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 JONNSON. FRY * COMPANY 
 
 :;v :» K E K M A :: r. t h k k r 
 
THE 
 
 BYRON AND MOORE 
 
 GALLERY. 
 
 A SERIES OF 
 
 Ch;n:utcristif ,3fIlustratioas h^ (bmincnt Artists. 
 
 DESCRrPTRT. LETTER-PRESS IN PROSE AND VERSE, 
 
 BIO GRAPH I ES OF THE AUTHORS. 
 
 N E W Y ( ) II K : 
 JOHNSON, FRY AND COMPANY 
 
 2 7 H K K K M A N S T R IC E T 
 
'; .-f-e 
 
 x^ 
 
 
 D 
 
 AUG 1 ; 1970 
 
 b Um 0«« of Um UbmlM of Ooa«i«^ 
 
 n xh^fft I'd, by 
 
P R K F A C I 
 
 Ok all the i)octs of modern times, Byron ami Mooic; haw proved them- 
 Belves tlie most eminently ([ualitied to illustrate the eliarms of female 
 grace and beauty : their poems, melodies and songs, teem with all that 
 is most rare, impassioned and refined ; forming a ])eau-ideal, wherein, 
 " the angel, yet the woman too," fills up the measure of the soul's 
 content. In presenting, therefore, to the Public, this selection from the 
 poems of these great authors, the publishers have acted under the im- 
 pression that they were not only making an ottering worthy of its taste 
 and jutlgment, but also of its patronage and support ; for, as one of the 
 highest aims of Art is to retlne and chasten the mind, lifting it above 
 the grosser plejisures of sense, ami thereby rendering it susceptible of 
 exquisite gratification from the contemplation of all that is most true 
 and Ixfautiful in Art and Nature, it must follow as a consequence, 
 that the sublime Source of all Truth and Beauty, cannot fail to be more 
 forcibly acknowledged, and the mind thus rendered wiser, better and 
 hapjtier. 
 
 It, however, but too often hapjiens, that in the most celebrated 
 productions, lx)th of Literature and Art, there are found, as is frequently 
 the case in tl>e most costly blocks of Parian marble, some blemish 
 or vein, which renders it as a whole, unfit for the uses of the 
 Sculptor, though in parts, it furnishes material for his most precious 
 purposes. In these selections, the latter observation will be fully exempli- 
 fied, as all those passages which, in the works of these authors, have 
 been considered flaws or shadows on their original brightness, are 
 here carefully excluded. So that the reatler is now presented with 
 
 a series of intellectual gems, worth v <>f the genius of those whose 
 
 (iii) 
 
namvn they bear — naniM coBMcnitcd, not onlj by (how quftlitim which 
 forui tbo pw%, but miw by tboM? vtrtuo* which luake thv tiiaii ! Thew 
 •re finely reflected tbrou^'bout their works; where Love, FneiHl<Uiiii, 
 PatriutiHiu and Pi-vntinii art- ]Mirtniyeil with all the fervor and iM-auty, 
 of which lan^^a^e w ca{tabU\ but ahtu with all tltat force and fire which, 
 procvt-ding from true imrpirntioD, must ever coiiiuaiid the admiration 
 of mankind, and {dace the nauuit of Byn>n and Mourv anioaj^ the 
 aacTcd few, whuite p.<oiiu haM gainml for them the mevd of Iniiuor* 
 tality. 
 
 To render thi« volume an attractive ornament for the drawing-mom 
 and librar}', the publinherB liave H|iarvd neither painn ncr *'X|>enw io 
 Hiiitable . ' ' ' " " 
 
 :• di'jmrtli: .. . 1„ , .. .' : 
 
 by Iliiftorical, Biographical and Critical NoticM of the Autboni. 
 
LIST OF PLATES. 
 BYRON AND MOORE GALLERY. 
 
 COMlAl) .V>'D MED()R.\, ...-_. ProrUispUne. 
 
 VIUNErrE TITLE, ....-,. 
 
 I.EILA, ....-._ Tofaoepage 1 
 
 ZILKIKA. ........ 3 
 
 ZILEIKA BEFORE OIAFFIB, .--.... 5 
 
 THOI' AUT NOT FALSE, ...... 7 
 
 AN<H<»LLNA, ........ 9 
 
 CASTLE OF CHILLON, - - - - - - - 11 
 
 CORSAIR, .........13 
 
 MAID OF ATHENS, ....... 15 
 
 MKDORA WATCHING, - - - - - - - 17 
 
 (U I.NARF^ ........ 19 
 
 MKDORA, . .-....-. 21 
 
 (il I.NARE AND 8EYD, --..--- 23 
 
 KALKD, ......... 25 
 
 Wrnil OP THE ALPS, ....... 27 
 
 ASTARTE, ...--.-.. 29 
 I'ARISINA, -...--.. 31 
 
 BYRONS DREAM, - - - - - - . -33 
 
 LAIRA, --....... 35 
 
 BKl'I'O. -...-.--.36 
 
 DEATH OF MEDORA, ----...37 
 
 IIAIDKK, - - - - . - . . -39 
 
 DONNA JULIAS EYES, ....... 41 
 
 lANTIlE, ......... 43 
 
 THE AI-HANIAN, -----... 45 
 
 JEIMITMAS DAUOHTEB, - - - - - - - 47 
 
 FAIR SPIRIT. ........ 49 
 
 I.OVKS LAST ADIEU, - - - - - - - 61 
 
 MAZKIM'A, ........ 53 
 
 HAIDKK ENTERING CAVE, - - - - - - - 55 
 
 DON JUAN AND HAIDEE, ...... 57 
 
 DEATH OF HAIDEE, - - - - - - - 69 
 
 BRIIXJE OP HIGHS, ....... 61 
 
 VENICE. - - . . . . - - - 63 
 
 MOUNT OF OLIVEa, ....... 65 
 
 imilXiK OF HT. ANGELO, - - - - - - - 67 
 
 FoSCARI. -....-.-. 69 
 
 VOUNU JESSICA. ........ 71 
 
LIST or PLATBB. 
 
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LEILA. 
 
 The Giaour, a fragment of a Tui-kish tale, 
 is partly drawn from real life. It is a wild 
 and singular poem, for its irregularity gives 
 it additional interest ; and the descriptive 
 digressions abounding in it contain some of 
 the choicest gems that poetry possesses, or 
 poets have ever conceived. The descrip- 
 tion of Leila is the first regular portrait of 
 female loveliness that Byron produced, and 
 "s very pretty. 
 
 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 Al-Sirat's arch I stood. 
 Which totters o'er the fiery flood. 
 With Paradise within my view, 
 And all his Houris beckoning through. 
 Oh ! who young Leila's glance could read 
 And keep that portion of his creed. 
 Which saith that woman is but dust, 
 A soulless toy for tyrant's lust f 
 SiG. 1 
 
 On her might Bluftis gaze, and own 
 
 That through her eye the Immortal slione j 
 
 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 I 
 
 As rears her crest the ruffled Swan, 
 
 And spurns the wave with wings of pride, 
 When pass the steps of stranger man 
 
 Along the banks that bound her tide ; 
 Thus rose fair Leila's whiter neck : — 
 Thus arm'd with beauty would she check 
 Intrusion's glance, till Folly's gaze 
 Shrunk from the charms it meant to praise. 
 
 Leila is sewn up in a sack, and thrown 
 into the sea, for infidelity, according to the 
 custom of the East. Her lover, the Giaour, 
 makes good his escape, and afterwards re- 
 venges her death upon her husband Hassan 
 
THE GIAOUK. 
 
 but stung with remorse for having been the 
 cause of her melancholy end, he enters an 
 Eastern convent as a caloyer, and ends his 
 days in anguish and despair. The agonies 
 of the heart, when caused by guilt, and 
 heightened by unavailing penitence, are 
 fearfully portrayed with glowing colors. 
 Among the many beautiful digressions in 
 this poem, the following is one of the most 
 remarkable, for the exquisite delineation of 
 the intensity of deadly hatred. 
 
 Ah ! fondly youthful hearts can press, 
 To seize and share the dear caress ; 
 But Love itself could never pant 
 For all that Beauty sighs to grant 
 With half the fervor hate bestows 
 Upon the last embrace of foes, 
 When grappling in the fight tliey 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 ! 
 
 But the most beautiful digression (which 
 is, in iact, the finest flower of this Oriental 
 bouquet) is a sweet and melancholy descrip- 
 tion of Greece, compared to the angelic 
 beauty that lingers upon the face of the 
 
 much-loved dead, for a short time only — 
 that short time, when the mourner's heai't 
 can scarcely believe the dread reality. 
 
 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 Unes where beauty lingers.) 
 
 And mark'd the mild angelic air, 
 
 The rapture of repose that's there. 
 
 The fix'd yet tender traits tliat streak 
 
 The languor of the placid cheek, 
 
 And — but for that sad shrouded eye, 
 That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now, 
 And but for that chill, changeless brow. 
 
 Where cold Obstruction's apathy 
 
 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 ' 
 
 Such is the aspect of this shore ; 
 
 "Tis Greece, but living Greece no more ' 
 
 So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, 
 
 We start, for soul is wanting there. 
 
Z ULEIK A. 
 
 The Bride of Abydos is, on account of 
 its regularity, unlike the Giaour ; but this 
 is the only dissimilarity, (apart from the 
 two stories,) as the main features and beau- 
 ties of the two poems are alike, owing to 
 the purity and splendor of Eastern imagery, 
 which they both possess. 
 
 Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle 
 
 Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime, 
 Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, 
 
 Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime ? 
 Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, 
 Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine; 
 Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with per- 
 fume, 
 Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom ; 
 Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, 
 And the voice of the nightingale never is mute ; 
 Where the tints of tlie earth, and the hues of the sky. 
 In color though varied, in beauty may vie. 
 And the purple of ocean is deepest in die ; 
 Where tlie virgins are soft as the roses they twine. 
 And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? 
 'Tis the clime of the East ; 'tis the land of the Sun — 
 Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done? 
 Oil ! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell 
 Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which 
 they tell. 
 
 The beauty of Zuleika is embellished 
 with those delicious similes which Byron 
 delighted to use. The charms that he 
 ascribed to female loveliness, might be ap- 
 propriately termed Spiritual Beauty, from 
 the entire absence of all sensual attributes. 
 These last destroy the brighter and better 
 qualities of love, by exciting the baser emo- 
 tions of lust. His example in this respect, 
 even at this present day, will very well 
 bear to be imitated. 
 
 Fair, as the first that fell of womankind ; 
 
 When on that dread yet lovely serpent smiling, 
 Whose 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 ; 
 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 tlie maid with tears — but not of grief. 
 
 Wlio hath not proved how feebly words essay 
 To fix one spark of Beauty's heavenly ray 7 
 Who doth not feel, until his failing sight 
 Faints into dimness with its own deMght 
 3 
 
BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess 
 Tlie might — the majesty of Lovehness ? 
 Such, was Zuleika — such around her shone 
 The nameless charms unmark'd by her alone ; 
 The light of love, the purity of grace, 
 The mind, the music breathing from her face. 
 The heart whose softness harmonized the whole — 
 And, oh1 that eye was in itself a Soul ! 
 
 The tender love of Selim for Zuleika is 
 minutely depictured. The poet here re- 
 veals the secret yearnings of his own heart, 
 and the deep devotion with which he could 
 cherish some pure and lovely being, who 
 understanding his nature, would soften down 
 his rugged excesses by attaching him to 
 virtue! He also unveils in this poem his 
 presentiment of the bitterness of his future 
 life. 
 
 Bound where thou wilt, my barb ! or glide, my prow ! 
 But be the star that guides the wanderer. Thou ! 
 Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my bark ; 
 The Dove of peace and promise to mine ark ! 
 Or, since that hope denied in worlds of strife, 
 3o thou the rainbow to the storms of life ; 
 
 The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, 
 
 And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray ! 
 
 Blest — as the Muezzin's strain from Mecca's wall 
 
 To pilgrims pure and prostrate at his call ; 
 
 Soft — as the melody of youthful days. 
 
 That steals the trembling tear of speechless praise ; 
 
 Dear — as his native song to exile's ears, 
 
 Shall sound each tone thy long-loved voice endeara. 
 
 For thee in those bright isles is built a bower 
 
 Blooming as Aden in its earliest hour. 
 
 A thousand swords, with Selim's heart and hand, 
 
 Wait — wave — defend — destroy — at thy command ' 
 
 But life is hazard at the best ; and here 
 No more remains to win, and much to fear : 
 Yes, fear ! — the doubt, the dread of losing theo 
 By Osman's power, and Giaffir'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 blest. 
 Their steps still roving, but their hearts at rest. 
 With thee all toils are sweet, each clime hath charnw; 
 Earth — sea alike — our world within our arras ! 
 Ay — let the loud winds v\'hist!e o'er the deck, 
 So that those arms cling closer round my neck : 
 The deepest murmur of this lip sliall be 
 No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee ! 
 
ZULEIKA BEFORE GIAFFIR 
 
 The character of Giaffir, in the Bride of 
 Abydos, is a faithful counterpart of Ali 
 Tebelen, Pacha of Yanina. To this cele- 
 brated personage, the Corsair, Lara, and 
 Hassan, as well as Giaffir, are indebted for 
 their origin, resembling him truly in their 
 many vices, and very few virtaes. Ferocity 
 and fear, in the following lines, are well con- 
 trasted. 
 
 " 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 Jiurl 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. 
 
 " Go — let thy less than woman's hand 
 Assume the distaff — not the brand. 
 But, Haroun ! — to my daughter speed ; 
 And hark — of thine own head take heed — 
 If thus Zuleika oft takes wing — 
 Thou see'st yon bow — it hath a string !" 
 
 Old Giaffir gazed upon his son 
 And started ; for within his eye 
 He read how much his wrath had done ; 
 He saw rebellion there begun : 
 " Come hillier, boy — what, no reply ? 
 SiG. 2 
 
 I mark thee — and I know ihvo too ; 
 But there be deeds thou dar'st not do : 
 But if thy beard had manlier length, 
 And if thy hand had skill and strengtli, 
 I'd joy to see thee break a lance, 
 Albeit against my own, perchance." 
 
 As sneeringly these accents fell, 
 
 On Selim's eye he fiercely gazed : 
 
 That eye return'd him glance for glance, 
 
 And proudly to his sire's was raised, 
 
 Till Giafiir's quail'd and shrunk askance — 
 
 And why — he felt, but durst not tell. 
 
 Giaffir, having murdered his own brother, 
 Abdallah, to obtain his Pachalic, brings up 
 his only son, Selim, as his own by a Greek 
 slave. Selim, having learned his real pa- 
 rentage from Haroun, informs Zuleika, his 
 intended bride, of the fratricide of her fathei . 
 This deed was actually committed by Ali, 
 who thus poisoned the Pacha of Scutari. 
 
 Each brother led a separate band ; 
 They gave their horsetails 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 ! 
 What need of words ? the deadly bowl, 
 
 By Giaffir's order drugg'd and given. 
 With venom subtle as his soul, 
 
 Dismiss'd Abdullah's hence to heaven. 
 
BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 Reclined and feverish in the bath, 
 He, when the hunter's sport was up, 
 
 But little dream'd a brother's wrath 
 To quench bis thirst had such a cup : 
 
 The bowl a bribed attendant bore ; 
 
 He drank one draught, nor needed more ! 
 
 Zuleika is about to flee with her lover, 
 when her absence from the Harem is dis- 
 covered by Giaffir, who in his fury murders 
 his nephew, as he endeavors to escape — 
 Sehm meeting his death, whilst searching 
 with the last fond look of affection for Zu- 
 eika. 
 
 There as his last step left the land. 
 And the last death-blow dealt his hand — 
 Ah ! wherefore did ho turn to look 
 For her his eye but sought in vain ? 
 That pause, that fatal gaze he took. 
 Hath doom'd his death, or fix'd his chain. 
 Sad proof, in peril and in pain. 
 How late will Lover's hope remain ! 
 His back was to tlie dashing spray ; 
 Behind, but close, his comrades lay, 
 When, at the instant liiss'd the ball — 
 " So may the foes of Giaffir fall !" 
 
 Wliose voice is heard ? whose carbine rang ? 
 Whose bullet through the night-air sang. 
 Too nearly, deadly aim'd to err ? 
 'Tis thine — Abdallah's Murderer ! 
 
 Lord B3Ton, having witnessed a smiilar 
 sight off" the Dardanelles, took the opportu- 
 nity of connecting it with Selim's fate, as 
 follows : — 
 
 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 levell'd with the wave — 
 What recks it, though that corse shall lie 
 
 Within a living grave ? 
 The bird that tears that prostrate fo.-m 
 Hath only robb'd the meaner worm ; 
 The only heart, the only eye 
 Had bled or wept to see him die, 
 Had seen those scatter'd limbs composed, 
 And mourn'd above his turban-stone. 
 That heart hath burst — that eye was closed- 
 Yea — closed before his awn . 
 

 
 V<^ ^u^'€^^- ^y^' ri^.'/c^t 
 
 1 
 
THOU ART NOT FALSE, BUT THOU ART 
 FICKLE. 
 
 The picture of a coquette is not hard to 
 DC imagined by either a poet or a painter ; 
 for they would be lucky beings, and blissful 
 in their ignorance, if they did not often meet 
 in the gentler sex many originals to assist 
 their inspiration. The beautiful fancy of 
 the artist reveals to you the whole story at 
 a glance. Sometimes false, mostly true, but 
 always fickle! Such — too often — alas! is 
 woman ! 
 
 1. 
 
 Thou art not false, but thou art fickle, 
 
 To those thyself so fondly sought ; 
 The tears that thou hast forced to trickle 
 
 Are doubly bitter from that thought : 
 'Tis this which breaks the lieart 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 newly. 
 
 To dream of joy, and wake to sorrow, 
 Is doom'd to all who love or live ; 
 
 And if, when conscious on the morrow, 
 
 We scarce our fancy can forgive. 
 That cheated us in slumber only, 
 To leave the waking soul more lonely, 
 
 4. 
 What must they feel whom no false vision, 
 
 But truest, tenderest passion warmed ? 
 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 ! 
 
 It is curious to investigate the various 
 changing phases of our subtle nature, and 
 the springs of action that impel their course, 
 which are hidden in the human heart. Un- 
 der no phase do we appear more strange or 
 inscrutable, than that of love, for the cause 
 inevitably produces contrary effects, either 
 simultaneously or successively ; for pain and 
 pleasure, torture and rapture, and trouble 
 and peace, spring forth at a breath, or fol- 
 low in quick transition. 
 
 The poet, a worshipper of women, who 
 were, in fact, the ruling stars of his destiny, 
 knew by experience the fickle tendency of 
 their aflfections, and the chilling affectation 
 that follows a satiety of bliss ; but he knew 
 7 
 
THOU ART NOT FALSE, BUT THOU ART FICKLE. 
 
 also, that these clouds would disperse and 
 give place to a brighter and more conge- 
 nial sunshine ; that tenderness would hide 
 itself awhile, when annoyed by the lurking 
 imp of coquetry, but would soon return, 
 imless pride had forever barred its way ; 
 and that the fleeting quarrels of lovers sel- 
 dom terminated otherwise than in stronger 
 and more lasting love. 
 
 " Amantium irse amoris red integratio est !" 
 
 The knowledge that woman is not always 
 " false," but "fickle," is all powerful in love ; 
 and if timely and pi-operly applied, it would 
 have saved many a breaking heart. The 
 " fickle" whim of a passing moment is often 
 misconstrued into a "false" intent for life, 
 and pride — soul -damning pride, that turned 
 
 angels out of Heaven — usurps the place ol 
 reason, and changes love into hate ! 
 
 No hand can wound deeper than the hand 
 that has once delighted to soothe the tender 
 and assailable point which confiding passion 
 has unwittingly disclosed ; and when co- 
 quetry, alas! is successful; jealousy, a sense 
 of wrong and i^evenge, directed by pride, 
 launch there the sure and fatal dart of ma- 
 lignant hatred, that rankles deep, and makes 
 a wound that never heals! O that the 
 Angel of Charity would inspire the mouth 
 of vexation to smile and whisper, " Thou 
 art not false, but thou art fickle," and the 
 scowling demon would depart, and the sweet 
 consoling fondness of a woman's heart would 
 return with tenfold force to strengthen the 
 strained and tender bands of affect.'on ! 
 
(ES%^^; 
 
 o?t^z^ 
 
ANdlOLINA. 
 
 The tragedy of " Marino Faliero," though 
 never intended by its author for, and entire- 
 ly unadapted to the stage, was nevertheless 
 represented there, against his wish and with- 
 out his consent, in the year 1821, soon after 
 pubUcation. This proceeding caused him a 
 great deal of unfeigned annoyance ; his 
 protestations and feelings were entirely dis- 
 regarded, and, as might have been expected, 
 the piece failed. The critics could not con- 
 ceive of a tragedy without love or jealousy 
 in it, and would not believe, despite of reali- 
 ty, of a prince conspiring against a state, 
 to avenge the inadequacy of punishment 
 awarded to a ribald who had grossly insult- 
 ed the virtuous Duchess. The fact was, it 
 was too true, too tragically, terribly true, to 
 suit them ; had it only been falser, only 
 otherwise, why, then it would have succeed- 
 ed. Yet its dramatic qualities are of the 
 highest order, the unities being strictly ob- 
 served, and the scenes well wrought and 
 effective ; and moreover, whenever repre- 
 sented since that period, it has always been 
 admired : but before, there was too much 
 truth in it, and it was then fashionable to 
 envy and condemn Lord Byron and his 
 writings. It will always prove a source of 
 interest to attentive readers, who. in their 
 
 researches, treasure up true gems of beauty^ 
 pathos, and the intensity of the sterner and 
 consuming passions. 
 
 Angiolina is enthroned among the loftiest 
 and best of Byron's female characters. She 
 is the emblem of purity, the very essence of 
 chastity ; one that might well call forth the 
 terrible passion of the Doge for the un- 
 avenged insults offered to her. As there is 
 not room for further comment, such extracts 
 are given as space will admit of. 
 
 My child ! 
 My injured wife, the child of Loredano, 
 The brave, the chivalrous, how little dreara'd ' 
 Thy father, wedding thee unto his friend, 
 That he was linking thee to shame 1 — Alas ! 
 Shame without sin, for thou art faultless. Hadst tlioa 
 But had a different husband, ani/ husband 
 In Venice save the Doge, this blight, this brand. 
 This blasphemy, had never fallen upon thee. 
 So young, so beautiful, so good, so pure, 
 To suffer this, and yet be unavenged ! 
 
 ***** 
 'Twas not a foolish dotard's vile caprice, 
 Nor the false edge of aged appetite, 
 Which made me covetous of girlish beauty, 
 And a young bride : for in my fieriest youth 
 I sway'd such passions ; nor was this my age 
 Infected with that leprosy of lust 
 Which taints the hoariest years of vicious men 
 9 
 
10 
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 Making them ransack to the very last 
 The dregs of pigssure 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 answer 
 Your father's choice. 
 
 ***** 
 Where is honor. 
 Innate and precept-strengthen'd, 'tis the rock 
 Of faith connubial : where it is not — where 
 Ijght 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 ; 
 It is consistency which forms and proves it • 
 Vice cannot fix, 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 life, and light, and glory from her aspect. 
 
 I speak to tliee in answer to yon signor. 
 
 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 
 
 Wliich nothing human can impugn — the sense 
 
 Of virtue, looking not to what is call'd 
 
 A good name for reward, but to itself. 
 
 To me the 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 whirlwind on tlie 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 all 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 we now 
 
 Behold, and feel, and suffer, be a lesson 
 
 To wretches how they tamper in their spleen 
 
 With beings of a higher order. Insects 
 
 Have made the lion mad ere now ; a shaft 
 
 I' the heel o'ertlirew the bravest cf 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 Moorish province ; 
 
 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. 
 
 Then farewell, Angiolina !— one embrace — 
 
 Forgive the old man who hath been lo 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. 
 
 Thou turn'st so pale ! — Alas ! she faints, 
 
 She has no breath, no pulse ! — Guards ! lend youi 
 
 aid — 
 I cannot leave her thus, and yet 'tis better. 
 Since every lifeless moment spares a pang. 
 When she shakes ofl" 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. 
 
I 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 The Ch&leau de Chillon is situated at the 
 eastern extremity of tlie Lalie of Geneva, 
 between Clarens and Villeneuve, in Switz- 
 erland. It is a large Gothic edifice, and 
 with its lofty, white walls, laved by the blue 
 waves of the rushing Rhone, presents a no- 
 ble appearance, and can be seen for a great 
 distance along the lake. It is surrounded 
 by the most romantic and sublime scenery 
 of that magnificent country, whose far- 
 famed spots are shrines consecrated to the 
 deathless memories of the most gifted sons 
 of the genius of poesy. From the battle- 
 ments, a grand panorama of the lake and its 
 environs is beheld, comprising the cantons 
 of Berne and Fribourg, the Pays de Vaud, 
 and the duchy of Savoy. On the left is the 
 town of Villeneuve, and the two entrances 
 of the Rhone ; on the right, Lausanne in 
 the distance, Vevay, and the Chateau and 
 village of Clarens, so delightfully situated, 
 are beheld ; while opposite, the rocks of 
 Meillerie, and the eternal snow-clad Alps 
 above Boveret and St. Gingoux, soar up- 
 ward in their ruggedness and solemn stern- 
 ness. The names of Rousseau, Voltaire, and 
 Gibbon have hitherto been cherished among 
 the charms of these enchanted haunts, 
 which are now assimilated with those 
 
 of Byron, Shelley, and Madame de Stael, 
 The Chateau was built in the twelfth cent- 
 ury, and in its dungeons the early reformers, 
 and afterwards prisoners of state, were con- 
 fined. Of the latter, the most noted was the 
 good Bonnivard. 
 
 " The Prisoner of Chillon" is the sur- 
 viving brother of three reformers, who are 
 supposed, by the poet, to have been cruelly 
 immured there. The mournful narration is 
 clothed in soul-subduing and heart-chilling 
 pathos, glaring with the gloomy horrors of 
 captivity, and showing its frightful effects 
 on the iiuman mind. The extracts given 
 need no comment ; they almost speak out 
 in tones of agony and horror ! 
 
 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. 
 
 ***** 
 My brother's soul was of that mould 
 Which in a palace had grown cold, 
 Had his free breathing been denied 
 The range of the steep mountain's side ; 
 But why delay the truth ? — he died. 
 I saw, and could not hold his head, 
 Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead, — 
 11 
 
12 
 
 THE PRISONER OF CIIILLON. 
 
 Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, 
 To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
 He died — and they unlock'd his chain, 
 And scoop'd for liim a shallow grave, 
 Even from the cold eartli of our cave. 
 I begg'd them as a boon, to lay 
 His corse in dust whereon tlie day 
 Might shine — it was a foolish thought, 
 But then within my brain it wrought, 
 That even in death his freeborn breast 
 In such a dungeon could not rost. 
 I might have spared my idle prayer — 
 They coldly laugh'd and laid him there : 
 The flat and turfless earth above 
 The being we so much did love ; 
 His empty chain above it leant : 
 Such murder's fitting monument ! 
 
 But he, the favorite and the flower. 
 Most cherish'd since his natal hour 
 His mother's image in fair face, 
 The infant love of all liis race, 
 His martyr'd father's dearest thought. 
 My latest care, for whom I sought 
 To hoard my life, that his might be 
 Less wretched now, and one day free ; 
 He, too, who yet had held untired 
 A spirit natural or inspired — 
 He too, was stnick, and day by day 
 Was wither'd on the stock away. 
 Oh, God ! it is a fearful thing 
 To see the human soul take wing 
 In any shape, in any mood : — 
 I've seen it rushing forth in blood, 
 I've seen it on the breaking ocean 
 Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, 
 I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 
 Of Sin delirious with its dread : 
 But these were horrors — this was woe 
 Unmix'd with such — but sure and slow 
 He faded, and so calm and meek. 
 So softly worn, so sweetly weak, 
 
 So tearless, yet so tender — kind. 
 
 And grieved for those he left behind ; 
 
 With all the while a cheek whose bloom 
 
 Was as a mockery of the tomb. 
 
 Whose tints as gently sunk away 
 
 As a departing rainbow's ray — 
 
 An eye of most transparent light. 
 
 That almost made the dungeon bright, 
 
 And not a word of murmur — not 
 
 A groan o'er his untimely lot, — 
 
 A little talk of better days, 
 
 A little hope my own to raise. 
 
 For I was sunk in silence — lost 
 
 In this last loss, of all the most ; 
 
 And then the sighs he would suppress 
 
 Of f^^inting nature's feebleness. 
 
 More slowly drawn, grew less and less : 
 
 1 listen'd, but I could not hear — 
 
 I call'd, for I was wild with fear ; 
 
 I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread 
 
 Would not be thus admonished ; 
 
 I call'd, and thought I heard a sound — 
 
 I burst my chain with one strong bound, 
 
 And rush'd to him : — I found him not, 
 
 / only stirr'd in this black spot, 
 
 / only lived — / only drew 
 
 The accursed breath of dungeon-dew ; 
 
 The last — the sole — the dearest link 
 
 Between me and the eternal brink, 
 
 Which bound me to my fiuling race. 
 
 Was broken in this fatal place. 
 
 ***** 
 At last men came to set me free, 
 
 I ask'd not why, and reck'd not wheii, 
 It was at length the same to me, 
 Fettor'd or fetterless to be, 
 
 I learn'd to love despair. 
 
 ***** 
 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. 
 
THE CORSAIR. 
 
 " Rut who is she ? whom Conrad's arms convey 
 From reeking pile and combat's wreck, away — 
 Who but the love of him lie dooms to bleed ? 
 The Haram queen — but still the slave of Seyd !" 
 
 This interesting picture represents the 
 pirate chief bearing Gulnare in his arms, at 
 the head of his companions, who rescue the 
 inmates of the seraglio from the flames they 
 themselves had lit. Conrad, disguised as a 
 Dervise, boldly introduces himself into the 
 presence of Seyd, who questions him closely. 
 These are parried however with pleasing 
 tact. 
 
 " A captive Dervise from the Pirate's nest 
 Escaped, is here — himself would tell the rest." 
 
 He artfully evades eating the sacred 
 bread and salt, and is about to be dismissed, 
 but the galleys being fired he is detected. 
 He throws off his disguise, and, single-handed, 
 makes fearful slaughter. 
 
 " 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, blunts the sabre's edge ; 
 Makes even contending tribes in peace unite, 
 And hated hosts soem brethren to the sight." 
 
 Sia. 3 
 
 " Salt seasons dainties — and my food is still 
 The humblest root, my drink the simplest rill ; 
 And my stern vow and order's laws oppose 
 To break or mingle broad with friends or foes." 
 
 * * * * 
 
 " Well — as thou wilt — ascetic as thou art — 
 One question answer ; then in peace depart. 
 How many ? — Ha ! it cannot sure be day ? 
 What star — what sun is bursting on the bay ? 
 It sliines a lake of fire ! — away — away ! 
 Ho ! treachery ! my guards ! my scimitar ! 
 The galleys feed the flames — and I afar ! 
 Accursed Dervise ! — these thy tidings — thou 
 Some villain spy — seize — cleave him — slay him 
 now !" 
 
 Ud rose the Dervise with that burst of light. 
 Nor less his change o form appall'd the sight : 
 Up rose that Dervise — not in saintly garb, 
 But like a warrior bounding on his barb, 
 Dash'd his high cap, and tore his robe away — 
 Slione his mail'd breast, and flash'd his sabre's ray ! 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Sweeps his long arm — that sabre's whirlnig sway 
 Sheds fast atonement for its first delay ; 
 Completes his fury, what their fear begun, 
 And makes the many basely quail to one. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 " '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 ?" 
 13 
 
14 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 Quick at the word — thoy seized him each a torch, 
 And fire the dome from minaret to porch. 
 A stern 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 Haram — wrong not on your lives 
 One female form — remember — we have wives. 
 On them such outrage Vengeance will repay ; 
 Man is our foe, and such 'tis ours to slay : 
 But still we spared — must spare the weaker prey. 
 Oh ! I forgot — but Heaven will not forgive 
 If at my word the helpless cease to live : 
 Follow who will — I go — we yet have time 
 Our souls to lighten of at least a crime." 
 
 He climbs the crackling stair — he bursts tlio door, 
 Nor feels his feet glow scorching with the floor ; 
 His bresth choked, gasping with the volumed smoke. 
 But still from room to room his way he broke. 
 
 They search — they fi. kl — they save : with lusty arms 
 
 Each bears a prize of unregarded charms ; 
 
 Calm their loud fears ; sustain their sinking frames 
 
 With all the care defenceless beauty claims : 
 
 So well could Conrad tame their fiercest mood, 
 
 And check the very hands with gore imbrued. 
 
 The refinement, nobility of soul, humanity, 
 and his gentle respect for the weaker sex, 
 form redeeming traits on the bright side ol 
 Conrad's character. By humanely saving 
 the females from a cruel death, and neglect- 
 ing to pursue Seyd, who thus becomes 
 aware of the smallness of their number, the 
 pirates themselves are attacked, and finally 
 vanquished by an overpowering force. 
 
 " One effort — one — to break the circling host !" 
 They form — unite — charge — waver — all is lost! 
 
A- ^\i:v.:\f.\- V\!t'.ishers.Ke\N*Yi.t!"k 
 
THE MAID OF ATHENS. 
 
 THE MAID OF ATHENS. 
 
 Zul /ioi 
 
 aynirfl.* 
 
 Maid of Athens, ere we part, 
 Give, oh, give me back my heart ! 
 Or, since that has left my breast, 
 Keep it now, and take the rest ! 
 Hear my vow before I go, 
 
 Zt^t] ftov, adi ayaTTiS. 
 
 By those tresses unconfined, 
 Woo'd by each jEgean wind ; 
 By those lids whose jetty fringe 
 Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge ; 
 By those wild eyes like the roe, 
 
 Zcii; fioC, »ifs iyaTw. 
 
 3. 
 
 By that lip I long to taste ; 
 By that zone-encircled waist ; 
 By all the token-flowers that tell 
 What words can never speak so well ; 
 By Love's alternate joy and wo, 
 
 Zi^t] itovy adi iyairw. 
 
 ' My life, I love you. 
 
 Maid of Athens ! I am gone : 
 Think of me, sweet ! when alone. 
 Tliough I fly to Istambol, 
 Athens holds my heart and soul ; 
 Can I cease to love thee ? No ' 
 
 Zioi; (loD, adi iyind. 
 
 Towards tlie latter end of December, 
 1809, Lord Byron visited Athens for the 
 first time. During his stay, which lasted 
 nearly three months, he resided with Theo- 
 dora Macri, a Grecian lady, and widow of 
 the late English consul at Athens, and 
 passed his time in visiting the most celebra- 
 ted spots surrounding that interesting and 
 classic shrine of ancient glory, or in paying 
 attentions to the three virtuous and beauti- 
 ful daughters of his amiable hostess. Their 
 names were Theresa, Mariana, and Katin- 
 ka ; and Theresa, the eldest, for whom he 
 either feigned or felt an intense passion 
 which was, however, purely Platonic, was, 
 as " the Maid of Athens," the subject of this 
 warm and pretty encomium. According to 
 the custom of courtship in this country, he 
 had wounded himself with a dagger across 
 15 
 
16 
 
 THE MAID OF ATHENS 
 
 his breast in her presence, but without elicit- 
 ing any corresponding sympathy from tlie 
 youthful beauty, who stoically witnessed the 
 operation as a trifling tribute to her charms. 
 The history of this family, apart from this, 
 is as interesting as it is painfully romantic. 
 
 The consul dying, leaving them in pover- 
 ty, they obtained a livelihood by renting a 
 part of their house to English travellers, and 
 being more accomplished than Grecian fe- 
 males usually are, incomparably lovely, and 
 possessing many virtues and social qualities, 
 they gained the esteem of all who knew 
 them ; but rendered famous by the publica- 
 tion of Lord Byron's eulogy, they afterwards 
 formed one of the greatest attractions of 
 Athens. Among the many Englishmen who 
 resorted to their house, a Mr.W ****** ** 
 and Mr. C * * * * *, by unremitting atten- 
 tions, gained the aflections of Theresa and 
 Katinka, and they were honorably engaged 
 to be married. Their pretended lovers at 
 length left for England, where they remain- 
 ed, and thus cruelly and infamously deserted 
 them, alleging as a reason that their fathers 
 
 objected to their unions. The confiding 
 hearts of the two sisters were torn with bit- 
 terness and anguish by this shameful neg- 
 lect, and they entirely withdrew from all 
 society. 
 
 When the Turks took Athens, the family 
 fled to Corfu in an open boat, where, at 
 first, they were not permitted to land ; and 
 being utterly destitute, they would have per- 
 ished, had they not fortunately found a 
 friend, whose influence procured them ad- 
 mission. Lord Guilford, who was then in 
 Rome, happened to hear of their circum- 
 stances, and generously sent them one hun- 
 dred pounds to relieve their pressing wants. 
 
 Mariana, the youngest sister, has been 
 dead a long time ; the two eldest were mar- 
 ried, and are now living in comfort and 
 hapiiiness, and although time has dinuned 
 their youthful beauty, their mental adorn- 
 ments have increased with maturity. 
 
 Theresa, (whose name is now Mrs. 
 Black,) it is said, has a daughter, whose 
 loveliness surpasses that for which her mo- 
 ther was formerly so celebrated. 
 
MEDORA WATCHING THE RETURN OF CONRAD. 
 
 I'KEVioua to the return of Conrad, Me- 
 dora watches witli painful anxiety for his 
 vessel, and passes many dismal nights in 
 keeping the beacon-fire alive, that forms in 
 darkness the clue to his island. At their 
 meeting she describes with gi-eat tenderness 
 her solicitude and deep affection for him, 
 and gently implores him to quit his perilous 
 crimes. 
 
 " Oh ! many a ni(;ht nn this lone couch reclined, 
 My dreaming fear with storms hath wing'd the wind. 
 And dcem'd llie breath that faintly fann'd thy sail 
 The murmuring prelude of the ruder gale ; 
 Tliough soft, it seem'd the low prophetic dirge, 
 That mourn'd thee floating on the savage surge ; 
 Still would I rise to rouse the beacon fire, 
 Lest spies less true should let the blaze expire ; 
 And many a restless hour outwatch'd each star. 
 And morning came — and still thou wert afar. 
 Oh ! how the chill blast on my bosom blew, 
 And day broke dreary on my troubled view, 
 And still I gazed and gazed — and not a prow 
 Was granted to my tears — my truth — my vow ! 
 At length — 'twas noon — I hail'd and blest the mast 
 That met my sight — it near'd — Alas ! it past ! 
 Another came — Oh God ! 'twas thine at last !" 
 
 It is at least jjleasing to think, that one so 
 perverted and hardened in guilt, should love 
 so true and tenderly. 
 
 " 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. 
 Without one hope on earth beyond thy love. 
 And scarce a glimpse of mercy from above." 
 
 He chills her heart by telling her they 
 must soon part. She will not believe it ; 
 and the sweet, simple manner in which she 
 urges him to partake of rest and food is 
 very aflecting. 
 
 It would be a mockery to describe their 
 parting in any other words than Byron's. 
 It is here quoted entire. 
 
 " This hour we part ! 
 
 Be silent, Conrad ! — dearest I 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, perple.x'd, but pleas'd, I guess'd 
 At such as seem'd the fairest ; thrice the hill 
 My steps have wound to try the coolest rill ; 
 Yes ! thy sherbet to-night will sweetly flow, 
 See how it sparkles in its vase of snow ! 
 The 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. 
 17 
 
THE CORSAIR. 
 
 But come, tlie board is spread ; our silver lamp 
 Is trimm'd, and heeds not the sirocco's damp : 
 Then shall my handmaids while the time along, 
 And join with me the dance, or wake the song ; 
 Or my guitar, which still thou lov'st to hear, 
 Shall soothe or lull — or, should it vex tliine car. 
 We'll turn the tale, by Ariosto told, 
 Of fair Olympia loved and left of old." 
 " Nor be thou lonely — though thy lord's away, 
 Our matrons and thy handmaids with thee stay ; 
 And this thy comfort — that, when next we meet, 
 Security shall make repose more sweet. 
 List ! — 'tis the bugle — Juan shrilly blew — 
 One kiss — one more — another — Oh ! Adieu !" 
 
 She rose — she sprung — she clung to his embrace. 
 Till his heart heav'd beneath her hidden face. 
 Ho dared not raise to his that deep-blue eye. 
 Which downcast droop'd in tearless agony. 
 Her long fair hair lay floating o'er his arms, 
 In all the wildness of dishevell'd charms ; 
 Scarce beat that bosom where his image dwelt, 
 ■So full — that feeling seem'd almost unfelt. 
 Hark — peals the thunder of the signal-gun ! 
 It told 'twas sunset — and he cursed the sun. 
 Again — again — that form he madly press'd, 
 Which mutually clasp'd, imploringly caress'd ! 
 And tottering to the couch his bride he bore, 
 One moment gazed — as if to gaze no more ; 
 Felt — that for him earth held but her alone, 
 Kiss'd her cold forehead — turn'd — is Conrad gone ? 
 " And is he gone ?" — on sudden solitude 
 How oft tliat fearful question will intrude ! 
 " 'Twas but an instant past — and here he stood — 
 And now" — without the portal's porch she rush'd, 
 And then at length her tears in freedom gush'd ; 
 Big — bright — and fast, unknown to her they fell ; 
 But still her Ups re''i3ed to send — " Farewell!" 
 
 For in that t> ord — that fatal word — howe'er 
 
 We promise — hope — believe — there breatlies despair 
 
 O'er every feature of that still, pale face. 
 
 Had sorrow fix'd what time can ne'er erase : 
 
 The tender blue of that large loving eye 
 
 Grew frozen with its gaze on vacancy. 
 
 Till — Oh, how far ! — it caught a glimpse of him. 
 
 And then it flow'd — and phrensied seem'd to swim 
 
 Through those long, dark, and glistening lashes dew'd 
 
 With drops of sadness oft to be renew'd. 
 
 " He's gone !" — against her heart that hand is driven, 
 
 Convulsed and quick — then gently raised to heaven — 
 
 She look'd and saw the heaving of the main ; 
 
 The white sail set — she dared not look again ; 
 
 But turn'd with sickening soul witliin the gate — 
 
 " It is no dream — and I am desolate !" 
 
 The grapliic transition of the vessel from 
 the Pirate's isle to Coron is like magic ; they 
 gain their ambush unnoticed by the Pacha 
 Seyd's galleys, equipped for their destruc- 
 tion. 
 
 Meantime, the steady breeze serenely blew. 
 And fast and falcon-like the vessel flew; 
 Pass'd the high headlands of each clustering isle. 
 To gain their port — long — long ere morning smile 
 And soon the night-glass through the narrow bay 
 Discovers where the Pacha's galleys lay. 
 Count they each sail — and mark how tliere supine 
 The lights in vain o'er heedless Moslem shine. 
 Secure, unnoted, Conrad's prow pass'd by, 
 And anchor'd where his ambush meant to lie ! 
 Screen'd from espial by the jutting cape. 
 That rears on high its rude fantastic shape. 
 Then rose his band to duty — not from sleep — 
 Equipp'd for deeds alike on land or deep ; 
 While lean'd their leader o'er the fretting flood, 
 And calmly talk'd — and yet he talk'd of blood ! 
 
