
 Or that of any other strong emotion ; 
 He loved his child, and would have wept the loss of 
 
 her. 
 But knew the cause no more than a philosopher. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 He saw his white walls shining in the sun. 
 His garden trees all shadowy and green ; 
 
 He heard his rivulet's light bubbling run. 
 
 The distant dog-bark ; and perceived between 
 
 The umbrage of the wood so cool and dun 
 The moving figures, and the sparkling sheen 
 
 Of arms (in the East all arm) — -and various dyes 
 
 Of color'd garbs, as bright as butterflies. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 And as the spot where they appear he nears. 
 
 Surprised at these unwonted signs of idling. 
 He hears — alas ! no music of the spheres, 
 
 But an unhallow'd, earthly sound of fiddling ! 
 A melody which made him doubt liis ears. 
 
 The cause being past his guessing or unriddling ; 
 A pipe, too, and a drum, and shortly after, 
 A most unoricntal ro.ar of laughter. 
 
 XXIX. 
 And stiU more nearly to the place advancing, 
 Descending rather quickly the declivity, 
 
 Through the waved branches, o'er the greensward 
 glancing, 
 
 'Midst other indications of festivity, 
 Seeing a troop of his domestics dancing 
 
 Like dervises, who turn as on a pivot, he 
 Perceived it was the Pyrrhic dance so martial. 
 To which the Levantines are very partial. 
 
 XXX. 
 And further on a troop of Grecian girls. 
 
 The first and tallest her white kerchief waving. 
 Were strung together like a row of pearls, [ing 
 
 Link'd hand in hand, and dancing ; each too hav- 
 Dowu her white neck long floating auburn curls — 
 
 (The least of whicli would set ten poets raving ;) 
 Their leader sang — and bounded to her song, 
 With choral stej) and voice, the virgin throng. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 And here, assemljled cross-legg'd round their trays, 
 Small social parties just begun to dine ; 
 
 Pilaus and meats of all sorts met the gaze. 
 And flasks of Samian and of Chian wine. 
 
 And sherl^et cooling in the porous vase ; 
 Above them their dessert grew on its vine ; 
 
 The orange and pomegranate nodding o'er 
 
 Droijp'd in their lips, scarce pluck'd. their me.lo-w 
 store. 
 
 XXXIl. 
 
 A band of children, round a snow-white ram. 
 There wreathe his venerable horns with flowers ; 
 
 While peaceful as if stiU an unwean'd lamb. 
 The patriarch of the flock all gently cowers 
 
 His sober head, majestically tame. 
 
 Or eats from out the palm, or playful lowers 
 
 His brow, as if in act to butt, and then 
 
 Yielding to their small hands, draws back again. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 Their classical profiles, and glittering dresses. 
 
 Their large black eyes, and soft seraphic cheeks, 
 Crimson as cleft pomegranates, their long tresses. 
 
 The gesture which enchants, the eye that speaks, 
 The innocence which happy childhood blesses, 
 
 Made quite a picture of these little Greeks ; 
 So that the philosophical beholder [older. 
 
 Sigh'd for their s.akes — that they should e'er grow 
 
 XXXIV. 
 Afar, a dwarf liufibon stood telling tales 
 
 To a sedate gray circle of old smokers 
 Of secret treasures found in hidden vales, 
 
 Of wonderful replies from Arab jokers. 
 Of charms to make good gold and cure bad ails, 
 
 Of rocks bewitch'd that open to the knockers. 
 Of magic ladies who, by one sole act, 
 Transform'd their lords to beasts, (but that 's a fact.) 
 
800 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto in. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Here was no lack of innocent diversion 
 
 For the imagination or the senses, 
 Song, dance, wine, music, stories from the Persian, 
 
 All pretty pastimes in which no oflcnce is ; 
 But Lambro saw all these things with aversion, 
 
 Perceiring in his absence such expenses, 
 Dreading that climax of all human ills. 
 The inflammation of his weekly bills. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Ah ! what is man ! what perils still environ 
 The happiest mortals even after dinner — 
 
 A day of gold from out an age of iron 
 Is all that life allows the luckiest sinner ; 
 
 Pleasure (whene'er she sings, at least) 's a siren, 
 That lures, to flay alive, the j'oung beginner ; 
 
 Lambro's reception at the people's banquet 
 
 Was such as fire accords to a wet blanket. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 He — being a man who seldom used a word 
 
 Too much, and wishing gladly to suqirise 
 (In general he surprised men with the sword) 
 
 His daughter — had not sent before to advise 
 Of his arrival, so that no one stirr'd ; 
 
 And long he paused to reassure his eyes. 
 In fact much more astonish'd than delighted, 
 To find so much good company invited. 
 
 XXXTIII. 
 
 He did not know (alas ! how men will lie) 
 That a report (especially the Greeks) 
 
 Avouch'd his death, (such people never die,) 
 And put his house in mourning several weeks, — 
 
 But now their eyes and also lips were dry ; 
 The bloom, too, had return'd to Haidfie's cheeks. 
 
 Her tears, too, being return'd into their fount. 
 
 She now kept house upon her own account. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Hence all this rice, meat, dancing, wine, and fiddling 
 Which tum'd the isle into a place of pleasure ; 
 
 The servants all were getting, drunk or idling, 
 A life which made them happy beyond measure. 
 
 Her father's hospitality secmVl middling, [ure; 
 
 Compared with what Ilaidee did with his trcas- 
 
 'Twas wonderful how things went on improving. 
 
 While she had not one hour to spare from loving. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Perhaps you think in stumbling on this feast 
 
 He flew into a passion, and in fact 
 There was no mighty reason to be pleased ; 
 
 Perhaps you prophesy some sudden act. 
 The whip, the rack, or dungeon at the least. 
 
 To teach his people to be more exact, 
 
 And that, proceeding at a very high rate. 
 He showed the royal penchants of a pirate 
 
 XIJ. 
 You're wrong. — He was the mildest manncr'd man 
 
 That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat ; 
 With such true breeding of a gentleman, 
 
 You never could divine his real thought ; 
 No courtier could, and scarcely woman can 
 
 Gird more deceit within a petticoat ; 
 Pity he loved adventurous life's variety, 
 He was so great a loss to good society. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Advancing to the nearest dinner tray, 
 
 Tapping the shoulder of the nighest guest, 
 
 With a peculiar smile, which, by the way. 
 Boded no good, whatever it exprcss'd. 
 
 He ask'd the meaning of this holiday ; 
 
 The vinous Greek to whom he had address'd 
 
 His question, much too merry to divine 
 
 The questioner, fill'd up a glass of wine, 
 
 XI.III. 
 
 And without turning his facetious head. 
 Over his shoulder, with a Bacchant air. 
 
 Presented the o'erflowing cup, and said, 
 
 " Talking 's dry work, I have no time to spare." 
 
 A second hiccup'd, " Our old master 's dead, 
 You'd better ask our mistress who 's his heir." 
 
 " Our mistress !" quoth a third : " Our mistress !— 
 pooh ! — 
 
 You mean our master — not the old, but new." 
 
 XLIV. 
 These rascals, being new comers, knew not whom 
 
 They thus address'd — and Lambro's visage fell — 
 And o'er his eye a momentary gloom 
 
 Pass'd, but he strove quite courteously to quell 
 The expression, and endeavoring to resume 
 
 His smile, requested one of Ihem to tell 
 The name and quality of his new patron 
 Who seem'd to have turn'd Ilaidfe into a matron. 
 
 XLV. 
 " I know not," quoth the fellow, " who or what 
 
 He is, nor whence he came — and little care ; 
 But this I know, that this roast capon 's fat, 
 
 And that good wine ne'er wash'd down better 
 And if you are not satisfied with that, [fare ; 
 
 Direct your questions to my neighbor there ; 
 He'll answer all for better or for worse. 
 For none likes more to hear himself converse." 
 
 XLVl 
 I said that Lambro was a man of patience. 
 And certainly he show'd the best of breeding, 
 
Canto hi. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 607 
 
 Wliich scarce even France, the paragon of nations, 
 E'er saw her most polite of sons exceeding ; 
 
 He bore these sneers against his near relations, 
 His own anxiety, his heart, too, bleeding, 
 
 The insults, too, of eyery servile glutton. 
 
 Who all the time was eating up his mutton. 
 
 XLTII. 
 
 Now in a person used to much command — 
 To bid men come, and go, and come again — 
 
 To see his orders done, too, out of hand — 
 
 Whether the word was death, or Ijut the chain — 
 
 It may seem strange to iind Ms manners bland ; 
 Yet such things are, which I can not explain, 
 
 Though doubtless he who can command himself 
 
 Is good to govern — almost as a Quelf. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 Not that he was not sometimes rash or so. 
 But never in his real and serious mood ; 
 
 Then calm, concentrated, and still, and slow. 
 He lay coii'd like the boa in the wood ; 
 
 With him it never was a word and blow. 
 His angry word once o'er, he shed no blood. 
 
 But in his silence there was much to rue, 
 
 And his one bloir 1^2^ little work for two. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 He ask'd no further questions, and proceeded 
 On to the house, but by a private way. 
 
 So that the few who met him hardly heeded. 
 So little they expected him that day ; 
 
 If love paternal in his bosom pleaded 
 
 For Haidc-e's sake, is more than I can say. 
 
 But certainly to one deem'd dead, returning, 
 
 This revel seem'd a curious mode of mourning. 
 
 If aU the dead could now return to life, 
 
 (Wliich God forbid !) or some, or a great many, 
 For instance, if a husband or his wife. 
 
 (Nuptial examples are as good as any,) 
 No doubt whate'er might be their former strife. 
 
 The present weather would be much more rainy- 
 Tears shed into the grave of the connection 
 Would share most probably its resurrection. 
 
 LI. 
 
 He enter'd in the house no more his home, 
 A thing to human feelings the most trying. 
 
 And harder for the heart to overcome, 
 
 Perhaps, than even the mental pangs of dying ; 
 
 To find our hearthstone turn'd into a tomb. 
 And rotjnd its once warm precincts palely lying 
 
 The ashes of our hopes, is a deep grief, 
 
 Beycnd a single gentleman's belief. 
 
 LII. 
 
 He enter'd in the house — bis home no more. 
 For without hearts there is no home ; — and felt 
 
 The solitude of passing his own door 
 
 Without a welcome ; t/nre he long had dwelt. 
 
 There his few peaceful days Time had swept o'er, 
 There his worn bosom and keen eye would melt 
 
 Over the innocence of that sweet child. 
 
 His only shrine of feelings imdefiled. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 He was a man of a strange temperament, 
 Of mild demeanor though of savage mood. 
 
 Moderate in all his habits, and content 
 With temperance in pleasure, as in food. 
 
 Quick to receive, and strong to bear, and meant 
 For something better, if not wholly good ; 
 
 His country's wrongs and his despair to save her 
 
 Had stung him from a slave to an enslaver. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 The love of power, and rapid gain of gold. 
 The hardness by long habitude produced. 
 
 The dangerous life in which he had grown old, 
 The mercy he had granted oft abused. 
 
 The sights he was accustom'd to behold. 
 
 The wild seas, and wild men with whom he cruised, 
 
 Had cost his enemies a long repentance. 
 
 And made him a good Mend, but bad acquaintance 
 
 LV. 
 
 But something of the spirit of old Greece 
 Flash'd o'er his soul a few heroic rays, 
 
 Such as Ht onward to the Golden Fleece 
 His predecessors in the Colchian days ; 
 
 'Tis true he had no ardent love for peace — 
 Alas ! his country show'd no path to praise : 
 
 Hate to the world and war with every nation 
 
 He waged, in vengeance of her degradation. 
 
 LVI. 
 Still o'er his mind the influence of the clime 
 
 Shed its Ionian elegance, which show'd 
 Its power imconsciously fuU many a time, — 
 
 A taste seen in the choice of his abode, 
 A love of music and of scenes sublime, 
 
 A pleasure in the gentle stream that flow'J 
 Past him in crystal, and a joy in flowers, 
 Bedew'd his spirit in his calmer hours. 
 
 LVII. 
 But whatsoe'er he had of love repostd 
 
 On that beloved daughter ; she had been 
 The only thing which kept his heart unclosed 
 
 Amidst the savage deeds be had done and seen, 
 A lonely pure aflection unopposed : 
 
 There wanted but the loss of this to wean 
 
608 
 
 BYRON'S \YORKS. 
 
 C^KTO Itt 
 
 His feelings from all milk of human kindness, 
 And turn liim like the Cyclops mad with blindness. 
 
 LVIII. 
 Tho cubless tigress in her jungle raging 
 
 Is dreadful to the shepherd and the flock ; 
 'I'he ocean when its yeasty war is waging 
 
 Is awful to the vessel near the rock ; 
 I?ut violent things will sooner bear assuaging, 
 
 Their fury btiug spent by its own shock, 
 Than the stern, single, deep, and wordless ire 
 Of a strong human heart, and in a sii'e. 
 
 blX. 
 It is hard although a common case 
 
 To find our children running restive — they 
 In whom our brightest days we would retrace. 
 
 Our little selves re-form'd in finer clay. 
 Just as old age is creeping on apace. 
 
 And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day. 
 They kindly leave us, tliougli not quite alone, 
 But in good company — the gout or stone. 
 
 LX. 
 
 Yet a fine family is a fine thing, 
 
 (Provided they don't come in after dinner ;) 
 'Tis beautiful to see a matron bring 
 
 Her children up, (if nursing them don't thin her,) 
 Like cherulis round an altar-piece they cling 
 
 To the fireside, (a sight to touch a sinner,) 
 A lady with her daugliters or her nieces 
 Shine like a guinea and seven-shilling pieces. 
 
 bXI. 
 Old Lambro pass'd unseen a private gate, 
 
 And stood within his hall at eventide ; 
 Meantime the lady and her lover sate 
 
 At wassail in their beauty and their pride : 
 An ivory inlaid table spread with state 
 
 Before thera, and fair slaves on every side ; 
 Gems, gold, and silver, form'd the ser^-ice mostly. 
 Mother of pearl and coral the less costly. 
 
 LXII. 
 The dinner made about a hundred dishes ; 
 
 Lamb and pistachio-nuts — in short, all meats. 
 And saftron soups, and sweetbreads ; and the fishes 
 
 Were of the finest that e'er flounced in nets, 
 Dress'd to a Sylxarite's most pamper'd wishes ; 
 
 The beverage was various sherliets 
 Of raisin, orange, and pomegranate juice, [use. 
 
 Squeezed through the rind, which makes it best for 
 
 LXIII, 
 There were ranged round, each in its crystal ewer. 
 
 And fruits, and date-bread loaves closed the re- 
 And Mocha's berry, from Arabia pure, [past, 
 
 In small fine China cups, came in at last ; 
 
 Gold cups of filigree made to secure 
 
 The liand from burning underneath them placed. 
 Cloves, cinnamon, and safl'ron too were boil'd 
 Up with the coffee, which (I think) they spoil'd. 
 
 LXIV. 
 The hangings of the room were tapestry, made 
 
 Of velvet panels, each of difierent hue. 
 And thick with damask flowers of silk inlaid ; 
 
 And round them ran a yellow border too ; 
 The upper border, richly wrought, display'd, 
 
 Embroider'd delicately o'er with blue, 
 Soft Persian sentences, in lilac letters. 
 From poets, or the moralii^ts their betters. 
 
 LXV. 
 These Oriental writings on the wall, 
 
 Quite common in those countries, are a kind 
 Of monitors adapted to recall. 
 
 Like skulls at Memphian Ijanquets, to the mind 
 The words which shook Belshazzar in his h.all, 
 
 And took his kingdom trom him : You will find, 
 Though sages may pour out their wisdom's treas- 
 There is no sterner moralist than Pleasure. [ure, 
 
 LXVI. 
 A beauty at the season's close grown hectic, 
 
 A genius who has drunk himself to death, 
 A rake turn'd methodistic, or Eclectic — 
 
 (For that 's the name they like to pray beneath) — 
 But most, an alderman struck apoplectic. 
 
 Are things that really take away the breath, — 
 And show that late hours, wine, and love are able 
 To do not much less damage than the table. 
 
 LXVII. 
 Haidfe and Juan carjicted their feet 
 
 On crimson satin, bordorVl with pale blue ; 
 Their sofii occupied three parts comjslete 
 
 Of the apartment — and appear'd quite new ; 
 The velvet cushions (for a throne more meet) 
 
 Were scarlet, from whose glowing centre grew 
 A sun emboss'd id srold. whose rays of tissue, 
 Meridian-like, were seen ail light to issue. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 Crystal and marble, plate and porcelain. 
 
 Had done their work of splendor ; Indian mats 
 And Persian carjiets, which the heart bled to stain. 
 
 Over the floors were spread ; gazelles and cats. 
 And dwarfs and blacks, and such like things, that 
 gain 
 
 Their bread as ministers and favorites — (that 's 
 To say, by degradation) — mingled there 
 As plentiful as in a court, or fair. 
 
 lAIX. 
 There was no want of lofty mirrors and 
 The -abks, most of ebony inlaid 
 
Canto ii. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 609 
 
 With mother of pearl or ivorv, stood at hand. 
 Or wore of tortoise-shell or rare ■n-oods made, 
 
 Fretted with gold or silver : — by command, 
 The greater part of these were ready spread 
 
 With viands and sherbets in ice — and wine — 
 
 Kept for all comers, at all hours to dine. 
 
 LXX. 
 Of all the dresses I select Haidf'e's : 
 
 She wore two jelicks — one was of pale yellow; 
 Of azure, pink, and white was her chemise — 
 
 'Neath which her breast heaved like a little bil- 
 With buttons form'd of pearls as large as peas, [low ; 
 
 All gold and crimson shone her jelick's feUow, 
 And the striped white gauze baracan that l)0und her. 
 Like fleecy clouds about the moon, flow'd round her. 
 
 LXXI. 
 One large gold bracelet clasp'd each lovely arm, 
 
 Lockless — so pliable from the pure gold. 
 That the hand stretched and shut it mthout harm. 
 
 The limb which it adom'd its only mould 
 So beautiful — its very shape would charm ; 
 
 And clinging as if loath to lose its hold, 
 The purest ore enclosed the whitest skin 
 That e'er by precious metal was held in.' 
 
 LXXIP. 
 Around, as princess of her father's land, 
 
 A like gold bar above her instep roll'd,' [hand ; 
 Announced her rank ; twelve rings were on her 
 
 Her hair was starr'd with gems ; her veil's fine 
 Below her breast was fasten'd with a band [fold 
 
 Of lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce be told ; 
 Her orange silk full Turkish trousers furl'd 
 Above the prettiest ankle in the world. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 Her hair's long auburn waves down to her heel 
 
 Flow'd like an Alpine torrent which the aim 
 Dyes with his morning light, — and would conceal 
 
 Her person' if allow'd at large to run. 
 And still they seem resentfully to feel 
 
 The silken fillet's curb, and sought to shun 
 Their bonds whene'er some Zephyr caught began 
 To ofl'er his young pinion as her fan. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 Roimd her she made an atmosphere of life. 
 
 The very air seem'd lighter from her eyes, 
 They were so soft and beautiful, and rife 
 
 With all we can image of the skies, 
 
 ' This dress is Moorish, and tlie bracelets and bar are worn in 
 the manner described. The reader will perceive bereafler, that as 
 the mother of Haidee was of Fez, her daughter wore the garb of 
 the country. 
 
 ^ The bar of trold above the instep is a mark of sovereign rank 
 In the women of the families of the deys, and is worn as such by 
 their female relatives. 
 
 11 
 
 And pure as Pysche ere she grew a wife — 
 
 Too pure even for the purest hvmaan ties ; 
 Her overpowering presence made you feel 
 It would not be idolatry to kneel. 
 
 LXXT. 
 Her eyelashes, though dark a? night, were tinged, 
 
 (It is the country's custom,) but in vain ; 
 For those large black eyes were so blackly friDged, 
 
 The glossy rebels mock'd the jetty stain. 
 And in their native beauty stood avenged : 
 
 Her nails were touch'd with henna ; but again 
 The power of art was tum'd to nothing, for 
 They could not look more rosy than before. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 The henna should be deejily dyed to make 
 
 The skin relieved appear more fairly fair ; 
 She had no need of this, day ne'er will break 
 
 On mountain tops more heavenly white than her ; 
 The eye might doubt if it were well awake. 
 
 She was so like a vision ; I might err. 
 But Shakspeare also say, 'tis very silly 
 " To gild refined gold, or paint the lily." 
 
 LXXVII. 
 Juan had on a shawl of black and gold. 
 
 But a white baracan, and so transparent 
 The sparkling gems beneath you might behold. 
 
 Like small stars through the milky way apparent; 
 His turban, furl'd in many a graceful fold. 
 
 An emerald aigrette with Haidee's hair in 't 
 Surmounted, as its clasp, a glowing crescent. 
 Whose rays shone ever trembling, but incessant. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 And now they were diverted by their suite, 
 
 Dwarfs, dancing girls, black eunuchs, and a poet, 
 Which made their new establishment complete ; 
 
 The last was of great fame, and liked to show it : 
 His verses rarely wanted their due feet — 
 
 And for his theme — he seldom stmg below it, 
 He being paid to satirize or flatter. 
 As the psalm says, " inditing a good matter." 
 
 LXXIX. 
 He praised the present, and abused the past 
 
 Reversing the good custom of old days. 
 An Eastern anti-jacobin at last 
 
 He turn'd, preferring pudding to no praise — 
 For some few years his lot had been o'ercast 
 
 By his seeming independent in his lays, 
 
 3 This is no exaggeration : they were four women whom I re- 
 member to have seen, who possessed their hair in this profusion ; 
 of these, three were English, the other was a Levantine. Their 
 hair was of that Icn'rth and quantity, that, when let do^vn, II al- 
 most entirely shaded the person, so as nearly to render dress a 
 superfluity. Of these, only one had dark hair ; the Orien'ol's had, 
 perhaps, the lightest color of the four. 
 
810 
 
 BYROK'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto ni. 
 
 But now he sung the Sultan and the Pacha [shaw. 
 With truth like Southcy, and with verse like Cra- 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 He wag a man who had seen many changes, 
 And always changed as true as any needle ; 
 
 His polar star being one which rather ranges, 
 And not the fix'd— he knew the way to wheedle : 
 
 So vile he 'scaped the doom which oft avenges ; 
 And being fluent, (save indeed when fec'd ill,) 
 
 He lied with suoli a fervor of intention — 
 
 There was no doubt he earn'd his laureate pension. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 But he had genius, — when a turncoat has it, 
 
 The " Vates irritabilis" takes care 
 That without notice few full moons shall pass it ; 
 
 Even good men like to make the public stare : — 
 But to my subject — let me see — what was it ? 
 
 Oh ! — the Third Canto — and the pretty pair — 
 Their loves, and feasts, and house, and dress, and 
 Of living in their insular abode. [mode 
 
 LXXXII. 
 Their Jioet, a sad trimmer, but no less 
 
 In company a very pleasant fellow. 
 Had been the favorite of full many a mess [low ; 
 
 Of men, and made them speeches when half mel- 
 And though his meaning they could rarely guess, 
 
 Yet still they deign'd to hiccup or to bellow 
 The glorious meed of popular applause. 
 Of which the first ne'er knows the second cause. 
 
 bXXXIII. 
 But now being lifted into high society. 
 
 And having jiick'd up several odds and ends 
 Of free thoughts in hia travels for variety, 
 
 He deem'd, being in a lone isle, among friends, 
 That without any danger of a riot, he 
 
 Might for long lying make himself amends ; 
 And singing as he sung in his warm J'outh, 
 Agree to a short armistice ^4th truth. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 He had travell'd 'mongst the Arabs, Turks, and 
 Franks, 
 
 And knew the self-loves of the different nations ; 
 And having lived with people of all ranks, 
 
 Had something ready upon most occasions — 
 Wliich got him a few presents and some thanks. 
 
 He varied with some skill his adulations ; 
 To " do at Home as Romans do," a piece 
 Of conduct was which he observed in Greece. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 Thus, usually, when he was ask'd to sing. 
 He gave the different nations something national ; 
 
 ' The vvm /laKapav of the Greek poets were eupposed to 
 WTO been the Cape de Venl Islands or the Canaries. 
 
 'Twas all the same to him — " God save the king," 
 Or " (j'a ira," according to the iasliion all : 
 
 His muse made increment of any thing. 
 From the high lyric down to the low rational ; 
 
 If Pindar sang horse-races, what should hinder 
 
 Himself from being as pliable as Pindar ? 
 
 I.XXXVI. 
 
 In France, for instance, he would write a chanson , 
 
 In England a six canto quarto tale ; 
 In Spain, he'd make a ballad or romance on 
 
 The last war — much the same in Portugal ; 
 In Germany, the Pegasus he'd prance on 
 
 Would be old Goethe's — (sec what says De Stael ;) 
 In Italy he'd ape the " Trecentisti ;" 
 In Greece, he'd sing some sort of hymn like this 't ye : 
 
 The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece I 
 Where burning Sappho loved and sung, 
 
 Where grew the arts of war and peace, — 
 Where Delos rose, and Phabus sprung t 
 
 Eternal summer gilds them yet. 
 
 But all, except their sun, is set. 
 
 The Scian and the Teian muse, 
 The hero's harp, the lover's lute. 
 
 Have found the fame your shores refiise ; 
 Their place of birth alone is mute 
 
 To sounds which echo furtlier west 
 
 Than your sires' " Islands of the Bless'd." 
 
 3. 
 
 The mountains look on Marathon— 
 And Marathon looks on the sea ; 
 
 And musing there an hour alone, 
 
 I dream'd that Greece might still be free ; 
 
 For standing on the Persians' grave, 
 
 I could not deem myself a slave. 
 
 A king sate on the rocky brow 
 Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ; 
 
 And ships, by thousands, lay below, 
 And men in nations ; — all were his ! 
 
 He counted them at break of day — 
 
 And when tlie sun set where were they ? 
 
 5. 
 
 And where are they ? and where art thou. 
 My country ? On thy voiceless shore 
 
 The heroic lay is tuneless now — 
 The heroic l>osom beats no more 1 
 
 And must thy lyre, so long divine, 
 
 Degenerate into hands like mine ? 
 
Canto in. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 6U 
 
 6. 
 
 'Tis sometliinfx, in the clet.rth of lame, 
 Though link'd among a fetter'd race, 
 
 To feel at least a patriot's shame, 
 Even as I sing, suffuse my face ; 
 
 For what is left the poet lisre ? 
 
 For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 
 
 Must we but weep o'er days more bless'd ? 
 
 Must we but blush ? — Our fathers bled. 
 Earth ! render back from out thy breast 
 
 A remnant of our Sjiartan dead ! 
 Of the three hundred grant but three, 
 To make a new Thermopylae ! 
 
 8. 
 
 What, silen* still ? and silent all ? 
 
 Ah ! no ;— the voices of the dead 
 Sound like a distant torrent's fall. 
 
 And answer, " Let one living head, 
 But one arise, — -we come, we come !" 
 'Tis but the living who are dumb. 
 
 9. 
 
 In vain — in vain ; strike other chords ; 
 
 Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! 
 Leave battles to the Turkish liordes. 
 
 And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! 
 Hark ! rising to the ignoble call — 
 How answers each bold Bacchanal ! 
 
 10. 
 
 You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet. 
 Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone ? 
 
 Of two such lessons, why forget 
 The nobler and the manlier one ? 
 
 Ton have the letters Cadmus gave — 
 
 Think ye he meant them for a slave ? 
 
 11. 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
 
 We will not think of themes like these ! 
 It made Anacreon's song divine : 
 
 He served — but served Polycrates — 
 A tyrant ; but our masters then 
 Were still, at least, our countryrcen. 
 
 12. 
 
 The tyrant of the Chersonese 
 
 Was freedom'3 best and bravest friend ; 
 That tyrant was Miltiades I 
 
 Oh ! that the present hour would lend 
 Another despot of the kind ! 
 Such chains as his were sure to bind. 
 
 13. 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine 1 
 On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, 
 
 Exists the remnant of a Une 
 
 Such as the Doric mothers bore ; 
 
 And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, 
 
 The Heracleidan blood might own. 
 
 14. 
 Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 
 
 They have a king who buys and stlla : 
 In native swords, and native rapks. 
 
 The only hope of courage dwells ; 
 But Turkish force, and Latin fraud. 
 Would break your shield, however broad. 
 
 15. 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine I 
 Our virgins dance beneath the sliade — 
 
 I see their glorious black eyes shine ; 
 But gazing on each glowing maid, 
 
 My own the burning tear-drop laves. 
 
 To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 
 
 16. 
 Place me on Sunium's marbled steep. 
 
 Where nothing, save the waves and I, 
 May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 
 
 There, swan-like, let me sing and die : 
 A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 
 Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! 
 
 LXXXTII. 
 Thus sung, or would, or could, or should have sung, 
 
 The modem Greek, in tolerable verse ; 
 If not like Orpheus quite, when Greece was young, 
 
 Yet in these times he might have done much worse: 
 His strain display'd some feeling — right or wrong ; 
 
 And feeling, in a poet, is the source 
 Of others' feeling ; but they are such liars, 
 And take all colors — like the hands of dyers. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 But words are things, and a small drop of ink. 
 
 Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces [think; 
 That which makes thousands, perhaps millionai| 
 
 'Tis strange, the shortest letter which man uses 
 Instead of speech, may form a lasting link 
 
 Of ages ; to what straits old Time reduces 
 Frail man, when pajjer — even a rag like this, 
 Sur-idves himself, his tomb, and aU that 'a his. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 And when his bones are dust, his grave a blank, 
 
 His station, generation, even his nation. 
 Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank 
 
 In chronological commemoration. 
 
612 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto hi 
 
 Some dull MS. oblivion long has sank, 
 
 Or i^raven stone found in a barrack's station 
 In digi,'ing the foundation of a closet, 
 May turn liis name up, as a rare deposite. 
 
 XC. 
 
 And glory long has made the sages smile ; 
 
 'Tis something, nothing, words, illusion, wind — 
 Depending more upon the historian's style 
 
 Than on the name a person leaves behind : 
 Troy owes to Homer what whist owes to Hoyle : 
 
 The present century was growing blind 
 To the great Marlborough's skill in giving knocks, 
 Until his late Life by Archdeacon Coxe. 
 
 XCI. 
 Milton 's the prince of poets — so we say; 
 
 A little heavy, but no less divine : 
 An independent being in his day — 
 
 Learn'd. pious, temperate in love and wine ; 
 But his life falling into Johnson's way, 
 
 We're told this great high priest of all the Nine 
 Was whipp'd at college — a harsh sire — odd spouse, 
 For the first Mrs. Milton left his house." 
 
 XCII. 
 AU these are, certe», entertaining facts, [bribes ; 
 
 Like Shakspeare's stealing deer. Lord Bacon's 
 Like Titus' youth, and Caesar's earliest acts ; 
 
 Like Burns, (whom Doctor Currie well describes ;) 
 Like Cronnvell's pranks ; — but although truth ex- 
 
 These amiable descriptions from the scribes, [acts 
 As most essential to their hero's story. 
 They do not much contriimte to his glory. 
 
 xciir. 
 
 All are not moralists, like Southey, when 
 He prated to the world of " Pantisocrasy ;" 
 
 Or Wordswortli unexcised, unhired, who then 
 Season'd his p(,'dler poems with democracy ; 
 
 Or Coleridge, long before his flighty pen 
 Let to the Mornkig Post its aristocracy ; 
 
 When he and Southey, following the same path, 
 
 Espoused two partners, (milliners of Bath.) 
 
 XCTV. . 
 Such names at present cut a convict figure, 
 
 The very Botany Bay in moral geography : 
 Their loyal treason, renegado rigor, 
 
 Are good manure for tlieir more bare biography ; 
 Wordsworth last quarto, by the way, is bigger 
 
 Than any since the birthday of tyi^ograpliy ; 
 A drowsy frouzy poem, call'd the " Excursion," 
 Writ in a manner which is my aversion. 
 
 XCV. 
 Ele there builds up a formidable dike 
 Betreen his own and others' intellect ; 
 
 ' iBe Johnson's Life of Milton. 
 
 But Wordsworth's poem, and his followers, like 
 Joanna Southcotc's Shiloh, and her sect. 
 
 Are things which ia this century don't strike 
 The public mind, — so few are the elect ; 
 
 And the new births of both their stale virginities 
 
 Have proved but dropsies, taken for divinities. 
 
 XCVI. 
 But let me to my story : I must ovra. 
 
 If I have any fault, it is digression — 
 Leaving my people to proceed alone, 
 
 Wliile I soliloquize beyond expression ; 
 But these are my addresses from the throne, 
 
 Which put off business to the ensuing session: 
 Forgetting each omission is a loss to 
 The world, not quite so great as Ariosto. 
 
 XCVIl. 
 I know that what our neighbors call " longueurs," 
 
 (We've not so good a vord, but have the thing, 
 In that complete perfection which ensures 
 
 An epic from Bob Southey ever}' spring — ) 
 Form not the true temptation which allures 
 
 The reader ; but 'twould no*^ be hard to bring 
 Some fine examples of the epo/iee, 
 To prove its grand ingredient is ennui. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 We learn from Horace, " Homer sometimes sleeps ;" 
 
 We feel without him, Wordsworth sometime! 
 wakes : 
 To show with what complacency he creeps. 
 
 With his dear ^'WiuionevH.'" around his lakes. 
 He wishes for " a boat " to sail the deeps — 
 
 Of ocean ? — No, of air ; and then he makes 
 Another outcry for " a little boat," 
 And drivels seas to set it well afloat. 
 
 XCIX. 
 
 If he must fain sweep o'er the ethereal plain, 
 And Pegasus runs restive in his "Wagon," 
 
 Could he not beg the loan of Charles' Wain ? 
 Or pray Medea for a single dragon ? 
 
 Or if too classic for his vulgar brain, 
 
 He fear'd his neck to venture such a nag on, 
 
 And he must needs mount nearer to the moon, 
 
 Could not the blockhead ask for a balloon ? 
 
 C. 
 " Pedlers," and " Boats," and " Wagons !" Oh I y» 
 shades 
 Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this 1 
 That trash of such sort not alone evades 
 
 Contempt, but from the bathos' vast abyss 
 Floats scumlike uppermost, and these Jack Cades 
 Of sense and song above your graves may hisa - 
 The " little boatman " and his " Peter Bell " 
 I Can sneer at him who drew " Achitophel !" 
 
Cajjio III. 
 
 DON JUAX 
 
 6.9 
 
 CI. 
 T' our tale.— The feast was over, the slaves gone, 
 
 The dwarfs and dancing girls had all retired ; 
 The Arab lore and poet's song were done, 
 
 And every sound of revelry expired ; 
 The lady and her lover, left alone, 
 
 The rosy flood of twilight's sky admired ; — 
 Ave Maria ! o'er the earth and sea, 
 That heavenliest hour of Heaven is worthiest thee ' 
 
 cir. 
 
 Ave Maria ! blessed be the hour 
 
 The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft 
 Have felt that moment in its fullest power, 
 
 Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft, 
 Wliile swung the deep bell in the distant tower. 
 
 Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, 
 And not a breath crept through tlie rosy air, 
 And yet the forest leaves seem'd stirr'd with prayer. 
 
 cm. 
 
 Ave Maria ! 'tis the hour of prayer ! 
 
 Ave Maria ! 'tis the hour of love ! 
 Ave Maria ! may our sjjirits dare 
 
 Look up to thine and to thy Son's above ! 
 Ave Maria ! oh, that face so fair ! 
 
 Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty dove — 
 What though 'tis but a pictured image ? — strike — 
 That painting is no idol, — 'tis too like. 
 
 CIV. 
 
 Some kinder casuists are pleased to say, 
 
 In nameless print — that I have no devotion ; 
 
 But set those persons down with me to pray. 
 And you shall see who has the properest notion 
 
 Of getting into heaven the shortest way ; 
 My altars are the mountains and the ocean. 
 
 Earth, air, stars, — all that sjjrings from the great 
 Whole, 
 
 Wlio hath produced, and wUl receive the soul. 
 
 cv. 
 
 Sweet hour of tv\-ihght ! — in the solitude 
 Of the pine forest, and the silent shore 
 
 Which boimds Ravenna's immemorial wood. 
 Rooted where once the Adrian wave flow'd o'er, 
 
 To where the last Ctesarean fortress stood, 
 ■. Evergreen forest ! which Boccaccio's lore 
 
 And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me, 
 
 How have 1 loved the twilight hour and thee 1 
 
 CVI. 
 
 The shrill cicalas, people of the pine, 
 Making their summer Uves one ceaseless song. 
 
 Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine. 
 And vesper bell's that rose the boughs along ; 
 
 The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line. 
 
 His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fail 
 throng 
 "Which learn'd from this example not to fly 
 From a true lover, — shadow'd my mind's eye. 
 
 cvri. 
 Oh, Hesperus ! thou bringest all good things — 
 
 Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer, 
 To the young bird the parent's brooding wings, 
 
 The welcome stall to the o'erlabor'd steer ; 
 Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings, 
 
 Whate'cr our household gods protect of dear. 
 Are gather'd round us by thy look of rest ; 
 Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast, 
 
 CVIII. 
 Soft hour ! which wakes the wish and melts the 
 heart 
 Of those who sail the seas, on the fh'st day 
 When they from their sweet friends are torn 
 apart ; 
 Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way 
 As the far bell of vesper makes him start. 
 
 Seeming to weep the dying day's decay ; 
 Is this a fancy which our reason scorns ? 
 Ah ! surely nothing dies but something mourns ! 
 
 CIX. 
 When Nero perish'd by the justest doom 
 
 Which ever the destroyer yet destroy'd, 
 Amidst the roar of liberated Rome, 
 
 Of nations freed, and the world overjoy'd. 
 Some hands unseen strew'd flowers ujjon his tomb : 
 
 Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void 
 Of feeling for some kindness done, when power 
 Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour. 
 
 ex. 
 
 But I'm digressing ; what on earth has Nero, 
 
 Or any such Uke sovereign buffoons. 
 To do with the transactions of my hero. 
 
 More than such madmen's fellow man — the moon's 
 Sure my invention must be down at zero. 
 
 And I grown one of many " wooden spoons " 
 Of verse, (the name with which we Cantabs plftase 
 To dub the last of honors in degrees.) 
 
 CXI. 
 I feel this tediousness will never do — • 
 
 'Tis being too epic, and I must cut down 
 (In copying) this long canto into two ; 
 
 They'll never find it out, unless I own 
 The fact, excepting some experienced few ; 
 
 And then as an imj)rovement 'twill be shown : 
 I'll prove that sucU the oinnion of the critic is 
 From Aristotle ^>a*«i»i — See IXot^-u-^f. 
 
ei4 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto i» 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO THE FOCHTH. 
 
 NoTniNG so difficult as a beginuiug 
 
 In p6esy, unless perhaps the end ; 
 For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning 
 
 The race, be sprains a wing and down we tend, 
 Like Lucifer when hurfd fton. heaven for sinning; 
 
 Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend, 
 Being pride, which leads the mind to soar too far, 
 Till our own weakness shows us what we are. 
 
 II. 
 
 But Time, which brings all beings to their level, 
 .\nd sharp Adversity, will teach at last 
 
 Man, — and, as we would hope, — perhaps the devil. 
 That neither of their intellects are vast : 
 
 While youth's hot wishes in our red veins revel. 
 We know not this — the blood flows on too fast ; 
 
 But as the torrent ^-idens towards the ocean. 
 
 We ponder deeply on each past emotion. 
 
 III.' 
 As boy, I thought myself a clever fellow. 
 
 And wish'd that others held the same opinion ; 
 They took it up when my days grew more mellow. 
 
 And other minds acknowledged my dominion : 
 Now my sere fancy " falls into the yellow 
 
 Leaf," and Imagination droops her pinion. 
 And the sad truth which hovers o'er my desk 
 Turns what was once romantic to burlesque. 
 
 IV. 
 And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 
 
 'Tis that I may not weep ; and if I weep, 
 'Tis that our nature cannot always bring 
 
 Itself to apathy, for we must steep 
 Our hearts first in the depths of Lethe's spring. 
 
 Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep : 
 Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx ; 
 A mortal mother would on Lethe fix. 
 
 Some have accused mo of a strange design 
 Against the creed and morals of the land, 
 
 And trace it in this poem every line : 
 I don't pretend that I quite understand 
 
 My own meaning when I would be rcr>i fine ; 
 But the fact is that I have nothing plann'd. 
 
 Unless it were to be a moment merry, 
 
 A novel word in my vocabulary. 
 
 VI. 
 To the kind reader of our sol or 'clime 
 This way of writing wi 1 ay pear exotic : 
 
 Pulci was sire of the half-serious rhyme, 
 
 Who sang when chivalry was more Quixotic, 
 
 And revell'd in the fancies of the time, 
 True knights, chaste dames, huge giants, kingi 
 despotic ; 
 
 But all these, save the last, being obsolete, • 
 
 I chose a modern subject as more meet. 
 
 VII. 
 
 How I have treated it, I do not know ; 
 
 Perhaps no better than they have treated me. 
 Who have imputed such designs as show 
 
 Not what they saw, but what they wish'd to see : 
 But if it gives them pleasure, be it so ; 
 
 This is a liberal age, and thoughts are free : 
 Meantime Apollo plucks me by the ear. 
 And tells me to resume my stoi-y here. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Young Juan and his lady-love were left 
 To their own hearts' most sweet society ; 
 
 Even Time the pitiless in sorrow cleft 
 
 With his rude scythe such gentle bosoms ; he 
 
 Sigh'd to behold them of their hours bereft. 
 Though foe to love ; and yet they could not be 
 
 Meant to grow old, but die in happy spring. 
 
 Before one charm or hope had taken mng. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Their faces were not made for wrinkles, their 
 
 Pure blood to stagnate, their great hearts to fai^ ■ 
 
 The blank gray was not made to blast their hair. 
 But like the climes that know nor snow nor hail 
 
 They were all summer : lightning might assail 
 And shiver them to ashes, but to trail 
 
 A long and snake-like life of dull decay 
 
 Was not for them — they had too little clay. 
 
 X. 
 
 They were alone once more ; for them to bo 
 Thus was another Eden ; they were never 
 
 Weary, unless when separate : the tree 
 
 Cut from its forest root of years — the river 
 
 Damm'd from its fountain — tiie child fiom the knei 
 And breast maternal wean'd at once forever, — 
 
 Would wither Icsii than these two torn apart ; 
 
 Alas ! there is no instinct like the heart — 
 
 XI. 
 
 The heart — which may be broken : happy they I 
 Thrice fortunate ! who of that fragile mould. 
 
 The precious porcelain of human clay. 
 
 Break with the first fall : they can ne'er behold 
 
 The long year link'd with heavy day on day. 
 And all which must l)C borne, and never told • 
 
 Wliile life's strange principle will often lie 
 
 Deepest in those who long the most to di<> 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
Canto it. 
 
 DON JUAX. 
 
 615 
 
 XII. 
 " AVliom the gods love die young," was said of yore, 
 
 And many deaths do they escape by this : [more — 
 The death of fiiends, and that -nhich slays even 
 
 The death of friendship, love, youth, all that is, 
 Except mere breath ; and since the silent shore 
 
 Awaits at last even those who longest miss 
 The old archer's shafts, jDorhaps the early grave 
 Which men weep over may be meant to save. 
 
 XIII. 
 Haidee and Juan thought not of the dead. 
 
 The heavens, and earth, and air, seem'd made for 
 them : 
 rhey found no fault with Time, save that he fled ; 
 
 They saw not in themselves aught to condemn : 
 Each was the other's mirror, and but read 
 
 Joy sparkling in their dark eyes like a gem, 
 And knew such brightness was but the reflection 
 Of their exchanging glances of afiection. 
 
 XIV. 
 The gentle pressure, and the thrilling touch, 
 
 The least glance better understood than words. 
 Which still said all, and ne'er could say too much ; 
 
 A language, too, but like to that of birds. 
 Known but to them, at least appearing such 
 
 As but to lovers a true sense aflbrds ; 
 Sweet playful phrases, which would seem absurd 
 To tho.«e who have ceased to hear such, or ne'er heard. 
 
 XV. 
 
 All these were theirs, for they were children still. 
 And children stiU they should have ever been ; 
 
 They were not made in the real world to fill 
 A busy character in the dull scene. 
 
 Jut like two beings bom from out a rill, 
 A nymph and her beloved, all unseen 
 
 To pass their lives in fountains and on flowers, 
 
 And never knew the weight of human hours. 
 
 XVI. 
 Moons changing had roU'd on, and changeless found 
 
 Those their bright rise had lighted to such joys 
 As rarely they beheld throughout their round ; 
 
 And these were not of the vain kind which cloys. 
 For theirs were buoyant spirits, never bound 
 
 By the mere senses ; and that which destroys 
 Most love, pobsession, unto them appear'd 
 A thing which each endearment more endear'd. 
 
 XVII. 
 Oh, btautiful ! and rare as beautiftil ! 
 
 But theirs was love in which the mind delights 
 To lose itself, when the old world grows dull. 
 
 And we are sick of its hack sounds and sights, 
 Intrigues, adventures of the common school, 
 
 Its petty passions, marriages, and flights. 
 
 TVliere Hymen's torch but brands one strumpet more, 
 "Whose husband only knows her not a wb--re. 
 
 XVIII. 
 Hard words ; harsh truth ; a truth which many 
 
 Enough. — The faithful and the fairy pair, [knotr. 
 Who never found a single hour too slow. 
 
 What was it made them thus exempt frotn cars 
 Young innate feelings all have felt below. 
 
 Which perish in the rest, but in them were 
 Inherent ; what we mortals call romantic. 
 And always envy, though we deem it frantic 
 
 XIX. 
 This is in others a factitious state. 
 
 An opium dream of too much youth and reading 
 But was in them their nature or their fate : 
 
 No novels e'er had set their young hearts bleeding 
 For HaidL-e's knowledge was by no means great, 
 
 And .Juan was a boy of saintly breeding ; 
 So that there was no reason for their loves 
 More than for those of nightingales or doves. 
 
 XX. 
 They gazed upon the sunset ; 'lis an hour 
 
 Dear unto all, but dearest to their eyes. 
 For it had made them what they wore : the power 
 
 Of love had first o'erwhelmed them from sucl 
 "UTien happiness had been their only dower, [skies 
 
 And twilight saw them link'd in passion's ties ; 
 Charm'd with each other, all things charm'd thai 
 
 brought 
 The past still welcome as the present thought. 
 
 XXI. 
 I know not why, but in that hour to-night. 
 
 Even as they gazed, a sudden tremor came, 
 And swept, as 'twere, across their hearts' delight, 
 
 Like the wind o'er a harp-string, or a flame. 
 When one is shook in soimd, and one in sight ; 
 
 And th us somebodingflash'd through either frame^ 
 And call'd from Juan's breast a faint low sigh, 
 While one new tear arose in Haidee's eye. 
 
 XXII. 
 That large black prophet eye seem'd to dilate 
 
 And follow tar the disappearing sun, 
 As if their last day of a happy date 
 
 With his broad, bright, and dropping orb were 
 Juan gazed on her as to ask his fate — [gone ; 
 
 He felt a grief, but knowing cause for none, 
 His glance inquired of hers for some excuse 
 For feelings causeless, or at least abstruse. 
 
 xxni. 
 She tvrm'd to him, and smiled, but in tluit sort 
 
 WTiich makes not others f^mib ; then turn'd aside 
 Wliatevcr feeling shook her, it seem'd short, 
 
 And master'd by her wisdom or her pride ; 
 
GIG 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS, 
 
 Canto it 
 
 Wlien Juan spoke, too — it miglit be in sport — 
 
 Oftliis tlii'ir mutual feeling, she replied — 
 "If it should be so, — but — it cannot be — 
 Or I at least shall not survive to see." 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Juan would question further, but she press'd 
 His lip to hers, and sileneed him mth this, 
 
 And then dismiss'd the omen from her breast, 
 Defying augury with that fond kiss ; 
 
 And no doubt of all methods 'tis the best : 
 Some people prefer wine — 'tis not amiss ; 
 
 I have tried both ; so those who would a part take, 
 
 May choose between the headache and the heartache. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 One of the two, according to your choice. 
 Woman or wine, you'll have to undergo ; 
 
 Both maladies are taxes on our joys : 
 
 But whicli to choose, I really hardly know ; 
 
 And if I had to give a casting voice, 
 
 For both sides I could many reasons show. 
 
 And then decide, without great wrong to either, 
 
 It were much better to have both than neither. 
 
 XXVI. 
 Juan and Haidee gazed upon each other 
 
 With swimming looks of speechless tenderness. 
 Which rai.K'd all feelings, friend, child, lover, broth- 
 
 AU that the best can mingle and express [er. 
 
 When two pure hearts are pour'd in one another, 
 
 And love too much, and yet can not love less ; 
 But almost sanctify the sweet excess 
 By the immortal wish and power to bless. 
 
 XXVII. 
 Mix'd in each other's arms, and heart in heart, [long 
 
 Why did they not then die ? — they had lived too 
 Should an hour come to bid them breathe apart ; 
 
 Years could but bring them cruel things or wrong ; 
 The world was not for them, nor the world's art 
 
 For Ijcings passionate as Sajjpho's song; 
 Love was born loil li thera, in them, so intense, 
 It was their very spiiit — not a sense. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 They should have lived together deep in woods, 
 
 Unseen as sings the nightingale ; they were 
 Unfit to mi.x in these thick solitudes 
 
 Call'd social, haunts of Hate, and Vice, and Care : 
 How lonely every freeborn creature broods ! 
 
 The sweetest song-birds nestle in a pair ; 
 The eagle soars alone ; the guU and crow 
 Flock o'er tlieir carrion, just like men below. 
 
 XXLX. 
 
 Now pillow'd cheek to cheek, in loving sleep, 
 HaidC-e and Juan their siesta took. 
 
 A gentle slumber, but it was not deep, 
 For ever and anon a something shook 
 
 Juan, and shuddering o'er his frame would creep ; 
 And Haidee's sweet lips murmur'd like u li lok 
 
 A wordless music, and her face so ftiir 
 
 Stirr'd witli her dream, as rose-leaves with the air ; 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Or as the stirring of a deep clear stream 
 Within .an Alpine hollow, when the ^nnd 
 
 Walks o'er it, was she shaken by the dream, 
 The mystical usurper of the mind^ 
 
 O'erpowering us to be whate'cr may seem 
 
 Good to the soul which we no more can bind ; 
 
 Strange state of being ! (for 'tis still to be) 
 
 Senseless to feel, and with seal'd eyes to see. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 She dream'd of being alone on the sea-shore, 
 Chain'd to a rock ; she knew not how, but stir 
 
 She could not from the spot, and the loud roar 
 Grew, and each wave rose roughly, threatening 
 her ; 
 
 And o'er her upper lip they secm'd to pour. 
 
 Until she sobb'd for breath, and soon they were 
 
 Foaming o'er her lone head, so fierce and high — 
 
 Each broke to drown her, yet slie could not die 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Anon — she was released, and then she stray 'd 
 O'er the sharp shingles with her bleeding feet, 
 
 And stumbled almost every step she made ; 
 And something roll'd before her in a sheet, 
 
 Which she must still pursue howc'er afraid : 
 'Twas white and indistinct, nor stopp'd to meet 
 
 Her glance nor grasp, for still she gazed and grasp'd, 
 
 And ran, but it escap'd her as she clasp'd. 
 
 • 
 
 XXXIII. 
 The dream changed : — in a cave she stood, its walls 
 
 Were hung with marble icicles ; the work 
 Of ages on its water-fretted halls, 
 
 Wlicre waves might wash, and seals might breed 
 and lurk ; 
 Her hair was dripping, and the very Imlls 
 
 Of her black eyes secm'd turn'd to teare, and mirk 
 The sharp rocks look'd below each drop they caught, 
 Which froze to marble as it fell, — she thought. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 And wet, and cold, and lifeless at her feet. 
 
 Pale as the foam that froth'd on his dead brow, 
 Which she essay'd in vain to clear, (how sweet 
 
 Were once her cares, how idle secm'd they now ) 
 Lay Juan, nor could aught renew the beat. 
 
 Of his quench'd heart ; and the sea dirges low 
 I Rang in her sad ears like a mermaid's song, 
 1 And that brief dream appear'd a life too long. 
 
CiANTO IT. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 617 
 
 XXXV. 
 Ajid gazing on the dead, she thought his face 
 
 Faded, or alter'd into something new — 
 Like to her father's features, till each trace 
 
 More like and like to Lambro's aspect grew — 
 With all his keen worn look and Grecian grace ; 
 
 And starting, she awoke, and what to vdew ? 
 Oh ! Powers of Heaven ! wliat dark eye meets she 
 "lis — ^'tis her father's — fix'd upon the pair ! [there ? 
 
 XXXVI. 
 Then shrieking, she arose, and shrieking fell, 
 
 With joy and sorrow, liope and fear, to see 
 Him whom she deem'd a habitant where dwell 
 
 The ocean-buried, risen from death, to be 
 Perchance the death of one she loved too well : 
 
 Dear as her father had been to Haidee, 
 
 It was a moment of that awful kind 
 
 I have seen such — but must not call to mind. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 Up .Tuan sprung to Haidee's bitter shriek, 
 
 And caught her falling, and fi-om off the wall 
 Snatch'd down his sabre, in hot haste to wreak 
 
 Vengeance on him who was the cause of all : 
 Then Lambro, who till now forbore to speak. 
 
 Smiled scornfully, and said, " Within my call, 
 A thousand cimeters await the word ; 
 Put up. young man, put up your silly sword." 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 And Hiiidee clung around him ; " Juan, 'tis^ 
 
 'Tis Lambro— 'tis my father ! Kneel with me — 
 He will forgive us — yes — it must be — yes. 
 
 Oh ! dearest fiither, in this agony 
 Of pleasure and of pain — even while I kiss 
 
 Thy garment's hem with transport, can it be 
 That doubt should mingle with my filial joy ? 
 Deal with me as thou wilt, but spare this boy." 
 
 XXXIX. 
 High and inscrutable the old man stood. 
 
 Calm in his voice, and calm within his eye — 
 Not always signs with him of calmest mood : 
 
 He look'd upon her, but gave no reply ; 
 Then turn'd to Juan, in whose cheek the blood 
 
 Oft came and went, as there resolved to die ; 
 In arm<!, at least, he stood, in act to spring 
 On the first foe wliom Lambro's call might bring. 
 
 XL. 
 " Young man, your sword ;" so Lambro once more 
 said : 
 Juan repUed, " Not while this arm is free." 
 The old man's cheek grew pale, but not with dread, 
 
 And drawing from his belt a pistol, he 
 Replied, " Your blood be then on your own head." 
 Then look'd close at the flint, as if to see 
 78 
 
 'Twas fresh — for he had lately used the lock — 
 And next proceeded quietly to cock. 
 
 XLI. 
 It has a strange quick jar upon the ear. 
 
 That cocking of a pistol, when you know 
 A moment more will bring the sight to bear 
 
 Upon your person, twelve yards off, or so ; 
 A gentlemanly distance, not too near. 
 
 If you have got a former friend for foe ; 
 But after being fired at once or twice. 
 The ear becomes more Irish, and k-ss nice. 
 
 XLII. 
 Lambro presented, and one instant more 
 
 Had stopjj'd this Canto, and Don Juan's breath, 
 When Haidee threw herself her boy before ; 
 
 Stem as her sire : " On me," she cried, " let death 
 Descend — the fault is mine ; this fatal shore 
 
 He found — but sought not. I have pledged my 
 faith ; 
 I love him — I will die with him : I knew 
 Your nature's firmness — know your daughter's too." 
 
 XLIII. 
 A minute past, and she had been aU tears, 
 
 And tenderness, and infancy ; but now 
 She stood as one who champion'd human fears — 
 
 Pale, statue-like, and stern, she woo'd the blow ; 
 And tall lieyond her sex, and their compeers. 
 
 She drew uj) to her height, as if to show 
 A fairer mark ; and with a fix'd eye scann'd 
 Her father's face — but never stopjj'd his hand. 
 
 XLIV. 
 He gazed on her, and she on him ; 'twas strange 
 
 How like they look'd ! the expression was the 
 Serenely savage, with a little change [same ; 
 
 In the large dark eye's mutual-darted flame ; 
 For she, too, was as one who could avenge. 
 
 If cause should be — a lioness, though tame, 
 Her father's blood before her father's face 
 Boil'd up, and ijroved her truly of his race. 
 
 XLV. 
 I said they were alike, their features and 
 
 Their stature, differing but in sex and years ; 
 Even to the delicacy of their hand 
 
 There was resemblance, such as true Ijlood wears ; 
 And now to see them, thus divided, stand 
 
 In fix'd ferocity, when joyous tears. 
 And sweet sensations, should have welcomed both, 
 Show what the passions are in their full growth. 
 
 XLVI. 
 The father paused a moment, then withdrew 
 
 His weapon, and replaced it ; but stood ^till. 
 And looking on her, as to look her through, 
 
 " Not /," he said, " have sought this stranger's ill 
 
618 
 
 BYKOX'S WORKS. 
 
 Caxto rv. 
 
 Not T have made this desolation : few 
 
 Would bL'ur such outrage, and forbear to kill ; 
 But I must do my duty — how thou hast 
 Done thine, the present vouches for the past. 
 
 XI.VII. 
 " Let him disarra : or, l)y my father's head, 
 
 His own shall roll before you like a ball !" 
 He raised his wliistlc, as the word he said, 
 
 And blew, another answer'd to the call, 
 And rushing in disorderly, though led. 
 
 And arm'd from boot to turban, one and all, 
 Some twenty of his train came, rank on rank ; 
 He gave the word, — "Arrest or slay the Frank." 
 
 XLVIII. 
 Then, with a sudden movement, he withdrew 
 
 His daughtiT ; while eompress'd witliin his clasp, 
 Twixt her and Juan interposed the crew ; 
 
 In vain she struggled in her father's grasp — 
 His ai-ms were like a serjient's coil : then flew 
 
 Upon their prey, as darts an angry asp. 
 The file of pirates ; save the foremost, who 
 Had fallen, witli his right shoulder half eut through. 
 
 XUX. 
 The second had his cheek laid open ; but 
 
 The third, a wary, cool old swordcr, took 
 The blows upon his cutlass, and then put 
 
 His own well in ; so well, ere you could look 
 His man was floor'd, and helpless at his foot. 
 
 With the lilood running like a little brook 
 From two smart sabre gashes, deej) and red — ■ 
 One on the arm, the other on the head. 
 
 And then they bound him where he fell, and bore 
 
 Juan from the apartment : with a sign 
 Old Lambro bade them take liim to the shore. 
 
 Where lay some ships which were to sail at nine, 
 rhey laid him in a boat, and plied the oar 
 - Until tliey reacli'd some galliots, placed in line ; 
 On board of one of these, and under liatches. 
 They stow'd him, with strict orders to the watches. 
 
 r.i. 
 The world is full of strange vicissitudes. 
 
 And here was one exceedingly unpleasant : 
 A gentleman so rich in the world's goods, 
 
 Handsome and young, enjoying all the present, 
 Just at the very time when he least broods 
 
 On such a thing is suddenly to sea sent, 
 Wounded and chain'd, so that he cannot move, 
 And all because a lady fell in love. 
 
 LII. 
 Here I must leave him, for I grow pathetic. 
 Moved by the Chinese nymph of tears, green tea ! 
 
 Than whom Cassandra was not more pripnedc ; 
 
 For if my pure libations exceed three, 
 I feel my heart become so sympathetic, 
 
 That I must have recourse to black Bohea : 
 'Tis pity wine should be so deleterious. 
 For tea and coflFee leave us much more serious. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 Unless when qualified with thee, Cogniac 1 
 Sweet Naiad of the Phlegethontic rill ! 
 
 Ah ! why the liver wilt thou thus attack. 
 And make, like other nymphs, thy lovers ill ? 
 
 I would take refuge in weak punch, but r<ick, 
 (In each sense of the word.) whene'er I fill 
 
 My mild and midnight beakers to tlie brim, 
 
 Wakes me next morning with its synonym. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 I leave Don Juan for the present, safe — 
 
 Not sound, poor fellow, Ijut severely wounded ; 
 
 Yet could his corporal pangs amount to half 
 
 Of those with which his Maidre's bosom lioundeti l 
 
 She was not one to weep, and rave, and chafe, 
 And then give way, subdued because surroundo.l^ 
 
 Her mother was a Moorish maid, from Fez, 
 
 Where all is Eden, or a wilderness. 
 
 I.V. 
 
 There the large olive rail, 's amber store 
 
 In marble fonts ; there grain, and llower, and 
 fruit, 
 
 Gush from the earth until the land runs o'er ; 
 But there, too, many a poison-tree has root, 
 
 And midnight listens to the lion's roar. 
 
 And long, long deserts scorch the camel's foot, 
 
 Or heaving whelm the helpless caravsm ; 
 
 jVnd as the soil is, so the heart of man. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 Afric is all the sun's, and as her earth 
 Her human clay is kindled ; full of power 
 
 For good or evil, burning from its birth. 
 
 The Jloorish blood partakes the planet's hour, 
 
 And like the soil beneath it will liring forth : 
 Beauty and love were HaidCe's mother's dower; 
 
 But her large dark eye show'd deep Passion's forc<^ 
 
 Though sleeping like a lioh near a source. 
 
 LVI I. 
 Her daughter, temper'd with a milder ray. 
 
 Like summer clouds all silvery, smooth, and fair, 
 Till slowly charged with thunder they display 
 
 Terror to earth, and temjtest to the air. 
 Had held till now her soft and milky way ; 
 
 But overwrought with passion and despair, 
 The fire burst forth from her Nuinidian veins, 
 Even as the Simoom sweeps the blasted plains. 
 
Canto it. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 619 
 
 LVIII. 
 The last siglit wliicli she saw was Juan's gore, 
 
 And he himself o'ermaster'd and cut down ; 
 His blood was running ou the very floor 
 
 Where late he trod, her beautiful, her own ; 
 Thus much slie view'd an instant and no more, — 
 
 Her struggles ceased with one convulsive groan ; 
 On her sire's arm, which until now scarce held 
 Her writhing, fell she like a cedar fell'd. 
 
 LIX. 
 A vein had burst, and her sweet lips' pure dyes 
 
 "Were dabbled with the deep blood which ran o'er ; 
 And her head droop'd as wlien the lily lies 
 
 O'ercharged with rain : her summon'd handmaids 
 bore 
 Their lady to her couch -n-ith gushing eyes ; 
 
 Of herbs and cordials they produced their store, 
 But she defied all means they could employ, 
 Like one life could not hold, nor death destroy. 
 
 LX. 
 Days lay she in that state unchanged, though chin — 
 
 With nothing livid, still her lips were red ; 
 She bad no pulse, but death secm'd absent still ; 
 
 No hideous sign proclaim'd her surely dead ; 
 Corruption came not in each mind to kill 
 
 AU hope ; to look upon her sweet face bred 
 New thoughts of life, for it seem'd full of soul — 
 She h.ad so much, earth could not claim the whole. 
 
 LXI. 
 The ruling passion, such as marble shows 
 
 Wlien exquisitely chiselfd, still lay there, 
 But fix'd as marble's unchanged aspect throws 
 
 O'er the fiiir Venus, but forever fair ; 
 O'er the Laocoon's all eternal throes, 
 
 And ever-dying Gladiator's air, 
 Their energy like life forms .all their fame. 
 Yet looks not life, for they are still the same. — 
 
 LXir. 
 She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake, 
 
 Rather the dead, for life seem'd something new, 
 A strange sensation which she must partake 
 
 Perforce, since whatsoever met her view 
 Struck not her memory, though a heavy ache 
 
 Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat still true 
 Brought back the sense of pain witho'it the cause, 
 For, for a while, the furies made a pause. 
 
 I.XIII 
 She look'd on many a face with vacant eye. 
 
 On many a token without knowing what ; 
 She saw them watch her without asking -why ; 
 
 And reck'd not who around her pillow sat ; 
 Not speechless, though she spoke not ; not a sigh 
 
 Relieved her thoujjhts ; dull silence and quick chat 
 
 Were tried in vain by those who served ; she gave 
 No sign, save breath, (f having left the grave. 
 
 LXIV. 
 Her handmaids tended, but she heeded not ; 
 
 Her father watch'd, she turn'd her eyes away; 
 She recognized no being, and no spot. 
 
 However dear or cherish'd in their day ; 
 They changed from room to room, but all forgot. 
 
 Gentle, but without memory she lay ; [ing 
 
 A^t length those eyes, which they would fain be wean- 
 Back to old thoughts, wax'd full of fearful meaning. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 And then a slave bethought her of a harp ; 
 
 The harper came, and tuned his instrument ; 
 At +he first notes, irregular and sharp. 
 
 On him her flashing eyes a moment bent. 
 Then to the wall she turn'd as if to warp 
 
 Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart re- 
 And he begun a long low island song [sent ; 
 
 Of ancient days, ere tyranny grew strong. 
 
 LXVI. 
 Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall 
 
 In time to his old tune ; he changed the theme, 
 And sung of love ; the fierce name struck through aL 
 
 Her recollection ; on her flash'd the dre.am 
 Of what she was, and is, if ye could call 
 
 To be so being ; in a gushing stream 
 The tears rush'd forth from her o'erclouded brain. 
 Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain. 
 
 LXVII. 
 Short solace, vain relief! — thought came too quick, 
 
 And whirl'd her brain to madness ; she arose 
 As one who ne'er had dwelt among the sick. 
 
 And flew at all she met, as on her foes ; 
 But no one ever heard her speak or shriek. 
 
 Although her paroxysm drew towards its close ; — 
 Hers was a phrensy which disdain'd to rave, 
 Even when they smote her, in the hope to save. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 Yet she betray'd at times a gleam of sense ; 
 
 Nothing could make her meet her fa '±er's face. 
 Though on all other things with looks intense 
 
 She gazed, but none she ever could retrace ; 
 Food she refused, and raiment ; no pretence 
 
 Avail'd for either ; neither change of place, 
 Nor time, nor skill, nor remedy, could give her 
 Senses to s\eep — the power seem'd gone forever. 
 
 LXIX. 
 Twelve days and nights she wither'd thus ; at last 
 
 Without a groan, or sigh, or glance, to show 
 A j)arting pang, the spiiit from her pass'd : 
 
 And they who watch'd her nearest could not know 
 
■,w 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Caijto rv 
 
 The very instant, till the change that cast 
 
 Her swcL't face into shadow, dull and slow, 
 Slazed o'er lur eyes — the beautiful, the black — 
 Oh ! to possess such lustre — and then lack !' 
 
 LXX. 
 
 She died, but not alone ; she held Tvithin 
 A second principle of life, which might 
 
 Have dawnVl a fuir and sinless child of sin ; 
 But closed its little being without light. 
 
 And went down to the grave imborn, wherein 
 Blossom and bough lie wither'd with one blight ; 
 
 In vain the dews of Heaven descend above 
 
 The bleeding flower and blasted iruit of love. 
 
 LXXI. 
 Thus lived — thus died she ; never more on her 
 
 ShaU sorrow light, or shame. She was not made 
 Through years or moons tlie inner weight to bear, 
 
 Which colder hearts endure till they are laid 
 By age in earth : lier days and pleasures were 
 
 Brief, but delightful — such as had not staid 
 Long with her destiny ; but she sleeps well 
 By the sea-shore, whereon she loved to dwell. 
 
 LXXII. 
 That isle is now all desolate and bare. 
 
 Its dwellings down, its tenants pass'd away ; 
 None but her own and father's grave is there, 
 
 And nothing outward tells of human clay ; 
 Ye could not know where lies a thing so fair. 
 
 No stone is there to show, no tongue to say 
 What was ; no dirge, except the hollow sea's, 
 Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 But many a Greek maid in a loving song 
 
 Sighs o'er her name ; and many an islander 
 With her sire's story makes the night less long ; 
 
 Valor was his, and licauty dwelt with her : 
 If she loved rashly, her life iraid for wrong — 
 . A heavy price miist all pay who thus err. 
 In some shape ; let none think to fly the danger, 
 For soon or late Love is his own avenger. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 But let me change this theme, which grows too sad, 
 
 And lay this sheet of sorrows on the shelf; 
 " don't much like describing peo])le mad. 
 
 For fear of seeming rather touch'd myself — 
 Besides, I've no more on this head to add ; 
 
 And as my Muse is a capricious elf, 
 We'll put about, and try another tack 
 With Juan, left half-kill'd some stanzas back. 
 
 > r*' Ariel then he drew a dial from his poke, 
 And looking ou U with k lack-lustre eye." 
 
 As Tim Like It.] 
 
 LXXV. 
 Wounded and fetter'd, " cabin'd, cribb'd, confined " 
 
 Some days and nights elapsed before that he 
 Could altogether caU the past to mind : 
 
 And when he did, he found himself at sea 
 Sailing six knots an hour before the wind ; 
 
 The shores of Ilion lay beneath their lee — 
 Another time he might have Uked to see 'em, 
 But now was not much pleased with Cape Sigasum. 
 
 I.XXVI. 
 There, on the green and village-cotted hill, is 
 
 (Flank'd by the Hellespont, and by the sea) 
 Entomb'd the bravest of the brave, AchiUes ; 
 
 They say so — (Bryant says the contrary :) 
 And further downward, tall and towering still, is 
 
 The tumulus — of whom ? Heaven knows ; 't maj 
 be 
 Patroclus, Ajax, or Protesilaus ; 
 All heroes, who if living still would slay us. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 High barrows, without marble, or a name, 
 
 A vast, untill'd, and mountain-skirted plaia, 
 And Ida in the distance, still the same, 
 
 And old Scamander, (if 'tis he,) remain ; 
 The situation seems still form'd for fame — 
 
 A hundred thousand men might fight again 
 With ease ; but where I sought for Ilion's walls, 
 The quiet sheep feeds, and the tortoise crawls ; 
 
 Lxxvm. 
 
 Troops of untended horses ; here and there 
 Some little hamlets, with new names uncouth; 
 
 Some shepherds, (unlike Paris,) led to stare 
 A moment at the European youth 
 
 Whom to the spot their schoolboy feelings bear; 
 A Turk, with beads in hand, and pipe in mouth, 
 
 Extremely taken with his own religion. 
 
 Are what I found there — but the devil a Phrygian. 
 
 bXXIX. 
 
 Don ,Tuan, here permitted to emerge 
 From lus dull cal)in, found himself a slave ; 
 
 Forlorn, and gazing on the deep l)lue surge, 
 O'ershadow'd there by many a hero's grave ; 
 
 Weak still with loss of blood, he scarce could urg6 
 A few brief questions ; and the answers gave 
 
 No very satisfactory information 
 
 About his past or jircsent situation. 
 
 LXXX. 
 He saw some fellow captives, who appear'd 
 
 To be Italians, as they were in fact ; 
 From them at least, their destiny he heard, 
 
 AVhicli was an odd one ; a troop going to act 
 In Sicily — all singers, duly rear'd 
 
 In their vocation ; had not been attack'd 
 
Caxto it. 
 
 DON JUAX 
 
 621 
 
 In sailing from Lirorno by the pirate, 
 
 But sold by the impresario at no higl". rate." 
 
 LXXXI. 
 By one of these, the biiflTo of the party, 
 
 Juan was told about their curious case ; 
 For altlinugh destii^ed to the Turkish mart, he 
 
 Still kept his spirits up — at least his face ; 
 The little fellow really look'd quite hearty. 
 
 Arid bore mth him some gayety and grace, 
 Showing a much more reconciled demeanor, 
 Than did the prima donna and the tenor. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 In a few words he told their hapless story, 
 
 Saying, " Our MachiaveUan impresario, 
 IVIaking a signal off some promontory, 
 
 Hail'd a strange brig ; Corpo di Caio Mario ! 
 We were transferr'd on board her in a hurry. 
 
 Without a single scudo of salario ; 
 But if the Sultan has a taste for song, 
 We will revive our fortunes before long. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 " The prima donna, though a little old, 
 
 And haggard with a dissipated life. 
 And subject, when the house is thin, to cold. 
 
 Has some good notes ; and then the tenor's wife, 
 With no great voice, is jileasing to behold ; 
 
 Last carnival she made a deal of strife 
 By carrying off Count Cesare Cicogna 
 From an old Roman princess at Bologna. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 " And then there are the dancers ; there 's the Nini, 
 
 With more than one profession, gains by aU ; 
 Then there 's that laughing slut the Pelegrini, 
 
 She, too, was fortunate last carnival, 
 And made at least five hundred good zecchini, 
 
 But spends so fast, she has not now a paul ; 
 And then there '9 the Grotesca — such a dancer ! 
 Where men have souls or bodies she must answer. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 " As for the figuranti, they are like 
 
 The rest of all that tribe ; with here and there 
 A pretty person, which perhaps may strike, 
 
 The rest are hardly fitted for a fair ; 
 There 's one, though tall and stiffei than a pike, 
 
 Yet has a sentimental kind of air 
 'Wliicli might go far, but she don't dance with vigor; 
 The more "s the pity, with her face and figure. 
 
 " This is a fact. .-V few years ngo a man engaged a company for 
 Bome foreign tlieatre, embarked Ibem at an Italian port, and carry- 
 ing tiiem to .-Mgier?, sold them all. One of the women, returned 
 from her captirity. I heard sing, by a strange coincidence, in Ros- 
 Blni'fl opera of ^' L'ltaliana in .^Igieri," in Venice, In the begin- 
 ning f 1S17. 
 
 LXXXYI. 
 " As for the men, they are a middling set ; 
 
 The musico is but a crack'd old basin, 
 But being qualified in one way yet, 
 
 May the seraglio do to set his face in. 
 And as a servant some preferment get ; 
 
 His singing I no further trust can place in : 
 From all the Pope^ makes yearly 'twould pci-plex 
 To find three perfect pijjes of the t!i inl sex. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 " The tenor's voice is spoilt by affectation. 
 
 And for the bass, the beast can only bellow ; 
 In fact, he had no singing education, 
 
 An ignorant, noteless, timeless, tuneless fellow, 
 But being the prima donna's near relation. 
 
 Who swore his voice was very rich and mellow, 
 They hired him, though to hear him you'd believe 
 An ass was practising recitative. 
 
 LXXXVin. 
 " 'Twould not become myself to dwell upon 
 
 My own merits, and though young, — I see. Sir — 
 Have got a travell'd air, which speaks you one [yoc 
 
 To whom the opera is by no means new : 
 You've heard of Eaucocanti ? — I'm the man ; 
 
 The time may come when you may hear me too ; 
 You was not last year at the fair of Lugo, 
 But next, when I'm engaged to sing there — do go. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 " Our baritone I almost had forgot, 
 A pretty lad, but bursting with conceit : 
 
 With graceful action, science not a jot, 
 
 A voice of not great compass, and not sweet, 
 
 He always is complaining of his lot. 
 
 Forsooth, scarce fit for ballads in the street; 
 
 In lovers' parts his passion more to breathe. 
 
 Having no heart to show, he shows his teeth." 
 
 XC. 
 Here Raucocanti's eloquent recital 
 
 Was interrupted by the pirate crew. 
 Who came at stated moments to in^-ite all 
 
 The captives back to their sad berths ; each threw 
 A rueful glance upon the waves, (which bright all 
 
 From the blue skies derived a double blue. 
 Dancing all free and happy in the sun.) 
 And then went dovrc 'he hatchway one by one. 
 
 XCI. 
 They heard next day — that in the Dardanelles, 
 
 Waiting for his Sublimity's firmfin. 
 The most imperative of sovereign spells, 
 
 AVTiich everybody does without who can. 
 
 ' It is strange that it ehonld be the Pope and the Saltan who art 
 the chief enconragers of this branch of trade— womea being pro- 
 hibited as singers at St. Peter's, and not deemed trust-worthy as 
 guardians of the harem. 
 
622 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Ca>t() it 
 
 More to secure them in tlicir naval cells, 
 
 Lady to lady, well as man to man, 
 Were to be cliain'd and lotted out per couple, 
 For the slave market of Constantinople. 
 
 XCII. 
 It seems when this allotment was made out, 
 
 Tliere chanced to be an odd male, and odd female, 
 Wlio (after some discussion and some doubt. 
 
 If the soprano might be dcem'd to he male, 
 They placed him o'er the women as a scout) 
 
 Were link'd together, and it happen'd the male 
 Was Juan, — who, an awkward thing at his age, 
 Pair'd off with a Bacchante's blooming visage. 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 With Raucocanti lucklessly was chain'd 
 The tenor ; these two liated with a hate 
 
 Found only on the stage, and each more pain'd 
 With this his tuneful neighbor than his fate ; 
 
 Bad strife arose, for they were so crosa-grain'd. 
 Instead of bearing up without debate. 
 
 That each pull'd different ways with many an oath, 
 
 " Arcades ambo," id est — blackguards both. 
 
 XCIV. 
 Juan's companion was a Romagnole, 
 
 But bred within the march of old Ancona, 
 With eyes that look'd into the very soul, 
 
 (And other chief points of a " bella donna,") 
 Bright — and as black and burning as a coal ; 
 
 And through her clear brunet te complexion shone a 
 Great wish to please — a most attractive dower. 
 Especially when added to the power. 
 
 XCV. 
 But all that power was wasted upon him. 
 
 For sorrow o'er each sense held stern command ; 
 Her eye might flash on his, but found it dim ; 
 
 And though thus chain'd, as natural her hand 
 Touch'd his, nor that — nor any handsome limb 
 - (And she had some not easy to withstand) 
 Could stir his pulse, or make his faith feel brittle. 
 Perhaps his recent wounds might help a little. 
 
 Xt'VI. 
 No matter ; we should ne'er too much inquire, 
 
 But facts are facts : no knight could be more true, 
 And firmer faith no ladye-love desire ; 
 
 We will omit the proofs, save one or two : 
 'Tis said no one in hand " can hold a fire 
 
 By thought of frosty Caucasus ;" but few, 
 I really think ; yet Juan's then ordeal 
 Was more triumijhant, and not much less "eal. 
 
 XCVII. 
 Here I might enter on a chaste description. 
 Having withstood temptation in my youth, 
 
 But hear that several people take excejition 
 At the first two books having too much truth ; 
 
 Therefore Til make Don Juan leave the ship soon, 
 Because the publisher declares, in sooth, 
 
 Through needles' eyes it easier for the camel is 
 
 To pass, than those two cantos into families. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 'Tis aU the same to me ; I'm fond of yielding, 
 And therefore leave them to the purer page 
 
 Of Smollett, Prior, Ariosto, Fielding, 
 Who say strange things for so correct an age ; 
 
 I once had great al.aerity in wielding 
 My pen, and liked poetic war to wage. 
 
 And recollect the time when all this cant 
 
 Would have provoked remarks which now it shan't 
 
 XCIX. 
 
 As boys love rows, my boyhood liked a squabble ; 
 
 But at this hour I wish to part in peace, 
 Leaving such to the literary rabble. 
 
 Whether my verse's fame be doom'd to cease, 
 Wliile the right hand which wrote it still is able, 
 
 Or of some centuries to take a lease ; 
 The grass upon my grave will grow as long. 
 And sigh to midnight winds, but not to song. 
 
 C. 
 