^^^^<^/z^(^^^a 
 
G UL N A RE. 
 
 She gazed in wonder, " Can he calmly sleep, 
 While otlier eyes his fall or ravage weep 7 
 And mine in restlessness are wandering here — 
 What sudden spell hath made this man so dear ? 
 True — 'tis to him my life, and more, I owe, 
 And me and mine he spared from worse than wo : 
 'Tis late to think — but soft — his slumber breaks — 
 How heavily he sighs ! — he starts — awakes !" 
 
 The captive corsair, bleeding and loaded 
 with chains, is closely imprisoned, so that 
 he may be impaled. Gulnare, grateful for 
 her life, and pitying his misfortunes, visits 
 him in his cell by stealing the Pacha's sig- 
 net-ring, which she had often done before in 
 sport. Before his capture, Conrad, after 
 saving her, had treated her kindly, and left 
 her safe at the house of a friend. 
 
 " 'Twas strange — that robber thus with gore bedew'd 
 Seem'd gentler then than Seyd in fondest mood. 
 
 + * * * 
 
 The wish is wrong — nay, worse for female — vain : 
 Yet much I long to view that chief again ; 
 If but to thank for, what my fear forgot. 
 The life — my loving lord remember'd not !" 
 
 Astonished at finding so much gentleness 
 and courtesy in a pirate, which she had 
 never seen even in Seyd, her own lord ; and 
 
 overjoyed that Conrad had also prevented 
 her from falling a prey to what would have 
 been worse than death, she resolves to save 
 him, if possible, from torture. The corsair 
 in the melee, seeing all was lost, had in vain 
 sought for death. 
 
 " Oh were there none, of all the many given, 
 
 To send his soul — he scarcely ask'd to heaven ? 
 
 Must he alone of all retain his breath. 
 
 Who more than all had striven and struck for death ?" 
 
 Gulnare had painfully witnessed him bat- 
 tling thus with the hosts around him ; and 
 had seen him, bound and bleeding, borne to 
 prison, with his life preserved only for a 
 time, so that as soon as his strength should 
 be recruited, he could support longer the 
 awful pangs of impalement. She innocently 
 enough shudders to think of this horrible 
 spectacle, which she will have to witness 
 with Seyd when he thus ferociously gluts 
 his revenge, and she generously resolves to 
 avert it, even at the cost of her life. Exe- 
 cution by impalement is a favorite Turkish 
 practice, the agonies of which are worse 
 than crucifixion. It is thus fearfully pic- 
 tured : 
 
 19 
 
20 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 To-morrow — yea — to-morrow's evening sun, 
 Will sinking see impalement's pangs begun, 
 And rising with the wonted blush of Mom 
 Behold how well or ill those pangs are borne. 
 Of torments this the longest and the worst, 
 Which adds all other agony to thirst. 
 That day by day death still forbears to slake, 
 While famish'd vultures flit around the stake. 
 " Oh ! water — water !" Smiling Hate denies 
 The victim's prayer ; for if he drinks — he dies. 
 
 This horrible death does not alarm him, 
 but the thought that Medora will break her 
 loving heart at the news, almost maddens 
 him. 
 
 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 stf.ain'd with rage the chain on which he gazed. 
 
 This thought agonizes him so much that 
 he strives to forget it by courting repose ; 
 and when asleep he is visited by the com- 
 passionate Gulnare. 
 
 He slept. Who o'rr liig 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 ! 
 
 * » * * 
 
 He raised his head — and dazzled with the light, 
 His eye seem'd dubious if it saw aright : 
 " What is that form ? if not a shape of air, 
 Mothinks, my jailor's face shows wondrous fair !" 
 " Pirate ! thou know'st me not — but I am one, 
 Grateful for deeds thou hast too rarely done ; 
 Look on me — and remember her, thy hand 
 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." 
 
ly^ttc^o-la': 
 
MEDOR A. 
 
 The sun liatn 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 night-breeze freshens — she tliat day had past 
 In watching all that Hope proclaim'd a mast ; 
 Sadly she sate — on high : — Impatience boro 
 At last her footsteps to the midnight shore. 
 And there she wander'd heedless of the spray 
 That dash'd her garments oft, and warn'd away : 
 She sav/ 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 ! 
 
 Tlie sincere affection that dwells in the 
 fond heart of the beautiful Medora is a 
 delicious reality; there is no fiction here, 
 nothing could be truer than her love for 
 Conrad. To love one so imbued in guilt 
 would be a soul-damning crime, were it not 
 that to her he is always gentle and kind. 
 She knows that he has been deeply wronged, 
 and now avenges the^e wrongs upon his fel- 
 low-men ; but she hopes at length to win 
 iiim away from guilt by love, and oft forgets 
 or covers up his faults. 
 It came at last — a sad and shalter'd boat. 
 Whose inmates first beheld whom first they sought ; 
 Some bleeding — all most wretched — these the few — 
 Scarce knew they how escaped — this all they knew. 
 Sia. 3* 
 
 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 Jledora'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 — fluttor'd — 
 
 wept ; 
 All lost — that softness died not — but it slept ; 
 And o'er its slumber rose that strength whicn said, 
 " With nothing l;/t !o love — iliere's naught to dread.'" 
 
 She sees him not amongst the bleeding 
 crew, and knows from this that he is dead 
 or dying. But i-emembering the stern les- 
 sons that Conrad taught her, she endeavors 
 to assume an unnatural firmness that she 
 does not possess. But the strength of her 
 soul is ebbing away, like a spirit gliding 
 into eternity! and the pulsations of her 
 heart become lengthened, and her blood 
 courses through her veins slowly, and chil- 
 ly as ice. Grief, Desolation, and Woe — 
 as huge forms arise, plain and palpable 
 before her ; she views their mocking smiles, 
 through her hallucination, in the pitying 
 looks of those who weep and share her 
 misery around her. Madness usurps the 
 21 
 
tup: cons air. 
 
 place of reason ; and with burning brow 
 and glaring eye, she makes a fearful effort 
 to show the sternness worthy Conrad's wife. 
 
 " Silent you stand — nor would I hear you tell 
 What — speak not — breathe not^for I know it well — 
 Yet would I ask — almost my lip denies 
 The — quick, your answer — tell mo where ho lies." 
 
 " Lady ! we know not — scares with life we fljd ; 
 But here is one denies that ha is dead : 
 He saw him bound, and bleeding — but alive." 
 She heard no further — 'twas in vain to strive — 
 So throbb'd each vein — each thought — till then with- 
 stood ; 
 Ilcr 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 (uoh aid as pity's haste supplies : 
 
 Dash o'er her death-like choek the ocean dew, 
 Raise — fan — sustain — till life returns anew. 
 
 She lives — she breathes again — and her 
 worst fears are realized! He is taken alive, 
 and will be impaled. She sees his cher- 
 ished form torn and mangled, and writhing 
 around the awful stake! She screams in 
 agony — cries for mercy — and with her 
 latest breath prays for pardon for his many 
 crimes. Angels hear her voice ; they hover 
 round her lovely form, receive her soul, and 
 bear it off to heaven. 
 
 Whate'er his fate — the breasts he form'd and led 
 Will save lum living, or appease him dead. 
 Wo to his foes ! there yet survive a few, 
 Whose deeds are daring, as their iiearts arc truo. 
 
GULNARE AND SEYD. 
 
 The I'aclia Sej'd, satisfied of the security 
 of his prison to Iiold the pirate, who is 
 enchained in his cell, permits him to live 
 longer than he intended, solely that he may 
 endure more torture. Gulnare, true to her 
 promise to save his life, endeavors to excite 
 Seyd's cupidity for the large ransom ho 
 could obtain by freeing him. 
 
 " Guhiaro 1 — if for each drop of blood a gem 
 
 Were offor'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 liere — that should hot him 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 kill." 
 
 Horrified at his hatred and barbarity, 
 Gulnare uses a slender artifice, by repre- 
 senting that the pirate, deprived of his 
 wealth and half his band, would soon fall an 
 easy prey. Tins at once arouses the Pacha's 
 jealousy and suspicion. 
 
 ' I have a counsel for tliy 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, loerl thou lingering there with him to fly ? 
 Then, lovely dame, bethink thee ! and beware : 
 ^Tis not his life alone may claim such care ! 
 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 throats in his adieu. 
 
 Gulnare, shocked and enraged at being 
 accused of unfaithfulness, of which she is 
 wholly innocent, permits her love for her 
 lord and master to turn into hate, and thirsts 
 for revenge. She bribes the guard and 
 provides a boat for Conrad's escape, and at 
 midnight repairs to his cell with a poniard , 
 in her hand, that she ofTers him to murder 
 Seyd with, if he would be free. 
 
 " But in one chamber, where our path must lead. 
 There sleeps — he must not wake — the oppressor 
 Seyd !" 
 
 Here Conrad appears truly noble, for his 
 magnanimity and generosity. He knows 
 that the Pacha has doomed him to the most 
 awful tortures, that his own Medora's heart 
 is breaking in his absence ; but he cannot 
 kill a sleeping enemy, although he has slain 
 23 
 
24 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 hundreds in fighting; so would rather die 
 than be free upon such base terms. 
 
 " Gulnare — Gulnare — I never felt till now 
 
 Jly abject fortune, witlier'd fame so low : 
 
 Seyd is mine enemy : had swept my band 
 
 From earth with ruthless but with open hand, 
 
 And therefore came I, in my bark of war. 
 
 To smite the smiter with the scimitar ; 
 
 Such is my weapon — not the secret knife — 
 
 Who spares a woman's seeks not slumber's life. 
 
 Thine save I gladly. Lady, not for this — 
 
 Let me not deem that mercy shown amiss. 
 
 Now fare thee well — more peace be with thy breast ! 
 
 Night wears apace — my last of earthly rest !" 
 
 " Rest ! rest ! by sunrise must thy sinews shake, 
 And thy limbs writhe around tiie ready stake. 
 I heard the order — saw — I will not see — 
 If thou wilt perish, I will fall with thee. 
 My life — my love — my hatred — all below 
 Are on this cast — Corsair ! 'tis but a blow ! 
 But since the dagger suits thee less than brand, 
 I'll try the firmness of a female hand." 
 
 She flies from him to do the cruel deed 
 herself He gathers up his chains to pre- 
 
 vent her. When he finds her, she is re- 
 turning. 
 
 No poniard in that hand — nor sign of ill — 
 " Thanks to her softening heart — she could not kill !" 
 Again he look'd, the wildness of her eye 
 Starts from the day abrupt and fearfully. 
 She stopp'd — threw back her dark far-floating hair, 
 That nearly veil'd her face and bosom fair : 
 As if she late had bent her leaning head 
 Above some object of her doubt or dread. 
 They meet : upon her brow — unknown — forgot — • 
 Her hurrying hand had left — 'twas but a spot ; 
 Its hue was all he saw, and scarce withstood — ■ 
 Oh ! slight but certain pledge of crime — 'tis blood ! 
 * « * * * 
 
 He had shed the blood of his foes in tor- 
 rents, and seen many ghastly scenes un- 
 moved, but this cruel murder fills him with 
 horror. 
 
 So thrill'd — so shudder'd every creeping vein, 
 
 As now they froze before that purple stain. 
 
 Tiiat spot of blood, that light 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 combaf, or was shed bv men. 
 
\/^^^^//:i/.,|■;/'/ 
 I ',1 ' i' 
 
 ' i' ; .1 ;' 
 
 ■l/l:," 
 
 . ,' i'i''|iii'i,i',i,'i"il;i'','i'M,'i"' 
 
K A LE D. 
 
 The tale of Lara is a continuation of the 
 Corsair, but unlike the most of sequels, it 
 fully equals its precursor ; yet, strange to 
 say, Lord Byron never admitted this pub- 
 licly, and the cause of its production 
 elucidates one of his most peculiar charac- 
 teristics, viz., satirical revenge. He had 
 asserted upon the appearance of the Cor- 
 sair, that it would be his last production ; 
 but this, his apparent and intended silence, 
 tcgethei with the Prince Regent's ani- 
 mosity, was the signal for his enemies to 
 commence an unjust and most unmerciful 
 persecution. To revenge himself, he wrote 
 and published Lara, being determined to 
 make his traducers, despite of their envy 
 and prejudice, acknowledge the superiority 
 of his genius, that could thus continue a 
 poem already complete in itself, and yet 
 render it more complete in a mysterious 
 and most attractive manner. But to de- 
 lude them, he made this sequel appear like 
 a new story, by making the real connection 
 obscure and seemingly contradictory, in- 
 troducing new features, and adding new 
 beauties, yet at the same time taking care 
 to presCTve the unity of the two parts un- 
 broken. The blundering critic, so very 
 wise in his own conceit, stumbled at every 
 step by drawing wrong conclusions, and 
 thus unwittingly, at his own expense, fur- 
 
 nished intense amusement for the fancied 
 victim he imagined he was torturing. The 
 Corsair as Lara, and Gulnare as Kaled his 
 page, are the chief characters. A slight 
 sketch of the latter is here given, as con- 
 nected with the engraving. 
 
 Of higher birth he seem'd, and better days. 
 
 Nor mark of vulgar toil that hand betrays. 
 
 So femininely white it might bespeak 
 
 Another sex, when match'd with that smooth cheek, 
 
 But for his garb, and something in his gaze, 
 
 More wild and high than woman's eye betrays ; 
 
 A latent fierceness that far more became 
 
 His fiery climate than his tender frame : 
 
 True, in his words it broke not from his breast, 
 
 But from his aspect might be more than guess'd. . 
 
 Kaled his name, though rumor said he bore 
 
 Another ere he left his mountain shore ; 
 
 For sometimes he would hear, however nigh, 
 
 That name repeated loud without reply, ^ 
 
 As unfamiliar, or, if roused again, 
 
 Start to the sound, as but remember'd then ; 
 
 Unless 'twas Lara's wonted voice that spake. 
 
 For then, ear, eyes, and heart would all awake. 
 
 The two assumed characters of Lara 
 and Kaled, though minutely drawn, do not 
 differ in the least from their original coun- 
 terparts. Gulnare, who had before mur- 
 dered Seyd when asleep, to liberate Conrad, 
 here murders Sir Ezzelin, (who had recog- 
 nised Lara as the Corsair,) to prevent him 
 disclosinc; Lara's real character to the 
 
2() 
 
 LARA. 
 
 world. 'I'liis fart is iiarlially Cdiu-ralod 
 ■\villi iniiisuiuniate art, Inil this ])assaL;;o is 
 oiiougli to reveal it : 
 
 II.' h;ul l.H.UM .loun upon llu- H<slivi- Imll, 
 
 And i\i;(rUM llial siidilon strilo so mark'il of all ; 
 
 Aiul wlion tlio orowil uroimil ami iipiir liim lold 
 
 Tlioir woiulor nt llio cnlimioss of tho boM, 
 
 Their marvel liow tlio hiyh-born Imvh boro 
 
 Siu'b inmill IVom a strani;'(M', doubly sore, 
 
 'I'lif color ofyoiiiiij Knlod wont and came, 
 
 'I'lio lip of ashes, and (he cheek of llame ; 
 
 And oVr Ins brow the dampenin;; lioart-ihojis ihrew 
 
 Tlio siokenini; icinoss of tliat coUl dow, 
 
 Tliat rises as tlio busy bosom sinks 
 
 With lunvy thoughts fi-om which relleclion shrinks. 
 
 Yos — tlioro be thiii'is that wo must dream and dan; 
 
 And iwt'citic ore thought be half aware : 
 
 ^YIl(ltt^'n^ might Kaled's be, iV was enow 
 
 To seal his lip. but ngonixo his brow. 
 
 ("oiirad, also, w lu> would not bcMoro nnir- 
 tlor a sleeping eneinw does not here parli- 
 cipato i\i any wav whatever in the innider 
 of Sir I'lzzeliu, though this is attested to 
 hy only a single Hue. 
 
 If thus he perishM, Heaven receive his soul I 
 His undiscover'd limbs to CK'oan roll ; 
 And charily upon the iiopo would dwell 
 It iC(i.< 110.' litira's hand hy which he fell. 
 
 This last lino of the quotation emphatical- 
 ly clears Lara of this crime, the poet insert- 
 ing the preceding one solely to mislead the 
 critic ; lor iiad it have been otherwise, the 
 charm ot'mystery wouUl have been dissolved, 
 and the wilful iitteutions of the ingenious 
 satirist would have eutirclv been frustrated. 
 
 The death o[' Lara is described with 
 unsurjiasscd vigor and beauty, and the 
 ilriioticmcnt of Kaled's real sex is made 
 
 with extreme tenderness and ilelicacy : 
 
 Vet senso seem'd left, though bettor wcro its loss ; 
 
 For when one near display 'd the absolving cross, 
 
 And proll'er'd to his toncli tho holy bead. 
 
 Of which liis parting soul might own llio need, 
 
 lie look'd upon it with nn eye profane, 
 
 And smiled — Heaven pardon ! if 'twero with disdain 
 
 And Kaled, though ho spoko not, nor withdrew 
 
 From Iiarn's face iiis ll.x'd despairing view, 
 
 With brow repulsive, and with gesture swifl. 
 
 Flung back tho Iiaud wliieh held tlio sacred gift, 
 
 As if such but disturb'd tho expiring man. 
 
 Nor soem'd to know his life but then began, 
 
 That life of Immortality, secure 
 
 To none, save tliein whose faith in Christ is sure. 
 
 * * * * .■* ♦ 
 
 Out gasping lieavod the breath that I^ara drew. 
 And dull tho film along bis dim eye grew ; 
 Ilis limbs strotch'd tluttering, and his head divopM o'er 
 Tho weak yet still untiring knee that bore ; 
 IIo prcssM tlio hand he held upon his liearl — 
 It beats no more, but Kaled will not part 
 With tlio cold grasp, but feels, and feels in vain, 
 For that faint Ihmb which answers not again. 
 " It beats !" Away, tliou dreamer ! lie is gone — 
 It onco was Lara which thou look'st upon. 
 
 Oh ! never yet bencatii 
 Tho breast of man such trusty love may breatho J 
 That trying moment hath at once reveal'd 
 Tho secret long and yet but lialf-conceal'd ; 
 In biiriug to revive that lifeless breast. 
 Its grief seeiuM ended, bnt tho so.x confest ; 
 And lifo retuniM, and Kaled felt no shame — 
 What now to hor was WomanhtHxl or Fame 7 
 
ELAVTIFUL SPIRIT IN TKT. CALM CLEAR BR.OW 
 WHEREIN* IS GLASSD SERENITY" OF SOUL 
 WHICH OF ITSELF SHOIVS IMMORTALITY 
 
THE WITCH OF THE ALPS. 
 
 "Manfred" has been considered by 
 many to be, not only the finest production 
 of the pen of Lord Byron, but tiie sub- 
 limest and best executed composition of 
 English poetry. It certainly stands ur.ii- 
 VB,lled for the sweetness and soft purity of 
 its delicious language — its grand and beau- 
 tiful descriptions of the mighty wonders of 
 majestic nature — the wildness and bewitch- 
 ing imagination of its spiritual conceptions 
 ■ — and its terrible pathos, revealing the 
 horror and agony of that deep remorse 
 which follows the extremest deeds of evil, 
 !ind the tortures of that self-despair which 
 forms the innate hell of the human mind. 
 
 The moral of this poem is a sad and bitter 
 truth — " The tree of Knowledge is not that 
 of Life;" for "knowledge is not happiness, 
 and science only an exchange of one kind 
 of ignorance for another," the attainment of 
 which never contents or satisfies mankind, 
 who, though "half dust and half deity," be- 
 come degraded and polluted by sin, so as to 
 be a shame to themselves and to each other. 
 
 Manfred is a Magian of fearful skill, with 
 a superhuman mind, whose lofty talents 
 have been perverted and misapplied ; he is 
 well versed in the abstruser sciences, and 
 by his art commands and communes with 
 
 the imaginary spirits who are fancied to 
 control the universe ; he is even immortal 
 in his nature, which appears to iiave been 
 acquired by the self-sacrifice or murder of 
 nis devoted sister Astarte, whom ho tenderly 
 loved, but destroyed with iiis guilty affec- 
 tion, which broke her heart : and his 
 consuming grief for this awful deed, and 
 excruciating sufferings in his undying state 
 in search of oblivion, are the most impres- 
 sive parts of this appalling drama. For 
 the touching desolation Manfred feels, even 
 when surrounded by the glories of Alpine 
 grandeur. Lord Byron drew upon his own 
 poignant sorrow and outraged feelings, as 
 may be proved by his own words : " The 
 recollection of bitterness, and more espe 
 cially of recent and more home desolation, 
 which must accompany me through life, 
 have preyed upon me here ; and neither the 
 music of the shepherd, the crashing of the 
 avalanche, nor the torrent, the mountain, 
 the glacier, the forest, nor the cloud, have 
 for one moment lightened the weight upon 
 my heart, nor enabled me to lose my own 
 wretched identity in the majesty, and the 
 power, and the glory, around, above, and 
 beneath me." 
 
 These sentiments arc beautifully express- 
 
28 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 ed in the following passages in the celestial 
 beauty of the " Witch of the Alps," the 
 sweet loveliness of hei" retreat, and the 
 heart-rending agony of Manfred, wrung 
 from him in their fruitless colloquy. 
 
 It is not noon — the sunbow's rays still arch 
 
 The torrent with the many hues of heaven, 
 
 And roll the sheeted silver's waving column 
 
 O'er the crag's headlong perpendicular, 
 
 And fling its lines of foaming light along, 
 
 And to and fro, like the pale courser's tail, 
 
 The Uiant steed, to be bestrode by Death, 
 
 As told in the Apocalypse. No eyes 
 
 But mine now drink this sight of loveliness ; 
 
 I should be sole in this sweet solitude. 
 
 And with the Spirit of the place divide 
 
 The homage of these waters. — I will call her. — 
 
 Beautiful Spirit ! with thy hair of light, 
 
 And dazzling eyes of glory, in whose form 
 
 The charms of earth's least mortal daughters grow 
 
 To an unearthly stature, in an essence 
 
 Of purer elements ; while the hues of yotith — 
 
 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 leaves 
 
 Upon the lofty glacier's virgin snow, 
 
 The blush of earth, embracing with her heaven — 
 
 Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make tame 
 
 The beauties of the sunbow which bends o'er thee. 
 
 Beautiful Spirit ! in thy calm clear brow, 
 
 Wherein is glass'd serenity of soul. 
 
 Which of itself shows immortality, 
 
 I read that thou wilt pardon to a Son 
 
 Of Earth, whom the abstruser powers permit 
 
 At times to commune with them — if that ho 
 
 Avail him of his spells — to call thee thus, 
 
 And gaze on thee a moment. 
 
 The face of the earth hath madden'd.rae, and I 
 Take refuge in her mysteries, and pierce 
 To the abodes of those vi^ho govern her — 
 But they can nothing aid me. I have sougtit 
 From them what they could not bestow, and now 
 I search no further. 
 
 ***** 
 Her faults were mine — her virtues were her own — 
 I loved her, and destroy'd her ! * * 
 
 Not with my hand, but heart — wliich 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. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 My solitude is solitude no more. 
 
 But peopled with the Furies ; — I have gnash'd 
 
 IVIy 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 affronted death — but in the war 
 
 Of elements the waters shrunk from me. 
 
 And fatal things pass'd harmless — the cold hand 
 
 Of an all-pitiless demon held me back, 
 
 Back by a single hair, which would not break. 
 
 In fantasy, imagination, all 
 
 The afHuence of my soul — which one day was 
 
 A Cro^sus 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 — Forgetfulnesa 
 
 I sought in all, save where 'tis to be found, 
 
 And that I have to learn — my sciences, 
 
 My long-pursued and superhuman art, 
 
 Is mortal here — I dwell in my despair — 
 
 And live — and live forever. 
 
A ST ARTE. 
 
 The exquisite engraving of Astarte, that 
 is iiere presented, reveals as truly to the 
 beholder — as the poem does to the reader — 
 the sister of Manfred, who appears but as 
 a phantom. The figure shows not life nor 
 d'eath : the hands, though raised in mild 
 reproach, are stiff and frozen there in rigid 
 firmness, as if sculptured out of solid mar- 
 ble ; nor does she seem of breathing clay, 
 being dust and ashes, — the spirit only seems 
 to glow — wearing the semblance of its 
 earthly form — lending a contrite and re- 
 morseful look, in dim and shadowy sor- 
 row. 
 
 We read of her, as once blooming in 
 purity and innocence, with mind and fea- 
 tures like her brother, having like desires, 
 but of a far gentler and humbler nature : — 
 
 She was like me in lineaments — her eyes, 
 Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone 
 Even of her voice, they said were like to mine ; 
 But soften'd all, and temper'd into beauty : 
 She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings, 
 The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind 
 To comprehend the universe : nor these 
 Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine, 
 
 Pity, and smiles, and tears — which I had not , 
 And tenderness — but that I had for her ; 
 Humility — and that I never had. 
 
 Their pure affection, maturing from child- 
 hood, at last becomes defiled — perhaps, onl}^ 
 in soul — and Astarte withers like a blighted 
 lily, and broken-hearted perishes. 
 
 Manfred, though immortal, finds no hap- 
 piness in knowledge and enduring life, so 
 seeks forgetfulness or death. Through his 
 power over the spirits, he obliges Nemesis 
 to call up the Phantom of Astarte, whose 
 aid he invokes in the following touching 
 passages ; finally receiving from her the 
 knowledge that his earthly ills will end in 
 death. 
 
 Can this be death ? there's bloom upon her cheek ; 
 But now I see it is no living hue. 
 But a strange hectic — like the unnatural red 
 Which Autumn plants upon the perish'd leaf. 
 It is the same ! Oh, God ! that I should dread 
 To look upon the same — Astarte ! — No, 
 I cannot speak to her — but bid her speak — 
 Forgive me or condemn me. 
 
 « * * * * 
 
 Hear me, hear me — 
 Astarte ! my beloved ! speak to me ; 
 
MANFRED. 
 
 I have so much endured — so much endure — 
 
 Look on me ! the grave hath not changed thee more 
 
 Than I am changed for thee. Thou lovedst me 
 
 Too much, as I loved tliee : we were not made 
 
 To torture thus each other, though it were 
 
 The deadliest sin to love as we have loved. 
 
 Say that thou loath'st me not — that I do bear 
 
 This punishment for both — that thou wilt be 
 
 One of the blessed — and that I shall die ; 
 
 For hitherto all hateful things conspire 
 
 To bind me in existence — in a life 
 
 Which makes me shrink from immortality — 
 
 A future like the past. I cannot rest. 
 
 I know not what I 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 I 
 
 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 ths caves 
 
 Acquainted with thy vainly echo'd name. 
 
 Which answer'd me — many things answer'd me — 
 
 Spirits and men — but thou wert silent all. 
 
 Yet speak to me ! I have outwatched the siavs, 
 
 And gazed o'er heaven in vain in search of thee. 
 
 Speak to me! I have wanderd o'er the earth, 
 And never found thy likeness — Speak to me ! 
 Look on the fiends around — they feel for me : 
 I fear them not, and feel for thee alone — 
 Speak to me ! though it be in wrath ; — bul say — 
 I reck not what — but let me hear thee once — 
 This once — once more ! 
 
 It remains only to enforce again, at part 
 ing with the subject, its impressive moral. 
 If 3Ian were immortal in his earthly- 
 state, — possessing power to control the 
 elements and domineering unthwarted over 
 all around — he would still be dissatisfied ; 
 he would, like Lucifer, either impiously try 
 to dethrone Omnipotence, or, like the fallen 
 Archangel, be ever tortured in a self-madfe 
 hell of remorse and agony. Death is our 
 iiatural rest. We must die as we would 
 sleep, — if we live well, we rest in peace, 
 and awake wth a refreshed and calmer 
 nature, ho.ving brighter and better aspira- 
 tions. 
 
?/y 
 
 -. Put h s}i «r s , a ev?:i6:-^c 
 
MEETING OF PIUGO AND PARISINA. 
 
 The melancholy facts relating to the 
 tragedy of Parisina, occurred in Ferrara, 
 in the year 1405, under the reign of Nich- 
 olas III. Lord Byron, in his exquisitely 
 mournful poem on this distressing subject, 
 renders the story thus : — Hugo, the natural 
 son of Azo, (Nicholas,) Marquis of Este, by 
 Bianca, was betrothed to Parisina : the 
 JMarquis, disdaining Hugo — being of illegiti- 
 mate birth — as a rival, (although he, alone, 
 was the guilty cause of the imputed shame,) 
 covets his son's destined bride, and makes 
 Parisina his wife ; but afterwards discover- 
 ing the incestuous love of the guilty pair, 
 he sentences Hugo to be beheaded. 
 
 This beautiful tragedy, though not made 
 up of highly-wrought plots and violent 
 scenes, is yet a meritorious and almost 
 faultless composition ; it is a painful recital 
 of guilt and retribution, and the easj', touch- 
 ing transitions delineate the utmost depths 
 of horror, terror, grief, pit}*, and sadness, in 
 their gloomiest shades ; the language is sim- 
 ple and pathetic, and the versification is 
 harmonious and spirited ; the delicacy of 
 the subject has never been abused, nor the 
 guilt palliated ; and the remorse and speech- 
 less agony of the guilty, are portrayed in 
 words whose force may be felt, but not so 
 easily re-expressed. 
 
 Tiie few fragments here given, embrace 
 the historical portion of the poem, which 
 
 will not bear mutilation, except at the ex- 
 pense of beauty ; but is too long to be 
 inserted entire. 
 
 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. 
 
 ***** 
 But it is not to list to the waterfall 
 That Parisina leaves her hall. 
 And it is not to gaze on the heavenly light 
 That the lady walks in the shadow of night ; 
 And if she sits in Este's bower, 
 'Tis not for the sake of its full-blown flower : 
 She listens — but not for the nightingale — 
 Though her ear expects as soft a tale. 
 There glides a step through the foliage thick. 
 And her cheek grows pale — and her heart beats quick. 
 There whispers a voice through the rustling leaves, 
 And her blush returns, and her bosom heaves: 
 A moment more — and they shall meet : 
 'Tis past — her lover's at her feet. 
 
 ***** 
 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 hor frailly from afar — 
 
32 
 
 PARISINA. 
 
 The frequent sigh, the long embrace, 
 Yet binds them to tlioir trysting-place. 
 But it must come, and they must part 
 In fearful heaviness of heart, 
 With all the deep and shuddering chill 
 Which follows fast the deeds of ill. 
 
 And 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 cheek with troubled dreams, 
 
 And mutters she in lier unrest 
 A name she dare not breathe by day, 
 
 And clasps her lord unto the breast 
 Which 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 ; 
 And could in very fondness weep 
 O'er her who loves him even in sleep. 
 
 He clasp'd her sleeping to his heart, 
 And listcn'd to eacli broken word : 
 Ele hears — Wliy doth I'rince Azo start ? 
 
 ***** 
 And whose that name ? 'tis Hugo's — his — 
 In sooth he had not deem'd of this ! 
 'Tis Hugo's, — he, the child of ono 
 He loved — ^liis own all-evil son — 
 The offspring 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. 
 
 He phick'd his poniard in its sheath. 
 But sheatlied it ere the point w-as bare — 
 
 Howe'er unworthy now to breathe. 
 He could not slay a thing so fair — 
 At least, not smiling — sleeping — there. 
 
 The Convent bells are ringing. 
 
 But mournfully and slow ; 
 In the gray square turret swinging. 
 
 With a deep sound, to and fro. 
 
 Heavily to the heart they go ! 
 Hark ! the hymn is singing — 
 
 The song for the dead below. 
 
 Or the living who shortly shall be so ! 
 For a departing being's soul 
 The deatli-hymn peals and the hollow bells knoll , 
 He is near his mortal goal ; 
 Kneeling at the friar's knee ; 
 Sad to hear — and piteous to see — 
 Kneeling on the bare cold ground, 
 With the block before and the guards around; 
 And the headman with his bare arm ready. 
 That the blow may be both swift and steady, 
 Feels if the axe be sharp and true — 
 Since he set its edge anew : 
 While the crowd in a speechless circle gather 
 To see the Son fall by the doom of the Father 
 
 The parting prayers are said and over 
 Of that false son — and daring lover ! 
 His beads and sins are all recounted. 
 His hours to their last minute mounted — 
 ***** 
 These the last accents Hugo spoke : 
 " Strike :" — and flashing fell the stroke — 
 RoU'd the head— and, gushing, sunl; 
 Back tlie stain'd and heaving trunk. 
 In the dust, which each deep vein 
 Slaked with its ensanguined rain ; 
 His eyes and lips a moment quiver, 
 Convulsed and quick — then fix forever 
 Ho died, as erring man should die, 
 
 Witliout display, without parade , 
 
 Meekly had he bow'd and pray'd, 
 
 As not disdaining priestly aid, 
 Nor desperate of all hope on high. 
 

THE DREAM. 
 
 In tills si'igular poem Byron typifies his 
 own life, and endeavors to justify some of 
 the inconsistencies of his conduct : it may 
 be called his ideal history. He tiuis de- 
 scribes himself and Mary Chavvorth, to 
 whose non-appreciation of his affection he 
 always attributed his after misfortunes. 
 
 I saw two beings in the hues of youtli, 
 
 « # » » » 
 
 And botli were young, and one was boautifiil. 
 The maid was on the eve of womanhood ; 
 The boy Iiad fewer summers, but his heart 
 Had far outgrown liis years, and to Iiis eye 
 There was but one beloved face on earth, 
 And that was sliining on him. 
 
 * * * -X- * 
 
 lie had no breath — no being — but in licrs ; 
 She was his voice. * * * 
 
 * • Slie was his sight — 
 
 She was liis life : — 
 The ocean to the river of his thoughts, 
 Which termino.ted all. 
 
 « » * » * 
 
 Her sighs were not for liim ; to lier he was 
 Even as a brother, but no more ; 'twas much, 
 For broKherless she was. 
 
 In his diary, he thus alludes to the effects 
 which would have flowed from their union : 
 
 "Our union would have healed feuds in 
 whip h blood had been shed by our fathers , 
 it would have joined lands, broad and rich ; 
 it would have joined one heart and two per- 
 sons — not ill-matched in years, (she is two 
 years my elder ;) — and — and — and — what 
 has been the result?" 
 
 He thus alludes to the old hall at Anncs- 
 ley, the family-seat of the Chawortiis : 
 
 There was an ancient mansion, and before 
 Its walls there was a steed caparisoned : 
 Within an antique oratory stood 
 The boy of whom I spake ; he was alone 
 And pale, and pacing to and fro ; anon 
 He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced 
 Words which I could not guess of; then he leaned 
 His bowed head on his hands, and shook as 'twere 
 With a convulsion ; then arose again. 
 And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear 
 What he had written — but he shed no tears. 
 * * * * » 
 
 He passed 
 From out the massy gate of that old hall. 
 And mounting on liis steed ho went his way ; 
 And ne'er repassed that lioary threshold more. 
 
 It was confessed by the noble poet, to a 
 friend, tiiat this scene is strictly true, and 
 
34 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 that he actually rode to Annesley to make 
 a formal declaration of his love to Mary 
 Chaworth ; but the unconcern of her man- 
 ner, when she came in to welcome him, 
 chilled him so that he rode off, as stated in 
 the poem before us. 
 
 The next change in his dream alludes to 
 his wanderings in Greece : this was con- 
 sidered by Walter Scott as admirably 
 painted, so far as keeping was concerned. 
 
 In the wilds > 
 
 Of fiery climes he made himself a home, 
 And his soul drank their sunbeams : he was girt 
 With strange and dusky aspects. * * 
 
 * * * On the sea 
 
 And on tiie shore he was a wanderer : 
 There was a mass of many images 
 Crowded like waves upon me, but he was 
 A part of all ; and in the last he lay 
 Reposing from the noontide sultriness, 
 Couched among fallen columns, in the shade 
 Of ruined walls, that had survived the names 
 Of those who reared them ; by his sleeping side 
 Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds 
 Were fastened near a fountain ; and a man 
 Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while. 
 While many of his tribe slumbered around : 
 And they were canopied by the blue sky. 
 So cloudless, clear, and purely boaatiful, 
 That God alone was to be seen in Heaven. 
 
 The next phase of his dream is, as every- 
 body knows, purely imaginary ; as Mary 
 Chaworth was happily married to Mr. 
 Musters, and had, apparently, as pleasant 
 and contented a life as need be desired. 
 The poet's vanity strongly peeps out in this 
 passage : 
 
 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. 
 
 In the. next change of the spirit of the 
 dream we know — unhappily for Byron's 
 peace of mind — that it only depicts the 
 truth, and that it is an exact description of 
 his own marriage with Miss Milbank. 
 
 I saw him stand 
 Before an altar, with a gentle bride. 
 
 » * * • * 4r 
 
 And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 
 The fitting vows, but heard not his own words. 
 And all things reeled around him. 
 
 Even at this moment the poet was thinking 
 
 Of the old mansion, and the accustomed hall. 
 And her who was his destiny, came back 
 And thrust themselves between him and the light: 
 What business had they diere at such a time ? 
 
 In the next change, the poet thus alludes 
 to his separation from Lady Byron : 
 
 The wanderer was alone as heretofore : 
 The beinffs wliich surrounded him were gone. 
 Or were at war with him ; he was a mark 
 For blight and desolation, compassed round 
 With hatred and contention : pain was mixed 
 In all which was served up to him, until 
 He fed on poisons, and they had no power, 
 But were a kind of nutriment : he lived 
 Through tliat which had been death to many men, 
 And made him friends of mountains ; wi'Ji the stars 
 And the quick spirit of the universe 
 He held his dialogues. 
 
J... 
 
L A U K A. 
 
 Beppo is a volatile and humorous Vene- 
 tian story, founded on an anecdote that had 
 amused Lord Byron, and was written, as he 
 said, to prove that he could write cheerful- 
 ly, and to repel the charge of monotony and 
 mannerism: it was completely successful; 
 and this, probably, was one of the causes 
 that originated Don Juan. 
 
 The poem abounds in laughable and 
 truthful descriptions of Italian lile and so- 
 ciety, with occasional digressions, replete 
 with caustic wit and sarcasm : it contains no 
 seriousness or cloudy gravity, but sparkles 
 in brillianc}- and sunshine — showing the au- 
 thor's knowledge of the world and human 
 nature, and ridiculing and exposing the fol- 
 lies and foibles of mankind, and their man- 
 ners. The composition is polished, but not 
 beautiful ; light, yet not immoral ; and gen- 
 tlemanlike, without being genteelly sober: 
 in short, it is a versification of every-day 
 life and conversation, seasoned by one 
 whose liours of gayety and grief were in 
 the extremes of both. 
 
 The story, in brief, is this : — Beppo, a Ve- 
 netian merchant, remaining away from home 
 rather too long to suit the taste of Laura, his 
 wife, she, believing or wishing him dead, 
 falls in love with a certain Count, who 
 
 usurps her husband's place. Beppo, in the 
 mean time, having been made a slave, and 
 then becoming a Turk and pirate, returns 
 home, and, like a good stoic, calmly takes 
 back his wife ; and, like a good-natured 
 man, lives in friendship with the Count ; 
 which philosophical conduct upsets the en- 
 tire modern catalogue of ravings and tears, 
 divorces and damages, as well as duels and 
 executions. The annexed verses relate the 
 whole story. 
 
 Laura was blooming still, liad made the best 
 
 Of time, and time returned the compliment, 
 And treated her genteelly, so that, dress'd, 
 
 She look'd extremely well where'er she went. 
 A pretty woman is a welcome guest. 
 
 And Laura's brow a frown had rarely bent ; 
 Indeed she shone all smiles, and seemed to flatter 
 JIankind with her black eyes for looking at her. 
 *** + ** 
 
 She chose, (and what is there thoy 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. 
 
 ****** 
 While Laura thus was seen and seeing, smiling, 
 
 Talking, she knew not why and cared not what 
 
BEPPO. 
 
 So that her female friends, with envy broiling, 
 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 htr chat ; 
 
 More than the rest one person seem'd to stare 
 
 With pertinacity that's rather rare. 
 
 He was a Turk, the color of mahogany ; 
 
 And Laura saw him, and at first was glad, 
 Because the Turks so much admire phylogyny. 
 
 Although their usage of their wives 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." 
 
 ****** 
 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 I'' 
 (lould staring win a woman, tliis had won her, 
 
 But Laura could not thus be led astray ; 
 She had stood fire too long and well, to boggle 
 Even at this stranger's most outlandish ogle. 
 * * * :^ * * 
 
 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 ! tlie ^Mussulman was there before her. 
 
 " Sir," said the Count, with 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 your sake : 
 
 You understand my meaning, or you shall." 
 
 " Sir," (quoth the Turk,) " 'tis no mistake at all. 
 
 " That lady is my ^cife .'" Much wonder paints 
 The lady's changing cheek, as well as 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 
 faces, 
 
 And cutting stays, as usual in such cases. 
 
 She said — what could she say ? Why, 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 be much quizzing on the whole transaction." 
 
 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 recover'd, or less loth 
 To speak, cries " Beppo ! what's your pagan name ? 
 
 Bless me ! your beard is of amazing growth ! 
 And how came you to keep away so long ? 
 Are you not sensible 'twas very wrong ?" 
 
 ****** 
 His wife received, the patriarch rebaptized him, 
 
 (He made the cliurch 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 wherevv'ithal to make them gay. 
 With dinners, where he oft became the laugh of them. 
 For stories — but / don't believe the half of them. 
 
 Whate'er his youtli had suffer'd, his old age 
 
 With wealth and talking made him some amends , 
 
 Though Laura sometimes put him in a rage, 
 
 I've heard the Count and he were always friends. 
 
THE DEATH OF MEDORA. 
 
 Conrad having escaped, tlirough the 
 means of Gulnare, who accompanies iiim, is 
 picked up Ijy liis companions, on tiie sea, 
 vvlio iiad sailed in search of him, or to 
 avenge his death. They sail f(»r his isle, 
 and reach there at night ; seeing no light 
 in Medora's tower, his heart sadly forbodes 
 the real cause. 
 
 He reach'd Iiis turret door — he paused, no sound 
 Broke from wilhin ; and all was night around. 
 lie knock'd, and loudly — footstep nor reply 
 Announced that any heard or deem'd him nigh ; 
 lie knock'd — but faintly — for his trembling hand 
 Refused to aid his heavy heart's demand. 
 The portal opens — 'tis a well known face — 
 But not the form he panted to embrace. 
 Its lips are silent — twice his own essay'd. 
 And fail'd to frame the question they delay'd ; 
 lie snatch'd the lamp — its light will answer all — 
 It quits his grasp, expiring in tlie fall. 
 He would not wait for that reviving ray — 
 As soon could ho have lingcr'd there for day ; 
 But, glimmering through the dusky corridor, 
 Anotlier checkers o'er the shadow'd floor ; 
 His steps the chamber gain — iiis eyes behold 
 All that his heart believed not — yet foretold ! 
 
 He nad been doomed to die ; a horrid 
 murder Had been committed by another to 
 
 save him, and he at length had been per- 
 mitted to reach the long-desired home of his 
 heart ; but Medora, the only being on earth 
 whom he loved, was dead, and lay in still 
 and solemn purity before him on her funeral 
 bier ; and this is his welcome home ! His 
 iieart was crushed and desolate. What 
 was hfe now to him, when his life's life lay 
 before him, in all her beauty — cold, motion- 
 less, and dead ? here, too, where he had 
 last tenderly strained her to his bosom, 
 promising soon to return. He is now a lone 
 wanderer on the face of the earth, with the 
 mark of Cain on his brow ; with anguish, 
 remorse, and despair in his heart, creating 
 the burning torments of a living hell ! 
 
 lie turn'd not — spoke not — sunk not — fi.v'd his look, 
 
 And set the anxious frame that lately shook : 
 
 lie gazed — how long we gasR despite of pain, 
 
 And know, but dare not own, we gazo in vain ! 
 
 In life itself she was so still and fair, 
 
 That death with gentler aspect wither'd there ; 
 
 And the cold flowers her colder hand contain'd. 
 
 In that last grasp as tenderly were strain'd 
 
 As if she scarcely felt, but feign'd a sleep, 
 
 And made it almost mockery yet to weep : 
 
 The Ions' dark lashes fringed her lids of snow. 
 
38 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 AiiJ voilM — thonglit shrinks from all tliat liirk'd be- 
 low — 
 Oh ! o'or the oyo Death most exerts his might, 
 And hurls the spirit from her throne of light ! 
 Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse, 
 But spares, as yet, tlio charm around her lips — 
 Yet, yet lliey seem as they forbore to smile, 
 And wish'd repose — but only for a while ; 
 J3ut the white shroud, and each extended tress, 
 Long — fair — but spread in utter lifelcssness. 
 Which, late tlie sport of every summer wind. 
 Escaped the baflled wreath that strove to bind ; 
 These — and the pale pure cheek, became tlie bier — 
 But she is nothing — wherefore is he here ? 
 
 lie asks not how she died ; for she is lost 
 to liim on eartli, and tints lost forever ! He 
 will not sec her luMice, for she has fled to 
 Heaven, whose crystal gates are closed to 
 men of unrepcntcd crimes ! 
 
 lie askM no question — all were answcr'd now 
 By the first glance on that still marble brow. 
 It was enough — she died — what reck'd it how 7 
 
 Even Byron, with all his eloquence, can- 
 not describe the bleeding agonies of real 
 grief; and his woes and sorrows were very 
 far from being of a light nature. The 
 bleeding pangs of a true mourner's heart, 
 
 grief's palsied tongue can ne'er but faintly 
 show. The sorrow felt for the loss of the 
 one dearest being, our all on earth, outbeg- 
 gars all description. 
 
 No words suffice the secret soul to show, 
 
 For Truth denies all eloquence to Wo. 
 
 On Conrad's stricken soul exhaustion prcst, 
 
 And stu|)or almost luU'd it into rest ; 
 
 So feeble now, liis motlier's softness crept 
 
 To those wild eyes, which like an infant's wept . 
 
 It was the very weakness of liis brain, 
 
 Wliich thus confess'd without relieving pain. 
 
 They who can read this tale unmoved, 
 must have adamantine feelings, so let them 
 heed its moral. Nothing is stronger on 
 earth than woman's love. In a virtuous 
 Medora, it clings around the dear object, 
 and the heart bursts with anguish when 
 deprived of the light in which its soul did 
 naught but bask. In a perverted Gulnare, 
 even bloody murder cannot stop its strong 
 terrific force. And the heart of man, 
 though dark with guilt, may yet hold one 
 pure pearl of virtue, for he was onoe made 
 in the image of a righteous and a holy 
 God! 
 
HAIDEE. 
 
 It was the saying of Charles Lamb, tliat 
 Shakspeare had monopolized the finest of 
 all womankind, and he then rushed into a 
 glowing panegyric of Desdemona, Ophelia, 
 Imogen, Isabella, &c. We candidly confess 
 that Byron has not been successful in his 
 treatment of the fairer sex ; all his women 
 partake too much of the sensual or the melo- 
 dramatic. Medora is perhaps a modified 
 exception ; but in Haidee he has thoroughly 
 and nobly vindicated the nobility of woman- 
 hood, and done justice to his own genius. 
 Haidee is the sweetest and most touching 
 of his feminine creations. 
 
 She is the fair spirit of the second and 
 third cantos of Don Juan ; she is just the 
 creature to have inspired the wish in "Childe 
 Harold," 
 
 Oh ! that a desert were my dwelling-place, 
 With one bright spirit as a minister ! 
 
 Don Juan has been shipwrecked, and cast 
 ashore insensible. On his coming to his 
 consciousness, he first perceives Ilaidee ; 
 she is thus beautifully described : 
 
 And slowly by his swimming eyes was soon 
 A lovely female faco of seventeen ! 
 
 'Twas bending close o'er his, and the small mouth 
 Seemed almost prying into his for breath ; 
 
 And chafing him, the soft warm hand of youth 
 Recalled his answering spirits back from death; 
 
 And, bathing his cliill tcmpies, tried to soothe 
 
 Each pulse to animation, till beneath 
 Its gentle touch, and trembling care, a sigh 
 To these kind efforts made a low reply. 
 
 Then was the cordial poured, and mantle flung 
 Around his scarce-clad limbs, and the fair arm 
 
 Raised higher the faint head which o'er it hung ; 
 And her transparent cheek, all pure and warm, 
 
 Pillowed his deathlike forehead ; tlien she wrung 
 His dewy curls, long drenched by every storm ; 
 
 And watched with eagerness each throb that drew 
 
 A sigh from his heaved bosom, and hers, too ! 
 ***** 
 
 Her brow was overhung with coins of gold, 
 That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair, — 
 
 Her clustering hair, whose longer locks were rolled 
 In braids behind ; and though her stature were 
 
 Even of the highest for a female mould, 
 
 They nearly reached her heel ; and in her air 
 
 There was a something which bespoke command 
 
 As one who was a lady in the land ! 
 
 Her hair, I said, was auburn ; but her eyes 
 Were black as death, the lashes the same hue 
 
 Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies 
 Deepest attraction ; for when to the view 
 
 Forth from its raven fringe the full glance flies, 
 Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew ; 
 
 'Tis as the snake late coiled, who pours his length, 
 
 And hurls at once his venom and his strength ! 
 
 These two lines contain one of the most 
 felicitous images in all poetry ; there is a 
 darting, forky force about the words which 
 admirably second the thought 
 
40 
 
 HAIDEE. 
 
 Her brow was white and low ; her cheek's pure dye 
 Like twihglit rosy with the set of sun ; 
 
 Short upper lip — sweet lips ! that make us sigh 
 Ever to have seen such ; for she was one 
 
 Fit for the model of a statuary, 
 
 (A race of mere impostors, when all is done !) 
 
 I've seen much finer women, ripe and real. 
 
 Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal. 
 
 I'll tell you why I say so, for 'tis just 
 One should not rail without a decent cause : 
 
 There was an 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 laws. 
 
 They will destroy a face which mortal thought 
 
 Ne'er compassed, nor less mortal clikel wrought ! 
 
 This is a fair specimen of Don Juan : in 
 the midst of a passage full of tenderness 
 and beauty, he breaks ofl" into some gro- 
 tesque allusion, utterly at variance with the 
 spirit of his foregoing theme. It may, per- 
 haps, interest our readers to know that the 
 Irish lady here alluded to was the Countess 
 of Blessington, who has had the curiosa 
 felicitas of being immortalized by the first 
 poets of the Old and New World ; we allude 
 to Byron. JMoore, Landor, Leigh Hunt, and 
 Willis. 
 And such was she, the lady of tlie Cave : 
 
 Her dress was very different from tlie 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 wave 
 
 Around them (what I hope will never vanish) 
 The basquina and the mantilla, they 
 Seem at the same time mystical and gay. 
 
 But with our damsel this was not the case : 
 Her dress was many-colored, finely spun ; 
 
 Her locks curled negligently round her face. 
 
 But through them gold and gems profusely slione ; 
 
 Her girdle sparkled, and the richest lace 
 Flowed in her veil, and many a precious stone 
 
 Flashed on her little hand ; but, v\-hat was shocking, 
 
 Her small, snow feet had slippers, but no stocking. 
 
 The next stanza describes the attendant 
 of Haidee ; it concludes with this charac- 
 teristic distinction of the patrician and the 
 plebeian : 
 
 Her hair was thicker, but less long; her eyes 
 As black, but quicker, and of smaller size. 
 
 Haidee was the daughter of a Greek 
 pirate, who had his retreat in one of the 
 Cyclades : out of this dark old villain comes 
 this sweet flower of poetical womankind, 
 just as a fair white lily has its root in the 
 black earth. After describing the father- 
 pirate, he thus comes to the beautiful 
 daughter : 
 
 He had an onU" daughter, called Haidee, 
 The greatest heiress of the Eastern Isles ; 
 
 Besides, so very beautiful was she, 
 Her dowry was as nothing to her smiles ; 
 
 Still in her teens, and like a lovely tree, 
 She grew to womanhood, and between wliiles 
 
 Rejected several suitors, just to learn 
 
 How to accept a better, in his turn. 
 
 The fair Haidee, walking out upon the 
 beach, discovers the insensible Juan, and 
 cherishes him in a cave : this they were 
 enabled to do with comparative safety, as 
 the old pirate father was at sea on one of 
 his freebooting expeditions : leaving him to 
 his repose, the sweet Haidee, and her at- 
 tendant Zee. return to the pirate's dwelling. 
 
DON J U iV N . 
 
 Don Juan is undoubtedly the only mod- 
 ern epic. It is as ti'ue a picture of our 
 times, as the Iliad and the Odyssey were of 
 theirs. That it is the most wonderful mon- 
 ument of Byron's genius is undoubted. His 
 powers were admirably adapted to portray, 
 with unparalleled force and vivacity, that 
 flippant, mocking spirit, which so singularly 
 mingles now with even the most momentous 
 questions, whether of morals, politics, or 
 theology. It has likewise the merit of being 
 the best-abused poem of the present gener- 
 ation ; a certain proof of its influence upon 
 the age. It would indeed be diflicult, if not 
 impossible, to name any work which shows 
 so vast an acquaintance with human nature. 
 We admit that the author has Byronized it 
 to a certain extent ; but, making every de- 
 duction for the idiosyncracy of the poet, it 
 must still remain the most remarkable pro- 
 duction of modern literature. To those 
 who complain of Lord Byron's egotism, let 
 it always be remembered, that the egotism 
 of a great mind is very diflerent from that 
 of the common-place man : the latter nause- 
 ates you with mere duplicates of his own 
 daguerreotype likeness ; while the former 
 presents an ever-varying kaleidescope of 
 mind and nature, interesting in every as- 
 pect. There is variety in one, monotony 
 
 in the other. We consider this to be emi- 
 nently the characteristic of Byron's genius ; 
 his view is extensive, though somewhat 
 tinged with the pi'cvailing color of his own 
 wonderful mind. In this, he certainly oflers 
 a remarkable contrast to Shakspeare, who 
 differed from the moody Childc far as the 
 poles asunder. We attribute to this mark- 
 ed distinction between the dramatist and 
 the modern poet, the common belief in 
 Byron's egotism and want of universality. 
 How unfounded this charge is, need not to 
 be pointed out to the student of "Don Juan." 
 That the poet has more thoroughly de- 
 veloped his own nature in this celebrated 
 epic than in Manfred, Lara, Conrad, and 
 Childe Harold, is evident to all who know 
 any thing of his habits or his life. The 
 light and shade of his nature are here inter- 
 woven so inextricably as to form a com- 
 plete portrait, while in the earlier poems all 
 is dark and gloomy. It is a picture without 
 any relief; or, to use a homely simile, like 
 a profile cut out of black paper. Byron's 
 character was eminently changeable ; his 
 spirit was moody, but full of variety, shift- 
 ing like a quicksand, and swallowing up all 
 that was passing over it at that particular 
 instant. So loud has been the outcry 
 against this remarkable poem, that many of 
 
42 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 our readers will no doubt be surprised 
 when we affirm that some of the purest 
 and loftiest passages in modern poetry are 
 to be found in this much-denounced epic ; 
 that it also contains much of that Mephis- 
 tophelian spirit, which unhappily disfigures 
 some of his noblest works, is undoubtedly 
 true ; but Byron is a mighty garden, where, 
 among the finest of herbs, the costliest of 
 exotics, and the brightest of flowers, there 
 grows at the same time the deadly weed. 
 Let us not indiscriminately crush the mul- 
 titudinous wheat and destroy the harvest, 
 in our short-sigiited eflbrt to destroy the 
 tares. 
 
 The faculty which we possess of calling 
 up, by an effort of thought, a well-remem- 
 bered face, is very often exercised by lovers. 
 Byron has availed himself of this well- 
 known propensity, to make it frequently 
 the subject of his muse. We have given 
 one instance in the present illustration. 
 
 Donna Julia is thus introduced to the 
 reader : 
 
 There was the Donna Julia, whom to call 
 Pretty, were but to give a feeble notion 
 
 Of many charms, in her as natural 
 
 As sweetness to the flower, or salt to ocean. 
 * * * * * 
 
 The darkness of her Oriental eye 
 Accorded with her Jloorish origin ; 
 
 Iler blood was not all Spanish, by the bye. 
 
 Her eye — (I'm very fond of handsome eyes) — 
 Was large and dark, suppressing naif its fire. 
 
 Until she spoke ; then througn its soft disguise 
 Flashed an c.Npression more of pride than ire. 
 
 And love than cither ; and there would arise 
 
 A something in them which was not desire, 
 But would have been, perliaps, but for the soul 
 Which struggled through, and chastened down the 
 whole. 
 
 Ilcr glossy hair was clustered o'er a brow 
 Bright with intelligence, and fair and smooth ; 
 
 Ilcr eyebrow's shape was like the aerial bow, 
 Her cheek alT purple with the beam of youtli, 
 
 Mounting, at times, to a transparent glow, 
 As if her veins ran lightning ! 
 
 Juan's attachment to Julia is discovered, 
 and he is sent to sea. Julia was dispatched 
 to a convent, from whence she contrived to 
 convey that letter which has been celebra- 
 ted by the lovers of poetry. We subjoin 
 an extract : 
 
 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 — 
 
 Jline is tlie victim, and would be again ; 
 To love too much has been the only art 
 
 I used : I write in haste, and if a stain 
 Be on this sheet, 'tis not what it appears ; 
 My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears. 
 
 The next stanza has been considered by 
 many as embodying a painful truth: 
 
 Man's love is of man's life a tiling 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 tliese cannot estrange; 
 
 Jlen have all these resources, we but one — 
 
 To love aeain, and be again undone. 
 
I ANTHE. 
 
 TO lANTHE. 
 
 Not in those climes wlicre I have late been straying, 
 Though Beauty long hath there been matchless 
 
 deem'd ; 
 Not in those visions to the heart displaying 
 Forms which it sighs but to have only dream'd, 
 Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seem'd : 
 Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek 
 To paint those charms which varied as they bcam'd — 
 To such as see thee not, my words were weak ; 
 To those who gaze on thee, what language could they 
 speak ? 
 
 Ah I mayst thou ever be what now thou art, 
 Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring. 
 As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart. 
 Love's image upon earth without his wing. 
 And guileless beyond Hope's imagining ! 
 And surely she who 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 ! — "lis well for me 
 My years already doubly number tliine ; 
 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 over more than friend : 
 This much, dear maid, accord ; nor question why 
 To one so young my strain I would commend. 
 But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend. 
 
 Such is thy name with this my verse intwined ; 
 And long au kinder eyes a look shall cast 
 On Harold's page, lanthe's here enshrined 
 Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last : 
 My days once numbsr'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 ? 
 
44 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 Tlic opening stanzas of Cliilde Harold 
 were addressed to Lady Charlotte Harley 
 in 1812, who was then only eleven years 
 old, under the appellation of " lanthe." 
 
 This delicate tribute of sincere friendship 
 is a sweet embodiment of the gifted poet's 
 admiration of budding innocence and beau- 
 ty ; and the solicitude he feels for this youth- 
 ful " Peri," that she may continue to bloom 
 as pure in heart, and guileless beyond the 
 fondest imagination of Hope, is as tenderly 
 affectionate as a parent's love. 
 
 When Lord Byron wrote in praise of 
 female loveliness, he invested the living 
 beauties whose charms he described, with 
 a far more exquisite imagery than the fan- 
 cies of his own creation. Ilis wish for 
 lauthe is, that she may be as true as "Love's 
 image upon earth without his wing," and 
 that her anxious mother may behold her, as 
 the bright rainbow whose heavenly hues 
 will dispel all future sorrow. The last sub- 
 lime sentiment has only been exceeded by 
 him in one instance, viz., in the magnificent 
 lines addressed to Lady Wilmot Horton : 
 
 " 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 mellow'd to that tender light 
 
 Wliich heaven to gaudy day denies." 
 
 The grand metaphor he uses, is the least 
 sensual, and the most poetical of any that 
 can ever be imagined. 
 
 " And on that cheek, and o'er tliat 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 !" 
 
 lie here, as before, appropriately pays 
 the lofty homage due to female purity and 
 virtue ; an example which has been set by 
 divine inspiration. 
 
 Again, in speaking of his cousin Margaret 
 Parker, who died at a very early age, he 
 says, — • 
 
 " I do not recollect scarcely any thing 
 equal to the transparent beauty of my 
 cousin, or to the sweetness of her temper, 
 during the short period of our intimacy. 
 She looked as if she had been made out of 
 a rainbow — all beauty and peace I" 
 
C:i^V«<?' (i^WlfW/Zi^/Z^ 
 
THE ALBANIAN. 
 
 Fierce are Albania's cliililroii, yet they lack 
 Not virtues, were those virtues more mature. 
 Where is the foe that ever saw their back ? 
 Who can so well the toil of war endure ? 
 Their native fastnesses not more secure 
 Than they in doubtful time of troublous need : 
 Their wrath how deadly ! but their friendship sure. 
 When gratitude or valor bids them bleed, 
 Unshaken rushing on where'er their chief may lead. 
 
 The little shepherd-boy, pensively watch- 
 ing liis flock, forms a pleasing picture of 
 childish innocence ; and it would appear 
 strange that when matured, he would coit- 
 stitute the fierce and daring warrior, as de- 
 scribed in the above stanza. 
 
 peering down each precipice, tlio goat 
 
 Browseth ; and, pensive o'er his scattor'd flock. 
 The little shepherd in his white capote 
 Doth lean his boyish form along the rock. 
 Or in his cave awaits the tempest's short-lived sliock. 
 
 But it is stranger still to think, that Ali, 
 tlie cruel Pacha of Yanina, and chief of Al- 
 bania, sliouUl be a venerable man, with a 
 mild and gentle aspect, showing at times 
 great tenderness of heart, and often engaging 
 in acts of courteous kindness. 
 SiG. 5* 
 
 In marble-paved pavilion, where a spring 
 Of living water from the centre rose, 
 Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling, 
 And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose 
 Ali reclined, a man of war and woes : 
 Yet in his lineaments ye cannot trace, 
 While Gentleness her milder radiance throws 
 Along that aged venerable face. 
 The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him with 
 disgrace. 
 
 It is not that yon hoary, lengthening beard 
 111 suits the passions which belong to youth : 
 Love conquers age — so Hafiz hath averr'd, 
 So sings the Teian, and he sings in sooth — 
 But crimes that scorn the tender voice of ruth. 
 Beseeming all men ill, but most the man 
 In years, have mark'd him with a tiger's tooth : 
 Blood follows blood, and, through their mortal span, 
 In bloodier acts conclude those who witli blood began. 
 
 In a letter to his inother, the poet de- 
 scribes Ali thus : — 
 
 " His highness is si.Kty years old, very fat, 
 and not tall, but with a fine face, light blue 
 eyes, and a white beard ; his manner is very 
 kind, and at the same time he possesses 
 that dignity which I find universal among 
 the Turks. He has the appearance of any 
 . 45 
 
46 
 
 CIIILDE HAROLD. 
 
 thing but Jiis real character : for lie is a re- 
 morseless tyrant, guilty of the most hon-ible 
 cruelties, very brave, and so good a general 
 that they call him the Blahometan Buona- 
 parte. 
 
 He has been a mighty warrior ; but is as 
 barbarous as he is successful, roasting reb- 
 els," &c. &c. 
 
 Very little of Albania had been traversed 
 by Europeans, and still less known of its 
 interior, before Lord Byron and Mr. Ilob- 
 house visited it. 
 
 On the poet's mind, his travels there had 
 a lasting eflect through life, and formed an 
 important epoch of his literary and private 
 career, which wrought their due effects at 
 a future period. The kind and fatherly 
 treatment he received from Ali, and the 
 I'ugged courtesy and hospitality he expe- 
 rienced from the Albanians, as well as the 
 devoted faithfulness of his servants, attached 
 him more strongly than ever to this inter- 
 esting country that he had already loved 
 with wai-m and passionate feelings. To- 
 gether with his love of liberty, his reception 
 here was the main instigation that prompted 
 him to lend his aid, and sacrifice his life, in 
 the hope of freeing unhappy Greece ! The 
 dress of the Arnaouts, or Albanese, with 
 their while kilts, their hardy habits, dialect, 
 figure, and manner of living, according to his 
 own account, carried him back to the days of 
 
 his childhood, when he wandered over Mor- 
 ven, in the Highlands of Scotland, wliicli 
 could not but have made upon him a strong 
 and indelible impression. Their undaunted 
 spirits excited his ardent admiration, and 
 hoping, too fondly, that men so resolute 
 could not but restore Greece to her ancient 
 freedom and happiness, he embarked in his 
 arduous undertaking, which might have suc- 
 ceeded then had it not been for his prema- 
 ture and melancholy death ! The following 
 stanzas ai'e a specimen of his deep feeling in 
 her cause : — 
 
 Hereditary bondsmen ! know ye not 
 
 Who would be free themselves must strike the 
 
 blow ? 
 By their right arm the conquost must be wrought ? 
 Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye ? No ! 
 True, they may lay your proud despoilors low. 
 But not for you will Freedom's altars flame. 
 Shades of the Helots ! triumph o'er your foe ! 
 Greece ! change tliy lords, tliy state is still the 
 same ; 
 Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thy years of shame. 
 
 This must he feel, the true-born son of Greece, 
 If Greece one true-born patriot still can boast : 
 Not such as prate of war, but skulk in peace, 
 The bondsman's peace, who sighs for all he lost, 
 Yet with smooth smile his tyrant can accost, 
 And wield the slavish sickle, not the sword : 
 Ah ! Greece, they love thee least who owe tlioo 
 
 most ; 
 Their birth, their blood, and that sublime record 
 Of hero sires, who shame thv now degenerate horde I 
 
JEPHTHAII'S DAUGHTEli. 
 
 And Jephlhali vowed a vow unto the LorJ, and 
 Baid, " If thou shalt without fail dchver the children 
 of Ammon into mine hands, 
 
 " Tlien it sliall be, that whatsoever comoth forth of 
 the doors of my house to meet me, when I return in 
 peace from the children of Ammon, shall surely be 
 the Lord's, and I will offer it up for a burnt-offering." 
 
 So Jcplithah passed over unto the children of Am- 
 mon to fight against them; and the Lord delivered 
 them into his hands. ***** 
 
 And Jcplithah came to Mizpeli unto his house, and, 
 behold, his daughter came out to meet him with tim- 
 brels and with dances : and she was his only child ; 
 beside her he had neither son nor daughter. * * 
 
 And it came to pass at the end of two months, that 
 she returned unto lier father, who did with lier ac- 
 cording to his vow which he had vowed. 
 
 Judges, cli. xi. 
 
 Fiom this afTcctiiig passage of Sacred 
 History, tlie noble poet composed a few of 
 the sweetest and most pathetic lines that 
 could ever depicture the depths of female 
 resignation and devotion. The pure pa- 
 triotism, tender affection, and heavenly sub- 
 mission that he ascribes to this holy maid 
 of Israel, are invested in the simplest, yet 
 most powerful appeals that could be made 
 to awaken the sympathies of our better 
 nature. 
 
 1. 
 
 Since our country, our God — Oh, my sire ! 
 Demand that thy daughter expire ; 
 Since tliy triumph was bought by thy vow — 
 Strike the bosom that's bared for thee now I 
 
 2. 
 
 And the voice of my mourning is o'er, 
 And the mountains beliold me no more : 
 If the hand that I love lay mo low. 
 There cannot bo pain in the blow ! 
 
 And of this, O my father ! bo 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 groat battle for thee, 
 And my father and country are free 
 
 5. 
 When this blood of thy giving liath gusli'd, 
 When the voice that thou lovost is hush'd. 
 Let my memory still be thy pride. 
 And forget not I smiled as I died ! 
 
 Who can read these mournful verses 
 without being convinced of the awful re- 
 47 
 
48 
 
 HEBREW MELODIES. 
 
 sponsibility of vowing rash vows unto the 
 Lord ! the fulfilment of which too often 
 bring deserved ruin and desolation, for such 
 olTerings are unholy. We shrink from en- 
 tering into the bitter feelings of a fond 
 father's heart, who thus bound his soul to 
 slay the only object of Iiis love. JMany 
 commentators have supposed that Jephthah 
 did not really offer up his daughter as a 
 burnt-offering, but redeemed her with mon- 
 ey, and offered up the usual burnt-sacrifice 
 instead. However jjily ma}' have prompted 
 
 the humane suggestion, the stern meaning 
 conveyed in the unalterable words of Holy- 
 Writ proves this view of the subject to be 
 incorrect, and the unwilling mind is forced 
 to admit the sickening reality of this fatal 
 catastrophe. Notwithstanding the disgust 
 that the mention of human sacrifices in- 
 variably creates, the sincere affection, and 
 willingness of the unfortunate victim, endue 
 this awful subject with beauties that will 
 always elicit the warmest admiration. 
 
OH THAT THE DESERT WERE MY 
 DWELLING-PLACE ! 
 
 Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place 
 With one fair spirit for my minister, 
 That I might all forget the human race. 
 And, hating no one, love but only her ! 
 Ye Elements ! in whose ennobling stir 
 I feel myself exalted — can ye not 
 Accord me such a being ? Do I err 
 In deeming such inhabit many a spot? 
 Though with them to converse can rarely bo our lot. 
 
 The pilgrim's shrine is won — he has trod 
 upon the dust of empires, visited mighty 
 ruins of ancient cities, wandered over bat- 
 tle-plains where the fate of nations has been 
 doomed, and viewed every spot he listed 
 that would prove interesting to a mind stored 
 with classic lore ; but his heart is broken — 
 the tender chords of its affection snapped 
 asunder with ruthless violence, his hopes 
 blighted and decayed, and the loved beings 
 of his soul, that made life dear to him, have 
 forsaken him forever ! 
 
 His desolation and loneliness distract him 
 with anguish, and he yearns for one true 
 ministering spirit to cling to for protection 
 and support, for he is sick and weary of the 
 cold selfishness of his fellow-men. He turns 
 to nature with his plaintive quest : 
 
 " 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 '" 
 
 The magnificent scenes of nature, her 
 elements and wonders, are now his only 
 source of enjoyment, and her solitude his 
 only comfort. 
 
 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 
 AVhat I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. 
 
 He had already shown in his lay the folly 
 and vanity of the human heart, which clogs 
 itself with worldly pleasures until it pro- 
 duces that dull satiety which is the only 
 barrier that conceals Contentment, (the cas- 
 ket which holds the jewel Happiness, but 
 yielding it only when unlocked by the key 
 of Religion!) and it only remained for him 
 to compare the utter insignificance of man, 
 
50 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 with the works of creation, over whom he 
 should have had a boundless and absolute 
 control. To the Ocean he is but as a drop 
 of rain. 
 
 Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll ! 
 Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
 Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 
 Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain 
 The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
 A shadow of man's ravage, save his own. 
 When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, 
 He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan. 
 Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown. 
 
 His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy fields 
 
 Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise 
 
 And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he 
 
 wields 
 For earth's destruction thou dost all despise. 
 Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, 
 And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray 
 And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies 
 His petty hope in some near port or bay. 
 And dashest him again to earth : — there let him lay. 
 
 As is his wont, when communing with 
 Nature, he pours forth his song with un- 
 
 surpassable sublimity, and he clothes the 
 mighty ocean with some of the attributes 
 of the Omnipotent God. The indescribable 
 grandeur of these last concluding notes, as 
 pealing forth from his wild and enchanting 
 harp, exists as an imperishable monument to 
 show posterity the power of his genius. 
 
 Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
 Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time. 
 Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm, 
 Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
 Dark-heaving ; — boundless, endless, and sublime-— 
 The image of Eternity — the throne 
 Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 
 The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone 
 Obeys thee; thou goost forth, dread, fathomless, 
 alone. 
 
 And I have loved thee. Ocean ! and my joy 
 Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
 Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy 
 I wanton'd with thy breakers — they to me 
 Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
 Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear. 
 For I was as it were a child of thee, 
 And trusted to thy billows far and near, 
 And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. 
 

LOVE'S LAST ADIEU. 
 
 LOVE'S LAST ADIEU! 
 
 " A«l S\ a. I ft£ ^cuyst/'—A 
 
 The roses of love g-lad tlio garden of life, 
 
 Though nurtured 'mid weeds dropping pestilent dew, 
 
 Till Time crops tlio leaves with unmerciful knife, 
 Or prunes them for ever in love's last adieu ! 
 
 'n vain with endearments we soothe the sad heart, 
 In vain do wo vow for an ago to bo true ; 
 
 The chance of an hour may command us to part, 
 Or death disunite us in love's last adieu ! 
 
 SliU Hope, breathing peace through the griof-swollen 
 breast. 
 
 Will whimper, " Our meeting we yet may renew :" 
 With this dream of deceit lialf our sorrow's represt. 
 
 Nor taste we the poison of love's last adieu ! 
 
 Oh ! mark you yon pair: in the sunshine of youth 
 ]<ove twined round their childhood his flowers as 
 they grew ; 
 
 I'hey flourish awhile in the season of truth. 
 Till chill'd by the winter of love's last ndieu ! 
 
 6. 
 
 Sweet lady ! why thus doth a tear steal its way 
 Down a check which outrivals thy bosom in hue ? 
 
 Yet w by do I ask ? — to distraction a prey. 
 Thy reason has perish'd with love's last adieu ! 
 
 Oh ! who is yon misanthrope, shunning mankind ? 
 
 From cities to caves of the forest he flew : 
 There, raving, ho howls his complaint 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; 
 lie ponders in frenzy on love's last adieu ! 
 
 IIow he envies the wretch with a soul wrapt in steel ! 
 
 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'ercast ; 
 
 No more witli love's fonner devotion we sue : 
 He spreads his young wing, he retires with the blast ; 
 
 The shroud of aflfcction is love's last adieu ! 
 
52 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 In tliis life of probation for rapture divine, 
 Astrca deeliu-cs 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 ! 
 
 U. 
 Wlio kneels to the god en his altar of light 
 
 Jlust myrtle and cypress alternately strew : 
 His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight ; 
 
 His cypress, the garland of love's last adieu ! 
 
 The Hours of Idleness, wlien considered 
 as tlie production of a tyro in poetry, and a 
 mere youtii, are certainly entitled to a great 
 deal of praise. Tlie lofty tiiougiits that are 
 loosely scattered througii them, show the 
 eager graspings of a soaring and ambitious 
 mind striving to pierce into mighty things 
 which it cannot clearly comprehend ; or the 
 young, aspiring student thirsting to obtain 
 th:it knowledge at once, which the hoary- 
 hoadod master has attained solely bv time, 
 attended with painful experience. They 
 invariably appear to liave been written by 
 one far older in thought, than a youth whose 
 aim is usuallj' fdly and pleasure. " Love's 
 Last Adieu" would seem to have been writ- 
 ten by an old man, unskilled in poetry, but 
 whose heart had been bereft of every object 
 of its love ; and whose aflections and feelings 
 
 had withered and become bluntcil, and had 
 thus tamed down, as it were, the pathos with 
 which the versification is invested. 
 
 As a germ of poetical tenderness and 
 mournful melody, it is insignificant when 
 compared with the subsequent fruits of his 
 mind, when wo and grief had taught his 
 harp to give responsive strains. The bitter 
 morality which it teaches, and the absence 
 of all repulsive, love-sick ravings, enrich it 
 with that good sound sense; that approxi- 
 mates very nearly to grandeur and sublim- 
 it}-. The exquisite thought, however, of 
 " Love's Last Adieu," so unskilfully handled, 
 has been far from exhausted. The word 
 " Farewell !' contains a mine of sorrow, but 
 it only denotes Love's temporal parting, 
 which often creates pleasure through the 
 bright anticipations of Hope ! But " Love's 
 Last Adieu" is the eternal parting of life 
 and love forever! It is the death-blow of 
 hope, and the destroyer of everj' joy, the 
 blighting desolation that makes solitude 
 agony, and society a curse, — the gnawing 
 canker of grief, and the burning torch of 
 immedicable wo, for which there is no balm 
 but that of religion, no end but the grave, 
 and no rest but the sweet and cver-blcssed 
 rest of Heaven ! 
 
M A Z E P P A . 
 
 The harmonious language describing the 
 impetuous speed of the horse, and his faint 
 and feeble reeling wiien lie attains his native 
 plains, may be likened to a magnificent burst 
 of solemn and majestic music, succeeded by 
 a, soft and plaintive melody. 
 
 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 hirti forward in that hour ; 
 
 But useless all to me. 
 His new-born tameness naught avail'd — 
 BIy limbs were bound ; my force had fail'd. 
 
 Perchance, had they been free. 
 With feeble effort still I tried 
 To rend the bonds so starkly tied — 
 
 But still it was in vain ; 
 My limbs were 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 ! he came ! 
 
 Byron not only excites our pity for 
 Mazeppa's sufferings, but bespeaks it for 
 Sio. 6* 
 
 the drooping and dying animal ; there is 
 even pathos of the highest order in his 
 limning of the noble courser's arrival, stag- 
 gering and exhausted, among his terrible, 
 untamed companions, who come thundering 
 on in their plunging pride to meet him, only 
 to see him fall, gasp, and die at their feet : 
 they stop — start — and check their wild ca- 
 reer at so strange and bloody a sight ; 
 approach — retire — 
 
 " And backward to the forest fly. 
 By instinct, from a human eye." 
 
 The accompanying engraving represents 
 this beautiful and impressive passage. 
 
 At length, while reeling on our way, 
 Methought I heard a courser neigh. 
 From out yon tuft of blackening firs. 
 Is it tlie wind those branches stirs ? 
 No, no ! from out the forest prance 
 
 A trampling troop ; I see them come ! 
 In one vast squadron they advance ! 
 
 I strove to cry — my lips were dumb. 
 The steeds rush on in plunging pride ; 
 But where are they the reins to guide ? 
 A thousand horse — and none to ride ! 
 With flowing tail and flying mane. 
 Wide nostrils— never stjetch'd by pain, 
 Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein, 
 53 
 
54 
 
 MAZEPPA. 
 
 And feet that iron never shod, 
 And flanks unscarr'd by spur or rod, 
 A thousand horse, the wild, the free. 
 Like waves that follow o'er the sea. 
 
 Came thickly thundering on, 
 As if our faint approach to meet ; 
 The sight renerved my courser's feet, 
 A moment staggering, feebly fleet, 
 A moment, with a faint low neigh. 
 
 He answered, qnd then fell ; 
 With gasps and glazing eyes he lay, 
 
 And reeking limbs immoveable. 
 His first and last career is done ! 
 On came the troop — they saw him stoop, 
 
 They saw me strangely bound along 
 
 His back with many a bloody thong : 
 They stop — they start — they snuff tlie air. 
 Gallop a moment here and there, 
 Approacn, retire, wheel round and round. 
 Then plunging back with sudden bound, 
 Headed by one black mighty steed, 
 Who seqm'd the patriarch of his breed, 
 
 Without a single speck or hair 
 Of white upon his shaggy hide ; 
 They snort — they foam — neigh — swerve aside, 
 And backward to the forest fly, 
 By instinct, from a human eye. 
 
 The following lines are the best in the 
 poem ; we might almost name them the 
 Death of Mazeppa. for death is there por- 
 trayed, palpable ana real as tlie very feeling 
 of its pangs. The quivering, departing 
 breath — gradual sinking — and thrilling ag- 
 ony of his last moments of consciousness, 
 could not have been more truly delineated, 
 even if dissolution had taken place. 
 
 The sun was sinking — still I lay 
 
 Chain'd to the chill and stifiening steed 
 I thought to mingle there our clay ; 
 
 And my dim eyes of death had 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 fly, 
 Who scarce would wait till 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 flit, 
 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 
 
 Which fix'd my dull eyes from afar. 
 And went and came with wandering beam, 
 And of the cold, dull, swimming, dense 
 Sensation of recurring sense, 
 
 And then subsiding back to death. 
 
 And then again a little breath, 
 A little thrill, a short suspense, 
 
 An icy sickness curdling o'er 
 BIy heart, and sparks that cross'd my brain- - 
 A gasp, a throb, a start of pain, 
 
 A sigh, and nothing more. — 
 What need of more ? — I will not tire 
 With long recital of the rest, 
 Since I became the Cossack's guest : 
 They found me senseless on the plain — 
 
 They bore me to the nearest hut — 
 They brought me into life again — 
 Me — one day o'er their realm to reign ! 
 
 Thus the vain fool who strove tc 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. 
 
<:^zaa^ £'7t^m^/ mt^^Va^i^c-- 
 
HAIDEE, ENTERING THE CAVE. 
 
 After a troubled night, the beautiful and 
 inrrocent Haidee, with her attendant, visit 
 Juan: 
 
 And down the cliff the Island Virgin came, 
 
 And near the cave her quick light footsteps drew, 
 
 While the sun smiled on her with his first flame. 
 And young Aurora kissed 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. 
 
 And when into the cavern Ilaidee stopp'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 
 
 And wrapped him closer, lest the air, too raw, 
 Should roach his blood ; then o'er him, still as death. 
 Bent, with hushed lips, that drank his scarce-drawn 
 breath. 
 
 While Zoe, the servant, is engaged in 
 preparing the breakfast, the sensitive Ilaidee 
 is hanging over her siiipwrecked^ro/«n'c; 
 
 And she bent o'er him, and he lay beneath. 
 Hushed as the babe upon its mother's breast, 
 
 Drooped as the willow when no wind can breathe. 
 Lulled like the depth of ocean when at rest ; 
 
 Fair as the crowning rose of the whole wreath. 
 Soft as tlir callow cygnet in its nest : 
 
 In short, he was a very pretty fellow, 
 
 Altliough his woe' had turned him rather yellow. 
 
 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 face was never formed in vain 
 For Juan, so that even when he prayed 
 
 He turned from grisly saints, and martyrs hairy. 
 
 To the sweet portals of the Virgin Mary. 
 
 She tells him. 
 
 With an Ionian accent low and sweet. 
 
 That he was faint, and must not talk, but eat. 
 
 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 finer, simpler music ne'er was heard ; 
 The sort of sound we echo with a tear, 
 
 Without knowing why — an overpowering tone, 
 
 Whence melody descends as from a throne. 
 
 We cannot avoid pointing out to our 
 readers the fatality which seems to attend 
 Byron when he uses the word "overpower- 
 ing:" these two lines are out of harmony 
 with the rest of the description of Haidee's 
 voice. — The tenderness with which she 
 nurses Juan, is described with the poet's 
 usual felicity. She attires him as a Greek, 
 and teaches him Romaic : 
 
 Thus Juan learned his alpha beta better 
 From Haidee's glance, than any graven letter. 
 55 
 
56 
 
 HAIDEE, ENTERING THE CAVE. 
 
 The absence of Lambvo, Haidee's father, 
 enabled tlie lovers to be constantly together : 
 
 And 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 bird reposing in his nest ; 
 
 And she would softly stir his locks so curly. 
 Without disturbing her yet slumbering guest ; 
 
 Breathing all gently o'er his cheek and mouth, 
 
 As o'er a bed of roses the sweet South. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Thus she came often, not a moment losing, 
 
 Whilst her piratical papa was cruising. 
 
 The description of her dress is very fe- 
 licitous : 
 
 Of all the drosses I select Haidee's : 
 
 She wore two jelicks — one was of pale yellow ; 
 Of azure, pink, and white, was her chemise — 
 
 'Neath which her breast heaved like a little billow ; 
 With buttons formed of pearls, as large as peas. 
 
 All gold and crimson shone her jelick's fellow ; 
 And the striped white gauze baracan that bound her. 
 Like fleecy clouds about the moon, flowed round her. 
 
 One large gold bracelet clasped each lovely arm, 
 Lockless — so pliable from the pure gold. 
 
 That the hand stretched and shut it without harm ; 
 The limb which it adorned its only mould. 
 
 So beautiful, its very shape would charm. 
 And clinging as though loath to lose its hold. 
 
 The purest ore enclosed the whitest skin 
 
 That e'er by precious metal was held in. 
 
 Around, as princess of her father's land, 
 A like gold bar above her instep rolled. 
 
 Announced her rank : twelve rings were on her liand. 
 Her hair was starred with gems ; her veil's fine fold 
 
 Below her breast, was fastened with a band 
 
 Of lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce be told ; 
 Her orange silk full Turkish trowsers furled 
 Above the prettiest ankle in the world. 
 
 Her hair's long auburn waves down to her heel 
 Flowed like an Alpine torrent, when the sun 
 
 Dyes with his morning light, and would conceal 
 Her person, if allowed at large to run ; " 
 
 And still they seem resentfully to feel 
 
 The silken fillet's curb, and sought to shun 
 
 Their bonds whene'er some zephyr caught began 
 
 To offer his young pinion as her fan. 
 
 Round her she made an atmosphere of life. 
 The very air seemed lighter Irom her eyes. 
 
 They were so soft and beautiful, and rife 
 With all we can imagine of the skies. 
 
 And pure as Psyche ere she grew a wife — 
 Too pure even for the purest human ties ; 
 
 Her overpowering presence made you feel 
 
 It would not be idolatry to kneel. 
 
 Leigh Hunt remarked one day to the 
 writer, that, however beautiful these two 
 last lines are in themselves, they do not co- 
 incide with the rest of the description ol 
 Haidee ; the compound epithet of "over- 
 powering presence" belongs rather to Lady 
 Macbeth, than the guileless, lovely Greek 
 girl. 
 