 Of poets who come down to us through distance 
 Of time and tongues,'thc foster-babes of Fame, 
 
 Life seems the smallest portion of existence ; 
 Where twenty ages gather o'er a name, 
 
 'Tis as a snowball which derives assistance 
 From every flake, and yet rolls on the same. 
 
 Even tiU an iceberg it may chance to grow ; 
 
 But, after all, 'tis nothing liut cold snow. 
 
 CI. 
 
 And so great names are nothing more than nomiii'ii, 
 
 And love of glory 's but an airy lust, 
 Too often in its fury overcoming all 
 
 Wlio would as 'twere identify their dust 
 From out the wide destruction, which, entombing all, 
 
 Leaves nothing till " the coming of the just " — 
 Save change : I've stood upon Achilles' tomb. 
 And heard Troy doubted ; time will doubt of Ron q 
 
 CII. 
 The very generations of the dead 
 
 Are swept away, and tomb inherits tomb. 
 Until the memory of an age is fled, 
 
 And, buried, sinks beneath its ofl'spring's doom 
 Where are the qjitaphs our fathers read ? 
 
 Save a few glean'd from the sepulchral gloom 
 Which once-named myriads nameless lie beneath, 
 And lose their own in universal death. 
 
Canto hi. 
 
 DON JTJAN. 
 
 623 
 
 cm. 
 ^ canter by the spot each afternoon 
 
 Wlicre perish'd in his fame the hero-boy, 
 Who lived too long for men, but died too soon 
 
 For human vanity, the young De Foix ! 
 A broken pillar, not uncouthly hewn, 
 
 But which neglect is hastening to destroy. 
 Records Itaveuna's carnage on its face. 
 While weeds and ordure rankle round the base. 
 
 CIV. 
 
 I pass each day where Dante's bones are laid : 
 A little cupola, more neat than solemn. 
 
 Protects his dust, but reverence here is paid 
 
 To the bard's tomb, and not the warrior's column : 
 
 The time must come, when both alike decay'd. 
 The chieftain's trophy, and the jooet's volume. 
 
 Will sink where lie the songs and wars of earth. 
 
 Before Pelides' death, or Homer's birth. 
 
 CV. 
 With human blood that column was cemented, 
 
 With human filth that column is defiled. 
 As if the peasant's coarse contempt were vented 
 
 To show his loathing of the spot he soil'd : 
 Thus is the trophy used, and thus lamented 
 
 Should ever be those bloodhounds, from whose 
 Instinct of gore and glory earth has known [wild 
 Those sufferings Dante saw in hell alone. 
 
 CVI. 
 Yet there will still be bards : though fame is smoke, 
 
 Its fumes are frankincense to human thought ; 
 And the unquiet feelings, which first woke 
 
 Song in the world, will seek what then they sought ; 
 As on the beach the waves at last are broke. 
 
 Thus to their extreme verge the passions brought 
 Dash into poetry, which is but passion, 
 Or at least was so ere it grew a fashion. 
 
 CVII. 
 If m the course of such a life as was 
 
 At once adventurous and oonteuiplative. 
 Men who partake all passions as they pass. 
 
 Acquire the deep and bitter power to give 
 Their images again as in a glass, 
 
 And in such colors that they seem to live ; 
 You may do right forbidding them to show 'em. 
 But spoil (I think) a very pretty poem. 
 
 cvni. 
 Oh ! ye, who make the fortunes of all books 1 
 
 Benign Ceruleans of the second sex 1 
 Who advertise new poems by your looks. 
 
 Your " imprimatur " will ye not annex ? 
 Wliat ! must I go to the olilivious cooks ? 
 
 Those Cornish plunderers of Parnassian wrecks ? 
 
 Ah ! must I then the mly minstrel be. 
 Proscribed from tasting yoiu- Castalian tea 1 
 
 CIX. 
 
 Wbat ! can I prove " a lion " then no more ? 
 
 A ball-room bard, a foolscap, hot-press darling ? 
 To bear the compliments of many a bore. 
 
 And sigh, " I can't get out." like Yorick's starling ; 
 Why then I'll swear, as poet Wordy swore, 
 
 (Because the world won't read him, always snarl- 
 That taste is gone, that fiime is but a lottery, [ing,) 
 Drawn by the blue-coat misses of a coterie. 
 
 ex. 
 
 Oh ! " darkly, deeply, beautifully blue," 
 As some one somewhere sings aljout the sky, 
 
 And I, ye learned ladies, say of you ; 
 
 They say your stockings are so — (Heaven knows 
 why, 
 
 I have examined few pair of that hue ;) 
 Blue as the garters which serenely lie 
 
 Round the Patrician left-legs, which adorn 
 
 The festal midnight, and the levee mom 
 
 CXI. 
 Yet some of you are most seraphic creatures — 
 
 But times are alter'd since, a rhyming lover. 
 You read my stanzas, and I read your features : 
 
 And — but no matter, all those things are over I 
 Still I have no dislike to learned natures, 
 
 For sometimes such a world of virtues cover ; 
 I knew one woman of that purple school, , 
 The loveliest, chastest, best, but — quite a fool. 
 
 CXII. 
 
 Humboldt, " the first of travellers," but not 
 The last, if late accounts be accurate. 
 
 Invented, by some name I have forgot. 
 As well as the sublime discovery's date. 
 
 An airy instrument, with which he sought, 
 To ascertain the atmospheric state. 
 
 By measuring "the inten«Hij of Itjiic ;" 
 
 Oh, Lady Daphne ! let me measure you 1 
 
 CXIII. 
 
 But to the narrative : — The vessel bound 
 
 With slaves to sell oif in the capital. 
 After the usual process, might be foimd 
 
 At anchor under the seraglio wall ; 
 Her cargo, from the plague being safe and sovjid. 
 
 Were landed in the market, one and all, 
 And there with Georgians, Russians, and Circassiana, 
 Bought up for different purposes and passions. 
 
 cxir. 
 
 Some went off dearly ; fifteen hundred dollars 
 For one Circassian, a sweet girl, were given. 
 
BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto r 
 
 Warrf.ntccl virgin ; heaiity's brightest colors 
 Had (Icck'il her out in all the hues of heaven : 
 
 Her sale sent lioinc some disappointed bawlcrs, 
 Who bade on till the hundreds reach'd eleven ; 
 
 But \;hen the offer went beyond, they knew 
 
 'Twas for the Sultan, and at once vnthdrew. 
 
 CXV. 
 Twelve negresses from Nubia brought a price 
 
 Whieli tlie West Indian market scarce could bring ; 
 Though Wilberforce, at last, has made it twice 
 
 Wliat 'twas ere Aljolition ; and the thing 
 Need not seem very wonderful, for vice 
 
 Is always much more splendid than a king : 
 The virtues, even the most exalted, Charity, 
 Are saving — vice spares nothing for a rarity. 
 
 CXVI. 
 Btlt for the destiny of this young troop. 
 
 How some were bought by pachas, some by Jews, 
 How some to burdens were obliged to stoop, 
 
 And others rose to the command of crews 
 As renegadocs ; while in liai>less group. 
 
 Hoping no very old vizier might choose, 
 The females stood, as one by one they pick'd 'em 
 To make a mistress, or fourth wife, or victim : 
 
 CXVII. 
 Ail lliis must be reserved for further song ; 
 
 Also our hero's lot, howe'er unpleasant, 
 (Because this Canto has become too long,) 
 
 Must be postponed discreetly for the present ; 
 I'm sensible redundancy is wrong. 
 
 But could not for the muse of me put less in "t : 
 \nd now delay the progress of Don Juan, 
 Till what is cuU'd in Ossian the fifth Duan. 
 
 DON J U A Js\ 
 
 CANTO TUB FIFTH. 
 
 When amatory poets sing their loves 
 
 In liquid lines mcllifluously bl.and. 
 And pair their rhymes as Venus yokes her doves, 
 
 They little think wh.at mischief is in hand ; 
 The greater their success the worse it proves, 
 
 As Ovid's verse may give to understand ; 
 Even Petrarch's self, if judged with due severity, 
 [s the Platonic pimp of all posterity. 
 
 11. 
 
 [ therefore do denounce all amorous writing. 
 Except in svich a way as not to attract ; 
 
 Plain — simple — short, and by no means inviting. 
 But with a moral to each error tack'd, 
 
 Form'd rather for instrucring than delighting, 
 And with all passions in their turn attack'd ; 
 Now, if my Pegasus should not be shod ill, 
 This poem will become a moral modeL 
 
 III. 
 
 The European with the Asian shore 
 
 Sprinkled with palaces ; the ocean stream 
 
 Here and there studded with a seventy-four ; 
 Sophia's cupola with golden gleam • 
 
 The cypress groves ; Olympus high and hoar j 
 The twelve isles, and the more than I could dream, 
 
 Far less describe, present the very view 
 
 Which charm'd the charming Mary Montagu. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I have a passion for the name of " Mary," 
 For once it was a magic sound to me. 
 
 And still it half calls up the realms of fairy, 
 Where I beheld what never was to be ; 
 
 All feelings changed, but this was last to vary, 
 A spell from which even yet I am not quite free: 
 
 But I grow sad — ^and let a tale grow cold. 
 
 Which must not be pathetically told. 
 
 V. 
 The wind swept down the Euxine, and the wave 
 
 Broke foaming o'er the blue Symplegades ; 
 'Tis a grand sight from off "the Giant's Grave" 
 
 To watch the progress of those roiling seas 
 Between the Bosphorus, as they lash and lave 
 
 Europe and Asia, you being quite at cuse ; 
 There 's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in. 
 Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Eu.Tinek 
 
 VI. 
 
 'Twas a raw day of Autumn's bleak beginning. 
 When nights are equal, but not so the days ; 
 
 The ParCiE then cut short the further spinning 
 Of seamen's fates, and the loud tempests raise 
 
 The waters, and repentance for past sinning 
 In all, who o'er the great deep take their ways : 
 
 They vow to amend their lives, and yet they don't ; 
 
 Because if drown'd, they can't — if spared, they won't, 
 
 VII. 
 A crowd of shivering slaves of every nation. 
 
 And age, and sex, were in the market ranged ; 
 Each lievy with the merchant in his station : 
 
 Poor creatures ! their good looks were sadly chang- 
 All save the blacks seem'd jaded with vexation, [ed. 
 
 From friends, and home, and freedom far estrang- 
 The negroes more i)hilosophy display'd — [ed 
 
 Used to it, no doubt, as eels are to be flay'd. 
 
 vin. 
 
 Juan was juvenile, and thus was full. 
 
 As most at his age are, of hope and health ; 
 
Canto v. 
 
 DON JUAX. 
 
 625 
 
 Yet I must own, he look'd a little dull, 
 And now and then a tear stole down by stealth ; 
 
 Perhaps his recent loss of blood might pull 
 His sjjirit down ; and then the loss of wealth, 
 
 A. mistress, and such comfortable quarters, 
 
 To be put up for auction amongst Tartars, 
 
 IX. 
 Were things to shake a stoic ; ne'ertheless. 
 
 Upon the whole his carriage was serene : 
 His figure, and the splendor of his dress. 
 
 Of which some gilded remnants still were seen. 
 Drew all eyes on him, giving them to guess 
 
 He was above the vulgar by his mien ; 
 And then, though jjale, he was so very handsome ; 
 And then— they calculated on his ransom. 
 
 X. 
 Like a backgammon board the place was dotted 
 
 With whites and blacks, in groups on show for 
 sale, 
 Though rather more irregularly spotted : 
 
 Some bought the jet, while others chose the pale. 
 It chanced amongst the other people lotted, 
 
 A man of thirty, rather stout and hale. 
 With resolution in his dark gray eye. 
 Next Juan stood, till some might choose to buy. 
 
 XI. 
 
 He had an English look ; that is, was square 
 In make, of a complexion white and ruddy. 
 
 Good teeth, with curling rather dark brown hair. 
 And, it might be from thought, or toil, or study. 
 
 An open brow a little mark'd with care : 
 One arm had on a bandage rather bloody ; 
 
 And there he stood with such sang-froid, that greater 
 
 Could scarce be shown even by a mere spectator. 
 
 XII. 
 But seeing at his elbow a mere lad. 
 
 Of a high spirit evidently, though 
 At present weighed down by a doom which had 
 
 O'erthrown even men, he soon began to show 
 A kind of blunt compassion for the sad 
 
 Lot of so young a partner in the wo, 
 Which for himself he seem'd to deem no worse 
 Than any other scrape, a thing of course. 
 
 XIII. 
 "My boy !" said he, " amidst this motley crew 
 
 Of Georgians, Russians, Nubians, and what not. 
 All ragamuffins differing but in hue. 
 
 With whom it is our luck to cast our lot. 
 The only gentlemen seem I and you ; 
 
 So let us be acquainted, as we ought : 
 If I could yield you any consolation, 
 Twould give me pleasure. — Pray, what is your na- 
 tion ?" 
 
 XIV. 
 When Juan answer'd — " Spanish !" he replied, 
 
 " I thought, in fact, you could not be a Greek ; 
 Those servile dogs are not so proudly eyed : 
 
 Fortune has play'd you here a pretty freak. 
 But that 's her way with all men, till they're tried ; 
 
 But never mind, — she'll turn, perhaps, next week; 
 She has served me also much the same as you, 
 Except that I have found it nothing new." 
 
 XV. 
 " Pray, sir," said Juan, " if I may presume, [rare — 
 
 Whdt brought you here ?" — " Oh ! nothing very 
 Six Tartars and a drag-chain " — " To this doom 
 
 But what conducted, if the question 's fair, 
 Is that which I would learn." — " I served for some 
 
 Months with the Russian array here and there. 
 And taking lately, by Suwarrow's bidding, 
 A town, was ta'en myself instead of Widdin." 
 
 XVI. 
 " Have you no friends ?" — " I had — but, by God's 
 blessing. 
 
 Have not been troubled with them lately. Now 
 I have answer'd all your questions without pressing, 
 
 And you an equal courtesy should show." 
 " Alas !'" said Juan, " 'twere a tale distressing. 
 
 And long besides." — " Oh ! if 'tis reaUy so, 
 You're right on both accounts to hold your tongue ; 
 A sad tale saddens doubly, when 'tis long. 
 
 XVII. 
 " But droop not : Fortune at your time of life, 
 
 Although a female moderately fickle. 
 Will hardly leave you (as she 's not your wife) 
 
 For any length of days in such a pickle. 
 To strive, too, with our fate w^ere such a strife 
 
 As if the corn-sheaf should oppose the sickle : 
 Men are the sport of circumstances, when 
 The circumstances seem the sport of men." 
 
 XVIII. 
 " 'Tis not," said Juan, " for my present doom 
 
 I mourn, but for the past ; — I loved a maid :" — 
 He paused, and his dark eye grew full of gloom ; 
 
 A single tear upon his eyelash staid 
 A moment, and then dropp'd ; " but to resume, 
 
 'Tis not my present lot, as I have said, 
 Wliich I deplore so much ; for I have borne 
 Hardships which have the hardiest overworn, 
 
 XIX. 
 
 "On the rough deep. But this last blow — " and 
 He stopp'd again, and tum'd away his face, [hero 
 
 "Ay," quoth his friend, "I thought it would appear 
 That there had been a lady in the case ; 
 
 And these are things which ask a tender tear, 
 Such as I, toe would shed if in your place : 
 
S26 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto 
 
 I cried upon my first wife's flying day, 
 And also when my second ran away : 
 
 XX. 
 
 "My third "—"Your tliird !" quotli Jnan, turn- 
 ing round ; 
 •• Yon scarcely can be thirty : have you three ?" 
 " No — only two at present above ground : 
 
 Surely 'tis nothing wonderful to see 
 
 One person thrice in holy wedlock bound !" [she ? 
 
 "Well, then, your third," said Juan; "what did 
 
 She did not run away, too, — did she, sir ?" [her." 
 
 No, faith." — " \Miat then!" — "I ran away from 
 
 XXI. 
 
 'You take things coolly, sir," said Juan. "Why," 
 Replied the other, " what can a man do ? 
 
 There still are many rainbows in your sky, 
 But mine have vanish'd. All, when life is new. 
 
 Commence with feelings warm, and prospects high ; 
 But time strips our illusions of their hue. 
 
 And one by one in turn, some grand mistake 
 
 Casts off its bright skin yearly like the snake. 
 
 XXII 
 " Tis true, it gets another bright and fresh. 
 
 Or fresher, brighter ; but the year gone through. 
 This skin must go the way, too, of all flesh, 
 
 Or sometimes only wear a week or too ; — 
 Loves 's the first net which spreads its deadly mesh ; 
 
 Ambition, Avarice, Vengeance, Glory, glue 
 The glittering lime-twigs of our latter days, 
 Wliere still we flutter on for pence or praise." 
 
 XXIII 
 
 " All this is very fine, and may be true," 
 Said Juan ; " but I really don't see how 
 
 It betters present times with me or you." 
 
 " No ?" quoth the other ; " yet you will allow 
 
 By setting things in their right point of view. 
 Knowledge, at least, is gain'd ; for instance, now. 
 
 We know what slavery is, and our disasters 
 ■ May teach us better to behave when masters." 
 
 XXIV. 
 " Would we were masters now, if but to try 
 
 Their present lessons on our Pagan friends here," 
 Said Juan, — swallowing a heart-burning sigh : 
 
 "Heaven help the scholar whom his fortune sends 
 here 1" 
 "Perhaps we shall be one day, by and by," 
 
 Rejoin'd the ither, " when our bad luck mends ; 
 Meantime (yon tld black eunuch seems to eye us) 
 [ wish to G — d that somebody would buy us. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 •* But after all, what is our present state ? 
 
 'Tis Iiad, and may be better — all men's lot ; 
 Most men are slaves, none more so than the great, 
 
 To their own whims and passions, and what not; 
 Society itself, which should create 
 
 Kindness, destroys what little we had got : , 
 
 To feel for none is the true social art 
 Of the world's stoics — men without a heart." 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Just now a black old neutral personage 
 
 Of the third sex stepp'd up, and peering over 
 
 The captives secm'd to mark their looks and age. 
 And capabilities, as to discover 
 
 If they were fitted for the purposed cage : 
 No lady e'er is ogled by a lover. 
 
 Horse by a blackleg, liroadcloth by a tailor, 
 
 Fee by a counsel, felon by a jailer, 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 As is a slave by his intended liidder. 
 
 'Tis pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures ; 
 And all are to be sold, if you consider 
 
 Their passions, and are dex'trous ; some by fea- 
 Are bought up, others by a warlike leader, [turcs 
 
 Some by a place — as tend their years or natures ; 
 The most by ready cash — but all have prices. 
 From crowns to kicks, according to their vices 
 
 xxvni. 
 The eunuch having eyed them o'er ^vith care, 
 
 Turn'd to the merchant, and began to bid 
 First but for one, and after for the pair ; 
 
 They haggled, wrangled, swore, too — so they did I 
 As though they were in a mere Christian fair 
 
 Cheapening an ox, an ass, a lamb, or kid ; 
 So that their bargain sounded like a battle 
 For this superior yoke of human cattle. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 At last they settled into simple grumbling. 
 
 And pulling out reluctant purses, and 
 Turning each piece of silver o'er, and tumbling 
 
 Some down, and weighing others in their hand, 
 And by mistake sequins with par.as jumbling. 
 
 Until the sum was accurately scann'd. 
 And then the merchant gi^'ing change, and signing 
 Receipts in full, began to think of dining. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 I wonder if his appetite was good ? 
 
 Or, if it were, if also his digestion ? [trude, 
 
 Methinks at meals some odd thoughts might in- 
 
 And conscience ask a curious sort of question. 
 About the right divine how far we should 
 
 Sell flesh and blood. When dinner has oppress'd 
 I think it is perhaps the gloomiest hour [one 
 
 Which turns up out of the sad twenty-four. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Voltaire says " No :" he tells you that Candida 
 Found life most tolerable after meals ; 
 
Canto t. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 627 
 
 He 's -wrong— unless man were a pig, indeed, 
 Repletion ratlier adds to what he feels, 
 
 Unless he 's drunk, and then no doubt he 's jfreed 
 From his own brain's ojjpression while it reels. 
 
 Of food I think with Philip's son, or rather 
 
 Amnion's, (ill pleased with one world and one father ;) 
 
 XXXIl. 
 I think with Alexander, that the act 
 
 Of eating, with another act or two. 
 Makes us feel our mortality in fact 
 
 Redoubled ; when a roast and a ragout. 
 And Ssh. and soup, by some side dishes hack'd. 
 
 Can give us either pain or pleasure, who 
 Would pique himself on intellects, whose use 
 DepencLs so much upon the gastric juice ? 
 
 XXXIII. 
 The other evening, ('twas on Friday last) — 
 
 This is a fact, and no poetic fable — 
 Just as my great-coat was about me cast. 
 
 My hat and gloves still lying on the table, 
 I heard a shot— 'twas eight o'clock scarce past — 
 
 And, running out as fast as I was able," 
 I found the military commandant 
 Stretch'd in the street, and a'^le scarce to pant. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 Poor fellow ! for some reason, surely bad, 
 
 They had slain him with five slugs ; and left him 
 To perish on the pavement : so I had [there 
 
 Him borne into the house and up the stair. 
 And stripp'd, and look'd to, But why should I 
 
 More circumstances ? vain was every care ; [add 
 The man was gone : in some Italian quarrel 
 Kill'd by five bullets from an old gun-barrel. 
 
 XXXV. 
 I gazed upon him, for I knew him well ; 
 
 And though I have seen many corpses, never 
 Saw one, whom such an accident befell, [and liver. 
 
 So calm : though pierced tlirough stomach, heart, 
 He seem'd to sleep — for you could scarcely tell 
 
 (As he bled inwardly, no hideous river 
 Of gore divulged the cause) that he was dead : 
 So as I gazed oa him, I thought or said — 
 
 XXXVI. 
 " Can this be death ? then what is life or death 1 
 Speak !'' but he spoke not : " wake !" but still he 
 slept : — 
 ''But yesterday and who had mightier breath ? 
 A thousand warriors by his word were kept 
 In awe : he said, as the centurion saith. 
 
 ' Go,' and he goeth ; ' come,' and forth he stepp'd. 
 
 ' The assassination alluded to took place on the 8th of Decem- 
 ber, 18^, in the streets of Ravenna, not a hundred paces from 
 the residence of the writer. The circumBtances were as described. 
 
 The trump and bugle till he spake were dumb — 
 ^^d now naught left him but the muffled drum." 
 
 XXXVII. 
 And they who waited once and worshipp'd — they 
 
 With their rough faces throng'd about the bed 
 To gaze once more on the commanding clay 
 
 AVhich for the last, though riot the first, time bled : 
 And such an end ! that he who many a day 
 
 Had faced Napoleon's foes until they fled, — 
 The foremost in the charge or in the sally, 
 Should now be butcher'd in a civic alley. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 The scars of his old wounds were near his new. 
 Those honorable scars which brought him fame ; 
 
 And horrid was the contrast to the view 
 
 But let me quit the theme ; as such things claim 
 
 Perhaps even more attention than is due 
 From me : I gazed (as oft I have gazed the same) 
 
 To try if I could wrench aught out of death 
 
 Which should confirm, or shake, or make a faith ; 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 But it was all a mystery. Here we are. 
 
 And there we go : — but wh^re f five bits of lead, 
 
 Or three, or two, or one, send very far ! 
 And is this blood, then, form'd but to be shed ? 
 
 Can every element our elements mar ? 
 
 And air — eartli — water — fire live — and we dead ? 
 
 TTe, whose minds comprehend all things ? No more; 
 
 But let us to the story as before. 
 
 XL. 
 
 The purchaser of Juan and acquaintance 
 
 Bore off his bargains to a gilded boat, [thence 
 
 Embark'd himself and them, and off they went 
 As fast as oars could pull and water float ; 
 
 They look'd like persons being led to sentence. 
 Wondering what next, till the caique^ was brought 
 
 Up in a little creek below a wall 
 
 O'ertopp'd with cypresses, dark-green and tall. 
 
 XLI. 
 Here their conductor tapping at the wicket 
 
 Of a small iron door, 'twas open'd, and 
 He led them onward, first through a low thicket 
 
 Flank'd by large groves, which tower'd on eithel 
 hand : 
 They almost lost their way, and had to pick it — 
 
 For night was closing ere they came to land. 
 The eunuch made a sign to those on board, 
 Who row'd off, leaving them Avithout a word. 
 
 XLII. 
 As they were plodding on their vrinding way 
 
 Through orange bowers, and jasmine, and so forth : 
 
 ^ The light and elegant wherries plying about the quays of Cor 
 etanstinople are so called. 
 
628 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Caxto r. 
 
 (Of which I might have a good deal to say, 
 There being no sucli prolusion in the North 
 
 Of oriental plants, " et cetera," 
 
 But that of late your scribblers think it worth 
 
 Their Arhile to rear whole hotbeds in iheir works, 
 
 Because one poet travel'd 'mongst the Turks :) 
 
 XLIII. 
 As they were threading on their way, there came 
 
 Into Don Juan's head a thought, which he 
 Wliisper'd to his companion : — 'twas the same 
 
 Which might have then occurr'd to ynu or me. 
 "Methinks," — said he, — "it would be no great 
 shame 
 
 If we should strike a stroke to set us free ; 
 Let 's knock that old black fellow on the head." 
 A.nd march away — 'twere easier done than said." 
 
 XLIV. 
 " Yes," said the other, " and wlion done, what then ? 
 
 How (let out ? how the devil got we in ? 
 And when we once were fairly out, and when 
 
 From Saint Bartholomew we have saved our skin. 
 To-morrow 'd see us in some other den. 
 
 And worse off than we hitherto have been ; 
 Besides, I'm hungry, and just now would take. 
 Like Esau, for my birthright a beefsteak. 
 
 XLV. 
 " We must be near some place of man's abode ; — 
 
 For the old negro's confidence in creeping. 
 With his two captives, by so queer a road. 
 
 Shows that he thinks his friends have not been 
 sleeping ; 
 A single cry would bring them all abroad : 
 
 'Tis therefore better looking before leaping — 
 And there, you see, this turn has brought us through. 
 By Jove, a noble palace ! — lighted too." 
 
 XLVI. 
 It was indeed a wide extensive building 
 
 Which opon'd on their view, and o'er the front 
 There seem'd to be besprent a deal of gilding 
 
 Ajid various hues, as is the Turkish wont, — 
 A gaudy taste ; for tliey arc little skill'd in 
 
 The arts of which these lauds wore once the font : 
 Each villa on the Bosphorus looks a screen 
 New painted, or a pretty opera-scene. 
 
 XLVIT. 
 And nearer as they came, a genial savor 
 
 Of certain stews, and roast-meats, and pilaus. 
 Things which in hungry mortals' eyes find favor. 
 
 Made Juan in his harsh intentions pause, 
 knt\ put himself upon his good behavior: 
 
 His friend, too, adding a new saving clause, 
 
 > [" Guide des Voyagenrs," " DlrectiorB for Travellers," etc.— 
 * Rhymes, Incidental and nnmoron«," " Rliyming Reminiscences," 
 ' J)a'll^ions In Rhyme," etc.—" Lady Morgan's Tour in Italy," 
 
 Said, " In Heaven's name let 's get some supper now 
 And then I'm with you, if you're for a row."' 
 
 XLVIII. 
 Some talk of an appeal unto some passion, 
 
 Some to men's feelings, others to their reason ; 
 The last of these was never much the fashion, 
 
 For reason thinks all reasoning out of season. 
 Some speakers whine, and others lay the lash on, 
 
 But more or less continue still to tease on, 
 With arguments according to their " forte ;" 
 But no one ever dreams of being short. — 
 
 XLIX. 
 But I digress : of all appeals, — although 
 
 I grant the power of pathos, and of gold, 
 Of beauty, flattery, threats, a shilling, — no 
 
 Method 's more sure at moments to take hold 
 Of the best feelinsrs of mankind, which grow 
 
 More tender, as we every day behold, 
 Than that all-softening, oveq)owering knell, 
 The tocsin of the soul — the dinner-beU. 
 
 Turkey contains no bells, and yet men dine ; 
 
 And Juan and his friend, albeit they heard 
 No Christian knoll to table, saw no line 
 
 Of lackeys usher to the feast prepared. 
 Yet smelt roast-meat, beheld a huge fire shine, 
 
 And cooks in motion with their clean arms bai*'*, 
 And gazed around them to the left and right, 
 With the i^rophetic eye of appetite. 
 
 LI. 
 And giving up all notions of resistance. 
 
 They follow'd close behind their sable guide, 
 Who little thought that his own crack'd existenc« 
 
 Was on the point of being set aside : 
 He motion'd them to stop at some small distance, 
 
 And knocking at the gate, 'twas open'd wide, 
 And a magnificent large hall display'd 
 The Asian pomp of Ottoman parade. 
 
 LIL 
 I won't describe ; description is my forte, 
 
 But every fool describes in these bright days 
 His wondrous journey to some foreign court. 
 
 And spawns his quarto, and dcnuinds your praise- 
 Death to his publisher, to him 'tis sport ; 
 
 While Nature, tortured twenty thousand ways. 
 Resigns herself with exemplary patience [tions. 
 To guide-books, rhymes, tours, sketches, illustra- 
 
 LITI. 
 Along this hall, and up and down, some, squatted 
 Upon their hams, were occupied at chess ; 
 
 " Tour tlirough Istria," etc., etc.—" Slietchcs of Italy," " Sketclief 
 of Modem Greece," etc., etc.— The last is a playful allusion to hli 
 Mend Mr. Hobhouse's " Illustrations of Childe Harold.") 
 
Canto v. 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 029 
 
 Others in monosyllable talk chatted, 
 
 And some seem'd much in love with theii own 
 And divers smoked superb pipes decorated [dress, 
 
 With amber mouths of greater price or less ; 
 And several strutted, others slept, and some 
 Prepared for supper with a glass of rum. 
 
 LIY. 
 As the black eunuch enter'd with his brace 
 
 Of purchased Infidels, some raised their eyes 
 A moment without slackening from their pace ; 
 
 But those who sate, ne"er stirr'd in anywise : 
 One or two stared the captives in the face, 
 
 Just as one views a horse to guess his price ; 
 Some nodded to the negro from their station. 
 But no one troubled him with conversation. 
 
 LV, 
 
 He leads them through the hall, and, without stop- 
 On through a farther range of goodly rooms, [ping, 
 
 Bplendid but silent, save in «;«', where, dropping,' 
 A marble fountain echoes through the glooms 
 
 Of night, which robe the chamber, or where popping 
 Some female head most curiously presumes 
 
 To thi'nst its black eyes through the door or lattice. 
 
 As wondering what the devil noise that is. 
 
 LVI. 
 Some faint lamps gleaming from the lofty walls 
 
 Gave light enough to hint their farther way, 
 But not enough to show the imperial haUs 
 
 In all the flashing of their full array ; 
 Perhaps there 's nothing — lU not say appals. 
 
 But saddens more by night as well as day, 
 Than an enormous room without a soul 
 To break the lifeless splendor of the whole. 
 
 LVII. 
 Two or three seem so little, one seems nothing : 
 
 In deserts, forests, crowds, or by the shore. 
 There solitude, we know, has her full growth in 
 
 The spots which were her realms for evermore ; 
 But in a mighty hall or gallery, both in 
 
 More modern buildings and those built of yore, 
 A kind of death comes o'er us all alone. 
 Seeing what 's meant for many with but one. 
 
 LVIII. 
 A neat, snug study on a winter's night, 
 
 A book, friend, single lady, or a glass 
 Of claret, sandwich, and an appetite. 
 
 Are things which make an English evening pass • 
 Though certes by no means so grand a sight 
 
 As is a theatre lit up liy gas. 
 I pass my evenings in long galleries solely ; 
 And that 's the reason I'm so melancholy. 
 
 ' A common furniture. T recollect being received by AH Pacha 
 to a lar^e room, paved with marble, containing a marble baein, 
 and a <ountain playin;; in the centre, etc., et» 
 
 UX. 
 Alas ! man makes that great which makes him little : 
 
 I grant you in a church 'tis very well ; [brittle. 
 What speaks of Heaven should by no means be 
 
 But strong and lasting, till no tongue can tell 
 Their names who rear'd it ; but huge houses fit ill — 
 
 And huge tombs worse — mankind, since Adam 
 Methinks the story of the tower of Babel [feU : 
 
 Might teach them this much better than I'm able. 
 
 LX. 
 
 Babel was Nimrod's htmting-box, and then 
 A town of gardens, waUs, and wealth amazing, 
 
 Where Nebuchodonosor, king of men, 
 
 Reign'd, till one summer's day he took to grazing 
 
 And Daniel tamed the lions in their den. 
 The people's awe and admiration raising ; 
 
 'Twas famous, too, for Thisbe and for Pyramus, 
 
 .And the calumniated queen Semiramis — ' 
 
 LXI. 
 That injured Queen, by chroniclers so coarse 
 
 Has been accused (I doubt not by conspiracy) 
 Of an improper fKendship for her horse, 
 
 (Love, hke religion, sometimes runs to heresy :) 
 This monstrous tale had probably its source 
 
 (For such exaggerations here and there I see) 
 In writing " Courser " by mistake for " Courier :" 
 I wish the case could come before a jury here. 
 
 LXII. 
 But to resume, — should there be (what may not 
 
 Be in these days ?) some infidels, who don't, 
 Because they can't find out the very spot 
 
 Of that same Babel, or because they won't, 
 (Though Claudius Rich, Esquire, some bricks has 
 
 And written lately two memoirs upon 't,) [got, 
 Believe the Jews, those unbelievers, who 
 Must be believed, though they believe not you. 
 
 LXIII. 
 Yet let them think that Horace has express'd 
 
 Shortly and sweetly the masonic folly 
 Of those, forgetting the great place of rest, 
 
 "Wlio give themselves to architecture wholly ; 
 We know where things and men must end at best : 
 
 A moral (like all morals) melancholy. 
 And " Et sepulchri immcmor struis domos " 
 Shows that we build when we should but entomb us. 
 
 LXIV. 
 At last they reach'd a quarter most retired, 
 
 Where echo woke as if from a long slumber ; 
 Though full of aU things which could be desired. 
 
 One wonder'd what to do with such a number 
 
 ^ Babylon was enlarged by Nimrod, strengthened and bcaatlfiefl 
 by Nebuchodonosor, and rebuilt b? Semiramifl. 
 
830 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto t 
 
 Of articles wliich nobody required ; 
 
 Here wcaltli had done its utmost to encumber 
 With furuituie an exquisite apartment, [meant. 
 
 Which puzzled Kature much to know what Art 
 
 LXV. 
 It seem'd, however, but to open on 
 
 A range or suite of further chambers, which 
 Might lead to heaven knows where ; 1)ut in this one 
 
 The movables were prodigally rich : 
 Sofas 'twas half a sin to sit upon. 
 
 So costly were they ; cai'pets every stitch 
 Of workmanship so rare, they made you wish 
 You could glide o'er them like a golden fish. 
 
 LXVl. 
 The black, however, without hardly deigning [der, 
 
 A. glance at that which wrapp'd the slaves in won- 
 Trampled what they scarce trod for fear of staining, 
 
 As if the milky way tlieir feet was under 
 With all its stars ; and with a stretch attaining 
 
 A certain press or cupboard niched in yonder— 
 In that remote recess which you may see — 
 Or if you don't the fault is not in me, — 
 
 bXVII. 
 I wish to be perspicuous ; and the black, 
 
 I say, unlocking the recess, pull'd forth 
 A quantity of ciotlies fit for the back 
 
 Of auy Mussulman, whate'er his worth ; 
 And of variety there was no lack — 
 
 And yet, though I have said there was no dearth, — 
 He chose himself to point out what he thouglit 
 Most proper for the Christians he had bought. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 The suit he thought most suitable to each 
 
 Was, for the elder and the stouter, first 
 A Candiote cloak, which to the knee might roach. 
 
 And trousera not so tight that they would burst, 
 But such as fit an Asiatic breech ; 
 
 A shawl, whose folds in Cashmere had been nursed, 
 Slijjpcrs of sart'ron, dagger rich and handy ; 
 In short, all things which form a Turkish Dandy. 
 
 LXIX. 
 While he was dressing, Baba, <^'.eir black friend. 
 
 Hinted tlic vast advantages which they 
 Might jji-obably attain both in the end, 
 
 If they would but pursue the proper way 
 Which Fortime plainly seem'd to recommend ; 
 
 And then he added, that he needs must say, 
 " 'Twould greatly tend to better their condition. 
 If they woukl condescend to circumcision. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 " For his own ji^rt, he really should rejoice 
 To see them true believers, but no less 
 
 Would leave his proposition to tlieir choice." 
 The other, thanking him for this excess 
 
 Of goodness, in thus leaving them a voice 
 
 In such a trifle, scarcely could express 
 " Sufticiently " (he said) " his approbation 
 Of all the customs of this poUsh'd nation. 
 
 I.XXI. 
 " For his own share — he saw but small objection 
 
 To so respectable an ancient rite ; 
 jVjid, after swallowing down a slight refection, 
 
 For which he own'd a present appetite, 
 He doubted not a few hours of reflection 
 
 Would reconcile him to the business quite." 
 " Win it ?" said Juan, sharply : " Strike me dead. 
 But they as soon shall circumcise my head 1 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 " Cut ofl' a thousand heads, before " — " Now, 
 
 Replied the other, " do not interrupt : [pray," 
 
 You put me out in what I had to say. 
 Sir ! — as I said, as soon as I have supp'd, 
 
 I shall perpend if your proposal may 
 Be such as I can properly accept ; 
 
 Provided always your great goodness still 
 
 Remits the matter to our own frce-wiU." 
 
 LXXIII. 
 Baba eyed Juan, and said, " Be so good 
 
 As dress yourself — " and pointed out a suit 
 In which a Princess with great pleasure would 
 
 Array her limbs ; but Juan standing mute. 
 As not being in a masquerading mood, 
 
 Gave it a slight kick with his Christian foot ; 
 And when the old negro told him to " Get ready," 
 Replied, " Old gentleman, I'm not a lady." 
 
 LXXIV. 
 " What you may be, I neither know nor care," 
 
 Said Baba ; " but pray do as I desire : 
 I've no more time nor many words to spare." 
 
 "At least," said Juan, '' sure I may inquire 
 The cause of this odd travesty ?" — •' Forbear," 
 
 Said Baba, " to be curious ; 'twill transpire. 
 No doubt, in proper place, and time, and season : 
 I've no authority to tell the reason." 
 
 LXXV. 
 " Then if I do," said Juan, " I'll be "— " Hold !" 
 
 Rejoin'd the negro, " pray be not provoking ; 
 This spirit 's well, but it nuiy wax too bold, 
 
 And you will find us not too fond of joking." 
 " What, sir !" said Juan, " shall it e'er be told 
 
 That I unsex'd my dress ?" But Baba, stroking 
 The things down, said, " Incense me, and I call 
 Those who will leave you of no sex at all. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 " I offer you a handsome suit of clothes • 
 A woman's, tnie ; but then there is a cause 
 
Canto v. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 631 
 
 WTry you should wear them." — " Wliat, though my 
 soul loathes 
 
 The effeminate garb ?"^thus, after a short pause, 
 Bigh'd Juan, muttering also some slight oaths, 
 
 " What the devil shall I do -nith all this gauze ?" 
 Thus he profanely term'd the finest lace 
 Which e'er set off a marriage-morning face. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 And then he swore ; and, sighing, on he slipp'd 
 
 A pair of trousers of fiesh-color'd silk ; 
 Next with a virgin zone he was equijjp'd, 
 
 Which girt a slight chemise as white as milk ; 
 But tugging on his petticoat, he tripp'd, 
 
 Which — as we say — or, as the Scotch say, wMlk, 
 (The rhyme obliges me to this ; sometimes 
 Monarchs are less imperative than rhymes) — ■ 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 Whilk, which, for what you please,) was owing to 
 
 His garment's novelty, and his being awkward : 
 And yet at last he managed to get through 
 
 His toilet, though no doubt a little backward : 
 The negro Baba help'd a little too, 
 
 When some untoward part of raiment stuck hard ; 
 And, wrestling Ijotli his arms into a gown, 
 He paused, and took a survey up and down. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 One difBculty still remain'd — his hair 
 
 Was hardly long enough ; but Baba found 
 So many false long tresses all to spare, 
 
 That soon his head was most completely crown'd. 
 After the manner then in fashion there ; 
 
 And this addition with such gems was boimd 
 As suited the en.iemhle of his toilet. 
 While Baba made him comb his head and oil it. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 And now being femininely all array'd. 
 
 With some small aid from scissors, paint, and 
 tweezers. 
 He look'd in almost all respects a maid. 
 
 And Baba smiUngly exclaim'd, " You see, sirs, 
 A perfect transformation here display'd ; 
 
 And now, then, you must come along with me, sirs. 
 That is — the Lady :" clapping his hands twice, 
 Four blacks were at his elliow in a trice. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 " You, sir," said Baba, nodding to the one, 
 
 " Will please to accompany those gentlemen 
 To supper ; but you, worthy Christian nun. 
 
 Will follow me : no trifling, sir ; for when 
 I say a thing, it must at once be done. 
 
 What fear you ? think you this a lion's den ? 
 Why, 'tis a palace ; where the truly wise 
 Anticipate the Prophet's paradise. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 " You fool ! I tell you no one means you harm." 
 
 " So much the better,"' Juan said, " for them ; 
 Else they shall feel the weight of this my arm, 
 
 Which is not quite so light as you may deem. 
 I yield thus far ; but soon will break the charm 
 
 If any take me for that which I seem : 
 So that I trust for everybody's sake, 
 That this disguise may lead to no mistake." 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 " Blockhead ! come on, and see," quoth Baba ; while 
 
 Don Juan, turning to his comrade, who 
 Though somewhat grieved, could scarce forbear a 
 
 Upon the metamori^hosis in view, — [smile 
 
 " Farewell !" they mutually exclaim'd : " this soil 
 
 Seems fertile in adventures strange and new ; 
 One '3 turn'd half Mussulman, and one a maid, 
 By this old black enchanter's unsought aid." 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 " Farewell !" said Juan : " should we meet no more, 
 
 I -n-ish you a good appetite." — " Farewell !" 
 Replied flie other ; " though it grieves me sore ; 
 
 When we next meet we'll have a tale to tell : 
 We needs must follow when Fate puts from shore. 
 
 Keep your good name ; though Eve herself once 
 fell." [carry me, 
 
 " Nay," quoth the maid, " the Sultan's self shan'* 
 Unless his Highness promises to marry me." 
 
 LXXXV. 
 And thus they parted, each by separate doors ; 
 
 Baba led Juan onward room by room 
 Through glittering galleries and o'er marble floors. 
 
 Till a gigantic portal through the gloom, 
 Hauglity and huge, along the distance lowers ; 
 
 And wafted far arose a rich perfume : 
 It seem'd as though they came upon a shrine. 
 For all was vast, still, fragrant, and divine. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 The giant door was broad, and bright, and high, 
 
 Of gilded bronze, and carved in curious guise ; 
 Warriors thereon were battling furiously 
 
 Here stalks the victor, there the vanquish'd lies ; 
 There captives led in triurajjh droop the eye, 
 
 And in perspective many a squadron flies : 
 It seems the work of times Ijefore the line 
 Of Rome transplanted fell with Constantine. 
 
 L.XXXVII. 
 This massy portal stood at the wide close 
 
 Of a huge hall, and on its either side 
 Two little dwarfs, the least you could suppose. 
 
 Were sate, like ugly imps, as if allied 
 In mockery to the enormous gato wh-ich rose 
 
 O'er them in almost pyramidio pride ; 
 
632 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Caitto y. 
 
 The gate so splendid was in all its features,' 
 You never thought about those little creatures, 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 Until you nearly trod on them, and then 
 
 You started back in horror to survey 
 The wondrous hideonsness of those small men, 
 
 Whose color was not Ijlack, nor white, nor gray, 
 But an extraneous mixture, which no pen 
 
 Can trace, although jjcrhaps the pencil may ; 
 They were misshapen pigmies, deaf and dumb — 
 Monsters, who cost a no less monstrous sum. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 Their duty was — for they were strong, and though 
 They look'd so little, did strong things at times — 
 
 To ope this door, which they could really do. 
 The hinges being as smooth as Rogers' rhymes ; 
 
 And now and then, with tough strings of the bow. 
 As is the custom of those Eastern climes, 
 
 To give some rebel Pacha a cravat : 
 
 For mutes are generally used for that. 
 
 XC. 
 They spoke by signs — that is, spoke not at all ; 
 
 And looking like two incubi, they glared 
 As Baba with his fingers made them fall 
 
 To heaving back the portal folds : it scared 
 Juan a moment, as this pair so smaU, 
 
 With shrinking serpent ojitics on him stared ; 
 It was as if their httle looks could poison 
 Or fascinate whome'er they fix'd their eyes on. 
 
 XCI. 
 Before they enter'd, Bal)a paused to hint 
 
 To Juan some slight lessons as his guide : 
 " If you could just contrive," he said, " to stint 
 
 That somewhat manly majesty of stride, 
 'T would l)e as well, and, — (though there 's not much 
 in 't) 
 
 To swing a little less from side to side. 
 Which has at times an aspect of the oddest ; — 
 And also could you look a little modest, 
 
 XCII. 
 " 'Twould be convenient ; for these mutes have eyes 
 
 Like needles, which may pierce those petticoats ; 
 And if they should discover your disguise. 
 
 You know how near us the deep Bosphorus floats ; 
 And you and I may chance, ere morning rise, 
 
 To find our way to Marmora without lioats, 
 Btitch'd up in sacks — a mode of navigation 
 A good deal practised here upon occasion.'" 
 
 ^Features of a gate — a ministerial mofapiior; "'the /e^'lure 
 npoii wbicli this qucBtion Ainfires." See tlie " Fud^re Family," or 
 hear Castlereagb. 
 
 ^ A few yearrt aj^o the wife of Mnchtar Tacha complained to his 
 father of his sou'b bupposed inlidelity: ks asked with whom, and 
 
 XCIII. 
 With this encouragement, he led the way 
 
 Into a room still nobler than the last ; 
 A rich confusion form'd a disarray 
 
 In such sort, that the eye along it cast 
 Could hardly carry any thing away. 
 
 Object on object flash'd so liright and fast ; 
 A dazzling mass of gems, and gold, and glitter, 
 Magnificently mingled in a litter. 
 
 XCIV. 
 Wealth had done wonders — taste not much ; such 
 
 Occur in Orient palaces, and even [things 
 
 In the more chasten'd domes of Western kings 
 
 (Of which I've also seen some six or seven) 
 Where I can't say or gold or diamond flings 
 
 Great lustre, there is much to be forgiven ; 
 Groups of bad statues, tables, chairs, and jjictures, 
 On which I cannot jjause to make my strictures. 
 
 xcv. 
 
 In this imperial hall, at distance lay 
 
 Under a canopy, and there recUned, 
 Quite in a confidential queenly way, 
 
 A lady ; Baba stopp'd, and kneeling sign'd 
 To Juan, who though not much used to pray, 
 
 Knelt down by instinct, wondering in his mind 
 Wliat all this meant : while Baba bow'd and bended 
 His head, until the ceremony ended. 
 
 XCVI. 
 The lady rising up with such an air 
 
 As Venus rose with from the wave, on them 
 Bent hke an antelope a Paphian pair 
 
 Of eyes, which put out each surrounding gem ; 
 And raising up an arm as moonlight fair. 
 
 She sign'd to Baba, who first kiss'd the hem 
 Of her deep purple robe, and speaking low, 
 Pointed to Juan, who remain'd below. 
 
 XCVII. 
 Her presence was as lofty as her state ; 
 
 Her beauty of that overpowering kind 
 Wliose force description only would abate : 
 
 I'd rather leave it much to your own mind, 
 Than lessen it by what I could relate 
 
 Of form and featvu-es ; it would strike you bUnd 
 Could I do justice to the full detail ; 
 So, luckily for both, my phrases fail. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 Thus much however I may add, — her years 
 
 Were ripe, they might make six-and-twenty springs, 
 
 Bhe had the barharity to give in a list of the twelve handsomest 
 women in Yauina. They were seized, fastened up in sacks, and 
 dromicd in the lake the name night. One of the guards who was 
 present informed me, tliat not one of the victims uttered aery, or 
 Ehiiwed a symptom of terror at so sudden a " wrench from all wf 
 know, (Tom all we love." 
 
Canto v. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 63b 
 
 But there are forms which Time to touch forbears, 
 And turns aside his scythe to vulgar things, 
 
 Such as was Mark's Queen of Scots ; true — tears 
 And love destroy ; and sapping sorrow wrings 
 
 Charms from the charmer, yet some never grow 
 
 Ugly ; for instance — Ninon de I'Enclos. 
 
 XCIX. 
 
 She spake some words to her attendants, who 
 Composed a choir of girls, ten or a dozen. 
 
 And were all clad alike ; like Juan, too. 
 Who wore their uniform, by Baba chosen ; 
 
 They form'd a very nymjih-like looking crew. 
 
 Which might have call'd Diana's chorus " cousin," 
 
 As far as outward show may correspond ; 
 
 I won't be bail for anjthing beyond. 
 
 They bow'd obeisance and withdrew, retiring. 
 But not by tlie same door through which came in 
 
 Baba and Juan, which last stood admiring, 
 At some small distance, all he saw within 
 
 This strange saloon, much fitted for inspiring 
 Marvel and praise ; for both or none things win ; 
 
 And I must say, I ne'er could see the very 
 
 Great happiness of the " Nil Admirari." 
 
 CI. 
 
 " Not to admire, is all the art I know 
 
 (Plain truth, dear Murray, needs few flowers of 
 speech) 
 To make men happy, or to keep them so ;" 
 
 (So take it in the very words of Creech.) 
 Thus Horace wrote we all know long ago ; 
 
 .And thus Pope quotes the precept to re-teach 
 From his translation ; but had none whnired. 
 Would Pope have sung, or Horace been inspired ? 
 
 CII. 
 
 Baba, when all the damsels were withdrawn, 
 Motion'd to Juan to approach, and then 
 
 A second time desired him to kneel down, 
 And kiss the lady's foot ; which maxim when 
 
 He heard repeated, Juan with a frown 
 Drew himself up to his full height again, 
 
 And said, " It grieved him, but he could not stoop 
 
 To any shoe, unless it shod the Pope." 
 
 cm. ( 
 
 Baba, indignant at this ill-timed pride, 
 
 Made fierce remonstrances, and then a threat 
 
 He mutter'd (but the last was given aside) 
 About a bow-string — <iuite in vain ; not yet 
 
 Would Juan bend, though 'twere to Mahomet's bride : 
 There 's nothing in the world like etiquette 
 
 In kingly chambers or imperials halls, 
 
 As also at the race and county balls. 
 80 
 
 CIV. 
 He stood like Atlas, with a world of words 
 
 About his ears, and nathless would not bend ; 
 The blood of all his line's Castilian lords 
 
 Boil'd in his veins, and rather than descend 
 To stain his pedigree a thousand swords 
 
 A thousand times of him had made an end ; 
 At length perceiving the '■\foot '' could not stand, 
 Baba proposed that he should kiss the hand. 
 
 CV. 
 Here was an honorable compromise, 
 
 A half-way house of diplomatic rest, 
 Wliere they might meet in much more peacefo] 
 
 And Juan now his willingness espress'd [guise ; 
 To use all fit and proper courtesies. 
 
 Adding, that this was commonest and best, 
 For through the South the custom still commands 
 The gentleman to kiss the lady's hands. 
 
 cvr. 
 And he advanced, though with but a bad giT.ce, 
 
 Though on more thorninjJi-hred- or fairer fingers 
 No Ups e'er left their transitory trace : 
 
 On such as these the lip too fondly lingers, 
 And for one kiss would fain imprint a brace. 
 
 As you will see, if she yon love shall bring hera 
 In contact ; and sometimes even a fair sti'anger's 
 An almost twelvemonth's constancy endangers. 
 
 CVII. 
 The lady eyed him o'er and o'er, and bade 
 
 Baba retire, which he obey'd in style. 
 As if well used to the retreating trade ; 
 
 And taking hints in good part all the while. 
 He whisper'd Juan not to be afraid. 
 
 And looking on him with a sort of smile, 
 Took leave, with such a face of satisfaction 
 As good men wear who 've done a virtuous action. 
 
 CVIII. 
 When he was gone, there was a sudden change : 
 
 I know not what might be the lady's thought, 
 But o'er her bright brow fiash'd a tumult strange, 
 
 And into her clear check the blood was brought, 
 Blood-red as sunset summer clouds which range 
 
 The verge of Heaven; and in her large eyes wrought 
 A mixture of sensations, might be scann'd. 
 Of half voluptuousness and half command. 
 
 CIX. 
 Her form had all the softness of her sex. 
 
 Her features all the sweetness of the devil, 
 Wlien he put on the cherub to perplex 
 
 Eve, and paved (God knows how) the road to evil ; 
 
 ' There is nothing, perhaps, more distin* live of birth than the 
 band. It is almost the only sl^ of blood which arij^locracy can 
 generate. 
 
634 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canpo ▼ 
 
 The sun himself was scarce more free from specks 
 
 Than she from aught at which the eye could cavil ; 
 Yet, somthow, there was something somewhere want- 
 As if she rather order'd than was tjranting — [ing, 
 
 ex. 
 
 Something imijerial, or imperious, threw 
 A chain o'er all she did ; that is, a cliain 
 
 Was thrown as 'twere about the neck of you — 
 And rajjture's self will seem almost a pain 
 
 With aught which looks like despotism in view : 
 Our souls at least are free, and 'tis in vain 
 
 We wouM against tlicni make the flesh obey — 
 
 The spirit iu the end will have its way. 
 
 CXI. 
 Her very smile was haughty, though so sweet ; 
 
 Her very nod was not an inclination ; 
 There was a self-will even in her small feet, 
 
 As though they were quite conscious of her sta- 
 They trod as upon necks ; and to complete [tion — 
 
 Her state, (it is tlio custom of her nation,) 
 A poniard deck'd her girdle, as the sign 
 She was a sultan's bride, (thank Heaven, not mine !) 
 
 CXII. 
 
 " To hear and to obey " had been from birth 
 
 The law of all around her ; to fulfil 
 All fantasies which yielded joy or mirth. 
 
 Had been her slaves' chief pleasure, as her will ; 
 Her blood was high, her beauty scarce of earth : 
 
 Judge, then, if her caprices e'er stood still ; 
 Had she but been a Christian, I've a notion 
 We should have found out the " perpetual motion." 
 
 OXIII. 
 Whate'er she saw and coveted was brought; 
 
 Whate'er she did not see, if she supposed 
 It might be seen, with diligence was sought, [closed. 
 
 And when 'twas found straightway the bargain 
 There was no end unto the things she bought, 
 
 Nor to the trouble which her fancies caused ; 
 Yet even her tyranny had such a grace. 
 The women pardon'd all except her face. 
 
 CXIV. 
 Juan, the latest of her whims, had caught 
 
 Her eye in passing on his waj' to sale ; 
 She order'd him directly to be bought, 
 
 And Baba, who had ne'er been known to fail • 
 In any kind of mischief to be wrought. 
 
 At all such auctions knew how to prevail : 
 Bhe had no prudence, but he had ; and this 
 Explains the garb which Juan took amiss. 
 
 CXV. 
 
 His youth and features favor'd the disguise. 
 And, should you ask how she, a sultan's bride, 
 
 Could risk or compass such strange fantasies, 
 This I must leave sultanas to decide : 
 
 Emperors are only husbands in wives' eyes, 
 And kings and consorts oft arc my<titiec. 
 
 As we may ascertain with due precision. 
 
 Some by experience, otheis by tradition. 
 
 CXVI. 
 
 But to the main point, where we have been tenet 
 She now conceived all difficulties pass'd, [ing :— 
 
 And deem'd herself extremely condescending 
 When, being made her property at last. 
 
 Without more preface, in her blue eyes blending 
 Passion and jjower, a glance on him she cast. 
 
 And merely saying, " Christian, canst thou love ?" 
 
 Conceived that phrase was quite enough to move. 
 
 CXVII. 
 And so it was, in proper time and place ; 
 
 But Ju.an, who had still his mind o'erflowing 
 With Ilaidee's isle and soft Ionian face. 
 
 Felt the warm blood, which in his face was 
 glowing. 
 Rush back upon his heart, which till'd apace, 
 
 And left his cheeks as pale as snowdrops blowing : 
 These words went through his soul like Arab-spears, 
 So that he spoke not, Imt burst into tears. 
 
 CXVIII. 
 
 She was a good deal shock'd ; not shock'd at tears. 
 For women shed and use them at their liking ; 
 
 But there is something when man's eye ajjpears 
 Wet, still more disagreeable and striking : 
 
 A woman's tear-drop melts, a man's half sears, 
 Like molten lead, as if you thrust a pike in 
 
 His heart to force it out, for (to be shorter) 
 
 To them 'tis a relief, to us a torture. 
 
 CXIX. 
 And she would have consoled, but knew not how : 
 
 Having no equals, nothing which had e'er 
 Infected her with sympathy till now. 
 
 And never having dreamt what 'twas to bear 
 Aught of a serious, sorrowing kind, although 
 
 There might arise some pouting petty care 
 To cross her brow, she wonder'd how so near 
 Her eye another's eyes could shed a tear. 
 
 cxx. 
 
 But nature teaches more than power can spoil. 
 And, when a atroiir/ although a itrange sensation 
 
 Moves — female hearts are such a genial soil. 
 For kinder feelings, whatsoe'er their nation, 
 
 They naturally pour the " wine and oil," 
 Samaritans in every situation ; 
 
 And thus Gulbeyaz, though she knew not why, 
 
 Felt an odd glistening moisture in her eye. 
 
Danto v. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 635 
 
 cxxi. 
 
 But tears must stop like all tilings else ; and soon 
 Juan, who for an instant had been moved 
 
 To such a sorrow by the int usive tone 
 Of one who dared to ask if " he had loved," 
 
 Call'd back the stoic to his eyes, which shone 
 Bright with the very weakness he reproved ; 
 
 And although sensitive to beauty, he 
 
 Felt most indignant still at not being free. 
 
 CXXII. 
 Gulbeyaz, for the first time in her days, 
 
 Was much embarrass'd, never having met 
 In all her life with aught save prayers and praise ; 
 
 And as she also risk'd her life to get 
 Him whom she meant to tutor in love's ways 
 
 Into a comfortable t te-ii-t te, 
 To lose the hour would make her quite a martyr. 
 And they had wasted now almost a quarter. 
 
 CXXIII. 
 
 I also would suggest the fitting time. 
 
 To gentlemen in any such like case, 
 That is to say — in a meridian clime, 
 
 With us there is more law given to the chase. 
 But here a small delay forms a great crime : 
 
 So recollect that the extremcst grace 
 Is just two minutes for your declaration — 
 A moment more would hurt your reputation. 
 
 CXXIV. 
 
 Juan's was good ; and might have been still better. 
 But he had got Haidce into his head : 
 
 However strange, he could not yet forget her. 
 Which made him seem exceedingly ill-bred. 
 
 Gulbeyaz, who look d on him as her debtor 
 For having had him to her palace led. 
 
 Began to blush up to the eyes, and then 
 
 Grow deadly pale, and then blush back again. 
 
 CXXV. 
 At length, in an imperial way, she laid 
 
 Her hand on his, and bending on him eyes. 
 Which needed not an emjiire to persuade, 
 
 Look'd into his for love, where none replies : 
 Her brow grew black, but she would not upbraid. 
 
 That being the last thing a proud woman tries ; 
 She rose, and pausing one chaste moment, threw 
 Herself upon his breast, and there sht grew. 
 
 CXXVI. 
 This was an awkward test, as Juan found. 
 
 But he was steel'd by sorrow, wrath, and pride : 
 With gentle force her white arms he im wound. 
 
 And seated her all drooping by his side. 
 Then rising haughtily he glanced around. 
 
 And looking coldly in her face, he cried, 
 
 •' The prison'd eagle will not pair, nor I 
 Serve a Sultana's sensual phantasy. 
 
 CXXVII. 
 " Thou ask'st, if I can love ? be this the proof 
 
 How much I hire loved — that I love not thee ! 
 In this vile garb, the distafl", web, and woof. 
 
 Were fitter for me : Love is for the free ! 
 I am not dazzled by this sjjlendid roof; 
 
 Whate'er thy power, and great it seems to be ; 
 Heads bow, knees bend, eyes watch around a throng 
 And hands obey — our hearts are still om- own." 
 
 CXXVIII. 
 This was a truth to us extremely trite ; 
 
 Not so to her, who ne'er had heard such things : 
 She decm'd her least command must yield delight., 
 
 Earth being only made for queens and kings. 
 If hearts lay on the left side or the right 
 
 She hardly knew, to such perfection bringfs 
 Legitimacy its born votaries, when 
 Aware of their due royal rights o'er men. 
 
 CXXIX. 
 
 Besides, as has been said, she vpas so fair 
 As even in a much humbler lot had made 
 
 A kingdom or confusion anywhere, 
 And also, as may be presumed, she laid 
 
 Some stress on charms, which seldom are, if e'er, 
 By their possessors thrown into the shade : 
 
 She thought hers gave a double " right divine ;" 
 
 And half of that opinion 's also mine. 
 
 CXXX. 
 Remember, or (if you can not) imagine, 
 
 Ye, who have kejit your chastity when young, 
 While some more desperate dowager has been waging 
 
 Love with you, and been in the dog-days stung 
 By your refusal, recollect her raging ! 
 
 Or recollect all that was said or sung 
 On such a subject ; then suppose the face 
 Of a young downright beauty in the case. 
 
 CXXX I. 
 Suppose, — but you already have supposed, 
 
 The spouse of Potiphar, the Lady Booby, 
 Phsdra, and all which story has disclosed 
 
 Of good examples ; pity that so few by 
 Poets and private tutors are exposed. 
 
 To educate — ye youth of Europe — you by ! 
 But when you have supposed the few we know, 
 You can't suppose Gulbeyaz' angry brow. 
 
 CXXXII. 
 A tigress robb'd of young, a lioness. 
 
 Or any interesting beast of prey, 
 Are similes at hand for the distress 
 
 Of ladies, who can not have their owt way; 
 
636 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto v 
 
 But though my turn will not be served with less, 
 
 These don't express one half what I should say : 
 For what is stealing young ones, few or many, 
 To cutting short their hopes of having any ? 
 
 CXXXIII. 
 The love of offspring 's nature's general law, 
 
 From tigresses and cutis to ducks and ducklings ; 
 There 's nothing whets the beak, or arms the claw 
 
 Like an invasion of their babes and sucklings ; 
 And all who 've seen a human nursery, saw 
 
 How mothers love their children's squalls and 
 chucklings ; 
 This strong extreme effect (to tire no longer 
 Tour patience) shows the cause must still be stronger. 
 
 CXXXIV. 
 
 If I said fire flash'd from Gulbeyaz' eyes, 
 
 'Twere n'othing — for her eyes flash'd always fire ; 
 
 Or said her cheeks assumed the deepest dyes, 
 I should but bring disgrace upon the dyer. 
 
 So supernatural was her passion's rise ; 
 For ne'er till now she knew a check'd desire : 
 
 Even ye who know what a check'd woman is 
 
 (Enough, God knows !) would much fall short of this. 
 
 cxxxv. 
 
 Her rage was but a minute's, and 'twas well — 
 A moment's more had slain her ; but the while 
 
 It lasted 'twas like a short glimijse of hell : 
 Naught 's more sublime than energetic bile, 
 
 Though horrible to see yet grand to tell. 
 Like ocean warring 'gainst a rocky isle ; 
 
 And the deep passions flashing through her form 
 
 Made her a beautiful embodied storm. 
 
 CXXXVI. 
 A vulgar tempest 'twere to a typhoon 
 
 To match a common fury with her rage. 
 And yet she did not want to reach the moon. 
 
 Like moderate Hotspur on tlie immortal page ; 
 Her anger pitch'd into a lower tune, 
 
 Perhajjs the fault of her soft sex and age — 
 Her wish was but to " kill, kill, kill," like Lear's, 
 And then her thirst for blood was quench'd in tears. 
 
 CXXXVII. 
 A storm it raged, and like the storm it pass'd, 
 
 (Pass'd without words — in fact she could not 
 And then her sex's shame broke in at last, [speak ;) 
 
 A sentiment till then in her lurt weak. 
 But now it flow'd in natural and fast. 
 
 As water through an unexpected leak, 
 For she felt humbled — and humiliation 
 Is sometini';---! good for jienplc in her station. 
 
 CXXXVIII. 
 [t teaches them that they are flesh and l)lood, 
 It also gently hints to them that others, 
 
 Although of clay, are yet not quite of mud ; 
 
 That urns and pipkins are but fragile brothers, 
 And works of the same pottery, bad or good. 
 
 Though not all born of the same sires and mothers 
 It teaches — Heaven knows only what it teaches, 
 But sometimes it may mend, and often reaches. 
 
 CXXXIX. 
 Her first thought was to cut off Juan's head ; 
 
 Her second, to cut only his — acquaintance • 
 Her third, to ask him where he had been bred ; 
 
 Her fourth, to rally him into repentance ; 
 Her fifth, to call her maids and go to bed ; 
 
 Her sixth, to stab herself; her seventh, to sen- 
 T!ie lash to Baba : — but her grand resource [tenc« 
 Was to sit down again, and cry of course. 
 
 CXL. 
 She thought to stab herself, but then she had 
 The dagger close at hand, which made it awk- 
 ward ; 
 For Eastern stays are little made to pad, 
 
 So that a poniard pierces if 'tis stuck hard : 
 She thought of killing Juan — but, poor lad ! 
 Though he deserved it well for being so bach 
 ward. 
 The cutting off his head was not the art 
 Most likely to attain her aim — his heart. 
 
 CXLI. 
 Juan was moved : he had made up his mind 
 
 To be impaled, or quarter'd as a dish 
 For dogs, or to be slain with pangs refined. 
 
 Or thrown to lions, or made baits for fish, 
 And thus heroically stood resign'd. 
 
 Rather than sin, — except to his own wish : 
 But all his great preparatives for dying 
 Dissolved like snow before a woman crying. 
 
 CXLII. 
 As through his palms Bob Acres' valor oozed, 
 
 So Juan's virtue ebb'd, I know not how ; 
 And first he wonder'd why he had refused ; 
 
 And then, if matters could be made up now ; 
 And next his savage virtue he accused, 
 
 Just as a friar may accuse his vow. 
 Or as a dame repents her of her oath. 
 Which mostly ends in some small breach of botli 
 
 CXLIir. 
 So he began to stammer some excuses ; 
 
 But words are not enough in such a matter, 
 Although you borrow'd ail that e'er the Muses 
 
 Have sung, or even a dandy's dandiest chattel 
 Or all the figures Castlereagh abuses ; 
 
 Just as a languid smile began to flatter 
 His peace was making, but before he ventured 
 Further, old Baba rather briskly enter'd. 
 
 I 
 
Canto v. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 637 
 
 CXLIV. 
 " Bride of the Sun ! and Sister of the Moon !" 
 
 ('Twaa thus he spake,) "and Empress of the Earth I 
 Whose frown would put the spheres all out of tune, 
 
 Whose smile makes all the planets dance with mirth, 
 Your slave brings tidings — he hopes not too soon — 
 
 Which your subUme attention may be worth : 
 The Sun himself has sent me like a ray, 
 To hint that he is coming up tliis way." 
 
 CXLV. 
 " Is it," exclaim'd Gulbeyaz, " as you say ? 
 
 I wish to heaven he would not shine till morning I 
 But bid my women form the milky way. [ing — 
 
 Hence, my old comet ! give the stars due warn- 
 Aad, Christian ! mingle with them as you may. 
 
 And as you'd have me jjardon your past scorn- 
 Here they were interrupted by a humming [ing " 
 
 Sound, and then by a cry, " The Sultan 's coming !" 
 
 CSLTI. 
 First came her damsels, a decorous file. 
 
 And then his Highness' eunuchs, black and white ; 
 The train might reach a quarter of a mile : 
 
 His majesty was always so polite 
 As to announce his visits a long while 
 
 Before he came, especially at night ; . 
 For being the last wife of the Emperor, 
 She was of course the favorite of the four. 
 
 CXLVII. 
 His Highness was a man of solemn port, 
 
 Shawl'd to the nose, and bearded to the eyes, 
 Snatch'd from a prison to preside at court, 
 
 His lately bowstrung brother caused his rise ; 
 He was as good a sovereign of the sort 
 
 As any mention'd in the histories 
 Of Cantemir, or Knolles, where few shine 
 Save Solyman, the glory of their line.' 
 
 CXLVIII. 
 He went to mosque in state, and said his prayers 
 
 Witli more than " Oriental scrupulosity ;" 
 He left to his vizier all state affairs, 
 
 And show'd but little royal curiosity ; 
 I know not if he had domestic cares — 
 
 No process proved connubial animosity ; 
 Four wives and twice five himdred maids, unseen, 
 Were ruled as calmly as a Christian queen. 
 
 CXLIX. 
 If now and then there happen'd a slight slip. 
 Little was heard of criminal or crime ; 
 
 1 It maj- not be unworthy of remark, that Bacon, in his essay on 
 'Empire," hints that Sol>'man was the last of liis line ; on what 
 anthority, I know not. These are his words : — '' The destruction 
 of .Must.apha was so fatal to Solvinan's line ; as the succession of 
 Ihe Tiirks from Solyman until this day i? euspected to be untrue 
 
 The story scarcely pass'd a single lip — 
 The sack and sea had settled all in time, 
 
 From which the secret nobody could rip : 
 
 The Public knew no more than does this rhyme ; 
 
 No scandals made the daily press a curse — 
 
 Morals were better, and the fish no worse. 
 
 CL. 
 He saw with his own eyes the moon was round, 
 
 Was also certain that the earth was square, 
 Because he had joumey'd fifty miles, and found 
 
 No sign that it was circular anywhere ; 
 His empire also was without a bound : 
 
 'Tis true, a little troubled here and there. 
 By rebel pachas, and encroaching giaours. 
 But then they never came to " the Seven Towers ;" 
 
 CLI. 
 Except in shape of envoys, who were sent 
 
 To lodge there when a war broke out, according 
 To the true law of nations, which ne'er meant 
 
 Those scoundrels, who have never had a sword in 
 Their dirty diplomatic hands, to vent 
 
 Their spleen in making strife, and safely wording 
 Their Ues, yclep'd despatches, without risk or 
 The singeing of a single inky whisker. 
 
 CLII. 
 He had fifty daughters and four dozen sons. 
 
 Of whom all such as came of age were stow'd, 
 The former in a palace, where like nims 
 
 They lived till some Bashaw was sent abroad, 
 When she, whose turn it was, was wed at once. 
 
 Sometimes at sis. years old — though this seemj 
 odd 
 'Tis true ; the reason is, that the Bashaw 
 Must make a present to his sire-in-law. 
 
 CLIII. 
 His sons were kept in prison, till they grew 
 
 Of years to fill a bowstring or the throne. 
 One or the other, but which of the two 
 
 Could yet be known unto the fates alone ; 
 Meantime the education they went through 
 
 Was princely, as the proofs have always shown 
 So that the heir apparent still was found 
 No less deserving to be hang'd than crown' d. 
 
 CLFV. 
 His Majesty saluted his fourth spouse 
 
 With all the ceremonies of his rank. 
 Who clear'd her sparkling eyes and smooth'd hei 
 brows. 
 As suits a matron who has play'd a prank ; 
 
 and of strange blood : for that Selymus the Second was thought to 
 be supposititious. " But Bacon, in his historical authorities, 19 
 often inaccurate. I could give half a dozen instances from his 
 Apopthegms only. 
 
638 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto v. 
 
 These must seem doubly mindful of tbeir vows, 
 
 To save the credit of their breaking bank : 
 To no men are such cordial greetii^s given, 
 Aj tliose whose wives have made them tit for heaven. 
 
 CLV. 
 
 His Highness cast around his great black eyes. 
 And looking, as he always look'd, perceived 
 
 Juan amongst tlie damsels, in disguise, 
 At wliieh he seem'd no whit surprised nor 
 grieved, 
 
 But just remark'd with air sedate and wise, 
 While still a flattering sigh Gulbeyaz heaved, 
 
 " I see you've bought another girl ; 'tis pity 
 
 That a mere Christian should be half so pretty." 
 
 C'LVI. 
 
 Tliis compliment, which drew all eyes upon 
 The new-bought virgin, made her blush and 
 shake. 
 
 Her comrades, also, thought themselves undone — 
 Oh ! Mahomet ! that his JIajesty should take 
 
 Such notice of a giaour, while scarce to one 
 Of them his lips imperial ever spake ! 
 
 There was a general whisper, toss, and wriggle, 
 
 But etiquette forbade them all to giggle. 
 
 CLVn. 
 
 The Turks do well to shut — at least, sometimes — 
 The women up — because, in sad reality, 
 
 Their chastity in these unhappy climes 
 Is not a thing of that astriugent quality, 
 
 Which in the North prevents precocious crimes. 
 And makes our snow less pure than our morality ; 
 
 The sun, which yearly melts the polar ice. 
 
 Has quite the contrary tll'ect on vice. 
 
 CLVIII. 
 
 Tlius in the East Ihcy are extremely strict, 
 And wedlock and a padlock mean the same ; 
 
 Kxcepting only when tlie former 's pick'd 
 It ne'er can be rejilaeeil in proper frame ; 
 
 Spoil'd, as a pipe of claret is when prick'd : 
 But then their own polj'gamy 's to blame ; 
 
 Why don't they knead two virtuous souls for life 
 
 Into that moral centaur, man and wife ? 
 
 CLIX. 
 
 Thus for our clironicle ; and now we pause. 
 Though not for want of matter ; but 'tis time, 
 
 According to tlie ancient epic laws. 
 To slacken sail, and anchor with our rhyme. 
 
 Let this lift \ canto meet with due applause. 
 The sixtli shall have a touch of the su)ilimo ; 
 
 Meanwhile, as Homer sometimes sleeps, perhaps 
 
 i'ou'll pardon to my Muse a few short naps. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 PREFACE TO CANTOS VI.. VII. AND VIII. 
 
 The details of the siege of Ismail in two of the fol- 
 lowing cantos {i. e, the seventh and eighth) are taken 
 from a French Work, entitled " Histoire de la Nouvelle 
 Russia." Some of the incidents attributed to Don Juan 
 really occurred, particularly the circumstance of his 
 savintr the infant, which was the actual case of the late 
 Due de Richelieu, then a youiif; volunteer in the Rus- 
 sian service, and afterward the founder and benefactor 
 of Odessa, where his name and memory can never ceaee 
 to be regarded with reverence. 
 
 In the course of these cantos, a stanza or two will be 
 found relative to the late Marquis of Londonderry, but 
 written some time before his decease. Ilad that per- 
 son's oligarchy died with him, they would have been 
 suppressed ; as it is, I am aware of nothing in the man- 
 ner of his death or of his life to prevent the free ex- 
 pression of the opinions of all whom his whole exist- 
 ence was consumed in endeavoring to enslave. That 
 he was an amiable man in pi-ivrU life, may or may not 
 be true ; but with this the public have nothing to do ; 
 and as to lamenting his death, it will be time enough 
 when Ireland has ceased to mourn for his birth. As a 
 minister, I, for one of millions, looked upon him as the 
 most despotic in intention, and the weakest in intellect, 
 that ever tyrannized over a country. It is the tirst time 
 indeed since the Nonnans, that England has been in- 
 sulted by a minister (ar least) who could not speak 
 English, and that Parliament penuitted itself to be 
 dictated to in the language of Mrs. Malaprop. 
 
 Of the manner of his death little need be said, ex- 
 cept that if a poor radical, such as Waddington or 
 Watson, had cut his throat, he would have been 
 buried in a cross-road, with the usual ap|)urtenance8 
 of the stake and mallet. But the minister was an ele- 
 gant lunatic — a sentimental sincidi; — he merely cut the 
 " carotid artery," (blessings on tlu-ir learning !) and lo I 
 the pagi-ant, and the Abbey ! and " the syllables of dolor 
 yelled forth " by tlie newspapers — and the liarangue 
 of the Coroner in a eulogy over the bleeding body 
 of the deceased — (an Antony worthy of such a Ctesar) 
 — and the nauseous and atrocious cant of a degraded 
 crew of conspirators against all that is sincere and 
 honorable. In Ids death he was necessarily one of two 
 things by the laic- — a felon or a madman — and in either 
 case no great subject for panegyric. In his life he was 
 — what all the world knows, and half of it will feel for 
 years to come, unless his death prove a " moral lesson " 
 to the sur\iviug Sejani of Europe. It may at least 
 serve as some consolation to the nations, that their 
 oppressors are not happy, and in some instances judge 
 so justly of their own actions as to anticipate the sen- 
 tence of mankind. Let us hear no more of this man ; 
 and let Ireland remove the ashes of her Grattan from 
 the sanctuary of Westminster. Sliall the pstriot of 
 hmnnnity repose by the Werther of politics ! 
 
 With regard to the objections which have been made 
 on another score to the already pubhshed cantos of thia 
 
C.VNTO M. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 (',39 
 
 poem, I shall content myself with two quotations from 
 Voltaire : — " La pudeur s'est enfuite des coeurs, et s'est 
 refugiee sur les levres." ..." Plus les moeurs sont de- 
 praves, plus les expressions deviennent mesurees ; on 
 ci jit regajjner en langage ce qu'on a perdu en vertu." 
 
 This is the real fact, as applicable to the degraded 
 and hypocritical mass which leavens tlie present Eng- 
 lish generation, and is the only answer they deserve. 
 The hackneyed and lavished title of Blasplieraer — 
 which, with Radical, Liberal, Jacobin, Refonue-r, etc., 
 are the changes which the liireling^ are daily ringing 
 in the ears of tliose who will listen — should be wel- 
 come to all who recollect on whom it was originally be- 
 stowed. Socrates and Jesus Christ were put to death 
 publicly as blasphemers, and so have been and may be 
 many who dare to oppose the most notorious abuses of 
 the name of God and the mind of man. But persecu- 
 tion is not refutation, nor even triumph : "the wretched 
 infidel," as he is called, is probably happier in his prison 
 than the proudest of his assailants. With his opinions 
 I have nothing to do — they may be right or wrong — but 
 he has suffered for them and that very suffering for con- 
 science' sake will make more proselytes to deism than the 
 example of heterodox' Prelates to Christianity, suicide 
 statesmen to oppression, or over-pensioned homicides 
 to the impious alliance which insults the world with 
 the name of " Holy !" I have no wish to trample on 
 the dishonored or the dead ; but it would be well if the 
 adherents to the classes from whence those persons 
 sprung should abate a little of the cant which is the 
 crying sin of this double-dealing and false-speaking 
 
 time of selfish spoilers, and but enough for the 
 
 present. 
 
 P18A, Juiy, 1822. 
 
 CANTO THE SIXTH, 
 I. 
 
 " There is a tide in the affairs of men 
 
 Which, — taken at the flood," — you know the rest,j 
 And most of us have found it now and then ; 
 
 At least we think so, though but few have guess'd 
 The moment, till too late to come again. 
 