 Her eyelashes, though dark as night, were tinged, 
 (It is the country's custom,) but in vain ; 
 
 For those large black eyes were so blackly fringed, 
 The glossy rebels mocked the jetty stain, 
 
 And in their native beauty stood avenged ; 
 Her nails were touched with henna ; but again 
 
 The power of art was turned to nothing, for 
 
 They could not look more rosy than before. 
 
l::/my Qy^ion' a^/M ':^/(iua<!!-i^ 
 
DON JUAN AND HAIDEE 
 
 IN LOVE, 
 
 The absence of Haidee's father Lambro, 
 on his piratical cruise, enables the lovers to 
 enjoy each other's society without restraint. 
 The poet has beautifully described their en- 
 dearments. 
 
 T' our tale— The feast was over, the slaves gone, 
 The dwarfs and dancing girls had all retired ; 
 
 Tlie 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 sky admired ; — 
 
 Ave JIaria ! o'er the earth and sea. 
 
 That heavenliest hour of heaven is worthiest thee ! 
 
 Ave JIaria I blessed bo the hour. 
 
 The time, the clime, the spot, whore I so oft 
 Have felt that moment in its fullest power 
 
 Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft 
 While sung the deep bell in the distant tower. 
 
 Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, 
 And not a breath crept through the rosy air. 
 And yet the forest-leaves seem'd stirr'd with prayer. 
 
 Ave Maria ! 'tis the hour of prayer ! 
 
 Ave Maria ! 'lis the hour of love ! 
 Ave Maria ! may our spirits dare 
 
 Look up to thine and to thy Son's above ! 
 \ve 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 ! 
 
 Haidee and Juan thought not of the dead ; 
 
 The heavens, and earth, and air seem'd made for 
 them ; 
 They found no fault with time — save tliat 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 e-xchanging glances of affection. 
 
 In this glorious gem of a Grecian isle, the 
 lovers live a waking dream, more resem- 
 bling that of our first parents in paradise, 
 than a reality in this cold world. There is 
 an Eastern coloring in this romantic pic- 
 ture, which no other poet, except Moore, 
 has ever approached : the whole scene is 
 redolent of perfume, love, and sunny enjoy- 
 ment. The absence of Lambro still con- 
 tinuing, months flew over their heads in 
 this blissful manner: their existence was 
 the intoxication of happiness, to be sobered 
 by a terrible reality. 
 
 They gazed upon the sunset ; 'tis an hour 
 Dear unto all, but dearest to their eyes. 
 
 For it had made them what they were : the power 
 Of love had first o'erwhelmed them from such skies, 
 
 W^hen happiness had been their only dower ; 
 51 
 
58 
 
 DON JUAN AND HAIDEE. 
 
 And twilight saw them linked in passion's ties ; 
 Charmed with each other, all things charmed that 
 
 brought 
 The past still welcome as the present thought. 
 
 But even amid this glow of deliglit, a pre- 
 sentiment stole over them ever and anon 
 prophetic of evil. 
 
 I know not why, but in that hour to-night, 
 E'en as they gazed, a sudden tremor came. 
 
 And swept, as 'twere, across their hearts' delight, 
 Like the wind o'er a harp-string ! 
 
 This foreboding of evil 
 
 Called from Juan's breast a faint low sigh. 
 While one new tear arose in Haidee's eye ! 
 
 Unable to shake off the sense of impending 
 sorrow, 
 
 Juan and Haidee gazed upon each other 
 
 With swimming looks of speechless tenderness. 
 
 Which mixed all feeUngs, friend, child, lover, brother, 
 All that the best can mingle and express 
 
 When two pure hearts are poured in one aiiotlier. 
 And love too much, and yet cannot love less. 
 
 But almost sanctify the sweet excess 
 
 By the immortal wish and power to bless. 
 
 How magnificently Byron's misanthropy 
 breaks out in the following stanza describing 
 Juan and Haidee's love ! 
 
 They should have lived together in deep woods. 
 Unseen as sings the nightingale ; they were 
 
 Unfit to mix in these thick solitudes, 
 
 Called social haunts of vice and hate and care ; 
 
 How lonely every free-born creature broods ! 
 The sweetest song-birds nestle in a pair ; 
 
 Tlie eagle soars alone ; the gull and crow 
 
 Flock o'er their carrion, just hke men below 
 
 In this state of apprehension the lovers are 
 
 Pillowed cheek to cheek, in loving sleep ; 
 
 ****** 
 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 murmured like a brook 
 A wordless music ; and her face so fair 
 Stirred with her dream, as rose-leaves with the air. 
 
 In this sleep she has a dream of horror and 
 dismay ; she wakes to a deeper dismay. 
 Her waking is thus described : 
 
 And gazing on the dead, she thought his face 
 Faded, or altered 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 view ? 
 
 Oh ! powers of Heaven ! what dark eye meets she 
 
 'Tis — 'tis her father's — fixed upon the pair ! [there ? 
 
 Then shrieking she arose, and shrieking fell ! 
 
 This woke Juan, who, springing up, caught 
 the fainting and affrighted girl in his 
 arms. Snatching his sabre, he is told by 
 Lambro scornfully that he has a thousand 
 at his call. Haidee, reviving, tells Juan 
 it is her father, and implores him to kneel 
 and crave his pardon. Juan refuses to 
 deliver up his sword, whereupon Lambro 
 is about to shoot him, when Haidee throws 
 herself before the pistol. The old pirate 
 calls in some of his band, who wound and 
 disarm Juan: he is dragged away, and sent 
 to a galliot at sea, while Haidee is carried 
 by her infuriate father to his own house. 
 
THE DEATH OF HAIDEE. 
 
 Byron is not alone the poet of power ; he 
 is also the poet of pathos. There are few 
 things in his writings equal to the death of 
 Haidee : a golden glow of divine melancholy 
 rests upon it, just as the sunlight falls on the 
 day-descending earth. Imagination natu- 
 rally belongs to life in every aspect ; but to 
 death it clings with a tenacity which defies 
 destruction. In that of Haidee, there is a 
 sweet yet brilliant sentiment which smiles 
 like an atmosphere over the whole. Singu- 
 lar enough, it is one of the few sustained 
 serious passages, undisfigured with those 
 rapid transitions to the burlesque which so 
 frequently jar on the solemnity of the scene. 
 It seems as though the poet felt, for once, 
 the influence of his own pathos, and was 
 awed by the presence of the angel of Death, 
 as it released the gentle spirit of Haidee 
 from the chains of earth. 
 
 I leave Don Juan for the present, safe — 
 
 Not sound, poor fellow, but severely wounded ; 
 Yet could his corporal pangs amount to half 
 
 Of those with which his Haidee's bosom bounded ? 
 She was not one to weep — to rave — and chafe. 
 
 And then give way, subdued because surrounded ; 
 Her mother was a Moorish maid, from Fez, 
 Whore all is Eden, or a wilderness ! 
 
 ***** 
 The last sight which she saw was Juan's gore, 
 
 And he himself o'ermastered and cut down ; 
 
 His blood was running on the very floor 
 Where late he trod, her beautiful, her own ; 
 
 Thus much she viewed 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 felled ! 
 
 A vein had burst, and her sweet lips' pure dyes 
 Were dabbled with the deep blood which ran o'er ; 
 
 And her head drooped, as when the lily lies 
 
 O'ercharged with rain : — her summoned hand- 
 maids bore 
 
 Their lady to her couch with 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. 
 
 Days lay she in that state unchanged, though chill, 
 
 With nothing livid, still her lips were red ; 
 She had no pulse, but death seemed absent still ; 
 No hideous sign proclaimed her surely dead ; 
 Corruption came not, in each mind to kill 
 
 All hope : to look upon her sweet face bred 
 New thoughts of life, for it seemed full of soul — 
 She had so much, earth could not claim the whole. 
 
 ***** 
 She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake, 
 
 Rather the dead, for life seemed something new ; 
 A strange sensation, vi-hich 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 without the cause— 
 For, for a wliile, tlie furies made a pause. 
 59 
 
60 
 
 THE DEATH OF HAIDEE. 
 
 She looked on many a face with vacant eye, 
 On many a token, without knowing what ; 
 
 She saw them watch her, without asking why. 
 And recked not who around her pillow sat ; 
 
 Not speechless, though she spoke not ; not a sigh 
 Relieved her thoughts ; dull silence and quick chat 
 
 Were tried in vain by those who served ; she gave 
 
 No sign, save breath, of having left the grave. 
 
 Her handmaids tended, but she heeded not ; 
 
 Her father watched ; she turned her eyes away ; 
 She recognized no being, and no spot. 
 
 However dear and cherished in their day ; 
 They changed from room to room, bat all forgot. 
 
 Gentle, but without memory she lay ; 
 At length those eyes, which they would fain be 
 
 weaning 
 Back to old thoughts, waxed full of fearful moaning. 
 
 How deeply to be regretted, that a poet 
 who could faithfully and tenderly paint the 
 changes of the female mind in its approach 
 to insanity through wounded love, should 
 not have more frequently drawn upon the 
 finer part of his imagination, and given us a 
 gallery of portraits commensurate with his 
 genius, and the purity of womankind ! How 
 exquisitely the apathy to life is portrayed 
 in this sketch of Haidee ! a slave brings a 
 harper, who played 
 
 A long low Island song 
 Of ancient days, ere tyranny grew strong. 
 
 On the first prelude she gazed on the 
 harper, 
 
 Then to the wall she turned, as if to warp 
 
 Her thoughts from sorrow, through her heart resent. 
 
 Anon her tliin white fingers beat the wall 
 In time to his old tune : he changed the theme, 
 
 And sung of love; the fierce name struck ihrough all 
 Her recollection ; on her flashed the dream 
 
 Of what she was, and is ; if ye could call 
 To be so. Being: in a gushing stream 
 
 The tears rushed forth from her unclouded brain, 
 
 Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain. 
 
 Short solace, vain relief I tliought came too quick, 
 And whirled her brain to madness; she arose, 
 
 As one who ne'er had dwelt among the sick. 
 And flew on 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 disdained to rave. 
 
 Even when they smote her, in the hope to save. 
 
 Yet she betrayed at times a gleam of sense : 
 Nothing could make her meet her father's face, 
 
 Though on all other things with looks intense 
 She gazed, but none she ever could retrace ; 
 
 Food blie refused, and raiment — no pretence 
 Availed for either ; neither change of place. 
 
 Nor time, nor skill, nor remedy, could give her 
 
 Senses to sleep — the power seemed gone forever ! 
 
 Twelve days and nights she withered thus ; at last. 
 Without a groan, or sigh, or glance, to show 
 
 A parting pang, the spirit from her passed ; 
 
 And they who watched her nearest could not know 
 
 The very instant, till the change that cast 
 Her sweet face into shadow, dull and slow, 
 
 Glazed o'er her eyes — the beautiful, the black — 
 
 Oh ! to possess such lustre — and then lack ! 
 
 Thus closes one of the sweetest pictures 
 in the range of Byron's poetry ; it sounds 
 like the very dirge of love and beauty. 
 Campbell well says — "over this charming 
 creature the poet has thrown a beauty and 
 a fascination which were never, we think, 
 surpassed." 
 
Ma.. ./:9^.J, 
 
BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 
 
 The following quotations, alluding to this 
 sombre passage of Death, will give the 
 reader a minute and thrilling description : — 
 
 I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs ; 
 A palace and a prison on each liand : 
 I saw from out tlie wave her structures rise 
 As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand : 
 A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 
 Around me, and a dying glory smiles 
 O'er the far times, when many a subject land 
 Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles. 
 Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred 
 isles ! 
 ****** 
 In Venice " but" 's a traitor. 
 
 But me no " buts," unless you would pass o'er 
 The bridge which few repass. 
 
 ****** 
 
 - Your midnight carryings off and drownings. 
 
 A cell so far below the water's level. 
 Sending its pestilence through every crevice, 
 Might strike them. 
 
 ***** 
 What leUers are these which 
 
 Your dungeons next the palace roofs, or under 
 The water's level ; your mysterious meetings, 
 And unknown dooms, and sudden executions. 
 Your " Bridge of Sighs," your strangling chamber, and 
 Your torturing instruments, have made ye seem 
 The beings of another and worse world ! 
 ***** 
 
 Their senses, though 
 
 Alike to love, are yet awake to terror ; 
 And these vile damps, too, and yon thick green wave 
 Which floats above tlie place where we now stand— 
 Sio. 7. 
 
 Are scrawl'd along the inexorable wall ? 
 
 Will the gleam let me trace them ? Ah '. tlie names 
 
 Of my sad predecessors in this place. 
 
 The dates of their despair, the brief words of 
 
 A grief too great for many. This stone page 
 
 Holds like an epitaph their history ; 
 
 And the poor captive's tale is graven on 
 
 Ilis dungeon barrier, like the lover's record 
 
 Upon the bark of some tall tree, which bears 
 
 Ilis own and his beloved's name. 
 
 The communication between the ducal 
 palace and the prisons of Venice is by a 
 gloomy bridge, or covered gallery, high 
 above the water, and divided by a stone 
 wall into a passage and a cell. The state 
 dungeons, called " pozzi," or wells, were sunk 
 in the thick walls of the palace; and the 
 prisoner, when taken out to die, was con- 
 ducted across the gallery to the other side, 
 and being then led back into the other com- 
 partment, or cell, upon the bridge, was 
 there strangled. The low portal through 
 which the criminal was taken into this cell 
 is now walled up; but the passage is stiU 
 61 
 
62 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 open, and is still known by the name of the 
 Bridge of Sighs. The pozzi are under the 
 flooring of the chamber at the foot of the 
 bridge. They were formerly twelve, but on 
 the first arrival of the French, the Venetians 
 hastily blocked or broke up the deeper of 
 these dungeons. You may still, however, 
 descend by a trap-door, and crawl down 
 through holes, half-choked by rubbish, to 
 the depth of two stories below the first 
 range. If 3'ou are in want of consolation 
 for the extinction of patrician power, per- 
 haps you may find it there ; scarcely a ray 
 of light glimmers into the narrow gallery 
 which leads to the cells, and the places of 
 confinement themselves are totally dark. 
 A small hole in the wall admitted the damp 
 air of the passages, and served for the intro- 
 duction of the prisoner's food. A wooden 
 pallet, raised a foot from the ground, was 
 the only furniture. The conductors tell you 
 that a light was not allowed. The cells 
 are about five paces in length, two and a 
 half in width, and seven feet in height. 
 They ai-e directly beneath one another, and 
 respiration is somewhat difficult in the lower 
 holes. Only one prisoner was found when 
 the republicans descended into these hideous 
 recesses, and he is said to have been con- 
 fined sixteen years. But the inmates of the 
 dungeons beneath had left traces of their 
 repentance, or of their despair, which are 
 still visible, and may perhaps owe something 
 to recent ingenuity. Some of the detained 
 appear to have defended against, and others 
 to have belonged to, the sacred body, not 
 
 only from their signatures, but from the 
 churches and belfries which they have 
 scratched upon the walls. The reader may 
 not object to see a specimen of the records 
 prompted by so terrific a solitude. As nearly 
 as they could be copied by more than one 
 pencil, three of them are as follows : — 
 1. 
 
 NON TI FIDAfi AD ALCtlNO PENSA e TACI 
 BE FUGIK VDOI DE SPIONI INSIDIE 6 LACCI 
 IL PENTIETI PEMTIETI NULLA GIOVA 
 MA BEN pi VALOa TUO LA VERA PROVA 
 
 1601. ADI 2. GENARO. FUI RR- 
 TENTO P' LA BESTIEMMA p' AVER DATO 
 DA MANZAR A UN MOBTO 
 
 lACOMO . GRITTI . SCRISSE. 
 
 2. 
 
 CN PAELAtt POCHO et 
 
 N EG ABE PRONTO et 
 
 UN PENSAR AL FINE PUG DARE LA VITA 
 
 A NOI ALTRI MESCHINI 
 
 1606. 
 
 EGO lOHN BAPHSTA AD 
 ECCLESIAJI CORTELLAKIUS. 
 
 DE CUI MI FIDO GUARDMI DIO 
 
 DE CHI NON MI FIDO MI GUAEDAEO 10 
 
 The copyist has followed, not corrected 
 the solecisms ; some of which are howevei 
 not quite so decided, since the letters were 
 evidently scratched in the dark. It only 
 need be observed, that bestemmia and man- 
 giar may be read in the first inscription, 
 which was pi-obably written by a prisone: 
 confined for some act of impiety committed 
 at a funeral ; that Cortcllarius is the name 
 of a parish on terra firma, near the sea ; and 
 that the last initials evidently are put for 
 Viva la santa Chiosa Kaitolica Romana. 
 
up 
 
 I 3 J g 
 == I S I 
 
 i^ no 
 
 * H S ^ 
 
 
VENICE. 
 
 Oh Venice ! Venice ! when thy marble walla 
 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 northern wanderer, weep for thee, 
 What should thy sons do ? 
 
 In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, 
 And silent rows the songless gondolier ; 
 Iler palaces are crumbling to the shore. 
 And music meets not always 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 revel of the earth, the masque of Italy ! 
 
 Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine. 
 Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot, 
 Thy choral memory of the Bard divine, 
 Tliy love of Tasso, should have cut the knot 
 Which ties thee to thy tyrants ; and thy lot 
 Is shameful t^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 wall. 
 
 This fine engraving gives a view of Ven- 
 ice as seen from the main quay and harbor. 
 The first nansion on the left is the Zecca, 
 
 or Mint, and the Library of St. Mark. Next 
 will be observed two lofty granite columns, 
 each consisting of a single block, standing 
 on either side of the Piazetta di S. Marco. 
 One is surmounted by a statue of St. Theo- 
 dore, the patron saint of the Republic. The 
 other, by the famous winged Lion of St. 
 Mark, in bronze. These trophies were 
 brought from Greece in the year 1174, and 
 the lion was venerated by the people as a 
 symbol of their widely-extended power. Ad- 
 joining this latter column is the magnificent 
 Ducal palace. The buildings opposite are 
 the prisons of Venice, and are separated 
 from the palace by a narrow canal, but con- 
 nected at a lofty height above by the fa- 
 mous Bridge of Sighs. This bridge, how- 
 ever, cannot be seen in the engraving. 
 
 The Ducal palace was first built in the 
 ninth century, and was rebuilt in the four- 
 teenth by Doge Marino Faliero, who was 
 beheaded for conspiracy. This grand struc- 
 ture consists of a mixture of Moslem and 
 Gothic architecture, and has a noble and 
 solemn appearance. It has eight gates ; 
 the principal one is at the corner of the Pi- 
 63 
 
64 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 azetta, and leads into a large court, from j 
 which ascends the Giant's Staircase, so 
 called from the colossal statues of Mars and 
 Neptune that adorn the summit. They 
 lead into an arcade, from which the Ducal 
 apartments and the State chambers are en- 
 tered. The hall of the Grand Council is 
 now a public library, and the halls of the 
 Council of Ten, and of the Tribunal of the 
 Inquisition, together with the Bridge of 
 Sighs, and its gloomy cells, are the chief 
 objects of painful interest. 
 
 Lord Byron, in mourning over the deso- 
 lation of Venice, pays a sincere and worthy 
 offering to the great genius and cruel 
 wrongs of Torquato Tasso, who was impris- 
 oned by Duke Alfonso in a madhouse in 
 Ferrara. The exile of Dante, and the im- 
 prisonment of Tasso, are everlasting and 
 fatal monuments of the shame and disgrace 
 of Italy. 
 
 And Tasso is their glory and their shame. 
 Hark to his strain ! And then survey his cell ! 
 And see how dearly earn'd Torquato's fame, 
 And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell : 
 
 The miserable despot could not quell \ 
 
 The insulted mind he sought to quench and blend 
 With the surrounding Maniacs, in the hell 
 Where he had plunged it. Glory without end 
 Scatter'd the clouds away — and on that name attend 
 The tears and praises of all time ; * * * 
 
 Peace to Torquato's injured shade ! 'twas his 
 In life and death to be the mark where Wrong 
 Aim'd with her poison'd arrows, but to miss. 
 Oh, victor tmsurpass'd in modern song ! 
 Each year brings forth its millions ; but how long 
 The tide of generations shall roll on. 
 And not the whole combined and countless throng 
 Compose a mind like thine ? though all in one 
 Condensed their scatter'd rays, they would not form 
 a sun. 
 
 Ungrateful Florence ! Dante sleeps afar, 
 Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore ; 
 Thy factions, in their worse than civil war, 
 Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore 
 Their children's children would in vain adore 
 With the remorse of ages ; and the crown 
 Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely wore, • 
 Upon a far and forei<rn soil had grown. 
 His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled — not thine 
 own. 
 
MOUNT OF OLIVES. 
 
 (FROM THE WALLS OF JLKUSALEM.) 
 
 The view from the walls of Jerusalem 
 not onlv shows the desecration of the most 
 holy hill of Sion, where 
 
 " Our temple hath not left a stone, 
 And Mockery sits on Salem's throne," 
 
 but presents other interesting scenes, the 
 time-hallowed mementoes of those solemn 
 events recorded in Sacred History. 
 
 On the right of the wall, in the fore- 
 ground, may be seen the deep excavation 
 known as the " Pool of Bethesda," and the 
 high northern boundary of the Haram's 
 enclosure, with a minaret above, connected 
 with the great Mosque of Omar. The 
 magnificent Mosque of Omar, (occupying 
 the site of the " Holy of Holies" of the tem- 
 ple of Solomon,) with the smaller Mosque 
 of El Aksa, seen in the distance, together 
 with the groves, fountains, and spacious 
 enclosure of the Haram, form of themselves 
 a distinct and beautiful picture. 
 
 Below the wall, on the left, is a narrow, 
 level ridge, used as a Turkish cemetery; 
 and beneath this is the " Valley of Jehosha- 
 phat," containing the "Garden of Geth- 
 semane," with its grotto, the tomb of the 
 Virgin Mary, and the " Brook of Kidron." 
 
 Above and beyond this valley, the " Mount 
 of Olives" arises ; and the pathway leading 
 to Bethany, over the centre of the Mount, 
 may be observed, as well as tne Church of 
 the Ascension which adorns the summit. 
 
 In the following selections from the He- 
 brew Melodies, the poet bewans the execra- 
 tion attending Judah's lalien race, and the 
 pollution of her desolate snrines, in the 
 purest and most pathetic poetry the English 
 language contains. 
 
 THE WILD GAZELLE. 
 
 The wild gazelle on Judah's hills 
 
 Exulting yet may bound. 
 And drink from all the living rills 
 
 That gush on holy ground ; 
 Its airy step and glorious eye 
 May glance in tameless transport by : — 
 
 A step as fleet, an eye more bright. 
 
 Hath Judah witness'd there ; 
 And o'er her scenes of lost delight 
 
 Inhabitants more fair. 
 The cedars wave on Lebanon, 
 But Judah's statelier maids are gone ! 
 
 More bless'd each palm that shades those pUint 
 Than Israel's scattered race ; 
 
66 
 
 HEBREW MELODIES. 
 
 For, taking root, it there remains 
 
 In solitary 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 own may never lie : 
 Our temple hath not left a stone, 
 And Mockery sits on Salem's throne. 
 
 Oil ! WEEP FOR THOSE. 
 
 Oh ! weep for those that wept by Babel's stream, 
 Whose shrines are desolate, whose land a dream ; 
 Weep for the harp of Judah's broken shell ; 
 Mourn — where their God hath dwelt the Godless 
 dwell ! 
 
 And where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet? 
 And when shall Sion's songs again seem sweet ; 
 And Judah's melody once more rejoice 
 The hearts that leap'd before its heavenly voice ? 
 
 Tribes 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 JOEDAX'S BANKS. 
 
 On 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 tliere — even there — oh God ! thy thunders sleep: 
 
 There — where thy finger scorch'd the tablet stone ! 
 Tliere — where thy shadow to thy people shone 
 Thy glory shrouded in its garb of fire : 
 Tliyself — none living see and not e.xpire ' 
 
 Oh ! in the lightning let thy glance appear ; 
 Sweep from his shiver'd hand the oppressor's spear . 
 How long by tyrants shall thy land be trod ! 
 How long thy temple worshipless, oh God ! 
 
 In the lament for the destruction of Jeru- 
 salem, Lord Byron achieves one of those 
 singular and successful efforts of his genius ; 
 he blends the strains, almost of triumph and 
 resignation, even amid the bitter anguish 
 and despair of the wretched captives. 
 
 ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM 
 BY TITUS. 
 
 From the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome 
 I beheld thee, oh Sion ! when render'd to Rome : 
 'Twas thy last sun went down, and the flames of 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 ; 
 While 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 mark'd not the twilight beam melting away ; 
 Oh ! would that the lightning had glared in its stead, 
 And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's head ! 
 
 But the gods of the Pagan shall never profane 
 The shrine where Jehovah disdain'd not to reign ; 
 And scatter'd and scorn'd as thy people may be. 
 Our worship, oh Fatlier, is only for thee. 
 
BRIDGE OF ST. ANGELO. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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 tliis eternal ark of worship undefiled. 
 
 This view from the left bank of the Tiber 
 discloses the Castle of St. Angelo on the 
 right, with its bridge in the centre. This 
 bridge, although seen here in front, is in 
 the rear of the mighty Cathedral of St. Pe- 
 ter, which, with its wondrous dome, is seen 
 towering aloft in stately majesty. 
 
 The Childe, after weeping over the many 
 woes of Italia, turns to his long-sought 
 shrine, beloved Rome ! the city of his soul ! 
 
 Italia ! oh Italia ! thou who hast 
 
 The fatal gift of Beauty, which became 
 
 A funeral dower of present woes and past. 
 
 On thy sweet brow is sorrow plough'd by shame, 
 
 And annals graved in characters of flame. 
 Oh God ! that thou wert in thy nakedness 
 Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim 
 Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who press 
 To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy distress. 
 
 Oh Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! 
 The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, 
 Lone mother of dead empires ! and control 
 In their shut breasts their petty misery. 
 What are our woes and sufferance ? Come and see 
 The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way 
 O'er steps of broken thrones and temples. Ye ! 
 Whose agonies are evils of a day — 
 A world is at our feet as fragile as our clav. 
 
 The Niobe of nations ! there she stands, 
 Childless and crovvnless, 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 tenantless 
 Of their heroic dwellers : dost thou flow, 
 ■ Old Tiber ! through a marble wilderness ? 
 Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress 
 
 In viewing the withering desolation sur- 
 rounding the seven-hilled city, he endeavors 
 to sink his own agonizing griefs, as being 
 insignificant when compared with such an 
 awful wreck. 
 
 61 
 
68 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 Then lot the winds howl on ! their harmony 
 Shall hevceforth be my music, and the night 
 The sound shall temper with the owlets' cry, 
 As I now hear them, in the fading light 
 Dim o'er tlie bird of darkness' native site, 
 Answering each other on the Palatine, 
 Witli their large eyes, all glistening gray and bright, 
 And sailing pinions. — Upon such a shrine 
 What are our petty griefs ? — let me not number mine. 
 
 But it is useless : gazing at the weeping 
 mother of many empires, some of whom are 
 dead, and otliers hastening to decay, he 
 readily admits the painful lesson that is 
 taught. He perceives the eternal justice 
 of the Deity, in devoting matter corrupted 
 by sin, to a temporal and purifying corrup- 
 tion. This stern truth again tears open his 
 bleeding heart, that he may learn rejected 
 knowledge he might have known before. 
 He finds that sin and sorrow are concomi- 
 tants : that our heinous faults and follies are 
 often deservedly punished by injuries and 
 wrongs inflicted by our erring fellow-mor- 
 tals, and the healing balm for his woes at 
 
 once presents itself. In revenge for the 
 deadly wounds he has received, he hurls a 
 curse on the head of his unfeeling torment- 
 ors; but it is the thrice-blessed curse of 
 forgiveness ! the only hope the contrite sin- 
 ner has that he himself can be forgiven. 
 
 And if my voice break forth, 'tis not that now 
 I shrink from what is suffer'd : let him speak 
 Who hath beheld decline upon my brow, 
 Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weak ; 
 But in this page a record will I seek. 
 Nor in the air shall these my words disperee, 
 Though I be ashes ; a far hour shall wreak 
 The deep prophetic fulness of this verse. 
 And pile on human heads the mountain of my curse. 
 
 That curse shall be forgiveness. — Have I not — 
 Hear me, my mother Earth ! behold it. Heaven ! — 
 Have I not had to wrestle with my lot ? 
 Have I not sufTcr'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 T 
 And only not to desperation driven. 
 Because not altogether of such clay 
 As rots into the souls of those whom 1 survey 
 
THE TWO rOSCARI. 
 
 In 1445, Giacopo, the only surviving son 
 of Francesco Foscari, was denounced to 
 the Ten as having received presents from 
 foreign potentates. The offence, according 
 to the law, was one of the most heinous 
 wliicii a noble could commit. Even if 
 Giacopo were guiltless of infringing this 
 law, it was not easy to establish innocence 
 before a Venetian tribunal. Under the eyes 
 of his own father — compelled to preside at 
 the unnatural examination, — a confession 
 was extorted from the prisoner on tlie rack ; 
 and from the lips of that father, he received 
 the sentence that banished him for life. 
 
 Some time after, being suspected, on 
 slight grounds, of having instigated the as- 
 sassination of a chief of the Ten, the young 
 Foscari was recalled from Treviso, tortured 
 again in his father's presence, and not ab- 
 solved, even after he resolutely persisted in 
 denial unto the end. 
 
 Banished once more from his country, 
 which, notwithstanding his wrongs, he still 
 regarded with passionate love ; excluded 
 from all communication with his family ; 
 torn from the wife of his affections ; de- 
 Darred from the society of his children ; 
 SiG. 7* 
 
 and hopeless of again embracing those pa- 
 rents who had already far outstripped the 
 natural term of human existence, his imagi- 
 nation ever centered on the single desire to 
 return. For this purpose he addressed a 
 letter to the Duke of Milan, imploring his 
 good offices with the senate ; and for the 
 heavy crime of soliciting foreign interces- 
 sion with his native government, Giacopo 
 was once more "raised on the accursed 
 cord no less than thirty times" under the 
 eyes of the unhappy Doge; and when re- 
 leased, was carried to the apartments of his 
 father, torn, bleeding, senseless, and dislo- 
 cated, but unchanged in purpose. Neither 
 had his enemies relented — they renewed 
 his sentence of exile, and added that its first 
 year should be spent in prison. Such are 
 the historical facts on which Lord Byron 
 has founded his tragedy. 
 
 Mar. I have ventured, father, on 
 Your privacy. 
 
 Doge. I hive none from you, my child. 
 
 Command my time, when not commanded by 
 The slate. 
 
 Mar. I wisli'd to speak to you of 1-im, 
 
 Doge. Your husband ? 
 
 C9 
 
70 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 Mar. And your son. 
 
 Doge. Proceed, my daughter ! 
 
 Mar. I had oblain'd permission from " the Ten" 
 To attend my husband for a hmited number 
 Of hours. 
 
 Doge. You had so. 
 
 Mar. 'Tis revoked. 
 
 Doge. By whom ? 
 
 Mar. " The Ten." — When we had reacli'd " tlie 
 Bridge of Sighs," 
 Wliich I prepared to pass with Foscari, 
 The gloomy guardian of that passage first 
 Demurr'd : 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 divide ns. 
 
 Doge. True. 
 
 The form has been omitted in the haste 
 With which the court adjourn'd ; and till it meets, 
 'Tis dubious. 
 
 Mar. Till it meets ! and when it meets, 
 
 They'll torture him again ; and he and / 
 Must purchase, by renewal of the rack, 
 The interview of husband and of wife, 
 The holiest tie beneath the heavens ! — Oh God ! 
 Dost thou see this 7 
 
 Doge. Child — child — 
 
 Mar. (abniplhj.) Call me not "child !" 
 
 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 blood from Spartans ! Though those did not weep 
 Their boys who died in battle, is it written 
 That they beheld thorn perish piecemeal, nor 
 Stretch'd forth a hand to save them ? 
 
 Doge. Y'ou 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 ducal ring with which I wed the w-aves 
 
 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 
 Venice. 
 Alas ! how should you ? she knows not herself, 
 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 different means to the same end, 
 And that is but they have not conquer'd yet. 
 
 Mar. But they have crush'd. 
 
 Doge. Nor crush'd as yet — I livs. 
 
 Mar. And your son,— how long will he live ? 
 
 Doge. I trust, 
 
 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 deny 
 Nor palliate, as parent or as Duke : 
 Had he but borne a little, little longer 
 
 His Candiote exile, I had hopes he has quench'd 
 
 them — 
 He must return. 
 
 Mar. To exile ? 
 
 Doge. I have said it. 
 
 Mar. And can I not go with him ? 
 
 Doge. You well knoM 
 
 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. 
 
■<zy 
 
 All JESSY, 'TIS :i-K lDLjj|ilKA-Rra, 
 THAT LOVii SL MiSCiUilH' AR-E. l-TOST WIMBTJ.; , 
 THI'l SAPBST SHll'il.D AGAIN 31' 1!HE DAI-t-TS 
 
 OP CUPID, IS mtkervaIs thim:bi,"E 
 
YOUNG JESSICA. 
 
 To tliose wlio love a moral lessoa gracefully conveyed, this little 
 poem cannot fail to give deliglit: it is one of those highly finished 
 gems which leave nothing to be desired. The playful wit and sly 
 humor, which so strongly characterize all the lighter compositions of 
 Moore, are here displayed to the greatest advantage, and Ave cannot 
 imagine any thing more elegant or appropriate, in the way of light 
 literature, as a contribution to the boudoir of a fashionable belle. 
 
 Young Jessica sat all the day, 
 
 With heart o'er idle love-thoughts pining ; 
 Her needle bright beside her lay, 
 
 So active once ! — now idly shining, 
 Ah, Jessy, 'tis in idle hearts 
 
 That love and mischief are most nimble; 
 The safest shield against the darts 
 
 Of Cupid, is Minerva's thimble. 
 
 The child, who with a magnet plays, 
 "Well knowing all its arts, so wily, 
 
 The tempter near a needle lays. 
 
 And laughing says, "We'll steal it slyly." 
 
 71 
 
72 YOUNGJESSICA, 
 
 The needle, having nought to do, 
 
 Is pleased to let the magnet wheedle ; 
 
 TiU closer, closer come the two, 
 
 And — off, at length, elopes the needle. 
 
 Now, had this needle turned its eye 
 
 To some gay reticule's construction. 
 It ne'er had stray'd from duty's tie, 
 
 Nor felt the magnet's sly seduction. 
 Thus, girls, would you keep quiet hearts, 
 
 Your snowy fingers must be nimble ; 
 The safest shield against the darts 
 
 Of Cupid, is Minerva's thimble. 
 
 Beautiful Jessica ! very little iadeed do jou appear inclined to fol- 
 low the advice of tlie poet. ]\Iost happily has the painter, in the 
 dreamy idleness of her asjoect, and the lusmious negligence of her 
 position, expressed a natiu'e not only advei*se to needles in jDarticular, 
 but to all other implements of useful employment. But should the 
 exercise of industry and self-denial become not only a moral neces- 
 sity, but an actual one, what will be her fate ? the answer is but too 
 easily found in the history of thousands, who, accustomed from in- 
 fancy to all the elegancies of rank and wealth, have suddenly found 
 themselves deprived of all, and forced to enter the battle of life, 
 without weapons, and without armor. Should these remarks appear 
 too grave, the reader must charitably conclude them to be intention- 
 ally so, in order to enhance the gayety of the poem, as a fair jewel 
 shines all the brighter for being darkly set. 
 
THE SUNFLOWER. 
 
 In all that at once delights the imagination, and affects the heart, 
 Moore shines unparalleled ; a striking instance of this is exemplified in 
 the quotation from the melody, which receives additional force when 
 accompanied, as it is, by a representation of youthful beauty, in whose 
 lineaments are so well expressed, that gentle trust and fond fidelity 
 which knows no wavering; and who, in the language of the poet, 
 havuig once 
 
 "truly loved never forgets, 
 But as truly loves on to the close, 
 As the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets, 
 The same look which she turn'd when he rose." 
 
 Here the loveliness depicted by the artist, has made us transpose 
 the object of adoration from the male to the female, but the senti- 
 ment remains intact and beautiful as before; and it is impossible, 
 whilst reading the enchanting song from which it is taken, to avoid 
 feeling the best and holiest impulses of our nature, roused to the same 
 degree of tender enthusiasm, which, in the moment of inspiration, 
 must have guided those of the poet. This beautiful melody is, and 
 ever must be, one of those, which, living in the heart for ever, defies 
 all criticism of the head, and reigns supreme. Nevertheless, even in 
 this diamond, an attempt has been made to query, at least, whether 
 there may not be a flaw ; but as it merely relates as to whether the 
 sunflower does .turn its head to the great luminary or not, and as 
 SiG. 8 ^3 
 
74 THESUJSFLOWER, 
 
 mucli has been said on botli sides of the question, we shall only 
 venture to remark, that if it did not so turn hefore the poem was 
 wi-itten, it certainly ought to have done so ever after. 
 
 Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, 
 
 "WTiich I gaze on so fondly to-day, 
 Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, 
 
 Like fairy-gifts fading away, 
 Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art, 
 
 Let thy loveliness fade as it will 
 And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart 
 
 Would entwine itself verdantly still. 
 
 It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, 
 
 And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear 
 That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known. 
 
 To which time will but make thee more dear; 
 No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, 
 
 But as truly loves on to the close, 
 As the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets, 
 
 The same look which she turn'd when he rose. 
 

 JoTiixiorL Er^r & Compazw rt'iJT sixers 
 
LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. 
 
 There are few words tliat awaken more mingled emotions ttan 
 tliese — that make us sigh, while we smile — ^aud ponder over tke sweet 
 fond follies of our youth, the charm of the song blending with our 
 thoughts and heightening the pleasm'e or pain of remembrance. 
 
 Oh I the days are gone, when Beauty bright 
 
 My heart's chain wove ; 
 When my dream of life, from morn till night, 
 "Was love, still love. 
 New hope may bloom. 
 And days may come. 
 Of milder, calmer beam. 
 But there's nothing half so sweet in life, 
 
 As love's young dream: 
 No, there's nothing half so sweet in life, 
 As love's young dream. 
 
 Though the bard to purer fame may soar, 
 
 "When wild youth's past; 
 Though he win the wise, who frown'd before. 
 
 To smile at last; 
 
 He'll never meet, 
 
 A joy so sweet, 
 
 In all his noon of fame, 
 
 As when first he sung to woman's ear 
 
 His soul-felt flame, 
 
 And at every close, she blush'd to hear 
 
 The one loved name. 
 
 75 
 
76 love's YOUNG DREAM. 
 
 No, — that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot 
 
 Which first love traced; 
 Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot 
 On memory's waste. 
 'Twas odor fled 
 As soon as shed; 
 'Twas morning's winged dream; 
 'Twas a light that ne'er can shine again 
 
 On life's dull stream; 
 Oh ! 'twas light that ne'er can shine again 
 On life's dull stream. 
 
 Look at tlie young gii-l in the portrait ! tliat " morning's winged 
 dream " may perchance e'er night be one that " ne'er can shine again 
 on Life's dull stream." 
 
'^^vap 
 
 l^^r 
 
HOLY EYES. 
 
 Like joyful elves bursting from a chain of flowers, and floating ofi" 
 into the sunny heaven, seem the words of this most beautiful song, 
 when combined with music. As they roll, every lip ^vears a gayer 
 smile, every eya a brighter beam, in sympathy with their gladness. 
 But while thus beguiled by the magic of the poet's mirthful min- 
 strelsy, with a touch of his wand he changes their thoughts from 
 earth to heaven, and presents to the mind's eye the holy appealing 
 look of purity and innocence, in lieu of those more gay and sportive 
 glances which had just been described as brightening this earth 
 of ours. 
 
 The artist has illustrated this " look so holy" in a most beautiful 
 manner ; nor can we imagine a more complete contrast than it affords 
 to those which precede and follow it, according to the song : — 
 
 To Ladies' eyes around, boy, 
 
 We can't refuse, we can't refuse, 
 Though bright eyes so abound, boy, 
 
 'Tis hard to choose, 'tis hard to choose. 
 For thick as stars that lighten 
 
 Yon airy bowers, yon airy bowers, 
 The countless eyes that brighten 
 
 This earth of ours, this earth of ours. 
 But fill the cup— where'er, boy, 
 
 Our choice may fall, our choice may flxll, 
 We're sure to find Love there, boy, 
 
 So drink them all I so drink them all 1 
 Sia. 8* 77 
 
HOLY EYES, 
 
 II. 
 
 Some looks there are so holy, 
 
 They seem but given, they seem but given, 
 A3 shining beacons, solely, 
 
 To light to heaven, to light to heaven. 
 While some — oh 1 ne'er believe them — 
 
 With tempting ray, with tempting ray, 
 Would lead us (God forgive them!) 
 
 The other way, the other way. 
 But fill the cup — where'er, boy. 
 
 Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, 
 We're sure to find Love there, boy. 
 
 So drink them all! so drink them alll 
 
 In some, as in a mirror, 
 
 Love seems portray'd. Love seems portray'd. 
 But shun the flatt'ring error, 
 
 'Tis but his shade, 'tis but his shade. 
 Himself has fixed his dwelling 
 
 In eyes we know, in eyes we know. 
 And lips — but this is telling — 
 
 So here they go! so here they go I 
 Fill up, fill up — where'er, boy. 
 
 Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, 
 We're sure to find Love there, boy, 
 
 So drink them all! so drink them alll 
 
i^ o-i^Ui^t /.- 
 
 -oh' 
 
 TilF. LOP.L. OK -1 
 
 01x7. Puilieliers , TsTewTOTk . 
 
EVELEEN'S BOWER. 
 
 Oh! weep for the hour, 
 
 When to Eveleen's bower 
 The Lord of the Valley with false vows came; 
 
 The moon hid her light 
 
 From the heavens that night, 
 And wept behind her clouds o'er the maiden's shama 
 
 The clouds pass'd sooo 
 From the chaste cold moon, 
 
 And heaven smiled again with her vestal flame; 
 But none will see the day, 
 When the clouds shall pass away, 
 
 Which that dark hour left upon Eveleen's fame. 
 
 The white snow lay 
 
 On the narrow pathway, 
 When the Lord of the Valley cross'd over the moor; 
 
 And many a deep print 
 
 On the white snow's tint 
 Show'd the track of his footstep to Eveleen's door. 
 
 The next sun's ray 
 
 Soon melted away 
 Every trace on the path where the false Lord came 
 
 But there's a light above 
 
 Which alone can remove 
 That stain upon the snow of fair Eveleen's fame. 
 
 19 
 
80 E V E L E E N ' S B O AV E R . 
 
 Tliis is one of those songs wliicli, separated from its ai)i)ro])riate 
 melody, loses mueli of its grace and ex2:)ressiou, unless we allow our- 
 selves fancifully to suppose the muse had followed with faltering pace 
 in the ti-aok of those fatal footstei)s. In this little song, so full of sad 
 mcanini!^, a great sorrow and a great wrong are \dvidly represented 
 and deplored in few and simple words, while the beauty and aptness 
 of the similes cannot fail to strike every reader. Possibly, too, iu 
 some bosoms, deeper thoughts may be awakened, since an important 
 truth will sometimes penetrate the heart as efteetually when lanched 
 frt)m the light quiver of song, as v-i'hen conveyed through the more 
 solemn medium of a sermou. 
 
SLUMBER, OH SLUMBER. 
 
 The young soutliern girl sleeping in her summer beauty beueath 
 tlie shadowy bouglis, may well awaken the voice of song, even in 
 hearts less attuned to the delights of the tender passion than that of 
 her young and romantic lover; who, for that he is one of that 
 privileged class, must be allowed to rave or reason as he pleases 
 regarding the perfections of his mistress, unchecked by criticism or 
 remonstrance, which in such a case would l)e nothing short of treason, 
 or at the best, of grave impertinence. 
 
 'Slumber, oh slumber; if sleeping thou mak'st 
 Mj heart beat so wildly, I'm lost if thou wak'st." 
 Thus sung I to a maiden, 
 
 Who slept one summer's day, 
 And, like a flower o'erladen 
 
 With too much sunshine, lay. 
 
 Slumber, oh slumber, &g. 
 
 " Breathe not, oh breathe not, ye winds, o'er her cheeks ; 
 " If mute thus she charm me, I'm lost when she speaks." 
 Thus sing I, while, awaking. 
 
 She murmurs words that seem 
 As if her lips were taking 
 
 Fai'ewell of some sweet dream. 
 
 Breathe not, oh breathe not, &c. 
 81 
 
82 SLFMBEE, OH SLUMBER. 
 
 This pretty trifle, like one of Mowe's Caslimerian butterflies, must 
 find its a})])ropriate element amongst fields of flowers and sunshine ; 
 or in other words, in lighted halls where youth and beauty meet, and 
 pleasure smiles, in such a scene, where some young rich voice accom- 
 panied l)y the harp swells deliciously on the ear, giving love's own 
 tenderness and grace of exjiression to the words. — then would the 
 poet, if present, be apt to exclaim: '■'■That is the kind of criticism! 
 the only kind, which can do justice to my song '" 
 
THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 
 
 In comparing the poems of Moore to a cliaplet of precious stones, 
 ih.e Fire-worsMppers may fairly be considered tlie great Koli-i-noor 
 Diamond, the real mountain of light. The gorgeous Orientalism of 
 the whole, the inexhaustible treasures of thought and imagination, 
 lavished with such tropical profusion throughout, seem fully to justify 
 the appellation. 
 
 Here, the burning thoughts, and fervid aspirations of the poet 
 have found ample scope, and verge enough. Here, that generous 
 scorn against all that is low and base, that noble indignation against 
 oppression and wrong, have foimd objects vilely great enough 
 whereon to spend their fury ; and, on the other hand, characters in 
 whose portraiture the tenderest and noblest qualities are heightened 
 and adorned by all those refinements and graces, in whose delineation 
 Moore has no equal. In order to give an idea of the poem, an outline, 
 or even an extract, is much the same as giving a single rose-leaf 
 as a specimen of the whole flower to one who has never seen it: 
 nevertheless, as it is possible the latter may be the case as regards the 
 poem, a few remarks may not be entirely inapplicable. Hereditary 
 hatred of the most fierce and sanguinary character had long existed 
 between Al Hassan, an Arab chief, and the Persian sect of Ghebers, 
 of Fire-worshippers, whose chief, Hafed, accidently beholding Hinda, 
 the daughter of AI Hassan, a deep and romantic attachment takes 
 
 83 
 
84 THE F J i: E - W O R S H I P P E R S 
 
 place between tliem, heigMened on tlie part of Hinda by the mystery 
 wbicli surrounds her .over; for she knows not, until informed by 
 himself in one of their stolen interviews, that he is chief of the 
 detested sect whom from childhood she has been accustomed to 
 regard with fear and abhorrence. This startling revelation gives rise 
 to the most thrilling incidents, and casts over the enchantments of 
 their passion those lurid lights and dark shadows, which give so deep 
 an interest to this unrivalled poem. The mutual love of Hinda and 
 Hafed is the golden thread, on which, like 23earls, the beauties of the 
 poem are strung ; and so closely, that it seems impossible to separate 
 a single oiie without scattering the whole. Take, however, as a firs^ 
 specimen, one of " purest ray," — the description of Hinda. 
 
 And see — where, high above those rocks 
 That cJ'er the deep their shadows fling, 
 
 Yon turret stands; — where ebon loclvs, 
 As glossy as a heron's wing 
 Upon the turban of a king, 
 
 Hang from the lattice, long and wild, — 
 
 'Tis she, that Emir's blooming child, 
 
 All truth, and tenderness, and grace, 
 
 Though born of such ungentle race ; — • 
 
 An image of Youth's radiant Fountain 
 
 Springing in a desolate mountain ! 
 
 Oh what a pure and sacred thing 
 
 Is Beauty, curtain'd from the sight 
 Of the gross world, illumining 
 
 . One only mansion with her light ! 
 Unseen by man's disturbing eye, — 
 
 The flower that blooms beneath the sea, 
 Too deep for sunbeams, doth not lie 
 
 Hid in more chaste obscurity. 
 
THE FIEE-WORSniPPEKS. 
 
 So, HiNDA, have thy face and mind, 
 Like holy myst'ries, lain enshrined. 
 And oh, what transport for a lover 
 
 To lift the veil that shades them o'er! — ■ 
 
 Like those who, all at once, discover 
 
 In the lone deep some fairy shore, 
 
 Where mortal never trod before, 
 
 And sleep and wake in scented airs 
 
 No lip had ever breathed but theirs. 
 
 Beautifixl are the maids that glide, 
 
 On summer-eves, through Yemen's dales, 
 And bright the glancing looks they hide 
 
 Behind their litters' roseate veils;— 
 And brides, as delicate and fair 
 As the white jasmine flowers they wear, 
 Hath Yemen in her bUssful clime. 
 
 Who, lull'd in cool kiosk or bower, 
 Before their mirrors count the time. 
 
 And grow still lovelier every hour. 
 But never yet hath bride or maid 
 
 In Aeaby's gay Haram smiled, 
 Whose boasted brightness would not fade 
 
 Before Al Hass.-vn's' blooming child. 
 
 Light as the angel shapes that bless 
 An infant's dream, yet not the less 
 Kich in all woman's loveliness ; — 
 With eyes so pure, that from their ray 
 Dark Vice would turn abash'd away. 
 Blinded like serpents, when they gaze 
 Upon the em'rald's virgin blaze; — 
 Yet fill'd with all youth's sweet desires, 
 Mingling the meek and vestal fires 
 Of other worlds with all the bliss, 
 The fond, weak tenderuess of this: 
 Sia. 9 
 
86 
 
 THE FIEE-WO II SHIPPERS. 
 
 A soul, too, more than half divine, 
 
 Where, through some shades of earthly feeling, 
 
 Keligion's soften'd glories shine. 
 
 Like light through summer foliage stealing. 
 
 Shedding a glow of such mild hue, 
 
 So warm, and yet so shadowy too. 
 
 As makes the very darkness there 
 
 More beautiful than light elsewhere. 
 
 The description of Hafed forms a strong contrast to tMs, and, after 
 a recapitulation of the demon powers ascribed to him by his enemies, 
 we are presented with the foUowing masterly pictm-e of the high- 
 souled and fiery-hearted young chief 
 
 Such were the tales, that won belief. 
 
 And such the coloring Fancy gave 
 To a young, warm, and dauntless Chief,— 
 
 One who, no more than mortal brave, 
 Fought for the land his soul adored. 
 
 For happy homes and altars free. 
 His only talisman, the sword. 
 
 His only spell-word, Liberty ! 
 One of that ancient hero-line, 
 Along whose glorious current shine 
 Names, that have sanctified their blood; 
 As Lebanon's small mountain-flood 
 Is render'd holy by the ranks 
 Of sainted cedars on its banks. 
 'Twas not for him to crouch the knee 
 Tamely to Moslem tyranny; 
 'Twas not for him, whose soul was cast 
 In the bright mould of ages pasr, 
 Whose melancholy spirit, fed 
 With all the glories of the dead, 
 
TUE FIRE-WOESIIIPPERS. 87 
 
 Though framed for Iran's happiest years, 
 Was born among her chains and tears! — 
 'Twas not for him to swell the crowd 
 Of slavish heads, that shrinking bow'd 
 Before the Moslem, as he pass'd, 
 Like shrubs beneath the poison-blast — 
 No — far he fled — indignant fled 
 
 The pageant of kis country's shame ; 
 While every tear her chikben shed 
 
 Fell on Ms soid like drops of flame ; 
 And, as a lover hails the dawn 
 
 Of a first smile, so welcomed he 
 The sparkle of the first sword drawn 
 
 For vengeance and for liberty! 
 
 Into tlie cliaracter of Hafed, Moore lias infosed liis own patriotic 
 fire ; tlie wrongs of liis country, and aspirations for its liberty burst 
 in spontaneous eloquence from \m lips, and were tlie word Ireland 
 substituted for Iran, it would be easy to perceive what a labor of love 
 the delineation of the heroic Hafed had been to Moore. The scene 
 in Hinda's kiosk, or pavilion, to which the plate affords an apt 
 illustration, thus beautifully opens — 
 
 "How sweetly," said the trembling maid, 
 Of her own gentle voice afraid, 
 So long had they in silence stood, 
 Looking upon that tranquil flood — 
 " How sweetly does the moonbeam smile 
 " To-night upon yon leafy isle ! 
 " Oft, in my fancy's wanderings, 
 "I've wish'd that little isle had wings, 
 "And we, within its fairy bowers, 
 
 " Were wafted off to seas unknown, 
 " Where not a pulse should beat but ours, 
 
 " And we might live, love, die alone ! 
 
THE FIEE-WOESHIPPERS. 
 
 "Far from tlie cruel and the cold, — 
 
 " "Where the bright eyes of angels only 
 " Should come around us, to behold 
 
 "A paradise so pure and lonely. 
 "Would this be world enough for thee?" — 
 Playful she turn'd, that he might see 
 
 The passing smile her cheek put on ; 
 But when she mark'd how mournfully 
 
 His eyes met hers — that smile was gone; 
 And, bursting into heartfelt tears, 
 "Yes, yes," she cried, "my hourly fears, 
 "My dreams have boded all too right — 
 " We part — for ever part — to-night ! 
 " I knew, I knew it could not last — 
 " 'Twas bright, 'twas heavenly, but 'tis past ! 
 " Oh ! ever thus, from childhood's hour, 
 
 "I've seen my fondest hopes decay; 
 "I never loved a tree or flower, 
 
 " But 'twas the first to fade away. 
 "I never nursed a dear gazelle, 
 
 " To glad me with its soft black eye, 
 "But when it came to know me well, 
 
 " And love me, it was sure to die ! 
 "Now too — the joy most like divine 
 
 " Of all I ever dreamt or knew, 
 " To see thee, hear thee, call thee mine, — • 
 
 "Oh misery! must I lose that too? 
 " Yet go — on peril's brink we meet ; — 
 
 " Those frightful rocks — that treach'rous sea- 
 "No, never come again — though sweet, 
 
 " Though heaven, it may be death to thee. 
 " Farewell — and blessings on thy way, 
 
 " Where'er thou goest, beloved stranger I 
 " Better to sit and watch that ray, 
 "And think thee safe, though far away, 
 
 " Than have thee near me, and in danger I" 
 
!-ji30Ti..Frv i- r.uinpfiitT. Pi'blJslisrs.Be^'rToiJs:, 
 
TUE FIRE-WOKSniPPEKS. 89 
 
 In tlie conclusion of tills scene Hafed declares Ms name and rank 
 — and in the consequent tumult of feeling rushes hastily from her 
 presence, in which he does not again appear, until amidst a storm at 
 sea, when the bark which is bearing her homeward is attacked by 
 his followers. 
 
 So wholly had her mind forgot 
 
 All thoughts but one, she heeded not 
 
 The rising storm — the wave that cast 
 
 A moment's midnight, as it pass'd — 
 
 Nor heard the frequent shout, the tread 
 
 Of gath'ring tumult o'er her head — ■ 
 
 Clash'd swords, and tongues that seem'd to vie 
 
 With the rude riot of the sky. — 
 
 But, hark 1 — that war-whoop on the deck — 
 
 That crash, as if each engine there. 
 Mast, sails, and all, were gone to wreck, 
 
 Mid yells and stampings of despair ! 
 Mercifal Heaven 1 what can it be ? 
 'Tis not the storm, though fearfully 
 The ship has shudder'd as she rode 
 O'er mountain-waves — " Forgive me, God ! 
 " Forgive me" — shriek'd the maid, and knelt, 
 Trembling all over — for she felt 
 As if her judgment-hour was near ; 
 While crouching round, half dead with fear. 
 Her handmaids clung, nor breathed, nor stirr'd — 
 When, hark ! — a second crash — a third— 
 And now, as if a bolt of thunder 
 Had riven the laboring planks asunder. 
 The deck falls in — what horrors then ! 
 Blood, waves, and tackle, swords and men 
 Gome mix'd together through the chasm, — 
 Some wretches in their dying spasm 
 Still lighting on — and some that call 
 "For God and Iran!" as they fall I 
 
90 THE FI K E-WO K SHIP P E E 1 
 
 Whose was tlie hand that turu'd away 
 
 The perils of th' infuriate fray, 
 
 And snatch'd her breathless from beneath 
 
 This wilderment of wreck and death ? 
 
 She knew not — for a faintness came 
 
 Chill o'er her, and her sinking frame 
 
 Amid the ruins of that hour 
 
 Lay, like a pale and scorched flower, 
 
 Beneath the red volcano's shower. 
 
 But, oh! the sights and sounds of dread 
 
 That shock'd her ere her senses fled! 
 
 The yawning deck — the crowd that strove 
 
 Upon the tott'ring planks above— 
 
 The sail, whose fragments, shiv'ring o'er 
 
 The strugglers' heads, all dash'd with gore, 
 
 Flutter'd like bloody flags — the clash 
 
 Of sabres, and the lightning's flash 
 
 Upon their blades, high toss'd about 
 
 Like meteor brands — as if throughout 
 
 The elements one fury ran. 
 One gen'ral rage, that left a doubt 
 
 Which was the fiercer, Heaven or Man I 
 
 Once too — but no — it could not be — 
 
 'Twas fancy all— yet once she thought, 
 While yet her fading eyes could see. 
 
 High on the ruin'd deck she caught 
 A glimpse of that unearthly form, 
 
 That glory of her soul, — even then, 
 Amid the whirl of wreck and storm, 
 
 Shining above his fellow-men. 
 As, on some black and troublous night, 
 The Star of Egypt, whose proud light 
 Never hath beam'd on those who rest 
 In the White Islands of the West, 
 Burns through the storm with looks of flame 
 That put Heaven's cloudier eyes to shame. 
 
THE riKE-WOESIIIPPEES. 91 
 
 But no — 'twas but the minute's dream- 
 A fantasy — and ere the scream 
 Had half-way pass'd her pallid lips, 
 A death-like swoon, a chill eclipse 
 Of soul and sense its darkness spread 
 Around her, and she sunk, as dead. 
 
 The ocean after a tempest, as thus mii-rored, will be fully recog- 
 Dized by those who have experienced its sublime vicissitudes. 
 
 How calm, how beautiful comes on 
 The stilly hour, when storm * are gone ; 
 When warring winds have died away, 
 And clouds, beneath the glancing ray, 
 Melt off, and leave the land and sea 
 Sleeping in bright tranquillity, — 
 Fresh as if Day again were born, 
 Again upon the lap of Morn! — 
 "When the light blossoms, rudely torn 
 And scatter'd at the whirlwind's will, 
 Hang floating in the pure air still, 
 Filhng it all with precious balm. 
 In gratitude for this sweet calm; — 
 And every drop the thunder-showers 
 Have left upon the grass and flowers 
 Sparkles, as 'twere that lightning-gem 
 Whose liquid flame is born of them ! 
 When, 'stead of one unchanging breeze, 
 There blow a thousand gentle airs, 
 And each a diff'rent perfume bears, — 
 As if the loveliest plants and trees 
 Had vassal breezes of their own 
 To watch and wait on them alone. 
 
 And waft no other breath than theirs; 
 When the blue waters rise and fall, 
 Tn sleepy sunshine mantling all ; 
 
92 THE F I 11 E - W n S II I P P E R S . 
 
 And even tlaat swell the tempest leaves 
 Is like the full and silent heaves 
 Of lovers' hearts, when newly bless'd, 
 Too newly to be quite at rest. 
 
 The bark is finally moored, a bandage is bound over tlie eyes of 
 Hinda, and she is borne over steep rocks to a mountain-fortress. 
 
 But does she dream ? has Fear again 
 
 Perplex'd the workings of her brain, 
 
 Or did a voice, all music, then 
 
 Come from "the gloom, low whisp'ring near — 
 
 "Tremble not, love, thy Gheber's here?" 
 
 She does not dream — all sense, all ear, 
 
 She drinks the words, " Thy Gheber's here." 
 
 'Twas his own voice — she could not err — 
 
 Throughout the breathing world's extent 
 There was but one such voice for her, 
 
 So kind, so soft, so eloquent! 
 Oh, sooner shall the rose of May 
 
 Mistake her own sweet nightingale, 
 And to some meaner minstrel's lay 
 
 Open her bosom's glowing veil, 
 Than love shall ever doubt a tone, 
 A breath of the beloved one ! 
 
 Here Hafed, unconscious that ere night the treachery of one of his 
 band will have betrayed him to Al Hassan, attempts to reassure the 
 mind of Hinda, who then tells him of the intended attack. 
 
 But soon the painful chill was o'er. 
 And his great soul, herself once more, 
 Look'd from his brow in all the rays 
 Of her best, happiest, grandest days. 
 
O^apy. Rililisliars'^Ssw-Tart . 
 
THE FIRE-WORSniPPEES. 
 
 93 
 
 Never, in moment most elate, 
 
 Did tliat high spirit loftier rise; — 
 "While bright, serene, determinate, 
 
 His looks are lifted to the skies, 
 As if the signal lights of Fate 
 
 "Were shining in those awful eyesl 
 'Tis come — his hour of martyrdom 
 In Iran's sacred cause is come; 
 And, though his life hath pass'd away, 
 Like lightning on a stormy day, 
 Yet shall his death-hour leave a track 
 
 Of glory, permanent and bright, 
 To which the brave of after-times. 
 The suflf'ring brave, shall long look back 
 With proud regret,— and by its light 
 Watch through the hours of slavery's night 
 For vengeance on th' oppressor's crimes. 
 This rock, his monument aloft. 
 
 Shall speak the tale to many an age; 
 And hither bards and heroes oft 
 
 Shall come in secret pilgrimage. 
 And bring their warrior sons, and tell 
 The wond'ring boys where Hafed fell; 
 And swear them on those lone remains • 
 
 Of their lost country's ancient fanes, 
 jfever— while breath of life shall live 
 Within them— never to forgive 
 Th' accursed race, whose ruthless chain 
 Hath left on Iran's neck a stain 
 Blood, blood alone can cleanse again I 
 
 The parting between Hafed and Hinda is one of tlie most exquisite 
 parts of tlie poem. 
 
 Alas for him, who hears her cries 1 
 
 Still half-way down the steep he stands, 
 
 Watching with fix'd and feverish eyes 
 
 The ghmmer of those burning brands, 
 
 SiG. 9* 
 
94 THE FIRE- WO 11 SHIPPERS. 
 
 That down tlie rocks, with mournful ray, 
 Light all he loves on earth away! 
 Hopeless as they who, far at sea. 
 
 By the cold moon have just consign'd 
 The corse of one, loved tenderly, 
 
 To the bleak flood they leave behind; 
 And on the deck still ling'ring stay. 
 And long look back, with sad delay. 
 To watch the moonlight on the wave, 
 That ripples o'er that cheerless grave. 
 
 From this mournful reverie, Hafed is aroused by the Moslem signal 
 of assault. Maddened by the sound, the infmiate Ghebers pour like 
 a lava-flood down the ra^^ne, and the sanguinary conflict when at its 
 height, in language so glowing and terrible as almost to make the 
 reader shai-e its horrors, is thus described: — 
 
 What ruin glares! what carnage swims! 
 Heads, blazing tiirbans, quiv'ring limbs, 
 Lost swords that, dropp'd from many a hand, 
 In that thick pool of slaughter stand ;^ 
 Wretches who wading, half on fire 
 
 From the toss'd brands that round them fly, 
 'Twixt flood and flame in shrieks expire; — 
 
 And some who, grasp'd by those that die. 
 Sink woundless with them, smother'd o'er 
 In their dead brethren's gushing gore ! 
 
 This extract may sufiice to show the spirit and fire Avhich pervade 
 the whole, and to prepare the mind for what follows — victory over 
 the Moslem — the extermination of the Ghebers — and the death of 
 Hafed, whose latest energies are expended in aiding one of his djang 
 
THE FIEE-WORSniPPEES. 95 
 
 Tp-arriors to gain the sacred precincts of their temple on whose altar 
 burns the holy fire. 
 
 Now IIafed sees the Fire divine — 
 Wlien, lo! — his weak, worn comrade falls 
 
 Dead on the threshold of the Shrine. 
 "Alas, brave soul, too quickly fled! 
 
 "And must I leave thee with'ring here, 
 " The sport of every rufiaau's tread, 
 
 "The mark for every coward's spear? 
 "No, by yon altar's sacred beams!" 
 He cries, and, with a strength that seems 
 Not of this world, uplifts the frame 
 Of the fall'n Chief, and tow'rds the flame 
 Bears him along; — with death-damp hand 
 
 The corpse upon the pyre he lays. 
 Then lights the consecrated brand. 
 
 And fires the pile, whose sudden blaze 
 Like lightning bursts o'er Oman's Sea. — 
 " Now, Freedom's God I I come to Thee," 
 The youth exclaims, and with a smile 
 Of triumph vaulting on the pile. 
 In that last eifort, ere the fires 
 Have harm'd one glorious limb, expires! 
 
 In the mean time, the situation of Hinda, who within hearing 
 of the strife, and almost a spectatress of its appalling details, is 
 presented to the mind's eye in a manner rendered, if possible, more 
 vivid by the force of contrast. The cahn beauty of the heavens, the 
 star-lit waves on whose gleaming surface her boat seems spell-bound, 
 the mute agony of her own despairing thoughts, and the ill-repressed 
 eagerness of the veterans to whose charge she has been confided, as 
 the fearful truth dawns on them, that whilst thus condemned to 
 inglorious inactivity, theii" faithful comi-ades are struggling agauist 
 fearful odds, within their mountain fastnesses — are all described in 
 
96 THK FIRE-WOESHIPPEKS. 
 
 that true maimer whicli makes the lieart beat, the cheek burn, and 
 the hand tremble. Then comes the last Act of the Drama — and 
 over scenes so thrilling and so varied the curtain falls. 
 
 i 
 
 But see — what moves upon the height? 
 Some signal! — 'tis a torch's light. 
 
 What bodes its solitary glare? 
 In gasping silence tow'rd the Shrine 
 All eyes are turn'd — thine, Hinda, thine 
 
 Fix their last fading life -beams there. 
 'Twas but a moment — fierce and high 
 The death-pile blazed into the sky, 
 And far away, o'er rock and flood 
 
 Its melancholy radiance sent; 
 While Hafed, like a vision stood 
 Eeveal'd before the burning pyre, 
 Tall, shadowy, like a Spirit of Fire 
 
 Shrined in its own grand element ! 
 "'Tis he!" — the shudd'riug maid exclaims, — 
 
 But, while she speaks, he's seen no more; 
 High burst in air the funeral flames, 
 
 And Iran's hopes and hers are o'er! 
 
 One wild, heart-broken shriek she gave; 
 
 Then sprung, as if to reach that blaze, 
 
 Where still she fix'd her dying gaze, 
 And, gazing, sunk into the wave, — 
 
 Deep, deep, — where never care or pain 
 
 Shall reach her innocent heart again ! 
 
 To Hinda, this brightest creation of the poet's dream, the artist's 
 pencil, and the minstrel's lyre, alike contribute their graceful homage ; 
 and few strains leave more lingeritig sweetness on the memory, than 
 the ocean requiem of the beautiful Peri, as she sings — "Farewell — 
 farewell to thee, Araby's daughter!" 
 
PARADISE AND THE PERI. 
 
 Deeshng it impossible to render full justice to this matcliless 
 poem by meie extracts, it is presented to the reader almost entire, 
 accompanied by its appropriate illustrations. Amidst the wealth of 
 Eastern imagery with which it abounds, it is not a httle curious 
 to learn from the authority of Moore himself, that to the secluded 
 life he led during the years 1813 and 1816, in a lone cottage 
 among the fields in Derbyshire, that he owed the inspiration of 
 some of the best and most popular portions of Lalla Rookh; and 
 that it was amidst the snows of two or three Derbyshire winters, 
 that he found himself enabled by that concentration of thought 
 which retirement alone gives, to call up around him some of the 
 sunniest of those Eastern scenes which have since been welcomed 
 m India itself, as almost native to its clime. 
 
 One morn a Peri at the gate 
 
 Of Eden stood, disconsolate ; 
 
 And as she listen'd to the Springs 
 
 Of Life within, like music flowing, 
 And caught the light upon her wings 
 
 Through the half-open portal glowing. 
 She wept to think her recreant race 
 Should e'er have lost that glorious place I 
 * * * * * * 
 
 The glorious Angel, who was keeping 
 The gates of Light, beheld her weeping; 
 
 SiG. 10. 97 
 
98 PAU ADISEANDTHEPEBI. 
 
 And, as he nearer drew and listen'd 
 To her sad song, a tear-drop glisten'd 
 Within his eyelids, like the spray 
 
 From Eden's fountain, when it lies 
 On the blue flow'r, which — Bramins say — 
 
 Blooms nowhere but in Paradise. 
 
 " Nymj^h of a fair but erring line !" 
 Gently he said — " One hope is thine. 
 " 'Tis written in the Book of Fate, 
 
 "The Peri yet may he forgiven 
 " Who brings to this Eternal gate 
 
 "The Gift that is most dear to Heav'nl 
 " Go, seek it, and redeem thy sin — 
 " 'Tis sweet to let the pardon'd in." 
 
 The geniusi of Moore having thus powerfully awakened our 
 sympathies for the forlorn and beautiful Peri, we gaze on her, as 
 represented by the artist, with that pity akin to love, which the 
 sight of beauty in sorrow, so naturally inspires. In this case, the 
 artist has purified the idea, by giving a child-like grace and bashful- 
 ness to the figure : with hair, that o'er her form, and drooping glance, 
 " floats like a stream of gold, and curls in wavy dance." With such 
 a being as this for the heroine of the poem, the object to be 
 attained does not seem so utterly hopeless, and we join in her 
 pilgrimage in search of the redeeming treasure, with all the ardor 
 of a Gumming himself in those delightful expeditions to the resorts 
 where lions "most do congregate." 
 
 While thus she mused, her pinions fann'd 
 The air of that sweet Indian land, 
 Whose air is balm ; whose ocean sjjreads 
 O'er coral rocks, and amber beds; 
 
PAEADISE AND THE PERI. 99 
 
 Whose mountains, pregnant by the beam 
 Of the warm sun, with diamonds teem; 
 Whose rivulets are like rich brides. 
 Lovely, with gold beneath their tides; 
 Whose sandal groves and bow'rs of spice 
 Might be a Peri's Paradise! 
 But crimson now her rivers ran 
 
 With human blood — the smell of death 
 Came reeking from those spicy bow'rs. 
 And man, the sacrifice of man, 
 
 Mingled his taint with every breath 
 Upwafted from th' innocent flow'rs. 
 Land of the Sun ! what foot invades 
 Thy Pagods and thy pillar'd shades — 
 Thy cavern shrines, and Idol stones, 
 Thy Monarchs and their thousand Throriou? 
 'Tis he of Gazna — fierce in wrath 
 
 He comes, and India's diadems 
 Lie scatter'd in his ruinous path.— 
 
 His bloodhounds he adorns with gems, 
 Torn from the violated necks 
 
 Of many a young and loved Sultana; 
 
 Maidens, within their pure Zenana, 
 
 Priests in the very fane he slaughters, 
 And chokes up with the glitt'ring wrecks 
 
 Of golden shrines the sacred waters! 
 
 Downward the Peri turns her gaze. 
 And, through the war-field's bloody haze 
 Beholds a youthful warrior stand, 
 
 Alone beside his native river, — 
 The red blade broken in his hand. 
 
 And the last arrow in his quiver. 
 "Live," said the Conqu'ror, "live to share 
 "The trophies and the crowns I bear!" 
 Silent that youthful warrior stood — 
 Silent he pointed to the flood 
 All crimson with his country's blood, 
 
100 PARADISE AND THE PERI. 
 
 Then sent his last remaining dart, 
 For answer, to th' Invader's heart. 
 
 False flew the shaft, though pointed well; 
 The Tyrant lived, the Hero fell!— 
 Yet marked the Peri where he lay, 
 
 And, when the rush of war was past, 
 Swiftly descending on a ray 
 
 Of morning light, she caught the last — 
 Last glorious drop his heart had shed, 
 Before its free-born spirit fled! 
 
 "Be this," she cried, as she wing'd her flight, 
 " My welcome gift at the Gates of Light. 
 "Though foul are the drops that oft distil 
 
 "On the field of warfare, blood like this, 
 
 "For Liberty shed, so holy is, 
 "It would not stain the purest rill, 
 
 " That sparkles among the Bowers of Bliss I 
 " Oh, if there be, on this earthly sphere, 
 "A boon, an offering Heav'n holds dear, 
 "'Tis the last libation Liberty draws 
 'From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause I" 
 
 "Sweet," said the Angel, as she gave 
 
 The gift into his radiant hand, 
 "Sweet is the welcome of our Brave 
 
 "Who die thus for their native Land. — 
 "But see — alas! — the crystal bar 
 " Of Eden moves not — holier far 
 "Thau ev'n this drop the boon must be, 
 "That opes the Gates of Heav'n for thee!" 
 
 Disappomted she turns to eartli again, alighting in an orange 
 grove, where dying of the plague lies a beautiful youth, whose only- 
 consolation in tliis fearful moment arises from the thought that his 
 
PARADISE AND THE PERI. 101 
 
 beloved is safe and ftir away from dangers so deadly and appalling 
 Suddenly, she appears. 
 
 But see — who yonder comes by stealth, 
 
 This melancholy bow'r to seek, 
 Like a young envoy, sent by Health, 
 
 With rosy gifts upon her cheek? 
 'Tis she — far off, througli moonlight dim, 
 
 He knew his own betrothed bride. 
 She, who would rather die with him, 
 
 Than live to gain the world beside ! — 
 Her arms are round her lover now, 
 
 His livid cheek to hers she presses, 
 And dips, to bind his burning brow. 
 
 In the cool lake her loosen'd tresses. 
 Ah! once, how little did he think 
 An hour would come, when he should shrink 
 With horror from that dear embrace. 
 
 Those gentle arms that were to him 
 Holy as is the cradling place 
 
 Of Eden's infant cherubim ! 
 And now he yields — now turns away, 
 Shudd'ring as if the venom lay 
 All in those proffer'd lips alone — 
 Those lips that, then so fearless grown, 
 Never until that instant came 
 Near his unask'd or without shame. 
 "Oh! let me only breathe the air, 
 
 "The blessed air, that's breathed by thee, 
 "And whether on its wings it bear 
 
 " Healing or death, 'tis sweet to me ! 
 " There — drink my tears, while yet they fall — 
 
 " Would that my bosom's blood were balm, 
 "And, well thou know'st, I'd shed it all, 
 
 ' To give thy brow one minute's calm. 
 "Nay, turn not from me that dear face — 
 
 "Am I not thiue — thy own loved bride — ■ 
 Sio. 10« 
 
102 PARADISE AND THE PERI. 
 
 "The one, the chosen one, whose place 
 
 "In life or death is by thy side? 
 "Think'st thou that she, whose only light 
 
 "In this dim world, from thee hath shone, 
 " Could bear the long, the cheerless night, 
 
 "That must be hers when thou art gone? 
 "That I can live, and let thee go, 
 "Who art my life itself? — No, no— 
 ".When the stem dies, the leaf that grew 
 " Out of its heart must perish too ! 
 "Then turn to me, my own love, turn, 
 "Before, like thee, I fade and burn; 
 "Cling to these yet cool lips, and share 
 " The last pure life that lingers there 1" 
 She fails — she sinks — as dies the lamp 
 In charnel airs, or cavern-damp. 
 So quickly do his baleful sighs 
 Quench aU the sweet light of her eyes. 
 One struggle — and his pain is past — 
 
 Her lover is no longer living! 
 One kiss the maiden gives, one last, 
 
 Long kiss, which she expires in givin 
 
 But morn is blushing in the sky; 
 
 Again the Peei soars above, 
 Bearing to Heav'n that precious sigh 
 
 Of pure, self-sacrificing love. 
 High throbb'd her heart, with hope elate, 
 
 Th' Elysian palm she soon shall win, 
 For the bright Spirit at the gate 
 
 Smiled as she gave that off 'ring in; 
 And she already hears the trees 
 
 Of Eden, with their crystal bells 
 Ringing in that ambrosial breeze 
 
 That from the throne of Alla swells; 
 And she can see the starry bowls 
 
 That lie around that lucid lake, 
 
PARADISE AND THE PERI. 
 
 103 
 
 Upon whose banks admitted Souls 
 
 Their first sweet draught of glory take 1 
 
 Again slie is disappoiuted aud resumes lier searcli, — 
 
 To one, who look'd from upper air 
 
 O'er all th' enchanted regions there, 
 
 How beauteous must have been the glow, 
 
 The life, the sparkling from below! 
 
 Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks 
 
 Of golden melons on their banks. 
 
 More golden where the sun-light falls; — 
 
 Gay lizards, glitt'ring on the walls 
 
 Of ruin'd shrines, busy and bright 
 
 As they were all alive with light; 
 
 And, yet more spleucUd, numerous flocks 
 
 Of pigeons, setthng on the rocks, 
 
 "With their rich restless wings, that gleam 
 
 Variously in the crimson beam 
 
 Of the warm West, — as if inlaid 
 
 With brilhants from the mine, or made 
 
 Of tearless rainbows, such as span 
 
 Th' unclouded skies of Peristan. 
 
 And then the mingling sounds that come, 
 
 Of shepherd's ancient reed, with hum 
 
 Of the wild bees of Palestine, 
 
 Banqueting through the flow'ry vales; 
 And, Jordan, those sweet banks of thine. 
 And woods, so full of nightingales. 
 
 But naught can charm the luckless Peri; 
 Her soul is sad— her wings are weary — 
 Joyless she sees the Sun look down 
 On that great Temple, once his own, 
 Whose lonely columns stand sublime, 
 
 Fhnging their shadows from on high, 
 Like dials, which the wizard Time, 
 
 Had raised to count his ages by 1 
 
104 PARADISE AND THE PERI. 
 
 Yet haply there may lie conceal'd 
 
 Beneath those Chambers of the Sun, 
 Some amulet of gems, anneal'd 
 In upper fires, some tablet seal'd 
 "With the great name of Solomon, 
 Which, spell'd by her illumined eyes, 
 May teach her where, beneath the moon, 
 In earth or ocean, lies the boon. 
 The charm, that can restore so soon 
 An erring Spirit to th6 skies. 
 
 Cheer'd by this hope she bends her thither; 
 
 Still laughs the radiant eye of Heaven, 
 
 Nor have the golden bowers of Even 
 In the rich West begun to wither; 
 When, o'er the vale of Balbec winging 
 
 Slowly, she sees a child at play. 
 Among the rosy wild-flow'rs singing. 
 
 As rosy and as wild as they; 
 Chasing, with eager hands and eyes, 
 The beautiful blue damsel-flies. 
 That flutter'd round the jasmine stems. 
 Like winged flow'rs or flying gems: — 
 And, near the boy, who tired with play 
 Now nestling 'mid the roses lay. 
 She saw a wearied man dismount 
 
 From his hot steed, and on the brink 
 Of a small imaret's rustic fount 
 
 Impatient fling him down to drink. 
 Then swift his haggard brow he turn'd 
 
 To the fair child, who fearless sat, 
 Though never yet hath day-beam burn'd 
 
 Upon a brow more fierce than that, — 
 Sullenly fierce — a mixture dire. 
 Like thunder-clouds, of gloom and fire; 
 In which the Peri's eye could read 
 Dark tales of many a ruthless deed; 
 
Jr)linsoii..T'ry & Company, PuLl: sTiers , NewiorJt. 
 
PAEADISE AND THE PERI. 105 
 
 The ruin'd maid — the shrine profaned — 
 Oaths broken — and the threshold stain'd 
 With blood of guests ! — the7-e written, all, 
 Black as the damning drops that fall 
 From the denouncing Angel's pen, 
 Ere Mercy weeps them out again. 
 
 Yet tranquil now that man of crime 
 (As if the balmy evening time 
 Soften'd his spirit) look'd and lay, 
 Watching the rosy infant's play : — 
 Though still, whene'er his eye by chance 
 Fell on the boy's, its lurid glance 
 
 Met that unclouded, joyous gaze. 
 As torches, that have burn'd all night 
 Through some impure and godless rite, 
 
 Encounter morning's glorious rays. 
 
 But, hark I the vesper call to pray'r. 
 
 As slow the orb of daylight sets. 
 Is rising sweetly on the air. 
 
 From Syria's thousand minarets 1 
 The boy has started from the bed 
 Of flow'rs, where he had laid his head, 
 And down upon the fragrant sod 
 
 Kneels with his forehead to the south. 
 Lisping th' eternal name of God 
 
 From Purity's own cherub mouth. 
 And looking, while his hands and eyes 
 Are lifted to the glowing skies 
 Like a stray babe of Paradise, 
 Just lighted on that flow'ry plain. 
 And seeking for its home again. 
 Oh ! 'twas a sight — that Heav'n — that child- 
 A scene, which might have well beguiled 
 Ev'n haughty Eblis of a sigh 
 For glories lost and peace gone byl 
 
106 PARADISE AND THE PERI. 
 
 And bow felt he, the wretched Man 
 
 Reclining there — -while memory ran 
 
 O'er many a year of guilt and strife, 
 
 Flew o'er the dark flood of his hfe, 
 
 Nor found one sunny resting-place, 
 
 Nor brought him back one branch of grace. 
 
 "There was a time," he said, in mild. 
 
 Heart-humbled tones — "thou blessed child I 
 
 "When, young and haply pure as thou, 
 
 " I look'd and pray'd like thee — but now — " 
 
 He hung his head — each nobler aim. 
 
 And hope, and feeling, which had slept 
 From boyhood's hour, that instant came 
 
 Fresh o'er him, and he wept — he wept I 
 ****** 
 
 And now — behold him kneeling there 
 By the child's side, in humble pray'r, 
 While the same sunbeam shines upon 
 The guilty and the guiltless one. 
 And hymns of joy proclaim through Heav'n 
 The triumph of a Soul Forgiv'nl 
 
 'Twas when the golden orb had set, 
 While on their knees they linger'd yet, 
 There fell a light more lovely far 
 Than ever came from sun or star, 
 Upon the tear that warm and meek, 
 Dew'd that repentant sinner's cheek. 
 To mortal eye this light might seem 
 A northern flash or meteor beam — 
 But well th' enraptured Peri knew 
 'Twas a bright smile the Angel threw 
 From Heaven's gate, to hail that tear 
 Her harbinger of glory near! 
 
 "Joy, joy for ever! my task is done — 
 
 " The gates are pass'd, and Heav'n is won !" 
 
if; Rilb ahers , "Rew-Xork . 
 
THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN 
 
 Under tlie pretended sanction of a divine mission to free man- 
 kind from eiTor, and people paradise witli his favorites, Mokanna, 
 an impostor, allures great numbers to liis standard: it is during 
 tlie reception of Azim, a young and noble proselyte, that the most 
 affecting incident of the poem dawns upon us in the person of Zelica, 
 Chief Sultana of the Prophet, and High Priestess of the Faith, 
 
 But there was one, among the chosen maids, 
 Who blush'd behind the gallery's silken shades, 
 One, to whose soul the pageant of to-day 
 Has been like death : you saw her pale dismay, 
 Ye wond'ring sisterhood, and heard the burst 
 Of exclamation from her lips, when first 
 She saw that youth, too well, too dearly known. 
 Silently kneeling at the Prophet's throne. 
 
 Ah Zelica! there was a time, when bliss 
 Shone o'er thy heart from ev'ry look of his; 
 ******* 
 
 Once happy pair ! — In proud Bokhara's groves, 
 Who had not heard of their first youthful loves? 
 ******* 
 
 But war disturb'd this vision, — far away 
 
 From her fond eyes summon'd to join th' array 
 
 Of Persia's warriors on the hills of Thragb, 
 
 107 
 
108 THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN. 
 
 Month after month, in widowlioocl of soul 
 Drooping, the maiden saw two summers roll. 
 
 at length those sounds of dread 
 
 Fell with'ring on her soul, "AziM is deadl" 
 ******* 
 Though health and bloom return'd, the delicate chain 
 Of thought, once tangled, never clear'd again. 
 Warm, lively, soft, as in youth's happiest day, 
 The mind was still all there, but turu'd astray. 
 
 In tliis mood, slie becomes tlie victim of tlie Prophet, bound by 
 a fearful oatli never to desert Mm. Being continually kept in a wild 
 and feverish state, that passes for inspiration, she proves one of his 
 most successful agents in procuring new converts, being installed as 
 the Prophet's chief favorite and Priestess of the Faith. The Haram, 
 whilst in preparation for the reception of Azim, is thus described: — 
 
 Kow, through the Haram chambers, moving lights 
 And busy shapes proclaim the toilet's rites ; — 
 From room to room the ready handmaids hie. 
 Some skill'd to wreathe the turban tastefully, 
 Or hang the veil, in negligence of shade. 
 O'er the warm blushes of the youthful maid. 
 Who, if between the folds but one eye shone, 
 Like Seba's Queen could vanquish with that one: — 
 While some bring leaves of Henna, to imbue 
 The fingers' ends with a bright roseate hue, 
 So bright, that in the mirror's depth they seem 
 Like tips of coral branches in the stream : 
 And others mix the Kohol's jetty dye. 
 To give that long, dark languish to the eye, 
 Which makes the maids, whom kings are proua to cull 
 From fair Circassia's vales, so beautiful. 
 
THE VEILED PROPnET OF KHORASSAH. 109 
 
 All is in motion; rings, and plumes, and pearls 
 Are shining ev'rywhere :— some younger girls 
 Are gone by moonlight to the garden-beds, 
 To gather fresh, cool chaplets for their heads; — 
 Gay creatures ! sweet, though mournful, 'tis to see 
 How each prefers a garland from that tree 
 Which brings to mind her childhood's innocent day 
 And the dear fields and friendships far away. 
 The maid of India, bless'd again to hold 
 In her full lap the Champac's leaves of gold. 
 Thinks of the time when, by the Ganges' flood, 
 Her little playmates scatter'd many a bud 
 Upon her long black hair, with glossy gleam 
 Just dripping from the consecrated stream ; 
 While the young Arab, haunted by the smell 
 Of her own mountain flow'rs, as by a spell, — 
 The sweet Elcaya, and that courteous tree 
 Which bows to all who seek its canopy, 
 Sees, call'd up round her by these magic scents, 
 The well, the camels, and her father's tents; 
 Sighs for the home she left with little pain, 
 And wishes ev'n its sorrows back again! 
 