 But no doubt every thing is for the best — 
 Of which the surest sign is in the end : 
 Wlien things are at the worst they sometimes memd. 
 
 II.. 
 There is a tide in the affairs of women 
 
 Which, taken at the flood, leads — God knows 
 Those navigators must be able seamen [where: 
 
 Whose charts lay down its current to a hair ; 
 Not all the reveries of Jacob Behmen 
 
 With its strange whirls and eddies can compare : 
 
 * When Lord Sandwich eaid '* he did not know the diflFerence 
 between onhodoxy and heterodoxy," SVarburton, the bishop, re- 
 plied, " Orthodoxy, my lord, is my daxy, and heterodoxy is a/t- 
 ol/ier man's doxy." A prelate of the present day has discovered, 
 it seems, a t/iird kind of doxy, which has not greatly exalted in 
 the eyes of the elect tliat which Pentham calls " Church-of-Eng- 
 laadism.'' 
 
 Men with their heads reflect on this and that — 
 But women with their hearts on heaven knows what I 
 
 in. 
 
 And yet a headlong, headstrong, downright she. 
 Young, beautiful, and daring — who would risk 
 
 A throne, the world, the universe, to be 
 Beloved in her own way, and rather whisk 
 
 The stars from out the sky, than not be free 
 As are the billows when the breeze is brisk — 
 
 Though such a she 's a devil, (if that there be one,) 
 
 Yet she would make full many a Manichean. 
 
 IV. 
 Thrones, worlds, et cetera, are so oft upset 
 
 By commonest ambition, that when passion 
 O'erthrows the same, we readily forget. 
 
 Or at the least forgive, the loving rash one. 
 If Antony be well remember'd yet, 
 
 'Tis not his conquests keep his name in fashion, 
 But Aetium, lost for Cleopatra's eyes, 
 Outbalances aU Ctesar's victories. 
 
 He died at fifty for a queen of forty ; 
 
 I wish their years had been fifteen and twenty. 
 For then wealth, kingdoms, worlds are but a sport — 1 
 
 Kemember when, though I had no great plenty 
 Of worlds to lose, yet still, to pay my court, 1 
 
 Gave what I had — a heart : as the world went, I 
 Gave what was worth a world ; for worlds could never 
 Restore me those pure feelings, gone forever. 
 
 VL 
 'Twas the boy's " mite," and like the " widow's," maj 
 
 Perhaps be weigh'd hereafter, if not now ; 
 But whether such things do or do not weigh, 
 
 All who have loved, or love, will stiU allow 
 Life has naught like it. God is love, they say, 
 
 And Love 's a god, or was before the brow 
 Of earth was wrinkled by the sins and tears 
 Of — but Chronology best knows the years. 
 
 VII. 
 We left our hero and third heroine m 
 
 A kind of state more awkward than uncommon, 
 For gentlemen must sometimes risk their skin 
 
 For that sad tempter, a forbidden woman : 
 Sultans too much abhor this sort of sin, 
 
 And don't agree at all with the wise Roman, 
 Heroic, stoic Cato, the sententious. 
 Who lent his lady to his friend Hortensius.^ 
 
 2 See Shakspeare, Julius Caesar, Act iv. bc. iii. 
 
 3 Cato gave up his wife Martia to his friend Hortensins ; bnt, 
 on the death of the latter, took her back again. This condaci 
 was ridiculed by the Romans, who observed, that Martia entered 
 the house of Hortensins very poor, but returned to the bed ol 
 Cato loaded with treasures. — Plutarch. 
 
640 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto vi. 
 
 VIII. 
 [ know Gulbeyaz was extremely wrong ; 
 
 I owTi it, I deplore it, I condemn it ; 
 But I detest all fiction even in song. 
 
 And so must tell tlie truth, liowe'er you blame it. 
 Her reason beinfj weak, her passions strong, 
 
 She thought that her lord's heart (even could she 
 Was scarce enough ; for he had fifty-nine [claim it) 
 Years, and a fifteen-hundredth concubine. 
 
 IX. 
 I'm not, like Cassio, " an arithmetician," 
 
 But by " the bookish theoric " it appears. 
 If 'tis summ'd up with feminine precision, 
 
 That, adding to the account his Highness' years, 
 The fair Sultana err'd from inanition ; 
 
 For were the Sultan just to all his dears, 
 She could but claim the fifteen-hundredth part 
 Of what should be monopoly — the heart. 
 
 X. 
 
 ft is observed that ladies are litigious 
 
 Upon all legal objects of possession, 
 And not the least so when they are religious. 
 
 Which doubles what they think of the transgres- 
 With suits and prosecutions they besiege us, [sion ; 
 
 As the tribunals show through many a session, 
 Wlicn they suspect that any one goes shares 
 In that to which the law makes them sole heirs. 
 
 XI. 
 Now, if this holds good in a Christian land. 
 
 The heathen also, though with le'^ser latitude. 
 Are apt to carry things with a high hand, 
 
 And take, what kings call an " imposing attitude ;" 
 And for their rights connubial make a stand, [tude: 
 
 \Vlien their liege husbands treat them with ingrati- 
 And as four wives must have quadruple claims, 
 The Tigris hath its jealousies like Thames. 
 
 XII. 
 Gulbeyaz was the fourth, and (as I said) 
 ^ The f^ivorite ; but what's favor amongst four ? 
 Polygamy may weU be held in dread. 
 
 Not only as a sin but as a ho)-e : 
 Most wise men with n»/' moderate woman wed. 
 
 Will scarcely find philosophj' for more ; 
 And all (except JIahometans) forbear 
 To make the uuptial couch a " Bed of Ware." 
 
 xni. 
 
 His Highness, the sublimest of mankind, — 
 So styled according to the usual forms 
 
 ' " Tonr worm is your only emperor for diet ; we ftt all crea- 
 tures else, to fnt us ; and we fat ourselves for maggots. Tour (Ut 
 ting, and your lean beggar, is but variable fier\ice : two dieheB 
 but to one table : that's the end "—ITamlet. 
 
 ^ See Wnverley. 
 " The blessed Francis, being strongly Bolicitcd one day bv the 
 
 Of every monarch, till they are consign'd 
 To those sad hungry jacobins the worms,' 
 
 Who on the very loftiest kings have dined, — 
 His Highness gazed upon Gulbeyaz' charms, 
 
 Expecting all the welcome of a lover, 
 
 (A " Highland welcome"^ all the wide world over.') 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Now here we should distinguish ; for howe'er 
 Kisses, sweet words, embraces, and all that, 
 
 May look like what is — neither here nor there, 
 They are put on as easily as a hat, 
 
 Or rather bonnet, which the fair sex wear, 
 Trimm'd cither heads or hearts to decorate, 
 
 Which form an ornament, Imt no more part 
 
 Of heads, than their caresses of the heart. 
 
 XV. 
 
 A slight blush, a soft tremor, a calm kind 
 Of gentle feminine delight, and shown 
 
 More in the eyelids than the eyes, rcsign'd 
 Kather to hide what pleases most unknown. 
 
 Are the best tokens (to a modest mind) 
 
 Of love, when seated on his loveliest throne, 
 
 A sincere woman's breast, — for over-i^arni 
 
 Or o-ver-cohl annihilates the charm. 
 
 XVI. 
 For over-warmth, if false, is worse than truth ; 
 
 If true, 'tis no great lease of its own fire ; 
 For no one, save in verv early youth, 
 
 Would like (I think) to trust all to desire, 
 Wliich is but a precarious bond, in sooth. 
 
 And apt to be transferrVl to the first buyer 
 At a sad discount : while your over chilly 
 Women, on t'other hand, seem somewhat silly. 
 
 XVII. 
 That is, we cannot pardon their bad taste, 
 
 For so it seems to lovers swift or slow, 
 Wlio fain would have a muttial flame confess'd. 
 
 And see a sentimental p.assion glow, 
 Even were St. Francis' paramour their guest. 
 
 In his monastic concubine of snow ; — ' 
 In short, the maxim for the amorous tribe is 
 Horatian, " Medio tu tutissimus iliis." 
 
 XVIII. 
 The " tu " 's too much, — but let it stand, — the veree 
 
 Requires it, that's to say, the Enjglish rhyme, 
 And not the pink of old hexameters ; 
 
 But, after all, there's neither tune nor time 
 
 emotions of the flesh, pulled off his clothes and scourged himself 
 soundly: being after tills inflamed with a wonderftd fervor of 
 mind, he plunged bis naked body into a great heap of snow. The 
 devil, beiner overcome, retired immediately, and tire boly man 
 returned victorious Into his ceL."— See Butler's Lives «f Ul 
 SalnU. 
 
 I 
 
Canto vi. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 041 
 
 In the last line, which cannot well be worse. 
 
 And was thrust in to close the octave's chinn" 
 I own no prosody can ever rate it 
 As a rule, but truth may, if you translate it. 
 
 XIX. 
 If fair Gulbeyaz oveidid her part, 
 
 I know not— it succeeded, and success 
 Is much in nioit things, not less in the heart 
 
 Than other arti'-les of female dress. 
 Self-love in man, too, beats all female art ; 
 
 They he, we lie, all lie, but love no less : 
 And no one virtue yet, except starvation, 
 Could stojp the worst of vices — propagation. 
 
 XX. 
 We leave the royal couple to repose : 
 
 A bed is not a throne, and they may sleep, 
 Whate'er their dreams be, if of joys or woes : 
 
 Tet disappointed joys are woes as deep 
 As any man's clay mixture undergoes. 
 
 Our least of sorrows are such as we weep ; 
 'Tis the vile daily drop on drop which wears 
 The soul out (like the stone) with petty cares. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 A scolding wife, a sullen son, a bill 
 
 To pay, unpaid, protested, or discounted 
 
 At a per-centage ; a child cross, dog ill, 
 A favorite horse fallen lame just as he's mounted, 
 
 A bad old woman making a worse win, 
 Which leaves you minus of the cash you counted 
 
 As certain ; — these are paltry things, and yet 
 
 I've rarely seen the man they did not fret. 
 
 XXII. 
 I'm a philosopher ; confound them all ! 
 
 Bills, beasts, and men, and — no I not woiLankind 1 
 With one good hearty curse I vent my gall. 
 
 And then my stoicism leaves naught behind 
 Which it can either pain or evil call, 
 
 And I can give my whole soul up to mind ; 
 Though what in soul or mind, their birth or growth. 
 Is more than I know — the deuce take them both ! 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 So now all things are d — n'd one feels at ease. 
 
 As after reading Athanasius' curse. 
 Which doth your true believer so much please : 
 
 I doubt if any now could make it wtrse 
 O'er his worst enemy when at his knees, 
 
 'Tis so sententious, positive, and terse, 
 And decorates the book of Common Prayer, 
 As doth a rainbow the just clearing air. 
 
 * Caligula— see Suetonius. " Being in a rage at l!ie people, for 
 favoring a party in the Circensian gamee in opposition to liim, he 
 tried out, ' I wieh the Roman people bad but one neck.' " 
 81 
 
 XXIV. 
 Gulbeyaz ai\d her lord were sleeping, or 
 
 At least one of them ! — Oh, the heavy night, 
 When wicked wives, who love some bachelor 
 
 Lie down in dudgeon to sigh for the light 
 Of the gray morning, and look vainly for 
 
 Its twinkle through the lattice dusky quite — 
 To toss, to tumble, doze, revive, and quake 
 Lest their too lawful bedfellow should wake I 
 
 XXV. 
 
 These are beneath the canojjy of heaven. 
 
 Also beneath the canopy of beds, 
 Four-posted and silk curtain'd, which are given 
 
 For rich men and their Ijrides to lay their heads 
 Upon, in sheets white as what bards call " driven 
 
 Snow." Well ! 'tis all hap-hazard when one weds 
 Gulbeyaz was an empress, but had been 
 Perhaps as wretched if a pcasanVs quean. 
 
 XXVI. 
 Don Juan in his feminine disguise, 
 
 With all the damsels in their long array. 
 Had bow'd themselves before th' imperial eyes, 
 
 And at the usual signal taken their way 
 Back to their chambers, those long galleries 
 
 In the seraglio, where the ladies lay 
 Their delicate limbs ; a thousand bosoms there 
 Beating for love, as the caged bird's for air. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 I love the sex, and sometimes would reverse 
 The tyrant's' wish, " that mankind only had 
 
 One neck, which he with one fell stroke might pierce." 
 My wi?h is quite as wide, but not so bad. 
 
 And much more tender on the whole than fierce ; 
 It being (not now, but only while a lad) 
 
 That womankind had but one rosy mouth. 
 
 To kiss them all at once from North to South. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 Oh, enviable Briareus ! with thy hands 
 
 And heads, if thou hadst all things multiplied 
 In such proportion ! — But my Muse withstands 
 
 The giant thought of being a Titan's bride, 
 Or traveling in Patagonian lands ; 
 
 So let us back to Lilliput, and guide 
 Our hero through the labyrinth of love, 
 In which we left him several lines above. 
 
 XXIX. 
 He went forth with the lovely Odalisques," 
 
 At the given signal join'd to their array ; 
 And though he certainly ran many risks. 
 
 Yet he could not at times keep, by the way, 
 (Although the consequences of such fiisks 
 
 Are worse than the worst damages men pay 
 
 ' The ladies of the eeraglia 
 
04^ 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 C'JJNTO VJ, 
 
 In moral England, where the thing '3 a tax,) 
 From ojjhng all their charms from breasts to backs. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Btill he fori^ot not his disguise : — along 
 The gallcnes from room to room they walk'd, 
 
 A virgin-like and edifying throng, 
 By eunuchs tlank'd ; while at their heaA there 
 stalk'd 
 
 A dame who kept up discipline among 
 The female ranks, so that none stirr'd or talk'd, 
 
 Without her sanction on their she-parades : 
 
 Her title was "the Mother of the Maids." 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Wliether she was a "mother," I know not, 
 Oi whether they were " maids" who call'd her mo- 
 
 But this is her seraglio title, got [ther ; 
 
 I know not how, but good as any other; 
 
 80 Cantemir' can tell you, or De Tott : 
 Her office was to keep aloof or smother 
 
 All bad propensities in fifteen hundred [dcr'd. 
 
 Young women, and correct them when they blun- 
 
 XXXII. 
 A goodly sinecure, no doubt ! but made 
 
 More easy by the absence of all men — 
 Except his majesty, — who with her aid, 
 
 And guards, and bolts, and walls, and now and 
 A slight example, just to cast a shade [then 
 
 Along the rest, contrived to keep this den 
 Of beauties cool as an Italian convent, 
 Wiere all the passions have, alas ! but one vent. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 And what is that ? Devotion, doubtless — how 
 
 Could you ask such a question ? — but we vnl\ 
 Continue. As I said, this goodly row 
 
 Of ladies of all countries at the will 
 Of one good man, with stately march and slow. 
 
 Like water-lilies floating down a rill — 
 Or rather lake — for rills do n"t run s'owh/, — 
 Paced on most maiden-like and melancholy. 
 
 XXXIV.. 
 But when they reach'd their own apartments, there. 
 
 Like birds, or boys, or bedlamites broke loose. 
 Waves at spring-tide, or women anywhere 
 
 Wlien freed from bonds, (which are of no great 
 After all,) or like Irish at a fair, [use 
 
 Their guards being gone, and as it were a truce 
 Establish'd between them and bondage, they 
 Began to sing, dance, chatter, smile, and play. 
 
 * [Demetrius Conterair. a prince of Moldavia ; wiiose ** History 
 of the Growth and Decay of the Ottoman Empire " was translated 
 Into En<;li''h by Tindal. He died in 1123.] 
 
 ' " It IS in the adjacent climates of Georgia, Mingrclia, and Cir- 
 rassia, that nature has placed, at least to our eyes, the model of 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Their talk, of course, ran most on the new comer ; 
 
 Her shape, her hair, her air, her every thing : 
 Some thought her dress did not so much become 
 
 Or wonder'd at her ears w ithout a ring ; [her, 
 Some said her years were getting nigh their summer, 
 
 Others contended they were but in spring ; 
 Some thought her rather masculine in height, 
 While others wish'd that she had been so quite. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 But no one doubted on the whole, that she 
 
 Was what her dress bespoke, a damsel fair, 
 And fresh, and " beautiful exceedingly," 
 
 ■\\nio with the brightest Georgians' might com. 
 I^are : 
 They wonder'd how Gulbeyaz, too, could be 
 
 So silly as to buy slaves who might share 
 (If that his Highness wearied of his bride) 
 Her throne and power, and every thing beside. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 But what was strangest in this virgin crew, 
 
 Although her beauty was enough to vex, 
 After the first investigating view. 
 
 They all found out as few, or fewer, specks 
 In the fair form of their companion new. 
 
 Than is the. custom of the gentle sex, 
 Wlien they survey, with Christian eyes or Heathen, 
 In a new face, " the ugliest creature breathing." 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 And yet they had their little jealousies, 
 
 Like all tlie rest ; but uiinn this oocasion, 
 Wlicther there are such things as sympathies 
 
 Without our knowledge or our approbation. 
 Although they could not see through his disguise, 
 
 All felt a soft kind of concatenation. 
 Like magnetism, or devilism, or what 
 You please- — we will not quarrel about that : 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 But certain 'tis they all felt for their new 
 Companion something newer still, as 'twere 
 
 A sentimental iricntlship through and through, 
 Extremely pure, which made them all concur 
 
 In wishing her their sister, save a few 
 
 Who wish'd they had a brother just like her, 
 
 Wliom, if they were at home in sweet Circassia, 
 
 They would prefer to Padisha' or Pacha. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Of those who had most genius for this sort 
 Of sentimental friendship, there were three, 
 
 beauty, in the shape of the limbs, the coir- :)f the skin, the »jxa 
 metry of the features, and the expression of the countenance 
 the men are formed for action, the women for love. '— Gibboh. 
 
 ' Fadisha is the Turkita title of the Grand Signior. 
 
CAirro VI. 
 
 DOiST JUAN, 
 
 04y 
 
 liolab, Katinka, and DudCi ; in short, 
 (To save description,) fair as fair can be 
 
 Were they, according to the best report. 
 Though differing in stature and degree. 
 
 And clime and time, and country and complexion ; 
 
 rhey all alike admired their new connection. 
 
 XLI. 
 Lolah was dusk as India and as warm ; 
 
 Katinka was a Georgian, white and red, 
 With great blue eyes, a lovely hand and arm, 
 
 And feet so small they scarce seem'd made to 
 tread. 
 But rather skim the earth ; while Dudti's form 
 
 Look'd more adapted to be put to bed. 
 Being somewhat large, and languishing, and lazy, 
 Yet of a beauty that would drive you crazy. 
 
 XLII. 
 A kind of sleepy Venus seem'd Dudfi, 
 
 Yet very fit to " murder sleep " in those 
 Who gazed upon her cheek's transcendent hue, 
 
 Her Attic forehead, and her Phidian nose : 
 Few angles were there in her form, 'tis true. 
 
 Thinner she might have been, and yet scarce lose ; 
 Yet, after all, 'twould puzzle to say where 
 It would not spoil some separate charm to pare. 
 
 XLIII. 
 She was not violently lively, but 
 
 Stole on your spirit like a May-day breaking ; 
 Her eyes were nft too sparkling, yet, half-shut, 
 
 They put beholders in a tender taking ; 
 She look'd (this simile 's quite new) just cut 
 
 From marble, Uke Pygmalion's statue waking. 
 The mortal and the marble still at strife. 
 And timidly expanding into life. 
 
 XLTV. 
 Lolah demanded the new damsel's name — 
 
 " Juanna." — Well, a pretty name enough. 
 Katinka ask'd her also whence she came — 
 
 "From Spain." — "But where U Spain?" — "Don't 
 ask such stuff. 
 Nor show your Georgian ignorance — for shame !" 
 
 Said Lolah, with an accent rather rough. 
 To poor Katinka : " Spain's an island near 
 Morocco, betwixt Egypt and Tangier." 
 
 XLT. 
 DudCi said nothing, but sat down beside 
 
 Juanna. playing with her veil or hair ; 
 And looking at her stea.dfastly, she sigh'd. 
 
 As if she pitied her for being there, 
 A pretty stranger without friend or guide. 
 
 And all abash'd, too, at the general stare 
 Wliich welcomes hapless strangers in all places. 
 With kind remarks upon their mien and fac«8. 
 
 XLVI. 
 But here the Mother of the Maids drew near 
 
 With, " Ladies, it is time to go to rest. 
 I'm puzzled what to do with you, my deal," 
 
 She added to .Juanna, their new guest : 
 "Your coming has been unexpected here, 
 
 And every couch is occupied ; you had best 
 Partake of mine ; but by to-morrow early 
 We will have all things settled for you fairly." 
 
 XLTII. 
 Here Lolah interposed — " JIamma, you know 
 
 You don't sleep soundly, and I cannot bear 
 That anybody should disturb you so ; 
 
 I'll take Juanna ; we're a slenderer pair 
 Than you would m.ake the half of ; — don't say no ; 
 
 And I of your young charge will take due care." 
 But here Katinka interfered, and s.aid, 
 " She also had compassion and a bed." 
 
 XLVIII. 
 " Besides, I hate to sleep alone," quoth she. 
 
 The matron frown'd : "Why so?" — " For fear of 
 Replied Katinka ; " I am sure I see [ghosts," 
 
 A phantom upon each of the four posts ; 
 And then I have the worst dreams that can be. 
 
 Of Guebres.Giaours, and Ginns, and Gouls in hosts." 
 The dame replied, " Between your dreams and you, 
 I fear Juanna's dreams would be but few. 
 
 XLIX. 
 " You, Lolah, must continue still to lie 
 
 Alone, for reasons which don't matter ; you 
 The same, Katinka, until by and by ; 
 
 And I shall place Juanna with Dudii, 
 Wlio's quiet, inoffensive, silent, shy. 
 
 And will not toss and chatter the night through. 
 What say you, child ?" — Dudfi said nothing, as 
 Her talents were of the more silent class ; 
 
 L. 
 But she rose up, and kiss'd the matron's brow 
 
 Between the eyes, and Lolah on both cheeks, 
 Katinka, too ; and with a gentle bow 
 
 (Court'sies are neither used by Turks nor Greeks; 
 She took Juanna by the hand to show 
 
 Their place of rest, and left to both their piques. 
 The others pouting at the matron's preference 
 Of Dudil, though they held their tongues from def 
 erence. 
 
 IJ. 
 It was a spacious chamber, (Oda is 
 
 The Turkish title,) and ranged round the waU 
 Were couches, toilets — and much more than this 
 
 I might describe, as I have seen it all. 
 But it suffices — little was amiss : 
 
 'Twas on the whole a nobly fumish'd hall. 
 
644 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto vi. 
 
 With all tilings ladies want, save one or two, 
 Ajid even those were nearer than they knew. 
 
 Lll. 
 Dudd, as has been said, was a sweet creature, 
 
 Not very dashing, but extremely winning, 
 With the most regulated charms of feature, 
 
 Whicli painters cannot catch like faces sinning 
 Against proportion — the wild strokes of nature 
 
 Which they hit off at once in the beginning, 
 Full of ex])ression, right or wrong, that strike, 
 And pleasing, or unpleasing, still are like. 
 
 LIII. 
 But she was a soft landscape of mild earth. 
 
 Where all was harmony, and calm, and quiet, 
 Luxuriant, budding ; cheerful without mirth, 
 
 Wliich if not ha])piness, is much more nigh it 
 Than are your mighty passions and so forth, 
 
 Which some call " the sublime ;" I wish they'd try 
 I've seen your stormy seas and stormy women, [it : 
 And pity lovers rather more than seamen. 
 
 LIV. 
 But she was pensive more than melancholy, 
 
 And serious more than pensive, and serene, 
 [t may be, more than either — not unholy [been. 
 
 Her thoughts, at least till now, appear to have 
 The strangest thing was, beauteous, she was wholly 
 
 Unconscious, albeit tum'd of quick seventeen. 
 That she was fair, or dark, or short, or tall ; " 
 She never thouglit about herself at all. 
 
 LV. 
 And therefore was she kind and gentle as 
 
 The Age of Gold, (when gold was yet unknown. 
 By which its nomenclature came to pass ; 
 
 Thus most appropriately has been shown, 
 "Lucus a lon luccndo," not what wan. 
 
 But what ?r<Ts not ; a sort of style that's grown 
 Extremely common in this age, whose metal 
 The devil may decompose, but never settle : 
 
 LVI. 
 I think it may be of '' C^orinthian Brass," 
 
 Which was a mixture of all metals, but 
 The brazen uppermost.) Kind reader ! pass 
 
 This long parenthesis : I could not shut 
 It sooner for the soul of me, and class 
 
 My faults even with your own ! which meaneth, 
 A kind construction upon tliem and me : [Put 
 
 But that you won't — then don't — I'm not less free. 
 
 LVII. 
 'Tis time we should return to plain narration, 
 
 And thus my narrative proceeds : — Dudfi, 
 With every kindness short of ostentation, 
 
 Show'd Juan, or Juanna, through and through 
 
 This labvrinth of females, and each station 
 
 Described — what 's strange — in words oxtremclj 
 I've but one simile, and that 's a blunder, [few ! 
 
 For wordless woman, which is silent thunder. 
 
 LVI 1 1. 
 And next she gave her (I say /'f r, because 
 
 The gender still was epicene, at least 
 In outward show, which is a saving clause) 
 
 An outline of the customs of the East, 
 With all their chaste integrity of laws. 
 
 By which the more a harem is increased, 
 The stricter doubtless grow the vestal duties 
 Of any supernumerary beauties. 
 
 LIX. 
 And then she gave .Juanna a chaste kiss : 
 
 Dudii was fond of kissing — which I'm sure 
 That nobody can ever take amiss. 
 
 Because 'tis pleasant, so that it be pure, 
 And l^etween females means no more than this — 
 
 That they have nothing better near, or newer. 
 "Kiss" rhymes to "bliss" in fact as well as vers» 
 I wish it never led to something worse. 
 
 LX. 
 In perfect innocence she then unmade 
 
 Her toilet, which cost little, for she was 
 A child of Nature, carelessly array'd : 
 
 If fond of a chance ogle at her glass, 
 'Twas like the fawn, which, in the lake display'd 
 
 Beholds her own shy, shadowy image pass, 
 Wlien first she starts, and then returns to peep, 
 Admiring this new native of the deep. 
 
 LXI. 
 And one by one her articles of dress 
 
 Were laid aside : but not before she offer'd 
 Her aid to fair Juanna, whose excess 
 
 Of modesty declined the assistance i)roffer'd : 
 Which pass'd well off — as she could do no less ; 
 
 Though by this politesse she rather suffer'd. 
 Pricking her fingers with those cursed pins. 
 Which surely were invented for our sins, — 
 
 LXTI. 
 Making a ^voman like a porcupine. 
 
 Not to be rashly touch'd. But still more dreail, 
 Oh, ye ! whose fate it is, as once 'twas mine, 
 
 In early youth, to turn a lady's maid ; — 
 I did my very boyish best to shine 
 
 In tricking her out for a masquerade : 
 The pins were placed sufficiently, but not 
 Stuck all exactly in the proper spot. 
 
 LXIII. 
 But these are foolish things to all the wise, 
 And I love wisdom more than she loves me • 
 
Caxto vl 
 
 DON JUAN, 
 
 64t 
 
 My tendency is to philosophize 
 
 On most things, from a tyrant to a tree ; 
 
 But still the spouseless virgin Knowledge flies. 
 What are we ? and whence came we ? what shall 
 
 Our ttftma^e existence ? What's our present ? [be 
 
 Are questions answerless, and yet incessant. 
 
 LXIV. 
 There was deep silence in the chamber : dim 
 
 And distant from each other burn'd the lights, 
 And slumber hover'd o'er each lovely limb 
 
 Of the fair occupants : if there be sprites, [trim, 
 They should have walk'd there in their sprightliest 
 
 By way of change from their sepulchral sites, 
 And shown themselves as ghosts of better taste 
 Than haunting some old ruin or wild waste. 
 
 LXV. 
 Many and beautiful lay those around, 
 
 Like flowers of difterent hue, and clime, and root, 
 In some exotic garden sometimes found. 
 
 With cost, and care, and warmth induced to shoot. 
 One with her auburn tresses lightly bound. 
 
 And fair brows gently drooijing, as the fruit 
 Nods from the tree, was slumbering with soft breath, 
 And lips apart, which show'd the pearls beneath. 
 
 LXVI. 
 One with her flush'd cheek laid on her white arm. 
 
 And raven ringlets gather'd in dark crowd 
 Above her brow, lay dreaming soft and warm ; 
 
 And smiling through her dream, as through a cloud 
 The moon lireaks, half unveil'd each further charm. 
 
 As, slightly stirring in her snowy shroud. 
 Her beauties seized the unconscious hour of night 
 All bashfully to struggle into light. 
 
 LXVII. 
 This is no bull, although it sounds so ; for 
 'Twas night, but there were lamps, as hath been 
 said. 
 A third's all pallid aspect ofler'd more 
 
 The traits of sleeping sorrow, and betray'd 
 Through the heaved breast the dream of some far 
 Beloved and deplored ; while slowly stray'd [shore 
 (As night-dew, on a cypress glittering, tinges 
 The black bough) tear-drops through her eyes' dark 
 Mnges. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 A fourth as marble, statue-like and still, 
 
 La) 'n a breath) 3ss, hush'd, and stony sleep ; 
 White, cold, and ^jure, as looks a frozen rill. 
 
 Or the snow minaret on an Alpine steep. 
 Or Lot's wife done in salt, — or what you Vtill ; — 
 
 My similes are gather'd in a heap, 
 So pick and choose — perhaps you'll be coi tent 
 With a carved ladv on a monument 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 And lo ! a tifth appears ; — and what is she ? 
 
 A lady of a " certain age," which means 
 Certainly aged — what her years might je 
 
 I know not, never cotmting past their teens ; 
 But there she slept, not quite so fair to see. 
 
 As ere that awful period intervenes 
 Which lays both men and women on the shelf, 
 To meditate upon their sins and self. 
 
 LXX. 
 But aU this time how slept, or dream'd, Dudti ? 
 
 With strict inquiry I could ne'er discover, 
 And scorn to add a pliable untrue ; 
 
 But ere the middle watch was hardly over. 
 Just when the fading lamps waned dim and blue. 
 
 And phantoms hover'd, or might seem to hover 
 To those who like their comjiany, about 
 The apartment, on a sudden she scream'd out ; 
 
 LXXI. 
 And that so loudly, that upstarted all 
 
 The Oda, in a general commotion : 
 Matron and maids, and those whom you may call 
 
 Neither, came crowding like the waves of ocean. 
 One on the other, throughout the whole hall. 
 
 All trembUug, wondering, without the least notion 
 More than I have myself of what could make 
 The calm Dudfi so turbulently wake. 
 
 LXXII. 
 But wide awake she was, and round her bed. 
 
 With floating draperies and with flying hair, 
 With eager eyes, and light but hurried tread, 
 
 And bosoms, arms, and ankles glancing bare, 
 And bright as any meteor ever bred 
 
 By the North Pole, — they sought her cause of 
 care. 
 For she seem'd agitated, flush'd, and frighten'd, 
 Her eye dilated and her color heighten'd. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 But what was strange — and a strong proof how great 
 A blessing is sound sleej^ — Juanna lay 
 
 As fast as ever husband by his mate 
 In holy matrimony snores away. 
 
 Not all the clamor broke her happy state 
 
 Of slumber, ere they shook her,— so they say 
 
 At least, — and then she, too, unclosed her eyes, 
 
 And yawn'd a good deal with discreet surprise. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 And now commenced a strict investigation, 
 
 Which, as all spoke at once, and more than once 
 Conjecturing, wondering, asking a narration, 
 
 Alike might puzzle either wit or dunce 
 To answer in a very clear oration. 
 
 Dudfi had never pass'd for wanting sense; 
 
S46 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CA>TO Tu 
 
 But, being " no orator as Brutus is," 
 Could not at fij-st expound wbat was amiss. 
 
 LXXV. 
 At length she said, that in a slumber sound 
 
 She dream'd a dream, of walking in a wood — 
 A " wood obscure," like that where Dante found 
 
 Himself in at the age when all grow good ; 
 Life's half-way house, where dames with virtue 
 crown'rt 
 
 Run much less risk of lovers turning rude ; 
 And that this wood was full of jjlcasant frnits, 
 And trees of goodly growth and spreading roots ; 
 
 LXXVI. 
 And in the midst a golden apple grew, — 
 
 A most prodigious i:)ippin — but it hung 
 Katlier too high and distant ; that she threw 
 
 Her glances on it, and then, longing, flung 
 Stones and whatever she could pick up, to 
 
 Bring down the fruit, which still perversely clung 
 To its own bough, and dangled yet in sight, 
 But always at a most provoking height ; — 
 
 LXXVII. 
 That on a sudden, when she least had hope, 
 
 It fell down of its own accord before 
 Her feet ; that her tirst movement was to stoop 
 
 And pick it up, and bite it to the core ; 
 That just as her young lip began to ope 
 
 Upon the golden fruit the vision bore, 
 A bee flew out, and stung her to the heart, 
 And so — she awoke with a great scream and start. 
 
 LXXVIIl. 
 All this she told, with some confusion and 
 
 Dismay, the usual consequence of dreams 
 Of the unpleasant kind, with none at hand 
 
 To expound their vain and visionary gleams. 
 I've kno^Ti some odd ones which seem'd really 
 
 Prophetically, or that which one deems [plann'd 
 A " strange coincidence," to use a phrase 
 By which such things are settled now-a-days. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 The damsels, who had thoughts of some groat harm. 
 
 Began, as is the consequence of fear. 
 To scold a little at the false alarm 
 
 That broke for nothing on their sleeping ear. 
 The matron, too, was wroth to leave her warm 
 
 Bed for the dream she had been obliged to hear, 
 And chafed at poor Dudii, wlio only sigh'd. 
 And said, that slie was sorry she had cried. 
 
 LXXX. 
 * I've heard of stories of a cock and bull ; 
 
 But visions of an a)>ple and a Ijcc, 
 Til take us from our natural rest, and pull 
 
 The whole i )da from their beds at half-past three. 
 
 Would make us think the moon is at its full 
 You surely are uinviU, child ! we must see. 
 To-morrow, what his Highness's jihysician 
 Will say to tliis hysteric of a vision. 
 
 LXXXl. 
 
 " And poor Juanna, too, the child's first night 
 Within these walls, to be broke in upon 
 
 With such a clamor — I had thought it right 
 That the young stranger should not lie alone, 
 
 And, as the quietest of all, she might 
 
 With you, Dudii, a good night's rest have knowa 
 
 But now I must transfer her to the charge 
 
 Of Lolah — though her couch is not so large." 
 
 LXXXII. 
 Lolah's eyes sparkled at the proposition ; 
 
 But poor Dudii, with large drops in her own. 
 Resulting from the scolding or the vision, 
 
 Imijlored that present pardon might be shown 
 For this first fault, and that on no condition 
 
 (She added in a soft and piteous tone) 
 Juanna should be taken from lier, and 
 Her future dreams should all be kejJt in hand. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 She jDromised never more to have a dream, 
 
 At least to dream so loudly as just now ; 
 She wonder'd at herself how she could scream — 
 
 'Twas foolish, nervous, as she must allow, 
 A fond hallucination, and a theme 
 
 For laughter — but she felt her sjjirits low. 
 And begg'd they would excuse her ; she'd get 
 
 over 
 This weakness in a few hours, and recover. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 And here Juanna kindly interposed. 
 
 And said she felt hei'self extremely well 
 Where she then was, as her sound sleep disclosed, 
 
 Wlien all around rang like a tocsin bell ; 
 She did not find herself the least disposed 
 
 To quit her gentle partner, and to dwell 
 Apart from one who had no sin to show. 
 Save that of dreaming once ■' mal-;i-propos." 
 
 bXXXV. 
 As thus Juanna spoke, Dudii turn'd round 
 
 And hid her face within Juanna's breast ; 
 Her neck alone was seen, but that was found 
 
 The color of a budding rose's crest. 
 I can't tell why she blush'd, nor can expound 
 
 The mj'stery of tliis rupture of their rest ; 
 All that I know is, tliat the facts I state 
 Are true as truth has ever been of late. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 And so good night to them, — or, if you ^\ill. 
 
 Good morrow — for the cock had crowM, and light 
 
CA^To VI. 
 
 DON JUAN". 
 
 Oil 
 
 Began to clothe each Asiatic hill, 
 
 And the mosque crescent struggled into sight 
 Of the long aravan, which in the chill 
 
 Of dewy lawn wound slowly round each height, 
 That stretches to the stony belt, which girds 
 Asia, where Kaff looks down upon the Kurds. 
 
 LXXSVII. 
 
 With the iirst ray, or rather gray of morn, 
 Gulbeyaz rose Irom restlessness ; and jjale 
 
 As Passion rises, with its bosona worn, 
 
 Array'd herself with mantle, gem, and veil. 
 
 The nightingale that sings with the deep thorn. 
 Which fable places in her breast of wail. 
 
 Is lighter far of heart and voice than those 
 
 Whose headlong passions form their proper woes. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 And that's the moral of this composition. 
 If people would but see its real drift ; — 
 
 But that they will not do without suspicion, 
 Because all gentle readers have the gift 
 
 Of closing "gainst the Ught their orbs of vision ; 
 While gentle writers also love to lift 
 
 Their voices 'gainst each other, which is natural, 
 
 The numbers are too great for them to flatter alL 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 Rose the sultana from a bed of splendor. 
 Softer than the soft Sybarite's, who cried 
 
 Aloud because his feelings were too tender 
 To brook a ruffled rose-leaf by his side, — 
 
 So beautiful that art could little mend her. 
 Though pale with conflicts between love and 
 pride ; — 
 
 So agitated was she with her error, 
 
 She did not even look into the mirror. 
 
 XC. 
 
 Also arose about the self-same time. 
 
 Perhaps a little later, her great lord. 
 Master of thirty kingdoms so sublime. 
 
 And of a wife by whom he was abhorr'd ; 
 A thing of much less import in that clime — 
 
 At least to those of incomes which aflbrd 
 The tilling up their whole Connuliial cargo — • 
 Than where two wives are under an embargo. 
 
 XCI. 
 
 He did not think much on the matter, nor 
 
 Indeed on any other : as a man 
 He liked to have a handsome paramour 
 
 At hand, as one may like to have a fan. 
 And therefore of Circassians had good store. 
 
 As an amusement after the Divan ; 
 Though an unusual fit of love, or duty. 
 Had made him lately bask in his bride's beauty. 
 
 XCII. 
 And now he rose ; and after due ablutions 
 
 Exacted by the customs of the East, 
 And prayers and other pious evolutions. 
 
 He drank six cups of coffee at the least, 
 And then withdrew to hear about the Russians, 
 
 Whose victories had recently increased 
 In Catherine's reign, whom glory still adores, 
 As greatest of all sovereigns and w s. 
 
 XCIII. 
 But oh, thou grand legitimate Alexander ! 
 
 Her son's son, let not this last phrase offend 
 Thine ear, if it should reach — and now rhymes 
 wander 
 
 Almost as far as Petersburgh, and lend 
 A dreadful impulse to each loud meander 
 
 Of murmuring Liberty's wide waves, which blend 
 Their roar even with the Baltic's — so you be 
 Yoiu- father's son, 'tis quite enough for mo. 
 
 XCIV. 
 To call men love-begotten or proclaim 
 
 Their mothers as the antipodes of Timon, 
 That hater of mankind, would be a shame, 
 
 A libel, or whate'er you please to rhyme on : 
 But people's ancestors are history's game ; 
 
 And if one lady's slip could leave a crime on 
 AU generations, I should like to know 
 What pedigree the best would have to show ? 
 
 XCV. 
 Had Catherine and the sultan understood 
 
 Their own true interests, which kings rarely know 
 Until 'tis taught by lessons rather rude. 
 
 There was a way to end their strife, although 
 Perhaps precarious, had they but thought good. 
 
 Without the aid of prince or plenipo : 
 She to dismiss her guards and he his harem, 
 And for their other matters, meet and share 'em, 
 
 XCVI. 
 But as it was, his Highness had to hold 
 
 His daily council upon ways and means 
 How to encounter with this marrial scold. 
 
 This modern Amazon and queen of queans : 
 And the perjjlexity could not be told 
 
 Of all the pillars of the state, which le.^ns 
 Sometimes a liltie hea^'y on the backs 
 Of those who cannot lay on a new tax. 
 
 XCVII. 
 Meantime Gulbevaz, when her king was gont 
 
 Retired into her boudoir, a sweet place 
 For love or break^^vst ; private, pleasing, lone. 
 
 And rich with all contrivances whicu grace 
 Those gay recesses : — many a precious stone 
 
 Sparkled along its roof. luul aii»nv »■ vaap 
 
648 
 
 BTRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canio n. 
 
 of porcelain held in tlie fotter'cl flowers, 
 Tliose captive soothers of a cai)tive's hours. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 Mother of pearl, and porphyry, and marble, 
 
 Vied with each other on this costly spot ; 
 And singing birds without were heard to warble ; 
 
 And the stain'd glass which lighted this fair grot 
 Varied each ray ; — but all descriptions garble 
 
 The true effect, and so we had better not 
 Be too minute ; au outline is the best, — 
 A lively reader's fancy does the rest. 
 
 XCIX. 
 And here she summon'd Baba, and required 
 
 Don .Tuan at his hands, and information 
 Of what had j)ass'd since aU the slaves retired. 
 
 And whether he had occupied their station ; 
 If matters had been managed as desired. 
 
 And his disguise with due consideration 
 Kept up ; and above all, the where and how [know. 
 He had pass'd the niglit, was what she wish'd to 
 
 C. 
 Baba, with some embarrassment, rejjlied 
 
 To this long catechism of questions, ask'd 
 More easily than answer'd, — that he had tried 
 
 His best to obey in what he had been task'd ; 
 But there seem'd something that he wish'd to hide, 
 
 Which hesitation more betray'd than mask'd ; 
 He scratcU'd his car, the infallible resource 
 To which embarrass'd people have recourse. 
 
 CI. 
 
 Gulbeyaz was no model of true patience. 
 
 Nor much disposed to wait in word or deed ; 
 
 She liked quick answers in all conversations ; 
 And when she saw him stumbling hkc a Steed 
 
 In his replies, she puzzled him for fresh ones ; 
 And as his speech grew still more broken-kneed, 
 
 Her cheek began to flush, her eyes to sparkle, 
 
 And.her proud brow's blue veins ^o swell and darkle. 
 
 CII. 
 When Baba saw these symptoms, which he knew 
 
 To bode him no great good, he deprecated 
 Her anger, and lieseech'd she'd hear him through — 
 
 He could not help the thing which he related : 
 Then out it came at length, that to Dudfi 
 
 Juan was given in charge, as hath been stated; 
 But not by Bal)a"s fault, he said, and swore on 
 The holy camel's hump, Ijcsides the Koran. 
 
 cm. 
 
 The chief dame of the Oda, upon whom 
 The discipline of the whole harem bore. 
 
 As soon as they re-enter'd their own room. 
 For Baba's function stopp'd short at the door, 
 
 Had settled all ; nor could he then piesume 
 
 (The aforesaid Baba) just then to do more, 
 Without exciting such suspicion as 
 Might make the matter still worse than it was. 
 
 CIV. 
 He hoped, indeed ho thought, he could be sure 
 
 Juan had not betray'd himself; in fact 
 'Twas certain that his conduct had been pure, 
 
 Because a foolish or imprudent act 
 Would not alone have made him insecure. 
 
 But ended in his being found out and sack'd, 
 And thrown into the sea. — Thus Baba spoke 
 Of all save Dudti's di-eam, which was no joke. 
 
 CV. 
 
 This he discreetly kept in the back ground. 
 
 And talk'd away — and might have talk'd till now, 
 
 For any fiu'ther answer that he found. 
 
 So deep an anguish wTung Gulbeyaz' brow : 
 
 Her cheek tum'd ashes, ears rung, brain whirl'd 
 As if she had received a sudden blow, [round, 
 
 And the heart's dew of i^ain sprang fast and chilly 
 
 O'er her fair front, like Morning's on a lily. 
 
 CVI. 
 Although she was not of the fainting sort, 
 
 Baba thought she would faint, but there he err'd — 
 It was but a convulsion, which though short 
 
 \)an never be described ; we all have heard, 
 And some of us have felt thus " all amort," 
 
 Wlien things beyond the common have occurr'd — 
 Gulbeyaz proved in that l)rief agony 
 What she could ne'er express — then how should I ? 
 
 CVI I. 
 She stood a moment as a Pythoness 
 
 Stands on her tripod, agonized, and full 
 Of inspiration gather'd from distress. 
 
 When all the heart-strings like wild horses pull 
 The heart asunder ;— then, as more or less 
 
 Their speed abated or their strength grew dull, 
 She sunk down on her seat l)y slow degrees, 
 And bow'd her throbbing head o'er trembling knee& 
 
 CVIII. 
 Her face declined and was unseen ; her hair 
 
 Fell in long tresses like the weeping willow, 
 Sweeping the marble underneath her chair, 
 
 Or rather sofa, (for it was all pillow, 
 A low, soft ottoman,) and lilack despair 
 
 Stirr'd uj) and down her Ijosom like a billow, 
 Wliicli rushes to some shore whose shingles check 
 Its farther course, but must receive its wreek. 
 
 CIX. 
 Her head hung down, and her long hair in etonping 
 Conceal'd her features better than a veil ; 
 
Caxto ti. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 6M 
 
 And one hand o'er the ottoman lay drooping, 
 "White, waxen, and as alabaster pale : 
 
 Would that I were a painter ! to he grouping 
 All that a poet drags into detail 1 
 
 Oh, that my words were colors 1 but their tints 
 
 May serve perhaps as outUnes or slight hints. 
 
 ex. 
 
 Baba, who knew by experience when to talk 
 And when to hold his tongue, now held it till 
 
 This passion might blow o'er, nor dared to balk 
 Gulbeyaz' taciturn or speaking will. 
 
 At length she rose up, and began to walk 
 Slowly along the room, but silent still, 
 
 And her brow clear'd, but not her troubled eye ; 
 
 The wind was down, but still the sea ran high. 
 
 CXI. 
 She stopp'd, and raisedher head to speak — but paused. 
 
 And then moved on again with rapid pace ; 
 Then alacken'd it, which is the march most caused 
 
 By deep emotion ; — you may sometimes trace 
 A feeling in each footstep, as disclosed 
 
 By SaUust in his Catiline, who, chased 
 By all the demons of all passions, show'd 
 Their work even by the way in which he trode. 
 
 CXII. 
 Gulbeyaz stopp'd and beckon'd Baba : — " Slave ! 
 
 Bring the two slaves !" she said in a low tone, 
 But one which Baba did not like to brave. 
 
 And yet he shudder'd, and seem'd rather prone 
 To prove reluctant, and begg'd leave to crave 
 
 (Though he well knew the meaning) to be shown 
 What slaves her highness wish'd to indicate, 
 For fear of any error, like the late. 
 
 CXIII. 
 " The Georgian and her paramour," replied 
 
 The imperial bride — and added, " Let the boat 
 Be ready by the secret portal's side : 
 
 You know the rest." The words stuck in her 
 Despite her injured love and fiery pride ; [throat, 
 
 And of this Baba willingly took note. 
 And begg'd by every hair of Mahomet's beard, 
 She would revoke the order he Lad heard. 
 
 CXIV. 
 " To hear is to obey," he said ; " but still, 
 
 Sultana, think upon the consequence : 
 It is not tliat I shall not all fulfil 
 
 Your orders, even in their severest stnse ; 
 But such precipitation may end ill, 
 
 Even at your own imperative expense : 
 I do not mean destruction and exposure. 
 In case of any premature disclosure ; 
 
 CXV. 
 
 '' But your own feelings. Even should all the rest 
 Be hidden by the rolling waves, which hide 
 82 
 
 Already many a once love-beaten breast 
 Deep in the caverns of the deadly tide — 
 
 You love this boyish, new, seraglio guest. 
 And if this violent remedy be tried — 
 
 Excuse my freedom, when I here assure you, 
 
 That killing him is not the way to cure you." 
 
 CXVI. 
 
 " What dost thou know of love or feeling ? — 
 Wretch 1 
 
 Begone !" she cried, with kindling eyes — " and do 
 My bidding !" Baba vanish'd, for to stretch 
 
 His own remonstrance further he well knew 
 Might end in acting as his own " Jack Ketch ;" 
 
 And though he wish'd extremely to get through 
 This awkward business without harm to others, 
 He still preferr'd his own neck to another's. 
 
 CXVII. 
 
 Away he went then ujjon his commission, 
 
 Growling and grumbling in good Turkish purase 
 
 Against all women of whate'er condition, 
 Especially sultanas and their ways ; 
 
 Their obstinacy, pride, and indecision. 
 
 Their never knowing their own mind two days, 
 
 The trouble that they gave, their immorality, 
 
 Which made him daily bless his own neutrality. 
 
 CXVIII. 
 
 And then he call'd his brethren to his aid, 
 And sent one on a summons to the pair, 
 
 That they must instantly be weU array'd, 
 And above all be comb'd even to a hair, 
 
 And brought before the empress, who had made 
 Inquiries after them with kindest care : 
 
 At which Dudfi look'd strange, and Juan silly ; 
 
 But go they must at once, and will I — nill I. 
 
 CXIX. 
 
 And here I leave them at their preparation 
 For the imperial presence, wherein whether 
 
 Gulbeyaz show'd them both commiseration, 
 Or got rid of the parties altogether, 
 
 Like other angry ladies of her nation, — 
 Are things the turning of a hair or feather 
 
 May settle ; but far be't from me to anticipate 
 
 In what way feminine caprice may dissijiate. 
 
 CXX. 
 I leave them for the present with good wishes. 
 
 Though doubts of their well doing, to arrange 
 Another part of history ; for the dishes 
 
 Of this our banquet we must sometimes change ( 
 And trusting .luan may escape the fishes. 
 
 Although his situation now seems stnmge. 
 And scarce secure, as such digressions are fair, 
 The Muse will take a little touch at warfaro> 
 
soo 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Cakto tu. 
 
 DON J U A N. 
 
 CANTO THE SEVENTH. 
 
 Love ! O Glory ! what are ye who fly 
 Around us ever, rarely to alight ? 
 
 There 's not a meteor in the polar sky 
 
 Of such transcendent and more fleeting flight. 
 
 Chill, and chain'd to cold earth, we lift on high 
 Our eyes in search of either lovely light ; 
 
 A. thousand and a thousand colors they 
 
 Assume, then leave us on our freezing way. 
 
 II. 
 
 And such as they are, such my present tale is, 
 A nondescript and ever-varying rhyme, 
 
 A versified Aurora Borealis, 
 
 Which flashes o'er a waste and icy clime. 
 
 When we know what all are, we must bewail us. 
 But nu'ertlieless I hope it is no crime 
 
 To laugh at all things — for I wish to know 
 What, after all, are all things — but a shuio ? 
 
 III. 
 They accuse me — Mc — the present writer of 
 
 The present poem — of— I know not what — 
 A tendency to underrate and scoff 
 
 At human power and virtue, and all that ; 
 And this they say in language rather rough. 
 
 Good God ! I wonder what they would be at ! 
 
 1 say no more than hath been said in Dante's 
 Verse, and by Solomon and by Cervantes ; 
 
 IV. 
 By Swift, by Machiavel, by Rochefoucault, 
 
 By FCnelon, by Luther, and by Plato ; 
 By Tillotson, and Wesley, and Rousseau, 
 Who know this life was not worth a potato, 
 ris not their fault, nor mine, if this be so — 
 ' For my part, I pretend not to be Cato, 
 Nor even Diogenes. — We live and die, 
 But which is best, you know no more than I. 
 
 V. 
 Socrates said, our only knowledge was 
 
 " To know that nothing could be known ;" a pleas- 
 bcience enough, which levels to an ass [ant 
 
 Each man of wisdom, future, past, or present. 
 Newton, (that proverli of the mind,) alas ! 
 
 Declared, with all his grand discoveries recent. 
 That he himself felt only " like a youth 
 Picking up shells by the great ocean — Truth." 
 
 VI. 
 Ecc.esiastes said, " that all is vanity " — 
 Most modern preachers say the same, or show it 
 
 By their examples of true Christianity : 
 
 In short, all know, or very soon may know it ; 
 
 And in this soene of all-confess'd inanity, 
 By saint, by sage, by preacher, and by poet, 
 
 Must I restrain me, through the fear of strife. 
 
 From holding up the nothingness of life ? 
 
 VII. 
 
 Dogs, or men I — for I flatter you in saying 
 That ye are dogs — your betters far — ye may 
 
 Read, or read not, what I am now essaying 
 To show ye what ye are in every way. 
 
 As little as the moon stops for the baying 
 
 Of wolves, will the bright muse withdraw mo 
 ray 
 
 From out her skies — then howl your idle wrath ! 
 
 While she still silvers o'er your gloomy path. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " Fierce loves and faithless wars " — I am not sure 
 If this be the right reading — 'tis no matter ; 
 
 The fact 's about the same, I am secure ; 
 I sing them both, and am about to batter 
 
 A town which did a famous siege endure. 
 And was beleaguer'd both by land and water 
 
 By Souvarotf, or Anglicd Suwarrow, 
 
 Who loved blood as an alderman loves marrow. 
 
 The fortress is call'd Ismail, and is placed 
 Upon the Danube's left liranch and left bank, 
 
 With buildings in the Oriental taste. 
 But still a fortress of the foremost rank. 
 
 Or was at least, imless 'tis since defaced. 
 Which with your conquerors is a common prank 
 
 It stands some eighty versts from the liigh sea. 
 
 And measures round of toises thousands threp 
 
 Within the extent of this fortification 
 A borough is comprised along the height 
 
 Upon the left, which from its loftier station 
 Commands the city, an<l u])on its site 
 
 A Greek had raised around lliis elevation 
 A quantity of palisades iijiriijlit. 
 
 So placed as to impede the fire of those 
 
 Who held the place, and to assist the foe's. 
 
 XI. 
 This circumstiince may serve to give a notion 
 
 Of the high talents of this new Vauban : 
 But the town ditch below was deei) as ocean. 
 
 The ram])art higher than you'd wish to hang 
 But then there was a great want of precaution, 
 
 (Prithee, excuse this engineering slang,) 
 Nor work advanced, nor cover'd way was there, 
 To hint at least " Here is no thoroughfare." 
 
Camx) vil 
 
 DO>" JUAN. 
 
 651 
 
 XII. 
 
 But a stone bastion, -wdtli a nurrow gorge, 
 And walls as thick as most skulls bom as yet ; 
 
 Two batteries, cap-a-pie, as our St. George, 
 Casemated one, and t'other " u barbette," 
 
 Of Danube's bank took formidable charge ; 
 While two and twenty cannon duly set 
 
 Uose o'er the town's right side, in bristling tier, 
 
 Forty feet high, upon a cavalier. 
 
 XIII. 
 But from the river the town 's open quite. 
 
 Because the Turks could never be persuaded 
 A Russian vessel e'er would heave in sight ; 
 
 And such their creed was, till they were invaded. 
 When it grew rather late to set things right. 
 
 But as the Danube could not well be waded. 
 They look'd upon the Muscovite flotilla, 
 And only shouted, " Allah !" and " Bis ilillah !" 
 
 XIV. 
 The Kussians now were ready to attack : 
 
 But oh, ye goddesses of war and glory ! 
 How shall I spell the name of each Cossacque 
 
 Who were immortal, could one tell their story ? 
 Alas ! what to their memory can lack ? 
 
 AcbiUes' self was not more grim and gory 
 Than thousands of this new and polish'd nation. 
 Whose names want nothing but — pronunciation. 
 
 XV. 
 Still I'll record a few, if but to increase [off. 
 
 Our eujjhony : there was Strongenoff, and Strokon- 
 Meknop, Serge Lwow, Arsniew of modem Greece, 
 
 And Tschitsshakoif, and Roguenoft", and Chokenofi", 
 And others of twelve consonants apiece ; [enough 
 
 And more might be found out, if I could poke 
 Into gazettes ; but Fame, (capricious strumpet,) 
 It seems, has got an ear as well as trumpet, 
 
 XVI. 
 And cannot tune those discords of narration. 
 
 Which may be names at Moscow, into rhyme ; 
 Yet there were several worth commemoration. 
 
 As e'er was virgin of a nuptial chime ; 
 Soft words, too, fitted for the peroration 
 
 Of Londonderry drawling against time. 
 Ending in " ischskin," " ousckin," " iflTskchy," " ous- 
 <)f whom we can insert but Rousamouski, fki," 
 
 XVII. 
 Scherematoff and Chrematoff, Koklophti, 
 
 Koclobski, Kourakin,and Mouskin Pouskiu, 
 All proper men of weapons, as e'er scoff'd high 
 
 Against a foe, or ran a sabre through skin : 
 Little cared tlicy for Mahomet or Mufti, 
 
 Unless to make their kettle-di'ums a new skin 
 Out of their hides, if parchment had grown dear, 
 And no more handy substitute been n^ar. 
 
 XVIII. 
 Then there were foreigners of much renown, 
 
 Of various nations, and n\] volunteers ; 
 Not fighting for their country or its cro«-n. 
 
 But wishing to be one day brigadiers : 
 Also to have the sacking of a town ; 
 
 A pleasant thing to young men at their years. 
 'Mongst them were several Englishmen of pith. 
 Sixteen call'd Thomson, and nineteeen named Smith 
 
 XIX. 
 .Jack Thomson and Bill Thomson ; — all the rest 
 
 Had been call'd " Jemmy,'''' after the great bard : 
 I don't know v;hether they had anns or crest, 
 
 But such a godfather 's as good a card. 
 Three of the Smiths were Peters ; but the best 
 
 Amongst them all, hard blows to inflict or ward, 
 Was he, since so renown'd " in country quarters 
 At Halifax ;" but now he served the Tartars. 
 
 XX. 
 
 The rest were Jacks and Gills and Wills and Bills, 
 But when I've added that the elder Jack Smith 
 
 Was born in Cumberland among the hills. 
 
 And that his father was an honest blacksmith, 
 
 I've said all / know of a name that fills [smith," 
 Three lines of the dispatch in taking " Schmack- 
 
 A village of Moldavia's waste, wherein 
 
 He fell, immortal in a bulletin. 
 
 XXI. 
 I wonder (although Mars no doubt 's a god I 
 
 Praise) if a man's name in a bulletin 
 May make up for a iullet in his body 1 
 
 I hope this little questio.T is no sin, 
 Because, though I am but a simple noddy, 
 
 I think one Shakspeare puts the same thought in 
 The mouth of some one in his plays so doting, 
 Wliich many people pass for wits by quoting. 
 
 XXII. 
 Then there were Frenchmen, gallant, young, and gay . 
 
 But I'm too great a patriot to record 
 Their Gallic names upon a glorious day ; 
 
 I'd rather tell ten lies than say a word 
 Of truth ; — such truths are treason ; they betray 
 
 Their country ; and as traitors are abhorr'd 
 Wlio name the French in English, save to show [foe. 
 How Peace should make John Bull the Frencliman's 
 
 XXIII 
 The Russians, having built two batteries on 
 
 An isle near Ismail, had twp ends in view ; 
 The first was to bombard it, and knock down 
 
 The jjublic buildings and the private too. 
 No matter w'hat poor souls might be undone. 
 
 The city's shape suggested this, 'tis true ; 
 Form'd like an amphitheatre, each dwelling 
 Presented a fine mark to throw a shell in. 
 
662 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto vn. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 The second object was to profit by 
 
 The moment of the general consternation, 
 
 To att;ick the Turks' flotilla, which lay nigh 
 Extromi-ly tranquil, anchor'd at its station ; 
 
 But a third motive was as probably 
 To frighten them into capitulation ; 
 
 A phantasy which sometimes seizes warriors, 
 
 Unless they are game as bull-dogs and fox-terriers. 
 
 XXV. 
 A habit rather blamable, which is 
 
 That of despising those we combat with, 
 Common in many cases, was in this 
 
 The cause of killing Tchitchitzkoff and Smith ; 
 One of the valorous " Smiths " whom we shall miss 
 
 Out of those nineteen who late rhymed to " pith ;" 
 But 'tis a name so spread o'er, " Sir " and " Madam," 
 That one would think the first who bore it "Adam." 
 
 XXVI. 
 The Russian batteries were incomplete, 
 
 Because they were constructed in a hurry ; 
 Thus the same cause which makes a verse want feet. 
 
 And throws a cloud o'er Longman and John 
 Slurray, 
 When the sale of new books is not so fleet 
 
 As they who print them think is necessary, 
 May likewise put oft' for a time what story 
 Sometimes calls " murder," and at others " glory." 
 
 XXVII. 
 Whether it was their engineer's stupidity. 
 
 Their haste or waste, I neither know nor care, 
 Or some contractor's personal cupidity, 
 
 Saving his soul by cheating in the ware 
 Of homicide, but there was no solidity 
 
 In the new batteries erected there ; 
 They either miss'd, or they were never miss'd. 
 And added greatly to the missing list. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 A sad miscalculation about distance 
 
 Made all their naval matters incorrect; 
 Three fireships lost their amiable existence 
 
 Before they reach'd a spot to take effect : 
 The match was lit too soon, and no assistance 
 
 Could remedy tliis lul)berly defect ; 
 They blew up in the middle of the river, [ever. 
 
 While, though 'twas dawn, the Turks slept fast as 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 At seven they rose, however, and survey'd 
 The Ituss flotilla getting under way ; 
 
 'Twas nine, when still advancing undismay'd. 
 Within a cable's length their vessels lay 
 
 Ofi' Ismail, and commenced a cannonade, 
 Whicli was return'd with interest, I may say, 
 
 And by a fire of musketry and grape. 
 
 And shells and shot of every size and shape. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 For six hours bore they without intermission 
 The Turkish fire, and, aided by their own [cision 
 
 Land batteries, work'd their guns ^N-ith great pr» 
 At length they found mere cannonade alone 
 
 By no means would produce the town's submission, 
 And made a signal to retreat at one. 
 
 One bark blew uj), a second near the works 
 
 Running aground, was taken by the Turks. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 The Moslem, too, had lost both ships and men ; 
 
 But when they saw the enemy retire. 
 Their Delhis mann'd some boats, and sail'd again, 
 
 And gall'd the Russians with a heavy tire. 
 And tried to make a landing on the main ; 
 
 But here the effect fell short of their desire : 
 Count Damas drove them back into the water 
 Pell-mell, and with a whole gazette of slaughter. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 " If" (says the historian here) " I could report 
 All that the Russians did upon this day, 
 
 I think that several volumes would fall short. 
 And I should still have many things to say ;" 
 
 And so he says no more — but pays his court 
 To some distinguish'd strangers in that fray ; 
 
 The Prince de Ligne, and Langeron, and Damas, 
 
 Names great as any that the roll of Fame has. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 This being the case, may show us what Fame is : 
 For out of these three " preux C'/ievdlitrs" how 
 
 Many of common readers give a guess 
 
 That such existed 2 (and they may live now 
 
 For aught we know.) Renown 's all hit or miss : 
 There 's fortune even in fame, we must allow. 
 
 'Tis true, the Memoirs of the Prince de Ligne 
 
 Have half withdrawn fi-om him oblivion's screen. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 But here are men who fought in gallant actions 
 
 As gallantly as ever heroes fought. 
 But buried in the heap of such transactions 
 
 Their names are rarely found, nor often sought 
 Thus even good fame may suffer sad contractions, 
 
 And is e.xtinguish'd sooner than she ought : 
 Of all our modern battles, I will bet 
 You can't repeat nine names from each Gazette. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 In short, this last attack, though rich in giory, 
 Show'd that mmewhere, somclwii', there was a faulV 
 
 And Admiral Ribas (known in Russian story) 
 Most strongly recommended an assault : 
 
Canto vii 
 
 DON .TITAN. 
 
 653 
 
 In which he was opposed by young and hoary, 
 Which made a long debate ; but I must halt, 
 For if I wrote down every warrior's speech, 
 I doubt few readers e'er would mount the breach. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 There was a man, if that he was a man, 
 
 Not that his manhood could be call'd in question, 
 Per had he not been Hercules, his span 
 
 Had been as short in youth as indigestion 
 Made his last ilhiess, when, ail worn and wan, 
 
 He died beneath a tree, as much unblest on 
 The soil of the green province he had wasted. 
 As e'er was locust on the land it blasted. 
 
 - XXXVII. 
 this was Potemkin — a great thing in days 
 
 Wlien homicide and harlotry made great ; 
 If stars and titles could entail long praise, 
 
 His glory might lialf equal his estate. 
 This fellow, being six foot high, could raise 
 
 A kind of phantasy proportionate 
 In the then sovereign of the Russian people, 
 Who measured men as you would do a steeple. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 While things were in abeyance, Eibas sent 
 
 A courier to the prince, and he succeeded 
 In ordering matters after his own bent ; 
 
 I cannot tell the way in which he pleaded. 
 But shortly he had cause to be content. 
 
 In the mean time, the batteries proceeded. 
 And fourscore cannon on the Danube's border 
 Were briskly fired and answer'd in due order. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 But on the thirteenth, when already part 
 Of the troops were embark'd, the siege to raise, 
 
 A courier on the spur inspired new heart 
 Into all panters for newspaper praise. 
 
 As well as dilettanti in war's art, 
 By his dispatches couch'd in pithy phrase ; 
 
 Announcing the appointment of that lover of 
 
 Battles to the command, Field-Marshal SouvaroflF. 
 
 XL. 
 The letter of the prince to the same marshal 
 
 Was worthy of a Spartan, had the cause 
 Been one to which a good heart could be partial — 
 
 Defence of freedom, country, or of laws ; 
 But as it was mere lust of power to o'er-arch all 
 
 With its proud brow, it merits slight applause. 
 Save for its style, which said, all in a trice, 
 " You will take Ismail at whatever price." 
 
 XLI. 
 "Let there be light ! said God, and there was light !" 
 " Let there be blood I" says man, and there's a sea 1 
 
 The fiat of this Bpoil'd child of the Xight 
 (For Day ne'er saw his merits) could decree 
 
 More evil in an hour, than tliirty bright 
 
 Summers could renovate, though they should 1)6 
 
 Lovely as those which ripen'd Eden'g fruit ; 
 
 For war cuts up not only branch, but root. 
 
 XLII. 
 Our friends the Turks, who with loud" AUahs" now 
 
 Began to signalize the Russ retreat, 
 Were damnably mistaken ; few are slow 
 
 In thinking that their enemy is beat, 
 (Or beaten, if you insist on grammar, though 
 
 I never think about it in a heat,) 
 But here I say the Turks were much mistaken. 
 Who hating hogs, yet wish'd to save their bacon. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 For, on the sixteenth, at full gallop, drew 
 
 In sight two horsemen, who were deem'd Cos« 
 sacques 
 
 For some time, till they came hi nearer view. 
 They had but little baggage at their backs. 
 
 For there were but t/iree shirts between the two ; 
 But on they rode upon two Ukraine hacks, 
 
 TiU, in approaching, were at length descried 
 
 In this plain pair, Suwarrow and his guide. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 " Great joy to London now !" says some great fool, 
 Wlicn London had a grand illumination, 
 
 'Which to that bottle-conjurer, .lohn Bull, 
 Is of all dreams the first halluciuation ; 
 
 So that the streets of color'd lamps arc fuU, 
 That Sage (said John) surrenders at discretion 
 
 His purse, his soul, his sense, and even his nonsense, 
 
 To gratify, like a huge moth, this one sense. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 'Tis strange that he should farther " damn his eyes,' 
 For they are damn'd ; that once all-famous oath 
 
 Is to the devil now no farther prize. 
 
 Since John has lately lost the use of both. 
 
 Debt he calls wealth, and taxes Paradise ; 
 
 And Famine, with her gaunt and bony growth, 
 
 Which stare him in the face, he won't examine. 
 
 Or swears that Ceres hath begotten Famine. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 But to the tale : — great joy unto the camp 1 
 
 To Russian, Tartar, English, French, Cossacqne, 
 
 O'er whom Suwarrow shone like a gas lamp. 
 Presaging a most luminous attack ; 
 
 Or like a wisp along the marsh so damp, 
 ■\Vliich leads beholders on a boggy walk, 
 
 He flitted to and fro a dancing light, 
 I Wliich all who saw it foUow'd, wrong or right 
 
664 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto vn. 
 
 \LVII. 
 
 But certos matters t.^K a diftcrent face ; 
 
 There was enthusiasm and much applause, 
 The fleet and camp sahitcd with great grace, 
 
 And all presaged good fortune to their cause. 
 Within a cannon-shot length of the place 
 
 They drew, constructed ladders, repair'd flaws 
 In fornuT works, made new, prepared fascines, 
 And all kinds of benevolent machines. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 'Tis thus the spirit of a single mind 
 
 Makes that of multitudes take one direction. 
 As roll the waters to the breathing wind. 
 
 Or roams the herd beneath the bull's protection ; 
 Or as a Uttlo dog will lead the blind, 
 
 Or a bell-wether form the flock's connection 
 By tinkling sounds, when they go forth to victual ; 
 Such is the sway of your great men o'er little. 
 
 XLIX. 
 The whole camp rung with joy ; you would have 
 thought 
 
 That they wore going to a marriage feast, 
 (This metaphor, I think, holds good as aught, 
 
 Since there is discord after both at least :) 
 There was not now a luggage boy but sought 
 
 Danger and spoil with ardor much increased ; 
 And why 2 because a little- — odd — old man, 
 Stripp'd to his shirt, was come to lead the van. 
 
 L. 
 But so it was ; and every preparation 
 
 Was made with all alacrity : the first 
 Detachment of three columns took its station, 
 
 And waited but the signal's voice to burst 
 Upon the foe : the second's ordination 
 
 Was also in three columns, with a thirst 
 For glory gaping o'er a sea of slaughter : 
 The third, in columns two, attack'd by water. 
 
 LI. 
 New batteries were erected, and was held 
 
 A general council, in which unanimity. 
 That stranger to most councilSj here prevail'd. 
 
 As sometimes happens in a great extremity ; 
 And every difficulty being dispell'd. 
 
 Glory began to dawn with due sublimity. 
 While Souvarott' determined to obtain it. 
 Was teaching his recruits to use the bayonet." 
 
 LII. 
 It is an actual fact, that he, commander 
 
 In chief, in proper jjerson deign'd to drill 
 The awkward squad, and could afford to squander 
 
 His time, a corporal's duty to fulfil ; 
 
 ■ Fact : Suwarrow did tbU In person. 
 
 Just as you'd break a sucking salamander 
 To swallow flame, and never take it ill : 
 lie show'd them how to moimt a ladder (which 
 Was not like Jacob's) or to cross a ditch. 
 
 LIII. 
 Also he dress'd up, for the nonce, fascines 
 
 Like men with turbans, cimeters, and dirks. 
 And made them charge ^ith bayonet these machines 
 
 By way of lesson against actual Turks ; 
 And when well practised in these mimic scenes, 
 
 He judged them proper to assail the works ; 
 At which your wise men sneer'd in phrases witty : 
 He made no answer ; but he took the city. 
 
 LIV. 
 Jlost things were in this posture on the eve 
 
 Of the assault, and all the camp was in 
 A stern repose ; which you would scarce conceive ; 
 
 Yet men resolved to dash through thick and thin 
 Are very silent when they once believe 
 
 That all is settled : — there was little din, 
 For some were thinking of their home and fiiends, 
 And others of themselves and latter ends. 
 
 LV. 
 Suwarrow chiefly was on the alert. 
 
 Surveying, drilling, ordering, jesting, pondering ; 
 For the man was, we safely may assert, 
 
 A thing to wonder at beyond most wondering ; 
 Hero, buffoon, half-demon, and half-dirt, 
 
 Praying, instructing, desolating, plundering ; 
 Now Mars, now Jlomus ; and when bent to stonn 
 A fortress. Harlequin in uniform. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 The day before the assault, while upon drill — 
 For this great conqueror play'd the corporal — 
 
 Some Cossacques, hovering like hawks round a hill. 
 Had met a party towards the twilight's fall. 
 
 One of whom spoke their tongue — or well or ill, 
 'Twas much that he was understood at all ; 
 
 But whether from his voice, or speech, or manner, 
 
 They found that he had fought beneath their banner. 
 
 LVII. 
 Whereon immediately at his request [quarters ; 
 
 They brought him and his comrades to head- 
 Their dress was Moslem, but you might have guess'd 
 
 That these were merely masquerading Tartars, 
 And that beneath each Turkish-fashion'd vest 
 
 Lurk'd Christianity ; which sometimes barters 
 Her inward grace for outward show, and makeA 
 It diflicult to shun some strange mistakes. 
 
 bVIII. 
 Suwarrow, who was standing in his siiirt 
 Before a company of Calmucks, drilling. 
 
Cantc vn. 
 
 DON JUAX 
 
 C56 
 
 Esclaiminsj, foolin<j, swearing at the inert, 
 And lecturing on tlie nolile art of killing, — 
 
 For deeming human clay but common dirt, 
 This great philosopher was thus instilling 
 
 His maxims, which to martial comprehension 
 
 Proved death in battle equal to a pension ; — 
 
 IJX. 
 Suwarrow, when he saw this company 
 
 Of Cossacques and their prey, turn'd round and 
 Upon them his slow brow and piercing eye : — [cast 
 
 " "Wlience come ye ?" — " From Constantinople last, 
 Captives just now escaped," was the reply. 
 
 " What are ye !"— " What you see us." Briefly 
 This dialogue ; for he who answer'd knew [jjass'd 
 To whom he spoke, and made liis words but few. 
 
 LX. 
 " Your names ?" — " Mine's Johnson, and my com- 
 rade's Juan ; 
 
 The other two are women, and the third. 
 Is neither man nor woman." The chief threw on 
 
 The party a slight glance, then said, " I have heard 
 Tour name before, the second is a new one : 
 
 To bring the other three h.ere was absurd : 
 But let that pass : — I think I have heard your name 
 In the Nikolaiew regiment ?" — " The same." 
 
 LXI. 
 " You served at Widdin ?"— " Yes."—" You led the 
 attack ?" 
 
 " I did."—" What next ?"— " I really hardly know." 
 " You were the first i' the breach ?" — " I was not slack 
 
 At least to foUow those who might be so." 
 " What follow'd ?" — " A shot laid me on my back, 
 
 And I became a prisoner to the foe." 
 " You shall have vengeance, for the town surroimded 
 Is twice as strong as that where you were wounded. 
 
 LXII. 
 " Where will you serve ?" — " Where'er you please." — 
 
 You like to be the hope of the forlorn, [" I know 
 And doubtless would be foremost on the foe 
 
 After the hardships you've already bome. 
 And this young fellow — say what can he do ? 
 
 He with the liearuless chin and garments torn ?" 
 " Why, general, if he hath no greater liiult 
 In war than love, he had better lead the assault." 
 
 LXIII. 
 "He shall if that he dare." Here Juan bowd 
 
 Low as the compliment deserved. Suwarrow 
 Continued : " Your old regiment's allow'd, 
 
 By special providence, to lead to-morrow. 
 Or it may be to-night, the assault : I have vow'd 
 
 To several saints, that shortly plough or harrow 
 BhaU pass o'er what was Ismail, and its tusk 
 Be imimpeded by the proudest mosque. 
 
 tXIV. 
 " So now, my lads, for glory !" — Here he turn'd 
 
 And drill'd away in the most classic Russian, 
 Until each high, heroic bosom burn'd 
 
 For cash and conquest, as if from a cushion 
 A preacher had held forth (who nobly spura'd 
 
 All earthly goods save tithes) and bade them push 
 To slay the Pagans who resisted, battering [on 
 
 The armies of the Christian Empress Catherine. 
 
 LXT. 
 Johnson, who knew by this long colloquy 
 
 Himself a favorite, ventured to address 
 Suwarrow, though engaged with accents high 
 
 In his resumed amusement. " I confess 
 My debt in being thus allow'd to die 
 
 Among the foremost ; but if you'd express 
 Explicitly our several posts, my friend 
 And self would know what duly to attend." 
 
 LXVI. 
 " Right I I was busy, and forgot. Wliy, you 
 
 Will join your former regiment, which should be 
 Now imder arms. Ho ! Katskoff, take him to — 
 
 (Here he call'd up a Polish orderly) 
 His post, I mean the regiment Nikolaiew : 
 
 The stranger stripling may remain with me ; 
 He's a fine boy. The women may be sent 
 To the other baggage, or to the sick tent." 
 
 LXVII. 
 But here a sort of scene began to ensue : 
 
 The ladies, — who by no means had been bred 
 To bo disposed of in a w ay so new, 
 
 Although their harem education led 
 Doubtless to that of doctrines the most true, 
 
 Passive obedience, — now raised up the head. 
 With flashing eyes and starting tears, and flung 
 Their arms, as hens their wings about their young, 
 
 LXVIII. 
 O'er the promoted couple of brave men 
 
 Wlio were thus honor'd l.y the greatest chief 
 That ever jieopled hell with heroes slain, 
 
 Or plunged a province or a realm in grief. 
 Oh, foolish mortals ! Always taught in vain ! 
 
 Oh, glorious laurels I since for one sole leaf 
 Of thine imaginary deathless tree, 
 Of blood and tears must flow the unebbing sea. 
 
 bXIX. 
 Suwarrow, who had small regard for tears, 
 
 And not much sympathy for lilood, survey'd 
 The women with their hair about their ears 
 
 And natural agonies, v,-ith a slight shade 
 Of feeling : for however habit sears 
 
 Men's hearts against wiiole millions, when their 
 Is hutchery, sometimes a single sorrow [trade 
 
 Will touch even heroes — and such was Snwnrrow. 
 
656 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto vn. 
 
 i.xx. 
 
 He said, — and in the kindest Calmuck tone, — 
 " Why. Johnson, what the devil do vou mean 
 
 By Ijringing women here ? They shall be shown 
 All the attention possible, and seen 
 
 Fn safety to the wagons, where alone 
 In fact they can be safe. You should have been 
 
 Aware this kind of baggage never thrives : 
 
 Save wed a year, 1 hate recruits with wives." 
 
 lAXI. 
 " May it please your excellency," thus replied 
 
 Our British friend, " these are the wives of others, 
 And not our own. I am too qualified 
 
 By service with my military brothers 
 To break the rules by bringing one's own bride 
 
 Into a camp : I know that naught so bothers 
 The hearts of the heroic on a charge. 
 As leaving a small family at large. 
 
 LXXII. 
 "But these are but two Turkish ladies, who 
 
 With their attendant aided our escape. 
 And afterwards accompanied us through 
 
 A thousand perils in this dubious shape. 
 To me this kind of life is not so new ; 
 
 To them, poor things, it is an awkward scrape. 
 I therefore, if you wish me to fight freely. 
 Request that they may both be used genteelly." 
 
 LXXIII. 
 Meantime these two poor girls, with swimming eyes, 
 
 Look'd on as if in doubt if they could trust 
 Their own protectors ; nor was their surprise 
 
 Less than their grief (and truly not less just) 
 To see an old man, rather wild than wise 
 
 In aspect, plainly clad, besmear'd with dust, 
 Stripp'd to his waistcoat, and that not too clean. 
 More fcar'd than all the sultans ever seen. 
 
 lAXIV. 
 For every thing seem'd resting on his nod, 
 . As they could read in all eyes. Now to them, 
 Wlio were accustom'd, as a sort of god, 
 
 To see the sultan, ricli in many a gem. 
 Like an imiMrial peacock stalk abroad 
 
 (That royal bird, whose tail 's a diadem) 
 With all the pomp of power, it was a doubt 
 iTow power could condescend to do without. 
 
 LXXV. 
 John Johnson, seeing their extreme dismay. 
 
 Though little versed in feelings oriental. 
 Suggested some slight comfort in his way : 
 
 Don Ju.an, who was much more sentimental, 
 Swore they should see him by the daim of day, 
 
 Or that tlie Russian army should repent all : 
 And, strange to say, they found some consolation 
 In this — for females like exaggeration. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 And then with tears, and sighs, and some slight kisse*. 
 
 They parted for the present — these to await, 
 According to the artillery's hits or misses. 
 
 What sages call Chance, Providence, or Fate 
 (Uncertainty is one of many blisses, 
 
 A mortgage on Ilumanity's estate)— 
 Wliile their beloved friends began to arm. 
 To l)urn a town which never did them harm. 
 
 LXXTII. 
 Suwarrow, — who but saw things in the gross, 
 
 Being much too gross to see them in detail, 
 Wlio calculated life as so much dross. 
 
 And as the wind a widow'd nation's wail, 
 And cared as little for his army's loss 
 
 (So that their efforts should at length prevail) 
 As wife and friends did for the boils of Job, — 
 Wliat was 't to him to hear two women sob ? 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 Nothing.- -The work of glory still went on 
 
 In preparations for a cannonade 
 As temlile as that of Ilion, 
 
 If Homer had found mortars ready made ; 
 But now, instead of slaying Priam's son. 
 
 We only can but talk of escalade, [btillets 
 
 Bombs, drums, guns, bastions, batteries, bayonetSj 
 Hard words, which stick in the soft Muses' gullets. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 Oh, thou eternal Homer ! who couldst charm 
 
 All ears, though long ; all ages, though so short, 
 By merely wielding with poetic arm 
 
 Arms to which men will never more resort, 
 Unless gunpowder should be found to liarm 
 
 Much less than is the hope of every court,, 
 'WTiich now is leagued young Freedom to annoy ; 
 But they will not find Liberty a Troy : — 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Oh, thou eternal Homer ! I have now 
 To paint a siege, wherein more men were slain. 
 
 With deadlier engines and a speedier blow, 
 Than in thy Greek gazette of that campaign; 
 
 And yet, like all men else, I must allow. 
 To vie with thee would be aliout as vain 
 
 As for a brook to cope with ocean's flood ; 
 
 But still we moderns equal you in blood ; 
 
 LXXXI, 
 If not in poetry, at least in fact ; 
 
 And fact is truth, the grand desideratum I 
 Of which howe'er the Muse describes each act, 
 
 There should be nc'ertheless a slight substratum, 
 But now the town is going to be attack'd ; 
 
 Great deeds are doing — how shall I relate 'em ? 
 Souls of immortal generals ! Pha-bus watches 
 To color up his rays from your dispatches. 
 
Canto vhl 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 657 
 
 lA'XXII. 
 Oh, ye great bulletins of Bonaparte ! 
 
 Oh, ye less grand long lists of kill'd and wounded ! 
 Shade of Leouidas, who fought so hearty, 
 
 When my poor Greece was once, as now, sur- 
 rounded ! 
 Oh, C«sar's Commentaries ! now impart, ye 
 
 Shadows of gloi*y ! (lest I be confounded) 
 A. portion of yoiu- fading twilight hues. 
 So beautiful, so fleeting, to the Muse. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 WTien I call " fading " martial immortality, 
 
 I mean, that every age and every year, 
 And almost every day, in sad reality. 
 
 Some sucking hero is compeU'd to rear, 
 Who, when we come to sum up the totality 
 
 Of deeds to human happiness most dear. 
 Turns out to be a butcher in great business. 
 Afflicting young folks with a sort of dizziness. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 Medals, rank, ribands, lace, embroidery, scarlet. 
 Are things immortal to immortal man, 
 
 Aa purple to the Babylonian harlot : 
 A uniform to boys is like a fan 
 
 To women ; there is scarce a crimson varlet 
 But deems himself the first in Glory's van. 
 
 But Glory "s glory ; and if you would find 
 
 What that is — ask the pig who sees the wind 1 
 
 LXXXV. 
 At least hefeeh it, and some say he sees. 
 
 Because he runs before it like a pig ; 
 Or, if that simple sentence should displease, 
 
 Say, that he scuds before it like a brig, 
 A schooner, or — but it is time to ease 
 
 This Canto, ere my Muse perceives fatigue. 
 The next shall ring a peal to shake all people. 
 Like a bob-major from a village steeple. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 Hark ! through the silence of tlie cold, dull night, 
 
 The hum of armies gathering rank on rank ! 
 Lo ! dusky masses steal in dubious sight 
 
 Along the leaguer'd wall and bristling bank 
 Of the arm'd river, while with straggling light 
 
 The stars peep through the vapors dim and dank, 
 Which curl in curious wreaths : — how soon the 
 Of Hell shall pall them in a deeper cloak ! [smoke 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 Here pause we for the present — as even then 
 
 That awful pause, dividing life from death, 
 hfruck for an instant on the hearts of men, 
 
 Thousands of whom were drawing their last 
 A moment — and all will be life again ! [rreath ! 
 
 The march ! the charge I the shouts of either 
 Hurra ! and Allah ! and — one moment more, [faith 1 
 The death-crv drowning in the battle's roar. 
 8.3 
 
 D X J U A N. 
 
 CANTO THE KIGOTH. 
 
 Oh, blood and tliunder ! and oh, blood and wounds I 
 These are but vulgar oaths, as you may deem. 
 
 Too gentle reader ! and most shocking sounds : 
 And so they are ; yet thus is Glory's dream 
 
 Unriddled, and as my true Muse expounds 
 
 At present such things, since they are her theme. 
 
 So be they her inspirers ! Call them JIars, 
 
 Bellona, what you will — they mean but wars. 
 
 II. 
 All was prepared — the fire, the sword, the men 
 
 To wield them in their terrible array. 
 The army, like a lion from his den, 
 
 March'd forth with nerve and sinews bent tc 
 A human Hydra, issuing from its fen [slay, — 
 
 To breathe destruction on its winding way, 
 "ttTiose heads were heroes, wliich cut oft' in vain, 
 Immediately in others grew again. 
 
 III. 
 History can only take things in the gross ; 
 
 But could we know them in detail, perchance 
 In balancing the profit and the loss, 
 
 War's merit it by no means might enhance,. 
 To waste so much gold for a little dross. 
 
 As hath been done, mere conquest to advance. 
 The drying up a single tear has more 
 Of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And why ? because it brings self-approbation ; 
 
 Wliereas the other, after all its glare. 
 Shouts, bridges, arches, pensions from a nation, 
 
 Which (it may be) has not much left to spare, 
 A higher title, or a loftier station, 
 
 Though they may make Corruption gape or stare, 
 Yet, in the end, except in Freedom's battles. 
 Are nothing but a child of Murders rattles. 
 
 V. 
 
 And such they are, — and sucli they will be found • 
 
 Not so Leonidas and Washington, 
 ■WTiose every battle-field is holy ground. 
 
 Which breathes of nations saved, not worlds un- 
 How sweetly on the ear such echoes sound ! [done. 
 
 Wliile the mere victor's may apjjal or stun 
 The servile and the vain, such names wiW be 
 A watchword till the future shall be free. 
 
 TI. 
 The night was dark, and the thick mist allow'd 
 Kaught to be seen save the artillery's flame, 
 
<J58 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto viil 
 
 VVTiich arch'd the horizon like a fiery cloud, 
 And in the Danube's waters shone the same — 
 
 X miiror'd hell ! the volleying roar, and loud 
 Long liooming of each peal on peal, o'ercame 
 
 The ear far more than thunder ; for Ileaven's flashes 
 
 Spare, or smite rarely — man's make millions ashes ! 
 
 VII. 
 The column order'd on the assault scarce pass'd 
 
 Beyond the Russian batteries a few toises, 
 Wlien up tlie bristling Moslem rose at last, 
 
 Answering the Christian thunders with like voices 1 
 Then one vast tire, air. eartli, and stream embraced, 
 
 Which rock'd as 'twere beneath tlie mighty noises ; 
 While tlie whole rampart blazed like Etna, when 
 Tlie restless Titan hiccups in his den. 
 
 VIII. 
 And one enormous shout of " Allah !" rose 
 
 In the same moment, loud as even the roar 
 Of war's most mortal engines, to their foes 
 
 Hurling defiance : city, stream, and shore 
 Resounded "' Allah !" and the clouds which close 
 
 With thickening canopy the conflict o'er. 
 Vibrate to the Eternal name. Hark ! through 
 All sounds it ijierceth, " AUali ! Allah ! Hu 1" 
 
 IX. 
 The columns were in movement one and aU, 
 
 But of the portion which attack'd by water. 
 Thicker than leaves the lives began to fall, 
 
 Though led by Arseniew, that great son of 
 slaughter. 
 As brave as ever faced both bomb and baU. 
 " Carnage " (so Wordsworth teUs you) " is God's 
 
 daughter :" 
 If A« speak truth, she is Christ's sister, and 
 Just now behaved as in the Holy Land. 
 
 X. 
 The Prince de Ligne was wounded in the loiee ; 
 - Count Cliapeau-Bras, too, had a ball lietween 
 His caji and head, wliich i^roves the head to be 
 
 Aristocratic as was ever seen. 
 Because it then received no injury 
 
 More than the cap ; in fact, the ball could mean 
 No harm unto a right legitimate head : 
 " Ashes to ashes " — why not lead to lead ? 
 
 XI. 
 
 Also the General Markow, Brigadier, 
 
 Insisting on removal of the prince 
 Amidst some groaning tiiousands dying near, — 
 
 AU common fellows, who might writhe and wince, 
 .\nd shriek for water into a deaf ear, — 
 
 The General JIarkow, who could thus evince 
 Ills syniijathy for rank, by the same token, 
 To teach him greater, had his own leg broken. 
 
 XII. 
 Three hundred cannon threw up their emetic, 
 
 And thirty thousand muskets flung their pills 
 Like hail, to niaks a bloody diuretic. 
 
 Mortality I thou hast thy monthly bills ; 
 Tliy plagues, thy famines, thy physicians, yet tick, 
 
 Like the death-watch, within our ears the ills 
 Past, 2)rcseat, and to come ; — but all may yield 
 To the true portrait of one battle field. 
 
 XIII. 
 There the still varying pangs, which multiply 
 
 Until their very number makes men hard 
 By the infinities of agony. 
 
 Which meet the gaze, whate'er it may regard — 
 The groan, the roll in dust, the all-white eye 
 
 Tiirn'd back within its socket, — these reward 
 Your rank and file liy thousands, while the rest 
 May win perhaps a riband at the breast ! 
 
 XIV. 
 Yet I love glory ; — glory 's a great thing : — 
 
 Tlunk what it is to be in your old age 
 Maintaiu'd at the expense of your good king : 
 
 A moderate pension shakes full many a sage, 
 And heroes are but made for bards to sing. 
 
 Which is still better ; thus in verse to wage 
 Your wars eternally, besides enjoying 
 Half-pay for life, make mankind worth destroying. 
 
 XV. 
 
 The troops, already disembark'd, push'd on 
 To take a battery on the right ; the others, 
 
 Who landed lower down, their landing done. 
 Had set to work as briskly as their brothers : 
 
 Being grenadiers, they mounted one by one, 
 
 Cheerful as children climb the breasts o»' mothers, 
 
 O'er the intrenchment and the palisade. 
 
 Quite orderly, as if upon parade. 
 
 XVI. 
 And this was admirable ; for so hot 
 
 The fire was, that were red Vesuvius loaded. 
 Besides its lava, with all sorts of shot 
 
 And shells or hells, it could not more ha»i; goaded. 
 Of officers a third fell on the spot, 
 
 A thing which victory by no means bod«l 
 To gentlemen engaged in the assault : 
 Hounds, when the huntsman tumbles, are »* <ault 
 
 XVII. 
 But here I leave the general concern. 
 
 To track our hero on his path of fame : 
 He must his laurels separately earn , 
 
 For fifty thousand heroes, name by name, 
 Though all deserving equally to turn 
 
 A couplet, or an elegy to claim. 
 Would form a lengthy lexicon of glory, 
 And what is worse still, a n uch longer story ; 
 
Cakto vin. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 659 
 
 XVIII. 
 And therefore we must give the greater number 
 
 To the Gazette — which doubtless fairly dealt 
 By tlie deceased, who lie in famous slumber 
 
 In ditches, fields, or where'er they felt 
 Their clay for the last time their souls encumber ; — 
 
 Thrice happy he whose name has been well spelt 
 In the dispatch : I knew a man whose loss 
 Was printed Grove, although his name was Grose.' 
 
 XIX. 
 Juan and .Johnson join'd a certain corps, 
 
 And fought away with might and main, not know- 
 The way which they had never trod before, [ing 
 
 And still less guessing where they might be going ; 
 But on they march'd, dead bodies trampling o'er, 
 
 Firing, and thrusting, slashing, sweating, glowing, 
 But fighting thoughtlessly enough to win. 
 To their two selves, one whole bright bulletin. 
 
 XX. 
 , Thus on they waUow'd in the bloody mire 
 
 Of dead and dying thousands, — sometimes gaining 
 A yard or two of ground, which brought them nigher 
 
 To some odd angle for which all were straining ; 
 At other times, repulsed by the close fire, 
 
 Wliich really pour'd as if all hell were raining 
 Instead of heaven, they stumbled backwards o'er 
 A wounded comrade, sprawling in his gore. 
 
 XXI. 
 Though 'twas Don Juan's first of fields, and though 
 
 The nightly muster and the silent march 
 In the chill dark, when courage does not glow 
 
 So much as under a triumphal arch, 
 Perhaps might make him shiver, yawn, or throw 
 
 A glance on the dull clouds (as thick as starch, 
 Which stifien'd heaven) as if he wish'd for day ; — 
 Yet for all this he did not run away. 
 
 XXII. 
 Indeed he could not. But what if he had 2 
 
 There have heen and <tre heroes who begun 
 With something not much better, or as bad : 
 
 Frederic the Great from Jlolwitz deign'd to run 
 For the first and last time ; for, like a pad. 
 
 Or hawk, or bride, most mortals after one 
 Warm bout are broken into their new tricks, 
 And fight like fiends for pay or politics. 
 
 XXIII. 
 He was what Erin calls, in her sublime 
 Old Erse or Irish, or it may be Puiilc ; — 
 
 * A feet : Bee the Waterloo Gazettes. I recollect remarking at 
 tlie time to a friend : — " There is fame 1 a maD is killed, his name 
 ie Grose, and they print it Grove." I was at collejje witli the de- 
 :eased, who was a vei-y araiahle and clever man. and his society in 
 great request for his wit, gayety, and " Chansons a boire." 
 
 (The antiquarians^ who can settle time, 
 ^Miich settles all things, Roman, Greek, or Runic, 
 
 Swear that Pat's language sprung from the same clime 
 AYith Hannibal, and wears the Tyrian tunic 
 
 Of Dido's alphabet ; and this is rational 
 
 As any other notion, and not national ;) — 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 But Juan was quite '■ a broth ot a i)oy," 
 A thing of impulse and a child of song; 
 
 Now swimming in the sentiment of joy. 
 
 Or the sensaiion, (if that phrase seem wrong,) 
 
 And afterward, if he must needs destroy, 
 In such good company as always throng 
 
 To battles, sieges, and that kind of pleasure, 
 
 No less delighted to employ his leisure ; 
 
 XXV. 
 
 But always without malice : if he warr'd 
 
 Or loved, it was with what he call'd the " best 
 
 Intentions," which form all mankind's trump card, 
 To be produced when brought up to the test. 
 
 The statesman, hero, harlot, lawyer — ward 
 Oft' each attack, when people are in quest 
 
 Of their designs, by saying they meant wcU ; 
 
 'Tis pity " that such meaning should pave hell."' 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 I almost lately have begun to doubt 
 
 Whether hell's pavement — if it be so patecl — 
 
 Must not have latterly been quite worn out, 
 Not by the numbers good intent hath saved. 
 
 But by the mass who go below -nathout 
 
 Those ancient good intentions, which once shaved 
 
 And smooth'd the brimstone of that street of heU, 
 
 Which bears the greatest likeness to Pall Mall. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Juan, by some strange chance, which oft divides 
 Warrior from warrior in their grim career. 
 
 Like chastest wives from constant husbands' sides 
 Just at the close of the first bridal year. 
 
 By one of those odd turns of Fortune's tides. 
 Was on a sudden rather puzzled here. 
 
 When, after a good deal of heavy firing. 
 
 He found himself alone, and friends retiring. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 I don't know how the thing occurr'd — it might 
 Be that the greater part were kill'd or wounded, 
 
 And that the rest had faced unto the right 
 Al)Out ; a circumstance which has confounded 
 
 Caesar himself, who, in the very sight 
 
 Of his whole army, which so much abounded 
 
 ' See General Yalancey and Sir Lawrence Parsons. 
 ' The Portuguese proverb says that " hell is paved with good 
 intentions." 
 
660 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CAIfTO Tin, 
 
 Id courage, was obliged to snatch a shield, 
 And rally liack his Romans to the field. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 fuan, who had no shield to snatch, and was 
 No Cffisar, but a fine young lad, who fought 
 
 He knew not why, arriving at this pass, 
 Stopp'd for a minvUe, as perhaps he ought 
 
 For a much lunger time ; then, like an ass — 
 
 (Start not, kind reader, since great Homer thought 
 
 This simile enough for Ajax, Juan 
 
 Perhaps may find it better than a new one ;) — 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Then, like an ass, he went upon his way, 
 
 And, what was stranger, never look'd behind ; 
 
 But seeing, flashing forward, like the day 
 Over the hills, a tire enough to blind 
 
 Those who dislike to look upon a fray, 
 He stumbled on, to try if he could find 
 
 A path, to add his own slight arm and forces 
 
 To corps, the greater part of which were corses. 
 
 XXXI. 
 Perceiving then no more the commandant 
 
 Of his own corps, nor even the corps, which had 
 Quite disappear'd — the gods know how ! (I can't 
 
 Account for every thing which may look bad 
 In histoiT ; Init we at least may grant 
 
 It was not marvellous that a mere lad, 
 In search of glory, should look on before. 
 Nor care a pinch of snufl^ about his corps :) — 
 
 XXXII. 
 Perceiving nor commander nor commanded, 
 
 And left at large, like a young heir, to make 
 His way to — where he knew not — single-handed ; 
 
 As travellers follow over bog and brake 
 An " ignis fatuus ;" or as sailors stranded 
 
 Unto the nearest hut themselves betake ; 
 80 Juan, following honor and his nose, 
 Rush'd where the thickest fire announced most foes. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 He knew not where he was, nor greatly cared. 
 For he was dizzy, busy, and his veins 
 
 Fill'd as with lightning — for his spirit shared 
 The hour, as is the case with lively brains ; 
 
 And where the hottest fire was seen and heard. 
 And the loud cannon pcal'd his hoarsest strains, 
 
 He rush'd, while earth and air were sadly shaken 
 
 By thy humane discovery, Friar Bacon ! 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 And as he rush'd along, it came to pass he 
 Fell in with what was late the second column. 
 
 Under the orders of the General Lasey, 
 But now reduced, as is a bulky volume 
 
 Into an elegant extract (much less massy) 
 
 Of heroism, and took his place with solemn 
 Air "midst the rest, who kept their valiant faces 
 And levell'd weapons still against the glacis 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Just at this crisis up came Johnson too, 
 
 Who had " retreated," as the phrase is when 
 
 Men run away much rather than go through 
 Destruction's jaws into the devil's den ; 
 
 But Johnson was a clever fellow, who 
 
 Knew when and how " to cut and come again," 
 
 And never ran away, except when running 
 
 Was nothing but a valorous kind of cmming. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 And so. when all his corps were dead or dying, 
 
 Except Don Juan, a mere novice, whoso 
 More virgin valor never dreamt of flying, 
 
 From ignorance of danger, which indues 
 Its votaries, like innocence relying [thews,— 
 
 On its own strength, with careless nerves and 
 Johnson retired a Uttlc, just to rally 
 Those who catch cold in " shadows of Death's vall»y." 
 
 XXXVII. 
 And there, a little shelter'd from the shot, 
 
 Wliich rain'd from bastion, battery, parapet. 
 Rampart, wall, casement, house — for there was not 
 
 In this extensive city, sore beset 
 By Christian soldiery, a single spot 
 
 Which did not combat Uke the devil, as yet, — 
 He found a number of Chasseurs, all scatter'd 
 By the resistance of the chase they batter'd. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 And these he ciU'd on ; and, what 's strange, they 
 
 Unto his call, imlike " the spirits from [came 
 
 The vasty deep," to whom you may exclaim. 
 
 Says Hotspur, long ere they will leave their home ; 
 Their reasons were uncertainty, or shame 
 
 At shrinking from a bullet or a bomb. 
 And that odd impulse, which in wars or creeds 
 Makes men, hke cattle, follow him who leads. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 By Jove ! he was a noble fellow, .Tohnson, 
 And though his name, than Ajax or Achillea, 
 
 Sounds less harmonious, underneath the sun soon 
 We shall not see his likeness : he could kill his 
 
 Man quite as quietly as blows the monsoon 
 
 Her steady breath, (which some months the same 
 
 Seldom he varied feature, hue, or muscle, [si ill is ;] 
 
 And could be very busy without bustle ; 
 
 Xb. 
 And therefore, when he ran away, he did so 
 Upon reflection, knowing that behind 
 
CA^TO VIIL 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 661 
 
 He woulrl find otliers wlio would fiiin be rid so 
 Of id e appreliensions, ivhidi like wind 
 
 Trouble heroic stomachs. Though their lids so 
 Oft are soon closed, all heroes are not blind, 
 
 But when they light upon immediate death. 
 
 Retire a little, merely to take breath. 
 
 XLT. 
 
 But Johnson only ran off, to retmn 
 With many other warriors, as we said, 
 
 Unto that rather somewhat misty bourn, 
 Wliich Hamlet tells us is a pass of dread. 
 
 To .Jack, howe'er. this gave but slight concern : 
 His soul (like galvanism ujjon the dead) 
 
 Acted upon the living as on wire, 
 
 And led them back into the heaviest fire. 
 
 XLII. 
 Egad ! they found the second time what they 
 
 The first time thought quite terrible enough 
 To fly from, malgre all which people say 
 
 Of glory, and all that immortal stuff 
 Which fills a regiment (besides their pay, 
 
 That daily shilling which makes warriors tough) — 
 They foimd on their return the self-same welcome, 
 Wliich made some tJiinl; and others A-notc, a Jieltcnme. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 They fell as thick as harvests beneath hail, 
 Grass before scythes, or corn below the sickle, 
 
 Proving that trite old truth, that life 's as frail 
 As any other boon for which men stickle. 
 
 The Turkish batteries thrash'd them hke a flail, 
 Or a good boxer, into a sad pickle 
 
 Putting the very bravest, who were knock'd 
 
 Upon the head, before their guns were cock'd. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 The Turks behind the traverses and flanks 
 Of the ne.^wt bastion, fired away like devils, 
 
 And swept, as gales sweep foam away, whole ranks : 
 However, Heaven knows how, the Fate who levels 
 
 Towns, nations, worlds, in her revolving pranks. 
 So order'd it, amidst these sulphury revels. 
 
 That Johnson and some few who had not scamper'd, 
 
 Reached the interior talus of the rampart. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 First one or two, then five, six, and a dozen. 
 Came mounting quickly up, for it was now 
 
 All neck or nothing, as, like pitch or rosin. 
 
 Flame was shower'd forth above, as well 's below, 
 
 Po that you scarce could say who best had chosen. 
 The gentlemen that were the first to show 
 
 Their martial faces on the parapet, 
 
 Oi those who thought it brave to wait as yet. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 But those who scaled, found out that their ailvance 
 Was favord by an accident or blimder : 
 
 The Greek or Turkish Cohorn's ignorance 
 Had palisado'd in a way you'd wonder 
 
 To see in forts of Netherlands or France — 
 
 (Though these to our Gibraltar must knocB 
 
 Eight in the middle of the parapet [under — 
 
 Just named, these palisades were primly set : 
 
 XLVII. 
 So that on either side some nine or ten 
 
 Paces were left, whereon you could contrive 
 To march ; a great convenience to our men. 
 
 At least to all those who were left alive. 
 Who thus could form a line and fight again ; 
 
 And that which farther aided them to strive 
 Was, that they could kick down the palisades, 
 Which scarcely I'ose much higher than grass blades, 
 
 XLVIII. 
 Among the first, — I will not say the^first 
 
 For such precedence upon such occasions 
 Will oftentimes make deadly quarrels biu-st 
 
 Out between fnends as well as allied nations : 
 The Briton must be bold who really durst 
 
 Put to such trial John Bull's partial patience. 
 As say that Wellington at Waterloo 
 Was beaten, — though the Prussians say so tou , — 
 
 XblX. 
 And that if Blucher, Bulow. Gneisenau, 
 
 And God knows who besides in "au" and "ow," 
 Had not come up in time to cast an awe 
 
 Into the hearts of those who fought till now 
 As tigers combat with an empty craw. 
 
 The Duke of Wellington had ceased to show 
 His orders, also to receive his pensions ; 
 Which arc the heaviest that our history mentions. 
 
 But never mind ; — " God save the king I" and kings i 
 For if !ie don't, I doubt if men will longer — 
 
 I think I hear a little bird, who sings 
 
 The people by and by will be the stronger : 
 
 The veriest jade will wince whose harness wrings 
 So much into the raw as quite to wrong her 
 
 Beyond the rules of posting, — and the mob 
 
 At last fall sick of imitating Job. 
 
 u. 
 At first it grumbles, then it swears, and then, 
 
 Like David, flings smooth pebbles 'gainst a giant 
 At last it takes to weajions such as men [pliant 
 
 Snatch when despair makes human hearts less 
 Then comes the " tug of war ;" — 'twill come again, 
 
 I rather doubt ; and I would fain say '' fie on 't," 
 If I had not perceived that revolution 
 Alone can save the earth from hell's jjollution. 
 
662 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto vtu 
 
 LII. 
 But to continue : — I 8ay not the first, 
 
 But of the first, our little friend Don Juan 
 Walk'd o'er the walls of Ismail, as if nursed [one 
 
 Amidst such scenes — though this was quite a new 
 To him, and I should hope to moat. The thirst 
 
 Of glory, which so pierces through and through 
 Pervaded him — although a generous creature, [one, 
 A.S warm in heart as feminine in feature. 
 
 1,111. 
 A.nd here he was — who upon woman's breast, 
 
 Even from a child, felt like a child ; howe'er 
 The man iu all the rest might be confess'd, 
 
 To him it was Elysium to be there ; 
 Ajid he could even withstand that awkward test 
 
 Which Housseau points out to the dubious fair, 
 •' Observe your lover when he hanes your arms ;" 
 But Juan never left them, while they had charms. 
 
 LIV. 
 Unless compelled by fate, or wave, or wind, 
 
 Or near relations, who are much the same. 
 But here he was ! — whci'e each tie that can bind 
 
 Humanity must yield to steel and flame : 
 And he whose very body was all mind. 
 
 Flung here by fate or circumstance, which tame 
 The loftiest, hurried by the time and place, 
 Dash'd on like a spurr'd blood-horse in a race. 
 
 LV. 
 So was his lilood stirr'd while he found resistance, 
 
 As is the hunter's at the five-bar gate. 
 Or double post and rail, where the existence 
 
 Of Britain's youth depends upon their weight, 
 The lightest being the safest : at a distance 
 
 He hated cruelty, as all men hate 
 Blood, until heated — and even then his own 
 At times would curdle o'er some heavy groan. 
 
 LVI. 
 The General Lasey, who had been hard press'd, 
 .Seeing arrive an aid so opportune 
 As were some hundred youngsters all abreast, 
 
 Who came as if just dropp'd down from the moon. 
 To Juan, who was nearest him, address'd 
 
 His thanks, and hopes to take the city soon. 
 Not reckoning him to be a " base Bezonian," 
 TAs Pistol calls it,) but a young Livonian. 
 
 l.\ll. 
 Juan, to whom he s2wke in German, knew 
 
 As much of German as of Sanscrit, and 
 In answer made an inclination to 
 
 The general who held him iu command ; 
 For seeing one with ribands, black aud Iilue, 
 
 Stars, medals, and a bloody sword in hand, 
 Addressing him in tones wliieh seem'd to thank 
 He recognized an officer of rank. 
 
 LVIII. 
 Short speeches pass between two men who speak 
 
 No common language ; and besides, in time 
 Of war and taking towns, when many a shriek 
 
 Rings o'er the dialogue, and many a crime 
 Is perpetrated ere a word can break 
 
 Upon the ear, and sounds of horror chime 
 In like church-bells, with sigh, howl, groan, yell. 
 There cannot be much conversation there, [prayer, 
 
 IJ.\. 
 And therefore all we have related in 
 
 Two long octaves, pass'd in a little minute ; 
 But in the same small minute, every sin 
 
 Contrived to get itself comprised within it. 
 The very cannon, deafen'd by the din, 
 
 Grew dumb, for you might almost hear a linnet, 
 As soon as thunder, 'midst the general noise 
 Of human nature's agonizing voice ! 
 
 LX. 
 The to^\'n was cnter'd. Oh, eternity ! — 
 
 " God made the country, and man made the town," 
 So Cowjjcr says — and I begin to be 
 
 Of his opinion, when I see cast down 
 Rome, Babylon, Tyre, Carthage, Nineveh, 
 
 All walls men know, and many never known ; 
 And pondering on the present and the past. 
 To deem the woods shall be our home at last : — 
 
 L.\r. 
 Of all men, saving Sylla the m:in-slaycr, 
 
 Who passes for in life and death most lucky, 
 Of the great names which in our faces stare. 
 
 The General Boon, backwoodsman of Kentuckj, 
 Was happiest amongst mortals anywhere ; 
 
 For killing nothing but a bear or buck, he 
 Enjoy'd the lonely, vigorous, hannless days 
 Of his old age in wilds of deepest maze. 
 
 LXII. 
 Crime came not near him — she is not the child 
 
 Of solitude ; Health shrank not from him — for 
 Her home is in the rarely trodden wild. 
 
 Where if men seek her not, and death be more 
 Their choice than life, forgive them, as beguiled 
 
 By habit to what their own hearts abhor — 
 In cities caged. The present case in point I 
 Cite is, that Boon lived hunting up to ninety ; 
 
 LX 1 1 1. 
 And what's still stranger, left behind a name 
 
 For which men vainly decimate the throng, 
 Not only famous, but of that ijdihI fame 
 
 Without which glory 's but a tavern song — 
 Simple, serene, the antipodes of shame. 
 
 Which hate nor envy e'er could tinge with wrong 
 An active hermit, even in age the child 
 Of Nature, or the Man of Boss run wild. 
 
CaUto vin. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 C>«3 
 
 LXIV. 
 Tis true he shrank from men even of his nation, 
 
 ■\Vlien they built up unto liis darling trees, — 
 He moved some hundred miles oif, for a station 
 
 Where there were fewer houses and more ease ; 
 The inconvenience of civilization 
 
 Is, that you neither can be pleased nor please ; 
 But where he met the individual man, 
 He show'd himself as kind as mortal can. 
 
 LXV. 
 He was not all alone : around him grew 
 
 A sylvan tribe of children of the chase, 
 WTiose young, unawaken'd world was ever new, 
 
 Kor sword nor sorrow yet had left a trace 
 On her unwrinkled brow, nor could you view 
 
 A frown on Nature's or on human face ; — 
 The free-born forest found and kept them free, 
 A.nd fresh as is a torrent or a tree. 
 
 LXVI. 
 And tall, and strong, and swift of foot were they, 
 
 Beyond the dwarfing city's pale abortions, 
 Because their thoughts had never been the prey 
 
 Of care or gain ; the green woods were their por- 
 No sinking spirits told them they grew gray, [tions ; 
 
 No fashion made thent apes of her distortions ; 
 Simple they were, not savage ; and their rifles, 
 Though very true, were not yet used for trifles. 
 
 LXVII. 
 Motion was in their days, rest in their slumbers, 
 
 And cheerfulness the handmaid of their toil ; 
 Nor yet too many nor too few their numbers ; 
 
 Corruption could not make their hearts her soil ; 
 The lust which stings, the splendor which encum- 
 
 With the free foresters divide no spoil ; [bers. 
 Serene, not sullen, were the solitudes 
 Of Ihis unsighing people of the woods. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 So much for Nature : — by way of variety. 
 
 Now back to thy great joys. Civilization ! 
 And the sweet consequence of large society, 
 
 "War, pestilence, the despot's desolation, 
 The kingly scourge, the lust of notoriety. 
 
 The millions slain by soldiers for their ration. 
 The scenes like Catherine's boudoir at threescore, 
 ■With Ismail's storm to soften it the more. 
 
 LXIX. 
 The town was enter'd : first one column made 
 
 Its sanguinary way good — then another ; 
 The reeking bayonet and the flashing blade 
 
 Clash'd "gainst the cimeter, and babe and mother 
 Witli distant shrieks were heard Heaven to upbraid : 
 
 Still closer sulphury clouds began to smother 
 The breath of morn and man, where foot by foo'; 
 The madden'd Turks their city still dispute. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 Koutousow, he who afterward beat liack 
 
 (With some assistance from the frost and snowj 
 
 Napoleon on his bold and bloody track. 
 
 It happen'd was himself beat back just now • 
 
 He was a jolly fellow, and could crack 
 His jest alike in face of friend or foe. 
 
 Though life, and death, and victory were at stake 
 
 But here it seem'd his jokes had ceased to take • 
 
 LXXI. 
 For having thrown himself into a ditch, 
 
 FoUow'd in haste by various grenadiers. 
 Whose blood the j^uddle greatly did enrich, 
 
 Ho climb'd to where the parajiet appears 
 But there his project reach'd its utmost pitch, 
 
 ('Mongst other deaths the General Ribaupierre's 
 Was much regretted,) for the Moslem men 
 Threw them all down into the ditch again. 
 
 LXXIl. 
 And had it not been for some stray troops landing 
 
 They knew not where, being carried by the strea»i 
 To some sjiot, where they lost their understanding, 
 
 And wander'd up and doT\Ti as in a dream. 
 Until they reach'd, as daybreak was expanding, 
 
 That which a portal to their eyes did seem, — 
 The great and gay Koutousow might have lain 
 Wliere three parts of his column yet remain. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 And scrambling round the rampart, the same troops, 
 
 After the taking of the " Cavalier," 
 Just as Koutousow's most "forlorn" of "hopes" 
 
 Took, like chameleons, some slight tinge of fear, 
 Open'd the gate caU'd " Kilia," to the groups 
 
 Of baffled heroes, who stood shyly near, 
 Sliding knee-deep in lately frozen mud. 
 Now thaw'd into a marsh of human blood. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 The Kozacks, or, if so you please, Cossacques — 
 
 (I don't much pique myself upon orthography, 
 So that I do not grossly err in facts. 
 
 Statistics, tactics, politics, and geography) — 
 Having been used to serve on horses' backs. 
 
 And no great dilettanti in topograjihy 
 Of fortresses, but fighting where it pleases 
 Tlieir chiefs to order, — wore all cut to pieces. 
 
 LXXV. 
 Their column, though the Turkish batteries thunder'd 
 
 Upon them, ne'ertheless had reach'd the rampart, 
 And naturally thought they could have plunder'd 
 
 The city, without being farther hamper'd ; 
 But as it happens to brave men, they blunder'd — 
 
 The Turks at first pretended to have scamper'd, 
 Only to draw them 'twixt two bastion corners, [era. 
 From whence they sallied on those Christian scorn- 
 
G61 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto vin. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 Then being taken by the tail — a taking 
 
 Fatal to bishops as to soklitTs — these 
 Cossacquos were all cut off as day was breaking, 
 
 And found their lives were let at a sliort lease — 
 But perish'd without shivering or shaking, 
 
 Leaving as ladders their heap'd carcasses 
 O'er which Lieutenant-Colonel Yesouskoi 
 March'd with the brave battalion ol" Polouzki : — 
 
 LXXVII. 
 This valiant man kill'd all the Turks he met, 
 
 But could not eat them, being in his turn 
 Slain l)y sonic ^Mussulmans, who would not yet, 
 
 Without resistance, see their city bum. 
 The walls were won, but 'twas an even bet 
 
 Wliicli of the armies would have cause to mourn : 
 'Twas blow for blow, disputing inch by inch. 
 For one would not retreat, nor t'other flinch. 
 
 LXXVin. 
 Anotlier column also suffer'd much : — 
 
 And here we may remark with the historian, 
 Ton should but give few cartridge!) to such 
 
 Troops as are meant to march with greatest glory 
 Wlicn matters must l)e carried by the touch [on : 
 
 Of the bright bayonet, and they all should hurry 
 They sometimes, with a hankering for existence, [on, 
 Keep merely firing at a foolish distance. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 A junction of the General Meknop's men 
 
 (Without the General, who had f\illen some time 
 Before, l)cing badly seconded just then) 
 
 Was made at length with those who dared to climb 
 The death-disgorging ram|)art once again ; 
 
 And tliough the Turk's resistance was sublime. 
 They took the bastion, which the Seraskier 
 Defended at a price extremely dear. 
 
 bXXX. 
 Juan and .lohnson, and some volunteers 
 
 Among the foremost, offer'd him good quarter, 
 A word which little suits with Seraskiors, 
 
 Or at least suited not tiiis valiant Tartar. 
 He died, deserving well his country's tears, 
 
 A savage sort of military martyr. 
 An English naval officer, who wish'd 
 To make him j'risoner, was also dish'd : 
 
 LXXXI. 
 For all the answej- to his proposition 
 
 Was from a pistol-shot that laid liim dead ; 
 On which the rest, without more intermission. 
 
 Began to lay about with steel and lead — 
 The pious metals most in requisition 
 
 On such occasions : not a single head 
 Was spared ; — three thousand Moslems perish'd here. 
 And sixteen bayonets i)ierced the Seraskier. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 The city's taken — only part by part — 
 
 And Death is drunk with gore : there 's not a streel 
 Where tights not to tlie last some desperate lieart, 
 
 For those for whom it soon shall cease to beat. 
 Here War forgot his own destructive art 
 
 In more destroying Nature ; and the heat 
 Of carnage, like the Nile's sun-sodden slime. 
 Engender'd monstrous shapes of every crime, 
 
 LXXXin. 
 A Russian officer, in martial tread 
 
 Over a heap of bodies, felt his heel 
 Seized fast, as if 'twere by the serpent's head 
 
 Wiiose fangs Eve taught her human seed to feel ; 
 In vain he kick'd, and swore, and writhed, and bled, 
 
 And liowl'd for help as wolves do for a meal — 
 The teeth still kept their gratifying hold, 
 As do the subtle snakes described of old. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 A dying Moslem, who had felt the foot 
 
 Of a foe o'er him, snatch'd at it, and bit 
 The very tendon which is most acute — 
 
 (That which some ancient Jluse or modem wit 
 Named after thee, Achille.s) and quite through 't 
 
 He made the teeth meet, ^or relinquish'd it 
 Even with his life — for (but they lie) 'tis said 
 To the live leg stiU clung the sever'd head. 
 
 I,XXXV. 
 However this may be, 'tis pretty sure 
 
 The Russian officer for life was lamed, 
 For the Turk's teeth stuck faster than a skewer, 
 
 And left him 'midst the invalid and maim'd: 
 The regimental surgeon could not cure 
 
 His patient, and jjerhaps was to be blamed 
 More than tlie head of the inveterate foe. 
 Which was cut off, and scarce Lven then let go. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 But then the fact 's a fact^ — and 'tis the part 
 
 Of a true poet to escape from fiction 
 Wliene'er he can ; for there is little art 
 
 In leaving verse more tree from the restriction 
 Of ti'uth than jirose, imless to suit the mart 
 
 For what is sometiuK^s call'd poetic diction, 
 And that outrageous appetite for lies 
 Which 8atan angles with for souls, like flies. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 The city's taken, but not rcnder'd ! — No ! 
 
 There's not a Moslem that hath yielded swoid , 
 The blood may gush out, as the Oanul>e's How 
 
 Rolls by the city wall ; but deed nor word 
 Acknowledge aught of dread of death or foe : 
 
 In vain the yell of victory is roar'd 
 By the advancing Muscovite — the groan 
 Of the last foe is echo'd by his own. 
 
Canto tiii. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 665 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 The bayonet pierces and the sabre cleaves, 
 
 And human lives are lavish'd everywhere, 
 As the year closing whirls the scarlet leaves 
 
 When the stripp'd forest bows to the bleak air, 
 And groans ; and thus the peopled city grieves, 
 
 ShorL of its best and loveliest, and left bare ; 
 But still it falls in vast and awful splinters. 
 As oaks blown down with all their thousand winters. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 It is an a^vful topic — but 'tis not 
 
 My cue for any time to be temfic ; 
 For checker'd as is seen our human lot 
 
 With good, and bad, and worse, alike prolific 
 Of melancholy merriment, to quote 
 
 Too much of one sort would be soporific ; — 
 Without, or with, offence to friends or foes, 
 I sketch your world exactly as it goes. 
 
 XC. 
 And one good action in the midst of crimes 
 
 Is " quite refreshing," in the affected phrase 
 Of these ambrosial, Pharisaic times. 
 
 With all their pretty milk-and-water ways, 
 And may serve therefore to bedew these rhymes, 
 
 A little scorch'd at present with the blaze 
 Of conquest and its consequences, which 
 Make epic poesy so rare and rich. 
 
 XCI. 
 Upon a taken bastion, where there lay 
 
 Thousands of slaughter'd men, a yet warm group 
 Of murder'd women, who had found their way 
 
 To this vait refuge, made the good heart droo]^ 
 And shudder ; — while, as beautiful as May, 
 
 A female child of ten years tried to stoop 
 And hide her little palpitating breast 
 Amidst the bodies luU'd in bloody rest. 
 
 XCII. 
 Two villanous Cossacques pursued the child 
 
 With flashing eyes and weapons : match'd with 
 The rudest brute that roams Siberia's wild [them. 
 
 Has feelings pure and polish'd as a gem, — 
 The bear is civilized, the wolf is mild ; 
 
 And whom for this at last must we condemn ? 
 Their natures ? or their sovereigns, who employ 
 All arts to teach their subjects to destroy ? 
 
 XCIir. 
 Their sabres glitterd o'er her little head. 
 
 Whence her fair hair rose twining with affright. 
 Her hidden fiiee 'vas plunged amidst the dead 
 
 Wlien .luan caught a glimpse of this sad sight, 
 I shall not say exactly what he said, 
 
 Because it might not solace " ears polite ;" 
 But what he did, was to lay on their backs, 
 The readiest way of reasoning with Cossacques. 
 84 
 
 XCIV. 
 One's hip he slash'd, and split tlie other's shoulder, 
 
 And drove them with their brutal yells to seek. 
 If there might be chirurgeons who could solder 
 
 The wounds they richly merited, and shriek 
 Their baflied rage and pain ; while waxing colder 
 
 As he turn'd o'er each pale and gory cheek. 
 Dim .Juan raised his little captive from 
 The heap a moment more had made her tomb. 
 
 XCV. 
 And she was chill as they, and on her face 
 
 A slender streak of blood announced how near 
 Her fate had been to that of all her race ; 
 
 For the same blow which laid her mother here 
 Had scarr'd her brow, and left its crimson trace. 
 
 As the last link with all she had held dear ; 
 But else unhurt, she open'd her large eyes. 
 And gazed on Juan with a wild surprise. 
 
 XCVI. 
 Just at this instant, while their eyes were fix'd 
 
 Upon each other, with dilated glance. 
 In Juan's look, jiain, pleasure, hope, fear, mix'd 
 
 With joy to save, and dread of some mischance 
 Unto his i>rotegc-e ; while hers, transfix'd 
 
 With iulant terrors, glared as from a trance, 
 A pure, transparent, pale, yet radiant face. 
 Like to a lighted alabaster vase ;— 
 
 XCVII. 
 Up came John Johnson, (I will not say " Jncl-" 
 
 For that were vulgar, cold, and common-place 
 On great occasions, such as an attack 
 
 On cities, as hath been the present case :) 
 Up Johnson came, with hundreds at his back. 
 
 Exclaiming : — " Juan ! Juan ! On, boy ! brace 
 Your arm, and I'll bet Moscow to a dollar, 
 That you and I will win St. George's collar. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 " The Seraskier is knock'd upon the head. 
 
 But the stone bastion still remains, wlierein 
 The old Pacha sits among some hundreds dead, 
 
 Smoking his pipe quite calmly 'midst the din 
 Of our artillery and his own : 'tis said 
 
 Our kill'd, already piled up to the chin. 
 Lie round the battery ; but still its batters. 
 And grape in volleys, like a vineyard, scatters. 
 
 XCIX. 
 " Then up with me !" — But Juan answer'd, " Look 
 
 Upon this child — I saved her — must not leave 
 Her life to chance ; but point me out some nook 
 
 Of safety, where she less may shrink and grieve. 
 And I am with you." — Whereon Johnson took 
 
 A glance around — and shrugg'd — and twitch'd 
 
 his sleeve [right , 
 
 And black silk neckcloth --and replied, "You're 
 
 Poor thing \ what 's to be done 2 I'm puzzled quite." 
 
«r>r> 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto fih. 
 
 Bftid Juan — " Wliatsoever is to be 
 Done, I'll not quit licr till she seems secure 
 
 Of present life a good deal more than we." — 
 Quoth Johnson — " Neither will I quite ensure ; 
 
 But at the least ijuu may die gloriously." — 
 Juan reijlicd — " At least I will endure 
 
 ■Whate'i'r is to be borne — but not resign 
 
 This child, who is parentlcss, and therefore mine." 
 
 cr. 
 Johnson said — " Juan, we've no time to lose ; 
 
 The child's a pretty child — a very pretty — 
 I never saw such eyes — but hark 1 now choose 
 
 Between your fame and feelings, pride and pity ; — 
 Hark I how the roar increases ! — no excuse 
 
 Will serve when there is pkmder in a city ; — 
 I should be lotli to march without you, but. 
 By God ! we'll be too late for the first cut." 
 
 CII. 
 But Juan was immovable ; until 
 
 Johnson, who really loved him in his way, 
 Pick'd out amongst his followers with some skill 
 
 Such as he thought the least given up to prey ; 
 And swearing if the infant came to ill 
 
 That they should all be shot on the next day ; 
 But if she were dcUver'd safe and sound. 
 They should at least have fifty rubles round, 
 
 cm. 
 
 And all allowances besides of plunder 
 
 In fair jjroportion with their comrades ; — then 
 
 Juan consented to march on through thunder, 
 Which thinn'd at every step their ranks of men : 
 
 And yet the rest rush'd eagerly — no wonder, 
 For they were heated with the hope of gain, 
 
 A thing wliieh happens everywhere each day — 
 
 No hero trusteth wliolly to half pay. 
 
 CIV. 
 And such is victory, and such is man ! 
 
 ^t least nine-tenths of what we call so ; — God 
 May have another name for half we scan 
 
 As liuman beings, or his ways are odd. 
 But to our subject : a brave Tartar khan — 
 
 Or " sultan," as the author (to whose nod 
 In prose I bend my humble verse) doth call 
 This chieftain — somehow would not yield at all : 
 
 CV. 
 But flank'd hyjhc brave sons, (such is polygamy. 
 
 That she spawns warriors by the score, where none 
 Are prosecuted for that false crime bigamy,) 
 
 He ni'ver would lielieve the city won 
 While courage clung but to a single twig. — Am I 
 
 Desc^ribing Priam's, Peleus', or Jove's son? 
 Neither — Init a good, plain, old, temperate man. 
 Who fought with his five children in the van. 
 
 CVI. 
 To tal-e him was the point. — The truly brave, 
 
 Wlien they behold the brave oppress'd with odtl^ 
 Are touch'd with a desire to shield and save ; — 
 
 A mixture of wild beasts and demi-gods 
 Are they — now furious as the sweeping wave, 
 
 Now moved with i)ity : even as sometimes nods 
 The rugged tree unto the summer wind. 
 Compassion breathes along the savage mind. 
 
 CVII. 
 But he would 7i/>t be tidcti, and replied 
 
 To all the propositions of surrender 
 By mowing Christians down on every side, 
 
 As obstinate as Swedish Charles at Bender. 
 His five brave boys no less the foe defied ; 
 
 Whereon the Russian pathos grew less tender, 
 As being a virtue, like terrestrial patience, 
 xVpt to wear out on trifling provocations. 
 
 CVIII. 
 And spite of Johnson and of Juan, who 
 
 Expended all their Eastern phraseology 
 In begging him, for God's sake, just to show 
 
 So much less fight as might form an apology 
 For t/iem in saving such a desperate foe — 
 
 He hew'd away, like doctors of tlieology 
 Wlien they dis)nite with skeptics ; and with curses 
 Struck at his friends, as babies beat their nurses. 
 
 CIX. 
 
 Nay, he had wounded, though but slightly, both 
 Juan and .lohnson ; w hereupon they full. 
 
 The fii-st with sighs, the second with an oath, 
 Upon his angry sultanship, pell-mell. 
 
 And all around were grown exceeding wroth 
 At such a pertinacious infidel. 
 
 And pour'd upon him and his sons like rain, 
 
 Wliieh they resisted like a sandy plain 
 
 ex. 
 
 That drinks and stiU is dry. At last they perish'd- • 
 nis second son was levell'd by a shot ; 
 
 Ilis third was sabred ; and the fourth, most cher 
 Of all the five, on l^ayonets met his lot ; fish'd 
 
 The fifth, who, by a Cliristian mother nourish'd, 
 Had been neglected, ill-used, and what not. 
 
 Because deform'd, yet died all game and bottom. 
 
 To save a sire who blush'd that he begot him. 
 
 CXI. 
 The eldest was a true and tameless Tartar, 
 
 A: great a scomer of the Nazarene 
 As ever Mahomet pick'd out for a martyr, 
 
 Who only saw the black-eyed girls in green, 
 Who make the beds of those who won't take quarlei 
 
 On earth, in Paradise ; and when once seen, 
 Those houris, like all other pretty creatures. 
 Do just whato'er they please, by dint of features. 
 
Canto viii. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 667 
 
 CXII. 
 
 And wliat they pleased to do -with the young khan 
 In heaven I know not, nor pretend to guess ; 
 
 But doubtless they prefer a fine young man 
 To tough old heroes, and can do no less ; 
 
 And that's the cause no doubt why, if we scan 
 A field of battle's ghastly wilderness. 
 
 For one rough, weather-beaten, veteran body, 
 
 Vou'll find ten thousand handsome coxcombs bloody. 
 
 CXIII. 
 four houris also have a natural pleasure 
 
 In lojjping off your lately married men. 
 Before the bridal hours have danced their measure 
 
 And the sad, second moon grows dim again. 
 Or dull repentance hath had dreary leisure 
 
 To wish him back a bachelor now and then. 
 And thus your houri (it may be) disputes 
 Of these brief blossoms the immediate fruits. 
 
 CXIV. 
 Thus the young khan, with houris in his sight, 
 
 Thought not upon the charms of foiu' young brides. 
 But bravely rush'd on his first heavenly night. 
 
 la short, howe'er our better faith derides. 
 These black-eyed virgins make the Moslems fight. 
 
 As though there were one heaven and none be- 
 WTjereas, if all be true we hear of heaven [sides, — 
 And hell, there must at least be six or seven. 
 
 cxv. 
 
 So fully flash'd the phantom on his eyes, 
 That when the very lauce was in his heart, 
 
 He shouted " .Ulah !" and saw Paradise 
 With all its veil of mystery drawn ap^iir. 
 
 And bright eternity without disguise 
 
 On his soul, like a ceaseless sunrise, dart : — 
 
 With prophets, houris, angels, saints, descried 
 
 In one voluptuous blaze, — and then he died : 
 
 CXVI. 
 But with a heavenly rapture on his face. 
 
 The good old khan, who long had ceased to see 
 Houris, or aught except his florid race 
 
 Wlio grew Uke cedars round him gloriously — 
 'VThen he beheld his latest hero grace 
 
 The earth, which he became Kke a fell'd tree, 
 Paused for a moment, from the fight, and cast 
 A glance on that slain son, his first and last. 
 
 CXVII. 
 The soldiers, who beheld him drop his point, 
 
 Stojjp'd as if once more willing to concede 
 Quarter, in case he bade them not " aroynt !'' 
 
 As he before had done. He did not heed 
 Their pause nor signs : his heart was out of joint, 
 
 And shook {till now unshaken) like a reed, 
 .\s he look'd down ujjon his children gone, 
 And felt — though done with life — he was alone. 
 
 CXTIII. 
 But 'twas a transient tremor : — ^with a sjn'ing 
 
 Upon the Russian steel his breast he flung, 
 As carelessly as hurls the moth her wing 
 
 Against the light wherein she dies : he clung 
 Closer, that all the deadlier they might wring. 
 
 Unto the bayonets which had pierced his young; 
 And throwing back a dim look on his sons. 
 In one wide wound pour'd forth his soul at once. 
 
 CXIX. 
 'Tis strange enough — the rough, tough soldiers, who 
 
 Spared neither sex nor age in their career 
 Of carnage, when this old man was pierced through, 
 
 And lay before them with his children near, 
 Touch'd by the heroism of him they slew. 
 
 Were melted for a moment : though no tear 
 Flow'd from their bloodshot eyes, all red with strife, 
 They honor'd such determined scorn of life. 
 
 CXX. 
 
 But the stone bastion still kept up its fire, 
 Where the chief pacha calmly held his post : 
 
 Some twenty times he made the Russ retire. 
 And baflied the assaults of all their host : 
 
 At length he condescended to inquire 
 If yet the city's rest were won or lost ; » 
 
 And being told the latter, sent a bey 
 
 To answer Ribas' summons to give way. 
 
 CXXI. 
 In the mean time, cross-legg'd, with great sang-froid, 
 
 Among the scorching ruins he sat smoking 
 Tobacco on a little carpet ; — Troy 
 
 Saw nothing like the scene around : — yet looking 
 With martial stoicism, naught seem'd to annoy 
 
 His stern philosophy ; but gently stroking 
 His beard, he j5uft''d his pipe's ambrosial gales, 
 As if he had three lives, as well as tails. 
 
 CXXII. 
 The town was taken — whether he might yield 
 
 Himself or bastion, little matter'd now : 
 His stubborn valor was no future shield. 
 
 Ismail's no more ! The crescent's silver bow 
 Sunk, and the crimson cross glared o'er the field, 
 
 But red with no riileemiinj gore : the glow 
 Of burning streets, like moonlight on the water, 
 Was imaged back in blood, the sea of slaughter. 
 
 CXXIII. 
 All that the mind would shrink from of excesses ; 
 
 All that the body peipelratcs of bad ; 
 All that we read, hear, dream, of man's distresses 
 
 All that the de^-il would do if run stark mad ; 
 All that defies the worst which pen expresses ; 
 
 All by which hell is peopled, or as sad 
 
668 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto vire 
 
 As hell — mere mortals who their power abuse — 
 Was here (as heretofore and since) let loose. 
 
 CXXIV. 
 
 If here and there some transient trait of pity [through 
 Was shown, and some more noble heart broke 
 
 Its bloody bond, and saved, perhaps, some pretty 
 Child, or an aged, helpless man or two — 
 
 IVliat's this in one annihilated city, 
 Where thousand loves, and ties, and duties grew ? 
 
 Cockneys of London 1 Muscadius of Paris ! 
 
 Just ponder what a pious pastime war is. 
 
 CXXV. 
 Think how the joys of reading a Gazette 
 
 Are pur( based by all agonies and crimes : 
 Or if these do not move you, don't forget 
 
 Such doom may be your own in after times. 
 Meantime the Taxes, Castlereagh, and Debt, 
 
 Are hints as good as sermons, or as rhymes. 
 Read your own hearts and Ireland's present story, 
 Then feed her famine fat with Wellesley's glory. 
 
 CXXVI. 
 
 But still there is unto a patriot nation, 
 Wliieli loves so well its country and its king, 
 
 A subject of sublimest exultation — 
 Bear it, ye Muses, on your brightest wing ! 
 
 Howe'er the mighty locust. Desolation, 
 
 Strij) your green fields, and to your harvests cling, 
 
 Gaunt famine never shall approach the throne — 
 
 Though Ireland starve, great George weighs twenty 
 stone. 
 
 CXXVII. 
 But let me put an end unto my theme : 
 
 There was an end of Ismail — hapless town ! 
 Far flasli'd her burning towers o'er Danube's stream, 
 
 And redly ran his blushing waters down. 
 The horrid M-ar-whoop and the shriller scream 
 
 Rose still ; but fainter were the thunders grown : 
 Of forty thousand who had mauu'd the wall. 
 Some hundreds breathed — the rest were silent all 1 
 
 CXXVIII. 
 In one thing ne'ertheless 'tis fit to praise 
 
 The Russian army upon this occasion, 
 A virtue much in fashion now-a-days. 
 
 And therefore worthy of commemoration : 
 The topic's tender, so shall be my phrase — 
 
 Perhaps the season's chill, and their long station 
 In winter's depth, or want of rest and victual, 
 Had made them chaste ; — they ravish'd very little. 
 
 CXXIX. 
 Much did tliey slay, more plunder, and no less 
 
 Might here and there occur some violation 
 in the other line ; — but not to such excess 
 
 As when the French, that dissipated nation, 
 
 Take towns by storm : no causes can I guess, 
 
 Except cold weather and commiseration ; 
 But all the ladies, save some twenty score, 
 'W'ere almost as nmch virgins as before. 
 
 cxxx. 
 
 Some odd mistakes, too, happen'd in the dark, 
 Wliich show'd a want of lanterns, or of taste — 
 
 Indeed the smoke was such they scarce could mark 
 Their friends from foes, — besides, such things from 
 
 Occur, though rarely, when there is a spark [hast* 
 Of light to save the venerable chaste : 
 
 But six old damsels, each of seventy years. 
 
 Were all deflower'd by different genadiers. 
 
 CXXXI. 
 But on the whole their continence was great ; 
 
 So that some disappointment there ensued 
 To those who had felt the inconvenient state 
 
 Of " single blessedness," and thought it good 
 (Since it was not their fault, but only fate. 
 
 To bear these crosses) for each waning prude 
 To make a Roman sort of Sabine wedding, 
 AVithout the expense and the suspense of bedding. 
 
 CXXXII. 
 Some voices of the buxom middle-aged 
 
 Were also heard to wonder in the din 
 (Widows of forty were these birds long caged) 
 
 " Wlierefore the ravishing did not begin 1" 
 But while the thirst for gore and plunder raged, 
 
 There was small leisure for supcrtiuous sin ; 
 But whether they escaped or no, lies hid 
 In darkness — I can only hope they did. 
 
 CXXXIII. 
 Suwarrow now was conqueror — a match 
 
 For Timour or for Zinghis in his trade. 
 While mosques and streets, beneath his eyes, like 
 tluateh 
 
 Blazed, and the cannon's roar was scarce allay'd, 
 With bloody hands he wrote his first dispatch ; 
 
 And here exactly follows what he said : — 
 " Glory to God and to the Empress !" ( Powers 
 Eternal ! Kiich names mingled /) " Ismail 's ours." 
 
 rxxxiv. 
 Methinks these are the most tremendous words, 
 
 Since " Menu, Mcne, Tekel," and " Upharsin," 
 Which hands or pens have ever traced of swords. 
 
 Heaven help me ! I'm but Uttle of a parson : 
 What Daniel read was short-hand of the Lord's, 
 
 Severe, sulilime ; the prophet wrote no farce on 
 The fate of nations ; — but this Russ so witty 
 Could rhyme, like Nero, o'er a burning city. 
 
 cxxxv. 
 
 He wrote this Polar melody, and set it. 
 Duly accompanied by shrieks and groans. 
 
Canto ix. 
 
 DON JUAN, 
 
 C69 
 
 Which few will sing, I trust, but none forget it — 
 For I will teach, if possible, the stones 
 
 To rise against earth's tyrants. Never let it 
 Be said that we still truckle unto thrones ; — 
 
 But ye — our children's children ! think how we 
 
 Show'd what thinffs-were before the world was free ! 
 
 CXXXVI. 
 
 That hour is not for us, but 'tis for you : 
 And as, in the great joy of your millennium, 
 
 You hardly will beiieve such things were true 
 As now occur, I thought that I would pen you 
 
 But may their very memory perish too ! — ['em ; 
 
 Yet if perchance rememlier'd, still disdain you 'em 
 
 More than you scorn the savages of yore, 
 
 "Who 2'a.ihteil their bare limbs, but not with gore. 
 
 CXXXVII. 
 
 And when you hear historians talk of thrones. 
 And those that sate upon them, let it be 
 
 As we now gaze upon the mammoth's bones. 
 And wonder what old world such things could 
 see. 
 
 Or hieroglyphics on Egyi^tian stones 
 The pleasant riddles of futurity — 
 
 Guessing at what shall happily be hid, 
 
 As the real purpose of a pyramid. 
 
 CXXXVIII, 
 
 Reader I I have kept my word, — at least so far 
 As the first Canto promised. You have now 
 
 Had sketches of love, tempest, travel, war — 
 All very accurate, you must allow, 
 
 &jid epic, if plain truth should prove no bar ; 
 For I have drawu much less with a long bow 
 
 Than my forerunners. Carelessly I sing, 
 
 But Phcfibus lends me now and then a string, 
 
 CXXXIX. 
 
 With which I still can harp, and carp, and fiddle. 
 
 What farther hath befallen or may befall 
 The hero of this grand poetic riddle, 
 
 I by and by may tell you, if at all : 
 But now I choose to break ofl^ in the middle, 
 
 Worn out with battering Ismail's stubborn waU, 
 While Juan is sent off with the dispatch. 
 For which all Petersburgh is on the watch. 
 
 CXL. 
 
 This special honor was conferr'd, because 
 
 He had behaved with courage and humanity — 
 
 Which last men like, when they have time to pause 
 From their ferocities produced by vanity. 
 
 His little cajjtive gain'd him some applause 
 For saving her amidst the wild insanity 
 
 Of carnage, — and I think he-was more glad in her 
 
 Safety, than hi;, new order of St. Vladimir. 
 
 CXLI. 
 The Moslem orphan went with her protector. 
 
 For she was homeless, houseless, helpless ; all 
 Her friends, like the sad family of Hector, 
 
 Had perish'd in the field or by the wall : 
 Her very place of birth was but a spectre 
 
 Of what it had been ; there the Muezzin's call 
 To prayer was heard no more ! — and Juan wept, 
 And made a vow to shield her, which he kept. 
 
 D Jf JUAN. 
 
 CANTO THE NINTH. 
 
 On, Wellington ! (or " Villainton " — for Fame 
 Sounds the heroic syllables both ways ; 
 
 France could not even conquer your great name, 
 But punn'd it down to this facetious phrase — 
 
 Beating or beaten she will laugh the same,) 
 You have obtain'd great pensions and much praise 
 
 Glory like yours should any dare gainsay. 
 
 Humanity would rise, and thunder " Nay !" 
 
 II. 
 
 I don't think that you used Kinnaird quite well 
 In MarinOt's affair — in fact, 'twas shabby, 
 
 And like some other things won't do to tell 
 Upon your tomb in Westminster's old abbey. 
 
 Upon the rest 'tis not worth while to dwell, 
 
 Such tales being for the tea-hours of some tabby • 
 
 But though your years as man tend fast to zero, 
 
 In fact your grace is still but a young hero. 
 
 III. 
 Though Britain owes (and pays you too) so much, 
 
 Yet Europe doubtless owes you greatly more : 
 You have repair'd Legitimacy's crutch, 
 
 A prop not quite so cc.-tain as before : 
 The Spanish, and the French, as well as Dutch, 
 
 Have seen, and felt, how strongly you reatore ; 
 And Waterloo has made the world your debtor, 
 (I wish your bards would sing it rather better.) 
 
 IV. 
 You are " the best of cut-throats :" — do not start ; 
 
 The phrase is Shaksijeare's, and not misapplied :— 
 War's a brain-sjjattering, windpipe-slitting art. 
 
 Unless her cause by right be sanctified. 
 If you have acted once a generous part. 
 
 The world, not the world's masters, will decide, 
 And I shall be delighted to learn who. 
 Save you and yours, have gain'd by Waterloo ? 
 
 I am no flatterer — you've supp'd full of flattery : 
 They say you like it toij — 'tis no great wonder. 
 
610 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Ca^-to IX 
 
 He whose whole life has been assault and battery, 
 At last may get a little tired of thunder ; 
 
 A.nd swallowing eulogy much more than satire, he 
 May like being praised for every lucky blunder, 
 
 Call'd " Saviour of the Nations " — not yet saved, 
 
 And " Europe's Liberator " — still enslaved. 
 
 VI. 
 
 I've done. Now go and dine from off the plate 
 Presented by the Prince of the Brazils, 
 
 And send the sentinel before your gate 
 A slice or two from your luxurious meals : 
 
 He fought, but has not fed so well of late. 
 
 Some, hunger, too, they say the people feels : — 
 
 There is no douljt that you deserve your ration, 
 
 But pray give back a little to the nation. 
 
 VII. 
 
 I don't mean to reflect — a man so great as 
 You, my lord duke ! is far above reflection : 
 
 The high Uoman fashion, too, of Cincinnatus, 
 With modern history has but small connection : 
 
 Though as an Irishman you love potatoes. 
 
 You need not take them under your direction ; 
 
 And half a million for your Sabine farm 
 
 Is rather dear ! — I'm sure I mean no harm. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Great men have always scom'd great recompenses : 
 Epaminondas saved his Thebes, and died. 
 
 Not leaving even his funeral expenses : [side, 
 
 George AYashington had thanks and naut;ht be- 
 
 Exccpt the all-cloudless glory (which few men's is) 
 To free his country : Pitt too had his jiride. 
 
 And as a high-soul'd minister of state is 
 
 Renown'd for ruining Great Britain gratis. 
 
 IX. 
 Never had mortal man such opportmiity. 
 
 Except Napoleon, or abused it more : 
 Yovj might have freed fallen Europe from the unity 
 
 Of tyrants, and been bless'd from shore to shore : 
 And now — what is your fame ? Shall the Muse tunc 
 it ye ? 
 
 J^^ow — that the rabble's first vain shouts are o'er ? 
 Go ! hear it in your famish'd country's cries ! 
 Behold the world ! and curse your victories I 
 
 As these new cantos touch on warlike feats, 
 To ^/ou the unflattering Muse deigns to inscribe 
 
 Truths, that you will not read in the Gazettes, 
 But which, 'tis time to teach the hireling tribe 
 
 Wlio fatten on their country's gore, and debts, 
 JIust be recited, and — without a bribe. 
 
 You did great things ; but not being great in mind. 
 
 Have left undone the greatest — .and mankind. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Deatli laughs — Go ponder o'er the skeleton 
 
 With which men im;ige out the unknown tlung 
 
 That hides the past world, like to a set sun 
 Which still elsewhere may rouse a brighter spring— • 
 
 Death laughs at all you weep for : — look upon 
 This hourly dread of all ! whose threnten'd ating 
 
 Turns life to terror, even though in its sheath : 
 
 Mark ! how its lipless mouth grins without breath 1 
 
 XII. 
 Mark ! how it laughs and scorns at all you are ! 
 
 And yet icns what you are : from ear to ear 
 It laughs not — there is now no fleshy bar 
 
 So call'd ; the Antic long hath ceased to hear, 
 But still he smiles ; and whether near or far, 
 
 He strips from man that mantle, (far more dear 
 Than even the tailor's,) his incarnate skin. 
 White, black, or copper — the dead bones will grin. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 And thus Death laughs, — it is sad merriment, 
 But still it is so : and with such example 
 
 Why should not Life be equally content 
 With his superior, in a smile to trample 
 
 Upon the nothings which are daily spent 
 Like bubbles on an ocean much less ample 
 
 Than the eternal deluge, which devours 
 
 Suns as rays— worlds like atoms — years like hours \ 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " To be, or not to bo ! that is the question," 
 
 Says Shakspeare, who just now is much in fashion, 
 
 I am neither Alexander nor Ilepha^stion, 
 
 Nor ever had for ahstraH fame much passion ; 
 
 But would much rather have a sound digestion 
 Than Bonaparte's cancer : — could I dash on 
 
 Through fifty victories to shame or fame. 
 
 Without a stomach — what were a good name ? 
 
 XV. 
 
 " Oh, dura ilia messorum !"' — " Oh, 
 Ye rigid guts of reapers !" I translate 
 
 For the great benefit of those who know 
 What indigestion is — that inward fate 
 
 Which makes all Styx through one small liver flow. 
 A peasant's sweat is worth his lord's estate ; 
 
 Let this one toil for bread — that rack for rent. 
 
 He who sleeps best may be the most content. 
 
 XVI. 
 " To be, or not to be !" — Ere I decide, 
 
 I should be glad to know that which is being. 
 'Tis true we speculate both far and wide. 
 
 And deem, because we see, we are all-seeing: 
 For my part, I'll enlist on neither side. 
 
 Until 1 see both sides for once agreeing. 
 
OaIJTO IX. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 671 
 
 Fcr me. I sometimes think that life is death, 
 Rather than life a mere aflair of breath. 
 
 XVII. 
 " Que scais-je ?" was the motto of Montaigne, 
 
 As also of the first academicians : 
 That all is dubious which man may attain, 
 
 Was one of their most favorite positions. 
 There's no such thing as certainty, that's plain 
 
 As any of Mortality's conditions ; 
 So little do we know what we're about in 
 This world, I doubt if doubt itself be doubting. 
 
 XVIII. 
 It is a pleasant voyage perhaps to float, 
 
 Like Pyrrlio, on a sea of speculation ; 
 But what if carrying sail capsize the boat ? 
 
 Tour wise men don't know much of navigation ; 
 And swimming long in the abyss of thought 
 
 Is apt to tire : a calm and shallow station 
 Well nigh the shore, where one stoops down and gath- 
 Some pretty shell, is best for moderate bathers, [ers. 
 
 XIX. 
 " But hetiven," as Cassio says, " is above all — 
 
 No more of this, then, — let us pray 1" We have 
 Souls to save, since Eve's slip and Adam's fall, 
 
 Which tumbled all mankind into the gr.-ive. 
 Besides fish, beasts, and birds. " The sparrow's fall 
 
 Is special providence," though how it gave 
 Offence, we know not ; probably it perch'd 
 Upon the tree which Eve so fondly search'd. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Oh, ye immortal gods ! what is theogony ? 
 
 Oh, thou, too, mortal man ! what is philanthropy ? 
 Oh, world ! which was and is, what is cosmogony ? 
 
 Some people have accused me of misanthropy ; 
 And yet I know no more than the mahog.any 
 
 That forms this desk, of what they mean ; lyl-an- 
 1 comprehend, for without ti'ansformation [thropy 
 Men become wolves on any slight occasion. 
 
 XXI. 
 But I, the mildest, meekest of mankind. 
 
 Like Moses, or Melancthon, who have ne'er 
 Done any thing exceedingly unkind, — 
 
 And (though I could not now and then forbear 
 Following the bent of body or of mind) 
 
 Have always had a tendency to spLre, — 
 Wliy do they call me misanthrope ? Because 
 T/tey hate yne, not I them : — and here we'll pause. 
 
 XXII. 
 Tls time we should proceed with our good poem, — 
 
 For I maintain that it is really good, 
 tfot only in the body but the proem. 
 
 However little both are understood 
 
 Just now, — but by and by the Truth will show 'em 
 
 Herself in her sublimest attitude : 
 And till she doth, I fain must be content 
 To share hei beauty and her banishment. 
 
 xxni. 
 
 Our hero (and, I trust, kind reader ! yours — ) 
 Wa.s left upon his way to the chief city 
 
 Of the immortal Peter's polisli'd boors. 
 
 Who still have shown themselves more brave than 
 
 I know its mighty empire now allures [witty. 
 
 Much flattery — even Voltaire's, and that 's a pity. 
 
 For me, I deem an absolute autocrat 
 
 Not a barbarian, but much worse than that. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 And I will war, at least in words, (and — should 
 3Iy chance so happen — deeds,) with all who war 
 
 With Thought ; — and of Thought's foes by far most 
 Tyrants and sycophants have been and are. [rude, 
 
 I know not who may conquer : if I could 
 Have such a prescience, it should be no bar 
 
 To this my plain, sworn, downright detestation 
 
 Of every despotism in every nation. 
 
 XXV. 
 It is not that I adulate the people : 
 
 Without mr, there are demagogues enough, 
 And infidels, to pull down every steeple. 
 
 And set up in their stead some proper stuff. 
 Whether they may sow skepticism to reap hell, 
 
 As is the Christian dogma rather rough, 
 I do not know ; — I ■n'ish men to be free 
 As much from mobs as kings — from you as me. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 The consequence is, being of no party, 
 I shall offend all parties : — never mind ! 
 
 My words, at least, are more sincere and hearty 
 Than if I sought to sail before the wind. 
 
 He who has naught to gain can have small art : he 
 AVho neither wishes to be bound or bind, 
 
 May still expatiate freely, as will I, 
 
 Nor give my voice to slavery's jackal cry. 
 
 XXVII. 
 That 's an appropriate simile, thnt jacl-al ; — 
 
 I've heard them in the Ephesian ruins howl 
 By night, as do that mercenary pack all. 
 
 Power's base pui-veyors, who for pickings prowl, 
 And scent the prey their masters would attack all. 
 
 However, the poor jackals are less foul 
 (As being the brave lion's keen providers) 
 Than human insects, catering for spiders. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 Raise but an arm ! 'twiU brush their web away. 
 And without that, their poison and their Gla-\v3 
 
«V2 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto 
 
 Are useless. 3Iind, good people ! what I say— 
 fOr rather peoples) — 70 on -nithout pause ! 
 
 The web of these tarantulas each day 
 
 Increases, till you shall make common cause : 
 
 None, save the Spanish fly and Attic bee, 
 
 As yet are strongly stinging to be free. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Don Juan, who had shone in the late slaughter, 
 Was left upon his way with the dispatch, 
 
 Wlicre blood was talk'd of as we would of water ; 
 And carcasses that lay as thick as thatch 
 
 O'er silenced cities, merely served to flatter 
 
 Fair Catherine's pastime — who look'd on the match 
 
 Between these nations as a main of cocks, 
 
 Wherein she liked her own to stand like rocks. 
 
 XX \ 
 
 And there in a lihithi he roU'd on, 
 
 (A cursed sort of carriage without springs, 
 
 Which on rough roads leaves scarcely a whole bons,) 
 Pondering on glory, chivalry, and kings, 
 
 And orders, and on all that he had done — 
 And wishing that post-horses had the wings 
 
 Of Pegasus, or at the least post-chaises 
 
 Had feathers, when a traveler on deep ways is. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 At every jolt — and they were many — still 
 He turn'd his eyes upon his little charge. 
 
 As if he wish;d that she should fare less ill 
 Than he, in those sad highways left at large 
 
 To ruts, and flints, and lovely Nature's skill. 
 Who is no paver, nor admits a barge 
 
 On Jier canals, where God takes sea and land, 
 
 Fishery and farm, both into his own hand. 
 
 XXXII. 
 At least he pays no rent, and has best right 
 
 To be the first of what we used to call 
 ' Gentlemen fanners " — a race worn out quite, 
 
 Since lately tliere have been no rents at all, 
 And "gentlemen" are in a piteous plight, 
 
 And "farmers" can't raise Ceres from her ftxlt : 
 She fell with Bonaparte — Wliat strange thoughts 
 Arise, when we see emperors fiiUwith oats ! 
 
 XXXIII. 
 But Juan turn'd his eyes on the sweet child 
 
 Whom he had sived from slaughter — what a 
 Oh ! ye who build up monuments, defiled [trophy ! 
 
 Witli gore, like Nadir Shah, that costive sophy. 
 Who, after leaving Ilindostau a wild, 
 
 And scarce to the Mogul a cup of coffee 
 To soothe his woes withal, was slain, the sinner 1 
 Because he could no more digest his dinner :' — 
 
 ' He was killed in a conspiracy, after his temper bad l)een ex- 
 asperated by bis extreme costivity to a degree of Insanity. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Oh, ye ! or we ! or he ! or she ! reflect 
 That (>!>f. life saved, especially if young 
 
 Or pretty, is a thing to recollect 
 Far sweeter than the greenest laurel^ sprung 
 
 From the manure of human clay, though deck'd 
 With all the praises ever said or sung : 
 
 Thougli hymn'd by every harp, unless witliin 
 
 Your heart joins chorus, Fame is but a din. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Oh, ye great authors luminous, voluminous I 
 Ye twice ten hundred thousand daily scribes ! 
 
 Wlioso pamphlets, volumes, newspapers, illumine us 
 Whether you're paid by government in bribes, 
 
 To prove the public debt is not consuming us — 
 Or, roughly treading on the "courtier's kibes," 
 
 With clownish heel, your popular circulation 
 
 Feeds you by printing half the realm's starvation ; — 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Oh, ye great authors ! — "Apropos des bottcs," 
 I have forgotten what I meant to say. 
 
 As sometimes have been greater sages' lots ; — 
 'Twas something calculated to allay 
 
 All wrath in barracks, palaces, or cots : 
 
 Certes it would have been but thrown away, 
 
 And that's one comfort for my lost advice. 
 
 Although no doubt it was beyond all price. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 But let it go : — it will one day be found 
 With other relics of " a former world." 
 
 Wlien this world shall he former, underground. 
 Thrown topsy-turvy, twisted, crisp'd, and curl'd, 
 
 Baked, tried, or burnt, turn'd inside-out, or drown'd, 
 Like all the worlds before, which have lieen hurl'd 
 
 First out of, and then back again to chaos. 
 
 The superstratum which will overlay us. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 So Cuvier says ; — and then shall come again 
 
 Unto the new creation, rising out 
 From our old crash, some mystic, ancient strain 
 
 Of things destroy'd and left in airy doubt; 
 Like to the notions we now entertain 
 
 Of Titans, giants, fellows of aliout 
 Some hundred feet in height, not to say miles, 
 And mammoths, and your winged crocodiles. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Think if then George the Fourth should be dug up 
 How the new worldlings of the then new East 
 
 Will wonder where such animals could sup ! 
 (For they themselves will be but of the least : 
 
 Even worlds miscarry, when too oft they pup, 
 And every new creation hath decreased 
 
Caxto IX. 
 
 DON JUAK. 
 
 673 
 
 In size, from ovcr-n-orking tbe material — 
 
 Men are but maggots of some huge Earth's burial.) 
 