 Meanwhile, through vast illuminated halls, 
 Silent and bright, where nothing but the falls 
 Of fragrant waters, gushing with cool sound 
 From many a jasper fount, is heard around. 
 Young AziM roams bewilder'd, — nor can guess 
 What means this maze of light and lonehness. 
 Here, the way leads, o'er tesselated floors 
 Or mats of Cairo, through long corridors. 
 Where, ranged in cassolets and silver urns, 
 Sweet wood of aloe or of sandal burns; 
 And spicy rods, such as illume at night 
 The bow'rs of Tibet, send forth odorous light, 
 Like Peris' wands, when pointing out the road 
 For some pure Spirit to its blest abode;— 
 
 Sm. 11. 
 
liO THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHOKAS8AN. 
 
 And here, at once, the glittering saloon 
 Bursts on his sight, boundless and bright as noon ; 
 Where, in the midst, reflecting back the rays 
 In broken rainbows, a fresh fountain plays 
 High as th' enamell'd cupola, which tow'rs 
 All rich with Arabesques of gold and flow'rs, 
 And the mosaic floor beneath shines through 
 The sprinkling of that fountain's silv'ry dew, 
 Like the wet, glist'ning shells, of ev'ry dye, 
 That on the margin of the Eed Sea he. 
 
 Here too he traces the kind visitings 
 Of woman's love in those fair, living things 
 Of land and wave, whose fate — in bondage thrown 
 For their weak loveliness — is like her own I 
 On one side gleaming with a sudden grace 
 Through water, brilliant as the crystal vase 
 In which it undulates, small fishes shine, 
 Like golden ingots from a fairy mine I — 
 While, on the other, latticed lightly in 
 With odoriferous woods of Comorin, 
 Each brilliant bird that wings the air is seen; — 
 Gay, sparkling loories, such as gleam between 
 The crimson blossoms of the coral tree 
 In the warm isles of India's sunny sea : 
 Mecca's blue sacred pigeon, and the thrush 
 Of Hindostan, whose holy warblings gush. 
 At evening, from the tall pagoda's top ; — 
 Those golden birds that, in the spice-time, drop 
 About the gardens, drunk with that sweet food 
 Whose scent hath lured them o'er the summer floo(J 
 And those that under Araby's soft sun 
 Build their high nests of budding cinnamon ; 
 In short, all rare and beauteous things, that fly 
 Through the pure element, here calmly lie 
 Sleeping m light, like the green birds that dwell 
 In Eden's radiant fields of asphodel ! 
 
THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN. Ill 
 
 So on, through scenes past all imagining, 
 More like the luxuries of that impious King, 
 Whom Death's dark Angel, with his lightning torch, 
 Struck down and blasted ev'n in Pleasure's porch. 
 Than the pure dwelling of a Prophet sent, 
 Arm'd with Heaven's sword, for man's enfranchisement — 
 Young AziM wauder'd, looking sternly round. 
 His simple garb and war-boots' clanking sound 
 But ill according with the pomp and grace 
 And silent lull of that voluptuous jalace. 
 
 Here the Odalisques, tlie sii'ens of the place, exert their fascinations : 
 
 sparkling through 
 The gently open'd curtains of Hght blue 
 That veil'd the breezy casement, countless eyes. 
 Peeping like stars through the blue ev'ning skies. 
 Look'd laughing in, as if to mock the pair 
 That sat so still and melancholy there: — 
 And now the curtains fly apart, and in 
 From the cool air, 'mid show'rs of jessamine 
 Which those without fling after them in play. 
 Two lightsome maidens sjjring, — lightsome as they 
 Who live in th' air on odors, — and around 
 The bright saloon, scarce conscious of the ground. 
 Chase one another, in a varying dance 
 Of mirth and languor, coyness and advance. 
 Too eloquently like love's warm pursuit ; — 
 While she who sung so gently to the lute 
 Her dream of home, steals timidly away. 
 Shrinking as violets do in summer's ray, — 
 But takes with her irom Azim's heart that sigh. 
 We sometimes give to forms that pass us by 
 in the world's crowd, too lovely to remain, 
 Oi'eaturcs of light we never see again ! 
 
 Around the white necks of the nymphs who danced 
 Hung oarcanets of orient gems, that glanced 
 
112 THE VEILEIJ PEOPHET OF KHOPASSAN. 
 
 More brilliant than tbe sea-glass glitt'ring o'er 
 
 The hills of crystal on the Caspian shore; 
 
 While from their long, dark tresses, in a fall 
 
 Of curls descending, bells as musical 
 
 As those that, on the golden-shafted trees 
 
 Of Eden, shake in the eternal breeze, 
 
 Eung round their steps, at ev'ry bound more sweet 
 
 As 'twere th' ecstatic language of their feet. 
 
 At length the chase was o'er, and they stood wreathed 
 
 Within each other's arms; while soft there breathed 
 
 Through the cool casement, mingled with the sighs 
 
 Of moonlight flow'rs, music th.at seem'd to rise 
 
 From some still lake, so liqtiidly it rose ; 
 
 And, as it swell'd again at each fixint close. 
 
 The ear could track through all that maze of chords 
 
 And young sweet voices, these impassion'd words. 
 
 Here the unliappy Zelica sinks fainting at liis feet — an explanation 
 afterwards ensues, and Aziiu tliencefortli lives only to avenge lier 
 wrongs — urging lier to fly with him, she rejjlies — 
 
 " With thee ! oh bliss 1 
 " 'Tis worth whole years of torment to hear this. 
 "What! take the lost one with thee? — let her rove 
 " By thy dear side, as in those days of love, 
 " When we were both so happy, both so pure — 
 " Too heav'nly dream I if there's on earth a cure 
 " For the sunk heart, 'tis this— day after day 
 " To be the bless'd companion of thy way ; 
 "To hear thy angel eloquence — to see 
 " Those virtuous eyes for ever turn'd on me ; 
 "And, in their light rechasten'd silently, 
 "Like the stain'd web that whitens in the sun, 
 " Grow pure by being purely shone upon ! 
 "And thou wilt pray for me— I know thou wilt — 
 "At the dim vesper hour, when thoughts of guilt 
 
J oin.p any. P^Uisiers . -N ew 1 ork , 
 
THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN. 113 
 
 "Come hccaviest o'er the heart, thou'lt hft thine eyes, 
 " Full of sweet tears, unto the dark'ning skies, 
 "And plead for me with Heav'n, till I can dare 
 " To fix my own weak, sinful glances there ; 
 "Till the good angels, when they see me cling 
 "For ever near thee, pale and sorrowing, 
 "Shall for thy sake pronounce my soul forgiv'n, 
 " And bid thee take thy weeping slave to Ileav'n ! 
 
 "Oh yes, I'll fly with thee " 
 
 Scarce had she said 
 These breathless words, when a voice deep and dread 
 As that of MoNKER, waking up the dead 
 From their first sleep — so startling 'twas to both — 
 Eung through the casement near, "Thy oath! thy oath!" 
 Oh Heav'n, the ghastliness of that Maid's look ! — 
 "'Tis he," faintly she cried, while terror shook 
 Her inmost core, nor durst she lift her eyes. 
 Though through the casement, now, nought but the skies 
 And moonlight fields were seen, calm as before — 
 "'Tis he, and I am his — all, all is o'er — 
 "Go — fly this instant, or thou'rt ruin'd too — 
 "My oath, my oath, oh God! 'tis all too true, 
 "True as the worm in this cold heart it is — 
 " I am Mokanna's bride — his, AziM, his — 
 "The Dead stood round us, while I spoke that vow, 
 " Their blue lips echo'd it — I hear them now ! 
 "Their eyes glared on me, while I pledge that bowl, 
 "'Twas burning blood — I feel it in my soul! 
 "And the Veil'd Bridegroom — hist! I've seen to-night 
 "What angels know not of — so foul a sight, 
 " So horrible — oh ! never may'st thou see 
 " What there lies hid from all but hell and me I 
 " But I must hence — ofl:j off — I am not thine, 
 "Nor Heav'n's, nor Love's, nor aught that is divine — 
 "Hold me not — ha! think'st thou the fiends that sever 
 "Hearts, cannot sunder hands ?^thus, then — for ever!" 
 
 The Caliph Ijecomiiig alarmed at the iucreasing power of the 
 
114 THE T "E I L E D PKOPHET OF K H O R A S S A IT . 
 
 ProjAet leads an army against him. And after two days' hard 
 fighting is on the point of defeat when Azdm appears, and rallying 
 the fugitives tm-ns the tide of battle again in his favor. 
 
 But vain his speed — thougli, in that hour of blood, 
 Had all God's seraphs round Mokanka stood, 
 With swords of fire, ready like fate to fall, 
 Mokanna's soul would have defied them all ; 
 Yet now, the rush of fugitives, too strong 
 For human force, hurries ev'n him along: 
 In vain he struggles 'mid the wedged array 
 Of flying thousands — he is borne away ; 
 And the sole joy his baffled spirit knows, 
 In this forced flight, is — murd'ring as he goes I 
 As a grim tiger, whom the torrent's might 
 Surprises in some parch'd ravine at night, 
 Turns, ev'n in drowning, on the wretched flocks, 
 Swept with him in that snow-flood from the rocks, 
 And, to the last, devouring on his way, 
 Bloodies the stream he hath not power to stay. 
 
 The power of Mokanna being completely annihilated, he shuts 
 himseK up with the residue of his followers in a strong fortress, and 
 amidst the deluious revel of a poisoned banquet, Zelica is summoned 
 to his presence ; the artist has chosen to represent her at the momen 
 when, transfixed with horror, she pauses on the threshold. 
 
 She enters — Holy Alla, what a sight 
 
 Was there before her! By the glimm'ring light 
 
 Of the pale dawn, niix'd with the flare of brands 
 
 That round lay burning, dropp'd from lifeless hands, 
 
 She saw the board, in splendid mockery spread, 
 
 Eich censers breathing — garlands overhead — 
 
 The urns, the cups, from which they late had quaff'd 
 
 All gold and gems, but — what had been the draught? 
 
THE VEILED PEOPHET OE KHOEASSAN. 115 
 
 Oh I who need ask, that saw those livid guests, 
 
 With their swoll'n heads sunk black'ning on their breasts. 
 
 Or looking pale to Heav'n with glassy glare, 
 
 As if they sought but saw no mercy there ; 
 
 As if they felt, though poison rack'd them through. 
 
 Remorse the deadlier torment of the twol 
 
 The monster liaving filled up tlie measure of his crimes by self- 
 destruction, Zelica, whom to the last moment he had jealously 
 retained, then uses the stratagem of assuming his silvery veil in 
 order to procui'e death from the arrows of the besiegers. 
 
 "In through the breach," impetuous AziM cries; 
 
 But the cool Caliph, fearful of some wile 
 
 In this blank stillness, checks the troops awhile, — 
 
 Just then, a figure, with slow step, advanced 
 
 Forth from the ruin'd walls, and, as there glanced 
 
 A sunbeam over it, all eyes could see 
 
 The well-known Silver Veil!— '"Tis He, 'tis He, 
 
 "MoKANNA, and alone!" they shout around; 
 
 Young AziM from his steed springs to the ground— 
 
 "Mine, Holy Calijjh! mine," he cries, "the task 
 
 "To crush yon daring wretch — 'tis all I ask." 
 
 Eager he darts to meet the demon foe. 
 
 Who still across wide heaps of ruin slow 
 
 And falteringly comes, till they are near; 
 
 Then, with a bound, rushes on Azim's spear, 
 
 And, casting oif the Veil in falling, shows — 
 
 Oh! — 'tis his Zelica's life-blood that flows 1 
 
riS THE LAST KOSE OF SUMMEK. 
 
 MooEE, in what may be styled Ms musical confessions, says, that 
 he always felt in adapting words to an expressive air, that he was 
 but bestowing upon it the gift of articulation, and thus enabling 
 it to speak to the souls of others all that was conveyed in its 
 wordless eloquence to his own. Accustomed, too, always to con- 
 sider the music as a no less essential part than the poetry, he 
 describes himself as being possessed with a strange feeling of uneasi- 
 ness and regret when beholding his songs divorced from the beautiful 
 airs which had hitherto formed their chief ornament and strength. 
 It is therefore in the sweet union most accordant with the taste 
 of their author that we present some of his most celebrated 
 melodies. 
 
 'Tis the last rose of summer 
 
 Left blooming alone; 
 All her lovely companions 
 
 Are faded and gone; 
 No flower of her kindred, 
 
 No rosebud is nigh, 
 To reflect back her blushes, 
 
 Or give sigh for sigh. 
 
 I'll not leave thee, thou lone one! 
 
 To pine on the stem ; 
 Since the lovely are sleeping, 
 
 Go, sleep thou with them. 
 116 
 
111. MOT iEAyE THilE, THOU LONE OJ 
 TO HNE OB THE SIEM. 
 SnrCE THE lOVECy ARE SLISPINO. 
 GO. SLEEP TBOU WTTH TEEM 
 
 ai.TJry &. Com' 
 
TI8 THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. \17 
 
 Thus kindly I scatter 
 
 Thy leaves o'er the bed, 
 Where thy mates of the garden 
 
 Lie scentless and dead. 
 So soon may / follow, 
 
 When friendships decay, 
 And from Love's shining circle 
 
 The gems drop away. 
 When true hearts lie wither'd, 
 
 And fond ones are flown, 
 Oh ! who would inhabit 
 
 This bleak world alone? 
 
 Since Poetry tlius makes Music eloquent, may it not be added, 
 that from their mingled inspiration Painting and Engi'aviug, with 
 their beautiful colors, and magical illusions of light and shadow, 
 weave spells as attractive and often more dui'able ? 
 
 SiG. 11* 
 
EICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORK 
 
 Ti£E illustratiou liappily presents tlie youthful aud noLle lieroine 
 of the song pursuing, in rich attire and costly ornament, her pilgrim • 
 way o'er moor and mountain, from one end of the Green Isle to 
 the other, without fear of \dolence or molestation. Hail to the 
 memory of King Brien ! in whose glorious days so adventurous 
 a feat could be accomplished ! Alas ! what a contrast does this 
 shining fable present to the dark tale which would have to be told 
 of a similar experiment repeated in these degenerate days ! 
 
 Eich and rare were the gems she wore, 
 And a bright gold ring on her wand she bort; 
 But oh ! her beauty was far beyond 
 Her sparkling gems, or snow-white wand ; 
 
 " Lady ! dost thou not fear to stray, 
 
 " So lone and lovely through the bleak way ? 
 
 " Are Erin's sons so good or so cold 
 
 " As not be tempted by woman or gold ?" 
 
 "Sir Knight! I feel not the least alarm, 
 
 " No son of Erin will offer me harm ; — 
 
 "For though they love woman and golden store, 
 
 " Sir Knight ! they love honor and virtue more I" 
 
 On she went, and her maiden smile 
 In safety lighted her round the Green Isle; 
 And blest for ever is she who relied 
 Upon Erin's honor and Erin's pride. 
 118 
 
L MDUMEAIW SPRITE,'' 
 
THE LEGEND OF PUCK THE FAIRY. 
 
 TiiOTJon the plain sense of a song may very often be confined 
 to a very small space compared to its beautiful amplifications, yet 
 certain philosopliers say that some portion is indispensably neces- 
 sary to give interest and durability to the whole — to such, as a 
 pleasm-e and punishment, should be consigned the momentous task 
 of breaking this exquisite butterfly on the wheel of their cruel 
 criticisms. We can well fancy that while so doing, the merry 
 Sprite would sing more merrily than ever his mocking chorus — 
 and fly for support, if needful, to the subject of the Illustration. 
 
 Wouldst know what tricks, by the pale moonlight, 
 Are play'd by me, the merry little Sprite, 
 Who wing through air from the camp to the court, 
 From king to clown, and of all make sport ; 
 
 Singing, I am the Sprite 
 
 Of the merry midnight, 
 Who laugh at weak mortals, and love the moonlight ? 
 
 To a miser's bed, where he snoring slept 
 And dreamt of his cash, I slyly crept ; 
 Chink, chink o'er his pillow like money I rang. 
 And he waked to catch — ^but away I sprang, 
 Singing, I am the Sprite, &c. 
 
 I saw through the leaves, in a damsel's bower. 
 She was waiting her love at that starlight hour : 
 
 119 
 
120 THE LEGEND OF PUCK THE FAIRY. 
 
 "Hist — ^hist!" quoth I, with an amorous sigh, 
 And she flew to the door, but away flew I, 
 Singing, I am the Sprite, &c. 
 
 While a bard sat inditing an ode to his love, 
 Like a pair of blue meteors I stared from above. 
 And he swoon'd — for he thought 'twas the ghost, poor maul 
 Of his lady's eyes, while away I ran. 
 Singing, I am the Sprite, &c. 
 
 The fairies of tlie Green Isle, as well as those of Merry England, 
 and Scotland, thongli fairly di'iven from some of their choicest 
 haunts, still linger lovingly in many a flowery nook, and ancient 
 neighborhood. Indeed, it is difiicult to conceive that in the lands 
 which have produced Shakspeare, Milton, Scott, Moore, and Byron, 
 their race should ever become utterly extinct. Be that as it may, 
 even should they no more "dance lightly on the air, or skim 
 along the ground," their frolic presence will still, as in the instance 
 before us, enliven the poet's page, and be reproduced by the pencil 
 of the painter; at once preserving and suggesting a thousand mem- 
 ories of that olden time, whose traditions are fading so fast away. 
 Oh ! that in these wondrous days, when each minute coins a marvel, 
 the existence of a colony of fairies might gain the credence per- 
 petually awarded to fantasies equally wUd, and seldom so harmless. 
 
LOVE'S LIGHT SUMMER CLOUD 
 
 Pain and sorrow shall vanish before us — 
 Youth may wither, but feeling will last: 
 All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er us, 
 Love's light summer-cloud only shall cast. 
 Oh, if to love thee more 
 Each hour I number o'er 
 If this a passion be 
 Worthy of thee. 
 Then be happy, for thus I adore thee. 
 
 Charms may wither, but feeling shall last : 
 All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er thee, 
 Love's light summer-cloud sweetly shall cast. 
 
 Eest, dear bosom, no sorrows shall pain thee, 
 
 Sighs of pleasure alone shalt thou steal ; 
 Beam, bright eyelid, no weeping shall stain thee, 
 Tears of rapture alone shalt thou feel. 
 Oh, if there be a charm 
 In love, to banish harm — 
 If pleasure's truest spell 
 Be to love well, 
 Then be happy, for thus I adore thee. 
 
 Charms may wither, but feeling shall last : 
 All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er thee. 
 Love's light summer-cloud sweetly shall cast. 
 
 One of tlie beautiful Angels, whose heavenly brightness has 
 grown dim beneath the shadow of earthly love, may more readily 
 enter the imagination as giving utterance to these impassioned 
 SiG. 12. 121 
 
123 love';-' light r^ r .m >i e r. c l o i- d . 
 
 words, than any mere mortal habitant of this lower sphere. Long 
 may it be ere such sweet delusive promises find ready entrance 
 into the ears, or belief in the hearts, of its lovely and suscep- 
 tible Daughtei"s. 
 
 Much of the immense popularity of Moore's M'ritiugs may, doubt- 
 less be attributed to the graceful versatility of his genius, and the 
 easy flow of his verse, in Avhose voluptuous lull love breathes its 
 enchanting sound — to whose lighter, livelier measure the bosom 
 bounds with an impetuosity accordant to the strain — or in whose 
 deeply melancholy eflusions the sorrows of the patriot, the lover, 
 and the friend find utterance. The foregoing song, so full of dreamy 
 languor, "replete with love, soft intercourse of hearts, and music 
 of resistless whispered sounds," is one of which the name alone 
 furnishes both text and comment. A very rose, blown from the 
 brow of Cupid, to sweetest song distilled, for lady's ear. In compo- 
 sitions of this class, INIoore is truly inimitable, not a little aided by 
 the native gallantry of a truly Irish heart, seldom wanting in the 
 most noble and generous emotions, however warped, or turned aside 
 by force of circumstance. 
 
THE LIGHT OF THE HARAM. 
 
 Love, iu all its shadowy variations and rapid transitions, forms 
 the subject of this poem, which overflows with Eastern imagery, and 
 abounds with all that can delight the imagination and touch the 
 heart. Scarcely a line that does not suggest a picture of Oriental 
 loveliness and magnificence, through which the master passion strug- 
 gles and shines with an intensity and fire, which, peculiar to the 
 Asiatic temperament, finds but few parallels in those of our colder 
 clime. Worthy of such devotion seems the fair young Nourmahal, 
 the bride of the Sultan, whose rich and varied charms seem to ren- 
 der her well worthy her name — the Light of the Haram. 
 
 There's a beauty, for ever unchangingly bright, 
 Like the long, sunny lapse of a summer-day's light, 
 Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender, 
 Till Love falls asleep in its sameness of splendor. 
 This ivas not the beauty — oh, nothing like this, 
 That to young Nourmahal gave such magic of bliss t 
 But the loveliness, ever in motion, which plays 
 Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days, 
 Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies 
 From the lip to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes; 
 Now melting in mist and now bi'eaking in gleams, 
 Like the glimpses a saint hath of Heaven in his dreams. 
 When pensive, it seem'd as if that very grace. 
 That charm of all others, was born with her face ! 
 
 123 
 
124 T H P; LIGHT OK THE H A U A JI . 
 
 And when an^y, — for ev'n in the tranquillest climes 
 
 Light breezes will ruffle the blossoms sometimes — 
 
 The short, passing anger but seemed to awaken 
 
 New be'auty, like flow'rs that are sweetest when shaken. 
 
 If tenderness touch'd her, the dark of her eye 
 
 At once took a darker, a heav'nlier dye, 
 
 From the depth of whose shadow, like holy revealings 
 
 From innermost shrines, came the light of her feelings. 
 
 Then her mirth — oh! 'twas sportive as ever took wing 
 
 From the heart with a burst, like the wild bird in spring; 
 
 Illumed by a wit that would fascinate sages. 
 
 Yet playful as Peris just loosed from their cages, 
 
 "While her laugh, full of life, without any control 
 
 But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul ; 
 
 And where it most sparkled no glance could discover, 
 
 In lip, cheek, or eyes, for she brighten'd all over, — 
 
 Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon, 
 
 "When it breaks into dimples and laughs in the sun. 
 
 Such, such were the peerless enchantments, that gave 
 
 NouRMAHAL the proud Lord of the East for her slave. 
 
 Yet all tliese fascinations suiBce not to protect tlie lovely Sultana 
 from the clouds and tempests wliicli all who sail on love's summer 
 sea invariably encounter, and they are described with an eloquence 
 to which the fair maidens and beautiful brides of our own land 
 might give ear, perchance, not without instruction. 
 
 Alas I — how light a cause may move 
 
 Dissension between hearts that love! 
 
 Hearts that the world in vain had tried. 
 
 And sorrow but more closely tied ; 
 
 That stood the storm, when waves were rough, 
 
 Yet in a sunny hour foil off. 
 
 Like ships that have gone down at sea, 
 
 "When heaven was all tranquillity! 
 
THE LIGHT OF THE HAKAM. 125 
 
 A something, light as aii- — a look, 
 
 A word unkind or wrongly taken — 
 Oh I love, that tempests never shook, 
 
 A breath, a touch like this hath shaken. 
 And ruder words will soon rush in 
 To spread the breach that words begin; 
 And eyes forget the gentle ray 
 They wore in courtship's smiling day ; 
 And voices lose the tone that shed 
 A tenderness round all they said ; 
 Till fast declining, one by one. 
 The sweetnesses of love are gone, 
 And hearts, so lately mingled, seem 
 Like broken clouds, — or like the stream, 
 That smiling left the mountain's brow 
 
 As though its waters ne'er could sever, 
 Yet, ere it reach the plain below. 
 
 Breaks into floods, that part for ever. ■ 
 
 Oh, you, that have the charge of Love, 
 
 Keep liim in rosy bondage bound. 
 As in the 'Fields of Bliss above 
 
 He sits, with flow'rets fetter'd round; — 
 Loose not a tie that round him clings. 
 Nor ever let him use his wings; 
 For ev'n an hour, a minute's flight 
 Will rob the plumes of half their light. 
 Like that celestial bird, — whose nest 
 
 Is found beneath far Eastern skies, — 
 "Whose wings, though radiant when at rest, 
 
 Lose all their glory when he flies! 
 
 These exquisite beauties of thought aud Lxnguage, jDrelude the 
 estrangement of the peerless Nourmahal from her royal lover. Op- 
 pressed by love and sorrow, each pursues a different mode of relief, 
 the latter, to gather around himself all the delights of luxury; the 
 Sid. 12» 
 
1 20 THE LIGHT OF THE H A E A M . 
 
 former, under the dii'ection of Namouna a famed enchantress, to 
 procure, and combine the requisite flowei's wherewith to compose a 
 wreath, which shall confer on its wearer the power of regaining lost 
 affection. 
 
 Then, rajjidl}', with foot as light 
 As the young musk-roe's, out she flew, 
 To cull each shining leaf that grew 
 Beneath the moonlight's hallowing beams, 
 For this enchanted Wreath of Dreams. 
 Anemones and Seas of Gold, 
 
 And new-blown lilies of the river, 
 And those sweet flow'rets, that unfold 
 
 Their buds on Camadeva's quiver; — 
 The tube-rose, with her silv'ry light, 
 
 That in the Gardens of Malay 
 Is call'd the Mistress of the Night, 
 So like a bride, scented and bright, 
 
 She comes out when the sun's away; — 
 Amaranths, such as crown the maids 
 That wander through Zamaea's shades; — 
 And the white moon-flow'r, as it shows, 
 On Seeendib's high crags, to those 
 Who near the isle at evening sail. 
 Scenting her clove-trees in the gale; 
 In short, all flow'rets and all plants, 
 
 From the divine Amrita tree. 
 That blesses heaven's inhabitants 
 
 With fruits of immortality, 
 Down to the basil tuft, that waves. 
 Its fragrant blossom over graves, 
 
 And to the humble rosemary, 
 Whose sweets so thanklessly are shed 
 To scent the desert and the dead: — 
 All in that garden bloom, and all 
 Are gather'd by young Noukmaeal, 
 
THE LIGHT OF THE UAKAM. 127 
 
 Who heaps her baskets with the flow'rs 
 
 And leaves, till they can hold no more; 
 Then to Namouxa flies, and shovv'rs 
 
 Upon her lap the shining store. 
 
 TJf; mystic wreath being duly woven beneatli the incantations 
 of the sorceress, sleep descends upon tlie eyelids of Nourmahal, and 
 a spirit of music and light makes her whole being vocal with his 
 melodious dream songs. She wakes radiant with happiness, her 
 heart bounding, her eyes sparkling, and in her ear yet thrilling the 
 entrancing sounds, "thy lover shall sigh at thy feet again." We 
 next behold her at a banquet in the royal gardens, disguised as an 
 Arab maid. 
 
 Th' Imperial Selim held a feast 
 In his magnificent Shalimar; — 
 In whose Saloons, when the first star 
 Of evening o'er the waters trembled, 
 The Valley's loveliest all assembled; 
 All the bright creatures that, like dreams, 
 Glide through its foliage, and drink beams 
 Of beauty from its founts and streams; 
 And all those wand'ring minstrel-maids, 
 Who leave — how can they leave? — the shades 
 Of that dear Valley, and are found 
 
 Singing in gardens of the South 
 Those songs, that ne'er so sweetly sound 
 
 As from a young Cashmerian's mouth. 
 
 There, too, the Haram's inmates smile ; — 
 Maids from the West, with sun-bright hair, 
 
 And from the Garden of the Nile, 
 Delicate as the roses there; — 
 
 Daughters of Love from Cyprus' rocks. 
 
 With Paphian diamonds in their locks; — 
 
128 T n K LIGHT OF THE II A U A M . 
 
 Light Peri forms, such as they are 
 On the gold meads of C.■v^'DAHAR ; 
 And they, before whose sleepy eyes, 
 
 In their own bright Kathaian bow'rs, 
 Sparkle such rainbow butterflies, 
 
 That they might fancy the rich flow'rs, 
 That round them in the sun lay sighing, 
 Had been by magic all set flying. 
 
 Every tiling j-oung, every thing fair 
 From East and West is blushing there, 
 Except — except — oh, Nourjiahal ! 
 Thou loveliest, dearest of them all. 
 The one, whose smile shone out alone, 
 Amidst a world the only one; 
 Whose light, among so many lights, 
 Was like that star on starry nights, 
 The seaman singles from the sky. 
 To steer his bark for ever by 1 
 Thou wert not there — so Selim thought. 
 
 And every thing seem'd drear without thee; 
 But, ah ! thou wert, thou wert, — and brought 
 
 Thy charm of song all fresh about thee ; 
 Mingling unnoticed with a band 
 Of lutanists from many a land. 
 And veil'd by such a mask as shades 
 The features of young Arab maids, — 
 A mask that leaves but one eye free. 
 To do its best in witcherj', — 
 She roved, with beating heart, around, 
 
 And waited, trembling, for the minute. 
 When she might try if still the sound 
 
 Of her loved lute had magic in it. 
 
 The board was sjDread with fruits and wine; 
 With grapes of gold, like those that shine 
 On Casein's hills; — pomegranates full 
 Of melting sweetness, and the pears, 
 
THE LIGHT OF THE HARAM. 129 
 
 And sunniest apples that Caubul 
 
 In all its thousand gardens bears; — 
 Plantains, the golden and the green, 
 Malaya's nectar'd mangusteen ; 
 Prunes of Bokhara, and sweet nuts 
 
 From the far groves of Samarcand, 
 And Basra dates, and apricots, 
 
 Seed of the Sun, from Iran's land ; — 
 "With rich conserve of Visna cherries, 
 Of orange flowers, and of those berries 
 That, wild and fresh, the young gazelles 
 Feed on in Erac's rocky dells. 
 All these in richest vases smile. 
 
 In baskets of pure sandal-wood. 
 And urns of porcelain from that isle 
 Sunk underneath the Indian flood, 
 "Whence oft the lucky diver brings 
 Vases to grace the halls of kings. 
 "Wines, too, of every clime and hue, 
 Around their liquid lustre threw; 
 Amber Eosolli, — the bright dew 
 From vineyards of the Green-Sea gushing ; 
 And Shiraz wine, that richly ran 
 As if that jewel, large and rare. 
 The ruby for which Kublai-Khan 
 Offer'd a city's wealth, was blushing, 
 Melted within the goblets there! 
 
 A Georgian slave now gracefully advances, and, accompanying lier 
 v:>lce on an Indian Syrinda, or guitar, sings a wild and voluptuous 
 strain. 
 
 Come hither, come hither— by night and by day, 
 "We linger in pleasures that never are gone; 
 
 Like the wa^ es of the summer, as one dies away. 
 Another as sweet and as shining comes on. 
 
1 30 T H E. L I G H T OF T 11 K H A R A Si 
 
 And the love that is o'er, in expiring, gives birth 
 
 To a new one as warm, as unequall'd in bliss; 
 And, oh ! if there be an Elysium on earth, 
 It is this, it is this. 
 
 Here maidens are sighing, and fragrant their sigh 
 As the flovv'r of the Amra just oped by a bee ; 
 
 And precious their tears as that rain from the sky, 
 "Which turns into pearls as it falls in the sea. 
 
 Oh ! think what the kiss and the smile must be worth 
 When the sigh and the tear are so perfect in bliss. 
 
 And own if there be an Elysium on earth, 
 It is this, it is this. 
 
 Here sparkles the nectar, that, hallow'd by love. 
 
 Could draw down those angels of old from their sphere, 
 
 Who for wine of this earth left the fountains above, 
 And forgot heaven's stars for the eyes we have here. 
 
 And, bless'd with the odor our goblet gives forth. 
 What Spirit the sweets of his Eden would miss? 
 
 For, oh ! if there be an Elysium on earth, 
 It is this, it is this. 
 
 The Georgian's song was scarcely mute. 
 
 When the same measure, sound for sound. 
 Was caught up by another lute. 
 
 And so divinely breathed around. 
 That all stood hush'd and wondering. 
 
 And turn'd and look'd into the air. 
 As if they thought to see the wing. 
 
 Of IsRAFiL, the Angel, there ; — 
 So pow'rfally on ev'ry soul 
 That new, enchanted measure stole. 
 While now a voice, sweet as the note 
 Of the charra'd lute, was heard to float 
 
THE LIGHT OF THE II ARAM, 
 
 131 
 
 Along its chords, and so entwine 
 
 Its sounds witli theirs, that none knew whether 
 The voice or lute was most divine. 
 
 So wondrously they went together: — 
 
 There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told, 
 "When two, that are link'd in one heav'nly tie, 
 
 With heart never changing, and brow never cold. 
 Love on through all ills, and love on till th3y die! 
 
 One hour of a passion so sacred is worth 
 Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss • 
 
 And, oh ! if there be an Elysium on earth. 
 It is this, it is this. 
 
 'Twas not the air, 'twas not the words. 
 But that deep magic in the chords 
 And in the lips, that gave such pow'r 
 As Music knew not till that hour. 
 At once a hundred voices said, 
 "It is the mask'd Arabian maid!" 
 While Selim, who had felt the strain 
 Deepest of any, and had lain 
 Some minutes rapt as in a trance. 
 
 After the fairy sounds were o'er, 
 Too inly touch'd for utterance. 
 
 Now motion'd with his hand for more:— 
 
 Fly to the desert, fly with me. 
 
 Our Arab tents are rude for thee; 
 
 But, oh! the choice what heart can doubt, 
 
 Of tents with love, or thrones without? 
 
 Our rocks are rough, but smiling there 
 Th' acacia waves her yellow hair. 
 Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less 
 For flow'ring in a wilderness. 
 
132 THE LIGHT OF THE HARAM, 
 
 Our sands are bare, but down their slope 
 
 The silv'ry-footed antelope 
 
 As gracefully and gayly springs 
 
 As o'er the marble courts of kings. 
 
 Then come — thy Arab maid will be 
 The loved and lone acacia-tree, 
 The antelope, whose feet shall bless 
 With their light sound thy loneliness. 
 
 Oh! there are looks and tones that dart 
 An instant sunshine through the heart, — ■ 
 As if the soul that minute caught 
 Some treasure it through life had sought ; 
 
 As if the very lips and eyes, 
 Predestined to have all bur sighs. 
 And never be forgot again, 
 Sparkled and spoke before us then ! 
 
 So came thy ev'ry glance and tone 
 When first on me they breathed and shone; 
 New, as if brought from other spheres, 
 Yet welcome as if loved for years. 
 
 Then fly with me, — if thou hast known 
 No other flame, nor falsely thro^vn 
 A gem away, that thou hadst sworn 
 Should ever in thy heart be worn. 
 
 Come, if the love thou hast for me. 
 Is pure and fresh as mine for thee, — 
 Fresh as the fountain under ground. 
 When first 'tis by the lapwing found. 
 
 But if for me thou dost forsake 
 Some other maid, and rudely break 
 
THE LIGHT OF THE HARAM. 133 
 
 Her worsliipp'd image from its base, 
 To give to me the ruiu'd place ; — 
 
 Then, fare thee well — I'd rather make 
 My bower upon some icy lake 
 When thawing suns begin to shine, 
 Then trust to love so false as thine 1 
 
 There was a pathos in this lay, 
 
 That, ev'n without enchantment's art, 
 Would instantly have found its way 
 
 Deep into Selim's burning heart; 
 But, breathing, as it did, a tone 
 To earthly lutes and lips unknown ; 
 With every chord fresh from the touch 
 Of Music's Spirit, — 'twas too much 1 
 Starting, he dash'd away the cup, — 
 
 Which, all the time of this sweet air, 
 His hand had held, untasted, up, 
 
 As if 'twere fix'd by magic there, — 
 And naming her, so long unnamed. 
 So long unseen, wildly exclaim'd, 
 
 " Oh NOURMAHAL ! oh NOURMAHAL ! 
 
 "Hadst thou but sung this witching strain, 
 " I could forget — forgive thee all, 
 
 " And never leave those eyes again." 
 
 The mask is off — the charm is wrought — 
 And Selim to his heart has caught. 
 In blushes, more than ever bright. 
 His NouRMAHAL, his Haram's Light I 
 
 Sio. 13 
 
THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS. 
 
 Who does not at times cast an ardent, longing glance toward 
 the spirit-land ? peopling it witli beings wlio to the attributes of 
 heaven's bright world unite the gentle s}Tupathie3 and holy charities 
 of this. For the existence of such an order of beings we have 
 the assurance of Holy Wiit, the awful glimpses of the death-bed, 
 and the traditions of all mankind, in every age and nation of 
 the world. 
 
 Moore informs us that, in choosing the subject of this poetical 
 romance, he was influenced by the desire "to shadow out the fall 
 of the soul from its original purity; the loss of light and hap- 
 piness which it suffers in the pursuit of perishable pleasures, and 
 the consequent punishment it undergoes both from conscience and 
 Di%ane justice ;" it being his wish to impart to it " a moral influ- 
 ence." He then introduces, at the glorious and mournful hour of 
 sunset, a group of fallen angels, who are described seated on the 
 side of a hill. 
 
 And, as they look'd, from time to time, 
 
 To the far sky, where Daylight furl'd 
 His radiant wing, their brows sublime 
 
 Bespoke them of that distant world — • 
 Spirits, who once, in brotherhood 
 Of faith and bliss, near Alla stood. 
 And o'er whose cheeks full oft had blown 
 The wind that breathes fro^m Alla's throne. 
 134 
 
THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS." 135 
 
 Inspired by tlie influences of the liour, each relates the story 
 of his love. Commencing with that of the First Angel, we extract 
 his description of Lea, the beautiful object of his fatal passion, 
 as she first appeared when he beheld her sj^orting in the founta'n. 
 
 I saw, from the blue element — 
 
 Oh beautiful, but fatal sight ! 
 One of earth's fairest womankind, 
 Half veil'd from view, or rather shrined 
 In the clear crystal of a brook ; 
 
 Which, whilp it hid no single gleam 
 Of her young beauties, made them look 
 
 More spirit-like, as they might seem 
 
 Through the dim shadowing of a dream. 
 Pausing in wonder I look'd on, 
 
 While, playfully around her breaking 
 The waters, that like diamonds shone. 
 
 She moved in light of her own making. 
 
 At length, as from that airy height 
 I gently lower'd my breathless flight. 
 The tremble of my wing all o'er 
 
 (For through each plume I felt the thrill) 
 Startled her, as she reach'd the shore 
 
 Of that small lake — her mirror still — - 
 Above whose brink she stood, like snow 
 When rosy with a sunset glow. 
 Never shall I forget those eyes! — 
 The shame, the innocent surprise 
 Of that bright face, when in the air 
 Uplooking, she beheld me there. 
 It seem'd as if each thought, and look, 
 
 And motion, were that minute chain'd 
 Fast to the spot, such root she took, 
 And — like a sunflower by a brook. 
 
 With face ujjturn'd — so still remain'dl 
 
136 THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS. 
 
 Casting down his eyes in pity to her confusion, she in that 
 moment makes her escape ; thenceforth his sole task is to hover 
 around her, and to press his suit with all the ardor of unholy 
 love. Well would it be for the dignity of the sex were all libertine 
 avowals received as that of the angel's to Lea. 
 
 Had you but seen her look, when first 
 From my mad lips th' avowal burst; 
 Not anger'd — no — the feeling came 
 From depths beyond mere anger's flame — 
 It was a sorrow, calm as deep, 
 A mournfulness that could not weep. 
 So fill'd her heart was to the brink, 
 So fix'd and froz'n with grief, to think 
 That angel natures — that ev'n I, 
 Whose love she clung to, as the tie 
 Between her spirit and the sky — 
 Should fall thus headlong from the height 
 Of all that heav'n hath pure and bright ! 
 
 Bewildered and remorseful, he is on the point of naming tne 
 spell-word by which his native skies should again be ascended; 
 but passion breathes on the good resolve; it is consumed in a 
 moment, and he rushes to a banquet 
 
 where, full of mirth, 
 Came — crowding thick as flow'rs that play 
 In summer winds — the young and gay 
 
 And beautiful of this bright earth. 
 And she was there, and 'mid the young 
 
 And beautiful stood first, alone ; 
 Though on her gentle brow still hung 
 
 The shadow I that morn had thrown — 
 The first, that ever shame or woe 
 Had cast upon its vernal snow. 
 
THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS. 137 
 
 My heart was madden'd; — in the flush 
 
 Of the wild revel I gave way 
 To all that frantic mirth — that rush 
 
 Of desp'rate gayety, which they, 
 Who never felt how pain's excess 
 Can break out thus, think happiness! 
 Sad mimicry of mirth and life. 
 Whose flashes come but from the strife 
 Of inward passions — like the light 
 Struck out by clashing swords in fight. 
 
 From tlie orgies of the revel, with tortured spirit, flushed cheek, 
 and burning brow, the erring angel seeks her pure and vestal 
 presence, of whose love he has hitherto shown himself so unworthy. 
 The deep sUence of the shadowy gardens, the white robes of Lea 
 gleaming beneath the dark cypresses, and the various lulling sounds 
 which make night so beautiful, contrast finely with the previous 
 Bcene. 
 
 I sought her in the accustom'd bow'r, 
 Where late we oft, when da^^ was gone, 
 And the world hush'd, had met alone, 
 
 At the same silent, moonlight hour. 
 Her eyes, as usual, were upturn'd 
 To her loved star, whose lustre burn'd 
 Purer than ever on that night; 
 While she, in looking, grew more bright, 
 As though she borrow'd of its light. 
 
 There was a virtue in that scene, 
 
 A spell of holiness around. 
 Which, had my burning brain not been 
 
 Thus madden'd, would have held me bound, 
 
 As though I trod celestial ground. 
 Ev'n as it was, with soul all flame, 
 
 And lips that burn'd in their own sighs, 
 
138 THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS. 
 
 I stood to gaze, with awe and shame — 
 The memory of Eden came 
 
 Full o'er me when I saw those eyes; 
 And though too well each glance of mine 
 
 To the pale, shrinking maiden proved 
 How far, alas, from aught divine, 
 Aught worthy of so pure a shrine, 
 
 Was the wild love with which I loved, 
 Yet must she, too, have seen — oh yes, 
 
 'Tis soothing but to think she saw 
 The deep, true, soul-felt tenderness, 
 
 The homage of an Angel's awe. 
 
 In this scene the moral influence of female charms, more power- 
 fully displayed than in a thousand meretricious blandishments, 
 recalls to the angel his better nature, and he implores but one 
 embrace ere j ronouncing the spell that plumes his wing for heaven. 
 