 XL. 
 IIoic Tvill — to these young people, just thrust out 
 
 From some fresh Paradise, and set to plough, 
 And dig, and sweat, and turn themselves about, 
 
 And plant, and reap, and spin, and grind, and 
 'rill all the arts at length are brought about, [sow, 
 
 Especially of war and taxing — how, 
 I say, will these great relics, when they see 'em, 
 Look like the monsters of a new museum ? 
 
 XLI. 
 But I am apt to grow too metaphysical : 
 
 " The time is out of joint," — and so am I ; 
 I quite forget this poem 's merely quizzical, 
 
 And deviate into matters rather dry. 
 I ne'er decide what I shall say, and this I call 
 
 Much too poetical : men should know why 
 They write, and for what end ; but, note or text, 
 I never know the word which -vrill come next. 
 
 XLII. 
 So on I ramble, now and then narrating, 
 
 Now pondering : — it is time we should narrate. 
 I left Don Juan, with his horses baitings 
 
 Now we'll get o'er the ground at a great rate. 
 I shall not be jiarticular in stating 
 
 His journey, we've so many tours of late : 
 Suppose him then at Petersburgh ; suppose 
 That pleasant capital of painted snows ; 
 
 XLIII. 
 Suppose him in a handsome uniform ; 
 
 A scarlet coat, black facings, a long plume. 
 Waving, like sails new shiver'd in a storm, 
 
 Over a cock'd hat in a crowded room. 
 And brilliant breeches, bright as a Cairn Gorme, 
 
 Of yellow casimerc we may presume. 
 White stocking drawn uncurdled as new milk 
 O'er limbs whose sjTnmetry set oft" the silk ; 
 
 XLIV. 
 Suppose him sword by side, and hat in hand. 
 
 Made up by youth, fame, and an army tailor — • 
 That great enchanter, at whose rod's command 
 
 Beauty springs forth, and Nature's self turns paler. 
 Seeing how Art can make her work more grand, 
 
 (When she don't pin men's limbs in like a jailer,) — 
 Behold him placed as if upon a pillar ! He 
 Seems Love tum'd. a lieutenant of artillery. 
 
 XLV. 
 nis bandage slipp'd down into a cravfit ; 
 His wings subdued to epaulettes ; his quiver 
 
 * He was the <n^nde passion of the grand Catherine. See her 
 Lives under the head of " LanslcoL" 
 85 
 
 Shrunk to a scabbard, with his arrows at 
 His side as a small sword, but sharp as ever; 
 
 His bow converted into a cock'd hat ; 
 But still so hke, that Psyche were more clever 
 
 Than some wives, (who make blunder? no less 
 
 If she had not mistaken him for Cupid. [stupid,) 
 
 XLVI. 
 The courtiers stared, the ladies whisper'd, and 
 
 The empress smiled ; the reigning favorite frown'd 
 I quite forget which of them was in hand 
 
 Just then ; as they are rather numerous found, 
 Wlio took by turns that difficult command. 
 
 Since first her majesty was singly crown'd : 
 But they were mostly nervous six-foot fellows. 
 All fit to make a Patagonian jealous. 
 
 XLVII. 
 Juan was none of these, but slight and slim. 
 
 Blushing and beardless ; and yet ne'ertheless 
 There was a something in his turn of limb. 
 
 And still more in his eye, which seem'd to express, 
 That though he look'd like one of the seraphim. 
 
 There lurk'd a man beneath the spirit's dress. 
 Besides, the emjjress sometimes liked a boy. 
 And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi." 
 
 XLVIII. 
 No wonder then that Termolofi', or Momonofi", 
 
 Or Schcrbatofi' or any other off 
 Or on, might dread her majesty had not room enough 
 
 Within her bosom (which was not too tough) 
 For a new flame ; a thought to cast of gloom enough 
 
 Along the aspect, whether smooth or rough. 
 Of him who, in the language of his station, 
 Then held that " high official situation." 
 
 XLIX. 
 0, gentle ladies ! shonld you seek to know 
 
 The import of this diplomatic plrrase, 
 Bid Ireland's Londonderry's Marquess- show 
 
 His parts of speech ; and in the strange displays 
 Of that odd string of words, all in a row. 
 
 Which none divine, and every one obeys. 
 Perhaps you may pick out some queer no meaning, 
 Of that weak wordy harvest the sole gleaning. 
 
 I think I can explain myself ■without 
 That sad inex|)licable beast of prey — 
 
 That Sphinx, whose words would ever be a doubt 
 Did not his deeds unriddle them each day — 
 
 That monstrous hieroglyphic — that long spout 
 Of blood and water, leaden Castlercagh ] 
 
 And here I must an anecdote relate. 
 
 But lucidly of no great length or weight. 
 
 3 This was written long before the suicide of that person. 
 
674 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto ix. 
 
 LI. 
 An Encrlish la<\v ask'd of an Italian, 
 
 What were the actual and official duties 
 Of the strange thing, some women set a value on, 
 
 Which hovers oft about some married beauties, 
 Called " Cavalier servente ?" a Pygmalion 
 
 Whose statues warm (I fear, alas ! too true 'tis) 
 Beneath his art. The dame, press'd to disclose them, 
 Said — " Lady, I beseech you to su/>pose titem." 
 
 LII. 
 
 And thus I supplicate your supposition, 
 And mildest, matron-like interpretation, 
 
 Of the imperial favorite's condition. 
 'Twas a high place, the highest in the nation 
 
 In fact, if not in rank ; and the suspicion 
 
 Of any one's attaining to his station, [ers, 
 
 No doubt gave pain, where each new pair of should- 
 
 If rather broad, made stocks rise and their holders. 
 
 LIII. 
 Juan, I said, was a most beauteous boy, 
 
 And had retain'd his boyish look beyond 
 The usual hirsute seasons which destroy. 
 
 With beards and whiskers, and the like, the fond 
 Parisian aspect, which upset old Troy 
 
 And founded Doctors' Commons : — I have conn'd 
 The liistory of divorces, which, though checker'd. 
 Calls Ilion's the first damages on record. 
 
 LIV, 
 
 And Catherine, who loved all things, (save her lord. 
 Who was gone to his place,) and pass'd for much. 
 
 Admiring those (by dainty dames abhorr'd) 
 Gigantic gentlemen, yet had a touch 
 
 Of sentiment ; and he she most adored 
 Was the lamented Lanskoi, who was such 
 
 A lover as had cost her many a tear. 
 
 And yet but made a middling grenadier. 
 
 bV. 
 Oh, thou " tcterrima causa " of all " belli " — 
 
 Thou gate of life and death — thou nondescript ! 
 Whence is our exit and our entrance, — well I 
 
 May pause in pondering how- all souls are dipp'd 
 In thy perennial fountain ;— how man/c//, I [stripp'd 
 
 Know not, since knowledge saw her branches 
 Of her first fruit ; but how he falls and rises 
 Since, thvu hast settled beyond all surmises. 
 
 bVI. 
 Some call 'hee " the worst cause of war," but I 
 
 Maintain thou art the hest : for after all 
 From thee w'e come, to thee we go, and why 
 
 To get at thee not batter down a wall. 
 Or waste a world ? since no one can deny 
 
 Thou dost replenish worlds both great and small : 
 
 With, or without thee, all things at a stand 
 Are, or would be, thou sea of life's dry land 1 
 
 I.VIT. 
 Catherine, who was the grand epitome 
 
 Of that great cause of war, or peace, or what 
 You please, (it causes all the things which be. 
 
 So you may take your choice of this or that,) 
 Catherine, I say, was very glad to see 
 
 The handsome herald, on whose jilumage sat 
 Victory ; and, pausing as she saw^ him kneel 
 AVith his dispatch, forgot to break the seal. 
 
 LVIII. 
 Then recollecting the whole empress, nor 
 
 Forgetting quite the woman, (which composed 
 At least three parts of this great whole.) she tore 
 
 The letter open with an air which posed 
 The court, that watch'd each look her visage wore, 
 
 Until a royal smile at length disclosed 
 Fair weather for the day. Though rather spacious 
 Her face was noble, her eyes tine, mouth gracious. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 Great joy was hers, or rather joys : the first 
 Was a ta'en city, thirty thousand slain. 
 
 Glory and triumph o'er her asjject burst. 
 As an East Indian sunrise on the main. 
 
 These quench'd a moment her ambition's thirst- 
 So Arab deserts drink in summer's rain : 
 
 In vain ! — As fall the dews on quenchless sands. 
 
 Blood only serves to wash Ambition's hands ! 
 
 LX. 
 Her nest amusement was more fjinciful ; 
 
 She smiled at mad Suwarrow's rhymes, who threw 
 Into a Russian cou])let rather dull 
 
 The whole gazette of thousands whom he slew. 
 Her third was feminine enough to annul 
 
 The sluulder which runs naturally through 
 Our veins, when things call'd sovereigns think it 
 To kill, and generals turn it into jest. [beet 
 
 LXI. 
 The two first feelings ran their course complete, 
 
 And liglited first her eye, and then her n;outh : 
 The whole court liiok'd immediately most sweet. 
 
 Like flowers well watcr'd after a long drouth :■ - 
 But when on the lieutenant at her feet 
 
 Her majesty, who liked to gaze on youth 
 Almost as much as on a new disi^atch. 
 Glanced mildly, all the world was on the watcL 
 
 hXII. 
 Though somewhat large, exuberant, anil truculent. 
 
 When irrnlh — while phaurd, she was as fine a figur* 
 As those who like things rosy, ripe, and succulent. 
 
 Would wish to look on, while tliey are in vigor. 
 
Canto ir. 
 
 DON JUAN, 
 
 07& 
 
 Bhe could repay each amatory look you lent 
 
 With interest, and in turn was wont with rigor 
 To exact of Cupid's bills the full amount 
 At sight, nor would permit you to discount. 
 
 LXIII 
 
 With her the latter, though at times convenicat, 
 
 Was not so necessary ; for they tell 
 That she was handsome, and though tierce lool:\l 
 lenient, 
 
 And always used her favorites too Well. 
 If once lieyond her boudoir's precincts in ye went. 
 
 Your " fortune " was in a fair way " to swell 
 A man," (as Giles says ;') for though she would 
 Xations, she liked man as an individual, [widow all 
 
 LXIV. 
 What a strange tiling is man ! and what a stranger 
 
 Is woman ! Wliat a whirlwind is her head, 
 And what a whirlpool full of depth and danger 
 
 Is all the rest about her ! Wliether wed. 
 Or widow, uwid, or mother, she can change her 
 
 Mind like the wind : whatever she lias said 
 Or done, is light to what she'll say or do ; — 
 The oldest thing on record, and yet new ! 
 
 I,XV. 
 Oh, Catherine ! (for of all interjections. 
 
 To thee both oJi ! and ali .' belong of right 
 In love and war,) how odd are the connections 
 
 Of human thoughts, which jostle in their flight ! 
 Just now yours were cut out in difl'erent sections : 
 
 IHrst Ismail's capture caught your fancy quite ; 
 Rext of new knights, the fresh and glorious batch : 
 And thirdly he who brought you the dispatch I 
 
 LXVI. 
 Shakspeare talks of " the herald Mercury 
 
 Kew lighted on a heaven-kissing hill ;" 
 And some such visions cross'd her majesty. 
 
 While her young herald knelt before her still. 
 'Tis very true the hill seem'd rather high. 
 
 For a lieutenant to climb up ; but skill [blessing, 
 Smooth'd even the Simplon's steep, and by God's 
 With youth and health all kisses are •' heaven-kissing." 
 
 LXVII. 
 Her majesty look'd down, the youth look'd up — 
 
 And so they fell in love ; — she with his face. 
 His grace, his God-knows-what : for Cupid's cup 
 
 With the first draught intoxicates apace, 
 A quintessential laudanum or " black drop," 
 
 Which makes one drunk at once, without the base 
 Expedient of full bumpers ; for the eye 
 In love drinks all life's fountains (save tears) dry. 
 
 * " Hi3 fortune swells him, it is rauk, lie 's married." — Sir GiUs 
 '>\>erreach : Massinoer's ITew Wav to Pay Old Debts. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 He, on the other hand, if not in love, 
 
 Fell into that no less imperious passion. 
 Self-love — which, when some sort of thing above 
 
 Ourselves, a singer, dancer, much in fashion, 
 Or duchess, princess, empress, " deigns to pro-ve" 
 
 ('Tis Pope's jjhrase) a great longing, though a rasli 
 one. 
 For one especial person out of many, — 
 Makes us believe ourselves as good as any. 
 
 LXIX. 
 Besides, he was of that delighted age 
 
 'WTiich makes all female ages equal — when 
 We don't much care with whom we may engage, 
 
 As bold as Daniel in the lion's den, 
 So that we can our native sun assuage 
 
 In the next ocean, which may flow just then, 
 To make a twilight in, just as Sol's heat is 
 Quench'd in the laj5 of the salt sea, or Thetis. 
 
 LXX. 
 And Catherine, (we must say thus much for Catherine,) 
 
 Though bold and bloody, was the kind of thing 
 Whose temporary passion was quite flattering. 
 
 Because each lover look'd a sort of king. 
 Made up upon an amatory pattern, 
 
 A royal husband in all save the ruir/ — 
 Which, being the damu'dest part of matrimony, 
 Seem'd taking out the sting to leave the honey. 
 
 LXXI. 
 And when you add to this, her womanhood 
 
 In its meridian, her blue eyes or gray — 
 (The last, if they have soul, are quite as good. 
 
 Or better, as the best examples say : 
 Napoleon's, Mary's, (queen of Scotland,) should 
 
 Lend to that color a transcendent ray ; 
 And Pallas also sanctions the same hue. 
 Too wise t9 look through optics black or blue)— 
 
 LXXII. 
 Her sweet smile, and her then majestic figure, 
 
 Her plumpness, her imperial condescension. 
 Her preference of a boy to men much bigger, 
 
 (Fellows whom Messalina's self would pension,) 
 Her prime of life, just now in juicy vigor. 
 
 With other ixtran, which we need not mention, — 
 All these, or any of these, explain 
 Enough to make a stripling very vain. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 And that's enough, for love is vanity, 
 
 Selfish in its beginning as its end. 
 Except where 'tis a mere insanity, 
 
 A m.addening spirit which would strive to blend 
 Itself with lieauty's frail inanity. 
 
 On which the passion's self seems to depend : 
 
676 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto ix. 
 
 Lad hence some heathenish philosophers 
 Make love the main-spring of the universe. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 Besides Platonic love, besides the love 
 Of God, the love of sentiment, the loving 
 
 Of faithful pairs — (I needs must rhyme with dove, 
 That good old steamboat which keeps verses 
 moving 
 
 'Gainst reason — Reason ne'er was hand-and-glove 
 With rhyme, but always leant less to improving 
 
 The sound than sense) — besides all these pretences 
 
 To love, there are those things which words name 
 senses ; 
 
 LXXV. 
 Those movements, those improvements in our bodies 
 
 TMiich make all bodies anxious to get out 
 Of their o\\-n sand-pits, to mix with a goddess, 
 
 For sueli all women are at first no doubt. 
 How beautiful that moment ! and how odd is 
 
 That fever which precedes the languid rout 
 Of our sensations ! What a curious way 
 The whole thing is of clothing souls in clay ! 
 
 LXXVI. 
 The noblest kind of love is love Platonical, 
 
 To end or to begin with ; the next grand 
 Is that which may be cliristen'd love canonical. 
 
 Because the clergy take the thing in hand ; 
 The third sort to be noted in our chronicle 
 
 As flourishing in every Christian land, 
 Is, when chaste matrons to their other ties 
 Add what may be call'd marriage in disguise. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 Well, we won't analyze — our story must 
 
 Tell for itself: the sovereign was smitten, 
 Juan nuicli iiatter'd by her love, or lust ; — 
 
 I cannot stop to alter words once written. 
 And the two are so mix'd with human dust, 
 " That he who names one, botli perchance may hit 
 But in such matters Russia's mighty empress [on : 
 Behaved no better than a common sempstress. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 The whole court melted into one wide whisper, 
 
 And all lips were applied unto all ears 1 
 The elder ladies' v.rinkles cuil'd mucli crisper 
 
 As they beheld ; the younger cast some leers 
 On one another, and each lovely lisjjer 
 
 Smiled as she talk'd the matter o'er ; but tears 
 Of rivalship rose in each clouded eye 
 Of all the standing army who stood by. 
 
 lAXTX. 
 4ill the ambassadors of all the powers 
 Iiiquiteil, Who was this very new young man. 
 
 Who promised to be great in some few hours ? 
 
 AVliich is full soon, (thtmgh life is bi t a span.) 
 Already they beheld tlie silver showers 
 
 Of ruljles rain, as fast as specie can, 
 Upon his cal)inct, besides the presents 
 Of several ribands, and some thousand peasants.' 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Catherine was generous, — all such ladies are : 
 Love, that great opener of the lieart and all 
 
 The ways that lead tliere, be they near or far, 
 Above, below, by turnpikes great or small, — 
 
 Love — (though she had a cursed taste for war, 
 And was not the best wife, unless we call 
 
 Such Clytemnestra, though perhaps 'tis better 
 
 Tiiat one should die, tlian two drag on the fettei) — 
 
 LXXXI 
 Love had made Catherine make each lover's fortune, 
 
 Unhke our own half-chaste EUzabeth, 
 Whose avarice all disbursements did importune. 
 
 If history, the grand liar, ever saith [shoiten, 
 
 The truth; and though grief her old age mght 
 
 Because she put a favorite to death. 
 Her vile, ambiguous method of flirtation, 
 And stinginess, disgrace her sex and station. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 But when the levee rose, and all was bustle 
 
 In the dissolving circle, all the nations' 
 Ambassadors began as 'twere to hustle 
 
 Round the young man with their congratulal iona, 
 Also the softer silks were heard to rustle 
 
 Of gentle dames, among whose recreations 
 It is to speculate on handsome faces. 
 Especially when such lead to higli places. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 Juan, who found himself, lie knew not how, 
 
 A general object of attention, made 
 His answers with a very graceful bow. 
 
 As if bom for the ministerial trade. 
 Though modest, on his unembarrassed brow 
 
 Nature had written " gentleman." He said 
 Little, but to the purpose ; and his manner 
 Flung hovering graces o'er him like a banner. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 An order from her mnjesty consign'd 
 
 Our young lieutenant to the genial care 
 Of those in office : all the worid look'd kind, 
 
 (As it will look sometimes with the first stare. 
 Which youth would not act ill to keep in mind,) 
 
 As also did Jliss Protasoff then there. 
 Named from her mystic office " I'Eprouveuse," 
 A term inexplicable to the Muse. 
 
 ' A Euesian estate is always valned by the nnmber of t'\e slavM 
 upon it. 
 
Canto x. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 677 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 With Jier then, as in humble duty bound, 
 Juan retired, — and so will I, until 
 
 My Pegasus shall tire of touching g'round. 
 We have just lit on a " heaven-kissing hill," 
 
 So lofty that I feel my brain turn round. 
 And all my fancies whirling like a mill ; 
 
 Which is a signal to my nerves and brain, 
 
 To take a quiet ride in some green lane. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO THE TENTH. 
 
 I. 
 
 When Newton saw an apple fall, he found 
 In that slight startle from his contemplation — 
 
 Tis .mid (for I'll not answer above ground 
 For any sage's creed or calculation)^ 
 
 A mode of proving that the earth turn'd round 
 In a most natural whirl, called " gravitation ;" 
 
 And this is the sole mortal who could grapple, 
 
 Since Adam, with a fill, or with an apple. 
 
 II. 
 Man fell with apples, and witli apples rose, 
 
 If thi3 be true ; for we must deem the mode 
 In which Sir Isaac Newton could disclose 
 
 Through the then unpaved stars the turnpike road, 
 A thing to counterbalance human woes : 
 
 For ever since immortal man hath glow'd 
 With all kinds of mecliauics, and full soon 
 Steam-engines wiU conduct him to the moon. 
 
 III. 
 And wherefore this exordium ? — ^Vliy, just now, 
 
 In taking up this paltry sheet of paper, 
 My bosom underwent a glorious glow. 
 
 And my internal spirit cut a caper : 
 And though so much inferior, as I know. 
 
 To those who, by the dint of glass and vapor, 
 Discover stars, and sail in the wind's eye, 
 I wish to do as much by poesy. 
 
 IV. 
 In the wind's eye I have sail'd, and sail ; but for 
 
 The stars, I own my telescope is dim ; 
 But at least I have shunn'd the common shore. 
 
 And leaving land far out of sight, \Yould skim 
 The ocean of eternity : the roar 
 
 Of breakers has not daunted my slight, trim, 
 Hut stilt sea-worthy skiff; and she may float 
 Where ships have founder'd, as doth. many a boat. 
 
 V. 
 We lef\ ocr hero, .luan, in the hJoom 
 Of favoritism, but not yet in the blush • — 
 
 And far be it from my Muses to presume 
 (For I have more than one Muse at a push) 
 
 To follow him beyond the drawing-room : 
 It is enough that Fortune found him flush 
 
 Of youth, and vigor, beauty, and those things 
 
 Which for an instant clip enjoyment's wings. 
 
 VI. 
 But soon they grow again and leave their nest. 
 
 " Oh !" saith the Psalmist, " that I had a dove's 
 Pinions to flee away, and be at rest !" 
 
 And who that recollects young years and loves,- 
 Though hoary now, and with a withering breast. 
 
 And palsied fancy, which uo longer roves [rathel 
 Beyond its dimm'd eye's sphere, — but would much 
 Sigh like his son, than cough like his grandfather ? 
 
 VH. 
 But sighs subside, and tears (even widows') shrink 
 
 Like Arno in the summer, to a shallow. 
 So narrow as to shame their wintry brink, 
 
 Which threatens inundations deep and yellow ! 
 Such dift'erence doth a few months make. You'd 
 think 
 
 Grief a rich field which never would lie fallow ; 
 No more it doth, its jilouglis but change their boys. 
 Who furrow some new soil to sow for joys. 
 
 VIII. 
 But coughs will come when sighs depart — and now 
 
 And then before sighs cease ; for oft the one 
 Will bring the other, ere the lake-like brow 
 
 Is ruflled by a wrinkle, or the sun 
 Of life reacb'd ten o'clock : and while a glow. 
 
 Hectic and brief as summer's day nigh done, 
 O'erspreads the cheek which seems too pure for clay, 
 Th ousauds blaze, love, hoije, die, — how happy they !- 
 
 IX. 
 
 But .Tuau t\as not meant to die so soon. 
 
 We left him in the focus of such glory 
 As may be won by favor of the m'oon 
 
 Or ladies' fancies — rather transitory 
 Perhaps ; but who would scorn the month of June, 
 
 Because December, with his breath so hoary, 
 Must come ? Much rather should he court the ray, 
 To hoard up warmth against a wintry day. 
 
 X. 
 
 Besides, he had some qualities which fix 
 Middle-aged ladies even more than young : 
 
 The former know what 's what ; while new-fledged - 
 chicks 
 Know little more of love than what is sung 
 
 In rhymes, or dreamt (for fancy will play tricks) 
 In visions of those skies from whence Love sjjrung 
 
 Some reckon women by their suns or year.s, 
 
 I rather think the moon should date the dears. 
 
878 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canti) 
 
 XI. 
 
 And why ? because she's changeable and chaste. 
 
 I know no other reason, whatsoe'er 
 Suspicious people, who iind fault in haste, 
 
 May choose to tax me with ; which is not fair, 
 Nor flattering to "their temper or their taste," 
 
 As my friend Jeflrey writes with such an air : 
 tfov.ever, I forgive him, and I trust 
 He will forgive himself; — if not, I must. 
 
 XII. 
 Old enemies who have bceomc new friends 
 
 Should so continue — 'tis a point of honor ; 
 And I know nothing wliich could make amends 
 
 For a return to hatred : I would slum her 
 'jike garlic, howsoever she extends 
 
 Her hundred arms and legs, and fain outrun her. 
 Old flames, new wives, become our bitterest foes — 
 Converted foes should scorn to join with those. 
 
 XTII 
 This were the worst desertion ; — renegadoes, 
 
 Even shuffling Southoy, that incarnate lie. 
 Would scarcely join again the " reformadoes,"' 
 
 Whom he forsook to fill the laureate's sty ; 
 And honest men from Iceland to Barbadoea,. 
 
 Whether in Caledon or Italy, 
 Should not veer round with every breath, nor seize 
 To pain, the moment when you cease to please. 
 
 XIV. 
 The lawyer and the critic but behold 
 
 The baser sides of literature and life. 
 And naught remains unseen, but much untold, 
 
 By those who scour those double vales of strife. 
 'rtlnle common men grow ignorantly old, 
 
 The lawyer's brief is like the surgeon's knife. 
 Dissecting the whole inside of a question, 
 And with it aU the process of digestion. 
 
 XV. 
 A legal broom 's a moral chimney-sweeper. 
 
 And that's the reason he himself 's so dirty ; 
 The endless soot' bestows a tint far deeper 
 
 Than can be hid by altering his shirt ; he 
 Retains the sable stains of the dark creeper. 
 
 At least some twenty-nine do out of thirty. 
 In all their habits ; — not so you, I own ; 
 As Caisar wore his robe you wear your gown. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 And all our little feuds, at least all tnine. 
 Dear Jeffrey, once my most redoubted foe, 
 
 1 "Reformers," or rather " Reformed." The Baron Bradwar- 
 dlne iu Waverley is authority for the word. 
 
 ■ Query, suit .''—Printer's Devil. 
 
 ' The bri<; of Don, near the '• atild toiin " of Aljerdecn, with its 
 one arcli, and its lilaclv deep sahnon stream below, is in my mem- 
 Dry as yesterday. I still remember, thoiivdi perhaps I may mia- 
 «note. the awlU proverb which made me pause to cross it, and 
 
 (As far as rhyme and criticism combine 
 To make such puppets of us things beloM\) 
 
 Are over : Here's a health to " Auld Lang Syne !" 
 I do not know you, and may never knov/ 
 
 Tour face — but you have acted on the whole 
 
 Jlost nobly, and I own it from my soul. 
 
 XVII. 
 And when I use the ))hrase of " Auld Lang Syne !" 
 
 'Tis not address'd to you — the more 's the pity 
 For me, for I would rather take my wine \<Aty. 
 
 With you, than aught (save Scott) in your proud 
 But somehow, — it may seem a schoolboy's whine, 
 
 And yet I seek not to be grand nor witty. 
 But I am half a Scot by birth, and bred 
 A whole one, and my iie&rt flies to my head, — 
 
 XVIII. 
 As "Auld Lang Syne'' brings Scotland one and all, 
 
 Scotch plaids, Scotch snoods, tlie blue hills, and 
 clear streams. 
 The Dee, the Don, Balgounie's brig's hlaclc will,' 
 
 All my boy feelings, all my gentler dreams 
 Of what I ti'ien ilreamt, clothed in their own pall, 
 
 Like Banquo's otfsjn-ing ; — floating past me seems 
 My childhood in this childishness of mine : 
 I care not — 'tis a glimpse of " Auld Lang Syne." 
 
 XIX, 
 And though, as you remember, in a fit 
 
 Of wrath and rhyme, when juvenile and curly, 
 I rail'd at Scots to show my wrath and wit, 
 
 Which must be own'd was sensitive and surly, 
 Yet 'tis in vain such sallies to permit. 
 
 They cannot quench yoimg feelings fresh and early: 
 I " Sfot'-h\l not kill'd " the Scotchman in my blood, 
 And love the land of "mountain and of flood." 
 
 XX. 
 
 Don Jtian, who was real, or ideal, — 
 
 For both are much the same, since what men 
 Exists when the once thinkers are less real [think 
 
 Than what they thought, for mind can never sink, 
 And 'gainst the body makes a strong appeal ; 
 
 And yet 'tis very jnizzling on the brink 
 Of what is call'd eternity, to stare. 
 And know no more of whtit is here, than there ;-- 
 
 XXI. 
 Don .luun grew a very polish'd Russian — 
 
 How we won't menlion, irhi/ we need not say : 
 Few youthful minds can stand the strcng concussion 
 
 Of any slight temptation in their way ; 
 
 yet lean over it with a childish deliijht being an only son at least 
 by the mother's side. The saying as rtcollected by me wai 
 tnis, but I liave never heard or seen it since I was nine years of 
 age:— 
 
 " Brig of Balgounie, lilack 's your wa', 
 Wi' a wife's ae SQn, and a mear's at foot, 
 Doun yc shall fa' I" 
 
OANTO X- 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 670 
 
 But /( is just now were spread as is a cushion 
 
 Smooth'd for a monarch's seat of honor : gay 
 Damsels, and dances, revels, ready money, 
 Made ice seem paradise, and winter sunny. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 The favor of the empress was agreeable ; 
 
 And though the duty wax'd a little hard. 
 Young people at his time of life should be able 
 
 To come off handsomely in that regard. 
 He was now growing up like a green tree, able 
 
 For love, war, or ambition, which reward 
 Their hickier votaries, till old age's tedium 
 Make some prefer the circulating medium. 
 
 xxiri. 
 About this time, as might have been anticiiMted, 
 
 Seduced by youth and dangerous examples, 
 Don Juan grew, I fear, a little dissipated ; 
 
 Which is a sad thing, and not only tramples 
 On our fresh feeUngs, but — as being participated 
 
 With all kinds of incorrigible samples 
 Of frail humanity — must make us sehish, 
 And shut our souls up in us like a shell-fish. 
 
 XXIV. 
 This we pass over. We will also pass 
 
 The usual progress of intrigues between 
 Unequal matches, such as are, alas ! 
 
 A young lieutenant's with a not old queen. 
 But one who is not so youthful as she was 
 
 In all the I'oyalty of sweet seventeen. 
 Sovereigns may sway materials, but not matter, 
 And wrinkles, the d d democrats, won't flatter. 
 
 XXV. 
 And Death, the sovereign's sovereign, though the 
 great 
 
 Gracchus of all mortality, who levels. 
 With his Agrarian laws,' the high estate 
 
 Of him who feasts, and fights, and roars, and revels. 
 To one small grass-grown patch (which must await 
 
 Corru]jtion for its crop) with the poor devils 
 Who never had a foot of land till now, — 
 Death 's a reformer, all men must allow. 
 
 XXVI. 
 He lived (not Death, but Juan) in a hurry [ter. 
 
 Of waste, and haste, and glare, and gloss, and glit- 
 In this gay clime of bear-skins black and furry — 
 
 Which (though I hate to say a tiling that "s bitter) 
 Peej) out sometimes, when things are in a flurry. 
 
 Through all the " purple and fine linen," fitter 
 For Babylon's than Russia's royal harlot — 
 And neutralize her outward show of scarlet. 
 
 ' Tiberius Gracchns, being tribnne of the people, demanded in _ 
 
 their name the execution of the Agrarian law ; by which all per- prived of the surplus for the benefit of the poor citizens 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 And this same state we won't describe : we wo.ild 
 Perhaps from hearsay, or from recollecticm ; 
 
 But getting nigh grim Dante's " obscure wood," 
 That horrid equinox, that hateful section 
 
 Of human years, that half-way house, that rude 
 Ilut, whence wise travelers drive with circumspec- 
 
 Life's sad post-horses o'er the dreary frontier [tioD 
 
 Of age, and looking back to youth, give one tear ;— 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 I won't describe, — that is, if I Can help 
 Description ; and I won't reflect, — that is, 
 
 If I can stave ofi' thought, which — as a whelp 
 Clings to its teat — sticks to me through the abyss 
 
 Of this odd labyrinth ; or as the kelp 
 Holds by the rock ; or as a lover's kiss 
 
 Drains its first draught of lips : — but, as I said, 
 
 I iciint philosophize," and will be read. 
 
 XXIX. 
 Juan, instead of courting courts, was courted, — 
 
 A thing which happens rarely ; this he owed 
 Much to his youth, and much to his reported 
 
 Valor ; much also to the blood he show'd. 
 Like a racehorse ; much to each dress he sported, 
 
 Which set the beauty ofi' in which he glow'd, 
 As purple clouds befringe the sun ; but most 
 He owed to an old woman and his post. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 He wrote to Spain : — and all his near relations. 
 
 Perceiving he was in a handsome way, 
 Of getting on himself, and finding starions 
 
 For cousins also, answer'd the same day. 
 Several prepared themselves for emigrations 
 
 And eating ices, were o'erheard to say. 
 That with the addition of a slight pelisse, 
 Madrid's and Moscow's cUmes were of a piece. 
 
 XXXI. 
 His mother, Donna Inez, finding, too. 
 
 That in the lieu of drawing on his banker. 
 Where his assets were waxing rather few, [chor, — 
 
 He had brought his spending to a handsome an- 
 Replied, " that she was glad to see him through 
 
 Those pleasures after which wild youth will hank- 
 As the sole sign of man's being in his senses [er ■ 
 Is, learning to reduce his past expenses. 
 
 XXXII. 
 " She also recommended him to God, 
 
 And no less to God's Son, as well as Mother, 
 Wam'd him against Greek worship, which looks odd 
 
 In Catholic eyes ; but told him, too, to smother 
 
 sons possessing above a certain number of acies were to be de 
 
680 
 
 liTRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CAJiro r, 
 
 Outicanl dislike wliich don't look well abroad ; 
 
 Infonii'd liim that he had a little brother 
 Born in a second wedlock ; and above 
 All, praised the empress's maternal love. 
 
 XXXI 1 1, 
 " She could not too much give her approbation 
 
 Unto an empress, who prcfcrr'd young men 
 Whose age, and what was better still, whose nation 
 
 And climate, stojjp'd all scandal, (cow and then :) 
 At home it might have given lier some vexation ; 
 
 But wliere thermometers sunk down to ten, 
 Or five, or one, or zero, she could never 
 Believe that virtue thaw'd before the river." 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Oh, for a, forty-parson power'' to cliant 
 Thy praise, Hypocrisy ! Oh, for a hymn 
 
 Loud as the virtues tliou dost loudly vaunt. 
 Not practise ! Oh, for trumps of cherubim ! 
 
 Or the ear-trumpot of my good old aunt, 
 
 Wlio, though her spectacles at last grew dim, 
 
 Drew quiet consolation through its hint, 
 
 When slie no more could read the jjious print. 
 
 XXXV. 
 She was no hypocrite at least, poor soul. 
 
 But went to heaven in as sincere a way 
 As anybody on the elected roll. 
 
 Which jOTrtions out upon the judgment day 
 Heaven's freeliolds, in a sort of doomsday scroll 
 
 Such as the conqueror William did repay 
 His knights with, lotting others' properties 
 Into some sixty thousand new knights' fees. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 I can't complain, whose ancestors are there, 
 
 Erneis, Raduli^lnis — -eight-and-forty manors 
 (If that my memory doth not greatly err) 
 
 Were their reward for following Billy's Ijanners ; 
 And though I can't help thinking 'twas scarce fair 
 
 To strip the Saxons of their liydes,^ like tanners ; 
 Yet as they founded churclies with the produce. 
 You'll deem, no douljt, they put it to a good use. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 The gentU; Juan flourish'd, tliough at times 
 
 He felt like other plants call'd sensitive, 
 Wliich shrink from touch, as monarchs do from 
 
 Save sucli as Southey can all'ord to give, [rhymes. 
 Perhaps he long'd in bitter frosts for climes 
 
 In which the Neva's ice would cease to live 
 Before May-day : perhaps, despite his duty. 
 In royalty's vast arms he sigh'd for beauty : 
 
 > A metaphor taken from the " forty-horse power" of a steam- 
 :n^ne, Tliar mad wu£r. the Reverend Sydney Smith, siltiiij; by a 
 brother cler<ryman nt dinner, ()l>Fervcd afterwards tliat Ilia duil 
 Dei^bh )r hud a " twelve-parson poiver " of couvertfatiou. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Perhaps — but, sans perhaps, we need not seek 
 For causes young or old : the cankej-worm 
 
 Will feed upon the fairest, freshest cheek. 
 As well as further drain the withcr'd form : 
 
 Care, like a housekeeper, brings eveiy week 
 His bills in, and however we may storm. 
 
 They must be paid : though six days smoothly run, 
 
 The seventh will bring blue devils or a dun. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 I don't know how it was, but he grew sick : 
 
 The empress was alarm'd, and her physician 
 (The same who physick'd Peter) found the tick 
 
 Of his fierce pulse betoken a condition 
 Which augur'd of the dead, however ijuich 
 
 Itself, and show'd a feverish disposition ; 
 At which the whole court was extremely troubled, 
 The sovereign shock'd, and all his medicines double"* 
 
 XL. 
 Low were whispers, manifold the rumors : 
 
 Some said he had been poison'd by Potemkin ; 
 Others talk'd learnedly of certain tumors, 
 
 Exhaustion, or disorders of the same kin ; 
 Some said 'twas a concoction of the humors, 
 
 'Wliich with the blood too readily will claim kin ; 
 Others again were ready to maintain, 
 " 'Twas only the fatigue of last campaign." 
 
 XLI. 
 But here is one prescription out of many : 
 
 " Soda; sulphat. 3 vj. 3 fs. Manna; optim. 
 Aq. fervent, f. 3 ifs. 3 ij. tinct. Senna; 
 
 Haustus " (And here the surgeon came and cupp'd 
 "IJ, Pulv. Cora. gr. iij. Ipocacuanhx'" [him) 
 
 (With more beside if Juan had not stojjp'd 'em.) 
 " Bolus Potassoe Sulphuret. sumendus." 
 Et haustus ter in die capiendus." 
 
 XI.II. 
 This is the way physicians mend or end us. 
 
 Secundum artem : l>ut although we sneer- 
 In health — when ill, we call them to attena us. 
 
 Without the least propensity to jeer : 
 While that " hiatus maxime defiendus " 
 
 To be fill'd up by spade or mattock "s near, 
 Instead of gliding graciously down Lethe, 
 We tease mild Baillic, or soft Abernethy. 
 
 XLIII. 
 Juan demurr'd at this first notice to 
 
 Quit ; and though death liad threaten'd an eje ■• 
 His youth and constitution Ijorc him through, [tiou. 
 
 And sent the doctors in a new direction. 
 
 2 "Hyde."— I believe a hyde of land to "^ s Icsitimate word, 
 and, as such subject to the tax of a quibble 
 
Canto x. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 681 
 
 But still his state was delicate : the hue 
 
 Of health but flickcr'd with a faint reflection 
 Along his wasted cheek, and seem'd to gravel 
 The faculty — who said that he must travel. 
 
 XLIV. 
 The climate was too cold, they said, for him, 
 
 Meridian-born, to bloom in. This opinion 
 Made the chaste Catherine look a little grim, 
 
 Who did not like at first to lose her minion : 
 But when she saw .his dazzling eye wax dim, 
 
 And drooping like an eagle's with dipt pinion. 
 She then resolved to send him on a mission. 
 But in a style becoming his condition. 
 
 XLV. 
 There was just then a kind of a discussion, 
 
 A sort of treaty or negotiation 
 Between the British cabinet and Russian, 
 
 Maintain'd with all the due prevarication 
 ATith which great states such things are apt to 
 push on ; 
 
 Sometimes about the Baltic's navigation, 
 Hides, traiu-oil, tallow, and the rights of Thetis, 
 Which Britons deem their " uti possidetis." 
 
 XLVI. 
 So Catherine, who had a handsome way 
 
 Of fitting out her favorites, conferr'd 
 This secret charge on Juan, to display 
 
 At once her royal splendor, and reward 
 His ser\aces. He kiss'd hands the next day, 
 
 Received instructions how to play his card, 
 Was laden with all kinds of gifts and honors, [nor's. 
 Which show'd what great discernment was the do- 
 
 XLVII. 
 But she was lucky, and luck 's all. Tour queens 
 
 Are generally prosperous in reigning ; 
 Which puzzles us to know what Fortune means. 
 
 But to continue : though her years were waning 
 Her clim.acteric teased her like her teens ; 
 
 And though her dignity brook'd no complaining, 
 So much did Juan's setting off distress her. 
 She could not find at first a fit successor. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 But time, the comforter, will come at last ; 
 
 And four-and-twenty hours, and twice that num- 
 Of candidates requesting to be placed, [ber 
 
 Made Catlierine taste next night a ciuiet slumber: 
 Not that she meant to fix again m haste, 
 
 Nor did she find the quantity encumber, 
 But always choosing with deliberation. 
 Kept the place open for their emulation. 
 
 XLIX. 
 While this high post of honor 'b in abeyance, 
 For one or two days, reader, we request 
 86 
 
 You'll mount with our young hero the conveyance 
 Wliich wafted him from Petcrsburgli : the best 
 
 Barouche, which had the glory to disfjlay cnce 
 The fair czarina's autocratic crest, 
 
 When, a new Iphigene, she went to Tauris, 
 
 Was given to her favorite, and now lore his. 
 
 L. 
 
 A bull-dog, and a bullfinch, .and an ermine. 
 All private favorites of Don Juan ; — for 
 
 (Let deeper sages the true cause determine) 
 He had a kind of inclination, or 
 
 Weakness, for what most people deem mere vermin, 
 Live animals : an old maid of threescore 
 
 For cats and birds more penchant ne'er display'd, 
 
 Although he was not old, nor even a maid ; — 
 
 LI. 
 
 The animals aforesaid occupied 
 
 Their station : there were valets, secretaries, 
 In other vehicles ; but at his side 
 
 Sat little Leila, who survived the parries 
 He made 'gainst Cossacque sabres, in the wide 
 
 Slaughter of Ismail. Though my wild IMuse varies 
 Her note, she don't forget the infant girl 
 Whom he preserved, a pure and living pearl. 
 
 LII. 
 
 Poor little thing ! She was as fair as docile. 
 And with that gentle, serious character. 
 
 As rare in living beings as a fossile 
 
 Man, 'midst thy mouldy mammoths, " grand 
 Cuvier !" 
 
 Ill fitted was her ignorance to jostle 
 
 With this o'erwhelming world, where all must err: 
 
 But she was yet but ten years old, and therefore 
 
 Was tranquil, though she knew not why or wherefore. 
 
 LIII. 
 Don ,Iuan loved her, and she loved him, as 
 
 Nor brother, father, sister, daughter love. 
 I cannot tell exactly what it was ; 
 
 He was not yet quite old enough to prove 
 Parental feelings, and the other class, 
 
 Call'd brotherly aifection, could not move 
 His bosom, — for he never had a sister : 
 Ah ! if he had, how much he would have miss'd lier 
 
 LIV 
 And still less was it sensual ; for besides 
 
 That he was not an ancient debauchee, 
 (Wlio like sour fruit, to stir their veins' s.alt tides, 
 
 As acids rouse a dormant alkali,) 
 Although {'ticill happen as our planet guides) 
 
 His youth was not the chastest that might be, 
 There was the purest Platonism at lioltom 
 Of all his feelings — only he forgot 'em. 
 
382 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto x, 
 
 i,v. 
 
 Just now there was no peril of temptation ; 
 
 He loved the infant orphan he had saved, 
 As patriots (now and then) may love a nation ; 
 
 His pride, too, felt that she was not enslaved 
 Owing to him ; — as also her s.ilvation [paved. 
 
 Through his moans and the church's might be 
 But one thing 's odd, which here must be inserted. 
 The little Turk refused to be converted. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 'Twas strange enough she should retain the impres- 
 sion [slaughter ; 
 
 Through such a scene of change, and dread, and 
 But though three bishops told her the transgression. 
 
 She show'd a great dislike to holy water ; 
 Bhe also had no passion for confession ; 
 
 Perhaps she had nothing to confess : — no matter; 
 Whate'er the cause, the church made little of it — 
 She still held out ;hat Mahomet was a prophet. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 In fact, the only Christian she could bear 
 Was Ju.an ; whom she seem'd to have selected 
 
 In place of what her home and friends once icere. 
 He niiturally loved what he protected : 
 
 And thus they forra'd a rather curious pair, 
 A guardian green in years, a ward connected 
 
 In neither clime, time, blood, with her defender ; 
 
 And yet this want of ties made theirs more tender. 
 
 I.VllI. 
 
 They journey'd on through Poland and through 
 Warsaw, 
 
 Famous for mines of salt and yokes of iron : 
 Through Courland .also, which that famous farce saw 
 
 Which gave her dukes the graceless name of 
 " Biron." ' 
 'Tis the same landscape which the modern Slars saw, 
 
 Who march'd to Moscow, led by Fame, the siren ! 
 To lose by one month's frost some twenty years 
 Of conquest, and his guard of grenadiers. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 Let this not seem an anti-climax : — "Oh, 
 
 Jly guard ! my old guard !" exclaim'd that god of 
 
 Think of (he Thunderer's falling down below [clay. 
 Carotid-artery-cutting Castlcreagh ! 
 
 Alas ! that glory should be chill'd by snow ! 
 But should we wish to warm us on our way 
 
 Through Poland, there is Kosciusko's name 
 
 Might scatter fire through ice, like Hocla's flame. 
 
 ' In the Kinpress Anne's time, Biren. her Ibvorite, assumed the 
 Dame and arms of the " Blrons " of France : which families are 
 yet extant with that of Enyliind. There are still the dau^'hters of 
 Courland of that name ; one of them I remember sceinp; in Eng- 
 land in tin; blessed year of the Allies (1814)— the Dutchess of S. 
 
 LX. 
 
 From Poland they came on through Prussia Proper 
 And Kunigsberg the capital, whose vaunt. 
 
 Besides some veins of iron, lead, or copper. 
 Has lately been the great Professor Kant. 
 
 Juan, who cared not a tobacco-stopi)cr 
 , About philosophy, pursued his jaunt 
 
 To Germany, whose somewhat tardy millions 
 
 Have princes who spur more than their postillions 
 
 LXI. 
 And thence through Berlin, Dresden, and the like, 
 
 Until he reach'd the castellated Rhine : — 
 Ye glorious Gothic scenes ! how much ye strike 
 
 All phantasies, not even excepting mine ; 
 A gray wall, a green ruin, rusty pike. 
 
 Make my soul pass the equinoctial line 
 Between the present and jjast worlds, and hover 
 Upon their airy confine, half-seas-over. 
 
 LXII. 
 But ,Iuan ])ass"d on through Manhcim, Bonn, 
 
 Whicli Draclienfels frowns over like a spectre 
 Of the good feudal times forever gone, 
 
 On which I have not time just now to lecture. 
 From thence he was drawn onwards to Cologne, 
 
 A city which presents to the inspector 
 Eleven thousand maidenheads of bone, 
 The greatest number flesh hath ever known.' 
 
 LXIII. 
 From thence to Holland's Hague and Helvoetshiys 
 
 The water-land of Dutchmen and of ditches. 
 Where junijicr expresses its best juice, 
 
 The poor man's sparkling substitute for riches. 
 Senates and sages have condemn'd its use — 
 
 But to deny the mob a cordial, which is 
 Too often all the clothing, meat, or fuel. 
 Good government has left them, seems but cruel. 
 
 LXIV. 
 Here he embark'd, and with a flowing sail 
 
 Went bounding for the island of the free, 
 Towards wliieli the impatient wind lilewhalf a gale; 
 
 High dash'd the spray, the bows dipji'd in the sea, 
 And sea-sick passengers turn'd somewhat pale ; 
 
 But Juan, season'd, as he well might be, 
 By former voyages, stood to watch the skiffs 
 Wliich pass'd, or catch the first glimijse of the cliffs. 
 
 LXV. 
 At length they rose, like a white wall along 
 The blue sea's border ; and Don Juan felt — 
 
 to whom the Euj^lish Duchess of Somerset presented me as a 
 namesake. 
 
 ' St. Ursula and her eleven thousand Titgins were still eitaoi 
 In 1810, and may be so yet, as much as ever. 
 
Ca>to X. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 683 
 
 What even Touiig strangers feel a little strong 
 At the first sight of Albion's chalky belt — 
 
 A kind of pride that he should be among 
 Those haughty shopkeepers, who sternly dealt 
 
 rheir goods and edicts out from pole to pole, 
 
 And made the very billows pay them toll. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 I've no great cause to love that spot of earth, 
 
 Wliich holds what might have been the noblest 
 nation ; 
 
 But though I owe it little but my birth, 
 I feel a mix'd regret and veneration 
 
 For its decaying fame and former worth. 
 
 Seven yeai-s (the usual term of transportation) 
 
 Of absence lay one's old resentments level, 
 
 When a man's country 's going to the devil. 
 
 LXVU. 
 
 Alas ! could she but fully, truly, know 
 
 How her great name is now throughout abhorr'd : 
 How eager all the earth is for the blow 
 
 Which shall lay bare her bosom to the sword ; 
 How aU the nations deem her their worst foe, 
 
 That worst than tr^rst nf fnc-", the once adored 
 False frieud, who held out freedom to mankind, 
 And now would chain them, to the very mind : — 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 Would she be proud, or boast herself the free. 
 Who is but fh-st of slaves ? The nations are 
 
 In prison, — but the jailer, what is he ? 
 No less a victim to the bolt and bar. 
 
 Is the poor pri-.-ilege to turn the key 
 Upon the captive, freedom ? He's as far 
 
 From the enjoyment of the earth and air 
 
 Who watches o'er the chain, as they who wear. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 Don .Juan now saw Albion's earliest beauties. 
 Thy cliffs, ilnn- Dover ! harbor, and hotel ; 
 
 Thy custom-house, with all its delicate duties ; 
 Thy waiters running mucks at every bell ; 
 
 Thy packets, all whose passengers are booties 
 To those who upon land or water dwell ; 
 
 And last, not least, to strangers uuiustructed. 
 
 Thy long, long bills, whence nothing is deducted. 
 
 LXX. 
 Juan, though careless, young, and magnifique. 
 
 And rich in rubles, diamonds, cash, and credit, 
 Wlio did not limit much his bills per week. 
 
 Yet stared at this a little, though he paid it, — 
 (His Magcior Duomo, a smart, subtle Greek, 
 
 Before him summ'd the awful scroll and read it :) 
 But doubtless as the air, thougli seldom sunny, 
 ts free, the resj iration 's worth the money. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 On with the horses ! Off to Canterbury ! 
 
 Tramj), tramp o'er pebble, and splash, splash 
 through puddle ; 
 Hurrah ! how swiftly speeds the post so merry ! 
 
 Not like slow Germauy, wherein they muddle 
 Along the road, as if they went to bury 
 
 Their fare ; and also pause besides, to fuddle. 
 With " schnapijs " — sad dogs ! whom " Hundsfot,' 
 
 or " Verflucter," 
 Affect no more than lightning a conductor. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 Now there is nothing gives a man such spirits, 
 Leavening his blood as cayenne doth a curry, 
 
 As going at full speed — no matter where its 
 Direction be, so 'tis but in a hurry. 
 
 And merely for the sake of its o^^-n merits ; 
 For the less cause there is for all this flurry, 
 
 The greater is the pleasure in arriving 
 
 At the great end of travel — which is driving. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 They saw at Canterbury the cathedral : 
 
 Black Edward's helm, and Becket's bloody stone, 
 
 Were pointed out as usual by the bedral. 
 In the same quaint, uninterested tone : — 
 
 There 's glory again for you, gentle reader ! All 
 Ends in a rusty casque and dubious bone. 
 
 Half-solved into these sodas and magnesias ; 
 
 Which form that bitter draught, the human species 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 The effect on Juan was of course sublime : 
 He breathed a thousand Cressys, as he saw 
 
 That casque, which never stoop'd except to Time. 
 Even the bold Churchman's tomb excited awe, 
 
 Wlio died in the then great attempt to climb 
 O'er kings, who now at least must talk of law 
 
 Before they butcher. Little Leila gazed. 
 
 And ask'd why such a structure had been raised: 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 And being told it was " God's house,"' she said 
 He was well lodged, but only wonder'd how 
 
 He suft'er'd Infidels in his homestead, 
 The cruel Nazarenes, who had laid low- 
 
 His holy temijles in the lands which bred 
 The true Believers ; — and her infant brow 
 
 Was bent with grief that Mahomet should resign 
 
 A mosque so uoble, flung like pearls to swine. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 On! on! through meadows, managed like a gtrdei. 
 
 A paradise of hops and high production ; 
 For after years of travel by a baid in 
 
 Countries of greater heat, but A;sser suction. 
 
384 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto x. 
 
 A green field is a sight wliicli makes him pardon 
 Tne absence of tliut more sulilime construction ; 
 Which mixes up vines, oHves, precipices, 
 Glaciers, volcanoes, oranges, and ices. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 And when I think upon a pot of beer 
 
 But I won't weep ! — and so drive on, postillions ! 
 
 As the smart boys spurr'd fast in their career, 
 Juan admired these highways of free millions ; 
 
 A country in all senses the most dear 
 
 To foreigner or native, save some silly ones, 
 
 Who " kick against the pricks " just at this juncture. 
 
 And for their i)ains get only a fresh puncture. 
 
 lAXVlII. 
 Wliat a delightful thing 's a turnpike road ! 
 
 So smooth, so level, such a mode of shaving 
 The earth, as scarce the eagle in the broad 
 
 Air can accomplish, with his wide wings waving, 
 [lad such been cut in Phaeton's time, the god 
 
 Had told his son to satisfy his craving 
 With the York mail ; — liut onward as we roll, 
 " Surgit amari aliquid " — the toll ! 
 
 T.XXIX. 
 
 Alas ! how deeply painful is all payment ! [purses. 
 
 Take lives, take wives, take aught except men's 
 As Machiavel shows those in purple raiment, 
 
 Such is the shortest way to general curses. 
 They hate a murderer much less than a claimant 
 
 On that sweet ore which everybody nurses. — 
 Kill a man's family, and he may Ijrook it. 
 But keep your hands out of his breeches' ijockct : 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 So said tlie Florentine : ye monarchs, hearken 
 To your instructor. Juan now was borne. 
 
 Just as the day began to wane and darken. 
 O'er the high hill, which looks with pride or scorn 
 
 Toward the great city. — Ye who have a spark in 
 Your veins of Cockney spirit, smile or mourn 
 
 A('ei>rdiiig as you take things well or ill ; — • 
 
 Bold Britons, we are now on Shooter's Hill 1 
 
 LXXXl. 
 The sun went down, the smoke -rt-ent up, as from 
 
 A half-unqucnch'd volcano, o'er a space 
 Which well besecm'd the " Devil's drawing-room," 
 
 As some have qualified that wondrous place ; 
 But Juan felt, tliougli not approaching home, 
 
 As one who, though he were not of the race. 
 Revered the soil, of those true sons the mother, 
 WIio butclnT'd half the earth, and bullied t'other. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, 
 Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye 
 
 Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping 
 In sight, then lost amidst the forestry 
 
 Of masts ; a wilderness of steeples peeping 
 On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy ; 
 
 A huge, dun cupola, like a foolscap cri«wn 
 
 On a fool's head— and there is London Town 1 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 But Juan saw not this : each wreath of smokt 
 Appear'd to him but as the magic vapor 
 
 Of some alchymic furnace, from whence broke 
 The wealth of worlds, (a wealth of tax and paper :) 
 
 The gloomy clouds, wiiich o'er it as a yoke 
 Are bow'd, and put the sun out like a taper, 
 
 Were nothing but the natural atmosphere. 
 
 Extremely wholesome, though but rarely clear. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 He paused — and so will I ; as doth a crew 
 Before they give their broadside. By and by, 
 
 My gentle countrymen, we will renew 
 
 Our old acquaintance ; and at least I'll try 
 
 To tell you truths yon wiU not take as true. 
 Because they are so ; — a male Jlrs. Fry, 
 
 With a soft besom will I sweep your halls. 
 
 And brush a well or two from ofl'the walls. 
 
 bXXXV. 
 
 Oh, Mrs. Fry I Wliy go to Newgate ? Why 
 Preach to poor rogues ? And wherefore not begin 
 
 With Carlton, or with other houses ? Try 
 Your hand at harden'd and imjJerial sin. 
 
 To mend the people 's an absurdity, 
 A jargon, a mere philanthroijic din. 
 
 Unless you make their betters better :— Fy ! 
 
 I thought you had more religion, Jlrs Fry. * 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 Teach them the decencies of gocd threescore ; 
 
 Cure them of tours, hussar and highland dresses 
 Tell tliem that youth once gone returns no more, 
 
 Tliat hired huzzas redeem no land's distresses; 
 Tell them Sir William Curtis is a bore. 
 
 Too duU even for the dullest of excesses, 
 The witless Falstaffof a hoary Hal, 
 A fool whose bells have ceased to ring at alL 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 Tell them, though it may be perhaps too late 
 On life's worn confine, jaded, bloated, sated, 
 
 To set up vain pretences of being great, 
 'Tis not so to be good ; and be it stated. 
 
 The worthiest kings have ever loved least state : 
 And tell them But you won't, and I have prate(j 
 
 Just now enough ; but by and by I'll prattle 
 
 Like Roland's horn in Koncesvallcs' battle. 
 
Canto xi. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 68S 
 
 D ^' J IT A X. 
 
 CANTO THE ELKVENTO. 
 
 When Bisbop Berkeley said " there was no matter," 
 And proved it — 'twas no matter wliat be said : 
 
 Tbey say bis system 'tis in vain to batter, 
 Too subtle for the airiest human bead ; 
 
 And yet who can believe it 2 I would shatter 
 Gladly all matters down to stone or lead, 
 
 Or adamant, to find the world a spirit. 
 
 And wear my bead, denying that I wear it. 
 
 It. 
 What a sublime discovery 'twas to make the 
 
 Universe universal egotism. 
 That all 's ideal — all ourselves : I'll stake the 
 
 World (be it what you will) that tMt 'a no schism. 
 (> Doubt! — if thou be'st Doubt, for which some 
 take thee, 
 
 But which I doubt extremely— thou sole prism 
 Of the Truth's rays, spoil not my draught of spirit ! 
 Heaven's brandy, though our brain can hardly bear it. 
 
 III. 
 Forever and anon comes Indigestion, 
 
 (Not the most " dainty Ariel ") and perplexes 
 Our soarings with another sort of question : 
 
 And that which after all my spirit vexes. 
 Is, that I find no spot where man can rest eye on, 
 
 Without confusion of the sorts and sexes. 
 Of beings, stars, and this unriddled wonder. 
 The world, which at the worst 's a glorious blunder — 
 
 IV. 
 If it be chance ; or if it be according 
 
 To the old text, still better : — lest it should 
 Turn out so, we'U say nothing 'gainst the wording. 
 
 As several people think such hazards rude. 
 They're right ; our days are too brief for affording 
 
 Space to dispute what no one ever could 
 Decide, and ereryhoibj one day will 
 Know very clearly — or at least lie still. 
 
 And therefore will I leave off metaphysical 
 Discussion, which is neither here nor there : 
 
 If I agree that what is, is ; then this I call 
 Being quite perspicuous and ext'-emely fair ; 
 
 The truth is, I've grown lately rather phthisical ; 
 I don't know what the reason is — the air 
 
 Perliai)s ; but as I suffer from the shocks 
 
 Of illness, I grow much more orthodox. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The first attack at once proved the Divinity, 
 ( But that I never doubted, nor the Devil ;) 
 
 The next, the Virgin's mystical virginity; 
 
 The third, the usual Origin of Evil ; 
 The fourtli at once establish'd the whole Trinity 
 
 On so uncontrovertil)le a level. 
 That I devoutly wish'd the three were four. 
 On purpose to believe so much the more. 
 
 vn. 
 
 To our theme. — The man who has stood on the 
 Acropolis, 
 
 And look'd down over Attica ; or he 
 Who has sail'd where picturesque Constantinoijle is, 
 
 Or seen Timbuctoo, or hath taken tea 
 In small-eyed China's crockery-ware metropolis, 
 
 Or sat amidst the bricks of Nineveh, 
 iilay not think much of London's first appearance — 
 But af 1c him what he thinks of it a year bonce ? 
 
 viir. 
 
 Don Juan had got out on Shooter's Hill ; 
 
 Sunset the time, the place the same declivity 
 Wliich looks along that vale of good -.nd ill 
 
 Wlicre London streets ferment in lull activity; 
 Wliile every thing around was calm and still. 
 
 Except the creak of wheels, which on their pivot 
 Heard,— and that bee-like, bubbling, busy hum [he 
 Of cities, that boil over with their scum : — 
 
 IX. 
 I say, Don Juan, wrapt in contemplation, 
 
 Walk'd on behind his carriage, o'er the summit. 
 And lost in wonder of so great a nation. 
 
 Gave way to 't, since he could not overcome it. 
 "And here," he cried, "is Freedom's chosen station 
 
 Here peals the people's voice, nor can entomb it 
 Racks, prisons, inquisitions ; resurrection 
 Awaits it, each new meeting or election. 
 
 X. 
 
 "Here are chaste wives, pure lives; here people pay 
 But what they please ; and if that things be dear, 
 
 'Tis only that they love to throw away 
 
 Their cash, to show how much they have a-year. 
 
 Here laws are all inviolate ; none lay 
 Traps for the traveler ; every highway 's clear : 
 
 Here — " he was interrupted by a knife, [hfe !" — 
 
 With — " Damn your eyes ! your money or yoni 
 
 XI. 
 
 These freeborn sounds proceeded from four pads 
 In ambush laid, who had perceived him loiter 
 
 Behind his carriage ; and, like handy lads. 
 Had seized the lucky hour to reconnoitre. 
 
 In which the heedless gentleman who gads 
 I Upon the road, unless he prove a tighter, 
 
 May find himself within that isle of riches 
 
 Exposed to lose his life as well as breeches. 
 
6SG 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Caxto XL 
 
 xri. 
 Juan, who did not understand a word 
 
 Of English, save tlielr shibboleth, " God damn !" 
 And even that he had so rareh' heard, 
 
 He sometimes thought 'twas only their " Salam," 
 Or "God be with you !" — and "tis not absurd 
 
 To think so ; for half English as I am 
 (To ray misfortune) never can I say 
 I heard them wish " God with you," save that way ; — 
 
 XIII. 
 Juan yet quickly understood their gesture. 
 
 And being somewhat choleric and sudden, 
 Drew forth a pocket pistol from his vesture, 
 
 And fired it into one assailant's pudding — 
 Who fell, as rolls an ox o'er in his pasture, 
 
 And roar'd out, as lie writhed his native mud in. 
 Unto his nearest follower or henchman, [man I" 
 
 " Oh, Jack ! I'm iloor'd by that 'ere bloody French- 
 
 XIV. 
 On which Jack niid his train set off at speed. 
 
 And Juan's suite, late scattcr'd at a distance, 
 Came u]\ all marvelling at such a deed. 
 
 And offering, as usual, late assistance. 
 Juan, who saw the moon's late minion bleed 
 
 As if his veins would pour out his existence, 
 Stood calling out for bandages and lint, 
 And wish'd he had been less hasty with his iiint. 
 
 XV. 
 " Perhaps,'' thought he, "it is the country's wont 
 
 To welcome foreigners in this way : now 
 I recollect some innkeepers who don't 
 
 DitVcr, except in robbing with a bow. 
 In lieu of a bare blade and brazen front. 
 
 But what is to be done ? I can't allow 
 The fellow to be groaning on the road : 
 So take him up ; I'll help you with the load." 
 
 XVI. 
 But ere they could perform this pious duty, 
 
 Xlic dying man cried, " Hold ! I've got my gruel ! 
 Oh ! for a glass of iiitix ! We've iiiiss'd our liooty ; 
 
 Let me die where I am !" And as the fuel 
 Of life shrunk in his heart, and thick .and sooty 
 
 The drops fell from his death-wound, and he drew 
 His breath, — he from his swelling throat untied [ill 
 A kerchief, crying, " Give Sal that !"— -and died. 
 
 XVII. 
 The cravat stain'd with bloody drops fell down 
 
 Before Don Juan's feet : he could not tell 
 Exactly why it was before him thrown. 
 
 Nor what the meaning of the man's farewell. 
 Poor Tom was once a kiddy upon town, 
 
 A thorough varmint, and a real swell, 
 Full flash, all fancy, until iairly diddled, 
 His pockets lirst and then his body riddled 
 
 XVIII. 
 Don Juan, hanng done the oest he could 
 
 In all the circumstances of the case. 
 As soon as " Crowner's quest " allow'd, pursued 
 
 His travels to the capital apace ; — 
 Esteeming it a little hard he should 
 
 In twelve hours' time, and very little space, 
 Have been obliged to sl.ay a freeborn native 
 In self-defence : this made him meditative. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 He from the world had cut off a great man, 
 Who in his time had made heroic bustle. 
 
 Who in a row like Tom could lead the van. 
 Booze in the ken, or at the spollken hustle ? 
 
 Who queer a flat ? Wlio (spite of Bow-street's ban; 
 On the high toby-spice so flash thi' muzzle ? 
 
 Who on a lark, with black-eyed Sal, (his blowing,) 
 
 So prime, so swell, so nutty, and so knowing ? 
 
 XX. 
 But Tom 's no more — and so no more of Tom. 
 
 Heroes must die ; and by God's blessing 'tis 
 Not long before the most of them go home. 
 
 Hail ! Tliamis, hail ! Upon thy verge it is 
 That Juan's chariot, rolling like a drum 
 
 In thunder, holds the way it can't well miss, 
 Through Kennington and all the other " tons," 
 Which make us wish ourselves in town at once ; — 
 
 XXI. 
 Through Groves, so call'd as being void of trees, 
 
 (Like hic':s from no light ;) through prospects 
 named 
 Mount Pleasant, as contaniing naught to please. 
 
 Nor much to climb ; through little Ijoxes framed 
 Of bricks, to let the dust in at your ease, 
 
 With " To be let;," upon their doors proclaim'd ; 
 Through " Rows," most modestly caird " Paradise," 
 Which Eve might quit without much sacriDce ;— 
 
 XXII. 
 Through coachea, drays, choked turnpikes, and a whirl 
 
 Of wheels, and roar of voices, and confusion ; 
 Here taverns wooing to a pint of " purl," 
 
 There mails fast flying off like a delusion ; 
 There barbers' blocks with periwigs in curl 
 
 In windows ; here the lamplighter's infusion 
 Slowly distill'd into the glimmering glass, 
 (For in those daj's we had not got to gas — ;) 
 
 XXIII. 
 Through this, and much, and mere, is the approacll 
 
 Of travellers to miglity Babylcii : 
 Wliether they come by horse, or chaise, or coach. 
 
 With slight exceptions, all the ways seem one. 
 I could say more, but do not choose to encroach 
 
 Upon the Guide-book's privilege. The sun 
 
Canto xi. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 687 
 
 Had set some time, and night was on the ridge 
 Of twilight, as the jjarty cross'd the bridge. 
 
 XXIV. 
 That 's rather fine, tlie gentle sound of Thamis — - 
 
 Who vindicates a moment, too, his stream^ [me's." 
 Though hardly lieard through multifarious "dam- 
 
 The lamps of Westminster's more regular gleam, 
 The breadth of pavement, and yon shrine where 
 
 A spectral resident — wliose pallid beam [fame is 
 In shape of moonshine hovers o'er the pile — 
 Slake this a sacred part of Albion's isle." 
 
 XXV. 
 The Druids' groves are gone — so much the better : 
 
 Stone-Henge is not — but what the devil is it 1 — 
 But Bedlam still exists with its sage fetter, 
 
 That madmen may not bite you on a visit ; 
 The Bench too seats or suits full many a debtor ; 
 
 The Mansion House too (though some people quiz 
 To me appears a stiff yet grand erection ; [it) 
 
 But then the Abbey 's worth the whole collection. 
 
 XXVI. 
 The line of lights too up to Charing Cross, 
 
 Pall Mall, and so forth, have a coruscation 
 Like gold as in comparison to dross, 
 
 Match'd with the Continent's illumination, 
 Whose ciries Night by no means deigns to gloss. 
 
 The French were not yet a lamp-lighting nation. 
 And when they grew so — on their new-found lantern, 
 Instead of wicks, they made a wicked man turn. 
 
 XXVII. 
 A row of gentlemen along the streets 
 
 Suspended may illuminate mankind. 
 As also bonfires made of tountry-seats ; 
 
 But the old way is best for the purblind : 
 The other looks like phosphorus on sheets, 
 
 A sort of ignis fatuus to the mind, 
 Which, though 'tis certain to perplex and frighten, 
 Must burn more mildly ere it can enlighten. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 But London 's so well lit, that if Diogenes 
 
 Could recommence to hunt his h-mesf, man, 
 And found him not amidst tlie various progenies 
 
 Of this enormous city's spreading spawn, 
 'Twere not for want of lamps to aid his dodging his 
 
 Yet imdiscovcr'd treasure. What / can, 
 I've done to find the same throughout life's journey, 
 But see the world is only one attorney. 
 
 XXIX. 
 Om r the stones still rattling up Pall Mall, 
 Through crowds and carriages, but waxing thinner 
 
 * " Hells " frarain?-hou?es. Wbat flieir number may now be in 
 this life. I know noI. liefore I was of age I knew them pretty 
 •cnirately, loth "gold" and " silvei " I was once nearly called 
 
 As thundcr'd knockers broke the long seal'd spell 
 Of doors 'gainst duns, and to an early dinner 
 
 Admitted a small Jjarty as night fell, — 
 Don Juan, our young diplomatic sinner. 
 
 Pursued his path, and drove past some hotels, 
 
 St. James's Palace and St. James's " Hells.'" 
 
 XXX. 
 
 They reach'd the hotel : forth stream'd from the front 
 A tide of well-clad waiters, and around [door 
 
 The mob stood, and as usual several score 
 Of those pedestrian Paphians who abound 
 
 In decent London when the daylight 's o'er; 
 Commodious but immoral, they are found 
 
 Useful, like Malthus, in promoting marriage. — 
 
 But Juan now is stepping from Lis carriage 
 
 XXXI. 
 Into one of the sweetest of hotels. 
 
 Especially for foreigners — and mostly 
 For those whom favor or whom fortune swells, 
 
 And cannot find a bill's small items costly. 
 There many an envoy either dwelt or dwells, 
 
 (The den of many a dijilomatic lost lie,) 
 Until to some conspicuous square they pass, 
 And blazon o'er the door their names in brass. 
 
 XXXII. 
 Jnan, whose was a delicate commission. 
 
 Private, though publicly important, bore 
 No title to point out with due precision 
 
 The exact affair on which he was sent o'er. 
 'Twas merely known, that on a secret mission 
 
 A foreigner of rank had graced our shore. 
 Young, handsome, and accompliah'd, who was sail* 
 (In whispers) to have turn'd his sovereign's head. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Some rumor .also of some strange adventures 
 Had gone before him, and his wars and loves ; 
 
 And as romantic heads are pretty ixiinters. 
 And, above all, an Englishwoman's roves 
 
 Into the excursive, breaking the indentures 
 Of sober reason, wheresoe'er it moves. 
 
 He found himself extremely in the fashion. 
 
 Which serves our thinking people lor a passion. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 I don't mean that they are passionless, but qmte 
 
 The contrary ; but then 'tis in the head ; 
 Yet as the consequences are as bright 
 
 As if they acted with the heart instead. 
 What after all can signify the site 
 
 Of ladies' lucubrations ? So they lead 
 In safety to the place for which you start, 
 Wliat matters if the road be head or heart ? 
 
 ont by an acquaintance, because when he a?ked me where i 
 thought his soul would be fouud hereafter, I answered, " in e!l 
 ver UelL" 
 
688 
 
 BTRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CAJfTO XI. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Juan prrsc'iitcd in the proper place, 
 To projjcr placemen, every Russ credential ; 
 
 And was received with all the due grimace, 
 By those who govern in the mood potential, 
 
 AVho, seeing a handsome stripling with smooth face, 
 Thought (what in state ati'airs is most essential) 
 
 That they as easily might Jo the youngster, 
 
 Ab hawks may pounce upon a woodland songster. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Thi.y crr'd. ns aged men will do ; but by 
 And by ive '11 talk of that ; and if we don't, 
 
 'T will be because our notion is not high 
 Of politicians and their double front, 
 
 Wlio live by lies, yet dare not boldly lie : — 
 Now w hat I love in women is, they won't 
 
 Or can't do otherwise than lie. but do it 
 
 Bo well, the very truth seems falsehood to it. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 .Ind, after all, what is a lie ? 'Tis but 
 The truth, in masquerade ; and I defy 
 
 Flistorians, heroes, lawyers, priests, to put 
 A fact without some leaven of a lie. 
 
 The very shadow of true Truth would shut 
 Up annals, revelations, poesy, 
 
 And prophecy — except it should be dated 
 
 Some years before the incidents related. 
 
 XXXVIIT. 
 Praised be all liars and all lies ! Who now 
 
 Can tfix my mild JIuse with misanthropy ? 
 She rings the world's " Te Deum," and her brow 
 
 Blushes for those who will not : — but to sigh 
 Is idle ; let us like mo.^t others bow, 
 
 Kiss hands, feet, any part of majesty. 
 After the good example of " Green Erin," [ing. 
 
 Whose shamrock now seems rather worse for wear- 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Don Juan w-as presented, and his dress 
 And mien excited general admiration — 
 
 I don't know which was more admired or less : 
 One monstrous diamond drew much observation, 
 
 Wliich Catherine in a moment of " ivresse " 
 (Tn lovo or brandy's fervent fermentation) 
 
 Bestow'd upon him, as the puljlic Icam'd ; 
 
 And, to say truth, it had been fairly earn'd. 
 
 XL. 
 Besides the ministers and underlings, 
 
 Wlio must be courteous to the accredited 
 Diplomatists of rather wavering kings. 
 
 Until their royal riddle 's fully read. 
 The very clerks, — those somewhat dirty springs 
 
 0( office, or the house of office, fed 
 
 By foul corruption into streams,— even they 
 Were hardly rude enough to earn their pay : 
 
 XLI. 
 And insolence no doubt is what they are 
 
 Employ'd for, since it is their daily labor. 
 In the dear offices of peace or war ; [neighbor. 
 
 And should you doubt, pray ask of your nexl 
 When for a passport, or some ether bar 
 
 To freedom, he applied, (a grief and fi bore,) 
 If he found not this sjiawn of taxbom riches. 
 Like lap-dogs, the least civil sons of b s. 
 
 XI.II. 
 
 But Juan was received with much " empressement :"— 
 These plirases of refinement I must borrow [man, 
 
 From our next neighbors' land, where, like a chess- 
 There is a move set down for joy or sorrow. 
 
 Not only in mere talking, but the press. JIan 
 In islands is, it seems, downright and thorough, 
 
 More than on continents — as if the sea 
 
 (See BiUingsgate) made even the tongue more free. 
 
 XLIII. 
 And yet the British " Damme " 's rather Attic, 
 
 Your continental oaths are but incontinent. 
 And turn on things which no aristocratic (unent* 
 
 Spirit would name, and therefore even I won'l 
 This subject quote ; as it would be schismatic 
 
 In politesse, and have a sound affronting in 't : 
 But " Damme " 's quite ethereal, though too daring — 
 Platonic blasphemy 's the soul of swearing. 
 
 XLIV. 
 For downright rudeness, ye may stay at home ; 
 
 For true or false politeness (and scarce Ihat 
 Xmc) you may cross the blue deep and white foam— 
 
 The first the emblem (rarely though) of what 
 You leave behind, the next of much you come 
 
 To meet. However, 'tis no time to chat 
 On genera! topics : poems must confine 
 Themselves to unity, like this of mine. 
 
 XLV. 
 In the great world, — which, being interpreted, 
 
 Meaneth the west or worst end of a city. 
 And about twice two thousand peo])lc Iired 
 
 By no means to be very wise or witty 
 But to sit up while others lie in bed. 
 
 And look do^^Ti on the universe with pity, — 
 Juan, as an inveterate patrician. 
 Was well received by persons of condition. 
 
 XLVI. 
 He was a bachelor, which is a matter 
 Of import both to virgin and to bride, 
 
 ' " Ancnt " was a Scotcb phrase itieanin:? " conccmin?: '' — " with 
 rcfrard to :" it haw bc('n inado Eufjlish by tbe Scotch novels ; and 
 M the Frenchmau ^aid. " If it be 7U)t, ought Co be Eiislitih ** 
 
Ca>to XI. 
 
 DOX JUAX. 
 
 680 
 
 The former's hymeneal hopes to flatter ; 
 
 And .(should she not hold fast hy love or pride) 
 Tis also of some moment to the latter ; 
 
 A rib 's a thorn in a wed gallant's side, 
 Requires decorum, and is apt to double 
 The horrid sin — and what 's still worse, the trouble. 
 
 XLVII. 
 But Juan was a bachelor — of arts, 
 
 And parts, and hearts : he danced and sang, and 
 Vn air as sentimental as Mozart's [had 
 
 Softest of melodies ; and could be sad 
 Or cheerful, without any " flaws or starts," 
 
 Just at the proper time ; and though a lad, 
 Had seen the world — -which is a curious sight, 
 And very much unlike what people write. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 Pair virgins blush'd upon him ; wedded dames 
 
 Bloom'd also in less transitory hues ; 
 For both commodities dwell by the Thames, 
 
 The painting and the painted ; youth, ceruse, 
 Against his heart jjreferr'd their usual claims, 
 
 Such as no gentleman can quite refuse ; 
 Daughters admired his dress, and pious mothers 
 Inquired his income, and if he had brothers. 
 
 XLIX. 
 The milliners who furnish " drapery IVIisses "' 
 
 Throughout the season, upon speculation 
 Of payment ere the honey-moon's last kisses 
 
 Have waned into a crescent's coruscation. 
 Thought such an opportunity as this is. 
 
 Of a rich foreigner's initiation. 
 Not to be overlook'd — and gave such credit, [it. 
 That future bridegrooms swore, and sigh'd, and paid 
 
 The Blues, that tender tribe, who sigh o'er sonnets, 
 jVnd with the pages of the last Re\'iew 
 
 Line the interior of their heads or bonnets, 
 Advanced in all their azure's highest hue : 
 
 Thny talk'd bad French or Spanisli, and upon its 
 Late authors ask'd him for a hint or two ; 
 
 And which was softest, Russian or Castilian 1 
 
 And whether in his travels he saw Ilion ? 
 
 LI. 
 Joan, who was a little superficial, 
 
 And not in literature a great Drawcansir, 
 Examined by this learned and especijl 
 
 Jury of matrons, scarce knew what to answer : 
 
 * " Drapery Mie-^es." — This term is probr.bly aoy tiling now but a 
 my^Ury. Tt was, however, almost so to me when I first returned 
 from the Ea.«t in 1811, ^3. It means a pretty, a high-born, a 
 fashionable young female, well instructed by her friends, and fur- 
 nished by her milliner with a wardrobe r.pon credit, to be repaid, 
 when married, by the husband. The riddle was first read to me 
 by a young and pretty heiress, on my pr,iising the " drapery " of 
 the '* untochereW but '* pretty virginities '' (like Mrs. Anne Page) 
 87 
 
 His duties warlike, loving or official. 
 His steady application as a dancer. 
 Had kept him from the brink of Hippocrcne, 
 Which now he fotmd was blue instead of green. 
 
 LII. 
 However, he replied at hazard, with 
 
 A modest confidence and calm assurance, 
 Wliich lent his learned lucubrations pith. 
 
 And pass'd for arguments of good endurance. 
 That prodigy. Miss Araminta Smith, 
 
 (Who at sixteen translated " Hercules Furens " 
 Into as furious English,) with her best look, 
 Set down his sayings in her common-place book. 
 
 LIII. 
 Juan knew several languages — as well [time 
 
 He might — and brought them up with skill, in 
 To save his fame*svith each accomphsh'd belle, 
 
 Who still regretted that he did not rhyme. 
 There wanted but this requ.site to swell 
 
 His qualities (vrith them) into sublime : 
 Lady Fitz-Frisky, and Miss Jloevia Mannish, 
 Both long'd extremely to be sung in Spanish. 
 
 LIV. 
 However, he did pretty well, and was 
 
 Admitted as an aspirant to aU 
 The coteries, and, as in Banquo's glass. 
 
 At great assemblies or in parties small, 
 He saw ten thousand living authors pass. 
 
 That being about their average numeral ; 
 Also the eighty " greatest living poets," 
 As every paltry magazine can show its. 
 
 LV. 
 In twice five years the " greatest living poet," 
 
 Like to the champion in the fisty ring, 
 Is call'd on to support his claim, or show it, 
 
 Although 'tis an imaginary thing. 
 Even I — albeit I'm sure I did not know it. 
 
 Nor sought of foolscap subjects to be king, — 
 Was reckon'd a considerable time, 
 The grand Napoleon of the realms of rhyme. 
 
 LYI. 
 But Juan was my SInscow, and Falicro 
 
 My Leijisic, and my Mount Saint Jean seems Cain ■ 
 " La Belle Alliance " of dunces down at zero, 
 
 Kow that the Lion's fall'n, may rise again : 
 But I wUl fall at least as fell my hero ; 
 
 Not reign at all, or as a monarch reign ; 
 
 of the then day, which has now been some years yesterday : she 
 assured me that the thing was common in London ; and as her 
 owni thousands, and blooming looks, and rich simplicity of array, 
 put any suspicion in her own case out of the question, I confesB I 
 gave some credit to the allegation. If necessary, authorities 
 might be cited; in which case I could quote both "drapery'* 
 and the wearers. Let as hope, however, that it is now 
 obsolete. 
 
690 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto n. 
 
 Or to souic lonely isle of jailers go, 
 
 Witli turncoat Soutbey for my turnkey Lowe. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Sir Walter rcign'd before me ; Moore and Campbell 
 Beiore and after ; but now grown more holy, 
 
 The Muses upon Sion's liill must ramble 
 Witli pofts almost Clergymen, or whoUy ; 
 
 And Pegasus lias a psalmodic amble 
 
 Beneath the very Reverend Uowley Powley, 
 
 Who shoes the glorious animal witli stilts, 
 
 A moderi: Ancient Kstol — by the hilts ! 
 
 LVni. 
 Still he excels that artificial hard 
 
 Laborer in the same vineyard, though the vino 
 Yields liim but vinegar for his reward, — 
 
 That neutralized dull Dorus of yie Nine ; 
 That swarthy Sporus, neither man nor bard ; 
 
 That ox of verse, who pluughs for every line :— 
 Cambyses' roaring Romans beat at least 
 The howling Hebrews of Cybele's priest. — 
 
 LIX. 
 Then there's my gentle Euphues ; who, they say, 
 
 Sets up for being a so;t of moral me ; 
 He '11 find it rather dilhcult some day 
 
 To turn out both, or either, it may be. 
 Some persons think that Coleridge hath the sway ; 
 
 And Wordsworth has supporters, two or three ; 
 And that deei^-mouth'd Boeotian " Savage Landor " 
 Has taken for a swan rogue Southey's gander. 
 
 bX. 
 Joan Keats, who was kill'd ofl" by one critique, 
 
 Just as he really promised something great. 
 If not intelligible, without Greek 
 
 Contrived to talk about the gods of late, 
 Much as they might have been supposed to speak. 
 
 Poor fellow ! His was an untoward fate ; 
 'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle, 
 Should let itself be snuflF'd out by an article. 
 
 LXI. 
 The list grows long of live and dead pretenders 
 
 To that wliich none will gain^or none will know 
 The conqueror at least ; who, ere Time renders 
 
 His last award, will have the long grass grow 
 Above his burnt-out brain, and sapless cinders. 
 
 If I might augur, I should rate but low 
 Their cli.anccs ; — they're too numerous, like the thirty 
 Mock tyrants, when Rome's annals wax'd but tlirty. 
 
 I.XII. 
 
 This is the literary hiiar empire. 
 
 Where the pr:vtorian liands take up the matter ; — 
 A " dreadful trade," like his who " gathers samphire," 
 
 The insolent soldiery to sooth" and flatter. 
 
 With the same feelings as you'd coax a vampire. 
 Now, were I once at home, and in good satire, 
 I'd try conclusions with those Janizaries, 
 And show them what an intellectual war is. 
 
 LXIII. 
 I think I know a trick or two, would turn 
 
 Their flanks ; — but it is hardly worth my while, 
 With such small gear to give myself concern : 
 
 Indeed I've not the necessary Itile ; 
 My natural temper 's really aught luit stem. 
 I And even my JIusc's worst reproof 's a smile ; 
 And then she drops a brief and modern curtsy. 
 And glides away, assured she never hurts ye. 
 
 ' LXIV. 
 
 1 My Juan, whom I left in deadly peril 
 
 Amongst live poets and blue ladies, pass'd 
 With some small profit through that field so sterila 
 Being tired in time, and neither least nor last, 
 I Left it before he had been treated very ill ; 
 ! And henceforth found himself more gayly class'd 
 1 Amongst the higher spirits of the day, 
 The sun's true son, no vapor, but a ray. 
 
 LXV. 
 His morns he pass'd in business — which dissected 
 
 Was like all business, a laborious nothing 
 That leads to lassitude, the most infected 
 
 And Centaur Nessus garb of mortal clothing, 
 And on our sofas makes us lie dejected. 
 
 And talk in tender horrors of our loathing 
 All kinds of toil, save for our country's good — 
 Which grows no Ijetter, though 'tis time it should 
 
 I.XVI. 
 His afternoons he pass"d in visits, luncheons, 
 
 Lounging, and boxing; and the twilight hour 
 In riding round those vegetable puncheons [flowei 
 
 Call'd " Parks," where there is neither fruit nor 
 Enough to gratify a bee's slight munchings; 
 
 But after all it is the only " bower," 
 (In Moore's jilirase) where the fashionable fair 
 Can form a slight acquaintance with fresh air. 
 
 lAVII. 
 Then dress, then dinner, then awakes the world! 
 
 Then glare the lamps, then whirl the wheels, then 
 
 roar [liurfd 
 
 Through street and square fast flashing chariots 
 
 Like harncss'd meteors ; then along the floor 
 Chalk mimics j)ainting,- then festoons are twirl'd, 
 
 Then roll tlic l)razeu thunders of the door, 
 Which opens to the thousand happy few 
 An earthly paradise of " Or Molu." 
 
 lAViri 
 There stands the noble hostess, nor jliall sink 
 With the Ihree-thousandtli curtsy; there the waits, 
 
Canto xi. 
 
 DUJN J UAN. 
 
 691 
 
 The only dance which teaches girls to think, 
 Makes one in love, even with its very faults. 
 
 Saloon, room, hall, o'erflow beyond their brink 
 And long the hitest of arrivals halts, 
 
 "Alidst royal dukes and dames condemu'd to climb, 
 
 Ajid gain an inch of staircase at a time. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 Thrice happy he who, after a survey 
 Of the good company, can win a corner, 
 
 A door that's in or boudoir out of the way. 
 Where he may fix himself like small "Jack Hor- 
 
 And let the Babel round run as it may, [ner," 
 
 And look on as a mourner, or a scomer, 
 
 Or an approver, or a mere spectator. 
 
 Yawning a little as the night grows later. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 But this won't do, save by and by ; and he 
 Who. like Don Juan, takes an active share. 
 
 Must steer with care through all that glittering sea 
 Of gems, and plumes, and pearls, and silks, to 
 where 
 
 He deems it is his proper place to be ; 
 Dissolving in the waltz to some soft air, 
 
 Or proudlier prancing with mercurial skill. 
 
 Where Science marshals forth her own quadrille. 
 
 Lxxr. 
 
 Or, if he dance not, but hath higher views 
 Upon an heiress or his neighbor's bride, 
 
 Let him take care that that which he pursues 
 Is not at once too palpably descried. 
 
 Full many an eager gentleman oft rues 
 His haste : impatience is a blundering guide, 
 
 Amongst a people famous for reflection, 
 
 Who like to play the fool with circumspection. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 But, if you can contrive, get nest at supper, 
 Or, if forestall'd, get opijosite and ogle : — ■ 
 
 Oh, ye ambrosial moments ! always upper 
 In mind, a sort of sentimental bogle, 
 
 Wluoh sits forever upon memory's crupper 
 
 The ghost of vanish'd pleasures once in vogue ! Ill 
 
 Can tender souls relate the rise and fall 
 
 Of hopes and fears which shake a single ball. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 But these precautionary hints can touch 
 Only the common run, who must pursue. 
 
 And watch, and ward ; whose plans a word too much 
 Or little overturns ; and not the few 
 
 Or many (for the number "s sometimes such) 
 Whom a good mien, especially if new, 
 
 Or fame, or name, for wit, war, sense, or nonsense. 
 
 Permits whate'e: iey please, or did nr.* long since. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 Our hero, as a hero, young and handsome, 
 
 ifolile, rich, celebrated, and a stranger. 
 Like other slaves of course must pay his ransom, 
 
 Before he can escape from so much danger 
 As will environ a conspicuous man. Some 
 
 Talk about poetry, and " rack and manger," 
 And ugliness, disease, as toil and trouble ; — 
 I wish they knew the life of a young noble. 
 
 LXXV. 
 They are young, but know not youth — it is antici- 
 
 Handsome but wasted, rich without a sou ; [pated ; 
 Their vigor in a thousand arms is dissipated ; 
 
 Their cash comes from, their wealth goes to a Jew ; 
 Both senates see their nightly votes participated 
 
 Between the tyrant's and the iribunes' crew; 
 And having voted, diued, drank, gamed, and whored, 
 The family vault receives another lord. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 " Where is the world ?" cries Young, at eighty. — 
 " Where 
 
 The world in which a man was bom ? Alas ! 
 Wliere is the world of eight years past ? ' Twus there— 
 
 I look for it — 'tis gone, a globe of glass ! 
 Crack'd, shiver'd, vanish'd, scarcely gazed on, ere 
 
 A silent change dissolves the glittering mass. 
 Statesmen, chiefs, orators, queens, patriots, kings, 
 And dandies, all are gone on the -nHlnd's wings. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 Where is Napoleon the Grand ? God knows : 
 
 Wliere little Castlereagh ? The devil can tell : 
 Wliere Grattan, Curran, Sheridan, all those 
 
 Who bound the bar or senate in their sijeU ? 
 Wliere is the unhappy Queen, with all her woes ? 
 
 And where the Daughter, whom the Isles loved 
 well ? 
 Wliere are those martyr'd saints the Five per Cents I 
 And where — oh, where the devil are the Rents ? 
 
 Lxxvni. 
 Wliere 's Brummel 2 Dish'd. Where 's Long Pole 
 Wellesley ? Diddled. [the Third ? 
 
 Wliere 's AVhitbread ? Romilly ? Wliere's George 
 Where is his will ? (That's not so soon unriddled.) 
 And where is " Fum " the Fourth, our " royal 
 bird ?" 
 Gone down, it seems, to Scotland to be fiddled 
 
 Unto by Sawney'n violin, we have heard : 
 " Caw me, caw thee " — for six months hath been 
 
 hatching 
 This scene of royal itch and loyal scratching. 
 
 bXXIX. 
 Wliere is Lord This ? And where my Lady That I 
 The Honorable Mistresses and Misses ? 
 
692 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto xi 
 
 Some laid aside like an old Opera Imt, 
 
 Married, unmarried, and remarried : (this is 
 
 Aji evolution oft perforni'd of late.) 
 
 Where are the Dublin shouts — and London hisses ? 
 
 Wlicre are the Grenvilles ? Turn'd as usual 1 Where 
 
 My friends tl e Whigs ? Exactly where they were. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Where are the Lady Carolines and Franceses ? 
 
 Divorced or doing thcreanent. Ye annals 
 So brilliant, wliere the list of routs and dances is, — 
 
 Thou }[iirning Pout sole record of the panels 
 Broken in carriages, and all the phantasies 
 
 Of fashion, — say what streams now fill those 
 channels ? 
 Some die, some fl}', some languish on the Continent, 
 Because the times have hardly left them I'lie tenant. 
 
 LXXX I 
 Some who once set their caps at cautious dukes. 
 
 Have taken up at length with younger brothers ; 
 Some heiresses have bit at sharpers' hooks : 
 
 Some maids have been made wives, some merely 
 mothers ; 
 Others have lost their fresh and fairy looks : 
 
 In short the list of alterations bothers. 
 There's little strange in this, but something strange is 
 The unusual quickness of these common changes. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 Talk not of seventy years as age ; in seven 
 
 I have seen more changes, down from monarchs to 
 The humblest individual under heaven. 
 
 Than might suffice a moderate century through. 
 I knew that naught was lasting, but now even 
 
 Change grows too changeal)le, without being new : 
 NiiUght 's permanent among the human race. 
 Except the Wliigs not getting into place. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 I have seen Napoleon, who scem'd quite a Jupiter, 
 
 Shrink to a Saturn. I have seen a Duke 
 (No matter which) turn politician stupider. 
 
 If that can well be, than his wooden look. 
 But it is time tliat I should hoist my "blue Peter," 
 
 And sail for a new theme : — I have seen — and shook 
 To see it — the king hiss'd, and then caress'd ; 
 But don't pretend to settle which was best. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 I have seen the Landholders without a rap — 
 
 I have seen Joanna Southcote — I have seen — 
 The House of Commons turn'd to a tax-trap — 
 
 I have seen that sad atfair of the late Queen — 
 I have seen crowns worn instead of a fool's cap — 
 
 I have seen a Congress doing all that's mean — 
 I have seen some nations like o'crloaded asses, 
 K.ick off fheir burdens — me-aning the high classes 
 
 LXXXV. 
 I have seen small poets, and great prosers, and 
 
 Interminable — not etrmal — speakers — 
 I have seen the funds at war with house and land— 
 
 I have seen the country gentlemen turn squeakers— 
 I have seen the people ridden o'er like sanii 
 
 Ey slaves on horseback — I have seen malt liquors 
 E.xchanged for " thin potations " by John Bull— 
 I have seen John half detect himself a fool. — 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 But " carpe diem," Juan, " carpe, carpe 1" 
 
 To-morrow sees another race as gay 
 And transient, and devour'd by the same harpy. 
 
 "Life's a poor player," — then "play out the play 
 Ye \-illain3 !'' and above all keep a sharp eye 
 
 Much less on what you do than what you say : 
 Be hypocritical, be cautious, be 
 Not what you xeem, but always what you see. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 But how shall I relate in other cantos 
 
 Of what befell our hero in the land, 
 Wliich 'tis the common cry and lie to vaunt 08 
 
 A moral country ? But I hold my hand — 
 For I disdain to write an Atalantis ; 
 
 But 'tis as well at once to understand. 
 You are not a moral people, and you know it, 
 Without the aid of too sincere a poet. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 What Juan saw and underwent shall be 
 
 My topic, with of course the due restriction 
 Wliich is required by-proper courtesy ; 
 
 And recollect the work is only fiction, 
 And that I sing of neither mine nor me, 
 
 Though every scribe, in some slight turn of dio- 
 Will hint allusions never meant. Ne'er doubt [tion, 
 T/iis — when I speak, I don't hint, but speak out. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 Whether he married with the third or fourth 
 
 Offspring of some sage husband-hunting ccuntees, 
 
 Or whether with some virgin of more worth 
 (I mean in Fortune's matrimonial bounties) 
 
 He took to regularly peopling Earth, 
 
 Of which your lawful awful wedlock fount is, — 
 
 Or whether he was taken in for damages, 
 
 For being too excursive in his homages, — 
 
 XC. 
 Is yet within the unread events of time. 
 
 Thus far, go forth, thou lay, which I will 1 oek 
 Against the same given quantity of rhyme. 
 
 For being as much the subject of attack 
 As ever yet was any work sublime, 
 
 By those who love to say that white is black. 
 So much the better ! — I may stand alone. 
 But would not change my free thoughts for a throne 
 
Canto xii. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 69S 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO THE TWELFTH. 
 
 Op all the barbarous middle ages, that 
 
 Wliich is most barbarous is the middle age 
 
 Of mail : it is — I really scarce know what ; 
 But when we hover between fool and sage, 
 
 And don't know justly what we would be at — ■ 
 A period something like a printed page, 
 
 Black letter upon foolscap, while our hair 
 
 Grows grizzled, and we are not what we were ; — 
 
 II. 
 Too old for youth, — too young, at thirty-five, 
 
 To herd with boys, or hoard with good three- 
 I wonder jjeople should be left alive ; [score, — 
 
 But since they are, that epoch is a bore : 
 Love lingers still, although 'twere late to wive ; 
 
 And as for other love, the illusion 's o'er ; 
 And money, that most pure imagination, 
 Gleams only through the dawn of its creation. 
 
 III. 
 O Gold ! Wliy call we misers miserable ? 
 
 Theirs is the pleasure that can never pall ; 
 Theirs is the best bower anchor, the chain cable 
 
 Which holds fast other pleasures great and small. 
 Te who but see the saving man at table. 
 
 And scorn his temperate board, as none at all. 
 And wonder how the wealthy can be sparing, [ing. 
 Know not what visions spring from each checse-par- 
 
 IV. 
 Love or lust makes man sick, and wine much sicker; 
 
 Ambition rends, and gaming gains a loss ; 
 But making money, slowly first, then quicker, 
 
 And adding still a little through each cross, 
 (Which wiU- come over things,) beats love or liquor, 
 
 Tl.e gamester's counter, or the statesman's dross. 
 Gold ' T stiU prefer thee unto paper, 
 Wliieh makes bank credit like a bark of vapor. 
 
 V. 
 Wlio hold the balance of the world ? Who reign 
 
 O'er congress, whether rovalist or liberal ? 
 Who rouse the shirtless patriots of Spain ? 
 
 (That make old Europe's journals squeak and 
 gibber all.) 
 Who keep the world, both old and now, in pain 
 
 Or pk>asure 1 Who make politics run glibber all ? 
 The shade of Bonaparte's noble daring ? — 
 Jew Rothschild, and his fellow-Christian, Baring. 
 
 VI. 
 Those, and the truly lilieral Lafitte, 
 Are tlie true lords of Europe Every loan 
 
 Is not a merely speculative hit, 
 
 But seats a nation or upsets a throne. 
 
 Republics also get involved a bit ; 
 
 Columbia's stock hath holders not unknown 
 
 On 'Change ; and even thy silver soil, Peru, 
 
 Must get itself discounted by a Jew. 
 
 VII. 
 Why call the miser miserable ? as 
 
 I said before : the frugal life is his, 
 Which in a saint or cynic ever was 
 
 The theme of praise ; a hermit would not miss 
 Canonization for the self-same cause, 
 
 And wherefore blame gaunt wealth's austerities i 
 Because, you'll say, naught calls for such a trial ; — 
 Then there's more merit in his self-denial. 
 
 VIII. 
 He is your only poet ; — passion, pure, 
 
 And sparkling on from heap to heap, displays, 
 Pussess'il, the ore, of which nure hopes allure 
 
 Nations athwart the deep : the golden rays 
 Flash up in ingots from the mine obscure ; 
 
 On him the diamond pours its brilliant blaze ; 
 While the mild emerald's beam shades down the 
 Of other stones, to soothe the miser's eyes. [dies 
 
 IX. 
 
 The lands on either side are his : the ship 
 From Ceylon, Inde, or far Cathay, unloads 
 
 For him the fragrant produce of each trip ; 
 Beneath his cars of Ceres groans the roads. 
 
 And the vine blushes like Aurora's lip ; 
 Ilis very cellars might be kings' abodes ; 
 
 While he, despising every sensual call. 
 
 Commands — the intellectual lord of all. 
 
 Perhaps he hath great projects in his mind, 
 To build a college, or to found a race, 
 
 A hospital, a church, — and leave behind 
 
 Some dome surmounted by his meager face : 
 
 Perhaps he fain would liberate mankind 
 
 Even with the very ore which makes them base 
 
 Perhaps he ivould be wealthiest of his nation. 
 
 Or revel in the joys of calculation. 
 
 XI. 
 
 But whether all, or each, or none of these 
 May be the hoarder's principle of action. 
 
 The fool wiU call such mania a disease : — 
 
 What is his own ? Go — look at each transaction, 
 
 Wars, revels, loves — do these bring men more ease 
 Than the mere plodding through each "vulgai 
 fraction ?" 
 
 Or do they benefit mankind ? Lean miser I 
 
 Let spendthrifts' heirs inquire of yours — who'i 
 wiser J 
 
694 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto xiu 
 
 XII. 
 How beauteous are rouleaus ! how charming chests 
 
 Contaiiiiiifi; ingots, bags of dollars, coins 
 CNot of old victors, all whose heads and crests 
 
 Weigh not the thin ore where their visage shines, 
 But) of fine unclipp'd gold, where dully rests 
 
 Some likeness, wliich the glittering cirque confines. 
 Of modern, reigning, sterling, stupid stamp : — 
 Yes ! ready money i-i Aladdin's lamp. 
 
 XIII. 
 '•Love rules the camp, the court, the grove, — for 
 love 
 
 Is heaven, and heaven is love :" — so sings the 
 Wliich it were rather difficult to prove, [hard ; 
 
 (A thing with poetry in general hard.) 
 Perhaps there may be something in " the grove," 
 
 At least it rhymes to ''love ;" but I'm prepared 
 To doubt (no less tlian landlords of their rental) 
 tf "courts" and '"camps" be quite so sentimental. 
 
 XIV. 
 But if Love don't, Cas?i does, and Cash alone : 
 
 Cash rules the grove, and fells it too besides ; 
 Without cash, camps were thin, and courts were none ; 
 
 Without cash, Malthus tells you — " take no brides." 
 Bo Cash rules Love the ruler, on his own 
 
 High ground, as virgin Cynthia sways the tides : 
 And as for '■ Heaven lieing Love," why not say honey 
 Is wax ? Heaven is not Love, 'tis Matrimony. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Is not all love prohibited whatever, 
 
 Excepting marriage ? which is love, no douljt. 
 After a sort ; but somehow people never [out : 
 
 With the same thought the two words h.ave help'd 
 Love may exist with marriage, and should ever. 
 
 And marriage also may exist without ; 
 But love sans bans is both a sin and shame, 
 And ought to go by quite another name. 
 
 XVI. 
 Now if the " court," and " camp," and " grove," be 
 
 Recruited all with constant married men, [not 
 'WTio never coveted their neighbor's lot, 
 
 I say that line 's a lajisus of the pen ; — 
 Strange too in my " ))Uon eamcrado" Scott 
 
 So celelirated for his morals, when 
 My Jeffrey held him up as an example 
 To me ; — of which these morals are a sample. 
 
 XVII. 
 Well, if I d(m't succeed, I /lave succeeded. 
 And that's enough ; succeeded in my youth, 
 
 * See Mitford'8 Greece. *' Grsecta Verax.*^ His great pleasnre 
 consistii in praisin;? tyranta, abu^iii!^ Plutarch, «pcllini^ oddly, and 
 R'rjllni; quaintly ; and what i^ titran^o, after all. /lui i^ the best 
 taodefD historv of Greece in any lausuasc, and he is perhaps the 
 
 The only time when much success is needed : 
 And my success produced what I, in sooth. 
 
 Cared most about ; it need not new be pleaded — 
 Whate'cr it was, 'twas mine ; I've paid, in truth. 
 
 Of late, the penalty of such success, 
 
 But have not learn'd to wish it any less. 
 
 XVIII. 
 That suit in Chancery, — which some persons plead 
 
 In an appeal to the unborn, whom they, 
 In the faith of their proereative creed, 
 
 Bajjtize posterity, or future elay, — 
 To me seems but a dubious kind of reed 
 
 To lean on for support iu any way ; 
 Since odds are that posterity wiU know 
 No more of them, than they of her, I trow. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Why, I'm posterity — and so are you ; 
 
 And whom do we remember ? Not a hundred. 
 Were every memory written down all true, [der'd; 
 
 The tenth or twentieth name would be but blun 
 Even Plutarch's Lives have but pick'd out a few, 
 
 And 'gainst those few your annalists have thun- 
 And Mitford' in the nineteenth century [dei'd; 
 
 Gives, with Greek trutli, the good old Greek the lie. 
 
 XX. 
 Good people all, of every degree, 
 
 Ye gentle readers and ungentle writers, 
 In this twelfth Canto 'tis my wish to be 
 
 As serious as if I had for inditcrs 
 Malthus and Wilberforce : — the last set free 
 
 The Negroes, and is worth a million fighters ; 
 While WelUngtou has but enslaved the Whites, 
 And Malthus does the thing 'gainst which he \\Titea, 
 
 XXI. 
 
 I'm serious — so are all men upon j)aper ; 
 
 And why should I not form my sijeculation. 
 And hold up to the sun uiy little taper ? 
 
 Mankind just now seem wrapp'd in meditation 
 On constitutions and steam-boats of vapor ; 
 
 While sages write against all procreation. 
 Unless a man can calculate his means 
 Of feeding brats the moment hij wife weans. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 That 's uoble ! Tliat 's romantic ! For my part, 
 I think that " Philo-genitivencss " is — 
 
 (Now here 's a word quite after my own heart 
 Though there 's a shorter a good deal than this. 
 
 If that politeness set it not apart ; 
 
 But I 'm resolved to say naught that 's amiss — ) 
 
 best of all modern hiploriSiis whatsoever. Hav ng named hit 
 sins, it is but Tair to s^tate his virtues — learning, abor, research, 
 wi-ath, and partiality. I call the iatler virtues in & writer, becauM 
 they make him write in carnesL 
 
Canto xil 
 
 DON JUAN, 
 
 695 
 
 I say, metliinks that " Philo-gcnitiveness " 
 Might meet from mtn a little more forgiveness. 
 
 XXIII. 
 And now tc business. — O my gentle Juan ! 
 
 Thou art in London — in that pleasant place, 
 Where every kind of mischief 's daily brewing, 
 
 "Which can await warm youth in its wild race. 
 'Tis true, that thy career is not a new one ; 
 
 Thou art no no\-ice in the headlong chase 
 Of early life ; but this is a new land, 
 Which foreigners can never understand. 
 
 XXIV. 
 What with a small diversity of climate. 
 
 Of hot or cold, mercurial or sedate, 
 I could send forth my mandate like a primate 
 
 Upon the rest of Europe's social state ; 
 But thou art the most difficult to rhyme at. 
 
 Great Britain, w hich the Muse may penetrate. 
 AU countries have their " Lions," but in thee 
 There is but one superb menagerie. 
 
 XXV. 
 But I am sick of politics. Begin, 
 
 " Paulo Majora." Juan, undecided 
 Amongst the jiaths of being " taken in," 
 
 Above the ice had like a skater glided : 
 When tired of play, he flirted without sin 
 
 With some of those fair creatures who have prided 
 Themselves on innocent tantalization, 
 And hate aU vice except its reputation. 
 
 XXVI. 
 But these are few, and in the end they make 
 
 Some devilish escapade or stir, which shows 
 That even the purest people may mistake 
 
 Their way through virtue's primrose paths of 
 And then men stare, as if a new ass spake [snows ; 
 
 To Balaam, and from tongue to ear o'erflows 
 Quicksilver small talk, ending (if you note it) 
 With the kind world's amen — " Who would have 
 thou ht it?" 
 
 XXVII. 
 The little Leila, with her orient eyes. 
 
 And taciturn Asiatic disposition, 
 (Which saw all western things with small surprise, 
 
 To the surprise of people of condition. 
 Who think that novelties are butterflies 
 
 To be ptirsued as food for inanitioj,) 
 ^cr charming figure and romantic history 
 Became a kind of fashionable mystery. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 The women much divided — as is usual 
 
 Amongst the sex in little things or great. [all — 
 Think not, fair creatures, that I mean to abuse you 
 
 I have always liked you better than I state : 
 
 Since I 've grown moral, still I must accuse you all 
 
 Of being apt to talk at a great rate ; 
 And now there was a general sensation 
 Amongst you, about Leila's education. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 In one point only were you settled — and 
 
 You had reason ; 't was that a young child of grace, 
 
 As beautiful as her own native land. 
 And far away, the last bu<l of her race, 
 
 Howe'er our friend Don Juan might command 
 Himself for five, four, three, or two years' space, 
 
 Would be much better taught beneath the eye 
 
 Of peeresses whose follies had run dry. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 So first there was a generous emulation. 
 And then there was a general competition, 
 
 To undertake the orphan's education. 
 As Juan was a person of condition. 
 
 It had been an afiront on this occasion 
 To talk of a subscription or petition ; 
 
 But sixteen dowagers, ten unwed she sages. 
 
 Whose tale belongs to " Hallam's Middle Ages," 
 
 XXXI. 
 .tVjid one or two sad, separate wives, without 
 
 A fruit to bloom upoa their withering bough — 
 Begg'd to bring up the little girl, and " o«'," — • 
 
 For that 's the phrase that settles aU things now, 
 Cleaning a virgin's fii-st blush at a rout. 
 
 And all her points as thorough-bred to show : 
 And I assure you, that Uke virgin honey 
 Tastes their first season, (mostly if they have money.) 
 
 XXXII. 
 How all the needy honorable misters. 
 
 Each out-at^elbow peer, or desperate dandy. 
 The watchful mothers, and the careful sisters, 
 
 (Who, by the by, when clever, are n.ore handy 
 At making matches, where " 't is gold that glisters,'' 
 
 Than their he relatives,) like flies o'er candy 
 Buzz round " the Fortun " with their busy battery. 
 To turn her head with waltzing and w ith flattery I 
 
 XXXIII. 
 Each aunt, each cousin, hath her speculation ; 
 
 Nay, married dames will now and then discover 
 Such pure disinterestedness of passion, 
 
 I 've known them court an heiress for their lover. 
 " Tantatnc !" Such the virtues of high station. 
 
 Even in the hopeful Isle, whose outlet 's " Dover 1" 
 While the poor rich wretch, oliject of these cares. 
 Has cause to wish her sire hud had male heirs. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 Some are soon bagg'd, and some reject tlirec dozen. 
 'T is fine to see them scattering refusals 
 
606 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto xii. 
 
 And wild dismay o'er every angry cousin, 
 (FrieiKl? of the party,) who begin accusals. 
 
 Such as — " Unless Miss (Blank) meant to have chosen 
 Poor Frederick, why did she accord penisals 
 
 To his billets ? 117/y waltz with him ? Why, I pray 
 
 Look yes last night, and yet say no to-day ? 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 " Why ? — Wiy ? — Besides, Fred really was a'taeliH; 
 
 "T was not her fortune — he has enough without ; 
 The time will come she '11 wish that she had snatch'd 
 
 So good an ojiportunity no doubt : — 
 But the old marchioness some plan had hatch'd, 
 
 As I '11 tell Aurea at to-morrow's rout : 
 And after all i)oor Frederick may do better^ 
 Pray did you see her answer to his letter ?" 
 
 XXXVI. 
 Smart uniforms and sijarkling coronets 
 
 Are spuru'd in turn, until her turn arrives, 
 After male loss of time, and hearts, and bets 
 
 Upon the sweepstakes for substantial wives ; 
 And when at last the pretty creature gets 
 
 Some gentleman, who lights, or writes, or di'ives. 
 It soothes the awkward squad of the rejected 
 To find how very badly she selected. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 For sometimes they accept some long pursuer. 
 
 Worn out with importunity ; or fall 
 (But here perhaps the instances are fewer) 
 
 To the lot of him who scarce pursued at all. 
 A hazy widower turn'd of forty 's sure' 
 
 (If 't is not vain examples to recall) 
 To draw a high prize : now, howe'er he got her, I 
 See naught more strange in this than t' other lottery. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 I, for my part — (one " modern instance " more, 
 
 " True, 't is a pity — pity 't is, 't is true ") 
 Was chosen from out an amatory score, 
 
 Albeit my years were less discreet than few ; 
 But.though I also had reform'd before 
 
 Those became one who soon were to be two, 
 I 'U not gainsay the generous public's voice. 
 That the young lady made a monstrous choice. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Oh, pardon my digression — or at least 
 Peruse ! 'T is always with a moral end 
 
 Tluit I dissert, like grace before a feast : 
 For like an aged aunt or tiresome friend, 
 
 A rigid guardian, or a zealous priest. 
 My Muse by exhortation means to mend 
 
 All people, at all times, and in most places. 
 
 Which [Hits uiy Pegasus to these grave paces. 
 
 1 This Hue may i)iizzle the co .mentatorB more than the present 
 K«neration. 
 
 XL. 
 
 But now I 'm going to be immoral ; now 
 I mean to show things really as tliey arc. 
 
 Not as they ought to be ; for I avow. 
 That till we see what 's what in fact, we 're far 
 
 From much improvement with that virtuous plough 
 Which skims she surface, leaving scarce a scar 
 
 Upon the black loam long manured l\v Vice, 
 
 Only to keep its corn at the old price. 
 
 XLI. 
 But first of little Leila we '11 dispose ; 
 
 For like a day-dawn she was young and pure, 
 Or like the old comparison of snows. 
 
 Which are more pure than pleasant to be sure. 
 Like many people everybody knows 
 
 Don .luan was delighted to secure 
 A goodly guardian for his infant charge, 
 Wlio might not profit much by being at large. 
 
 XUI. 
 Besides, he had found out he was no tutor, 
 
 (I wish that others would find out the same ;) 
 And rather wish'd in such things to stand neuter, 
 
 For silly wards will bring their guardians blame : 
 So when he saw each ancient dame a suitor 
 
 To make his little wild Asiatic tame. 
 Consulting " the Society for Vice 
 Sujipression," Lady Pinchbeck was his choice. 
 
 XLIII. 
 Olden she was — but had been very young ; 
 
 Virtuous she was — and had been, I believe ; 
 Although the world has such an evil tongue 
 
 That but my chaster ear will not receive 
 
 An echo of a syllable that's wrong: 
 
 In fact, there 's nothing makes me so much griev*^ 
 As that abominable tittle-tattle. 
 Which is the cud eschew'd by human cattle. 
 
 XLIV. 
 Moreover I 've remark'd, (and I was once 
 
 A slight observer in a modest way,) 
 And so may every one except a dunce, 
 
 That ladies in their youth a little gay, 
 Besides their knowledge of the world, and sense 
 
 Of the sad consequence of going astray, 
 Are wiser in their warnings 'gainst the wo 
 Which the mere passionless can never know. 
 
 XLV. 
 While the harsh prude indemnifies her virtue 
 
 By raiUng at the unknown and envied passion, 
 Seeking far less to save you than to hurt you. 
 
 Or, what 's still worse, to put you out of fashion, — 
 The kinder veteran with calm words will court you, 
 
 Entreating you to pause before you dash on ; 
 Expounding and illustrating the riddle 
 Of epic Love's beginning, end, and middle. 
 
Ca2*to xn. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 R&7 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 Now whether it be thus, or that they are stricter, 
 As better linowing why they should be so, 
 
 [ think you '11 find from many a family picture, 
 That daughtei-s of such mothers as may know 
 
 !Phe world by experience rather than by lecture, 
 Turn out much better for the Smithtield Show 
 
 Of vestals brought into the marriage mart, 
 
 Than those bred up I^y prudes without a heart. 
 
 XLVII. 
 I said that Lady Pinchbeck had been talk'd about — 
 
 As who has not, if female, young, and pretty ? 
 But now no more the ghost of Scandal stalk'd about ; 
 
 She merely was deem'd amiable and witty. 
 And soyeral of her best bon-mots were hawk'd about : 
 
 Then she was given to charity and pity. 
 And pass'd (at least the latter years of Ufe) 
 For being a most exemplary wife. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 High in high circles, gentle in her own, 
 
 She was the mild reprover of the young. 
 Whenever — which means every day — they 'd shown 
 
 An awkward inclination to go wrong. 
 The quantity of good she did 's unknown. 
 
 Or at the least would lengthen out my song : 
 In brief, the httle orjahan of the East 
 Had raised an interest in her, which increased. 
 
 XLIX. 
 Juan, too, was a sort of favorite with her. 
 
 Because she thought him a good heart at bottom, 
 A little si^oil'd, but not so altogether ; 
 
 Which was a wonder, if you think who got him, 
 And how he had been toss'd, he scarce knew whither: 
 
 Though this might ruin others, it did not him, 
 At least entirely — for he had seen too many 
 Changes in youth, to bo surprised at any. 
 
 L. 
 And these vicissitudes tell best in youth ; 
 
 For when they hapjjen at a riper age, 
 Peoi^le are apt to blame the Fates, forsooth. 
 
 And wonder Providence is not more sage. 
 Adversity is the first path to truth : 
 
 He who hath proved war, storm, or woman's rage, 
 Whether his winters be eighteen or eighty, 
 Hath won the experience which is deem'd so weighty. 
 
 LI. 
 How far it profits is another matter. — 
 
 Out hero gladly saw his little charge 
 Safe with a lady, \vhose last grown-up daughter 
 
 Being hnig married, and thus set at large, 
 Had left all the accoiiii)lishmcnts she taught her 
 
 To be trausmitted, like the Lord Mayors barge, 
 To the next comer ; or — as it will tell 
 More lluselike — like to Cytherea's shell. 
 88 
 
 Ln. 
 
 I call such things transmission ; for there is 
 A floating balance of accomplishment. 
 
 Which forms a pedigree from Miss to Miss, 
 According as their minds or backs are bent. 
 
 Some waltz ; some draw ; some fathom the abyss 
 Of metaphysics ; others are content 
 
 With music ; the most moderate shine as wits ; 
 
 While others have a genius turn'd for fits. 
 
 LIII. 
 But whether fits, or wits, or harpsichords, 
 
 Theology, tine arts, or finer stays. 
 May be the baits for gentlemen or lords 
 
 With regular descent, in these our days. 
 The last year to the new transfers its hoards ; 
 
 New vestals claim men's eyes with the same praise 
 Of " elegant " ct catcm, in fresh batches — 
 All matchless creatures, and yet bent on matches. 
 
 LIV 
 But now I will begin my poem. 'T is 
 
 Perhaps a little strange, if not quite new, 
 That from the first of Cantos up to this 
 
 I 've not begun what we have to go through. 
 These first twelve Ijooks are merely flourishes, 
 
 Preludios, trying just a string or two 
 Upon my lyre, or making the pegs sure ; 
 And when so, you shaU have the overture. 
 
 I.V. 
 My Muses do not care a pinch of ro in 
 
 About what 's called success, or not succeeding : 
 Such thoughts are quite below the strain they 'ye 
 chosen ; 
 
 'T is a " great moral lesson " they are reading. 
 I thought, at setting off, about two dozen 
 
 Cantos would do ; but at x\pollo's pleading. 
 If that my Pegasus should not be founder'd, 
 I think to canter gently through a hundred. 
 
 LVI. 
 Don Juan saw that microcosm on stilts, 
 
 Tclejit the Great World ; for it is the least. 
 Although the highest : but as swords have hilts 
 
 By which their power of mischief is incrcised, 
 Wlien man in battle or in quarrel tilts. 
 
 Thus the low world, north, south, or west, or east, 
 Must still obey the high — which is their handle, 
 Their moon, their sun, their gas, their farthing candle. 
 
 LVII. 
 He had many friends who had many wives, and was 
 
 Well look'd upon by both, to that extent 
 Of friendship which you may accejjt or ijass, 
 
 It does nor good nor harm ; being merely meant 
 To keep the wheels going of the higher class. 
 
 And draw them nightly when a ticket 's sent : 
 
398 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canio m, 
 
 And what with masquerades, and fetes, and balls, 
 For the first season siicli a life scarce palls. 
 
 I.vill. 
 A young unmarried man, witli a good name 
 
 And fortune, lias an awkward part to play; 
 For good society is but a game, 
 
 " The royal game of Goose," as I may say, 
 Where everyljody has some separate aim, 
 
 An end to answer, or a plan to lay — 
 The single ladies wishing to be double. 
 The married ones to save the virgins troul)le. 
 
 UX. 
 
 I don't mean this as general, but particular 
 Examples may be found of such pursuits : 
 
 Though several also keep their perpendicular 
 Like poplars, with good principles for roots ; 
 
 Yet many have a method more retinilar — 
 
 " Fishers for men," like sirens with soft lutes ; 
 
 For talk six times with the same single lady. 
 
 And you may get the wedding dresses ready. 
 
 LX. 
 Perhaps you '11 have a letter from the mother. 
 
 To say her daughter's feelings are trepann'd ; 
 Perhaps you '11 have a visit from the brother. 
 
 All strut, and stays, and whiskers, to demand 
 What " your intentions are ?" — One way or other 
 
 It seems the virgin's heart expects your hand : 
 And between pity for her case and yours. 
 You '11 add to Matrimony's list of cures. 
 
 LXI. 
 I 've known a dozen weddings made even thus 
 
 And some of them high nan)es : I have also known 
 Young men who — though they hated to discuss 
 
 Pretensions which they never dream'd to have 
 Yet neither frighten'd by a female fuss, [shown — 
 
 Nor by mustacliios moved, were let alone. 
 And lived, as did the broken-hearted fair. 
 In happier plight than if they form'd a pair. 
 
 LXII. 
 There 's also nightly, to the uninitiated, 
 
 A peril — not indeed like love or marriage. 
 But not the less for this to be depreciated : 
 
 It is — I meant and mean not to disjiarage 
 The show of virtue even in the vitiated — 
 
 It adds an outward grace unto their carriage — 
 But to denounce the amphibious sort of harlot, 
 " Couleur de rose," who 's neither white nor scarlet. 
 
 I.XIII 
 Such is your cold coquette, who can't say " No," 
 
 And won't say " Yes," and keeps you on and off-ing 
 On a Ice-shore, till it begins to blow — [scoffing. 
 
 Then sees your heart wreck'd with an inward 
 
 This works a world of sentimental wo. 
 
 And sends new Werthei-s yearly to their coflSa ; 
 But yet is merely innocent flirtation, 
 Not quite adultery, but adulteration. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 " Ye gods, I grow a talker !" Let us prate. 
 
 The next of perils, though I place it Ktcriiest, 
 Is when, without regard to " church or state," 
 
 A \\\ie makes or takes love in upright earnest. 
 Abroad, such things decide few women's fate — 
 
 (Such, early traveller ! is the truth thou learnest)— 
 But in old England, when a young bride errs, 
 Poor thing ! Eve's was a trifling case to hers. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 For 'tis a low, newspaper, humdrum, lawsuit 
 Country, where a yomig couple of the same ages 
 
 Can't form a friendship, but the world o'crawes it. 
 Then there "s the vulgar trick of those d — d dam 
 ages ! 
 
 A verdict — grievous foe to those who cause it I — 
 Forms a sail climax to romantic homages : 
 
 Besides those soothing speeches of the pleaders, 
 
 And evidences which regale all readers. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 But they who blunder thus are new beginners , 
 A little genial sprinkling of hypocrisy 
 
 Has saved the fame of thousand splendid sinners. 
 The loveliest oligarchs of our gynocracy ; 
 
 You may see such at all the balls and dinners, 
 Among the proudest of our aristocracy, 
 
 So gentle, charming, charitable, chaste — 
 
 And all by having tart as well as taste. 
 
 bXVlI. 
 
 Juan, who did not stand in the predicament 
 Of a mere novice, had one safeguard more ; 
 
 For he was sick no, 't was not the word aiek I 
 
 meant — 
 But he had seen so much good love before, 
 
 That he was not in heart so very weak ; — I meant 
 But this much, and no sneer against the shore 
 
 Of white clift's, white necks, blue e3-es, bluer stockiugs, 
 
 Tithes, taxes, duns, and doors with double knockings. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 But coming young from lands and scenes romantic, 
 Wlierclives, not lawsuits, must be risk'd for Passion, 
 
 And Passion's self must have a spice of frantic, 
 Into a counti7 where 't is half a fashion, 
 
 Seem'd to him half commercial, half pedantic, 
 Howe'er he might esteem this moral nation : 
 
 Besides (alas ! his taste — forgive and pity !) 
 
 At first he did not think the women pretty. 
 
Canto xii. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 699 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 I say at jr'rst — for lie found out at hut, 
 But by degrees, that they were fairer far 
 
 Than the more glowing dames whose lot is cast 
 Beneath the influence of tlie eastern star. 
 
 A further proof we should not judge in haste ; 
 Yet inexperience could not be his bar 
 
 To taste : — the truth is, if men would confess, 
 
 That novelties please less than they imjiress. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 Though travellVl, I have never had the luck to 
 Trace up those shuffling negroes, Nile or Niger, 
 
 To that iuipructicaljle jjlace, Timlsuctoo, 
 
 Where Geography finds no one to oblige her 
 
 With such a chart as may be safely stuck to — 
 For Europe ploughs in Afric like " bos piger :" 
 
 But if I hi'd hem at Timbuctoo, there 
 
 No doubt I should be told that black is fair. 
 
 LXXI. 
 It is. I will not swear that black is white ; 
 
 But I suspect in fact that white is black. 
 And the whole matter rests upon eye-sight. 
 
 Ask a blind man, the best judge. You '11 attack 
 Perhaps this new position — but I'm right ; 
 
 Or if I'm wrong, I'U not be ta'en aback : — 
 He hath no morn nor night, but all is dark 
 Within ; and what seest thou ? A dubious spark. 
 
 LXXII. 
 But I'm relapsing into metap'aysics. 
 
 That labyrinth, whose clue is of the same 
 Construction as your cures for hectic phthisics, 
 
 Those bright moths fluttering round a dying flame; 
 And this reflection brings me to plain physics, 
 
 And to the beauties of a foreign dame, 
 Compared with those of our pure pearls of price, 
 Those polar summers, all sun, and some ice. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 Or say tliey are like virtuous mermaids, whose 
 Beginnings are fair faces, ends mere fishes ; — ■ 
 
 Not that there 's not a quantity of those 
 
 Who have a due respect for their own wishes. 
 
 Like Russians rushing from hot baths to snows- 
 Are they, at bottom virtuous even when vicious : 
 
 They warm into a scrape, but keep of course, 
 
 As a reserve, a jilunge into remorse. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 But this has naught to do with their outsides. 
 
 I said that .luan did not think them pretty 
 At the first blush ; for a fair Briton hides 
 
 Half her attractions — ^probaljly from pity — 
 
 * The Russian?, as is well known, run out from their hot haths 
 to plunt;e into the Neva; a pleasant practical antithesis, which it 
 seems dues th im no harm. 
 
 And rather calmly into the heart glides, 
 
 Than storms it as a foe would talce a city ; 
 But oftce there (if you doulit this, prithee try) 
 She keeps it for you like a true ally. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 She cannot step as does an Arab barb. 
 Or Andalusian girl from mass returning. 
 
 Nor wear as gracefully as Gauls her garb. 
 Nor in her eye Ausonia's glance is burning ; 
 
 Her voice, though sweet, is not so fit to warb- 
 le those bravuras, (which I still am learning 
 
 To like, though I have been seven years in Italy, 
 
 And have, or had, an ear that served me prettily ;) — 
 
 LXXVI. 
 She cannot do these things, nor one or two 
 
 Others, in that ofl'-hand and dashing style 
 Which takes so much — to give the devil his due ; 
 
 Nor is she quite so ready with her smile. 
 Nor settles all things in one interview, 
 
 (A thing approved as sa^ang time and toil ;) — 
 But though the soil may give you time and trouble, 
 Well cultivated, it will render douljle. 
 
 LXXVIl. 
 And if in fact she takes to a " grande passion," 
 
 It is a very serious thing indeed : 
 Nine times in ten 'tis but caprice or fashion. 
 
 Coquetry, or a wish to take the lead. 
 The pride of a mere child with a new sash on. 
 
 Or wish to make a rival's bosom bleed : 
 But the tenth instance will be a tornado. 
 For there's no saying what they will or may do. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 The reason 's obvious ; if there's an eclat. 
 They lose their caste at once, as do the Farias ; 
 
 And when the delicacies of the law 
 
 Have fill'd their papers with their comments varioua. 
 
 Society, that china without flaw, 
 
 (The hypocrite !) will banish them like Maiius, 
 
 To sit amidst the ruins of their guilt : 
 
 For Fame 's a Carthage not so soon rebuilt. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 Perhaps this is as it should be ; — it is 
 
 A comment on the Gospefs " Sin no more, 
 And be thy sins forgiven :" — but upon tliis 
 
 I leave tlie saints to settle their own score. 
 Abroad, though doubtless they do much amisa, 
 
 An erring woman finds an opener door 
 For her return to Virtue — as tliey call 
 That lady, who should be at home to all. 
 
 LXXX. 
 For me, I leave the matter where I find it, 
 Knowing that such uneasy virtue leads 
 
VOo 
 
 liYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto xui. 
 
 People some ten times less in fact to mind it, 
 And care but for discoveries and not deeds. 
 
 A.nd as for ciiastity, you'll never bind it 
 Hy all the laws the strictest lawyer pleads, 
 
 But agi^ravate the crime you have not prevented. 
 
 By rendering desjKTate those who bad else repented. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 But Juan was no casuist, nor had ponow-'d 
 
 Upon the moral lessons of mankind : 
 Besides, he had not seen of several hundrea 
 
 A lady altojjether to his mind. 
 A little " blase " — 'tis not to be wonder'd 
 
 At, that his heart had got a tougher rind : 
 And though not vainer from his past success, 
 No doubt his sensibilities were less. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 He also had Ijeen busy seeing sights — • 
 
 The Parliament and all the other houses ; 
 Had sat beneath the gallery at nights. 
 
 To hear del^ates whose thunder roused (not rouse.) 
 The world to gaze ujDon those northern lights, 
 
 Which ilash'd as far as where the musk-bull 
 browses ;' 
 He had also stood at times behind the throne — 
 But Grey was not arrived, and Chatham gone. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 He saw, however, at the closing session, 
 
 That nol)le sight, when really free the nation, 
 A king in constitutional possession 
 
 Of such a throne as is the proudest station. 
 Though despots know it not — till the progression 
 
 Of treedoin shall complete their education. 
 'Tis not mere splendor makes the show august 
 Po eye or heart — it is the people's trust. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 There, too, he saw (whate'er he. may be now) 
 
 A Prince, the ])rince of princes at the time. 
 With fascination in his very bow, 
 
 And full of promise, as the spring of prime. 
 Though royalty was written on his brow. 
 
 He had tin ii the grace, too, rare in every clime. 
 Of being, without alloy of fop or beau, 
 A flnish'd gentleman from top to toe. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 And Juan was received, as hath been said, 
 
 Into the best society : and there 
 Occurr'd what often happens, I'm afraid. 
 
 However disciplined and debonnaire : 
 The talent and good humor he display'd. 
 
 Besides the mark'd distinction of his air 
 
 ' For n description and print of tliis inhabitant of tlie polar re- 
 gion and nalive cnuntry of tlie Aurorie Borcales, Bee Parry's Voy- 
 •go in searcli of a Northvvei't Passa;^e. 
 
 a A 8CU'"*or projected to liew Mount Athos into a statue of 
 
 Exposed him, as was natural, to temptation, 
 Even though himself avoided the occasion. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 But what, and where, with whom, and when, and why 
 
 Is not to be put hastily together ; 
 And as my object is morality, 
 
 (Whatever people say,) I don"t know whether 
 I'll leave a single reader's eyelid dry. 
 
 But harrow up his feelings, till they wither, 
 And hew out a huge monument of pathos. 
 As Philip's son proposed to do with Athos.^ 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 Here tiie twelfth canto of our introduction 
 
 Ends. When the body of the book 's begun, 
 You'll find it of a different construction 
 
 From what some people say 'twill be when done : 
 The plan at present 's simply in concoction. 
 
 I can't oblige you, reader, to read on ; 
 That's your affair, not mine : a real spirit 
 Should neither court neglect, nor dread to bear it. 
 
 Lxxxvni. 
 
 And if my thunderbolt not always rattles, 
 Remember, reader ! you have had before. 
 
 The worst of tempests and the best of battles. 
 That e'er were brew'd from elements or gore. 
 
 Besides the most sublime of — Heaven knows what 
 An usurer could scarce expect much more — [else : 
 
 But my best canto, save one on astronomy, 
 
 Will turn upon " political economy." 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 That is your present theme for popularity : 
 
 Now that the public hedge hath a scarce a stake, 
 It grows an act of patriotic charity. 
 
 To show the people the liest way to break. 
 M>/ plan (but I, if but for singularity. 
 
 Reserve it) will be very sure to take. 
 Meantime, read all the national debt-sinkers, 
 And tell me what you think of our great thinkers. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 fWTO THE THIRTEENTH. 
 
 I NOW mean to be serious ; — it is time, 
 
 Since laugh.ter now-a-days is deem'd too serious ; 
 
 A jest at Vice by Virtue 's call'd a crime. 
 And critically held as deleterious : 
 
 Besides, the sad 's a source of the sublime, 
 Although when long a little apt to weary us ; 
 
 Alexander, with a city In one band, and, I believe, a nver in his 
 
 ]jocket, with various other similar devices. Bui .Mexander 'd gono, 
 and Athos remains, I trust cro long to look over a nation of fr«» 
 men. 
 
CaIsTO XIII. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 701 
 
 And therefore shall my lay srar high and solemn, 
 A.3 an old temple dwindled to a column. 
 
 The Lady Adeline Amundeville 
 
 ('Tis an old Norman name, and to be found 
 In pedigrees, by those who wander still 
 
 Along the last fields of that Gothic groimd) • 
 Was high-born, wealthy by her father's will, 
 
 And beauteous, even where beauties most abound, 
 In Britain — which of coiu-se true patriots find 
 The goodliest soil of body and of mind. 
 
 III. 
 I'll not gainsay them ; it is not my cue ; 
 
 I'll leave them to their taste, no doubt the best : 
 An eye's an eye, and whether black or blue, 
 
 Is no great matter, so 'tis in request, 
 'Tis nonsense to dispute about a hue — • 
 
 The kindest may be taken as a test. 
 The fair sex should be always fair ; and no man, 
 Till thirty, should perceive there 's a plain woman. 
 
 IV. 
 And after that serene and somewhat dull 
 
 Epoch, that awkward comer turn'd for days 
 More quiet, when our moon 's no more at fuU, 
 
 We may presume to criticise or praise ; 
 Because indifference begins to luU 
 
 Our passions, and we walk in wisdom's ways : 
 Also because the figure and the face 
 Hint, that 'tis time to give the younger place. 
 
 V. 
 
 I know that some would fain postpone this era, 
 
 Reluctant as all placemen to resign 
 Their post ; but theirs is merely a chimera, 
 
 For they have pass'd life's equinoctial line : 
 But then they have their claret and Madeira, 
 
 To irrigate the dryness of decline ; 
 And county meetings, and the parliament, 
 And debt, and what not, for their solace sent. 
 
 VI. 
 And is there not religion, and reform, 
 
 Peace, war, the taxes, and what's caU'd the " JTa- 
 The struggle to be pilots in a storm ? [tion ?" 
 
 The landed and the money'd speculation ? 
 The joys of mutual hate to keep them warm, 
 
 Instead of love, that mere hallucination ? 
 Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure ; 
 Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure. 
 
 vri. 
 Rough Johnson, the great moralist, profess'd, 
 
 Right honestly, " he liked an honest hater 1" — 
 The only truth that yet has been confess'd 
 
 Within these latest thousand years oi 'ater, 
 
 Perhaps the fine old fellow spoke in jest : — 
 
 For my part, I am but a mere spectator. 
 And gaze where'er the palace or the hovel is. 
 Much in the mode of Goethe's Jlepbistopheles ; 
 
 vin. 
 But neither love nor hate in much excess ; 
 
 Though 'twas not once so. If I sneer sometimes 
 It is because I cannot well do less. 
 
 And now and then it also suits my rhymes. 
 I should be very willing to redress 
 
 Men's wrongs, and rather check than punish 
 Had not Cervantes, in that too true tale [crimes, 
 Of Quixote, shown how all such efforts fail. 
 
 IX. 
 Of all tales 'tis the saddest — and more sad. 
 
 Because it makes us smile : his hero 's right. 
 And still pursues the right ; — to curb the bad 
 
 His only object, and 'gainst odds to fight 
 His guerdon : 'tis his virtue makes him mad I 
 
 But his adventures form a sorry sight ;— 
 A sorrier still is the great moral taught 
 By that real epic unto all who have thought. 
 
 X. 
 Redressing injury, revenging wrong. 
 
 To aid the damsel and destroy the caitiff; 
 Opposing singly the united strong. 
 
 From foreign yoke to free the helpless native : — 
 Alas ! must noblest views, like an old song. 
 
 Be for mere fancy's sport a theme creative, 
 A jest, a riddle. Fame through thick-and thin sought I 
 And Socrates himself but Wisdom's Quixote ? 
 
 XI. 
 Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away ; 
 
 A single laugh demolish'd the right arm 
 Of his own country ; — seldom since that day 
 
 Has Spain had heroes. While Romance could 
 charm. 
 The world gave ground before her bright array ; 
 
 And therefore have his volumes done such harm, 
 That all their glory, as a composition. 
 Was dearly purchased by his land's perdition. 
 
 XII. 
 I'm " at my old lunes " — digression, and forget 
 
 The Lady Adeline Amundeville ; 
 The tair most fatal Juan ever met. 
 
 Although she was not evil nor meant ill ; 
 But Destiny and Passion spread the net, 
 
 (Fate is a good excuse for our own w-ill,) 
 And caught them; — what do they not ca'ch, me- 
 But I'm not CEdipus, and life 's a Sphinx, [thinks 
 
 XIII. 
 I ell the tale as it is told, nor dare 
 To venture a solution : " Davus sum !" 
 
702 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Cauto xm. 
 
 knd now 1 ^<n]] proceed upon the pair. 
 
 Sweet Aiklini', amitlst the gay world's hum, 
 5Vas the Qucen-Bce, the glass of all that's fair ; 
 
 Whose charms made i.L men sjxak. and women 
 dumb. 
 The last 's a miracle, and such was rcckon'd, 
 A.nd since that time there has not been a second. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Chaste was she, to detraction's desperation, 
 And wedded unto one she had loved well — 
 
 A man known in the councils of tlie nation, 
 C'^ol, and finite P'nglish, imperturbable, 
 
 Though apt to act witli fire upon occasion, 
 
 Proud of himself and her : the world could tell 
 
 Naught against either, and both seem'd secure — 
 
 She in her Adrtue, he in his hauteur. 
 
 XV. 
 
 It chanced some diplomatical relations, 
 Arising out of Ijusiness, often brought 
 
 Himself aiul Juan in their mutual stations 
 
 Into close contact. Though reserved, nor caught 
 
 By specious seeming, Juan's youth, and patience, 
 And talent, on his haughty spirit wrought, 
 
 And forin'd a basis of esteem, which ends 
 
 In making men what courtesy calls friends. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 And thus Lord Henry, who was cautious as 
 Reserve and pride could make him, and full slow 
 
 In judging merf — when once his judgment was 
 Determined, right or WTong, on Iriend or foe. 
 
 Had all flie pertinacity pride has. 
 
 Which knows no elib to its imperious flow. 
 
 And loves or hates, disdaining to be guided, 
 
 Because its own good pleasure hath decided. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 His fi'iendships, therefore, and no less aversions, 
 Though oft well founded, which confirm'd but 
 
 His prepossessions, like the laws of Persians [more 
 And Mcdes, would ne'er revoke what went before. 
 
 His feelings had not those strange fits, like tertians. 
 Of common likings, which make some deplore 
 
 WTiat they sliould laugh at — the mere ague still 
 
 Of men's regard, the fever or the chill. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 " 'Tis not in mortals to command success : 
 
 But '/') !/ou more, Scmpronius — ffo;i7 deserve it." 
 
 And take my word, you won't have any less. 
 Be wary, watch the time, and always serve it ; 
 
 Give gently way, when there 's too great a press ; 
 And for your conscience, only learn to ner\'e it ; 
 
 For, like a racer, or a bo'ier training 
 
 'Twill make, if proved, vast eflTorts without paining. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Lord Henry also liked to be superior. 
 As most men do, the little or the great ; 
 
 The very lowest find out an inferior, 
 At least they think so, to exert their state 
 
 Upon : for there are very few things wearier 
 Than solitary Pride's oppressive weight, 
 
 Wliich mortals generously would divide, 
 
 By bidding others carry while they ride. 
 
 XX. 
 In birth, in rank, in fortune likewise equal, 
 
 O'er Juan he could no distinction claim ; 
 In years he had the advantage of time's sequel ; 
 
 And, as he thought, in country much the same — 
 Because bold Britons have a tongue and free quill 
 
 At wliich all modern nations vainly aim ; 
 And the Lord Henry was a great debater. 
 So that few members kept the house up later. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 These were advantages : and theu he tliought — 
 It was his foible, but by no means sinister — 
 
 That few or none more than himself had caught 
 Court mysteries, having been himself a minister 
 
 He liked to teach that wliich he had been taught, 
 And greatly shone whenever there had been a stir 
 
 And reconciled all qualities which grace man. 
 
 Always a patriot, and sometimes a placeman. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 He liked the gentle Spaniard for his gravity ; 
 
 He almost honor'd him for his docility. 
 Because, tliougli .voung, he acquiesced with suavity 
 
 Or contradicted but with proud humility. 
 He knew the world, and would not see depravity 
 
 In faults which sometimes show the soil's fertility 
 If that the weeds o'crlive not the first croj) — 
 For then they arc very difficult to stop. 
 
 XXIII. 
 And then he talk'd with him about Madrid, 
 
 Constantinople, and such distant jj'aces ; 
 Where people alwa3S did as they were bid, 
 
 Or did what they should not with foreign graces. 
 Of coursers also spake they : Henry rid 
 
 Well, like most Englishmen, and loved the rates; 
 And Juan, like a true-born jVndalusian, 
 Could back a horse, as despots ride a Russian. 
 
 XXIV. 
 And thus acquaintance grew, at noble routs, 
 
 And diplomatic dinners, or at other — 
 For Juan stood well both with Ins and Outs, 
 
 As in freemasonry a higher brother. 
 Upon his talent Henry had no doubts ; 'er 
 
 His manner show'd him sj^rung from a liisrh moth- 
 
Canto xiii. 
 
 DON JUAX. 
 
 703 
 
 And all men like to show their hospitality 
 
 To him whose breeding matches with his quality. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 At Blank-Blank Square ; — for we will break nosquares 
 By naming streets : since men .are so censorious, 
 
 And apt to sow an author's wheat with tares, 
 Reaping allusions private and inglorious, 
 
 Wlicre none were dreamt of, unto love's affairs. 
 Which were, or are, or are to be notorious. 
 
 That therefore do I previously declare, 
 
 Lord Henry's mansion was in Blank-Blank Square. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Also there bin' another pious reason 
 
 For making squares and streets anonymous ; 
 
 Which is, that there is scarce a single season 
 Wliich doth not shake some very splendid house 
 
 With some sUght heart-quake of domestic treason — 
 A topic scandal doth delight to rouse : 
 
 Such I might stumble over unawares. 
 
 Unless I knew the very chastest squares. 
 
 XXVII. 
 Ti8 true, I might have chosen Kccadilly, 
 
 A place where peccadilloes are unknown ; 
 But I have motives, whether wise or silly. 
 
 For letting that pure sanctuary alone. 
 Therefore I name not square, street, place, until I 
 
 Find one where nothing naughty can be shown. 
 A vestal shrine of innocence of heart : 
 Such are -but I have lost the London Chart. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 At Henry's mansion then, in Blank-Blank Square, 
 
 Was Juan a recherche, welcome guest, 
 As many other noble scions were ; 
 
 And some who had but talent for their crest ; 
 Or wealth, which is a passport everywhere ; 
 
 Or even mere fashion, which indeed 's the best 
 Recommendation ; and to be well dress'd 
 Will very often supersede the rest. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 And since " there's safety in a multitude 
 
 Of counsellors," as Solomon has said. 
 Or some one for him, in some sage, grave mood ; — 
 
 Indeed we see the daily proof display'd 
 [n senates, at the bar, in wordy feud, 
 
 Where'er collective wisdom can parade, 
 ■WTiich is the only cause that we can guess 
 Of Britain's present wealth and happiness ; 
 
 XXX. 
 
 But as " there 's safety " grafted in the number 
 " Of counsellors," for men, — thus for the se.t 
 
 ' " With evfry thing that pretty W», 
 
 My lady, sweet, arise."— Shakspeare. 
 
 A large acquaintance lets not Virtue slumber ; 
 
 Or should it shake, the choice will more perplex— 
 Variety itself will more encumber. 
 
 'Midst many rocks we guard more against wrecks 
 And thus with women : howsoe'er it shocks some s 
 Self-love, there 's safety in a crowd of coxcombs. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 But Adeline had not the least occasion 
 For such a shield, which leaves but little merit 
 
 To virtue proper, or good education. 
 
 Her chief resource was in her own high spirit, 
 
 Which judged mankind at their due estimation ; 
 And for coquetry, she disdain'd to wear it ; 
 
 Secure of admiration, its impn ssion 
 
 Was faint, as of an every-day possession 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 To all she was polite without parade. 
 
 To some she show'd attention of that kind 
 
 Which flatters, but is flattery convey'd 
 In such a sort as cannot leave behind 
 
 A trace unworthy either wife or maid ; — 
 A gentle, genial courtesy of mind, 
 
 To those who were, or pass'd for meritorious, 
 
 Just to console sad glory for being glorious ; 
 
 XXXIII. 
 Which is in ail respects, save now and then, 
 
 A dull and desolate appendage. Gaze 
 Upon the shades of those distinguish'd men, 
 
 Who were or are the puppet-shows of praise, 
 The praise of persecution. Gaze again 
 
 On the most favor'd ; and amidst the blaze 
 Of sunset haloes o'er the laurel-brow'd, 
 Wliat can ye recognize ? — a gilded cloud. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 There also was of course in Adeline 
 
 That calm pati-ician polish in the address, 
 
 Which ne'er can pass the equinoctial line 
 Of any thing which nature would express ; 
 
 Just as a mandarin finds nothing tine, — 
 At least his manner sufl'ers not to guess. 
 
 That any thing he views can greatly please. 
 
 Perhaps we have borrow'd this from the Chineae— 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Perhaps from Horace : his ".V/Z a/hnirari''' 
 Was what he call'd the " Art of Happiness ;" 
 
 An art on which the artists greatly vary. 
 And have not yet attain'd to much success. 
 
 However, 'tis expedient to be wary : 
 Indifference certes don't produce distress ; 
 
 And rash enthusiasm in good society 
 
 Were nothing but a moral inebriety. 
 
704 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto xih, 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 But Adeline was not indifFerent : for 
 
 (3')w for a common-place I) beneath tbe snow, 
 
 As a volcano holds the lava more 
 
 Within— c^ rrvt, ra. Shall I go on ? — No ! 
 
 [ hate to hunt down a tired metaphor, 
 So let the often-used volcano go. 
 
 Poor thing ! How frequently, by me and others, 
 
 It hath been stirr'd up till its smoke quite smothers ! 
 
 xxxvu. 
 
 I'll have another figure in a trice : — 
 What say you to a bottle of champagne ? 
 
 Frozen into a very vinous ice, 
 Which leaves few drops of that immortal rain, 
 
 Yet in the very centre, past all price. 
 About a liquid glassful will remain ; 
 
 And this is stronger than the strongest grape 
 
 Could e'er express in its exjianded shape : 
 
 xxxvm. 
 
 Tis the whole spirit brought to a quintessence ; 
 
 And thus the chillest aspects may concentre 
 A hidden nectar under a cold presence. 
 
 And such are many — though I only meant her 
 From whom I now deduce these moral lessons, 
 
 On which the Muse has always sought to enter: 
 iVnd your cold people are beyond all price. 
 When once you have broken their confounded ice. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 But after all they are a Northwest Passage 
 
 Unto the glowing India of the soul ; 
 And as the good ships sent upon that message 
 
 Have not exactly ascertain'd the Pole, 
 (Though Parry's efforts look a lucky presage,) 
 
 Thus gentlemen may run upon a shoal ; 
 For if the Pole 's not open, but all frost, 
 (A chance still,) 'tis a voyage or vessel lost. 
 
 XL. 
 
 And young beginners may as well commence 
 With quiet cruising o'er the ocean woman ; 
 
 Wliile those who are not beginners should have sense 
 Enough to make for port, ere time shall summon 
 
 With his gray signal-flag ; and the past tense. 
 The dreary "Fu;m>is'^ of all things human. 
 
 Must be decUned, while life's thin thread 's spun out 
 
 Between the gaping heir and gnawing gout. 
 
 XLI. 
 But heaven must be diverted ; its diversion 
 
 Is sometimes truculent — but nevi r mind : 
 The world upon the whole is worth the assertion 
 
 (If but for comfort) that all things are kind : 
 And that same devilisli doctrine of the Persian, 
 
 Of th« two principles, but leaves behind 
 
 As many doubts as any other doctrine 
 
 Eas ever puzzled Faith withal, or yoked her in: 
 
 XI.II. 
 The English winter — ending in July, 
 
 To recommence in August — now was done. 
 'Tis the j)ostillion's paradise : wheels fly ; 
 
 On roads, east, south, north, west, there is a run. 
 Hut for post-horses who finds sympathy ? 
 
 Man's pity 's for himself, or for his son, 
 Always premising that said soh at college 
 Has not contracted much more debt than knowledge 
 
 XUII. 
 The London T\-inter 's ended in July — 
 
 Sometimes a little later. I don't err 
 In this : whatever other blunders lie 
 
 Upon my shoulders, here I must aver 
 My Muse a glass of weatherology ; 
 
 For parliament is our barometer : 
 Let radicals its other acts attack. 
 Its sessions form our only almanack. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Wlien its quicksilver 's down at zero, — lo ! 
 
 Coach, chariot, luggage, baggage, equipage ' 
 Wliccls whirl from Carlton palace to Soho, 
 
 And happiest they who horses can engage ; 
 The turnpikes glow with dust ; and Rotten Row 
 
 Sleeps from the chivalry of this bright age ; 
 And tradesmen, with long bills and longer faces, 
 Sigh — as the postboys fasten on the traces. 
 
 XLY. 
 They and their bills, " Arcadians both," are left 
 
 To the Greek kalends of another session. 
 Alas ! to them of ready cash bereft. 
 
 What hope remains ? Of /lope the full possession 
 Or generous draft, conceded as a gift, 
 
 At a long date — ^till they can get a fresh one — 
 Hawk'd about at a discount, small or large ; 
 Also the solace of an overcharge. 
 
 XLVr. 
 But these are trifles. Downward flies my lord, 
 
 Nodding beside my lady in his carriage. 
 Away ! away ! " Fresh horses I" are the word, 
 
 And changed as quickly as hearts after marriage 
 The obsequious landlord hath the change restored ; 
 
 The postboys have no reason to disparage 
 Their fee ; but ere the water'd wheels may hiss hcnc^ 
 The ostler 2)leads too for a reminiscence. 
 
 XLvn. 
 
 'Tis granted ; and the valet mounts th t dickey — 
 Tliat gentleman of lords and gentlemen : 
 
 Also my lady's gentlewoman, tricky, 
 Trick'd out, but modest more than poet's pen 
 
Canto nii. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 70C 
 
 Can paint, — "Owj vingginn i Eicchi P'' 
 
 (Excuse a foreign slipslop now and then, 
 If but to show I've travelVl ; and what 's travel. 
 Unless it teaches one to quote and cavil ?) 
 
 XLVIII. 
 The London winter and the country summer 
 
 Were well nigh over. 'Tis perhaps a pity- 
 When nature wears the gown that doth become her, 
 
 To lose those best months in a sweaty city, 
 And wait until the nightingale grows dumber, 
 
 Listening debates not very wise or vritty, 
 Ere patriots their true country can remember ; — 
 But there 's no shooting (save grouse) till September. 
 
 XLIX. 
 I've done with my tirade. The world was gone ; 
 
 The twice two thousand, for whom earth was 
 Were vanish'd to be what they call alone — [made, 
 
 That is, with thirty servants for parade. 
 As many guests, or more ; before whom groan 
 
 As many covers, duly, daily, laid. 
 Let none accuse Old England's hospitality — 
 Its quantity is but condensed to quality. 
 
 L. 
 Lord Henry and the Lady Adeline 
 
 Departed like the rest of their compeers, 
 The peerage, to a mansion very fine ; 
 
 The Gothic Babel of a thousand years. 
 None than themselves could boast a longer line, 
 
 Where time through heroes and through beauties 
 And oaks as olden as their pedigree [steers ; 
 
 Told of their sires, a tomb in every tree. 
 
 LI. 
 A paragraph in every paper told 
 
 Of their departure : such is modern fame. 
 'Tis jjity that it takes no farther hold 
 
 Th.in an advertisement, or miich the same ; 
 When, ere the ink be dry, the sound grows cold. 
 
 The Mornini; Post was foremost to proclaim — 
 " Departure, for his country seat, to-day, 
 Lord H. AmundeviUe and Lady A. 
 
 LII. 
 'We understand the splendid host intends 
 
 To entertain, this autumn, a select 
 And numerous party of his nolile friends ; 
 
 Midst whom we have heard, from sources quite 
 correct, 
 The Duke of D the shooting season spends. 
 
 With many more by rank and fashion deck'd ; 
 Also a foreigner of high condition. 
 The envoy of the secret Russian mission." 
 
 LIII. 
 
 And tlius we see — who doubts the Morning Post f 
 (Whose articles are like the " Thirty-nine," 
 89 
 
 Which those most swear to who believe them most) — 
 Our gay Russ Spaniard was ordain'd to sliine, 
 
 Deck'd by tlie rays reflected from his host. 
 
 With those who, Pope says, " greatly daring dine." 
 
 'Tis odd, but true, — last war the News abounded 
 
 More with these dinners than the kill'd or wounded ; — 
 
 LIV. 
 As thus : " On Thursday there was a grand dinner ; 
 
 Present, Lords A. B. C." — Earls, dukes, by name 
 Announced with no less pomp than victory's winner : 
 
 Then underneath, and in the very same [here 
 
 Column ; date, " Falmouth. There has lately been 
 
 The Slap-dash regiment, so well known to fame ; 
 Wliose loss in the late action we regret : 
 The vacancies are fill'd up — see Gazette.'' 
 
 LV. 
 To Norman Abbey whirl'd the noble pair, — 
 
 An old, old monastery once, and now 
 Still older mansion, — of a rich and rare 
 
 Mix'd Gothic, such as artists all allow 
 Few specimens yet left us can compare 
 
 Withal : it lies perliaps a little low, 
 Because the monks jjreferr'd a hill behind, 
 To shelter their devotion from the wind. 
 
 LVI. 
 It stood embosom'd in a happy valley, 
 
 Crown'd byhigh woodlands, where the Druid oak 
 Stood like Caractacus in act to rally 
 
 His host, with broad arms 'gainst the thunder- 
 stroke ; 
 And from beneath his boughs were seen to sally 
 
 The dappled foresters — as day awoke. 
 The branching stag swept down with all his herd, 
 To quatf a brook which murmur'd like a bird. 
 
 LTII. 
 Before the mansion lay a lucid lake, 
 
 Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed 
 By a river, which its soften'd way did take 
 
 In currents through the calmer water spread 
 Around : the wild-fowl nestled in the brake 
 
 And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed : 
 The woods sloped downwards to its brink, and 
 With their green faces fix'd upon the flood, [stood 
 
 LYIII. 
 Its outlet dash'd into a deep cascade, 
 
 Sjiavkling with foam, until again subsiding, 
 Its shriller echoes — like an infant made 
 
 Quiet — sank into softer ripples, gliding 
 Into a rivulet ; and thus allay'd. 
 
 Pursued its course, now gleaming, and now hiding 
 Its windings through the woods ; now clear, now 
 
 blue. 
 According as the skies their shadows threw. 
 
706 
 
 iJYRONg WORRS. 
 
 Canto xm. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 A glorious remnant of the (iotliic pile [apart 
 
 (Wliilc yet the church was Rome's) stood half 
 
 In a grand arch, whicVi once screen'd many an aisle. 
 These last had disapjjear'd — a loss to art : 
 
 The first yet frown'd superbly o'er the soil, 
 And kindk'd feelings in the roughest heart, 
 
 Which mourn'd the jjowcr of time's or tempest's 
 
 In gazing on that venerable arch. [march, 
 
 LX. 
 Within a niclie, nigh to its pinnacle, 
 
 Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in stone ; 
 But these had fallen, not when the friars fell. 
 
 But in the war which struck Charles from his 
 throne, 
 Wlien each house was a fortalice — as tell 
 
 The annals of full many a line undone, — 
 The gallant cavaliers, who fought in vain 
 For those who knew not to resign or reign. 
 
 LXI. 
 But in a higher niche, alone, but crown'd. 
 
 The Virgin Mother of the God-born Child, 
 With her Son in her blessed arms, look'd round. 
 
 Spared by some chance when all beside was spoil'd; 
 She made the earth below seem holy ground. 
 
 This may be superstition, weak or wild. 
 But even the faintest relics of a shrine 
 Of any worship wake some thoughts divine. 
 
 LXII. 
 A mighty window, hollow in the centre, 
 
 Shorn of its glass of thousand colorings. 
 Through which the deepcn'd glories once could enter. 
 
 Streaming from ofl" the sun like seraph's wings. 
 Now yawns all desolate : now loud, now fainter. 
 
 The gale sweeps through its fretwork, and oft 
 The owl his anthem, where the silenced choir [sings 
 Lie with their hallelujahs quench'd like fire. 
 
 Lxni 
 
 But in the noontide of the moon, and when 
 The wind is winged from one point of heaven. 
 
 There moans a strange unearthly sound, which then 
 Is musical — a djang accent driven 
 
 Through the huge arch, which soars and sings again 
 Some deem it but the distant echo given 
 
 Back to the night wind by the waterfall. 
 
 And harmonized by the old choral wall : 
 
 LXIV. 
 Others, that some original shape, or form 
 
 Shaped by decay perchance, liath given the power 
 (Though less than that of Memnon's statue, warm 
 
 In Egypt's rays, to harp at a fix'd hour) 
 To tliis gray ruin, with a voice to charm : 
 
 Sad, but serene, it sweeps over tree or tower ; 
 
 The cause I know not, nor can solve ; but such 
 The fact : — I've heard it, — once perhaps too much. 
 
 LXV. 
 Amidst the court a Gothic fountain play'd, 
 
 Syinmetrical, but deck'd with carvings quaint — 
 Strange faces, like to men in masquerade, 
 
 And here perhaps a monster, there a saint : 
 The spring gush'd through grim mouths of granite 
 
 And sparkled into basins, where it spent [made, 
 Its little torrent in a thousand bubliles, 
 Like man's vain glory, and his vainer troubles. 
 