 While thus I spoke, the fearful maid, 
 Of me, and of herself afraid, 
 Had shrinking stood, like flow'rs beneath 
 The scorching of the south-wind's breath : 
 But when I named — alas, too well, 
 
 I now recall, though wilder'd then, — 
 Instantly, when I named the spell. 
 
 Her brow, her eyes uprose again, 
 And, with an eagerness, that spoke 
 The sudden light that o'er her broke, 
 "The spell, the spell! — oh, speak it now, 
 
 " And I will bless thee !" she exclaim'd — 
 
 Unknowing what I did, inflamed. 
 And lost already, on her brow 
 
 I stamp'd one burning kiss, and named 
 The mystic word, till then ne'er told 
 To living creature of earth's mould ! 
 Scarce was it said, when, quick as thought. 
 Her lips from mine, like echo, caught 
 
THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS. 13C 
 
 The holy sound — her hands and eyes 
 
 Were instant lifted to the skies, 
 
 And thrice to heav'n she spoke it out 
 
 With that triumphant look Faith wears, 
 When not a cloud of fear or doubt, 
 
 A vapor from this vale of tears. 
 
 Between her and her God appears I 
 That very moment her whole frame 
 All bright and glorified became, 
 And at her back I saw unclose 
 Two wings, magnificent as those 
 
 That sparkle around Alla's Throne, 
 Whose plumes, as buoj-antly she rose, 
 
 Above me, in the moonbeam shone 
 With a pure light, which — from its hue, 
 Unknown upon this earth — I knew 
 Was light from Eden, glist'ning through I 
 Most holy vision ! ne'er before 
 
 Did aught so radiant — since the day 
 When Eblis, in his downfall, bore 
 
 The third of the bright stars away — 
 Eise, in earth's beauty, to repair 
 That loss of light and glory there! 
 But did I tamely view her flight? 
 
 Did not I, too, proclaim out thrice 
 The pow'rful words that were, that night, — 
 Oh, ev'n for heaven too much delight! — 
 
 Again to bring us, eyes to eyes. 
 
 And soul to soul, in Paradise ? 
 I did — I spoke it o'er and o'er — 
 
 I pray'd, I wept, but all in vain ; 
 For me the spell had pow'r no more. 
 
 There seem'd around me some dark chain 
 Wliich still, as I essay'd to soar, 
 
 Baffled, alas, each wild endeavor: 
 Dead lay my wings, as they have lain 
 Since that sad hour, and will remain — 
 
 So wills the offended God — for ever! 
 
THE SECOND ANGEL'S STORY. 
 
 In the opening of tills poem, the creation of Eve is so exquisitely 
 delineated, whilst made subservient to the main purpose of the 
 poem, that pity is involuntarily awakened for the recreant angel, 
 who, subdued by wonder and admiration, relinquishes hearen in 
 the presumptuous hope to fathom that purest and holiest of its 
 mysteries, a woman's heart. 
 
 You both remember -well the day, 
 
 When unto Eden's new-made bow're, 
 Alla convoked the bright array 
 
 Of his supreme angelic pow'rs, 
 To witness the one wonder yet, 
 
 Beyond man, angel, star, or sun, 
 He must achieve, ere he could set 
 
 His seal upon the world, as done — 
 To see that last perfection rise, 
 
 That crowning of creation's birth. 
 When, mid the worship and surprise 
 Of circling angels, Woman's eyes 
 
 First open'd upon heav'n and earth ; 
 And from their lids a thrill was sent, 
 That through eacli living spirit went, 
 Like first light through the firmament! 
 Can you forget how gradual stole 
 The fresh-awaken'd breath of soul 
 Throughout her perfect form — which seem'd 
 To grow transparent, as there beam'd 
 That dawn of Mind within, and caught 
 New loveliness from each new thought? 
 140 
 
THE SECOND ANGEL's STORY. 141 
 
 Slow as o'er summer seas we trace 
 
 The progress of the noontide air, 
 Dimpling its bright and silent face 
 Each minute into some new grace, 
 
 And varying heav'n's reflections there — 
 Or, like the light of evening stealing 
 
 O'er some fair temple, which all day 
 Hath slept in shadow, slow revealing 
 
 Its several beauties, ray by ray, 
 Till it shines out, a thing to bless, 
 All full of light and loveliness. 
 Can you forget her blush, when round 
 Through Eden's lone, enchanted ground 
 She look'd, and saw, the sea — the skies — 
 
 And heard the rush of many a wing, 
 
 On high behests then vanishing; 
 And saw the last few angel eyes. 
 Still ling'ring — mine among the rest, — - 
 Reluctant leaving scenes so blest? 
 From that miraculous hour, the fate 
 
 Of this new, glorious Being dwelt 
 For ever, with a spell-like weight. 
 Upon my spirit — early, late, 
 
 Whate'er I did, or dream'd, or felt, 
 The thought of what might yet befall 
 That matchless creature mis'd with all. — 
 Nor she alone, but her whole race 
 
 Through ages yet to come — whate'er 
 
 Of feminine, and fond, and fair. 
 Should spring from that pure mind and face, 
 
 All waked my soul's intensest care ; 
 Their forms, souls, feelings, still to me 
 Creation's strangest mystery! 
 
 The description of Eve after tlie fall suggests a picture of ten- 
 derness and beauty whicli has been rarely equalled; and, indeed, 
 in the works of no writer, ancient or modern, is the migut and 
 Sia. 13* 
 
142 THE SECOiS'D angel's STOET. 
 
 majesty of female loveliness depicted with such adorable grace as 
 iu those of Moore, to whom may be applied the anecdote which 
 he himself introduces of Anacreon, who, being blamed by his friends 
 for making woman his constant theme, while other poets chose 
 goddesses, briefly replied^" Woman is my goddess ! " 
 
 She, who brought death into the world, 
 
 There stood before him, with the light . 
 
 Of their lost Paradise still bright 
 Upon those sunny locks, that curl'd 
 Down her white shoulders to her feet — 
 So beautiful in form, so sweet 
 In heart and voice, as to redeem 
 
 The loss, the death of all things dear, 
 Except herself — and make it seem 
 
 Life, endless Life, while she was near I 
 
 By a happy thought Moore has transferred to the angel, while 
 yet in a state of innocence, those excursive flights and speculative 
 fancies concerning the wonders of eternity, which doubtless were 
 familiar to his own mind in those days of fervid boyhood, when 
 the youth so well gave promise of the man. 
 
 Oh what a vision were the stars, 
 
 When first I saw them burn on high, 
 
 Rolling along, like living cars 
 Of light, for gods to journey by ! 
 
 They were my heart's first passion — days 
 
 And nights, unwearied, in their rays 
 
 Have I hung floating, till each sense 
 
 Seem'd full of their bright influence. 
 
 Innocent joy ! alas, how much 
 Of misery had I shunn'd below, 
 
 Could I have still lived bless'd with such ; 
 Nor, proud and restless, burn'd to know 
 The knowledge that brings guilt and woo. 
 
THE SECOND ANGEL's STORY. 14? 
 
 Incited by those two formidable qualities for good or evil — un- 
 bounded zeal and insatiate curiosity, tbe creation of woman has 
 given new impetus to both ; and his eager search for some creature 
 lovely as the newly awakened Eve, whose beauty has inspired him 
 with wild idolatry for the sex, is at length crowned with success. 
 The beautiful Lilis, in the blaze of her manifold perfections, is thus 
 exquisitely presented. 
 
 There was a maid, of all who move 
 
 Like visions o'er this orb, most fit 
 To be a bright young angel's love, 
 
 Herself so bright, so exquisite ! 
 The pride, too, of her step, as light 
 
 Along th' unconscious earth she went, 
 Seem'd that of one, born with a right 
 
 To walk some heavenlier element, 
 And tread in places where her feet 
 A star at ev'ry step should meet. 
 'Twas not alone that loveliness 
 
 By which the wilder'd sense is caught — 
 Of lips, whose very breath could bless ; 
 
 Of playful blushes, that seem'd naught 
 
 But luminous escapes of thought; 
 Of eyes that, when by anger stirr'd. 
 Were fire itself, but, at a word 
 
 Of tenderness, all soft became 
 As though they could, like the sun's bird. 
 
 Dissolve away in their own flame — 
 Of form, as pliant as the shoots 
 
 Of a young tree, in vernal flower; 
 Yet round and glowing as the fruits, 
 
 That drop from it in summer's hour; — 
 Twas not alone this loveliness 
 
 That falls to lovehest women's share. 
 
 Though, even here, her form could spare 
 
144 THE SECOND ANGEL 
 
 From its own beauty's rich excess 
 
 Enough to malie ev'n them more fair — 
 But 'twas the Mind, outshining clear 
 Through her whole frame — the soul, still near, 
 To light each charm, yet independent 
 
 Of what it lighted, as the sun 
 That shines on flowers, would be resplendent 
 Were there no flowers to shine ujjon. 
 
 'Twas this, all this, in one combined — 
 Th' unnumber'd looks and arts that form 
 
 The glory of young woman-kind. 
 Taken, in their perfection, warm, 
 Ere time had chill'd a single charm. 
 
 And stamp'd with such a seal of Mind, 
 As gave to beauties, that might be 
 
 Too sensual else, too unrefined. 
 The impress of Divinity ! 
 
 'Twas this — a union, which the hand 
 
 Of Nature kept for her alone. 
 Of every thing most playful, bland. 
 Voluptuous, spiritual, grand. 
 
 In angel-natures and her own — 
 Oh this it was that drew me nigh 
 One, who seem'd kin to heaven as- I, 
 A bright twin-sister from on high — 
 One, in whose love, I felt, were given 
 
 The mix'd delights of either sphere. 
 All that the spirit seeks in heaven, 
 
 And all the senses burn for here. 
 
 A glance at the mind of tliis pure maiden, is like gazing amidst 
 the tranquillity of nature, through the floating lilies of some clear 
 lake, in whose ciystal depths the sky with all its stars is mirrored. 
 
THE SECOND ANGEl's STORY. 145 
 
 Vague wishes, fond imaginings, 
 
 Love-dreams, as yet no object knowing — 
 Light, winged hopes, that come when bid, 
 
 And rainbow joys that end in weeping; 
 And passions, among pure thoughts hid. 
 
 Like serpents under flowerets sleeping: — 
 'Mong all these feelings — felt where'er 
 Young hearts are beating — I saw there 
 Proud thoughts, aspirings high — beyond 
 Whate'er yet dwelt in soul so fond — 
 Glimjjses of glory, far away 
 
 Into the bright, vague future given ; 
 And fancies, free and grand, whose play, 
 
 Like that of eaglets, is near heaven! 
 With this, too — what a soul and heart 
 To fall beneath the tempter's art! — 
 A zeal for knowledge, such as ne'er 
 Enshrined itself in form so fair. 
 Since that first, fatal hour, when Eve, 
 
 With every fruit of Eden bless'd, 
 Save one alone — rather than leave 
 
 That one unrcach'd, lost all the rest. 
 
 The character of the erring angel, by turns sublime or grovel 
 ling, as the divine or human propensities prevail, enchains our 
 attention and commands our sympathies less by picturesque effect 
 and startling incident than by the unmasked display of a heart 
 palpitating with emotions, whose counterpart may be found in every 
 human breast, and whose language is common to all mankind; of 
 this the misery and chaos of a soul laboring under remorse is elo- 
 quent proof. 
 
 Days, months elapsed, and, though what most 
 
 On earth I sigh'd for was mine, all — 
 Yet — was I happy? God, thou know'st, 
 Sia. 14 
 
lie 'I' n K S 10 <) N D A N (1 10 L ' H S T OUT. 
 
 Howc'cr they smile, and feign, and boast, 
 
 What happiness is theirs, who fall I 
 'Twas bitterest anguish — made more keen 
 Ev'n by the love, the bliss, between 
 Whose throbs it came, like gleams of hell 
 
 In agonizing cross-light given 
 Athwart the glimpses, they who dwell 
 
 In purgatory catch of heaven! 
 * * * * * 
 
 Spite of my own heart's mortal chill, 
 Spite of that double-fronted sorrow. 
 
 Which looks at once before and back, 
 Beholds the yesterday, the morrow. 
 
 And sees both comfortless, both bhick — 
 Spite of all this, I could have still 
 In her delight forgot all ill ; 
 Or, if pain ■would not be forgot, 
 At least have borne and murmur'd not. 
 When thoughts of an olFoiulcd heaven. 
 
 Of wnfuliu^ss, whif.h I — ev'n 1, 
 While down lis st('('|) most. licnilldnL:; driven — 
 Well know could urvcr Ih- liirj^ivcn, 
 
 Canio o'er me with an agony 
 TV'yoiid all vcacli of mortal woo — 
 A loi'luro l^opl, for those wlio know. 
 Know cvcri/ thing, and — worst of all — 
 Know and love Virtue while they fall I 
 
 Tlid iiiouriiful beauty of flic lonowiiii,' lines will strike a chord 
 of sorrowful rcmombvance in t-liosc w lu>, oppressed hy similar pre- 
 scntiinents, have ti'eiiililiii^ly watclietl from day to day the super- 
 human irradiafioii of couuteuanco, the vivid bloom and trausj)arent 
 delicacy, which, like the rosy and fleeting clouds of sunset, have 
 surrounded llie fast-sinking oi'I) of some sweet life whose loss has 
 broui^ht darkness that never grows truly bright again. 
 
THE SECOND ANGEL 's 8TOKY. 147 
 
 Oft, too, when that disheartening fear. 
 
 Which all who love, beneath yon sky, 
 Feel, when they gaze on what is dear — 
 
 The dreadful thought that it must die I 
 That desolating thought, which comes 
 Into men's happiest hours and homes; 
 Whose melancholy boding flings 
 Death's shadow o'er the brightest things, 
 Sicklies the infant's bloom, and spreads 
 The grave beneath young lovers' heads! 
 This fear, so sad to all — to me 
 
 Most full of sadness, from the thought 
 That I must still live on, when she 
 Would, like the snow that on the sea 
 
 Fell yesterday, in vain be sought; 
 That heaven to mo this final seal 
 
 Of all earth's sorrow would deny. 
 And I eternally must feel 
 
 The death-pang, without power to die! 
 
 'iTie garden scene breathes the very spirit of melancholy fore 
 boding, and prepares the mind for the tragic sequel, when the young 
 and blooming Lills proudly aspiring to share the embrace of her 
 lover, arrayed in all his glory as an angel of heaven, with fatal 
 persuasion at last induces him to gi'ant her request. 
 
 How could I pause? how cv'n let fall 
 
 A word, a whisper that could stir 
 In her proud heart a doubt, that all 
 
 I brought from heaven belong'd to her. 
 Slow from her side I rose, while she 
 Arose, too, mutely, tremblingly, 
 But not with fear — all hope, and prido^ 
 
 She waited for the awful boon. 
 Like priestesses, at eventide, 
 
 Watching the rise of the full moon, 
 
148 THE SECOND ANGEL'sSTOEY. 
 
 Whose liglit, when once its orb hath shone, 
 'Twill madden them to look upon I 
 
 Of all my glories, the bright crown, 
 
 "Which, when I last from heaven came down, 
 
 Was left behind me, in yon star 
 
 That shines from out those clouds afar, — 
 
 Where, relic sad, 'tis treasured yet. 
 
 The downfallen angel's coronet ! — 
 
 Of all my glories, this alone 
 
 Was wanting: — but th' illumined brow, 
 
 The sun-bright locks, the eyes that now 
 Had love's spell added to their own. 
 And pour'd a light till then unknown ; — 
 
 Th' unfolded wings, that, in their play, 
 Shed sparkles bright as Alla's throne ; 
 
 All I could bring of heaven's array, 
 
 Of that rich panoply of charms 
 
 A Cherub moves in, on the day 
 Of his best pomp, I now put on ; 
 And, jDroud that in her eyes I shone 
 
 Thus glorious, glided to her arms; 
 Which still (though, at a sight so splendid, 
 
 Her dazzled brow had, instantly. 
 Sunk on her breast) were wide extended 
 
 To clasp the form she durst not see 1 
 Great Heaven! how could thy vengeance ligb 
 So bitterly on one so bright ? 
 How could the hand, that gave such charms, 
 Blast them again, in love's own arms? 
 Scarce had I touch'd her shrinking frame 
 
 When — oh most horrible! — I felt 
 That every spark of that pure flame — 
 
 Pure, while among the stars I dwelt- 
 Was now, by my transgression, turn'd 
 Into gross, earthly fire, which burn'd, 
 Burn'd all it touch'd as fast ae eye 
 
 Could follow the fierce, ravening flashes; 
 
THE SECOND ANGEL's STOET. ] 40 
 
 Till there — oh God, I still ask why- 
 Such doom was hers?- — I saw her lie 
 
 Blackening within my arms to ashes I 
 That brow, a glory but to see — 
 
 Those lips, whose touch was what the first 
 Fresh cup of immortality 
 
 Is to a new-made angel's thirst! 
 Those clasping arms, within whose round — 
 My heart's horizon— the whole bound 
 Of its hope, prospect, heaven was found ! 
 Which, even in this dread moment, fond 
 
 As when they first were round me cast, 
 Loosed not in death the fatal bond. 
 
 But, burning, held me to the last! 
 All, all, that, but that morn, had seem'd 
 As if Love's self there breathed and beam'd, 
 Now, parch'd and black, before me lay. 
 Withering in agony away; 
 And mine, oh misery ! mine the flame, 
 From which the desolation came; — 
 I, the cursed spirit, whose caress 
 Had blasted all that loveliness! 
 
 'Twas maddening! — but now hear even worse- 
 Had death, death only, been the curse 
 I brought upon her — had the doom 
 But ended here, when her young bloom 
 Lay in the dust — and did the spirit 
 No part of that fell curse inherit, 
 'Twere not so dreadful — ^but, come near — • 
 Too shocking 'tis for earth to hear. 
 
 Just when her eyes, in fading, took 
 Their last, keen, agonized farewell. 
 
 And look'd in mine with — oh, that look ! 
 Great vengeful Power, whate'er the hell 
 
 Thou mayst to human souls assign, 
 
 The memory of that look is mine! — 
 
 SlG. 11« 
 
1»0 THE SECOND ANGEl's 8T0RT. 
 
 In her last struggle, on my brow 
 
 Her asby lips a kiss impress'd, 
 So witbering ! — I feel it now — 
 
 'Twas iire — but fire ev'n more unbless'd 
 Tban was my own, and like tbat flame, 
 Tbe angels sbudder but to name 
 Hell's everlasting element I 
 
 Deep, deep it pierced into my brain, 
 Madd'ning and torturing as it went; 
 
 And here — mark here, tbe brand, tbe stain 
 It left upon my front — burnt in 
 By tbat last kiss of love and sin — 
 A brand, wbicb aU tbe pomp and pride 
 Of a fallen Spirit cannot bidel 
 
 ThrougLout this little poetic drama, as in tliat of life, the ser- 
 p<!nt passions become to tlieii" possessors the most torturing avengers ; 
 with this moral ever in view, the poet follows its shining thread 
 through the intricate mazes of human thought and human feeling, 
 lighting up in all their bliss and all their agony the death paths 
 of ungovernable pride and unhallowed affection, and pro\ang, more- 
 over, that intellect, when worn ignobly, brings ruin and disgrace 
 even upon an angel. 
 
 i 
 
THE THIRD ANGEL'S STORY. 
 
 The first creative thought from wLicli, like a flower of Paradise, 
 this poem hath expanded, is too replete with truth and beauty 
 to be given in other words than those of the author. 
 
 Alas, that it should e'er have been 
 
 In heav'n as 'tis too often here. 
 Where nothing fond or bright is seen, 
 
 But it hath pain and perils near ; — 
 Where right and wrong so close resemble. 
 
 That what we take for virtue's thrill 
 Is often the first downward tremble 
 
 Of the heart's balance unto ill; 
 Where Love hath not a shrine so pure, 
 
 So holy, but the serpent, Sin, 
 In moments, ev'n the most secure. 
 
 Beneath his altar may glide in ! 
 
 Those beautiful words form a fitting introduction to the pres- 
 ence of Zaraph, an angel whose whole being was love — full, intense, 
 for God and all his works — what wonder, then, that it should be 
 extended to one whose youthful loveliness, fii'st beheld in the act of 
 ■^d oration, seemed scarcely less an emanation of deity than himself! 
 
 Twas first at twilight, on the shore 
 Of the smooth sea, he heard the lute 
 
 And voice of her he loved steal o'er 
 The silver waters, that lay mute, 
 
 151 
 
152 THE THIRD AI^GEl's STORY. 
 
 As lotb, by even a breath, to stay 
 The pilgrimage of that sweet lay, 
 "Whose echoes still went on and on, 
 Till lost among the light that shone 
 Far off, beyond the ocean's brim — 
 
 There, where the rich cascade of day 
 Had o'er th' horizon's golden rim. 
 
 Into Elysium roll'd away 1 
 
 Of God she sung, and of the mild 
 
 Attendant Mercy, that beside 
 His awful throne for ever smiled. 
 
 Ready, with her white hand, to guide 
 His bolts of vengeance to their prey — 
 That she might quench them on the way I 
 Of Peace — of that Atoning Love, 
 Upon whose star, shining above 
 This twilight world of hope and fear, 
 
 The weeping eyes of Faith are fix'd 
 So fond, that with her every tear 
 
 The light of that love-star is mix'd ! — 
 All this she sung, and such a soul 
 
 Of piety was in that song. 
 That the charm'd Angel, as it stole 
 
 Tenderly to his ear, along 
 Those lulling waters where he lay. 
 Watching the dajdight's dying ray, 
 Thought 'twas a voice from out the wave, 
 An echo, that some sea-nymph gave 
 To Eden's distant harmony. 
 Heard faint and sweet beneath the seal 
 
 Quickly, however, to its source, 
 Tracing that music's melting course, 
 He saw, upon the golden sand 
 Of the sea-shore, a maiden stand. 
 Before whose feet th' expiring waves 
 Flung their last offering with a sigh — 
 
THE THIRD ANGEl's STOEY. 153 
 
 As, in the East, exhausted slaves 
 
 Lay down the far-brought gift, and die — 
 And, with her lute hung by her, hush'd, 
 
 As if unequal to the tide 
 Of song, that from her lips still gush'd, 
 
 She raised like one beatified, 
 Those eyes, whose light seem'd rather given 
 
 To be adored than to adore — 
 Such eyes, as may have look'd from heaven, 
 
 But ne'er were raised to it before! 
 
 To the Egyptian saying that " Music is the sister of Eeligion," 
 how many harmonious thoughts will at once bear a glad accord, — 
 its truth alike deeply felt in the humble village church as in the 
 stately temple of Osiris; or in that where many of its traces still 
 linger, and which almost rivals it in grandeur, the church of 
 Rome; amongst whose means for gaining proselytes that of music 
 is one of the most powerful ; piercing, and melting to its wiE, hearts 
 on which arguments, entreaty, or force had been employed in vain. 
 That Moore was of this opinion the succeeding extract will suffi- 
 ciently attest. 
 
 Oh Love, Eeligion, Music — all 
 
 That's left of Eden upon earth — 
 The only blessings, since the fall 
 Of our weak souls, that still recall 
 
 A trace of their high, glorious birth — 
 How kindred are the dreams you bring! 
 
 How Love, though unto earth so prone. 
 Delights to take religion's wing, 
 
 When time or grief hath stain'd his own I 
 How near to Love's beguiling brink, 
 
 Too oft, entranced Religion lies! 
 While Music, Music is the link 
 
 They hoth still hold by to the skies, 
 14* 
 
154 THE THIRD ANGEL's STORY. 
 
 The language of their native sphere, 
 Which they had else forgotten here. 
 
 How then could Zaraph fail to feel 
 
 That moment's witcheries? — one, so fair, 
 
 Breathing out music, that might steal 
 Heaven from itself, and rapt in prayer 
 That seraphs might be proud to share! 
 
 Oh, he did feel it, all too well — 
 
 With warmth, that far too dearly cost — 
 
 Nor knew he, when at last he fell. 
 
 To which attraction, to which spell, 
 Love, Music, or Devotion, most 
 His soul in that sweet houj was lost. 
 
 A wandering song of the beloved Nama, as borne tlirougli tie 
 leaves to the ear of her lover, whilst discoursing with the otter 
 angels, is one of those felicities for which Moore is so renowned. 
 
 Come, pray with me, my seraph love, 
 
 My angel-lord, come pray with me; 
 In vain to-night my lip hath strove 
 To send one holy prayer above — 
 The knee may bend, the lip may move, 
 
 But pray I cannot, without thee! 
 I've fed the altar in my bower 
 
 With droppings from the incense tree; 
 I've shelter'd it from wind and shower, 
 But dim it burns the livelong hour. 
 As if, like me, it had no power 
 
 Of life or lustre, without thee ! 
 
 A boat at midnight sent alone 
 
 To drift upon the moonless sea, 
 A lute, whose leading chord is gone, 
 
THE THIED ANGEL's STOET. 155 
 
 A wounded bird, that hath but one 
 Imperfect wing to soar upon, 
 Are like what I am, without thee! 
 
 Then ne'er, my spirit-love, divide. 
 
 In life or death, thyself from me ; 
 But when again, in sunny pride, 
 Thou walk'st through Eden, let me glide^ 
 A prostrate shadow, by thy side — 
 
 Oh happier thus than without thee!" 
 
 The transgression of ZarapL. and Nama is visited by no severer 
 doom than that of holy wedlock, subject to all the human joys and 
 sorrows of that changeful condition; but so excjuisitely is their 
 future life shadowed forth, such truth, tenderness, and grace infused 
 into the picture, that they seem but to have gained a heaven be- 
 low, for the one they have forfeited above. The poem thus beau- 
 tifolly concludes. 
 
 In what lone region of the earth 
 
 These Pilgrims now may roam or dwell, 
 God and the Angels, who look forth 
 
 To watch their steps, alone can tell. 
 But should we, in our wanderings. 
 
 Meet a young pair, whose beauty wants 
 But the adornment of bright wings. 
 
 To look like heaven's inhabitants — 
 Who shine where'er they tread, and yet 
 
 Are humble in their earthly lot. 
 As is the wayside violet. 
 
 That shines unseen, and were it not 
 
 For its sweet breath would be forgot — 
 Whose hearts, in every thought, are one, 
 
 Whose voices utter the same wUls — 
 
156 THE THIRD angel's 8T0ET, 
 
 Answering, as Echo doth some tone 
 
 Of fairy music 'mong the hills, 
 So like itself, we seek in vain 
 Which is the echo, which the strain — 
 Whose piety is love, whose love, 
 
 Though close as 'twere their souls' embrace^ 
 Is not of earth, but from above — 
 
 Like two fair mirrors, face to face, 
 Whose light, from one to th' other thrown, 
 Is heaven's reflection, not their own — 
 Should we e'er meet with aught so pure, 
 So perfect here, we may be sure 
 
 'Tis Zaeaph and his bride we see; 
 And call young lovers round, to view 
 The pilgrim pair, as they pursue 
 
 Their pathway towards eternity. 
 
Joh.Ti.6on, Try &; Company, PuJili<5lu3n3,New Yoik 
 
THE GEECIAN MAID. 
 
 In a few glowing words harmoniously strung together, Moore 
 presents us with a beautiful picture of Grecian girls, in all their 
 picturesque attire and wild abandonment of grief, bidding farewell 
 to their lovers, about to embark in the cause of Liberty. We see 
 the graceful forms, the flashing eyes, the long black hair, in all 
 the vai-ied attitude and unstudied expression of such a moment; 
 whUe one by one the boats leave the shore, watched over the 
 flashing ocean tUl their white sails are no longer visible. To the 
 excitement and consequent languor of a scene like this succeeds 
 that gay rebound of spirits so striking in the elastic children of 
 the South, bursting from the very shadow of grief into the sun- 
 shine of dance and song. 
 
 But say — what shall the measure be? 
 
 "Shall we the old Eomaika tread," 
 (Some eager ask'd) "as anciently 
 
 "'Twas by the maids of Delos led, 
 "When, slow at first, then circling fast, 
 "As the gay spirits rose — at last, 
 "With hand in hand, like links, enlock'd, 
 
 " Through the light air they seem'd to flit 
 "In labyrinthine maze, that mock'd 
 
 "The dazzled eye that follow'd it!" 
 Some call'd aloud "the Fountain Dance!" — 
 
 While one young, dark-eyed Amazon, 
 SiG. 16 157 
 
1 58 THEGREOIAWMAID. 
 
 Whose step was air-like, and whose glance 
 
 Flash'd, like a sabre in the sun, 
 Sportively saiJ, " Shame on these soft 
 "And languid strains we hear so oft. 
 " Daughters of Freedom ! have not we 
 
 "Learn'd from our lovers and our sires 
 " The Dance of Greece, while Greece was free — 
 
 " That Dance, where neither flutes nor lyres, 
 "But sword and shield clash on the ear 
 "A music tyrants quake to hear? 
 " Heroines of Zea, arm with me, 
 "And dance the dance of Victory!" 
 
 Thus saying, she, with playful grace. 
 Loosed the wide hat, that o'er her face 
 (From Anatolia came the maid) 
 
 Hung, shadowing each sunny charm; 
 And, with a fair young armorer's aid, 
 
 Fixing it on her rounded arm, 
 A mimic shield with pride display 'd ; 
 Then, springing tow'rds a grove that spread 
 
 Its canopy of foliage near, 
 Pluck'd off a lance-Hke twig, and said, 
 " To arms, to arms !" while o'er her head 
 
 She waved the light branch, as a spear. 
 
 Promptly the laughing maidens all 
 Obey'd their Chief's heroic call ; — 
 Eound the shield-arm of each was tied 
 
 Hat, turban, shawl, as chance might be ; 
 
 The grove, their verdant armory. 
 Falchion and lance alike supplied ; 
 
 And as their glossy locks, let free, 
 
 Fell down their shoulders carelessly, 
 You might have dream'd you saw a throng 
 
 Of youthful Thyads, by the beam 
 Of a May moon, bounding along 
 
 Pbneup' silver-eddied stream ! 
 
THE GRECIAK MAID. 159 
 
 And now they stejjp'd, with measured tread, 
 
 Martially, o'er the shining field; 
 Now, to the mimic combat led, 
 (A heroine at each squadron's head,) 
 
 Struck lance to lance and sword to shield: 
 While still, through every varying feat, 
 Their voices, heard in contrast sweet 
 With some, of deep but soften'd sound. 
 From lips of aged sires around. 
 Who smiling watch'd their children's play — 
 Thus sung the ancient Pyrrhic lay : — 
 
 SONG. 
 
 " Raise the buckler — poise the lance — 
 "Now here — now there — retreat — advance!" 
 
 Such were the sounds, to which the warrior boy 
 Danced in those happy days, when Greece was free; 
 
 When Sparta's youth, ev'n in the hour of joy, 
 Thus train 'd their steps to war and victory. 
 
 " Eaise the buckler — poise the lance — 
 
 " Now here — now there — retreat — advance !" 
 
 Such was the Spartan warriors' dance. 
 
 " Grasp the falchion — gird the shield — 
 
 "Attack — defend — do all, but yield." 
 
 Thus did thy sons, oh Greece, one glorious night. 
 Dance by the moon like this, till o'er the sea 
 
 That morning dawn'd by whose immortal light 
 They nobly died for thee and liberty ! 
 
 " Eaise the buckler — poise the lance — 
 
 " Now here — now there — retreat — advance 1" 
 
 Such was the Spartan heroes' dance. 
 
11 
 
 LESBIA. 
 
 Full of archness and gayety, every line of tliis enchanting song 
 bears an idea and a beauty all its own. Tlie courtly Lesbia and 
 artless Nora flit alternately tlirough tie pleased fancy, the peculiar 
 graces of each heightening and contrasting those of her rival: the 
 bashful glances of Nora seem more dear while gazing on the wild 
 coquettish gleam which animates those of Lesbia. 
 
 Lesbia hath a beaming eye, 
 
 But no one knows for whom it beameth ; 
 Eight and left its arrows fly. 
 
 But what they aim at no one dreameth. 
 Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon 
 
 My Nora's lid that seldom rises; 
 Few its looks, but every one, 
 Like unexpected light, surprises 1 
 
 Oh, my Nora Creina, dear, 
 My gentle, bashful Nora Creina, 
 Beauty lies 
 In many eyes. 
 But Love in yours, my Nora Creina. 
 
 Lesbia wears a robe of gold, 
 
 But all so close the nymph hath laced it, 
 Not a charm of beauty's mould 
 
 Presumes to stay where nature placed it, 
 160 
 
^^^-:-ifiw/mm-^/. 
 
 ■-. /" ' ' ' /. ^''/A//» . 
 
 y^^&^^iuzA' 
 
161 
 
 Oh ! my Nora's gown for me, 
 
 That floats as wild as mountain breezes, 
 Leaving every beauty free 
 
 To sink or swell as Heaven pleases. 
 
 Yes, my Nora Creina, dear, 
 
 My simple, graceful Nora Creina. 
 
 Nature's dress 
 
 Is loveliness — 
 
 The dress you wear, my Nora Creina. 
 
 Lesbia hath a wit refined, 
 
 But, when its points are gleaming round ua, 
 Who can tell if they're design'd 
 
 To dazzle merely, or to wound us? 
 Pillow'd on my Nora's heart, 
 
 In safer slumber Love reposes — 
 Bed of peace I whose roughest part 
 Is but the crumpling of the roses. 
 
 Oh ! my Nora Creina, dear. 
 My mild, my artless Nora Creina! 
 Wit, though bright, 
 Hath no such light. 
 As warms your eyes, my Nora Creina. 
 
 SiG. 15 
 
THE VESPER HYMN. 
 
 0:sE of tlie most impressive and picturesque features of Italian 
 travel is the Vesper Hymn : amidst the pomp and splendor of ca- 
 thedral worship ; in peaceful convent, on silent shore or glimmer- 
 ing ocean — wherever heard, that holy strain exerts a benign and 
 soothing influence. Not only the magnifico in his palace, the mar- 
 iner in his bark, the bright roses of the world, and the unsunned 
 lilies that bloom for God alone, acknowledge the softening spell of 
 the "Te Lucis Ante," but even the colder temperaments of a dif 
 ferent faith and chme bend the "knee of the heart" before the 
 devotion it inspu-es. 
 
 Hark! the vesper hymn is stealing 
 
 O'er the waters soft and clear; 
 Nearer yet and nearer pealing, 
 And now bursts upon the ear: 
 Jubilate, Amen. 
 Farther now, now forther stealing, 
 Soft it fades upon the ear: 
 Jubilate, Amen. 
 
 Now, like moonlight waves retreating 
 
 To the shore, it dies along; 
 Now, like angry surges meeting, 
 Breaks the mingled tide of song ■ 
 Jubilate, Amen. 
 Hush! again, like waves, retreating 
 To the shore, it dies along: 
 Jubilate, Amen. 
 162 
 
NEAKER YET 
 MIT) MOW 1 
 
THE VESPER HYMN. 163 
 
 By those wlio have heard the hymn " O Sanctissima," after sun- 
 set, along the shores of Sicily, prolonged by the echoes* of that 
 romantic region, its effect will long be remembered. By them, too, 
 will more readily be conceived that bright picture presented by 
 the historian, who tells, in the words of an eye-witness, "How 
 one evening when the ship of Columbus was in full sail and all 
 the men on their knees singing 'Salve Regina.'" To such scenes 
 and hours the Vesper Hymn of Moore peculiarly belongs. 
 
THE COMING STEP. 
 
 The coming step ! one of life's sweet music notes, listened to, 
 welcomed, and commented on in the little circle made glad by 
 its approach ; one of the home-charms especially dear to that 
 golden clasp of many links, the aged and adored mother, in whom 
 unite so many titles and ties of pure and sacred affection. Dear, 
 too, that note of home-returning, to loving wife, fair blushing, bride, 
 or gentle sLster, and ah ! perhaps more i:)recious than all, to the 
 conscious maiden, listening with fluttering heart and deepening blush, 
 her lover's well-known footstep, which she, though first to hear is 
 last to meet. Music of the heart ! how enchantingly is the com- 
 ing step of the fond father recognized and responded to by the 
 quick delighted cries of childhood, as with pattering feet and 
 joyful clamor they rush to meet hini at the threshold, their lit- 
 tle plump arms outstretched to receive, to cling around, and grasp 
 him anywhere, everywhere ! each little mouth pureed up ready 
 for the first kiss, the very first, whose loss has to be compen- 
 sated to the others by a double share of endearments, while gam- 
 bolling in the midst, bounding, l)arking, almost speaking his wild 
 joy, the favorite dog, completely one of themselves, gives vent 
 to the exuberance of his joy in a thousand canine extravagances. 
 Step of the beloved ! joy-note of the heart, how many and delight- 
 ful are thy echoes ! 
 164 
 
'oJ'Ti'inii, !'j.-y A Compaay, Pul)li3her.3, TTfwTbik. 
 
THE COMING STEP. IGi 
 
 Who lias not felt how sadly sweet 
 
 The dream of home, the dream of home, 
 Steals o'er the heart, too soon to fleet, 
 
 When far o'er sea or land we raam? 
 Sunlight more soft may o'er us foil. 
 
 To greener shores our bark may come; 
 But far more bright, more dear than all, 
 
 That dream of home, that dream of hor.ie. 
 
 Ask of the sailor youth when far 
 
 His light bark bounds o'er ocean's foam, 
 What charms him most, when ev'ning's star 
 
 Smiles o'er the wave ? to dream of home. 
 Fond thoughts of absent friends and loves 
 
 At that sweet hour around him come; 
 His heart's best joy where'er he roves, 
 
 That dream of home, that dream of home. 
 
THE MEETING OF THE W^. TEES. 
 
 To the inspiration produced by the romantic scenery around the 
 confluence of the rivere Avon and Avoca, between Rathdrum and 
 Arklow, in the county of Wicklow, the pubhc are indebted for this 
 celebrated song; one of those jewels, which, how long soever worn, 
 can never lose its lustre. The easy flow of the music, tinged like 
 the words with a tender melancholy, makes the heart of the lis- 
 tener an answering harp which vibrates long after the strain itseK 
 has ceased. A song like this, is a leaf of the real Delphic laurel. 
 
 There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet 
 As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet; 
 Oh ! the last rays of feeling and life must depart, 
 Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart. 
 
 Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene 
 Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ; 
 'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill, 
 Oh ! no, — it was something more exquisite still. 
 
 'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near. 
 Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, 
 And who felt how the best charms of nature improve. 
 When we see them reflected from looks that we love. 
 
 Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest 
 
 In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best. 
 
 Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease, 
 
 And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace. 
 
 166 
 
THE MEETING OF THE Wi^. TERS. 
 
 To the inspiration produced by the romantic scenery around the 
 confluence of the rivei's Avon and Avoca, between Rathdrum and 
 Ai'klow, in the county of Wicklow, the public are indebted for this 
 celebrated song ; one of those jewels, which, how long soever worn, 
 can never lose its lustre. The easy flow of the music, tinged like 
 the words with a tender melancholy, makes the heart of the lis- 
 tener an answering harp which vibrates long after the strain itself 
 has ceased. A song like this, is a leaf of the real Delphic laurel. 
 
 There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet 
 As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet; 
 Oh ! the last rays of feeling and life must depart, 
 Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart. 
 
 Yet it iuas not that Nature had shed o'er the scene 
 Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ; 
 'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill, 
 Oh! no, — it was something more exquisite still. 
 
 'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near. 
 Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear. 
 And who felt how the best charms of nature improve, 
 When we see them reflected from looks that we love. 
 
 Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest 
 
 In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best. 
 
 Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease, 
 
 And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace. 
 
 166 
 
THE MEETING OF THE WATERS. 167 
 
 The applause of the world must be doubly sweet to an author 
 when bestowed on such emanations of his mind as are confirmed 
 by his own character and conduct, when the man does not disgrace 
 the poet — and the reader, after revelling in beautiful descriptions 
 and noble sentiments, lays down the volume with the delightful 
 conviction, that he has been sharing, not only the brilliant genius, 
 but the sincere heart and soul of the author — this integrity of pur- 
 pose belongs to Moore, it breathes and burns throughout his works, 
 and constitutes theii' most vital charm. 
 
THE MAGIC MIRROR. 
 
 The story of tlie gallaut Earl of Surrey and the fair Geraldine, 
 thougli often presented iu various aspects, lias not yet, vre tHnk, 
 been accompanied by a moral, that while app;\i-eutly given in all 
 innocence and simplicity, creates, by its sly humor, that secret in- 
 teUeetual sndle which the readers of Washington Ir\ing so often 
 enjoy. 
 
 Amidst the snpei-stitions of the Rast, the belief in magic mir- 
 rore still prevails: a most amusing account of them is given by 
 Lane in his "Modern I^yptians." 
 
 " Come, if thy magic Glass have power 
 
 "To call up forms we sigh to see; 
 "Show me mv love, in that rosy bower, 
 
 "Where last she pledged her truth to me." 
 
 The "Wizard show'd him his Lady bright, 
 Where lone and pale in her bower she lay; 
 
 "True-hearted maid," said the happy Knight, 
 "She's thinking of one, who is f;vr away." 
 
 But, lo ! a page, with looks of joy. 
 
 Brings tidings to the Lady's ear; 
 "'Tis," said the Knight, "the same bright boy, 
 
 "Who used to guide me to my dear." 
 
 The Lady now, from her fav'rite tree, 
 
 Hath, smiling, pluck'd a rosy flower; 
 " Such," he exclaimed, " was the gift that she 
 
 "Each morning sent me from that bower!" 
 1«8 
 
THE MAGIO MIRROR. 169 
 
 She gives her page the blooming rose, 
 
 With looks that say, "Like Hghtning, fly!" 
 
 "Thus," thought the Knight, "she soothes her woes, 
 "By fancying, still, her true-love nigh." 
 
 But the page returns, and — oh, what a sight, 
 
 For trusting lover's eyes to see! — 
 Leads to that bower another Knight, 
 
 As young and, alas, as loved as he! 
 
 "Such," quoth the Youth, "is Woman's love I" 
 Then, darting forth, with furious bound, 
 
 Dash'd at the Mirror his iron glove, • 
 
 And strew'd it all in fragments round. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 Such iUs would never have come to pass. 
 
 Had he ne'er sought that fatal view ; 
 The Wizard would still have kept his Glass, 
 
 And the Knight still thought his Lady trua 
 
 Sio. 16 
 
THE CASKET. 
 
 Nell Gwynne's fu'st peep in tlie mirror, wlien newly arrcayed in 
 her court finery, would, according to the descriptions given of that 
 artless creatui-e, have produced all tlie delighted effect visible in the 
 countenance of the portrait, the freaks of fasldon only making more 
 odd and piquant her winning and whimsical ways. Pepys would 
 certainly have said : " I did see in a book a limning of jMistress 
 Nelly, mighty pretty, and did make me think of the time she came 
 to my wife and I, in the gallery at Whitehall showing us her jewels, 
 when I did steal a kiss, she laughing like mad, and my wife stand- 
 ing by, in her new satin gown, looking, poor wa-etch, mighty vexed 
 withal." The poetic effusion may easily pass for that of her royal 
 lover, well deserved by the himible and guileless Nelly, who, amidst 
 the splendor and vice of that most corrupt com-t, retaraed the 
 native goodness of heart and simplicity of character, which drew 
 fi'om Charles, on his death-bed, the well-known speech, "Do not 
 let poor Nelly starve." 
 