 LXVI. 
 The mansion's self was vast and venerable. 
 
 With more of the monastic than has been 
 Elsewhere preserved : the cloisters still were stable, 
 
 The cells, too, and refectory, I wean : 
 An exquisite small chapel had bec'U able, 
 
 Still nnimpair'd, to decorate the scene ;■ 
 The rest had been reform'd, replaced, or sunk, 
 And spoke more of the baron than the monk. 
 
 LXVII. 
 Huge halls, long galleries, spacious chambers, join'd 
 
 By no quite lawful marriage of the arts. 
 Might shock a connoisseur ; but when combined, 
 
 Form'd a whole which, irregular in parts, 
 Yet left a grand impression on the mind. 
 
 At least of those whose eyes are in their hearts , 
 We gaze upon a giant for his stature. 
 Nor judge at first if aU be true to nature. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 Steel barons, molten the next generation 
 
 To silken rows of gay and garter'd carls. 
 Glanced from the walls in goodly preservation : 
 
 And Lady Marys blooming into girls. 
 With fair long locks, had also kept their station : 
 
 And countesses mature in robes and pearls ; 
 Also some beauties of Sir Peter Lely, 
 Whose drapery hints we may admire them freely. 
 
 LXIX. 
 Judges in very formidable ermine 
 
 Where there, with brows that did not much invite 
 The accused to think their lordships would deter- 
 mine 
 
 nis cause by leaning much from might to right : 
 Bishops, who had not left a single sermon; 
 
 Attorneys-general, awful to the sight. 
 As hinting more (unless our judgments warp us) 
 Of the " Star Chamber" than of "Habeas Corpus.' 
 
 LXX. 
 
 Generals, some all in armor, of the old 
 
 And iron time, ere lead had ta'en the lead ; 
 
 Others in wigs of ilarlhorough's martial fold, 
 linger than twelve of our degenerate breed: 
 
Canto xiii. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 101 
 
 Lorillings, with staves of white or keys of gold : 
 
 Nimrods, whose canvass scarce contain'd the steed; 
 And here and there some stern high patriot stood, 
 Who could not get the place for which lie sued. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 But ever and anon, to soothe your vision, 
 Fatigued with these hereditary ghmcs, 
 
 There rose a Carlo Dolce or a Titian, 
 Or wilder group of savage Salvatore's ;' 
 
 Here danced Albano's boys, and here the sea shone 
 In Vernet's ocean lights ; and there the stories 
 
 Of martyrs awed, as Spagnoletto tainted 
 
 Ilis lirush with all the blood of all the sainted. 
 
 LXXII. 
 Here sweetly spread a landscape of Lorraine ; 
 
 There Rembrandt made his darkness equal light. 
 Or gloomy Caravaggio's gloomier stain 
 
 Bronzed o'er some lean and stoic anchorite : — 
 But, lo ! a Teniers woos, and not in vain, 
 
 Tour eyes to revel in a livelier sight : 
 His bell-mouth'd goblet makes me feel quite Danish' 
 Or Dutch with thirst — What, ho ! a flask of Rhenish. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 reader ! if that thou canst read, — and know, 
 'Tis not enough to spell, or even to read. 
 
 To constitute a reader ; there must go 
 
 Virtues of which both you and I have need. 
 
 Firstly, begin with the beginning ; — (though 
 Tliat clause is hard ;) and secondly, proceed ; 
 
 Thirdly, commence not with the end — or, sinning 
 
 In this sort, end at least with the beginning. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 But, reader, thou hast patient been of late, 
 
 While I, without remorse of rhyme, or fear, 
 Have built and laid out ground at such a rate, 
 
 Dan Phcebus takes me for an auctioneer. 
 That poets were so from their earliest date. 
 
 By Homer's "catalogue of ships" is clear; 
 But a mere modern must be moderate — 
 
 1 spare you then the furniture and plate. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 The mellow autumn came, and with it came 
 The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. 
 
 The corn is cut, the manor full of game ; 
 
 The pointer ranges, and the spor.sman beats 
 
 In russet jacket : — l\-nx-like is his aim ; 
 
 Full grows his bag, and wonder/'?;/ his feats. 
 
 Ah, nut-brown partridges ! Ah, brilliant pheasants ! 
 
 And ah, ye poachers ! — 'Tis no sport for peasants. 
 
 ' Salvator ■Ro=ft. 
 
 ' If I en- not. " your Dane " is one of lago'e cataloj,nie of na- 
 Hona " exqnisite in their drinkins." 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 An English autumn, though it hath no vines, 
 Blushing with Bacchant coronals along 
 
 The paths, o'er which the far festoon entwines 
 The red grape in the sunny lands of song. 
 
 Hath yet a purchased choice of choicest wines ; 
 The claret light, and the Madeira strong. 
 
 If Britain mourn her bleakness, we can tell her, 
 
 The very best of vineyards is the cellar. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 Then, if she hath not that serene decline 
 
 Which makes the southern autumn's day appear 
 As if 'twould to a second spring resign 
 
 The season, rather than to winter drear, — 
 Of in-door comforts still she hath a mine, — 
 
 The sea-coal tires the " earliest of the year ;" 
 Without doors, too, she may compete in mellow, 
 As what is lost in green is gain'd in yellow. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 And for the effeminate riUegaiaHira — [chase, 
 
 Rife with more horns than hounds — she hath the 
 So animated that it might allure a 
 
 Saint from his beads to join the jocund race ; 
 Even Ninirod's self might leave the plains of Dura, 
 
 And wear the Melton jacket for a space : 
 If she hath no wild boars, she hath a tame 
 Preserve of bores, who ought to be made game. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 The noble guests, assembled at the Abbey, 
 Consisted of — we give the sex the pas — 
 
 The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke ; the Countess Crabh'y ; 
 The Ladies Scilly, Busey ; — Jliss Eclat, 
 
 Miss Bombazeen, Miss Jlackstay, Miss O'Tabby, 
 And Mrs. Rabbi, the rich banker's squaw : 
 
 Also the honoraljle Mrs. Sleej], 
 
 Who look'd a white lamb, yet was a black sheep : 
 
 LXXX. 
 With other Countesses of Blank — but rank ; 
 
 At once the " lie '' and the " filite " of crowds ; 
 Who pass like water filter'd in a tank. 
 
 All purged and pious from their native clouds ' 
 Or paper turn'd to money by the Bank : 
 
 No matter how or why, the passport shrouds 
 The " passee " and the past ; for good society 
 Is no less famed for tolerance than piety, — 
 
 LXXXI. 
 That is, up to a certain point ; which point 
 
 Forms the most difficult in punctuation. 
 Appearances appear to form the joint 
 
 On which it hinges in a higher station ; 
 And so that no explosion cry " Aroint 
 
 Thee, witch 1" or each Medea has h( r Jason 
 
708 
 
 BYRON'S "WORKS. 
 
 Canto xiii. 
 
 Or (to the poiut with Horace and with Pulci) 
 " Uinne tulit jiunctutn, qu« miscuit ■utile tlulci." 
 
 LXXXII. 
 I can't exactly trace their rule of right, 
 
 Wliicb hath a little leaning to a lottery. 
 I've seen a virtuous woman put down quite 
 
 By the mere coml^inatiou of a coterie ; 
 And a so-so matron boldly fight 
 
 Her way back to the world by dint of plottery, 
 And shine the very Siria of the spheres, 
 Escaping with a few slight, scarless sneers. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 I have seen more than I'll say : — but we will see 
 
 How our niUeijijiatura will get on. 
 The party might consist of thirty-three 
 
 Of highest caste — the Brahmins of the ton. 
 I have named a few, not foremost in degree, 
 
 But ta'en at hazard as the rhyme may run. 
 By way of sprinkling, scatter'd amongst these, 
 There also were some Irish absentees. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 There was Parolles, too, the legal bully, 
 
 Wlio limits all his battles to the bar 
 And senate : when in^dted elsewhere, truly. 
 
 He shows more appetite for words than war. 
 There was the young bard Rackrhyme.who had newly 
 
 Come out and glimmer'd as a six weeks' star. 
 There was Lord Pyrrho, too, the great freethinker ; 
 And Sir Jolin Pottledeep, the mighty drinker. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 There was the Duke of Dash, who was a — duke, 
 
 " Ay, every inch a " duke ; there were twelve peers 
 Like Cliarleinagne's — and all such peers in look 
 
 And intellect, that neither eyes nor ears 
 For commoners had ever them mistook. 
 
 There were the six Miss Rawbolds — pretty dears ! 
 All song and sentiment ; whose hearts were set 
 Less on a convent than a coronet. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 There were four Honorable Misters, whose 
 
 Honor was more before their names than after ; 
 There was the preux Chevalier de la Ruse, [here^ 
 
 Wliom France and Fortune lately deign'd to waft 
 Whose chiefly harmless talent was to amuse ; 
 
 But the clubs found it rather serious laughter. 
 Because — such was his magic power to please — 
 The d'ce scem'd charm'd, too, with his repartees. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 There was Dick Dubious, the metaphysician, 
 
 Wlio loved philosopliy and a good dinner; 
 Angle, the soi-disant mathematician ; 
 
 Sir Henry Silvercup, the great race-winner. 
 
 There was the Reverend Rodomont Precisian, 
 
 ■^Nlio did not hate so much the sin as sinner; 
 And Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet, 
 Good at all things, but better at a bet. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 There was Jack Jargon, the gigantic guardsman . 
 
 And General Fireface, famous in the field, 
 A great tactician, and no less a swordsman, 
 
 Wlio ate, last war, more Yankees tlum he kilVd. 
 There was the waggish Welsh Judge, Jeflc'ries Hards 
 
 In his grave office so completely skill'd, [man 
 That when a culprit came for condeumation, 
 He had his judge's joke for consolation. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 Good company 's a chess-board — there are kings, 
 
 Queens, bishops, knights, rooks, pawns; the world'e 
 a game ; 
 Save that the puppets pull at their own strings, 
 
 Methinks gay Punch hath something of the same. 
 My Muse, the butterfly hath but her wings. 
 
 Not stings, and flits through ether without aim, 
 Alighting rarely : — were she but a hornet, 
 Perhaps there might be vices which would mourn it. 
 
 XC. 
 
 I had forgotten — but must not forget — 
 
 An orator, the latest of the session, 
 Who had deliver'd well a very set 
 
 Smooth speech, his first and maidenly transgres- 
 Upon debate : the papers echo'd yet [sion, 
 
 With his debut, which made a strong impression, 
 And rank'd with what is every day display'd — 
 " The best first speech that ever yet was made." 
 
 XCI. 
 Proud of his " Hear hims !" proud, too, of his vote 
 
 And lost ^-irginity of oratory. 
 Proud of his learning, (just enough to quote,) 
 
 He reveli'd in his Ciceronian glory : 
 With memory excellent to get by rote. 
 
 With wit to hatch a ])un or tell a story. 
 Graced with some merit, and with more effrontery, 
 " His country's pride," he came down to the country. 
 
 XCII, 
 There also were two wits by acclamation. 
 
 Longbow from Ireland, Strongbow Irom the Tweed. 
 Both lawyers and both men of education ; 
 
 But Strongbow's wit was of more polish' 1 breed 
 Longbow was rich in an imagination 
 
 As beautiful and bounding as a steed, 
 But sometimes stumbling over a potato, — [Cato. 
 While Strongbow's Iiest things might have come from 
 
 XCIII. 
 Strongbow was like a new-tuned harpsichord; 
 But Longbow wild as an ^olian harp. 
 
Canto xin. 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 709 
 
 With -n-liicli tlie winds of heaven can claim accord, 
 And make a music, whcthcx flat or sharp. 
 
 Of Strongbow's talk you would not change a word : 
 At Longbow's phrases you might sometimes carp : 
 
 Both wits — one born so, and the other bred. 
 
 This by his heart — his rival by his head. 
 
 XCIV. 
 If all these seem a heterogeneous mass 
 
 To be assembled at a country seat, 
 Yet think, specimen of every class 
 
 Ts better than a humdrum tete-a-tete. 
 The day's of Comedy are gone, alas ! 
 
 When Congreve's fool could vie with Moliere's hete: 
 Society is smooth'd to that excess. 
 That manners hardly difl'er more than dress. 
 
 XCV. 
 Our ridicules are kept in the background — 
 
 Ridiculous enough, but also dull ; 
 Professions, too, are no more to be found 
 
 Professional ; and there is naught to cull 
 Of folly's fruit : for though your fools aliound. 
 
 They 're liarrea, and not worth the pains to puU. 
 Society is now one polish'd horde, 
 Form'd of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored. 
 
 XCVI. 
 But from being farmers, we turn gleaners, gleaning 
 
 The scanty but right-well thresh'd ears of truth ; 
 And, gentle reader ! when you gather meaning, 
 
 You may be Boaz, and I — modest Ruth. 
 Farther I'd quote, but Scrijoture intervening 
 
 Forliids. A great impression in my youth 
 Was made by Mrs. Adams, where she cries, 
 " That Scriptures out of church are blasphemies.'" 
 
 XCVII. 
 But what we can we glean in this vile age 
 
 Of chaff, although our gleanings be not grist. 
 I must not quite omit the talking sage, 
 
 Kit-Cat, the famous Conversationist, 
 Who, in his common-place book, had a page 
 
 Prepared each morn for evenings. "List, oh, 
 " Alas, poor ghost !" — What unexpected woes [Ust I" — 
 Await those who have studied their bon-mots ! 
 
 XCVIII. 
 Firstly, they must allure the conversation, 
 
 By many windings to their clever clinch ; 
 And secondly, must let slip no occasion, 
 
 Nor hote (abate) their hearers of an inch, 
 But take an ell — and make a great sensation. 
 
 If ])ossible ; and thirdly, never flinch 
 When some smart talker puts them to the test, 
 But seize the last word, which no doubt 's the best. 
 
 * ^' Mrs. Adams answered Mr. Adams, that it was blasphemons 
 JO talk of Scilntore oat of church." This dogma wui broacbed 
 
 XCIX. 
 Lord Ileniy and his lady were the hosts ; 
 
 The party we have touch'd on were the guests. 
 Their table was a board to tempt even ghosts 
 
 To pass the Styx for more substantial feasts. 
 I will not dwell uijon ragouts or roasts, 
 
 Albeit all human history attests 
 That happiness for man — the hungry sinner ! — 
 Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner. 
 
 C. 
 
 Witness the lands which " flow'd with milk and 
 honey," 
 
 Held out unto the hungry Israelites ; 
 To this we have added since, the love of money, 
 
 The only sort of pleasure which requites. 
 Youth fades, and leaves our days no longer sunny ; 
 
 We tire of mistresses and parasites ; 
 But oh, ambrosial cash ! Ah ! who would lose thee 
 When we no more can use, or even abuse thee ? 
 
 CL 
 The gentlemen got up betimes to shoot. 
 
 Or hunt : the young, because they liked the sport — 
 The first thing boys like, after play and fruit ; 
 
 The middle-aged, to make the day more short ; 
 For ennui is a growth of EngUsh root. 
 
 Though nameless in our language : — we retort 
 The fact for words, and let the French translate 
 That awful yawn wliich sleep cannot abate. 
 
 on. 
 
 The elderly walk'd through the library. 
 
 And tumbled books, or criticised the picli^res, 
 
 Or saunter'd through the gardens piteously. 
 
 And made upon the hot-house several strictures, 
 
 Or rode a nag which trotted not too high, 
 Or on the morning papers read their lectures, 
 
 Or on the watch their longing eyes would fix, 
 
 Longing at sixty for the hour of six. 
 
 cm. 
 But none were " genC :" the great hour of union 
 
 Was rung by dinner's knell ; till then all were 
 Masters of their own time — or in communion, 
 
 Or soUtary, as they chose to bear 
 The hours, which how to pass is but to few known. 
 
 Each rose up at his own, and had to spare 
 What time he chose for dress, and broke his fast 
 When, where, and how he chose for that rejiast. 
 
 CIV. 
 The ladies — some rouged, some a little pale — • 
 
 Met the morn as they might. If fine, they rode, 
 Or walk'd ; if foul, they read, or told a tale. 
 
 Sung, or rehearsed the last dance from abroad ; 
 
 to her husband— the best Christian in any book.— See Joseph An 
 drewt. 
 
710 
 
 BFRON'S WORKS. 
 
 «JANT0 or 
 
 Discuss'd the fashion whi ;h might next prevail, 
 
 And settled bonnets by the newest code, 
 Or cranuu'd twelve sheets into one little letter, 
 To make each corresj)ondent a new^ debtor. 
 
 CV. 
 For some had absent lovers, all had friends. 
 
 The earth has notliing like a she epistle, 
 And hardly heaven — because it never ends. 
 
 I love the mystery of a female missal, 
 Wliieh, like a creed, ne'er says all it intends. 
 
 But full of cunning as Ulysses' whistle, 
 When he allured poor Dolon : — you had better 
 Take care what you reply to such a letter. 
 
 CVI. 
 Then there were billiards ; cards, too, but no dice ; — 
 
 Save in the clubs no man of honor plays ; — 
 Hoats when 'twas water, skating when 'twas ice. 
 
 And the hard frost destroy'd the scenting days : 
 And angling, too, that solitary vice. 
 
 Whatever Izaak 'Walton sings or says : 
 The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet 
 Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.' 
 
 CVII. 
 With evening came the banquet and the wine ; 
 
 The conversazione ; the duet. 
 Attuned by voices more or less divine, 
 
 (My heart or head aches with the memory yet.) 
 The four Miss Rawbolds in a glee would shine ; 
 
 But the two youngest loved more to be set 
 Down to the harj) — because to music's charms 
 They added graceful necks, white hands and arms. 
 
 CVIII. 
 Sometimes a dance (though rarely on field days, 
 
 For then the gentlemen were rather tired) 
 Dis])lay'd some sylph-like figures in its maze ; 
 
 Then there was small-talk ready when required ; 
 Flirtation — but decorous ; the mere praise 
 
 Of charms that should or sho\ild not be admired. 
 The hunters fought their fox-hunt o'er again. 
 And then retreated soberly — at ten. 
 
 CIX. 
 The politicians, in a nook apart, 
 
 Discuss'd the world, and settled all the spheres : 
 The wits watch'd every loophole for their art. 
 
 To introduce a bon-mot head and ears ; 
 
 ' It would have taujjht him humanity at least. This sentimental 
 eavage, whom it is a mode to quote (amonyst the novelist?) to 
 show Iheir sympathy for innocent sports and old snngs, teaches 
 how to sew up froi;s, and breal< their legs by way of experiment, 
 In addition to the art of ansliuir,— the cruclest, the coldest, and 
 the stupidest of i>retended sports. They may talk about the beau- 
 ties of nature, but the angler meri.ly tliinlis of liis dish of flsh ; 
 lie has no li-isur" lo take his eyc^s from off the streams, and a 
 Bingle bite is woitii lo liim more than all the scenery around. Be- 
 tides, Bomo flsh bite best on a rainy day. Tlie whale, the shark. 
 
 Small is the rest of those who would be smart, 
 
 A moment's good thing may have cost th^.nl years, 
 Before they find an hour to introduce it : [lose it 
 And then, even then, some bore may make them 
 
 C.\'. 
 But all was gentle and aristocratic 
 
 In this our party ; polish'd, smooth, and cold. 
 As Phidian forms cut out of marble Attic. 
 
 There now are no Squire Westerns as of old ; 
 And our Sophias are not so emphatic. 
 
 But fair as then, or fairer to behold. 
 We have no accomplish'd blackguards, like Tom 
 But gentlemen in stays, as stiff as stones. [Jones. 
 
 CXI. 
 
 They separated at an early hour ; 
 
 That is, ere midnight — which is London's noon : 
 But in the country ladies seek their liower 
 
 A little earlier than the waning moon. 
 Peace to the slumbers of each folded flower — 
 
 May the rose call back its true color soon ! 
 Good hours of fair cheeks are the fairest tinters. 
 And lower the price of rouge — at least some winters, 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO THE FOURTEENTH. 
 
 If from great nature's or our own abyss 
 
 Of thought we could but snatch a certainty. 
 
 Perhaps mankind might find the path they miss — 
 But then 't would spoil much good philosophy. 
 
 One system eats another up, and this 
 Much as old Saturn ate his progeny ; 
 
 For when his jiious consort gave him stones 
 
 In lieu of sons, of these he made no bones. 
 
 II. 
 But System doth reverse the Titan's breakfast. 
 
 And eats her parents, albeit the digestion 
 Is difficult. Pray tell me. can you make fast, 
 
 After due search, your faith to any question ? 
 Look back o'er ages, ere unto the stake fast 
 
 You bind yourself, and call some mode the best one, 
 Nothing more true than not to trust your senses ; 
 And yet what are your other evidences ? 
 
 and the tunny flshery have somewhat of noble and perilous it 
 them ; even net fishing, trawling, etc., ar more hunnine and use- 
 ful. But angling I— no angler can be a good man. 
 
 " One of the best men I ever knew,— as humane, delicate- 
 minded, generous, and excellent a creature as any in the world,— 
 was an angler ; true, he angled with jiainted flies, and would have 
 been incapable of the extravagancies ol' I. \A'allon." 
 
 The above addition was made by a friend in reading over th« 
 MS,— ".\udi alteram partem." -I leave it to counterbalance nn 
 own observation. 
 
CaKTO XIV. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 in 
 
 III. 
 
 For me, I know naught ; notliing I deny, 
 
 Admit, reject, contemn ; and what know you, 
 
 Except perhajjs that you were born to die ? 
 And both may after all turn out untrue. 
 
 An age may come. Font of Eternity, 
 
 When nothing shall be either old or new. 
 
 Death, so call'd, is a thing which makes men weep, 
 
 And yet a third of life is pass'd in sleep. 
 
 IV. 
 A sleep without dreams, after a rough day 
 
 Of toil, is what we covet most ; and yet 
 How clay shrinks back from more quiescent clay ! 
 
 The very Suicide that pays his debt 
 At once without instalments (an old way 
 
 Of paying del>ts, which creditors regret) 
 Lets out impatiently his rushing breath. 
 Less from disgust of life than dread of death. 
 
 V. 
 'Tis round him, near him, here, there, everywhere ; 
 
 And there 's a courage which grows out of fear, 
 Perliaps of all most desperate, which will dare 
 
 The worst to !.-iiow it: — when the mountains rear 
 Their peaks beneath your human foot, and there 
 
 You look down o'er the precipice, and drear 
 The gulf of rock yawns, — you can't gaze a minute, 
 Without an awful wish to plimge within it. 
 
 VI. 
 
 'Tis true, you don't — but, pale and struck with terror, 
 Ketire : but look into your past impression ! 
 
 And you will find, though shuddering at the mirror 
 Of your own thoughts, in all their self-confession, 
 
 The lurking bias, be it truth or error. 
 To the uiil-iwi.cn ; a secret prepossession. 
 
 To plunge with all your fears — but where 5 You 
 know not. 
 
 And that 's the reason why you do — or do not. 
 
 VII. 
 But what 's this to the purpose ? you will say. 
 
 Gent, reader, nothing ; a mere speculation. 
 For which my sole excuse is — 'tis my way, 
 
 Sometimes vith and sometimes without occasion 
 I write what 's uppermost, without delay ; 
 
 This narrative is not meant for narration. 
 But a mere airy and fantastic basis. 
 To IjuiUl up cominou things with common places. 
 
 VIII. 
 You know, or don't know, that great Bacon saith, 
 " Fling up a straw, 'twill show the way the wind 
 blows ;" 
 And such a straw, borne on h\ liuman breath. 
 
 Is poesy, according as tlic mind glows ; 
 ,A paper kite which flies 'twi.\t life and death, 
 A shadow which tht onward soul behind throws : 
 
 And mine 's a bubble, not blown up for praise, 
 
 But just to play with, as an infant plays. 
 
 I.\. 
 The world is all before me — or behind ; 
 
 For I have seen a portion of that same. 
 And quite enough for me to keep in mind ; — 
 
 Of passions, too, I have proved enough to blame, 
 To the great pleasure of our friends, mankind, 
 
 Wlio like to mix some slight alloy with fame ; 
 For I was rather famous in my time. 
 Until I fairly knock'd it up with rhyme. 
 
 X. 
 
 I have brought this world about my ears, and eke 
 The other : that 's to say, the clergy — who 
 
 Upon my head have bid their thunders break 
 In pious liliels by no means a few. 
 
 And yet I can't help scribbUng once a week. 
 Tiring old readers, nor discovering new. 
 
 In youth I wrote because my mind was full, 
 
 And now because I feel it growing dull. 
 
 XI. 
 
 But " why then publish V — There are no rewards 
 Of fame or profit when the world grows weary. 
 
 I ask in turn, — Why do you i^lay at cards ? 
 
 Why drink ? Wliy read ? — To make some houi 
 
 It occupies me to turn back regards [less dreary 
 On what I 've seen or ponder'd, sad or cheery ; 
 
 And what I write I cast upon the stream. 
 
 To swim or sink — I "ve had at least my dream. 
 
 XII. 
 I think that were I certain of success, 
 
 I hardly could comjjose another line : 
 So long I 've battled either more or less. 
 
 That no defeat can drive me from th-s JSine. 
 This feeling 'tis not easy to express, 
 
 And yet 'tis not afl'ected, I opine. 
 In play, there are two pleasures for your choosing — 
 The one is -ninning, and the other losi>-g. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Besides, my Muse by no means deals ir action, 
 
 She gathers a repertory of facts. 
 Of course with some reserve and slight itstriction. 
 
 But mostly sings of human things ai d acts — 
 And that 's one cause she meets with contradiction 
 
 For too much truth, at first sight, ne'er attracts ; 
 And were her oljject only what 's call'd g'ory 
 With more ease too she'd tell a diflerent storv. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Love, war, a tempest — surely there 's variety ; 
 
 Also a seasoning slight of lucubration ; 
 A bird's-eye view, too, of that wild. Society ; 
 
 A slight glance thrown on men of every station. 
 
712 
 
 BTROiST'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto xty. 
 
 If you have naught else, here 'a at least satiety, 
 
 Both in performance and in preparation ; 
 And though these lines should only line portman- 
 Trade will be all the better for these Cantos, [teaus, 
 
 XV. 
 The portion of this world which I at present 
 
 Have taken up to fill the following sermon, 
 Is one of which there 's no description recent : 
 
 The reason why, is easy to determine : 
 Although it seems both prominent and pleasant. 
 
 There is a sameness in its gems and ermine, 
 A dull and family likeness through all ages, 
 Of no groat promise for poetic images. 
 
 XVI. 
 With much to excite, there 's little to exalt ; 
 
 Nothing that speaks to all men and all times ; 
 A sort of varnish over every fault ; 
 
 A kind of common-place, even in their crimes ; 
 Factitious passions, wit without much salt, 
 
 A want of that true nature which sublimes 
 Whate'er it shows with truth ; a smooth monotony 
 Of character, in those at least who have got any. 
 
 XVII. 
 Sometimes, indeed, like soldiers off parade, 
 
 They I)reak their ranks and gladly leave the drill ; 
 But then the roll-call draws them back afraid. 
 
 And they must be or seem what they were : still 
 Doubtless it is a brilliant masquerade ; 
 
 But when of the first sight you have had your fill, 
 It palls — at least it did so upon me. 
 This paradise of jjleasiu-e and ennui. 
 
 XVIII. 
 Wlien we have made our love, and gamed our gam- 
 ing, [more ; 
 
 Drcss'd, voted, shone, and, may be, something 
 With dandies dined ; heard senators declaiming ; 
 
 Seen beauties brought to market by the score, 
 Sa I rakes to sadder husbands chastely taming ; 
 
 1 Bere 's little left but to be bored or bore. 
 Wit \css those '^ ci-deDantjeuDes /loiiimcit" who stem 
 The tream, nor leave the world which kavetli them. 
 
 XIX. 
 'Tis Skid — indeed a general complaint — 
 
 Tha\ no one has succeeded in describing 
 The mi nde, exactly as they ought to paint : 
 
 Some say, that authors only snatch, by bribing 
 The poiter, some slight scandals strange and quaint. 
 
 To furnish matter for their moral gibing ; 
 And tlui t their books have but one style in common — 
 My ladVs prattle, filterVl through hei woman. 
 
 XX. 
 But this Cl 'I't well be true, just now ; for writers 
 Are gro%\ x of tl 2 bei 1 momle a pait potential : 
 
 I've seen them balance even the scale with fighters, 
 Especially when yoimg, for that 's essential 
 
 Wliy do tlieir sketches fail them as inditers 
 Of what they deem themselves most conse 
 quential. 
 
 The real portrait of the highest tribe ? 
 
 'Tis that, in fact, there 's little to describe. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 "ITaud ignara loquor;" these are Nuga, "quarum 
 Pars parva ,/«/," but still art and part. 
 
 Now I could much more easily sketch a harem, 
 A battle, wreck, or history of the heart. 
 
 Than these things ; and besides, I wish to spare 'eiii, 
 For reasons which I choose to keep apart. 
 
 " Vetafio Cereris saeruin qui vulijarit '' — 
 
 Which means that vulgar people must not share it. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 And therefore what I throw off is ideal — 
 
 Lower'd, leaven 'd, like a history of freemasons ; 
 
 Which bears the same relation to the real. 
 As Captain Parry's voyage may do to Jason's. 
 
 The grand arcanum 's not for men to see aU ; 
 My music has some mystic diapasons ; 
 
 And there is much which could not be appreciated 
 
 In any manner by the uninitiated. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Alas ! worlds fall — and woman, since she fell'd 
 The world (as, since that history, less polite 
 
 Than true, hath been a creed so strictly held) 
 Has not yet given up the practice quite. 
 
 Poor thing of usages ! coerced, compell'd. 
 
 Victim when wrong, and martyr oft when right, 
 
 Condemn'd to childbed, as men for tlieir sins 
 
 Have shaving too entail'd upon their chins, — 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 A daily plague, which in the aggregate 
 
 May average on the whole witli parturition. 
 
 But as to women, who can penetrate 
 
 The real sufferings of tluir slie condition ? 
 
 Man's very sympathy with their estate 
 
 Has much of selfishness, and more suspicion. 
 
 Their love, their virtue, beauty, education. 
 
 But form good housekeepers, tc breed a nation. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 All this were very well, and can't be better; 
 
 But even this is ditlicult, Heaven knows. 
 So many troubles from lier birtl. beset her, 
 
 Sudi small di.-<tinction between friends and foe« 
 The gilding wears so soon from off' her fetter. 
 
 That but ask any woman if she'd choose 
 
 (Take her at thirty, that is) to have been 
 Female or male ? a schoolboy or a queen ? 
 
Canto xiv. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 713 
 
 XXVI. 
 " Petticoat influence " is a great reproach, 
 
 "WTiicli even those who obey would fain be thought 
 To fly from, as from hungry pikes a roach ; 
 
 But since beneath it upon cartli we arc brought, 
 By various joltings of life's hackney coach, 
 
 I for one venerate a petticoat — 
 A garment of a mystical sublimity. 
 No matter whether russet, silk, or dimity. 
 
 XXVII. 
 Much I respect, and much I have adored, 
 
 In my young days, that chaste and goodly veil, 
 Which holds a treasure, like a miser's hoard. 
 
 And more attracts by all it doth conceal — 
 A golden scabbard on a Damasque sword, 
 
 A loving letter with a mystic seal, 
 A cure for grief — for what can ever rankle 
 Before a petticoat and peeping ankle ? 
 
 XXVIII. 
 And when upon a silent, sullen day, 
 
 With a sirocco, for example, blowing, 
 Wlien even the sea looks dim with all its spray, 
 
 And sulkily the river's ripple 's flowing, 
 And the sky shows that very ancient gray, 
 
 The sober, sad antithesis to glowing, — 
 'Tis pleasant, if then, any thing is pleasant, 
 To catch a glimpse even of a pretty peasant. 
 
 XXIX. 
 We left our hero and our heroines 
 
 In that fair clime which don't dejjcnd on climate. 
 Quite independent of the Zodiac's signs, 
 
 Though certainly more difficult to rhyme at. 
 Because the sun, and stars, and aught that shines. 
 
 Mountains, and all we can be most sublime at, 
 Are there oft dull and dreary as a dun — 
 Whether a sky's or tradesman's is all one. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 An in-door life is less poetical ; 
 
 And out of door hath showers, and mists, and 
 With which I could not brew a pastoral. [sleet. 
 
 But be it as it may, a bard must meet 
 All difticultics, whether great or small, 
 
 To spoil his undertaking or complete. 
 And work away like spirit upon matter, 
 Embarrass'd somewhat both with fire and water. 
 
 XXXI. 
 Juan — in this respect, at least, like saints — 
 Was all things unto people of all sorts, 
 
 * CVanin/7.— " To crane''' is, or wae, an expreseion ueed to de- 
 note a gculleman's etretching out his neck over tt hedge, " to 
 look before he leaped;" — a pause in his "vaulting ambition," 
 which in the field doth occat?ion some delay and execration in 
 those who may be immediately behind the equestrian skeptic. 
 * Sir, il you don't choose to take the leap, let me I"— was a phrase 
 90 
 
 And lived contentedly, without complaints. 
 In camps, in shijjs, in cottages, or courts — 
 
 Born with that happy soul that seldom faints, 
 And mingUng modesty in toils or sports. 
 
 He Ukewise could be most things to all women, 
 
 Without the coxcombry of certain ulie men. 
 
 XXXIl. 
 
 A fox-hunt to a foreigner is strange ; 
 
 'Tis also subject to the double danger 
 Of tumbling first, and having in exchange 
 
 Some pleasant jesting at the awkward stranger : 
 But Juan had been early taught to range 
 
 The wilds, as doth an Arab turu'd avenger, 
 So that his horse, or charg'er, hunter, hack. 
 Knew that he had a rider on his back. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 And now in this new field, with some applause. 
 
 He clear'd hedge, ditch, and double post, and rail, 
 And never craned,' and made but few "/!<(« ^^os," 
 
 And only fretted when the scent 'gan faU. 
 He broke, 'tis true, some statutes of the laws 
 
 Of hunting — for the sagest youth is frail ; 
 Rode o'er the hounds, it may be, now and then, 
 And once o'er several country gentlemen. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 But on the whole, to general admiration 
 
 He acquitted both himself and horse : the squires 
 Marvell'd at merit of another nation ; 
 
 The boors cried " Dang it ! who'd have thought 
 it V' — Sires, 
 The Nestors of the sporting generation. 
 
 Swore praises, and recall'd their former fires ; 
 The huntsman's self relented to a grin. 
 And rated him almost a whipper-in. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Such were his trophies — not of spear and shield. 
 But leaps, and bursts, and sometimes foxes' brushes ; 
 
 Yet I must own, — although in this I yield 
 To i^atiiot sympathy a Briton's l:)luslies, — 
 
 He thought at heart like courtly Chesterfield, 
 Who, after a long chase o'er hills, dales, bushes, 
 
 And what not, though he rode beyond all price, 
 
 Ask'd next day, " If men ever hunted twice .'"' 
 
 XXXVI. 
 He also had a quality uncommon 
 
 To early risers after a long chase. 
 Who wake in winter ere the cock can summon 
 
 December's drowsy day to his dull race, — 
 
 which generally gent the aspirant on again; and to goad ptir 
 pose: for though "the horse and rider" might fall, they make a 
 gap through which, and over him and his steed, the field might 
 follow. 
 
 ^ See his Letters to his Son. 
 
7U 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto xtv 
 
 X quality agreeable to woman, 
 
 When her soft, liquid words run on apace, 
 Who likes a listener, whether saint or sinner, — 
 lie did not foil asleep just after dinner ; 
 
 XXXVII. 
 But, light and airy, stood on the alert, 
 
 And shone in the best part of dialogue. 
 By humoring always what they might assert. 
 
 And listening to the topics most in vogue ; 
 Now grave, now gay, but never dull or pert ; 
 
 And smiling but in secret — cunning rogue ! 
 He ne'er presumed to make an eiTor clearer : — 
 In short, there never was a better hearer. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 And then he danced ; — all foreigners excel 
 
 The serious Angles in the eloquence 
 Of pantomime ; — lie danced, I say, right well, 
 
 With emphasis, and also with good sense — 
 A thing in footing indispensable ; 
 
 lie danced without theatrical pretence, 
 Not like a ballet-master in the van 
 Of his (Irill'd nymphs, but like a gentleman. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 Chaste were his steps, each kept within due bound. 
 
 And elegance was sprinkled o'er his figure ; 
 Like s\vift Camilla, he scarce skimm'd the ground. 
 
 And ratlier held in than put forth his vigor; 
 And then he had an ear for nmsic's sound, 
 
 Whicli might defy a crotchet critic's rigor. 
 Such classic pas — sans flaws — set off our hero. 
 He glanced like a personified Bolero ; 
 
 XL. 
 Or like a flying Hour before Aurora, 
 
 In Guido's famous fresco, which alone 
 Is worth a tour to Uome, although no more a 
 
 Remnant were there of the old world's sole throne. 
 The '• tout eiisemli/e" of his movements wore a 
 
 GFrace of the soft ideal, seldom shown. 
 And ne'er to be described ; for to the dolor 
 Of bards and prosers, words are void of color. 
 
 XLI. 
 No marvel then he was a favorite ; 
 
 A full-grown C'ui)id, very much admired ; 
 A little spoil'd, but liy no means so quite ; 
 
 At least he kept his vanity retired. 
 Such was his tact, he could alike delight [sj)ired. 
 
 The chaste, and those who are not so much in- 
 The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke, who loved " trucaiserie," 
 Began to treat liini with some small ^^ a/;acerie." 
 
 XLII. 
 She was a flue and somewhat full-blown blonde, 
 Desirable, distinguish'd, celebrated 
 
 For several winters in the grand, grand monde. 
 
 I'd rather not say what might be related 
 Of her exploits, for this were ticklish ground ; 
 
 Besides, there might be falsehood in what's stated 
 Her late performance had been a dead set 
 At Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 
 
 XLIII. 
 This noble personage began to look 
 
 A little black upon this new flirtation ; 
 But such smaU licenses must lovers !)rook. 
 
 Mere freedoms of the female corporation. 
 Wo to the man who ventures a rebuke ! 
 
 'Twill but ])rccipitate a situation 
 Extremely disjigreeable, but common 
 To calculators when they count on woman. 
 
 XLIV. 
 The circle smiled, then whisper'd, and then sneer'd; 
 
 The Misses bridled, and the matrons frown'd ; 
 Some hoped things might not turn out as they fear'd ; 
 
 Some would not deem such women could be found; 
 Some ne'er beUeved one-half of what they hoard ; 
 
 Some look'd perples'd, and others look'd pro- 
 found ; 
 And several pitied with sincere regret 
 Poor Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagcnct. 
 
 XLV. 
 But what is odd, none ever named the duke, 
 
 Wlio, one might think, was something in the 
 affair : 
 True, he was absent, and, 'twas rumor'd, took 
 
 But small concern about the when, or where, 
 Or what his consort did : if he could brook 
 
 Her gaycties, none had a right to stare : 
 Theirs was that best of unions, past all doubt, 
 Which never meets, and therefore can't fall out. 
 
 XbVI. 
 But, oh ! that I should ever pen so sad a line 1 
 
 Fired with an abstract love of virtue, she, 
 My Dian of the Ephesians, Lady Adeline, 
 
 Began to think the duchess' conduct free ; 
 Regretting much that she had chosen so bad a lin« 
 
 And waxing chiller in her courtesy, 
 Look'd grave and pale to see her friend's fragility, 
 For which most fi-iends reserve their sensibility. 
 
 XI-VII. 
 There 's naught in this bad world like sympathy : 
 
 'Tis so becoming to the soul and face, 
 Sets to soft music the harmonious sigh. 
 
 And robes sweet friendship in a Brussels lace. 
 Without a friend, what were humanity. 
 
 To hunt our errors up with a good grace ? 
 Consoling us with — "Would you had tho\ight twice . 
 Ah, if you had but follow'd my advice 1" 
 
Oanto xit. 
 
 DON JUAX. 
 
 715 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 Job ! you had two friends : one's quite enough, 
 Especially wlien we are ill at ease ; 
 
 They are but liad pilots when tlie weatlier 's rough, 
 Doctors less famous for their cures than fees. 
 
 Let no man grumble when his friends fall off, 
 As they will do like leaves at the first breeze : 
 
 When your affairs come round, one way or t'other, 
 
 Go to the cofl'ee-house, and take another.' 
 
 XLIX. 
 But this is not my maxim : had it been, [not — 
 
 Some heart-aches had been spared me : yet I care 
 
 1 would not be a tortoise in his screen 
 
 Of stubborn shell, which waves and weather wear 
 'Tis better on the whole to have felt and seen [not. 
 
 That which humanity may bear, or bear not ; 
 'Twill teach discernment to the sensitive. 
 And not to pour their ocean in a sieve. 
 
 L. 
 
 Of all the horrid, hideous notes of wo, 
 
 Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast, 
 
 Is that portentous phrase, " I told you so," 
 Utter'd by fi-iends, those prophets of the past, 
 
 Who, 'stead of saying what you now should do, 
 Ovra they foresaw that you would fall at last. 
 
 And solace your slight lapse 'gainst " boiios mo7'es,'" 
 
 With a long memorandum of old stories. 
 
 LI. 
 The Lady Adeline's serene severity 
 
 Was not confined to feeling for her friend. 
 Whose fame she rather doubted with posterity. 
 
 Unless her habits should begin to mend : 
 But Juan also shared in her austerity. 
 
 But mix'd with pity, pure as e'er was penn'd : 
 His inexperience moved her gentle ruth. 
 And (as her junior by six weeks) his youth. 
 
 LII. 
 These forty days' advantage of her years — 
 
 And hers were those which can face calculation. 
 Boldly referring to the list of peere 
 
 And noble births, nor dread the enumeration — 
 Gave her a right to have maternal fears 
 
 For a young gentleman's fit education. 
 Though she was far from that leap year, whose leap, 
 In female dates, strikes Time all of a heap. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 This may be fix'd at somewhere before thirty — 
 Say seven-and-twenty, for I never knew 
 
 * In Swift's or Horace Walpole"d letters T think it is mentioned 
 that ^^omehody. regrettinji the loss of a frieuci. was answered hy a 
 universal Pylades : '* When I lose one. I i;o to the Saint .Tames' 
 Coffee-houi*:'. and take another." I recollect hav-in* heard an 
 inecdote of the same kind. — Sir W. D. was a great i^mester. 
 
 The strictest in chronology and virtue 
 
 Advance beyond, while they could pass for new. 
 
 Time ! why dost not pause ? Thy scythe, so dirty 
 With rust, should surely cease to luick and hew. 
 
 Reset it ; shave more smoothly, also slower. 
 If but to keep thy credit as a mower. 
 
 LIV. 
 But AdeUne was far from that ripe age. 
 
 Whose ripeness is but bitter at the best : 
 'Twas rather her experience made her sage. 
 
 For she had seen the world and stood its test. 
 As I have said in — I forget what page ; 
 
 My Muse despises reference, as you have guess'd 
 By this time ; — but strike six from seven-and-twenty 
 And you will find her sum of years in plenty. 
 
 LV. 
 At sixteen she came out ; presented, vaunted. 
 
 She put all coronets into commotion : 
 At seventeen, too, the world was still enchanted 
 
 With the new Venus of their brilliant ocean : 
 At eighteen, though below her feet still panted 
 
 A hecatomb of suitors with devotion. 
 She had consented to create again 
 That Adam, call'd " The happiest of men." 
 
 LVL 
 Since then she had sparkled through three glowing 
 
 Admired, adored ; but also so correct, [winters, 
 That she had puzzled all the acutest hinters. 
 
 Without the apparel of being circumspect : 
 They could not even glean the shghtest splinters 
 
 From off the marble, which had no defect. 
 She had also snatch'd a moment since her marriage, 
 To bear a son and heir — and one miscarriage. 
 
 LVIl, 
 Fondly the wheeling fire-flies flew around her. 
 
 Those little ghttcrers of the London night ; 
 But none of these jsossess'd a sting to wound her— 
 
 She was a pitch beyond a coxcomb's flight. 
 Perhaps she wish'd an aspirant profounder ; 
 
 But whatsoe'er she wish'd, she acted right ; 
 And whether coldness, pride, or virtue, dignity 
 A woman, so she 's good, what does it signify ? 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 1 hate a motive like a lingering bottle 
 
 Which v,-ith the landlord makes too long a stand, 
 Lea\'ing all-claretless the unmoisten'd throttle. 
 
 Especially with politics on hand ; 
 I hate it, as I hate a drove of cattle. 
 
 Who whirl the dust as simoons whirl the sand ; 
 
 Coming in one day to the Club of which he was a member, he 
 was observed to look melancholy. " What is the matter. Sir Wil- 
 liam ?■' cried Hare, of facetious memory. *• .\h !" replied Sir W., 
 "I have just lo/it poor Lady D."— "io»/.' Wliat at? Qtiime oi 
 Hazard?" was the consolatory rejoinder of th( qucribt. 
 
716 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto xiv 
 
 I hate it as I hate an argument, 
 
 A. laureate's ode, or servile peer's "content." 
 
 LIX. 
 'Tis sad to hack into the roots of things, 
 
 Tuey are so nuicli intertwisted with the earth ; 
 So that the branch a goodly verdure flings, 
 
 I reck not if an acorn gave it birth. 
 To trace all actions to their secret springs 
 
 Would make indeed some melancholy mirth ; 
 But this is not at present my concern, 
 And I refer you to wise Osenstiern.' 
 
 LX. 
 With the kind view of saving an fclat, 
 
 Both to the duchess and diplomatist. 
 The Lady Adeline, as soon 's she saw 
 
 That Juan was unlikely to resist — 
 (For foreigners don't know that a. faux, pas 
 
 In England ranks quite on a different list 
 From those of other lands unbless'd with juries. 
 Whose verdict for such sin a certain cure is ; — ) 
 
 LXI. 
 
 The Lady Adeline resolved to take 
 
 Such measures as she thought might best impede 
 The farther progress of this sad mistake. 
 
 She thought with some simplicity indeed ; 
 But innocence is bold even at the stake, 
 
 And simple in the world, and doth not need 
 Nor use those palisades by dames erected, 
 Whose virtue lies in never being detected. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 It was not that she fear'd the very worst : 
 His Grace was an enduring, married man, 
 
 And was not likely all at once to burst 
 Into a scene, and swell the clients' clan 
 
 Of Doctors' Commons ; but she dreaded first 
 The magic of her Grace's talisman, 
 
 And. next a quarrel (as lie seem'd to fret) 
 
 With Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 
 
 LXIII. 
 Her Grace, too, pass'd for being an intrigante. 
 
 And somewhat nu'chiinte in her amorous sphere ; 
 One of those pretty, precious plagues, which haunt 
 
 A lover witli caprices soft and dear, 
 That like to iiHi/,y a quarrel, when they can't 
 
 Find one, each day of the delightful year : 
 Bewitching, torturing, as they freeze or glow. 
 And — what is worst of all — won't let you go : 
 
 * The faraoHH Chancellor Oxenstiern said to his eon, on the lat- 
 ter eTprcsf^in^ his ^urjjrise upon the great effects arising? from 
 petty rjmse^ in ttie presumed mystery of politico : "You see hy 
 this, my son. with liow little wisdom the kingdoms of the world 
 are j:overned."- -[The true story is ;— young Oxenstiem, on beiDf 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 The sort of tiling to turn a young man's head. 
 Or make a Wcrter of him in the end. 
 
 No wonder then a purer soul should dread 
 This sort of chaste liaUoii for a friend; 
 
 It were much better to be wed or dead, 
 Than wear a heart a woman loves to rend. 
 
 'Tis best to pause, and think, ere you rush on, 
 
 If that a " hoime fortune''' be really " lonne." 
 
 LXV. 
 
 And first, in the overflowing of her heart. 
 
 Which really knew or thought it knew no guile ; 
 
 She call'd her husband now and then apart. 
 And bade him counsel Juan. With a smile 
 
 Lord Henry heard her jilans of artless art 
 To wean Don Juan from the siren's wile ; 
 
 And answer'd, like a statesman or a prophet. 
 
 In such guise that she could make nothing of it. 
 
 LXVL 
 
 Firstly, he said, "he never interfered 
 In anybody's business but the king's :" 
 
 Next, that "he never judged from what appeai'd, 
 Without strong reason, of those sort of thingn ;" 
 
 Thirdly, that " Juan had more brain than beard. 
 And was not to be held in leatling strings ;" 
 
 And fourthly, what need hardly be said twice, 
 
 " That good but rarely came from good advice." 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 And, therefore, doubtless to approve the truth 
 Of the last axiom, he advised his spouse 
 
 To leave the parties to themselves, forsooth — 
 At least as far as liienxrancc allows : 
 
 That time would temper Juan's faults of youth ; 
 That young men rarely made monastic vows ; 
 
 That opposition only more attaches — 
 
 But here a messenger brought in dispatches : 
 
 I.XVIII. 
 And being of the council call'd "the Privy," 
 
 Lord Henry walk'd into liis cabinet. 
 To furnish matter for some future Livy 
 
 To tell how he reduced the nation's debt ; 
 And if their full contents I do not give ye, 
 
 It is because I do not know them yet ; 
 But I shall add them in a brief appendix. 
 To come between mine epic and its index. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 But ere he went, he added a slight hint. 
 Another gentle common-place or two. 
 
 told he was to proceed on some diplomatic mission, expressed 
 his donhts of his own fitness for such an office. The old Chan- 
 cellor, laughing, answered,—" Nescis, mi flli, qnantulu sciontU 
 gubematur muiidns."] 
 
Canto xit. 
 
 DON JUAN". 
 
 717 
 
 Sucli ag are coin'd in conversation's mint, 
 
 And pass, for ^'ant of better, though not new : 
 
 Then broke his jjacket, to see wliat was in 't, 
 And having casually glanced it through, 
 
 Retired ; and, as went out, calmly kiss'd her. 
 
 Less like a young wife than an aged sister. 
 
 LX.X. 
 
 He was a cold, good, honorable man, 
 Proud of his l)irth, and proud of every thing ; 
 
 A goodly spirit for a state divan, 
 A figure fit to walk before a king ; 
 
 Tall, stately, form'd to lead the courtly van 
 On birthdays, glorious with a star and string; 
 
 The very model of a chamberlain — 
 
 And such I mean to make him when I reign. 
 
 LXXI. 
 But there was something wanting on the whole — 
 
 I don't know what, and therefore cannot tell — 
 Which pretty women — the sweet souls ! — call soul. 
 
 CeHes it was not body ; he was well 
 Proportion'd, as a poplar or a pole, 
 
 A handsome man, that human miracle ; 
 And in each circumstance of love or war, 
 Had still preserved his perpendicular. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 Still there was something wanting, as I 'vc said — 
 
 Tliat undefinable " ■It' iie Kniis quni" 
 'Wniicli, for what I know, may of yore have led 
 
 To Homer's Iliad, since it drew to Troy 
 The Greek Eve, Helen, from the Spartan's bed ; 
 
 Though on the whole, no doubt, the Dardan boy 
 Was much inferior to King Menelaiis : — 
 But thus it is some women will betray us. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 There is an awkward thing which much perplexes, 
 
 Unless like wise Tiresias we had proved 
 By turns the diftercnce of the several se.xes ; 
 
 Kcither can show quite how they would be loved. 
 The sensual for a short rime but connects us — 
 
 The sentimental boasts to be unmoved ; 
 But both together form a kind of centaur, 
 Upon whose back 'tis better not to venture. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 A something all-sutBcient for the heart 
 
 Is that for which the sex are always seeking : 
 But how to fill up that same vacant part ? 
 
 There lies the rub — and this they are but weak in. 
 Frail mariners afloat without a chart, [ing ; 
 
 They run before the wind through high seas break- 
 And when they have made the shore through every 
 
 shock 
 Tig odd, or odds, it may turn out a rock. 
 
 ' See " La Nouvelle ni-loiue.' 
 
 LXXV. 
 There is a flower call'd " Love in Idleness," 
 
 For which see Shakspeare's ever blooming gar- 
 I will not make his great descriprion less, [den ; — 
 
 And beg his British godship's humble pardon, 
 If in my extremity of rhyme's distress, 
 
 I touch a single leaf where he is warden ; — 
 But though the flower is difflTent, with the French 
 Or Swiss Rousseau, cry " Voila la Perrenc/ie J' 
 
 LXXVI. 
 Eureka ! I have found it ! Wliat I mean 
 
 To say is, not that love is idleness. 
 But that in love such idleness has been 
 
 Accessory, as I have cause to guess. 
 Hard labor 's an indifferent go-between ; 
 
 Your men of business are not apt to express 
 Much passion, since the merchant-ship, the Argo, 
 Convey'd Medea as her supercargo. 
 
 LXXVIl. 
 
 " Betiti/s ille procul P' from " iieyotiis,"' 
 
 Saith Horace ; the great little jjoet 's wrong ; 
 
 His other maxim, " Noscitur a iiod\!>" 
 
 Is much more to the purpose of his song ; 
 
 Though even that were sometimes too ferocious, 
 Unless good company be kept too long ; 
 
 But, in his teeth, whate'er their state or station, 
 
 Thrice happy they who liarc an occuijation ! 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 Adam exchanged his Paradise for ploughing, 
 
 Eve made ujj millinery with fig leaves — 
 The earliest knowledge ti-om the tree so knowing, 
 
 As fiir as I know, that the church receives : 
 And since that time it need not cost much showing 
 
 That many of the ills o'er which man grieves, 
 And still more women, sjjring from not employing 
 Some hours to make the remnant worth enjoying. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 And hence high life is oft a dreary void, 
 A rack of pleasures, where we must invent 
 
 A something wherewithal to be annoy'd. 
 
 Bards may sing what they please aliout Content ; 
 
 Contented., when translated, means but cloy'd ; 
 And hence arise the woes of senriment. 
 
 Blue devils, and blue-stockings, and romances 
 
 Reduced to pracdce, and perform'd like dances. 
 
 LXXX. 
 I do declare, upon an affidavit, 
 
 Romances I ne'er read like those I 've seen ; 
 Nor, if unto the world I ever gave it. 
 
 Would some believe that such a tale had been : 
 But such intent I never had, nor have it ; 
 
 Some truths are better kept behind a screen, 
 
 2 Hor. Epod. Od. ii. 
 
718 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto xrr 
 
 Especially wlien they would look like lies ; 
 I therefore deal in generalities. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 "An oyster may be cross'd in love," — and why? 
 
 Because he'mopeth idly in his shell, 
 And heaves a lonely subterraqueous sigh, 
 
 Much as a monk may do within his cell : 
 And d-propri.i of monks, their piety 
 
 With slotli hath found it difficult to dwell ; 
 Those vegetaljles of the Catholic creed 
 Are apt exceedingly to run to seed. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 O Wilberforce ! thou man of black renown, 
 
 "Whose merit none enough can sing or say, 
 Thou hast struck one immense Colossus down, 
 
 Thou moral Washington of Africa ! 
 But there 's another little thing, I own, 
 
 Wliich you should perpetrate some summer's da\', 
 And set the other half of earth to rights ; [whites. 
 You have freed the hlacls — now pray shut up the 
 
 LXXXIIL 
 Shut up the bald-coot bully Alexander ! 
 
 Ship off the Holy Three to Senegal ; [der," 
 
 Teach them that '• sauce for goose is sauce for gan- 
 
 And ask them how they like to be in thrall ? 
 Shut up each high heroic salamander, 
 
 AVho eats fire gratis, (since the pay 's but small ;) 
 Shut up — no, net the King, but the Pavilion, 
 Or else 't will cost us all another million. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 Shut up the world at large, let Bedlam out ; 
 
 And you will be perhaps surprised to find 
 AU things jjursue exactly the same route. 
 
 As now \n\\\ those of R'li-dixarU sound mind. 
 This I could prove beyond a single doulit. 
 
 Were there a jot of sense among mankind ; 
 But till that jinint (Vajypui is found, alas ! 
 Like Archimedes, I leave earth as 'twas. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 Our gentle Adeline had one defect — 
 
 Her heart was vacant, thougha sj^lendid mansion ; 
 Her conduct had been perfectly correct. 
 
 As she had seen naught claiming its expansion. 
 A wavering spirit may be easier wreck'd. 
 
 Because 'tis frailer, doubtless, than a stanch one ; 
 But when the latter works its own undoing, 
 Its inner crash is like an earthquake's ruin. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 She loved her lord, or thought so ; but that love 
 
 Cost her an ell'ort, wliich is a sad toil, 
 The stone of Sysiphus, if once we move 
 
 Our feelinjjs 'gainst the nature of the solL 
 
 She had nothing to complain of, or reprove, 
 
 No liickerings, no connubial turmoil; 
 Their union was a model to l)ehold. 
 Serene and noble,— conjugal, but cold. 
 
 LXXXAMI. 
 There was no great disparity of years, 
 
 Though much in temper ; but they never clash'd 
 They moved like stars imited in their si)heres. 
 
 Or like the Rhone by Leman's waters wash'd. 
 Where mingled and yet separate appears 
 
 The river from the lake, all bluely dash'd 
 Through the serene and placid glassy deep, 
 Which fain would lull its river-child to sleep. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 Now when she once had ta'en an interest 
 
 In anything, however she might flatter 
 Herself that her intentions were the best. 
 
 Intense intentions are a dangerous matter : 
 Impressions were much stronger than she guess'd, 
 
 And gather'd as they run like growing water 
 Upon her mind ; the more so, as her breast 
 Was not at first too readily impress'd. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 But when it was, she had that lurking demon 
 Of double nature, and thus doubly named — 
 
 Firmness yclept in heroes, kings, and seamen, 
 That is, when they succeed ; but greatly blamed 
 
 As ofidiinirt/^ both in men and women. 
 Whene'er their triumph pales, or star is tamed :— 
 
 And 't will perplex the casuist in morality 
 
 To fix the due bounds of this dangerous quality. 
 
 XC. 
 
 Had Buonaparte won at Waterloo, 
 It luid lieen iirumess : now 't is pertinacity : 
 
 Must the event decide between the two ? 
 I leave it to your people of sagacity 
 
 To draw the line between the false and true ; 
 If such can e'er be drawn by man's capacity : 
 
 Jly business is with Lady Adeline, 
 
 Who in her w'iiy too was a heroine. 
 
 xri. 
 She knew not her own heart : then how should I f 
 
 I think not she was t/ii'n in love with .luan : 
 If so, she would have had the strength to fly 
 
 The wild sensation, unto her a new one • 
 She merely felt a common sympathv 
 
 (I will not say it was a false or true one) 
 In him, because she thought he was in danger, — 
 Her husband's friend, her own, young, and a strangej 
 
 XCII. 
 She was, or thought she was, his friend — and this 
 Without the farce of friendship, or romance 
 
Caxto XV. 
 
 DON JTJAX 
 
 718 
 
 Platonisru, which leads so oft amiss 
 
 Ladies -n-ho have studied friendship but in France, 
 Or G('rraany, where pcojile pti rely kiss. 
 
 To thus much Adeline would not advance ; 
 But of such friendship as man's may to man be, 
 She was as capable as woman can be. 
 
 XCIII. 
 No doubt the secret influence of the sex 
 
 Will there, as also in the ties of blood. 
 An innocent predominance annex, 
 
 And tune the concord to a finer mood. 
 If free from passion, which aU friendship checks. 
 
 And your true feelings fully understood. 
 No friend like to a woman earth discovers. 
 So that you have not been nor will be lovers. 
 
 XCIV. 
 Lnve bears within its breast the very germ 
 
 Of change ; and how should this be otherwise ? 
 That violent things more quickly find a term 
 
 Is shown through nature's whole analogies ; 
 And how should the most fierce of all be firm ? 
 
 Would you have endless lightning in the skies ? 
 Methinks Love's very title says enough : 
 How should ''the tender passion " e'er be toxiffh ? 
 
 XCV. 
 Alas ! by all experience, seldom yet 
 
 (I merely quote what I have heard ii'om many) 
 Had lovei-s not some reason to regret 
 
 The passion which made Solomon a zany. 
 I 've also seen some wives (not to forget 
 
 The marriage state, the best or worst of any) 
 Who were tlie very paragons of wives, 
 Yet made the misery of at least two lives. 
 
 XCVI. 
 I 've also seen some female friends ('tis odd. 
 
 But true — as, if expedient, I could prove) 
 That ftiithful were through thick and thin, abroad, 
 
 At home, far more than ever yet was Love — 
 Who did not quit me when Opjiression trod 
 
 Upon me ; whom no scandal could remove ; 
 Who fought, and fight, in absence, too, my battles. 
 Despite the snake Society's loud rattles. 
 
 XCVII. 
 Whether Don Juan and chaste Adeline 
 
 Grew friends in this or any other sense, 
 Will be discuss'd hereafter, I opine : 
 
 At present I am glad of a pretence 
 To leave them hovering, as the efiect is fine, 
 
 And keeps the atrocious reader in suspense : 
 Ihe surest way for ladies and for books 
 To bait their tender or their tenter hooks. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 Whether they rode, or walk'd, or studied Spanish, 
 To read Don Quixote in the original, 
 
 A pleasure before which all others vanish ; 
 
 Wliether their talk was of the kind call'd " small," 
 Or serious, are the topics I must banish 
 
 To the next Canto ; where perhaps 1 shall 
 Say something to the purpose, and display 
 Considerable talent in my way. 
 
 XCIX. 
 Above all, I beg all men to forbear 
 
 Anticipating aught about the matter : 
 They '11 only make mistakes about the fair. 
 
 And Juan too, especially tlie latter. 
 And I shall take a much more serious air. 
 
 Than I have yet done, in this epic satire. 
 It is not clear that Adeline and Juan 
 Will fall ; but if they do, 't wiU be their ruin. 
 
 C. 
 But great things spring from little : — Would you 
 
 That in our youth, as dangerous a passion [think, 
 As e'er brought man and woman to the brink 
 
 Of ruin, rose from such a slight occasion. 
 As few would ever dream could form the link 
 
 Of such a sentimental situation ? 
 Tou '11 never guess, I '11 bet you millions, milliards — 
 It all sjjrung from a harmless game at billiards. 
 
 CI. 
 'Tis strange, — but true ; for truth is always strange ; 
 
 Stranger than fiction ; if it could be told. 
 How much would novels gain by the exchange ! 
 
 How difterently the world would men behold 1 
 How oft would vice and virtue places chfflige 1 
 
 The new world would be nothing to the old. 
 If some Columbus of the moral seas 
 Would show mankind their souls' antipodes. 
 
 C[l. 
 What " antres vast and deserts idle " then 
 
 Would be discover'd in the human soul I 
 Wliat icebergs in the hearts of mighty men, 
 
 With self-love in the centie as their pole 1 
 What Anthropophagi are nine of ten 
 
 Of those who hold the kingdoms in control ! 
 Were things but only call'd by their right name, 
 Cajsar himself would be ashamed of fame. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO THE FIFTEENTH. 
 
 Ah ! — Wliat should follow slips from my reflection ; 
 
 Wliatevcr follows ne'ertheless may l)e 
 As d-propos of hope or retrosijection. 
 
 As though the lurking thought had follow'd free 
 All present life is but an interjection. 
 
 An " Oh 1" or " Ah !" of joy or misery. 
 
?20 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto xv 
 
 Or a " Ha ! lia !" or " Bah !"— a ya-mj, or " Pooli !" 
 Of which perhajjs the latter is most true. 
 
 II. 
 
 But, more or less, the whole 's a syncopfi 
 Or a singultus — emblems of emotion, 
 
 The grand antithesis to great ennni. 
 Wherewith we break our bubbles on the ocean, 
 
 That watery outline of eternity, 
 
 Or miniature at least, as is my notion. 
 
 Which ministers unto the soul's delight. 
 
 In seeing matters which are out of sight. 
 
 III. 
 But all are better tlian the sigh suppress'd. 
 
 Corroding in the cavern of the heart. 
 Making the countenance a masque of rest. 
 
 And turning human nature to an art. 
 Few men dare show their thoughts of worst or best; 
 
 Dissimulation always sets apart 
 A corner for herself; and therefore fiction 
 Is that which passes with least contradiction. 
 
 IV. 
 Ah ! who can tell ? Or rather, who cannot 
 
 Remember, without telling, passion's errors ? 
 The drainer of oblivion, even the sot. 
 
 Hath got the lilue de^^ls for his morning mirrors : 
 What though on Lethe's stre.am he seem to float. 
 
 He cannot sink his tremors or his terrors ; 
 The ruby glass that shakes within his hand 
 Leaves susad sediment of Time's worst sand. 
 
 V. 
 And as for love — O love ! We will proceed. 
 
 The Lady Adeline AmundeviUe, 
 A pretty name as one would wish to read. 
 
 Must perch harmonious on my tuneful quill. 
 There 's music in the sighing of a reed ; 
 
 There 's music in the gushing of a rill ; 
 There 's music in all things, if men had ears : 
 Their earth is but an echo of the spheres. 
 
 VI. 
 The Lady Adeline, right honorable, 
 
 And honor'd, ran a risk of growing less so ; 
 For few of the soft sex are very stable 
 
 In their resolves — alas 1 that I should say so ! 
 They diller as wine ditlers from its label, 
 
 When once decanted ; — I presume to guess so, 
 But will not swear : yet both upon occasion, 
 Till nld, may undergo adulteration. 
 
 VII. 
 But Adeline was of the purest vintage, 
 
 The unmingled essence of the grape ; and yet 
 Bright as a new Napoleon from its mintage, 
 
 Or glorious as a diamond richly set ; 
 
 A page where Time should hesitate to print age, 
 And for which Xature might forego her debt- ■ 
 Sole creditor whose process doth involve in 't 
 The luck of finding everybody solvent. 
 
 VIII. 
 O Death ! thou dunnest of all duns ! thou daily 
 
 Knockest at doors, at first ^-ith modest tap. 
 Like a meek tradesman when, approaching palely, 
 
 Some splendid debtor he would take by sap : 
 But oft denied, as patience 'gins to fail, he 
 
 Advances with exasjierated rap, 
 And (if let in) insists, in terms unhandsome, 
 On ready money, or " a draft on Ransom." 
 
 IX. 
 Whate'er thou takest, spare awhile poor Beauty 1 
 
 She is so rare, and thou hast so nmch prey. 
 What though she now and then may slip from duty, 
 
 The more 's the reason why you ought to stay. 
 Gaunt Gourmand ! with whole nations for your 
 booty, 
 
 Tou should be civil in a modest way : 
 Supin'ess, then, some slight feminine diseases, 
 And take as many heroes as Heaven pleases. 
 
 X. 
 
 Fair Adeline, the more ingenuous 
 Where she was interested, (as was said,) 
 
 Becftuse she was not apt, like some of us. 
 To like too readily, or too high bred 
 
 To show it — (points we need not now discussj - 
 Would give up artlessly both heart and head 
 
 Unto such feelings as seem'd innocent. 
 
 For objects worthy of the sentiment. 
 
 XI. 
 Some parts of Juan's history, which Rumor, 
 
 That live gazette, had scatter'd to disfigure. 
 She had heard ; but women hear with more good 
 
 Such aben-ations than we men of rigor : [humoi 
 Besides, his conduct, since in England, grew more 
 
 Strict, and his mind assumed a manlier vigor ; 
 Because he had, like Aleibiades, 
 The art of living in all climes with ease. 
 
 XII. 
 His manner was perhaps the more seductive, 
 
 Because he ne'er seem'd anxious to seduce; 
 Nothing alleeted, studied, or constructive 
 
 Of coxcombry or conquest : no abuse 
 Of his attractions marr'd the fair perspective. 
 
 To indicate a Cupidon broke loose. 
 And seem to say, " Resist us if you can " — 
 Which makes a dandy while it spoils a man. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 They arc wrong — that 's not the way to set about it , 
 
 As, if they told the truth, could well be shown. 
 
Canto xt. 
 
 DON JUAX. 
 
 V21 
 
 But, right or wrong, Don Juan was without it ; 
 
 In fact, his manner was his own alone ; 
 Sincere he was — at least you could not doubt it. 
 
 In listening merely to his voice's tone. 
 The devil hath not in all his quiver's choice 
 An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice. 
 
 XIV. 
 By nature soft, his whole address held off 
 
 ' Suspicion : though not timid, his regard 
 Was such as rather seem'd to keep aloof. 
 
 To shield himself than put you on your guard ; 
 Perhaps 'twas hardly quite assured enough, 
 
 But modesty 's at times its own reward. 
 Like virtue ; and the absence of pretension 
 Will go much farther than there 's need to mention. 
 
 XV. 
 Serene, accomplish'd, cheerful but not loud ; 
 
 Insinuating ivithout insinuation ; 
 Observant of the foibles of the crowd, 
 
 Yet ne'er betraying this in conversation ; 
 Proud with the proud, yet courteously proud. 
 
 So as to make them feel he knew his station 
 And theirs : — without a struggle for priority, 
 He neither brook'd nor claim'd superiority. 
 
 XVI. 
 That is, with men : with women he was what 
 
 They pleased to make or take him for ; and their 
 Imagination 's quite enough for that ; 
 
 So that ■^hr outline 's tolerably fair. 
 They lill the canvass up — and " verbum sat." 
 
 If once their phantasies be brought to Ijear 
 Upon an object, whether sad or playful, 
 They can transfigure brighter than a Raphael. 
 
 XVII. 
 Adeline, no deep judge of character, 
 
 Was apt to add a coloring from her own : 
 ■Tis thus the good will amiably err, 
 
 And eke the wise, as has been often shown. 
 Experiene.. .3 the chief philosopher. 
 
 But saddest when his science is well known ; 
 And persecuted sages teach the schools 
 Their folly in forgetting there are fools. 
 
 XVIII. 
 Was it not so, great Locke ? and greater Bacon ? 
 
 Great Socrates ? And thou, Divinsr still," 
 WHiose lot it is by man to be mistaken. 
 
 And thy pure creed made sanction of all ill ? 
 Redeeming worlds to be by bigots shaken, 
 
 How was thy toil rewarded ? We might fiU 
 
 * Ab it 19 necessary in these times to avoid amTiitpjity, I say that 
 
 I mean, by " Diviner still." Christ. If ever God was man — or 
 
 man God— he was both. I never arrais:ned his creed, but the nse 
 
 -rOr abuse — made of it. Mr. Canning one day quoted Chrietianity 
 
 91 
 
 Volumes with similar sad illustrations, 
 
 But leave them to the conscience of the nations. 
 
 XI.X. 
 
 I perch upon an humbler promontory, 
 
 Amidst life's infinite variety : 
 With no great care for what is nicknamed glory, 
 
 But speculating as I cast mine eye 
 On what may suit or may not suit my story. 
 
 And never straining hard to versify, 
 I rattle on exactly as I'd talk 
 With anybody in a ride or walk. 
 
 XX. 
 
 I don't know that there may be much ability 
 Shown in this sort of desultory rhyme ; 
 
 But there 's a conversational facility, 
 
 Wliich may round off an hour upon a time. 
 
 Of this I'm sure at least, there 's no servility 
 In mine irregularity of chime, 
 
 Wliich rings what 's uppermost of new or hoary. 
 
 Just as I feel the " Improvvisatore." 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " Omnia vult 'bclJe Matho dicere — die aliquando 
 Et iene, die neutmm, die aliquando male." 
 
 The first is rather more than mortal can do ; 
 The second may be sadly done or gayly ; 
 
 The third is still more difficult to stand to ; 
 The fourth we hear, and see, and say too, daily : 
 
 The whole together is what I could wish ' 
 
 To serve in this conundrum of a dish. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 A modest hope — ^but modesty 's my forte. 
 And pride my feeble : — let us ramble ou. 
 
 I meant to make this poem very short. 
 But now I can't tell where it may not run. 
 
 No doubt, if I had wish'd to pay my court 
 To critics, or to hail the setting sun 
 
 Of tyranny of all kinds, my concision 
 
 Were more ; — Ijut I was bom for opposition. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 But then 'tis mostly on the weaker side ; 
 
 So that I verily believe if they 
 Wlio now are basking in their full-lilown pride 
 
 Were shaken down, and " dogs had had their dayj" 
 Though at the first I might perchance deride 
 
 Their tumble, I should turn tlie other way. 
 And wax an ultra-royalist in loyalty. 
 Because I hate even democratic royalty. 
 
 to sanction neoro sl"!very, and Mr. Wilberforce had tittle to say 
 in reply. And was C'hrist cmcificd, that black men might be 
 scourged ? If so. he bad belter been bom a Mulatto, to give both 
 colors an equal chance of freednni, or at least salvation. 
 
722 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CaKTO Xi. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 [ think I should have made a decent spouse, 
 If I had never proved the soft condition ; 
 
 I think I should have made monastic vows, 
 But for my own peculiar superstition : 
 
 Gainst, rhyme I never should have knock'd my brows. 
 Nor liroken my own head, nor that of Priscian, 
 
 Nor worn the motley mantle of a poet, 
 
 If some one had not told me to forego it. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 But " laissez aller " — knights and dames I sing, 
 Sucli as the times may furnish. 'Tis a flight 
 
 Which seems at first to ueed no lofty wing. 
 Plumed by Longinus or the Stagyrite : 
 
 The difficulty lies in coloring 
 
 (Keeping the due proijortions still in sight) 
 
 With nature manners which are artificial. 
 
 And rcnd'ring general that which is especiaL 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 The diflerence is, that in the days of old 
 Men made the manners ; manners now make 
 men — 
 
 Pinn'd like a flock, and fleeced too in their fold. 
 At least nine, and a ninth besides of ten. 
 
 Now this at all events must render cold 
 Your writers, who must cither draw again 
 
 Days better drawn before, or else assume 
 
 The present, with their common-place costume. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 We'll do our best to make the best on 't : — March ! 
 
 March, my Muse ! If you cannot fly, yet flutter; 
 And when you may not be sublime, be arch. 
 
 Or starch, as are the edicts statesmen utter. 
 We surely may find something worth researcli : 
 
 Columbus found a new world in a cutter. 
 Or brigantine, or pink, of no great tonnage. 
 While yet America was in her non-age. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 When Adeline, in all her growing sense 
 
 Of Juan's merits and his situation, 
 Felt on the whole an interest intense, — 
 
 Partly perhaps because a fresh sensation, 
 Or that he had an air of innocence, 
 
 Which is for innocence a sad temptation, — 
 As women hiit(^ half measures, on the whole, 
 She 'gan to ponder how to save his soul. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 She had a good opinion of advice. 
 
 Like ill! who give and eke receive it gratis, 
 
 For which small thanks are still the market price, 
 Even where the article at highest rate is : 
 
 She thought upon the subject twice or thrice. 
 
 And morally decided, the best state is 
 For morals, marriage ; and this question carried, 
 She seriously advised him to get married. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Juan replied, with all becoming deference, 
 
 He had a predilection for that tie ; 
 But that, at present, with immediate reference 
 
 To his own circumstances, there might lie 
 Some dilliculties, as in his oi\Ti preference. 
 
 Or that of her to whom he might apply : 
 That still he'd wed witli such or such a lady, 
 If that they were not married all already. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Next to the making matches for herself. 
 
 And daughters, brotluTs, sisters, kith or kin 
 Arranging them like books on the same shelf, 
 
 There 's nothing women love to dabble in 
 More (like a stock-holder in growing pelf) 
 
 Than match-making in general : 'tis no sin 
 Certes, but a preventative, and therefore 
 That is, no doubt, the only reason wherefore. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 But never yet (except of course a miss 
 
 Unwed, or mistress never to be wed. 
 Or wed already, who object to this) 
 
 Was there chaste dam who had not in her head 
 Some drama of the marriage unities, 
 
 Observed as strictly both at board and bed, 
 As those of Aristotle, though sometimes 
 They turn out melodrames or pantomimes. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 They generally have some only son. 
 
 Some heir to a large property, some friend 
 
 Of an old family, some gay Sir John, 
 Or grave Lord George, with whom perhaps migl: 
 end 
 
 A line, and leave posterity undone, 
 
 Unless a marriage was applied to mend 
 
 The prospect and their morals : and besides, 
 
 They have at hand a blooming glut of brides. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 From these they vn\l be careful to select. 
 For this an heiress, and for that a beauty : 
 
 For one a songstress who hath no defect, 
 For t'other one who promises much duty ; 
 
 For this a lady no one ran reject. 
 
 Whose sole accomplishments were quite a booty , 
 
 A second for her exxellent connections ; 
 
 A third, because there can be objections. 
 
Canto xv. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 723 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 When Rapp the Harmonist embarffo'cl marriage' 
 In liis harmonious settlement — (whicli flourishes 
 
 Strangely enough as yet without miscarriage, 
 
 Because il breeds no more mouths than it nourishes, 
 
 Without those sad expenses -which disparage 
 Wliat nature naturally most encourages) — 
 
 Why call'd he " Harmony " a state sans wedlock ? 
 
 Now here IVe got the preacher at a dead lock. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 Because he either meant to sneer at harmony 
 
 Or marriage, by divorcing them thus oddly. 
 But whether reverend Rapp learn'd this in Germany 
 
 Or no, "tis sait^ his sect is rich and godly, 
 Pious and pure, beyond what I can term any 
 
 Of ours, although they propagate more broadly. 
 My objection 's to his title, not his ritual. 
 Although I wonder how it grew habitual. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 But Rapp is the reverse of zealous matrons, 
 
 Who fiivor, malgre JIalthus, generation — 
 Professors of that genial art, and patrons 
 
 Of ah the modest part of propagation ; 
 Which after all at such a desperate rate runs, 
 
 That half its produce tends to emigration. 
 That sad result of passions and potatoes — • 
 Two weeds which pose our economic Catos. 
 
 XX.WIII. 
 Had Adeline read Malthus ? I can't tell ; [ment, 
 
 I wish she had, this book 's the eleventh command- 
 Which says, " Thou shalt not marry," unless well : 
 
 This he (as far as I can understand) meant. 
 "Tis not my purpose on his views to dwell. 
 
 Nor canvass what so " eminent a hand " meant ; = 
 But certes it conducts to lives ascetic, 
 Or turning marriage into arithmetic. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 But Adeline, who probably presumed 
 
 That Juan had enough of maintenance. 
 Or stparcite maintenance, in case 't was doom'd — 
 
 As on the whole it is an even chance 
 That bridegrooms, after they are fairly groom'd, 
 
 May retrograde a little in the dance 
 Of marriage, — (which might form a painter's fiime. 
 Like Holbein's " Dance of Death " — but 'tis the 
 same ;) — ■ 
 
 in XL. 
 
 But Adeline determined Juan's wedding 
 la her own mind, and that 's enough for woman : 
 
 ' This extraordinary and flourishing German colon}' in America 
 dt«18 not entirely exclude matrimony, as the " Shakers " do ; but 
 laye such restrictions upon it as prevents more than a certain 
 quantnm of births mthin a certain number of years : which births 
 (as Mr. Hulme obt*en'es) i^enerally arrive '' in a Hock like those of 
 ft farmer's lambs, all within the 5ame mouth perhaps.'' These 
 
 But then, with whom ? There was the sage Miss 
 Reading, 
 Miss Raw, iliss Flaw, Miss Showman, and Misa 
 Knowman, 
 And the two fair co-heiresses Giltbedding. 
 
 She deem'd his merits something more than com- 
 AU these were unobjectionable matches, [men 
 
 And might go on, if well wound up, like watches. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 There was Miss Millpond, smooth as summer's sea, 
 That usual paragon, an only daughter. 
 
 Who seem'd the cream of equanimity, [water 
 
 Till skimm'd — and then there was some milk and 
 
 With a slight shade of blue too, it might be. 
 Beneath the surface ; but what did it matter ? 
 
 Love 's riotous, but marriage should have quiet, 
 
 And being consumptive, live on a milk diet. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 And then there was the Miss Audacia Shoestring, 
 A dashing demoiselle of good estate, 
 
 Whose heart was fix'd upon a star or blue string ; 
 But whether English dukes grew rare of late. 
 
 Or that she had not harp'd upon the true string, 
 By which such sirens can attract our great. 
 
 She took up with some foreign younger brother, 
 
 A Russ or Turk — the one 's as good as t'other. 
 
 XLIII. 
 And then there was — but why should I go on. 
 
 Unless the ladies should go off ? — there was 
 Indeed a certain fair and fairy one, 
 
 Of the best class, and better than her class,— 
 Aurora Raby, a young star who shone 
 
 O'er life, too sweet an image for such glass, 
 A lovely being, scarcely form'd or moulded, 
 A rose with aU its sweetest leaves yet folded ; 
 
 Xbiv. 
 Rich, noble, but an orphan ; left an only 
 
 Child to the care of guardians good and kind ; 
 But still her aspect had an air so lonely ! 
 
 Blood is not water ; and where shall we fimi 
 Feelings of youth like those which overthrown lie 
 
 By death, when we are left, alas ! behind, 
 To feel, in friendk-ss palaces, a home 
 Is wanting, and our best ties in the tomb ? 
 
 XLV. 
 Early in years, and yet more infantine 
 In figure, she had something of sublime 
 
 Harmonists (so called from the name of their settlement) are r» 
 presented as a remarkably flourishing. piouB, and quiet people. 
 See the various recent writers on America. 
 
 2 Jacob Tonson, according to Mr. Pope, was accustomed to caL 
 hie writers "able pens," "persons of honor," and especiallf 
 " eminent hands." Vide Correepondence, etc., etc. 
 
724 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto xv 
 
 In eyes which sadly shone, as seraphs' shine. 
 
 All youth — l)Ut with an aspect beyond time; 
 Radiant and jirrave — as pitying man's decline ; 
 
 Mournful — but mounit'ul of another's crime, 
 She look'd as if she sat by Eden's door, 
 And grieved for those who could return no more. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 She was a Catholic, too, sincere, austere. 
 As far as her own gentle heart allow'd, 
 
 And deem'd that fallen worshij) far more dear 
 Perhaps because 'twas fallen : her sires were 
 proud 
 
 Of deeds and days when they had fiU'd the ear 
 Of nations, and had never bent or bow'd 
 
 To novel power ; and as she was the last. 
 
 She held their old faith and old feelings fast. 
 
 XLVII. 
 She gazed upon a world she scarcely knew 
 
 As seeking not to know it : silent, lone, 
 As grows a tiower, thus quietly she grew, 
 
 And kejjt her heart serene within its zone. 
 There was awe in the homage which she drew ; 
 
 Her spirit seem'd as seated an a throne 
 Apart from the surrounding world, and strong 
 In its own strength — most strange in one so young 1 
 
 XLVIII. 
 Now it so happen'd, in the catalogue 
 
 Of Adeline, Aurora was omitted, 
 Although her birth and wealth had given her 
 vogue 
 
 Beyond the charmers we have already cited ; 
 Her beauty also seem'd to form no clog 
 
 Against hor being mcntion'd as well fitted. 
 By many virtues, to be worth the trouble 
 Of single gentlemen who would be double. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 And this omission, like that of the bust 
 Of Brutus at the pageant of Tiberius, 
 
 Made Juan wonder, as no doul)t he must. 
 
 This he express'd half smiling and half serious ; 
 
 When Adeline replied with some disgust. 
 And with an air, to say the least, imperious, 
 
 She marvell'd " what he saw in such a baby 
 
 As that prim, silent, cold Aurora Haby ?" 
 
 L. 
 Juan rtijoin'd — " She was a Catholic, 
 
 And therefore fittest, as of his persuasion ; 
 Since he was sure his mother would fall sick, 
 
 And the Pope thunder excommunication, 
 If— — " But here Adeline, who seem'd to pique 
 
 Herself extremely on the inoeiilatiou 
 Of others with her own opinions, stated — 
 As usual — the same reason which she late did. 
 
 LI. 
 And wherefore not ? A reasonable reason. 
 
 If good, is none the worse for repetition ; 
 If bad, the best way 's certainly to tease on, 
 
 And amplify : you lose much by concision. 
 Whereas insisting in or out of season 
 
 Convinces all men, even a politician ; 
 Or — what is just the same — it wearies out. 
 So the end 's gain'd, what signifies the route { 
 
 LIl. 
 
 Why Adeline had this slight prejudice — 
 For prejudice it was — against a creature 
 
 As pure as sanctity itself from vice. 
 
 With all the added charm of form and feature, 
 
 For me ajjpears a question far too nice, 
 Since Adeline was liberal by natm-e ; 
 
 But nature 's nature, and has more caprices 
 
 Than I have time, or will, to take to pieces. 
 
 I.III. 
 Perhaps she did not like the quiet way 
 
 With which Aurora on those bauliles look'd, 
 WLiich charm most people in their earlier day : 
 
 For there are few things by mankind less brook'd 
 And womankind too, if we so may say. 
 
 Than finding thus their genius stand rebuked. 
 Like " Antony's by Csesar," by the few 
 Who look ujjon them as they ought to do. 
 
 LIV. 
 It was not envy — Adeline had none ; 
 
 Her place was far beyond it, and her mind. 
 It was not scorn — which could not light on one 
 
 Whose greatest fault was leaving few to find. 
 It was not jealousy, I think : but shun 
 
 Following the '" ignes fatui " of mankind. 
 
 It was not but 'tis easier far, alas I 
 
 To say what it was not than what it was. 
 
 I.V. 
 Little iVurora deem'd she was the theme 
 
 Of such discussion. She was there a guest ; 
 A beauteous ripple of the brilliant stream 
 
 Of rank and youth, though purer th.an the rest. 
 Which flow'd on for a moment in the beam 
 
 Time sheds a moment o'er each sparkling crest. 
 Had she known this, she would have calmly smiled — 
 She had so much, or little, of the child. 
 
 LVI. 
 The dashing and proud air of Adeline 
 
 Imposed not upon her : she saw her bl.aze 
 Much as she would have seen a glow-worm shine, 
 
 Tlu'n turn'd unto the stars for loftier rays. 
 Juan was something she could not dirine. 
 
 Iking no sibyl in the new world's ways ; 
 Yet she was nothing dazzled by the meteor, 
 Because she did not pin her faith on feature. 
 
Cawto sv. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 72a 
 
 LVII. 
 His fame too,- -for he had that kind of fame 
 
 Which sometimes plays tlie deuce with woman- 
 A hetprogeneous mass of glorious blame, [kind. 
 
 Half virtues and whole vices being combined ; 
 Faults which attract because they are not tame ; 
 
 Follies trick'd out so brightly that they blind : — 
 These seals upon her wax made no impression, 
 Such was her coldness or her self-possession. 
 
 LVIII. 
 luan knew naught of such a character — 
 
 High, yet resembling not his lost HaidSe ; 
 Yet each was radiant in her proper sphere : 
 
 The island girl, bred up by the lone sea, 
 More warm, as lovely, and not less sincere, 
 
 Was Nature's all : Aurora could not be, 
 Nor would be thus : — the difference in them 
 Was such as lies between a flower and gem. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 Having wound up with this s^ublime comparison, 
 Methinks we may proceed upon our narrative, 
 
 And, as my friend Scott says, I sound my " warison ;" 
 Scott, the superlative of my comparative — [cen, 
 
 Scott, who can paint your Christian knight or Sara- 
 Serf, lord, man, with such sTvill as none would 
 share it, if 
 
 There had not been one Shakspeare and Voltaire, 
 
 Of one or both of whom he seems the heir. 
 
 LX. 
 I say. in my slight way I may proceed 
 
 To play upon the surface of humanity. 
 1 write the world, nor care if the world read, 
 
 At least for this I cannot spare its vanity. 
 My Muse hath bred, and still perhaps may breed 
 
 More foes by this same scroll : when I began it, I 
 Thought that it might turn out so — now I know it. 
 But still I am, or was, a pretty poet. 
 
 LXI. 
 The conference or congress (for it ended 
 
 As congresses of late do) of the Lady 
 Adeline and Don Juan rather blended 
 
 Some acids with the sweets — ^for she was heady ; 
 But, ere the matter could be marr'd or mended, 
 
 The silvei-y bell rang, not for '■ dinner ready," 
 But for that hour, call'd hnlf-lioin; given to dress. 
 Though ladies' robes seem scant enough for less. 
 
 LXII. 
 Great things were now to be achieved at table, 
 With massy plate for armor, knives and forks 
 
 ' A disli " a la Lucnlliis." This hero, who conquered the East, 
 h.ns left hia more extended celebrity to the transplanlation of 
 sherries, (which he first brought into Enrope,) and the nomen- 
 clature of some veri' good dishes ;— and I am not siu-e that (bar- 
 
 For weapons ; but what Muse since. Homer 's able 
 (His feasts are not the worst part of his works) 
 
 To draw up in array a single day-bill 
 
 Of modern dinners i where more my stery lurks. 
 
 In soups or sauce*, or a sole ragout. 
 
 Than witches, b — ches, or physicians, brew. 
 
 LXIII. 
 There was a goodly " soupe a la lonne femme"- 
 
 Though God knows whence it came from ; there 
 A turbot for relief of those who cram, [was, too, 
 
 Relieved with " dindon a la Parigeux ;" 
 There also was the sinner that I am ! 
 
 How shall I get this gourmand stanza through ? — 
 " Soupe a la Beauveau," whose relief was dory, 
 Relieved itself by pork, for greater glory. 
 
 LXIV. 
 But I must crowd all into one grand mess 
 
 Or mass ; for should I stretch into detail, 
 My Muse would run much more into excess. 
 
 Than when some squeamish jieople deem her frail; 
 But though a " bonne vivante," I must confess 
 
 Her stomach 's not her peccant jjart ; this tale 
 However doth require some slight refection. 
 Just to relieve her spirits from dejection. 
 
 LXV. 
 Fowls " a la Condf ," slices eke of salmon. 
 
 With " sauces Genevoises," and haunch of venison ; 
 Wines too, which might again have slain yoimg 
 Ammon — 
 
 A man like whom I hope we shan't see many soon ; 
 They also set a glazed Westjihalian ham on. 
 
 Whereon Apicius would betow his benison ; 
 And then there was champagne with foaming whirls, 
 As white as Cleopatra's melted pearls. 
 
 LXVI. 
 Then there was God knows what " a rAllemande," 
 
 " A I'Espagnole," " timballe," and " salpicon " — 
 With things I can't withstand or understand, 
 
 Though swallow'd with much zest upon the whole ; 
 And " entremets " to piddle with at hand, 
 
 Gently to lull dowTi the subsiding soul ; 
 While great Lucullus' Kohe triumphal mufiles — 
 (There's fame) — young partridge fillets, deck'd with 
 truflBes.' 
 
 LXVII. 
 What are the fillets on the victor's brow 
 
 To these ? They are rags or dust. Where is the 
 Wliich nodded to the nation's spoils below ? [arch 
 
 Where the triumphal chariots' haughty march ? 
 
 ring indigestion) he has not done more service to mankind bj 
 his cookerj- than by his conquests. A cherry-tree may weigh 
 against a bloody laurel ; besides, he has contrived to earn celeb- 
 rity from both. 
 
126 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto x\ 
 
 Gone to where victories must like dinners go. 
 
 Farther I shall not follow the research : 
 But oh ! ye modern heroes with your cartidges, 
 When will your names lend lustre e'en to partridges ? 
 
 I.XVIII. 
 Those truffles too are no l)ad accessories, 
 
 Follow'd l)y " petits puits d'amoui- " — a dish 
 Of which perhaps the cookery rather varies, 
 
 So every one may dress it to his wish, 
 According to the best of dictionaries, 
 
 "Which encj'clopedize both flesh and fish; 
 But even sans " confitures," it no less true is, 
 There 's pretty picking in those " petits puits.'" 
 
 LXIX. 
 The mind is lost in mighty contemplation 
 
 Of intellect expanded on two courses ; 
 And indigestion's grand multiplication 
 
 liequires arithmetic beyond my forces. 
 Who would suppose, from Adam's simple ration. 
 
 That cookery could have call'd forth such resources. 
 As form a science and a nomenclature 
 From out the commonest demands of nature S 
 
 LXX. 
 The glasses jingled, and the palates tingled ; 
 
 The diners of celebrity dined well ; 
 The ladies with more moderation mingled 
 
 In the feast, pecking less than I can tell ; 
 Also the younger men too : for a springald 
 
 Can't, like ripe age, in gormandize excel. 
 But thinks less of good eating than the whispe' 
 'When seated next him) of some pretty lisper. 
 
 LXXI. 
 Alas ! I must leave undescrilied the gibier 
 
 The salmi, the consomme, the purCe, 
 All which I use to make my rhymes run glibber 
 
 Than could roast beef in our rough John Bull 
 way : 
 I ijiust not introduce even a spare rib here, 
 
 " Bubble and squeak " would spoil my liquid lay, 
 But I have dined, and must forego, alas ! 
 ri'e chaste description even of a " becasse ;" 
 
 LXXI I. 
 ^d fruits, and ice, and all that art refines 
 
 From nature for the service of the gofit — 
 Taste or the yoit.^pronounce it as inclines 
 
 Your stomach ! Ere you dine, the French will do ; 
 But «/Vt/', there are sometimes certain signs 
 
 Which prove plain English truer of the two. 
 riast ever /md the i/c"! ? I have not had it— 
 iut I may have, and you too, reader, dread it. 
 
 1 " Petits puitp d'anionr garnls des confituree," — a classical and 
 ireU-knowii dish for part of tlie rtanli of a liccond course. 
 
 LXXITR 
 
 The simple olives, best allies of \vine, 
 
 Must 1 pass over in my bill of fare ? 
 I must, although a favorite '"plat" of mine 
 
 In Spain, and Lucca, Athens, everj'where : 
 On them and bread 'twas oft my luck to dine, 
 
 The grass niy table-cloth, in open air. 
 On Suniuni or Hymettus, like Diogenes, 
 Of whom half my pliilosophy the progeny is. 
 
 LXX IV. 
 Amidst this tunuilt offish, flesh, and fowl, 
 
 And vegetables, all in masquerade, 
 The guests were placed according to their roll. 
 
 But various as the various meats display'd : 
 Don .Juan sat next an " il I'Espagnole " — 
 
 No damsel, but a dish, as hath been said ; 
 But so far like a lady, that "twas dress'd 
 Superbly, and contain'd a world of zest. 
 
 LXXV. 
 By some odd chance too, he was placed between 
 
 Aurora and the Lady Adeline — 
 A situation difficult, I ween. 
 
 For ihan therein, with eyes and heart, to dine, 
 Also the conference which we have seen 
 
 Was not such as to encourage him to shine. 
 For jVdeline, addressing few words to him, [him. 
 With two transcendent eyes seeni'd to look through 
 
 LXXVI. 
 I sometimes almost think that eyes have ears : 
 
 This much is sure, that, out of earshot, things 
 Are somehow echo'd to the pretty dears, [springs. 
 
 Of which I can't tell whence their knowledge 
 Like that same mystic music of the spheres. 
 
 Which no one hears, so loudly though it rings, 
 'Tis wonderful how oft the sex have heard 
 Long dialogues — which pass'd without a word 1 
 
 LXX VI I. 
 Aurora sat with that inditterence 
 
 Which piques a preiix chevalier — as it ought: 
 Of all ofl'cnces that's the worst otl'ence, 
 
 Which seems to hint you are not worth a thought 
 Now Juan, though no coxcomb in pretence. 
 
 Was not exactly pleased to be so caught ; 
 Like a good ship entangled among ice. 
 And after so much excellent advice. 
 
 LXXVUI. 
 To his gay nothings, nothing was replied, 
 
 Or something which was nothing, as urbanity 
 Kequired. xVurora scarcely look'd aside, 
 
 Nor even smiled enough or any vanity 
 The devil was in the girl 1 Could it be pride ? 
 
 Or modesty, or absence, ^r inanity ? 
 Heaven knows 1 But Adeline's malicious eyes 
 Sparkled with her successful i)ropheeics, 
 
Canto xv. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 727 
 
 LXXIX. 
 &jid look'd as much as if to say, " I said it ;" 
 
 A kind of triumph I'll not recommend, 
 Because it sometimes, as I have seen or read it, 
 
 Both in the case of lover and of friend, 
 Will pique a gentleman, for his own credit, 
 
 To bring what was a jest to a serious end 
 For all men j:)ropliesy what is or ?r./.v, 
 And hate those who won't let them come to pass. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Juan was drawn thus into some attentions. 
 Slight but select, and just enough to express, 
 
 To females of perspicuous comprehensions. 
 That he would rather make them more than less. 
 
 Aurora at the last (so history mentions, 
 
 Though jjrobably much less a fact than guess) 
 
 So far relax'd her thoughts from their sweet prison, 
 
 As once or twice to smile, if not to listen. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 From answering she began to question : this 
 
 ^A'ith her was rare ; and Adeline, who as yet 
 Thought her predictions went not much amiss, 
 
 Began to dread she'd thaw to a coquette — 
 So very difficult, they say, it is 
 
 To keep extremes from meeting, when once set 
 In motion ; but she here too much refined — 
 Aurora's spirit was not of that kind. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 But Juan had a sort of winning way, 
 
 A proud humility, if such there be, 
 Wliich show'd such deference to what females say, 
 
 As if each charming word were a decree. 
 His tact, too, temper'd him from grave to gay, 
 
 And taught him when to be reserved or free : 
 He had the art of drawing people out. 
 Without their seeing what he was about. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 Aurora, who in her indifierence 
 
 Confounded him in common with the crowd 
 Of flatterers, though she deem'd he had more sense 
 
 Than whispering foplings, or than witlings loud — 
 C!ommenced (^fi-om such slight things wiU great 
 commence) 
 
 To feel that flattery which attracts the proud. 
 Rather by deference than compliment, 
 And wins even by a delicate dissent. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 And then he had good looks ; — that point was carried 
 
 Nem. eo:i, amongst the women, which I grieve 
 To say leads oft to rrhn. con. with the married— 
 
 A case which to the juries we may leave. 
 Since with digressions we too long have tarried. 
 Niw though we know of old that looks deceive, 
 ' Subaaditur " non ,■" omitted for tho sake of eapliony. 
 
 And always have done, somehow these good looks 
 JIake more impression than the best of books. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 Aurora, who look'd more on books than faces, 
 
 Was very young, although so very sage, 
 Admiring more Minerva than the Graces, 
 
 EsjjeeiaUy upon a printed page. 
 But Virtue's self, witli all her tightest laces. 
 
 Has not the natural stays of strict old age ; 
 And Socrates, that model of all duty, 
 Own'd to a penchant, though discreet, for beauty. 
 
 LXXXVI, 
 
 And girls of sixteen are thus far Socratic, 
 
 But innocently so, as Socrates ; 
 And really, if the sage sublime and Attic 
 
 At seventy years had phantasies like these, 
 Which Plato in his dialogues dramatic 
 
 Has shown, I know not why they should displease 
 In virgins — always in a modest way. 
 Observe ; for that with me 's a "sine qui."' 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 Also observe, that, like the great Lord Coke, 
 
 (See Littleton,) whene'er I have express'd 
 Opinions two, which at first sight may look 
 
 Twin opposites, the second is the best. 
 Perhaps I have a third, too, in a nook. 
 
 Or none at all — which seems a sorry jest : 
 But if a writer should be quite consistent. 
 How could he possibly show things existent i 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 If peojjie contradict themselves, can I 
 
 Help contradicting them, and everybody. 
 Even my veracious self? — But that 's a lie : 
 
 I never did so, never will — how should I ? 
 He who doubts all things notbing can deny : 
 
 Truth's fountains may be clear — lier streams are 
 muddy. 
 And cut through such canals of contradiction, 
 That she must often navigate o'er fiction. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 Apologue, fable, poesy, and parable, 
 
 Are false, but may be render'd also true. 
 By those who sow them in a laud that 's arable. 
 
 'Tis wonderful what faljle will not do 1 
 'Tis said it makes reality more bearable : 
 
 But what 's reality ? Who has its clue ? 
 Philosophy ? No : she too much rejects. 
 Religion ? Yes ; but which of all her s w ts ? 
 
 XC. 
 Some millions must be wrong, that 's pretty clear ; 
 
 Perhaps it may turn out that all ivere right, 
 God help us ! Since we have need on our career 
 
 To keep our holy beacons always bright, 
 
728 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS 
 
 Canto xn. 
 
 'Tis time that some new prophet should appear, 
 
 Or old indulge man with a second sight. 
 Opinions wear out in some thousand years, 
 Without a small refreshment from the sjjheres. 
 
 XCI. 
 
 But here again, why will I thus entangle 
 Myself with metaphysics ? None can hate 
 
 So much as I do any kind of wrangle ; 
 And yet, such is my folly, or my fate, 
 
 I always knock my head against some angle 
 Aljout the present, past, or future state : 
 
 Yet I wish well to Trojan and to Tyrian, 
 
 l^or I was bred a moderate Presbyterian. 
 
 XCII. 
 
 But though I am a temperate theologian. 
 
 And also meek as a metaphysician. 
 Impartial between Tyrian and Trojan 
 
 As Eldon on a lunatic commission, — 
 In politics my duty is to show John 
 
 But something of the lower world's condition. 
 It makes my blood boil like the si^rings of Hecla,' 
 To see men let these scoundrel sovereigns break law. 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 Hut poUtics, and policy, and piety, 
 Are topics which I sometimes introduce, 
 
 Not only for the sake of their variety, 
 But as subservient to a moral use ; 
 
 Because my business is to dress society, 
 
 And stuff with mgr that very verdant goose. 
 
 And now, that we may furnish with some matter all 
 
 Tastes, we are going to try the supernatural. 
 
 XCIV. 
 And now I will give up all argument ; 
 
 And positively henceforth no temptation 
 Shall " fool me to the top up of my bent :''— " 
 
 Yes, I'll begin a thorough reformation. 
 Indeed, I never knew what people meant 
 
 By deeming that my Muse's conversation 
 Was dangerous ; — I think she is as harmless 
 As some who labor more and yet may charm less. 
 
 XCV. 
 Grim reader ! did you ever see a ghost ? 
 
 No ; but you have heard — I understand — be dumb ! 
 And don't regret the time you may have lost. 
 
 For you have got that pleasure still to come : 
 And do not think I mean to sneer at most 
 
 Of these things, or liy ridicule benumb 
 That source of the sulilime and the mysterious: — 
 For certain reasons my belief is serious. 
 
 > Becla ie a famous hot-spring in Iceland. 
 
 » H.imlet, Act. III. bc. ii. 
 
 'Hobbos: who, doubting of his own soul, pail that compliment 
 
 XCVI. 
 Serious ? You laugh ; — you may : that will I not ; 
 
 My smiles must be sincere or not at all. 
 I say I do believe a liaunted spot 
 
 Exists — and wh(Te i That shall I not recall, 
 Because I'd rather it should lie forgot, 
 
 ■' Shadows the soul of Kichard " may appal 
 In short, ujjon that subject I've some qualms very 
 Like those of the philosopher of Malmsbury.' 
 
 XCi'II. 
 The night — (I sing by night — sometimes an owl, 
 
 And now and then a nightingale) — is dim. 
 And the loud shriek of sage Minerva's fowl 
 
 Rattles around me her discordant hymn : 
 Old portraits from old walls ujjon me scowl — 
 
 I wish to heaven they would not look so grim ; 
 The dying embers dwindle in the grate — 
 I think too that I have sate ujj too late : 
 
 XCVIII. 
 And therefore, though 'tis by no means my way 
 
 To rhyme at noon — when I have other things 
 To think of, if I ever think — I say 
 
 I feel some chilly midnight shudderings. 
 And prudenlly postpone, until mid-day, 
 
 Treating a topic which, alas ! but brings 
 Shadows ; — but you must be in my condition. 
 Before you learn to caU this superstition. 
 
 XCIX. 
 Between two worlds life hovers like a star, 
 
 'Twist night and morn, upon the horizon's verga 
 How little do we know that which we arc ! 
 
 How less what we may bc 1 The eternal surge 
 Of time and tide rolls on and bears afar 
 
 Our bubbles ; as the old burst, new emerge, 
 Lash'd from the foam of ages ; while the graves 
 Of empires heave but like some passing waves. 
 
 DON J U A N. 
 
 CANTO TBK SIXTEKNTH. 
 
 The antique Persians taught three useful tilings, 
 To draw the bow, to ride, and speak the truth.* 
 
 This was the mode of Cyrus, best of kings — 
 A mode adopted since by modern youth. 
 
 Bows have they, generally with two strings ; 
 Horses they ride without remorse or ruth ; 
 
 At speaking truth i)erliaps they are less clever. 
 
 But draw the long l)ow better now than ever. 
 
 to the souls of other people as to decline their visits, of which bf 
 liad some appri'hension. 
 * Xcnophou, Cyrop. 
 
Uanto xn. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 720 
 
 II. 
 The cause of tliis effect, or tbia defect, — 
 
 " For tbis effect defective comes by cause," — > 
 Is wbat I have not leisure to inspect ; 
 
 But tbis I must say in my own applause, 
 Of all the Muses that I recollect, 
 
 Wliate'er may be her follies or her flaws 
 In some things, mine 's beyond all contradiction 
 The most sincere that ever dealt in fiction. 
 
 III. 
 
 From any thing, tbis epic will contain 
 A wilderness of the most rare conceits, 
 
 Which you might elsewhere hojje to find in vain. 
 'Tis true there be some bitters with the sweets, 
 
 Yet mix'd so slightly, that you can't complain, 
 But wonder they so few are, since my tale is 
 " De rebus cunctis et quibusdam aliis." 
 
 IV. 
 But of all truths which she has told, the most 
 
 True is that which she is about to tell. 
 I said it was a story of a ghost — 
 
 What then ? I only know it so befeU. 
 Have you explored the Uraits of the coast, 
 
 Wliere all the dwellers of the earth must dwell ? 
 'Tis time to strike such puny doubters dumb as 
 The skejjtics who would not believe Columbus. 
 
 Some people would impose now with authority, 
 Turpiu's or Monmouth Geoffiry's Chronicle ; 
 
 Men whose historical superiority 
 Is always greatest at a miracle. 
 
 But Saint Augustine has the great priority, 
 Who bids all men beUeve the impossible. 
 
 Because 'tis s(i. Who nibble, scribble, quibble, he 
 
 Quiets at once with " quia impossibile." 
 
 VI. 
 And therefore, mortals, cavil not at aU ; 
 
 Believe : — if 'tis imjirobable you must, 
 And if it is impossible, you shall : 
 
 'Tis always best to take things upon trust. 
 I do not speak profanely, to recall 
 
 Those hoUer mysteries which the wise and just 
 Receive as gospel, and which grow more rooted, 
 As all truths must, the more they are disputed : 
 
 VII. , 
 
 I merely mean to say what Johnson said. 
 
 That in the course of some six thousand years, 
 All nations have believed that from the dead 
 
 A visitant at intervals appears ; 
 
 And what is strangest upon this strange head, 
 
 Is, that whatever bar the reason rears 
 'Gainst such belief, there 's something stronger still 
 In its behalf, let those deny who will. 
 
 vni. 
 
 The dinner and the soiree too were done, 
 
 The supper too diseuss'd, the danics admired. 
 
 The banqueteers had dropp'd off one by one — - 
 The song was silent, and the dance expired : 
 
 The last thin petticoats were vanish'd, gone 
 Like fleecy clouds into the sky retired. 
 
 And nothing brighter gleam'd through the salcon 
 
 Than dring tapers — and the peeping moon. 
 
 IX. 
 The evaporation of a joyous day 
 
 Is like the last glass of champagne, without 
 The foam which made its virgin bumper gay; 
 
 Or hke a system coupled with a doubt ; 
 Or like a soda bottle when its spray 
 
 Has sparkled and let half its spirit out ; 
 Or like a billow left by storms behind. 
 Without the animation of the wind; 
 
 X. 
 Or like an opiate, which brinsrs troubled rest, 
 
 Or none ; or like — like nothing that I know 
 Except itself; — such is the human breast; 
 
 A thing, of which similitudes can show 
 N'o real likeness, — like the old Tyrian vest 
 
 Dyed purple, none at present can tell how, 
 If from a shell-tish or from cochineal." 
 So perish every tyrant's robe piece-meaL 
 
 XI. 
 But next to dressing for a rout or ball. 
 
 Undressing is a wo ; our robe dc chambre 
 May sit like that of Nessus, and recall 
 
 Tlioughts quite as yellow, but less clear than am- 
 Titus exclaim'd, "I've lost a day !" Of all [ber. 
 
 The nights and days most people can remember, 
 (I have had of both, some not to be disdain'd,) 
 I wish they'd state how many they have gain'd. 
 
 XII. 
 And .Tuan, on retiring for the night. 
 
 Felt restless, and pcqjlex'd, and compromised : 
 He thought Aurora Haby's eyes more bright 
 
 Than Adeline (such is advice) advised ; 
 If he had known exactly his own plight. 
 
 He probably would have philosophized • 
 A great resource to all, and ne'er denied 
 Till wanted ; therefore Juan only sigli'd. 
 
 ' HanUet Act U. sc. ii. ehcU-fleh. or from cochineal, or from kermes, is still an article of 
 
 di^pnte ; and even its coloi^some say pnrple, others ecarlet ; 1 
 • The composition of the old Tyrian pnrple, whether from ■ say nothing. 
 92 
 
730 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Canto xn. 
 
 XIII. 
 He sigh'd ; — the next resource is the full moon 
 
 Where all sighs are deposited ; and now 
 It happen'd luckilj', the chaste orb shone 
 
 As clear as such a climate vdll allow ; 
 A.nd Juan's mind was in the proper tone 
 
 To hail her with the apostrophe — " O thou !" 
 Of amatory egotism the Tiiism, 
 Winch farther to explain would be a truism. 
 
 XIV. 
 But lover, poet, or astronomer, 
 
 Shepherd, or swain, whoever may behold, 
 Feel some abstraction when they gaze on her : 
 
 Great thoughts we catch from thence, (besides a 
 Sometimes, unless my feelings rather err ;) [cold 
 
 Deep secrets to her rolling light are told ; 
 The ocean's tides and mortals' brains slie sways, 
 And also hearts, if there be truth in lays. 
 
 XV. 
 Juan felt somewhat pensive, and disposed 
 
 For contemplation rather than his pillow : 
 The Gothic chamber, where he was enclosed, 
 
 Let in the rippling sound of the lake's billow, 
 With all the mystery by midnight caused : 
 
 Below his window waved (of course) a willow ; 
 And he stood gazing out on the cascade 
 That flash'd and after darken'd in the shade. 
 
 XVI. 
 Upon his table or his toilet, — winch 
 
 Of these is not exactly ascertain'd — 
 (I state this, for I am cautious to a pitch 
 
 Of nicety, where a fact is to be gain'd,) 
 A lamp burn'd high, while he leant from a niche, 
 
 Where many a Gothic ornament remain'd, 
 In chisell'd stone and painted glass, and all 
 That tiuie has left our fathers of their hall. 
 
 XVII. 
 Then, as the night was clear though cold, he threw 
 
 His chamber door wide open — and went forth 
 Into a gallery, of a sombre hue, 
 
 Long, furnisli'd with old i)ietures of great worth, 
 Of knights and dames heroic and chaste too, 
 
 As doulitless should be people of high birth. 
 But by dim lights the portraits of the dead 
 Have something ghastly, desolate, and dread. 
 
 XVIII. 
 The forms of the grim knight and pictured saint 
 
 Look living in the moon ; and as you turn 
 Backward and forward to the echoes faint 
 
 Of your own footsteps — voices from the urn 
 Appear to \vak(^, and shadows wild and quaint 
 Start from the frames which fence their aspects 
 stern. 
 
 As if to ask how you can dare to keep 
 
 A vigil there, where all but death should sleep. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 And the pale smile of beauties in the grave, 
 The charms of other days, in starlight gleams, 
 
 Glimmer on high ; their buried locks still wave 
 Along the canvass ; their eyes glance like dreamt 
 
 On ours, or spars within some dusky cave, 
 But death is imaged in their shadowy beams. 
 
 A picture is the past : even ere its frame 
 
 Be gilt, who sate hath ceased to be the same. 
 
 XX. 
 
 As Juan mused on mutability. 
 
 Or on his mistress — terms synonymous — 
 No sound except the echo of his sigh 
 
 Or step ran sadly through that antique house ; 
 When suddenly he heard, or thought so, nigh, 
 
 A supernatural ageut — or a mouse, 
 Whose little nibbling rustle will embarrass 
 Most people as it plays along the arras. 
 
 XXI. 
 It was no mouse, but lo ! a monk, array'd 
 
 In cowl and beads, and dusky garb, appear'd, 
 Now in the moonlight, and now lapsed in shade, 
 
 With steps that trod as heavy, yet unheard ; 
 His garments only a slight murmur made ; 
 
 He moved as shadowy as the sisters weird, 
 But slowly ; and as he pass'd .luan by. 
 Glanced, without pausing, on him a bright eye. 
 
 XXII. 
 Juan was petrified ; he had heard a hint 
 
 Of such a sjjirit in these halls of old. 
 But thought, like most men, there was nothing in '1 
 
 Beyond the rumor which such spots unfold, 
 Coin'd from surviving superstition's mint, 
 
 Which passes ghosts in currency like gold, 
 But rarely seen, like gold compared with paper. 
 And did he see this ? or was it a vapor ? 
 
 xxni 
 Once, twice, thrice pass'd, repass'd — the thing of air, 
 
 Or earth beneath, or heaven, or t' other place : 
 And Juan gazed ujjon it with a stare, 
 
 Yet could not speak or move ; but, on its base 
 As stands a statue, stood : he felt his hair 
 
 Twine like a knot of snakes around his face ; 
 He tax'd his tongue for words, which were not 
 To ask the reverend person what he wanted, [granted, 
 
 XXIV. 
 The third time, after a still longer pause. 
 
 The shadow pass'd away — but where ? the hall 
 Was long, and thus far there was no great cause 
 
 To think his vanishing unnatural : 
 
Canto xvz. 
 
 DON JUAisr. 
 
 73] 
 
 Doors there were many, through which, by the laws 
 
 Of physics, bodies whether short or tall 
 Slight come or go ; but Juan could not state 
 Through which the spectre seem'd to evaporate. 
 
 XXV. 
 He stood — how long he knew not, but it seem'd 
 
 An age — expectant, powerless, with his eyes 
 Strain'd on the spot where first the figure gleam'd ; 
 
 Then by degrees recall'd his energies, 
 And would have pass'd the whole off as a dream, 
 
 But could not wake ; he was, he did surmise. 
 Waking already, and return'd at length 
 Back to his chamber, shorn of half his strength. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 All there was as he left it : still his taper 
 Burnt, and not hhie, as modest tapers use, 
 
 Receiving sprites with sympathetic vapor ; 
 He rubb'd his eyes, and they did not refuse 
 
 Their office : he took up an old newspaper ; 
 The pajjer was right easy to peruse ; 
 
 He read an article the king attacking. 
 
 And a long eulogy of " patent blacking." 
 
 XXVII. 
 This savor'd of this world ; but his hand shook : 
 
 He shut his door, and after having read 
 A paragraph, I think about Home Tooke, 
 
 Undress'd, and rather slowly went to bed. 
 There, couch'd all snugly on his pillow's nook. 
 
 With what he had seen his phantasy he fed ; 
 And though it was no opiate, slumber crept 
 Upon him by degrees, and so he slejjt. 
 
 X.XVIII. 
 He woke betimes ; and, as may be supposed, 
 
 Ponder'd upon his visitant or vision. 
 And whether it ought not to be disclosed. 
 
 At risk of being quizz'd for superstition. 
 The more he thought, the more his mind was posed : 
 
 In the mean time, his valet, whose precision 
 Was great, because his master brook'd no less, 
 Knock'd to inform him it was time to dress. 
 
 XXIX. 
 He dress'd ; and like young people he was wont 
 
 To take some trouble with his toilet, but 
 This morning rather spent less time upon 't ; 
 
 Aside his very mirror soon was put ; 
 His curls fell negligently o'er his front. 
 
 His clothes were not curb'd to their usual cut. 
 His rery neckcloth's Gordian knot was tied 
 Almost a hair's breadth too much on one side. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 And when he walk'd down into the saloon, 
 He sate him pensive o'er a dish of tea. 
 
 Which he perhaps had not discover'd soon, 
 Had it not happcn'd scalding hot to be, 
 
 Which made him have recourse unto his spoon ; 
 So much distrait he was, that all could see 
 
 That something was the matter — Adeline 
 
 The first — but what she could not well divine. 
 
 XXXI. 
 She look'd, and saw him p.ale, and turn'd as pale 
 
 Herself; then hastily look'd down, and mutter'd 
 Something, but what 's not stated in my tale. 
 
 Lord Henry said his mufBn was ill butter'd ; 
 The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke play'd with her veil, 
 
 And look'd at Juan hard, but nothing utter'd. 
 Aurora Raljy with her large dark eyes 
 Survey'd him Avith a kind of calm surprise. 
 
 XXXIl. 
 
 But seeing him all cold and silent still. 
 And everybody wondering more or less, 
 
 Fair Adeline inquired, " If he were ill ?" 
 
 He started, and said, '' Yes — no — rather — yes." 
 
 The family physician had great skill. 
 
 And being present, now liegan to express 
 
 His readiness to feel his iJulse and tell 
 
 The cause, but Juan said, " He was quite well." 
 
 XXXIII. 
 " Quite wcU ; yes, — no." — These answers were mys 
 terious 
 
 And yet his looks appear'd to sanction both. 
 However they might savor of delirious ; 
 
 Sijmething like illness of a sudden growth 
 Weigh'd on bis spirit, though by no means serious 
 
 But for the rest, as he himself seem'd loth 
 To state the case, it might be ta'en for granted. 
 It was not the physician that he wanted. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 Lord Heury, who had now discuss'd his chocolate, 
 
 Also the muffin whereof he complain'd. 
 Said, Juan had not got his usual look elate, 
 
 At which he marvell'd, since it had not rain'd ; 
 Then ask'd her Grace what news were of the duke 
 of late ? 
 
 Her Grace replied, !ih Grace was rather pain'd 
 With some slight, light, hereditary twinges 
 Of gout, which rusts aristocratic hinges. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Tlien Henry turn'd to Juan, and address'd 
 A few words of condolence on his state : 
 
 " Tou look." quoth he, " as if you had had your lest 
 Broke in upon by the Black Friar of late." 
 
 " What friar i" said Juan ; and he did his best 
 To put the question with an air sedate, 
 
 Or careless ; but tlie effort was not valid 
 
 To hinder him irora growing still more pallid. 
 
?32 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS, 
 
 Canto rvx 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 ' Oh 1 have you never heard of the Black Friar ? 
 
 The sfjirit of these walls ? — " In truth not I." 
 ' Why Fame — but Fame you know 's sometimes a 
 
 Tells au odd story, of which by an by : [liar — 
 Wliethcr with time the spectre has grown shyer, 
 
 Or that our sires had a more gifted eye 
 For such sights, though the tale is half believed, 
 The friar of late has not been oft perceived. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 " The last time was " — " I pray," said Adeline — 
 
 (Who watch'd the changes of Don Juan's brow. 
 
 And from its context thought she could divine 
 Connections stronger than he chose to avow 
 
 With this same legend) — " if you but design 
 
 To jest, you '11 choose some other theme just now, 
 
 Because the present tale has oft been told, 
 
 And is not much improved by growing old." 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 " Jest !" quoth Milor ; " why, Adeline, you know 
 That we ourselves — 't was in the honey-moon — 
 
 Saw " — " Well, no matter, 't was so long ago ; 
 
 But, come, I '11 set your story to a tune." 
 
 Graceful as Dian, when she draws her bow. 
 
 She seized her harp, whose strings were kindled 
 
 As touch'd, and plaintively began to play [soon 
 
 The air of " 'T was a Friar of Orders Gray." 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 •' But add the words," cried Henry, " which you 
 For Adeline is half a poetess," [made ; 
 
 Turning round to the rest, he smiling said. 
 Of course the others could not but express 
 
 In courtesy their wish to see display'd 
 
 J5y one tliree talents, for there were no less — 
 
 The voice, the words, the harper's skill, at once 
 
 Could hardly be united by a dunce. 
 
 XL. 
 After some fascinating hesitation, — 
 
 The charming of these charmers, who seem bound, 
 I can't tell why, to this dissimulation, — 
 
 Fair Adeline, with eyes lix'd on tlie ground 
 At first, then kindling into animation. 
 
 Added her sweet voice to the lyric sound. 
 And sang .vith much simplicity, — a merit 
 Not the less precious, that we seldom hear it. 
 
 1. 
 Beware 1 beware I of the Black Friar, 
 
 Who sitteth by Norman stone, 
 For he mutters his prayer in the midnight air. 
 
 And his mass of the days that are gone. 
 When the Lord of tlie Hill, Amundeville, 
 
 Mnile Norman Church his prey. 
 
 And ex|jeird the friars, one friar still 
 Would not be driven away. 
 
 Though he came in his might, with King Henry's 
 
 To turn church lands to lay, [rigliti 
 
 With sword in hand, and torch to light 
 
 Their walls, if they said nay ; 
 A monk remain'd, imcliased, unchain'd. 
 
 And he did not seem form'd of clay. 
 For he 's seen in the porch, and he 's seen in the 
 
 Though he is not seen by day. [church, 
 
 And whether for good, or whether for ill, 
 
 It is not mine to say ; 
 But still with the house of Amundeville 
 
 He abideth night and day. 
 By the marriage-bed of their lords, 't is said, 
 
 He flits on the bridal eve ; 
 And 't is held as faith, to their bed of death 
 
 He comes — but not to grieve. 
 
 4. 
 When an heir is Ijorn, he 's heard to mourn. 
 
 And when aught is to befall 
 That ancient line, in the pale moonshine 
 
 He walks from hall to hall. 
 His form you may trace, but not his face, 
 
 'T is shadow'd by his cowl : 
 But his eyes may be seen from the folds between, 
 
 And they seem of a parted soul. 
 
 But beware ! beware ! of the Black Friar, 
 
 He still retains his sway, 
 For he is yet the church's heir 
 
 Whoever may be the lay. 
 Amundeville is lord by day. 
 
 But the monk is lord by night ; 
 Nor wine nor wassail could raise a vassal 
 
 To question that friar's right. 
 
 Say naught to him as he walks the hall, 
 
 And he '11 say nauglit to you ; 
 He sweeps along in his dusky pall. 
 
 As o'er the grass the dew. 
 Then grammercy ! for the Black Friar ; 
 
 Heaven sain him ! fair or foul. 
 And whatsoe'er may be his prayer. 
 
 Let ours be for his soul. 
 
 XLI. 
 The lady's voice ceased, and the thrilling wires 
 
 Died from the touch that kindlccl tliem to sound 
 And the pause foUow'd, which when song oxpi'-es 
 
 Pervades a moment those who listen roimd 
 
Caxto xti. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 733 
 
 And then of couree the circle mucli admires 
 Nor less applauds, as in poUteuess bound, 
 The tones, the feeling, and the execution, 
 To the performer's diffident confusion. 
 
 XLII. 
 Fair Adeline, though in a careless way. 
 
 As if she rated such accomplishment 
 As the mere pastime of an idle day. 
 
 Pursued an instant for her own content. 
 Would now and than as "t were Without display, 
 
 Yet icith display in fact, at times relent 
 To such performances with haughty smile, 
 To show she could, if it were worth her while. 
 
 XLIII. 
 Now this (but we will whisper it aside) 
 
 Was — pardon the pedantic illustration — 
 TrampUng on Plato's pride with greater pride. 
 
 As did the Cynic on some like occasion ; 
 Deeming the sage would be much mortified, 
 
 Or thrown into a pliilosophic passion. 
 For a spoil'd carpet — but the " Attic Bee " 
 Was much consoled by his own repartee.' 
 
 XLIV. 
 Thus Adehne would throw into the shade 
 
 (By doing easily, whene'er she chose, 
 What dilettanti do with vast parade) 
 
 Their sort of half prnfessiaii : for it grows 
 To something like this when too oft display'd ; 
 
 And that it is so everybody knows 
 Who have heard Miss That or This, or Lady T'other, 
 Show off — to please their company or mother. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 Oh I the long evenings of duets and trios ! 
 
 The admirations and the speculations ; 
 The " Mamma Mias !" and the " Amor Mios !" 
 
 The " Tarti jialpitis " on such occasions : 
 The " Lasciamis,'' and quavering " Addios !" 
 
 Amongst om- own most musical of nations : 
 With " Tu mi chamases '' from Portingale, 
 To soothe our ears, lest Italy should fail.^ 
 
 XLVI. 
 In Babylon's hravuras — as the home 
 
 Heart-ballads of Green Erin or Gray Highlands, 
 That bring Lochaber back to eyes that roam 
 
 O'er far Atlantic continents or islands, 
 
 ' 1 think it was a carpet on which Diocenes trod, with—" Thus 
 I trample on tlie pride of Plato I"—'- With greater pride," as the 
 other replied. But as carpets are meant to he trodden npon. my 
 memory probably misgives me. and it might he a robe, or tapes- 
 try, or a table-cloth, or some other expensive and uncynical piece 
 of furniture. 
 
 ^ I remember that the mayoress of a provincial town, somewhat 
 EtiTfeited with a similar display from foreign parts, did rather in- 
 decorously break through the applauses of an intelligent audience 
 — intelligent. I mean, as to music— for the words, besides being in 
 recondite languages, (it was some years before the peace, ere all 
 
 The calentures of music which o'ercome [lands, 
 All mountaineers with dreams that they are nigh 
 No more to be beheld but in such visions — 
 Was Adeline well versed, as compositions. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 She also had a twilight tinge of " Slue," 
 
 Could write rhymes, and compose more than she 
 
 Made epigrams occasionally too [wrote, 
 
 Upon her Mends, as everybody ought. 
 
 But still from that subUmer azure hue, 
 So much the present dye, she was remote ; 
 
 Was weak enough to deem Pope a great poet. 
 
 And what was worse, was not ashamed to show it. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 Aurora — since we are touching upon taste, 
 Which now-a-days is the thermometer 
 
 By whose degrees all characters are class'd — 
 Was more Shakspearian, if I do not err. 
 
 The worlds beyond this world's perplexing waste. 
 Had more of her existence, for in her 
 
 There was a depth of feeling to embrace 
 
 Thoughts, boundless, deep, but silent too as Space. 
 
 XLIX. 
 Not so her gracious, graceful, graceless Grace, 
 
 The full grown Hebe of Fitz-Fulke, whose mind, 
 If she had any, was upon her face. 
 
 And that was of a fascinating kind. 
 A little turn for mischief you might trace 
 
 Also thereon, — but that 's not much ; we find 
 Few females without some such gentle leaven. 
 For fear we should suppose us quite in heaven. 
 
 L. 
 I have not heard she was at all poetic, 
 
 Though once site was seen reading the " Bath 
 
 Guide," [thetic 
 
 And " Hayley's Triumphs," which she deem'd pa- 
 
 Because she said her temper had been tried 
 So much, the bard had really been proi)h(tic 
 
 Of what she had gone through with — since a bride. 
 But of all verse, what most ensured her praise 
 Were sonnets to herself, or " bouts rimCs '' 
 
 LI. 
 'T were difficult to say what was the object 
 Of Adeline, in bringing this same lay 
 
 the world had travelled, and while I was a collegian.) were sorely 
 disgtnsed by the performers : — this mayoress, I say. broke out with, 
 " Rot your Italianos I for my part, I loves a simple ballat I" Ros- 
 sini will go a good way to bring most people to the same opinion 
 some day. Who would imagine that he was to be the successor 
 of Mozart ? Ilowcvcr. I slate this with diffidence, as a liege and 
 loyal admirer of Italian music in general, and of much of Ros- 
 sini's ; hut we may say, as the connoisseur did of painting in 
 " The Vicar of Wakefield." that " the picture would be better 
 painted if the painter had taken more pains." 
 
734 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Cakto xn. 
 
 To bear on what appcar'd to her the subject 
 Of Juan's nervous feelings on that day. 
 
 Perliaps she merely had the shnple project 
 To laugh him out of his supposed dismay ; 
 
 Perhaps she might wish to confirm him in it, 
 
 Though why I cannot say — at least this minute. 
 
 LI I. 
 
 But so far tlie immediate effect 
 
 "Was to restore him to his self-propriety, 
 
 A thing quite necessary to the elect, 
 
 Who wish to take the tone of their society : 
 
 In which you cannot be too circumspect. 
 Whether the mode be persiflage or piety, 
 
 But wear the newest mantle of h\-iJocrisy, 
 
 On pain of much displeasing the gynocracy. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 And therefore Juan now began to rally 
 His spirits, and without more explanation 
 
 To jest upon such themes in numy a sally. 
 Her Grace, too, also seized the same occasion. 
 
 With various similar remarks to tally, 
 But wish'd for a still more detaifd narration 
 
 Of this same mystic friar's curious doings, 
 
 About the present family's deaths and wooings. 
 
 hlV. 
 
 Of these few could say more than has been said ; 
 
 They pass'd as such things do, for superstition 
 With some, while others, who had more in dread 
 
 The theme, half credited the strange tradition ; 
 And much was talk'd on all sides on that head : 
 
 But Juan, when cross-question'd on the vision, 
 Which some supijosed (though he had not avow'd it) 
 Had stirr'd him, answer'd in a way to cloud it. 
 
 LV. 
 And then, the mid-day having worn to one. 
 
 The company prepared to separate ; 
 Some to their several pastimes, or to none. 
 
 Some wondering 't was so early, some so late. 
 There was a goodly match, too, to be run 
 
 Between some greyhounds on my lord's estate, 
 And a young raee-horse of old pedigree, 
 Match'd for the spring, whom several went to see. 
 
 LVI. 
 There was a picture-dealer who had brought 
 A special Titian, warranted original, 
 
 ' " .\iisu Itomano. ,-cre Veneto " Is the inscription (and well in- 
 Bcribpd in iliis instance! on the t^ca walls between the Adriatic and 
 Venlc('. The walls wei'e a republican work of the Venetiane ; the 
 Inscription, I believe, Imperial ; and inscribed by Napoleon the 
 Firft. It 18 time to continue to him that title— there will be a 
 Becond by and by. " Spes altera mundi," if h€ Hre ; lot him not 
 defeat it like his father. Bnt in any caae, lie will be preferable to 
 Imbeciles. There is a glorious Held for him, if he know how to 
 
 So precious that it was not to be bought. 
 
 Though princes the possessor were besieging all 
 
 The king himself had cheapen'd it. but thought 
 The civil list he deigns to accept (obliging all 
 
 His subjects by his gracious acceptation) — 
 
 Too scanty, in these times of low taxation. 
 
 hVII. 
 
 But as Lord Henry was a connoisseur, — 
 
 The friend of artists, if not arts,— the owner, 
 
 With motives the most classical and pure. 
 So that he would have been the very donor, 
 
 Rather than seller, had his wants been fewer, 
 So much he deem'd his patronage an honor, 
 
 Had brought the capo d'opera, not for sale. 
 
 But for his judgment — never known to fail. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 There was a modem Goth, I mean a Gothic 
 
 Bricklayer of Babel, call'd an architect, [thick. 
 
 Brought to survey these gray walls, which though so 
 Might have from time acquired some slight defect; 
 
 Wlio after rummaging the Abliey through thick 
 And thin, produced a plan whereby to erect 
 
 New buildings of correctest conformation. 
 
 And throw down old, \\ hieh he call'd rcdoration, 
 
 MX. 
 
 The cost would be a trifle — an " old song," 
 Set to some thousands ('tis the usual burthen 
 
 Of that same tunc, when people hum it long) — 
 The price would sjjeedily repay its worth in 
 
 An edifice no less sublime than strong. 
 
 By which Lord Henry's good taste would go forth 
 
 Its glory, through all ages shining sunny, [in 
 
 For Gothic daring shown in English money.' 
 
 1,X. 
 There were two lawyers busy on a mortgage 
 
 Lord Henry ^^•ish'd to raise for a new purchase ; 
 Also a lawsuit upon tenures burgage. 
 
 And one on tithes, which sure arc Discord's torches, 
 Kindling Religion till she throws down her gage, 
 
 "Untj-ing" squires "to fight againstthcchurches;'" 
 There was a prize ox, a prize pig, and ploughman, 
 For Henry was a sort of Sabine showman. 
 
 LXI. 
 There were two poachers caught in a steel trap. 
 Ready for jail, their place of convalescence ; 
 
 cultivate it.— [Napoleon, Dnke of Reichsladt, died at Vienna li 
 183^10 the disappointment of many prophets.] 
 
 - " I conjnrc yon, by that which you profess, 
 (Tlowe'er you come to know it) answer me : 
 Though ye itntie the winds, and let t .cm fight 
 Af^ainst the cfiurcti4sy —Macbeth- 
 
CJaNTO XVI. 
 
 DON JUAN, 
 
 735 
 
 Tliere was a country girl in a close cap 
 
 And scarlet cloak, (I hate tlie si^tlit to see, since — 
 Since — since — in youth, I had the sad mishap — ■ 
 
 But luckily I have paid few parish fees since :) 
 That scarlet cloak, alas ! unclosed with rigor. 
 Presents the problem of a double figure. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 A reel within a bottle is a mystery. 
 
 One can't tell how it e'er got in or out ; 
 
 Therefore the present piece of natural history 
 I leave to those who are fond of solving doubt ; 
 
 And merely state, though not for the consistory, 
 Lord Henry was a justice, and that Scout 
 
 The constaljle,' beneath a warrant's banner, 
 
 Had bagg'd this poacher upon Natiu-e's manor. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 Now justices of peace must judge all pieces 
 Of mischief of all kinds, and keep the game 
 
 And morals of the country from caprices 
 
 Of those who have not a license for the same ; 
 
 And of all things, excepting tithes and leases, 
 Perhaps these are most diflicult to tame 
 
 Preserving partridges and pretty wenches 
 
 Are puzzles to the most precautious benches. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 The present culprit was extremely pale. 
 Pale as if painted so ; her cheek being red 
 
 By nature, as in higher dames less hale 
 'T is white, at least when they just rise from bed : 
 
 Perhaps she was ashamed of seeming frail. 
 Poor soul ! for she was country born and bred, 
 
 And knew no better in her immorality 
 
 Than to wax white — for blushes are for quality. 
 
 LXV. 
 Her black, biight, downcast, yet espiegle eye, 
 
 Had gather'd a large tear into its comer. 
 Which the poor thing at times essay'd to dry, 
 
 For she was not a sentimental mourner 
 Parading all her sensibility. 
 
 Nor insolent enough to scorn the scomer. 
 But stood in trembling, patient tribulation. 
 To be caU'd up for her examination. 
 
 LXVI. 
 Of course these groups were scatter'd here and 
 there. 
 
 Not nigh the gay saloon of ladies gent. 
 The lawyc-s in the study ; and in air [sent 
 
 The prize pig, ploughman, poachers ; the men 
 From town, viz., architect and dealer, were 
 
 Both busy (as a general in his tent 
 Writing dispatches) in their several stations, 
 Exulting in their brilliant lucubrations. 
 
 LXVII. 
 But this poor gii-1 was left in the great hall. 
 
 While Scout, the parish guardian of the frail, 
 Discuss'd (he hated beer yclept the " small ") 
 
 A mighty mug of moral double ale. 
 She waited until Justice could recall 
 
 Its kind attentions to their proper pale, 
 To name a thing in nomenclature rather 
 Perplexing for most virgins — a child's father. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 You see here was enough of occupation 
 For the Lord Henry, link'd with dogs .and horses. 
 
 There was much bustle too, and preparation 
 Below stairs on the score of second courses ; 
 
 Because, as suits their rank and situation. 
 
 Those who in counties have great land resources, 
 
 Have " public days," when all men may carouse, 
 
 Though not exactly what 's call'd " open house." 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 But once a week or fortnight, >/)anvitcd 
 (Thus we translate a rjeneriil intUalinii) 
 
 All country gentlemen, esquired or knighted. 
 
 May drop in witliout cards, and take their station 
 
 At the full board, and sit alike delighted 
 With fashionable wines and conversation ; 
 
 And, as the isthmus of the grand connection. 
 
 Talk o'er themselves the past and next election. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 Lord Henry was a great electioneerer. 
 
 Burrowing for boroughs like a rat or ralilnt. 
 
 But county contests cost him rather dearer, [bit 
 
 Because the neighboring Scotch Earl of Giftgab- 
 
 Had English influence, in the self-same sphere here; 
 His son, the Honorable Dick Dicedrabbit, 
 
 Was member for the " other interest," (meaning 
 
 The same self-interesi, with a different leaning.) 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 Courteous and cautious therefore in his County, 
 He was aD things to all men, and disj)ensed 
 
 To some civility, to others liounty. 
 
 And promises to all — which last commenced 
 
 To gather to a somewhat large amount, he 
 Not calculating how mucli they condensed ; 
 
 But what with keeping some, and breaking others, 
 
 His word had the same value as another's. 
 
 LXXII. 
 A friend to freedom and freeholders — yet 
 
 No less a friend to government — he held. 
 That he exactly the just medium hit 
 
 'Twixt place and patriotism — albeit compell'd, 
 Such was his sovereign's pleasure, (though unfit. 
 
 He added modestly, wlien rebels rail'd,) 
 
136 
 
 BYRON'S WOliKS. 
 
 Cajtio xn. 
 
 To hold some sinecures he wish'd abolish'd, 
 But that witli them all law would be demolish'd. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 He was " free to confess " — (whence crmes this phrase ? 
 
 Is't English ? No — 'tis only parliamentary) 
 That innovation's spirit now-a-days 
 
 Had made more progress than for the last century. 
 He would not tread a factious path to praise, 
 
 Though for the public weal disposed to venture 
 As for his place, he could but say this of it, [high : 
 That the fatigue was greater than the profit. 
 
 I.XXIV. 
 Heaven, and his friends, knew that a private life 
 
 Had ever been his sole and whole amliition ; 
 But could he quit his king in times of strife, [tion ? 
 
 Wliich threatcn'd the whole country with perdi- 
 When demagogues would with a butcher's knife 
 
 Cut through and through (oh, danmable incision !) 
 The Gordian or the G'ordi-an knot, whose strings 
 Have tied together commons, lords, and kings. 
 
 LXXV. 
 Sooner " come, place, into the civil list 
 
 And champion him to the utmost — " he would 
 Till duly disappointed or dismiss'd : [keep it, 
 
 Prolit he cared not for, let others reap it ; 
 But should the day come when jjlace ceased to exist, 
 
 The country would have far more cause to weep 
 For how could it go on ? Explain who can ! [it : 
 He gloried in the name of Englishman. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 He was as independent — ay, much more — 
 
 Than those who were not paid for independence, 
 As common soldiers, or a common shore. 
 
 Have in their several arts or parts ascendance 
 O'er the irregulars in lust or gore, 
 
 TTlio do not give professional attendance. 
 Thus on the mob all statesmen are as eager 
 To prove their pride, as footmen to a beggar. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 All this (save the last stanza) Henry said. 
 
 And tliought. I say no more — -I've said too much ; 
 For all of us have either heard or read — 
 
 Off — or iijwn the hustings — some slight such 
 Hints from the independent heart or head 
 
 Of the official candidate. I'll touch 
 No more on this — the dinner-bell hath rung, 
 And grace is said ; the grace I aliould have »ung — 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 But I'm too late, and therefore must make play. 
 
 'Twas a great lianquet, such as Albion old 
 Was wont to lioast — as if a glutton's tray 
 
 Were something very glorious to behold. 
 
 But 'twas a public feast and public day, — 
 
 Quite full, right dull, guests hot, and dishes cold. 
 Great plenty, much formality, small cheer. 
 And everybody out of iheir own sphere. 
 
 UXXIX. 
 
 The squares familiarly formal, and 
 My lords and ladies proudly condescending ; 
 
 The very servants puzzling how to hand [ing 
 
 Their plates — without it might be too much bend- 
 
 From their high places by the sideltoard's stand — 
 Yet, like their masters, fearful of ofl'ending; 
 
 For any deviation from the graces 
 
 Jlight cost both man and master too — theiT placet. 
 
 LXXX. 
 There were some hunters bold, and coursers keen, 
 
 Whose hounds ne'er err'd, nor greyhounds deign'd 
 Some deadly shots too, Septembrizers, seen [to lurch ; 
 
 Earliest to rise, and last to quit the search 
 Of the poor partridge through his stubble screen. 
 
 There were some massy members of the church, 
 Takers of tithes, and makers of good matches. 
 And several who sang fewer jisalms than catches. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 There were some country wags too — and alas ! 
 
 Some exiles from the town, who had been driven 
 To gaze, instead of pavement, upon grass. 
 
 And rise at nine in lieu of long eleven. 
 And lo ! upon that day it came to pass, 
 
 I sate next that o'erwhelming son of heaven, 
 The very powerful parson, Peter Pith, 
 The loudest wit I e'er was deafen'd with. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 I knew him in his livelier London days, 
 
 A brilliant diner out, though but a curate, 
 And not a joke he cut but earn'd its praise, 
 
 Until preferment, coming at a sure rate, 
 (O Pro^-idence ! how wondrous are thy ways ! 
 
 Who would suppose thy gifts sometimes obdu- 
 rate ?) 
 Gave him, to lay the devil who looks o'er Lincoln, 
 A fat fen vicarage, and naught to think on. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 His jokes were sermons, and his sermons jokes ; 
 
 But both were thro^vn away amongst the fens ; 
 For wit hath no great friend in aguish folks. 
 
 No longer ready ears and short-hand pens 
 Imljibed the gay bon-mot, or hajipy hoax : 
 
 The jjoor priest was reduced to common sense, 
 Or to coarse elTorts very loud and long. 
 To hammer a hoarse laugh from the thick throng. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 There is a difterencc. says the song, "between 
 A beggar and a queen," or was (of late 
 
Canxo XVI. 
 
 DON JUAX 
 
 737 
 
 The latter worse used of the two we've seen — 
 But we'll say nothing of aflairs of state) 
 
 A difference " "twist a bishop and a dean," 
 A difference between crockerv-ware and plate, 
 
 As between English beef and Spartan broth — 
 
 And yet great heroes have been bred by both. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 But of all nature's discrepancies, none 
 Upon the whole is greater than the difference 
 
 Beheld between the country and the town, 
 Of which the latter merits every preference 
 
 From those who 've few resources of their own. 
 And only think, or act, or feel, with reference 
 
 To some small plan of interest or ambition — 
 
 Both which are limited to no condition. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 ■iut "en avant !" The light loves languish o'er 
 
 Lung banquets and too many guests, although 
 A slight repast makes people love much more, 
 
 Bacchus and Ceres being, as we know, 
 Even from our grammar upwards, friends of yore 
 
 With vivifying Venus, who doth owe 
 To these the invention of champagne and truffles : 
 Temperance delights her, but long fasting ruffles. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 Dully pass'd o'er the dinner of the day ; 
 
 And Juan took his place, he knew not where. 
 Confused, in the confusion, and distrait, 
 
 And sitting as if naifd upon his chair : 
 Though knives and forks clank'd round as in a 
 fray. 
 
 He seem'd unconscious of all passing there, 
 Till some one, with a groan, express'd a wish 
 (Unheeded twice) to have a fin of fish. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 On which, at the third asking of the bans. 
 He started : and perceiving smiles around 
 
 Broadening to grins, he color'd more than once, 
 And hastily — as nothing can confound 
 
 A wise man more than laughter from a dunce — 
 Intlicted on the dish a deadly wound, 
 
 And with such hurry, that ere he could curb it. 
 
 He had paid his neighbor's prayer with half a turbot. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 This was no bad mistake, as it occurr'd, 
 
 The supplicator being an amateur ; 
 But others, who were left with scarce a third, 
 
 Were angry — as they well might, to be sure, 
 Tliey wonder'd how a young man so absurd 
 
 Lord Henry at his table should endure ; 
 Ind this, and his not knowing how much oats 
 Had fallen last market, cost his host three votes. 
 93 
 
 XC. 
 
 They little knew, or might ha/e sympathized. 
 That he the night before had seen a ghost, 
 
 A prologue which but slightly harmonized 
 With the substantial company engross'd 
 
 By matter, and so much materialized, 
 
 That one scarce knew at what to marvel most 
 
 Of two things — how (the question rather odd is) 
 
 Such bodies could have souls, or souls such bodies. 
 
 XCL 
 
 But what confused him more than smile or stare, 
 From all the 'squires and 'squiresses around, 
 
 Who wonder'd at the abstraction of his air. 
 Especially as he had been rcnown'd 
 
 For some vivacity among the fair, 
 
 Even in the country circle's narrow bound- 
 
 (For little things upon my lord's estate 
 
 Were good small talk for others still less great)- 
 
 XCII. 
 
 Was, that he caught Aurora's eye on his. 
 And something like a smile upon her cheek. 
 
 Now this he really rather took amiss : 
 
 In those who rarely smile, their smiles bespeak 
 
 A strong external motive ; and in this 
 
 Smile of Aurora's there was naught to pique, 
 
 Or hope, or love, with any of the wiles 
 
 Which some pretend to trace in ladies' smiles. 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 'Twas a mere quiet smile of contemplation. 
 Indicative of some suq^rise and pity ; 
 
 And Juan grew carnation with vexation. 
 
 Which was not very wise, and still less witty, 
 
 Since he had gain'd at least her observation, 
 A most important outwork of the city — 
 
 As Juan should have known, had not his senses 
 
 By last night's ghost been driven from their defences, 
 
 XCIV. 
 But what was bad, she did not blush in turn, 
 
 Kor seem embarrass'd — quite the contraiy ; 
 Her aspect was as usual, still—"')/ stern — 
 
 And she withdrew, but cast not down, her eye, 
 Yet grew a little pale — with what ? concern ? 
 
 I know not ; but her color ne'er was high — 
 Though sometimes faintly flush'd — and always ciear, 
 As deep seas in a sunny atmosphere. 
 
 XCV. 
 But Adeline was occupied by fame 
 
 This day ; and watching, witching, coi Icscend- 
 To the consumers offish, fowl, and game, |ing 
 
 And dignity with courtesy so blending. 
 As all must blend whose part it is to aim 
 
 (Especially as the sixth year is ending) 
 
738 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Camo xvt 
 
 As t)irir lord's, son's, or similar connection's 
 Bai'e conduct through the rocks of re-elections. 
 
 XCVI. 
 
 Thougli this was most expedient on the whole, 
 And usual — Juan, when he cast a glance 
 
 On Adeline while playing her grand role, 
 Which she went through as though it were a 
 dance. 
 
 Betraying only now and then her soul 
 By a look scarce perceptibly askance, 
 
 (Of weariness or scorn,) began to feel 
 
 Some doubt how much of Adeline was real ; 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 So well she acted all and every part 
 By turns — with that vivacious versatility, 
 
 Wliich many people take for want of heart. 
 They err — 'tis merely what is call'd mobility,' 
 
 A thing of temperament and not of art, 
 
 Though seeming so, from its supposed facility ; 
 
 And false — though true ; for surely they're sincerest. 
 
 Who are strongly acted on by what is nearest. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 This makes your actors, artists, and romancers. 
 Heroes sometimes, though seldom — sages never ; 
 
 But speakers, bards, diplomatists, and dancers. 
 Little that 's great, but much of what is clever ; 
 
 Most orator -, but very few financiei-s, 
 Though all Exchequer chancellors endeavor, 
 
 Of late years, to dispense with Cocker's rigors, 
 
 And grow quite figurative with their figures. 
 
 XCIX. 
 The poets of arithmetic are they, 
 
 Who, though they prove not two and two to be 
 Five, as they might do in a modest way, 
 
 Have plainly made it out that four are three, 
 Judging by what they take, and what they pay. 
 
 The Sinking Fund's unfathomable sea, 
 That most unliquidating liquid, leaves 
 The debt unsunk, yet sinks all it receives. 
 
 C. 
 While Adeline dispensed her airs and graces. 
 
 The fair Fitz-F;ilke seem'd very much at ease; 
 Thougli too wc-U bred to quiz men to their faces. 
 
 Her laughing blue eyes with a glance could seize 
 The ridicules of people in all places — 
 
 That honey of your fasliionable bees — 
 And store it up for mischievous enjoyment ; 
 And this at present was her kind employment. 
 
 ' In French " mobUiti."' I am not enre that mobility is Eng- 
 lish ; but it is expressive of a quiility which rather belongs to 
 Bther cliraatcs. though it is sometimes .-ecu to a great extent in 
 »ur owti. It may be delined as an excessive susccptihliity of im- 
 
 CI. 
 
 However, the day closed, as days must close ; 
 
 The evening also waned — and coffee lame. 
 Each carriage was ai»nounced, and ladies rose, 
 
 Antl curtsying off, as curtsies country dame, 
 Retired : with most unfashionable bowa 
 
 Their docile esquires also did the same, 
 Delighted with their dinner and their host. 
 But with the Lady Adeline the most. 
 
 CI I. 
 
 Some praised her beauty : others her great grace ; 
 ■ The warmth of her jjoliteness, whose sincerity 
 Was obvious in each feature of her face. 
 
 Whose traits were radiant witli the rays of verity, 
 Yes ; .<//(' was truly worthy hrr high \i\a.ce ! 
 
 No one could envy her deserved prosperity. 
 And then her dress — what beautiful simplicity 
 Draperied her form with curious felicity 1^ 
 
 cm. 
 
 Meanwhile sweet Adeline deserved their praises, 
 
 By an impartial indemnification 
 For all her past exertion and soft phrases. 
 
 In a most edifying conversation. 
 Which tum'd upon their late guests' miens and faces, 
 
 And families, even to the last relation ; 
 Their hideous wives, their horrid selves and dresses, 
 And truculent distortion of their ti'esses. 
 
 CIV. 
 
 True, Khc said little — 'twas the rest that broke 
 
 Forth into universal ei:)igram ; 
 But then 'twas to the purpose what she spoke : 
 
 Like Addison's " faint praise," so wont to damn. 
 Her own but served to set off every joke. 
 
 As music chimes in with a melodrame. 
 How sweet the task to shield an absent friend 1 
 I ask but this of mine, to >wt defend. 
 
 CV. 
 There were but two exceptions to this keen 
 
 Skirmish of wits o'er the departed ; one, 
 Aurora, with her pure and placid mien ; 
 
 And Juan, too, in general l)ehind none 
 In gay remark on what he had heard or seen, 
 
 Sa'.e silent now, his usual spirits gone : 
 In vain he heard the others rail or rally. 
 He would not join tiuin in a single sally. 
 
 CVI. 
 'Tis true he saw Aurora look as though 
 
 She approved his silence ; she perhaps mistook 
 
 mediate impressions— at the same time without loHng the past; 
 and is, though soiuelimes apparently usetbl to the possessor, a 
 most painful and unhappy attribute. 
 ' " Curiosa felicitas."— PETHONin* Abbitkb. 
 
Canto xvi. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 '?39 
 
 Its motive for the charity we owe 
 
 Biu seldom pay the absent, nor would look 
 
 Farther ; it might or it might not be so. 
 But Juan, sitting silent in his nook. 
 
 Observing little in his revery, 
 
 Yet saw this much, which he was glad to see. 
 
 CVII. 
 
 The ghost at least had done him this much good. 
 
 In making hira as silent as a ghost, 
 If in the circumstances which ensued 
 
 Qe gain'd esteem where it was worth the most. 
 Ajid certainly Aurora had renew'd 
 
 In him some feelings he liad lately lost. 
 Or harden'd ; feelings which, perhaps ideal, 
 Aje so divine, that I must deem them real : — 
 
 CVIII. 
 
 The love of higher things and better days ; 
 
 The unboimded hope, and heavenly ignorance 
 Of what is calTd the world, and the world's ways ; 
 
 The moments when we gather from a glance 
 More joy than from all future pride or praise, 
 
 Which kindle manhood, but can ne'er entrance 
 The heart in an existence of its own. 
 Of which another's bosom is the zone. 
 
 CIX. 
 
 Who would not sigh Ai ai vav KoBeptivn. 
 
 That hath a memory, or that had a heart ? 
 Alas ! her star must fade like that of Dian : 
 
 Ray fades on ray, as years on years depart. 
 Anacreon ouly had the soul to tie an 
 
 Unwithering myrtle round the unblunted dart 
 Of Eros : but though thou hast play'd as many 
 
 tricks, 
 Still we respect thee, " Alma Venus Genetrix !" 
 
 ex. 
 
 And full of sentiments, sublime as billows 
 
 Hea\-ing between this world and worlds beyond, 
 
 Don .luan, when the midnight hour of pillows 
 Arrived, retired to his ; but to despond 
 
 Rather than rest. Instead of poppies, willows 
 Waved o'er his couch ; he meditated, fond 
 
 Of those sweet bitter thoughts wliich banish sleep, 
 
 And make the worldling sneer, the youngling weep. 
 
 CXI. 
 
 The night was as before : he was undress'd, 
 Saving his night-gown, which is an undress ; 
 
 Completely "sans culotte," and without vest; 
 In short, he hardly could be clothed with less : 
 
 But apprehensive of his spectral guest. 
 
 He sate with feelings awkward to express, 
 
 (By those who have not had such visitations,) 
 
 Expectant of the ghost's fresh operations. 
 
 CXII 
 
 And not in vain he listen'd ; — Hush 1 what 's that ? 
 
 I see — I see — Ah, no ! — 'tis not — yet 'tis — 
 Te powers ! it is the — the^the — Pooh ! the cat ! 
 
 The devil may take that stealthy pace of his 1 
 So like a spiritual pit-a-pat. 
 
 Or tiptoe of an amatory Miss, 
 Gliding the first time to a rendezvous. 
 And dreading the chaste echoes of her slioe. 
 
 CXIII. 
 Again — what is 't ? The wind ? No, no — this tima 
 
 It is the sable friar as before. 
 With awful footsteps regular as rhyme. 
 
 Or (as rhymes may be in these days) much more. 
 Again through shadows of the night sublime, 
 
 When deep sleep fell on men, and the world wore 
 The starry darkness round her like a girdle [die. 
 Spangled with gems — the monk made his blood cur- 
 
 CXIV. 
 A noise like to wet fingers drawn on glass,s 
 
 Which sets the teeth on edge ; and a slight clatter, 
 Like showers which on the midnight gusts ^-ill pass, 
 
 Sounding like very supernatural water. 
 Came over Juan's ear, which throbb'd alas I 
 
 For immaterialism "s a serious matter ; 
 So that even those whose faith is the most great 
 In souls immortal, shun them tete-a-tete. 
 
 cxv. 
 Were his eyes open ? — Yes ! and his mouth too. 
 
 Surprise has this effect — to make one dumb, 
 Yet leave the gate which eloquence slips tlirough 
 
 As wide as if a long speech were to come. 
 Nigh and more nigh the awful echoes drew, 
 
 Tremendous to a mortal tymijanum : 
 His eyes were open, and (as was before 
 Stated) his mouth. Wliat open'd next ? — the door. 
 
 CXVI. 
 It open'd with a most infernal creak. 
 
 Like that of hell. " Lasciate ogni speranza 
 Voi che entrate !" The hinge seem'd to speak, 
 
 Dreadful as Dante's rhima, or this stanza ; 
 Or — but aU words upon such themes are weak : 
 
 A single shade 's sufficient to entrance a 
 Hero— for what is substance to a spirit ? 
 Or how is 't matter trembles to come near it ? 
 
 CXVII. 
 The door flew wide, not swiftly, — but, as fly 
 
 The sea-gulls, with a steady, sober flight — 
 And then swung back ; nor close — but stood awry, 
 
 Half letting in long shadows on the light, 
 
 2 Sec the account of the ghoat of the uncle of Prince Charles of 
 Saxony, raised by Schroepfer— "Karl— Karl- (r»8 wollst da mlt 
 mich i" 
 
740 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 OAA'TO XVu 
 
 Wliicb still in Juan's cacdlesticks burn'd high, 
 
 For he had two, both tolerably bright, 
 And in the door-way, darkening darkness, stood 
 The sable friar in his solemn hood. 
 
 CXVIII. 
 Don .Juan shook, as erst he had been shaken 
 
 The night before ; but being sick of shaking, 
 He first inchned to think he had been mistaken ; 
 
 And then to be ashamed of such mistaking ; 
 His own internal ghost began to awaken 
 
 Within him, and to quell his corporal quaking — 
 Hinting that soul and body on the whole 
 Were odds against a disembodied soul. 
 
 CXIX. 
 
 And then his dread grew wrath, and his wrath fierce, 
 And he arose, advanced — the shade retreated ; 
 
 But Juan, eager now the truth to pierce, 
 Follow'd, his veins no longer cold, but heated. 
 
 Resolved to thrust the mystery carte and tierce, 
 At whatsoever risk of being defeated : 
 
 The ghost stopp'd, menaced, then retired, until 
 
 He reach'd the ancient wall, then stood stone still. 
 
 cxx. 
 
 Juan put forth one arm — Eternal powers ! 
 
 It touch'd no soul, no body, but the wall. 
 On which the moonbeams fell in silvery showers, 
 
 Checker'd with all the tracery of the hall ; 
 He shudder'd, as no doub> the bravest cowers 
 
 When he can't teL what 'tis that doth appal. 
 
 How odd, a single hobgoblin's nonentity 
 
 Should cause more fear than a whole host's identity 
 
 tXXI. 
 But stiU the shade remain'd : the blue eyes glared. 
 
 And rather variably for stony death ; 
 Yet one thing ratlier good the grave had spared, 
 
 The ghost liad a remarkably sweet breath : 
 A straggling curl sbow"d he had been fair-hair'd ; 
 
 A red lip, with two rows of pearls beneath, 
 Gleam'd forth, as through the casement's ivy shroud 
 The moon peep'd, just escaped from a gray cloud. 
 
 CXXII. 
 And Juan, puzzled, but still curious, thrust 
 
 His other arm forth — Wonder upon wonder ! 
 It press'd upon a hard but glowing bust, 
 
 Wliich beat as if there was a warm heart under. 
 He found, as people on most trials must. 
 
 That he had made at first a silly blunder. 
 And that in his confusion he had caught 
 Only the wall, instead of what he sought. 
 
 CXXIII. 
 The ghost, if ghost it were, seem'd a sweet soul 
 
 As ever lurk'd beneath a holy hood : 
 A dimpled chin, a neck of ivory, stole 
 
 Forth into something much like flesh and blood; 
 Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl. 
 
 And they revcal'd — alas 1 that e'er they should 1 
 In full, voluptuous, but not o'o'grown bulk, 
 The phantom of her frolic Grace — Fitz-Fulke I 
 
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