 Array thee, love, array tbee, love, 
 
 In all thy best array thee; 
 The sun's below — the moon's above — 
 
 And Night and Bliss obey thee. 
 Put on thee all that's bright and rare, 
 
 The zone, the wreath, the gem, 
 Not so much gracing charms so fair, 
 
 As borrowing grace from them. 
 170 
 
THE CASKET. 171 
 
 Array thee, love, array thee, love, 
 In all that's bright array thee; 
 
 The sun's below — the moon's above — 
 And Night and Bliss obey thee. 
 
 Put on the plumes thy lover gave, 
 
 The plumes, that, proudly dancing, 
 Proclaim to all, where'er they wave. 
 
 Victorious eyes advancing. 
 Bring forth the robe, whose hue of heaven 
 
 From thee derives such light. 
 That Iris would give all her seven 
 
 To boast but one so bright. 
 Array thee, love, array thee, love, 
 &c. &c. &c. 
 
 Now hie thee, love, now hie thee, love, 
 
 Through Pleasure's circles hie thee. 
 And hearts, where'er thy footsteps move, 
 
 Will beat, when they come nigh thee. 
 Thy every word shall be a spell. 
 
 Thy every look a ray, 
 And tracks of wond'ring eyes shall tell 
 
 The glory of thy way ! 
 Now hie thee, love, now hie thee, love, 
 
 Through Pleasure's circles hie thee, 
 And hearts, where'er thy footsteps move, 
 
 Shall beat when they come nigh thee. 
 
THE EXILE. 
 
 The name of JMiss Curran, tlie betrotlied of tlie younger Em- 
 met, has acquired a celebrity equal to that of the melancholy event 
 in "n-hich her lorer bore so distinguished a part, and which forms 
 one of the tragic pages of L-eland's gloomy history. 
 
 Among those who have perished in vain for that unhappy 
 country, there are none who more irresistibly claim our sympathies, 
 than the unfortunate pair whose memory is preserved jfrom oblivion 
 in the following beautiful song ; nor over whose graves the " Implora 
 Pace" might more fitly be inscribed. 
 
 She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps. 
 
 And lovers are round her, sighing: 
 But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, 
 
 For her heart in his grave is lying. 
 
 She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, 
 Every note which he loved awaking; — 
 
 Ah! little they think who delight in her strains, 
 How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking 
 
 He had lived for his love, for his country he died, 
 They were all that to life had entwined him; 
 
 Kor soon shall the tears of his country be dried. 
 Nor long will his love stay behind him, 
 
 172 
 
THE EXILE. 173 
 
 Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, 
 
 When they promise a glorious morrow; 
 They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West, 
 
 From her own loved island of sorrow. 
 
 The harp of Ireland is never heard to more advantage than 
 when it thrills to love or sorrow: in this touching strain both are 
 mingled; while distant echoings of sterner words, mental glimpses 
 of scenes replete with strife and .agony, fill the mind with images 
 but too well corresponding with that ominous and fatal word, 
 Rebellion. 
 
SAIL ON, SAIL ON. 
 
 Sail on, sail on, tlion fearless bark — 
 
 Wherever blows the welcome wind, 
 It cannot lead to scenes more dark, 
 
 More sad than those we leave behind 
 Each wave that passes seems to saj, 
 
 " Though death beneath onr smile may be, 
 "Less cold we are, less fiUse than th^v, 
 
 " Whose smiling wreck'd thj hopes and thee." 
 
 Sail on, sail on — through endless space — 
 
 Through calm — through tempest— stop no more: 
 The stormiest sea's a resting place 
 
 To him who leaves such hearts on shore. 
 Or — if some desert land we meet, 
 
 "Where never yet f:\lse-hearted men 
 Profaned a world, that else were sweet, — 
 
 Then rest thee, bark, but not till then. 
 
 In striking contrast with his gay effusions, Moore in this sonf 
 breathes forth the very spiiit of mehmcholy depression. In it the 
 disappointed adventurer, the indignant patriot, the heart-broken 
 exile, make themselves andible. How many of all these have under 
 such feelings sought and found in this better land new hopes, new 
 homes, new happiness ! no more oppressed and mise;-alile outCi\sts, 
 but prosperous and contented citizens, in whose breasts, however 
 6e:u'eil, a voice must ofttimes cry, God bless America ! 
 174 
 
fHEATH TOU "39XJVE . 
 
 TEE "A-REATg 'TOIT "WOTE _ 
 
 is Sr-iK. 3Tn: OH saw hair. 
 
 IF rTTVS HAiOD SAD STCCLS^ ?B£)ir IXIVS 
 
THE WKEATH. 
 
 This juvenile production expresses all tlie enamored sentiment 
 a school-boy may be supposed to feel for some belle of far maturer 
 years than his own, and whose rejoinder would be in a mood infi- 
 nitely less serious. 
 
 The wreath you wove, the wreath you wove 
 
 Is fair— but oh, how fair. 
 If Pity's hand had stolen from Love 
 
 One leaf to mingle there! 
 
 If every rose with gold were tied, 
 
 Did gems for dew-drops fall, 
 One faded leaf where Love had sigh'd 
 
 Were sweetly worth them all. 
 
 The wreath you wove, the wreath you wove 
 
 Our emblem well may be; 
 Its bloom is yours, but hopeless Love 
 
 Must keep its tears for me. 
 
 As a specimen of Moore's boyish poetry this song cannot fail to 
 be regarded with interest, as evidencing the precocity and fertility 
 
 175 
 
176 THE WREATH. 
 
 of geuius which distinguished hiiu from his infancy ; his own words 
 being, " So far back in childhood lies the epoch, that I am really 
 unable to say at what age I first began to act, sing, and rhyme." 
 
 In many of the editions of Moore's Poems, the following lines, 
 which originally formed the last verse in this song, are omitted : 
 
 And oh ! if airy shapes may steal 
 
 To mingle with a mortal frame. 
 Then, then, my love ! — but di-op the veil — 
 
 Hide, hide from heaven the unholy flame. 
 
ANNA. 
 
 To many most excellent persons the very name of " Poetry " sug« 
 g'ists something too romantic and refined for this matter-of-fact age 
 and work-a-day world, and who, when told how through the medium 
 of verse the power of genius can lend both grace and dignity to 
 truth, will smile incredulously, and remain skeptical as before ; yet, 
 in the following Juvenile Poem of our author, they will see at once 
 how much a simple and pure sentiment gains, if not in value, at 
 least both in force and beauty, from the charm of numbers ; — 
 
 To see thee every day that came, 
 And find thee still each day the same ; 
 In pleasm-e's smile, or sorrow's tear. 
 To rae still ever Jciud and dear — 
 I'o meet thee early, leave thee late, 
 Has been so long my bliss, my fate. 
 That life, without this cheering ray, 
 Which came, like sunshine, every day, 
 And all my pain, my sorrow chased, 
 Is now a lone and loveless waste. 
 
 Where are the chords she used to touch ? 
 The airs, the songs she loved so umch ? 
 Those songs are hush'd, those chords are still, 
 And so, perhaps, will every thrill 
 Of feeling soon be lull'd to rest, 
 Which late I waked in Anna's breast. 
 Yet, no — the simple notes I play'd 
 From memory's tablet soon may fade : 
 
 SiG. 16* 
 
 my) 
 
178 
 
 The songs, wliieli Anna loved to hear, 
 May vanish from her heai't and ear ; 
 But friendsliip's voice shall evei find 
 An echo in that gentle mind, 
 Nor memoi-y lose nor time impair 
 The sympathies that tremble there. 
 
 To constitute tlie perfections of such a character as that of the 
 gentle Anna, would require something more than the quintessence 
 of a whole legion of modern heroines. In her, the meek and gentle 
 woman shines forth in all the touching grace and modesty of her 
 sex, presenting to the mind's eye the embodiment of all the sweet 
 influences which soften the asperities of daily life, and cheer and 
 reward amidst its toils. In the season of youth the heart is apt to 
 speak most spontaneously and truly, and if its effusions are less pol- 
 ished and varied than those of a later period, their sincerity may 
 well atone for the more sounding strain. 
 
 Associating the " Anna " of the painter's fancy with the theme of 
 the poet's song, it is impossible to avoid remembering the lovely and 
 beloved Miss Linley — afterwards Mrs. Sheridan — immortalized by 
 some of the most celebrated characters of her time, and who is 
 charmingly described in one of Moore's most interesting works. 
 
OH, COULD WE DO WITH THIS WORLD OF OURS. 
 
 To what may this most ethereal and fanciful little song be com- 
 pared? Surely to nothing heaxder nor less bright than bubble blowu 
 by Peri and floating away amidst sunbeams. Nothing can be more 
 exquisitely playful and beautiful than the last verse. It is in such 
 brilliant fancies, and sparks and freats of "imagination, that Moore 
 has ever been unaj^proachable. Oh, for the same power of fancy 
 to transfer to the illustration a little of that sylph-like beauty which 
 must have belonged to her of whose shadow the poet speaks. 
 
 Oh, could we do with this world of oiirs 
 As thou dost with thy garden bowers. 
 Reject the weeds and keep the flowers. 
 
 What a heaven on earth we'd make it ! 
 So bright a dwelling should be our own, 
 So warranted free trom sigh or frown. 
 That angels soon would be coming down, 
 
 By the week or month to take it. 
 
 Like those gay flies that wing through air, 
 And in themselves a lustre bear, 
 A stock of light, still ready there, 
 
 Whenever they wish to use it ; 
 So, in this world I'd make for thee. 
 Our hearts should all like fire -flies be. 
 And the flash of wit or poesy 
 
 Break forth whenever we choose it. 
 
 While ev'ry joy that glads our sphere 
 Hath still some shadow hov'i-ing near, 
 
 179 
 
18( OH, COULD WE DO WITH THIS WORLD OF OUES. 
 
 In this new world of ours, my dear, 
 
 Such shadows will all be omitted : — 
 Unless they 're like that graceful one, 
 Wliich, when thou 'rt dancing in the sun, 
 Still near thee, leaves a charm upon 
 
 Each spot where it hath flitted ! 
 
 Thougli tlie poet's plan for remodelling " this earth of ours " 
 might be liable to the grave objection of rendering half our virtues 
 useless, yet where is the philosopher who would not exchange part 
 of his wisdom for the beauty-haunted imagination which enables its 
 possessor, amidst the clouds and storms of life, often whilst suffering 
 beneath its worst and keenest ills, to create new realms, peopled 
 with beings, in depicting whose thoughts and passions, joys and sor- 
 rows, Self — that most ignoble cause of disquiet — is for the time 
 merged and forgotten ? Such, doubtless, must frequently have been 
 the case with Moore, who, brilliant and talented as -he was, oft 
 smarted beneath " the stings and arrows of outrageous fortune," to 
 whose darkest hour, perchance, this charming song owes its exist- 
 ence light and lovely as one of the rose- winged nautilii of a summer sea. 
 
YOUR coiii.v;- 
 
 DKAB WOMAN I 
 
 WHICH Ano'.r: 
 
THE IRISH GIRL. 
 
 To the females of every country has been accorded some crown 
 ing excellence peculiar to their nation and themselves ; thus, while 
 the proud beauty of Spain charms by her air, the Frenchwoman by 
 her manner, the Italian by her glances, the American by her classic 
 and delicate features, the English and Scottish by that bloom which 
 has made the expression " As fresh as a rose " one of the most com- 
 mon modes of describing them, the fair daughters of Erin have ever 
 been distinguished by an arch simplicity and winning tenderness, 
 which, springing from a noble, constant nature, that knows no 
 wrong and fears none, render the spells of Nora or Katbleen more 
 potent than any Ai'mida ever wove. 
 
 We may roam through this world, like a child at a feast, 
 
 Wlio but sips of a sweet, and then flies to the rest ; 
 And, when pleasure begins to grow dull in the east, 
 
 We may order our wings, and be oft to the west ; 
 But if hearts that feel, and eyes that smile, 
 
 Are the dearest gifts that heaven supplies, 
 We never need leave our own green isle. 
 
 For sensitive hearts, and for sun-bright eyes. 
 Then remember, whenever your goblet is crown'd. 
 
 Through this world, whether eastward or westward jou roam, 
 When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes roimd. 
 
 Oh ! remember the smile which adorns her at home. 
 
 In England, the garden of Beauty is kept 
 By a dragon of prudery placed within call ; 
 Sjg. 17 ''"'• 
 
182 THE lEISH GIRL. 
 
 Bat so oft this unamiable dragon hast slept, 
 
 Tliat the garden's but carelessly -watch'd after all. 
 Oh ! they want the wild sweet-briery fence, 
 
 TThich round the flowers of Erin dwells ; 
 Which warns the touch, while winning the sense, 
 
 Nor ehai-ius us least when it most repels. 
 Then remenibei', whenever your goblet is crown'd, 
 Through this world, whether eastward or westward you roam. 
 When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, 
 
 Oh ! remember the smile that adorns her at home. 
 
 In France, when the heart of a woman sets sail, 
 
 On the ocean of wedlock its fortime to try, 
 Love seldom goes far in a vessel so frail, 
 
 But just pilots her off. and^then bids her good-bye. 
 While the daiightei-s of Erin keep the boy, 
 
 Ever smiling beside his taithful oar, 
 Through billows of woe, and beams of joy, 
 
 The same as he look'd when he left the shore. 
 Then remember, whenever your goblet is crown'd, 
 
 Through this world, whether eastwai-d or westward yon roam. 
 When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round. 
 
 Oh ! remember the smile that adorns her at home. 
 

 S^ 
 
 
CANADIAN BOAT SONG. 
 
 MooKE says, "I remember when we have entered, at sunset, 
 upon one of those beautiful lakes, into which the St. Lawrence 
 so grandly and unexpectedly opens, I have heard tMs simple air 
 with a pleasure which the finest compositions of the first masters 
 have never given me; and now there is not a note of it which 
 does not recall to my memory the dip of our oars in the St. 
 Lawrence, the flight of our boat down the Eapids, and all those 
 new and fanciful impressions to which my heart was ahve durbg 
 the whob of this very interesting voyage. 
 
 Faintly as tolls the evening chime 
 Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time. 
 Soon as the woods on shore look dim, 
 We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn. 
 Eow, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, 
 The Eapids are near and the daylight's past. 
 
 Why should we yet our sail unfurl? 
 There is not a breath the blue wave to curl; 
 But, when the wind blows off the shore, 
 Oh I sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. 
 Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, 
 The Rapids are near and the daylight's past 
 
 183 
 
184 CANADIAN BOAT SONG. 
 
 Utawas' tide! this trembliug moon 
 Shall see us float over thy surges soon. 
 Saint of this green isle ! hear our prayers, 
 Oh, grant us cool heavens and favoring airs. 
 Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs ftxst, 
 The Eapids are near and the daylight's past. 
 
 The above stanzas are supposed to be sung by those voija- 
 genre who go to the Grand Portage by the Utawas Kiver. 
 For an account of this ■wonderful undertaking, see Sir Alexander 
 ^Mackenzie's '' Genor.^1 History of the Fur Ti'ade," prefixed to his 
 JournaL 
 
LIYES 
 
 OF 
 
 BTEON AND MOOEE. 
 
 Sio 17* 
 
 185 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 FROM 1788 TO 1807. 
 
 HIS ANCESTRY BIRTH AND PARBNTAGE BOYHOOD 
 
 AND EARLY LOVES EDUCATION, PURSUITS, AND 
 
 ASSOCIATES. 
 
 There have been so many volumes written 
 about Lcfrd Byron, all so evidently colored with 
 prejudice, that the publisher thought a new Biog- 
 raphy, embracing all the known facts of his life, 
 would be acceptable. This sketch will comprise 
 all that is really valuable and interesting to the 
 general reader, so as to present a complete idea of 
 the man. We shall studiously avoid all elaborate 
 discussion, and only aim at telling " a plain un- 
 varnished tale." For this purpose, we shall 
 avail ourselves of the various writers who have 
 treated this subject, and endeavor to avoid the 
 bias which too frequently tinges their narratives. 
 We shall condense the pleasant gossip and per- 
 sonal reminiscences of Leigh Hunt, Moore, Med- 
 win, and Gait, and interweave with these a sim- 
 ple accoimt of his life, as authenticated either by 
 himself or his contemporaries : these w , shall 
 illustrate with confirmatory extracts fiom his own 
 correspondence, so as to form a succinct but 
 comprehensive narrative of the most remarkable 
 poet of his era. The better to carry out our 
 plan, we have divided the Biography ; thus ex- 
 hibiting Byron as the boy, the student, the lover, 
 the poet, the man, and the patriot. 
 
 To write the impartial life of a man who filled 
 .50 conspicuous a position in the world's eye as 
 Byron, and who dealt his blows so fiercely arMind 
 him, is a difficult task, even though nearly a gen- 
 
 eration has passed away since he was laid in the 
 tomb. The difficulty is increased by the fact 
 that a few of those still linger who were his 
 friends and his foes : above all, that one, whose 
 difference with him exercised so great an influ- 
 ence on his existence. Byron was not one to 
 pursue the even tenor of his way without refer- 
 ence to his contemporaries : he was eminently a 
 man at the mercy of almost every one with whom 
 he came in contact. He wanted more than any 
 celebrated man of his time that self-reliance and 
 repose which would have saved him many of his 
 severest trials. Of a highly sensitive nature, 
 quickened by circumstances into almost a morbid 
 state, he viewed the simplest acts and expres- 
 sions through a distorted medium, which made 
 his commonest intercourse with his friends one o) 
 constant misconception and recrimination. This 
 destroyed many of his most valuable friendships, 
 and embittered much of his existence. There 
 was, however, more bitterness in his tongue than 
 in his heart; and one who knew him w'll has 
 observed, that he frequently had to lash himself 
 into a rage, before he could find it in his heart to 
 abuse his assailants. He had pet antipathies, 
 which he took immense pains to keep alive, and 
 in a vigorous state of hate. It is necessary to 
 keep this steadily in view, in order to imderstand 
 many of the prominent actions of his life ; other- 
 wise some appear, without this commentary, so 
 incongruous, as almost to justify the suspicion of 
 occasional insanity. 
 
 In addition to this peculiar temperament, the 
 circumstances of his life were of themselves suf- 
 ficient to destroy the suavity of a stoic, much less 
 
 187 
 
188 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 of one who sometimes was so morbid as to regard 
 even an inconvenient shower of rain as almost a 
 personal affront. 
 
 In order fully to understand the controlling, 
 cr rather disturbing, influences of his cai-eer, it 
 will be necessary to glance at his ancestry, from 
 whence sprang that family pride so strangely at 
 variance with the loftiest characteristics of genius. 
 
 The Byron family had always been conspicuous 
 for the fierU of its natm-e. In the Civil Wars, 
 it took the shape of loyalty, and the best of its 
 blood was shed on the field of battle, fighting for 
 the royal cause. In later times, a lord of that 
 name lived, who had much of the idiosyncracy 
 of the great poet, and with him commenced that 
 feud with the Chaworth family, which the author 
 of Childe Harold considered ought to have been 
 healed by his marriage with its lovely representa- 
 tive, Mary. So strongly did the peculiarities of 
 the poet's ancestor operate upon the ignorant 
 mini of his tenantry, that they used to regard 
 him with a feeling almost amomiting to supersti- 
 tion. There is little doubt but that this man was 
 the original of Manfred. 
 
 From the fields of Calais, Cressy, Bosworth, 
 and Marston Moor, we pass to scenes more im- 
 mediatel)- connected with the poet. Before, 
 however, finally abandoning his ancestry, we may 
 remark that the nobility of the family dates its 
 origin from 1643, when Sir John Byron was 
 created Baron Byron of Rochdale, in Lancaster. 
 This is the cavalier so honorably noticed by the 
 writer of Colonel Hutchinson's meraoii-s. 
 
 By the maternal side, Byron had a still higher 
 claim to ancestral distinction, his mother being 
 one of the Gordons of Gight ; descended lineally 
 from Sir William Gordon, third son of the Earl 
 of Huntley, by the daughter of James the First. 
 
 The celebrity of the Byron name seemed to 
 slumber till 1750, when the shipwreck and suf- 
 ferings of Admiral Byron, the poet's grandfather, 
 awakened the sympathy of the public. A few 
 years after this — viz. in li'So — the poet's grand- 
 uncle stood a prisoner at the bar of the House of 
 Lords, fir killing, in a rencontre, his relative, Mr. 
 
 Chaworth ; and no sooner had the popular ex- 
 citement of this died away, before it was again 
 roused by the still more painful event of the 
 poet's own father eloping with the Marchioness 
 of Carmarthen, whom, on the passing of the bill 
 of divorce, he afterwards married. From this 
 short union sprang the poet's half-sister Augusta, 
 now the Hon. Mrs. Leigh. The death of this 
 wife, in 1784, enabled the poet's father to repair 
 his wasted finances, by marrying Catharine Gor- 
 don of Gight. This lady was the great poet's 
 mother, and from her he undoubtedly inherited 
 many of his vehemencies of disposition. That 
 Byron's father really loved her is uncertain. 
 The probable reason is that he wedded her to 
 repair his wasted estate ; and the events which 
 rapidly succeeded this inauspicious union strongly 
 confirm it. In less than a year, the greater part 
 of her property was dissipated ; and before she 
 had been a wife two years, she found herself re- 
 duced to the comparatively small pittance of 
 £150 per annum. These pecmiiary difficulties 
 compelled Mrs. Byron to retire to France, from 
 whence she returned towards the end of 1787. 
 In the following year, on the 22d January, at 
 Holies Street, in London, George Gordon Byron, 
 the author of Don Juan, was born. 
 
 Two years afterwards, Mrs. Byron took her 
 child to Aberdeen, where her husband joined 
 her. Here, however, the incompatibility of their 
 tempers again prevented their living together, 
 and, after a short time, they separated. Still, 
 the father seems to have had a lingering touch of 
 human nature in him : he occasionally accosted 
 the child when out ^-ith his nurse ; for at this 
 time he had not left Aberdeen. 
 
 There is a tradition he one day solicited that 
 his child should remain with him the whole 
 night ; but the infant Hercules of Poetry led his 
 papa such a life, that he was glad never to repeat 
 the invitation. Many stories are told of his juve- 
 nile violence ; but this is one of the imbecilities 
 of biography, for what child, whether fool or 
 poet, has not had his fits of violence "? Cutting 
 of teeth is not alone confined to genius. 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 189 
 
 About this time the child began to be con- 
 scious of the inconvenience and annoyance of a 
 club-foot. This accident had occuned at the 
 time of his birth ; and although the celebrated 
 John Hunter applied palliatives, most of the 
 remedies used increased the evil. On this point, 
 even at this early age, he evmced extraordinaiy 
 tensitiveness ; and upon cursory allusions to liis 
 malformation, he has cried out in his youthful 
 Scotch, " Diuna speak of it !" In after life he has, 
 however, been known, on one occasion at least, 
 to jest upon it, and say that the only two great 
 men besides himself had been lame, viz. : Scott 
 and Shakspeare. The limp of the latter he 
 founded upon a passage in his Sonnets. 
 
 Another sentence will finish our notice of the 
 poet's father. After a visit, in 1790, to Scotland, 
 taken for the sole purpose of extorting money 
 from his wife, he retiied to Valenciennes, where 
 he died in the following year. That she enter- 
 tained a strong affection for her unworthy hus- 
 band, is apparent from a letter which has lately 
 been made public : 
 
 TO MRS. LEIGH. 
 
 "Aberdeen, August 23d, 1799. 
 " My dear Madam — 
 
 " You wrong me very much when you sup- 
 pose I would not lament Mr. Byron's death. It 
 has made me very miserable, and the more so 
 that I had not the melancholy satisfaction of see- 
 ing him before his death. If I had known of his 
 illness I would have come to him. I do not 
 think I shall ever get the better of it. Neces- 
 sity, not inclination, parted us, at least on my 
 part, and I flatter myself it was the same with 
 him ; and notwithstanding all his foibles — for 
 they deserve no worse name — I ever sincerely 
 loved him ; and beheve me, my dear Madam, I 
 have.the greatest regard and affection for you, 
 for the very kind part you have acted to poor 
 Mr. Byion, and it is a great comfort to me that 
 he was with so kind a friend at the time of his 
 death. You say he was sensible to the last. 
 Did he ever mention me ? Was he long ill ? and 
 where was he buried ? Be so good as to wilte 
 
 all those particulars, and also send me some of 
 his hair. As to money matters, they are per- 
 fectly indifferent to me. I only wish there may 
 be enough to pay his debts, and to pay you the 
 money you have laid out on his account. I wish 
 it was in my power to do all this ; but a hun- 
 dred and fifty pounds a year will do little, which 
 is all I have, and am due a great deal of money 
 in this country. 
 
 " George is well. I shall be happy to let him 
 be with you sometimes, but at present he is my 
 only comfort, and the only thing that makes me 
 wish to live. I hope, if any thing should happen 
 to me, you will take care of him. I was not well 
 before, and I do not think I shall ever recover 
 the severe shock I have received. It was so un- 
 expected. If I had only seen him before he died ! 
 Did he ever mention me ? I am unable to say 
 more. Believe me, yours, with sincere affection, 
 " C. Byron. 
 
 " Pray write soon." 
 
 In his fifth year he was sent to Mr. Bower's, 
 a day-school in Aberdeen, where he remained 
 nearly a twelvemonth. We will, however, con- 
 dense, from a sort of Diary he kept, called " My 
 Dictionary," an alphabet of his tutors. 
 
 Alluding to Aberdeen, he says : 
 
 " For several years of my earliest childhood I 
 was in this city, but I have never revisited it 
 since my tenth year. I was sent at five years 
 old, or earlier, to a school kept by a Mr. Bower, 
 who was called Boosey Bower. It was a school 
 for both sexes. I learned here httle, except to 
 repeat by rote the first lesson of monosyllables, 
 such as God made man ! 
 
 "I was then consigned to a new preceptor, 
 called Ross, ^terwards a minister of one of the 
 kirks. Under him I made extraordinary progress, 
 and I recollect to this day his mild manners and 
 good-natured painstaking. The moment I could 
 read, my'grand passion was history. * * * 
 Afterwards I had a saturnine young man named 
 Paterson. He was the son of my shoemaker, 
 but a good scholar: with him I began Latin." 
 
 Moore relates that he is still remembered by 
 
190 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 many of his schoolfellows, and that their impres- 
 sion is that " he was a lively, warm-hearted, and 
 high-spirited boy — passionate and resentful, but 
 affectionate and companionable with his school- 
 fellows : to a remarkable degree adventurous and 
 fearless, and always more readv to give a blow 
 than take one." 
 
 In the summer of 1796, after an attack of 
 scarlet fever, his mother removed him to the 
 Highlands. The residence was a farm-house in 
 the neighborhood of Ballater, about forty miles 
 from Aberdeen. Here the dark summit of 
 Lochin-y-gair stood in gloomy grandeiu- before 
 the eyes of the young bard ; and in after years 
 he commemorated it in his verse. 
 
 Some are weak enough to imagine that it re- 
 quires fine scenery to arouse the poetical spirit ; 
 a wider knowledge of human nature convinces 
 all that it wUl awake of itself, and defy outward 
 circumstance. Nature has for a poet a thousand 
 aspects, and an old city is as redolent of inspira- 
 tion to a Chatterton, as a glowing landscape 
 would be deficient of it to a man without genius. 
 
 It is related that here he had a narrow escape 
 of his lite, for in scrambling up some decUvity he 
 fell. Already he was rolling downwards, when 
 the attendant luck-i/y caught hold of him, and 
 was but just in time to save him from being 
 >kil]ed. Great men have too many of these won- 
 derful escapes to render them credible ; we re- 
 ply like the man who had heard much about 
 ghosts, that he had seen too many to beheve in 
 them! 
 
 It was at this period — when he was not quite 
 eight years old — that he first fell in love, which 
 is an interesting fact, as a proof of the suscepti- 
 bility of his nature ; although we are strongly of 
 opinion that this kind of sympathy exists in most 
 persons earher than is believed. The object of 
 his first attachment was Mary Duff. Years after 
 (in 1S13), in his journal, he thus alludes to this 
 infantine smour : 
 
 " I have been thinking a great deal lately of 
 Mary Duff. How very odd that I should have 
 been so utterly, devotedly fond of that girl ! 
 
 at an age, too, when I could neithei feel passion, 
 nor know the meaning of the word. * * * 
 I remember, too, our walks, and the happiness 
 of sitting by Mary in the children's apartments, 
 at their house, not far from the Plain Stones at 
 Aberdeen, while her lesser sister, Helen, played 
 with the doll, and we sat gravely making love, in 
 our way." 
 
 Byron goes on to say that her marriage in 
 after years was a thunderstroke to him. He 
 wrote all this meministic vagary in his twenty- 
 fifth year ! ! 
 
 We have here anticipated the chronology of 
 our biography, and must therefore return. 
 
 On May 19, 1798 (then in his tenth year), 
 this young, wild runner about of the mountain 
 became, by the death of his grand-imcle, a Peer 
 of England. The next day, the young poet ran 
 to his mother, and asked her if she " found out 
 any difference between his being a Lord, for he 
 could not !" 
 
 By the death of his grand-uncle. Lord Car- 
 hsle, who was related to the family, became his 
 guardian; and in the autumn of 1798, Mrs. 
 Byron and her son, attended by their faithful 
 domestic, May Gray, left Aberdeen for Newstead 
 Abbey. 
 
 Tliis sudden transition from povertv and ob- 
 scurity to comparative wealth and rank was a 
 great misfortune to the future poet. Under a 
 judicious mother, he might have avoided all the 
 e\'ils of this singular change in his position ; but 
 with a woman so capricious as Mrs. Byron, every 
 peril was increased. At one time she petted — 
 at another, she re\iled him : the result was that 
 the fulcrum of youthful control was destroyed, 
 and Byron grew up as he chose to moidd him- 
 self. She has been known to forget herself so 
 far as to say " he was as great a blackguard as 
 his father," and to reproach him with his lame- 
 ness. Bvron, boy as he was, had too much of 
 the " divine afflatxis" in him not to know that 
 this was outrageous ; and thus the prestige of 
 a parent being destroyed, he had little regard 
 for any established authority afterwards. All 
 
\. 
 
LIFE OF LORD B \' R N . 
 
 191 
 
 laws are the remains of the reverence we feel for 
 commands in our cliilJhood ; and when that is 
 withdrawn, tlie mind naturally fallsinto skepticism. 
 
 As though on purpose to render all things 
 unfavorable to his moral culture, tlie )'oung lord 
 found, on his arrival at his family estates, that a 
 halo of mysticism hung about the late lord. 
 This, no doubt, had its sinister influence on his 
 young fancy, and led to many thoughts, which 
 in time became habits. 
 
 Here another attempt was made to obviate his 
 lameness, by Mr. Lavender of Nottingham ; but 
 his efforts met with no success, and he was com- 
 pelled to abandon his system, after having put 
 his patient to much torture. 
 
 In the summer of 1799, Mrs. Byron removed 
 her sou to London, where he was put under the 
 care of Dr. Baillie. By his advice, he was placed 
 at Dr. Glennie's school, at Dulwich, near Nor- 
 wood, a beautiful village five miles from London. 
 Here he remained some time ; but the injudicious 
 influence of his mother did much to counteract 
 the good he would otherwise have received from 
 the regimen he underwent here. Mrs. Byron in- 
 terfered so frequently, tliat the interference of 
 his guardian, Lord Carlisle, was invoked. This 
 and all added to the confusion. 
 
 During his tuition here he saw Margaret Parker, 
 to whom he attributes his first dash into poetry ; 
 and here he met with that book which gave rise 
 to some of the most exciting scenes in the ship- 
 wreck of Don Juan. 
 
 After being at Dr. Glennie's for two years, he 
 was removed to Harrow. Before, however, set- 
 tling there, he went with his mother, for a short 
 time, to Cheltenham. 
 
 On his arrival at Harrow, Byron found the 
 disadvantages of that shy disposition which had 
 led to so many misconceptions on the part of his 
 schoolfellows. 
 
 Dr. Drury was at this time head master of the 
 school, and we are happy to be able to give his 
 opinion of Byron in his own words : 
 
 " Mr. Hanson, Lord Byron's solicitor, con- 
 signed him ti me at the age of ISj, with remarks 
 
 that his education had been neglected, but he 
 thought there was a cleverness about him. * 
 * * I soon found out that a wild mountain 
 colt had been submitted to ray management !" 
 
 At Harrow, Byron made many acquaintances, 
 some of whom have achieved great fame — such 
 as Peel ; and others of a moderate degree of re- 
 cognition, such as Harness, Proctor, Sinclair, &c. 
 Many tales are told of Byron's liking for Peel, 
 who was some years his younger, and we be- 
 lieve iliat the only event of his life which Peel 
 esteems above being prime minister of England, 
 is that of having been the schoolfellow of Byron. 
 
 In 1802, Byron visited Bath with his mother, 
 and on their return took up their lodging at Not- 
 tingham, Newstead Abbey being let at that time 
 to Lord Grey de Ruthven. About this period 
 he became acquainted with that fair spirit whose 
 beauty was the lodestar of his soul. For six 
 weeks, he did little else save ride about with 
 Mary Chaworth ! He here, on the old terrace, 
 sat oft, " loosened into tears," while she sang 
 " Mary Anne," an old favorite English tune. 
 
 We cannot help saying that we think here 
 Byron made the great error of his life, so far. as 
 personal happiness was concerned. Miss Cha- 
 worth was full two years older than the young 
 lord, and we all know what a start two years 
 gives a girl. We have it in evidence that 
 Mary Chaworth considered her cousin as a mere 
 wayward boy, to be petted ; but the boy was 
 not able to distinguish the petting, and hence the 
 misery. Had Byron been a few years older, 
 much anguish had been spared. We are aware 
 these regrets are very idle, although they are 
 natural, for poets are the mental cockchafers 
 through which the world puts its pin, that it may 
 enjoy its writhings ; and while one says how ex- 
 quisitely it dances for our delight, another knows 
 how terribly it writhes for our warning. 
 
 How constantly and enduringly this \ision of 
 the sweet girl hung over him, we have his own 
 evidence in the " Dream," written years after- 
 wards. Here often, at his desk in school, he 
 dreamed those dreams wh'ch doubtless have 
 
192 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BVRON. 
 
 more of pleasure in them than visions of sleep ; 
 but from a dre<fm let us step to a small spot of 
 nhat the world calls reality, and note this cuiious 
 extract from one of Brron's school-books : 
 
 " George Gordon Byron — Wednesday, June 
 26, A. D. 1805 ; three-quartere of an hour past 
 3 o'clock in the' afternoon. Third school : Cal- 
 vert, monitor. Tom Wildman on my right hand ; 
 Harrow on the hill." 
 
 What a little, but most significant world, does 
 this trifling memorandum let us into ! 
 
 This ends his life in Harrow, so far :i.s the date 
 is concerned. How fondh" he hngercd over the 
 recollection of it, is known to all who take an in- 
 terest in him, for it was here that he ordered the 
 body of his child Allegra to be brought from 
 Italy ; and beneath the spot he loved when a 
 boy, lies the frame of his natural daughter. 
 
 In October, 1805, he was removed to Tiinity 
 College, Cambridge ; and at fii"st, it appears, he 
 little liked the change : the reflections he makes 
 are gloomj' enough. In 1806 he rejoined his 
 mother at Southwell. It was here that he 
 formed the acquaintance of the Pigotts, Bechers, 
 &c. — famihes of standard respectability, and 
 for whom the poet always cherished a great 
 regard. 
 
 At Cambridge, he had indiUged his passion for 
 forming friendships. Among the most romantic 
 was one he cherished fora youth named Eddleston, 
 ■who was one of the choir. The poem entitled 
 " The Cornelian" was wi-itten to him. 
 
 Here also he became attached to Edward Xoel 
 Long, who was drowned in 1809, on his passage 
 to Lisbon with his regiment. 
 
 Bvron still retained that shyness of mannere 
 which was the result of his secluded Highland 
 life. One who knew him then, writes of him 
 thus: 
 
 " The first time I was introduced to him was 
 at a party at his mother's, when he was so shy 
 that she was forced 13 send for him three times 
 before she couli persuade him to come into the 
 irawing-room ' ) play with the young people at 
 \ round game. He was then a fat, bashful boy, 
 
 with his hair c iriibed stiaight over his fore- 
 head." 
 
 He corresponded at this time Avitli many of 
 his Harrow friends — such as Lord Clare, Lord 
 Powerscourt, William Peel, Harness, &c. The 
 earliest letters of his which have been preserved 
 are a few to Miss Pigott, dated 1 804. The hand- 
 writing of these is very boyish, and the spelling 
 defective. 
 
 In 1806 he had a quarrel with his mother, 
 which was of so \iolent a kind that he immedi- 
 ately left Newstead for London. It was on this 
 occasion that the fierce lady threw poker, tongs, 
 &c., at his head. She, however, lost no time in 
 following her truant son, and a reconcihation 
 ensued. 
 
 We have now sketched Byron from the infant 
 to his seventeenth year, at which time the desire 
 of " rushing into print" seized him. He had in- 
 dulged in composition for some years, but now 
 he resolved to give to the world his poems. We 
 shall, however, reserve this for the next chapter. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 FROM 1807 TO 1812. 
 
 " JU^T:xILIa" " HOURS OF idleness" JOUKXEY- 
 
 IXGS PORTUG.iL SPAIX MALTA GREECE — 
 
 TCRKET RETURS TO ENGLAND DEATH OF HIS 
 
 MOTHER PUBLICATION OF " CHILDE HAROLD." 
 
 We now enter upon that part of Byron's ca- 
 reer, from whence spi-ang his fame. It is an old 
 saying, that at some time in a man's life he must 
 inevitably write verses, for poetry is the flower of 
 love ; and none exist who have not endured that 
 sweet calamity. 
 
 Of Byron's susceptibility to female influence 
 we have had ample evidence, and this would 
 naturally lead him to poetic musings. His wealth 
 would render smooth the difiiculties of publish- 
 ing, and we regard, therefore, his becoming an 
 author as one of the necessities of his condition ; 
 but that the boy who wrote the Juvenilia and 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 19c 
 
 Hours of Idleness should prove one of the giants 
 of Parnassus, was more, however, than could be 
 expected. 
 
 It is a common practice among even the ad- 
 mirers of Byron to speak slightingly of his 
 " Hours of Idleness" — turning from it as from a 
 very commonplace volume of verses. We think 
 this an error ; for though we admit there are 
 many mediocre poems in this volume, still there 
 are unmistakable evidences of genius. Added 
 to this, the masterly versification should alone 
 have counselled forbearance. We are, however, 
 somewhat anticipating the course of our biog- 
 raphy. 
 
 In 1806, Lord Byron prepared some poems 
 for the press. There is an anecdote extant, that 
 one evening, when Miss Pigott was reading aloud 
 Burns' Poems, Byron said he had also written 
 something, and forthwith he commenced reciting, 
 " In thee I fondly hoped to dasp," &c. 
 
 From this minute, the desire to appear in print 
 took possession of him, and Mr. Ridge of Newark 
 has the honor of first receiving the manuscript 
 poems of Byron. After some little time, a vol- 
 ume was printed, and the first copy was sent to 
 Mr. Becher. It appears that this solemn fool 
 took exception to some poem, and the whole 
 edition was consequently biu-ned. This is much 
 to be regretted, for the first steps of a man of 
 genius are always interesting. 
 
 To one of his correspondents he thus writes : 
 it is a curious specimen of boyish conceit, and is 
 addressed to a young lady (Miss Pigott), dated 
 August 2, \80l : 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 " Southwell is a damned place ! I have done 
 with it — at least in all probability. Excepting 
 yourself, I esteem no one in all its precincts. 
 You were my only rational companion, and, in 
 plain truth, I had more respect for you than the 
 whole bevy, with whose foibles I amused myself, 
 in compliance with their prevaihng propensities. 
 You gave yourself more trouble with me, and 
 my manuscripts, than a thousand dolls would 
 
 SiG. 18 
 
 have done. Believe me, I have not forgotten 
 you in this circle of sin !" 
 
 This is certainly a very singular epistle from a 
 boy of seventeen to a young lady ! In the next 
 specimen we shall give there will be found a curi- 
 ous love of display of worldly wealth, which shows 
 how little the poor beggar-boy of Aberdeen had 
 become accustomed to the luxuries of the peer- 
 age. We italicize the equivocal phrases : 
 
 "London, August 11, 1807. 
 " To Miss Pigott : 
 
 " On Sunday next, /set off for the Highlands. 
 A friend of mine accompanies me in my carriage 
 to Edinburgh. There we shall leave it, and 
 proceed in a tandem (a species of open carriage 
 through the western passes to Inverary, wliere 
 we shall jmrchase shclpies, te enable us to view 
 places inaccessible to vehicular conveyances. 
 On the coast we shall hire a vessel !" And so on. 
 
 This is certainly a singular letter for a British 
 nobleman to write. It portrays the vulgar aston- 
 ishment of a man who suddenly found he had a 
 carriage ! 
 
 In another letter to the same lady, dated 20th 
 October, 1807, we have the same ostentatious 
 spirit of boyism : 
 
 " My dear Elizabeth — 
 
 " Fatigued witli sitting up till four in the 
 morning, for the last two days, at hazard" * * 
 
 These are characteristic traits in the ill-educated 
 bard . In his correspondence at this time it is easy 
 to recognize that uncomfortable feeling which is 
 ever theresult of atransition mindin its first stages. 
 
 Another glance into the young poet's mind is 
 afforded in the following passage, which, although 
 short, lets in a world of light : 
 
 " Apropos, I have been praised to the skies in 
 the Critical Review, and abused greatly in an- 
 other publication. So much the better, they tell 
 me, for the sale of the book !" 
 
 The critic of human nature will smile over 
 these little revelations ! 
 
 In the spring of 1808 appeared in the Edin- 
 
194 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 burgh Review the memorable critique on his 
 " Hours of Idleness." In a letter to Mr. Becher, 
 dated February 26, 1808, he had expressed an 
 expectation of such an attack ; but that it woidd 
 have appeared in so contemptuous and uncompro- 
 mising a shape it is evident he did not anticipate. 
 
 It must be confessed that Lord Byron's early 
 volume does not display much genius. StUl 
 there are endences of rhythm and susceptibilities 
 which prefigure much excellence. Doubtless the 
 democratic critic was exasperated by the aristo- 
 cratic pretension of the preface, and we all know 
 what an influence a predisposition has upon a 
 writer when he commences the perusal of a new 
 volume. 
 
 Byron's rage at • first was what every young 
 author feels at a rude assault upon his cherished 
 offspring. It is just possible tharTio one but a 
 mother can sympathize with a poet's sensation, 
 when the child of his brain is thus attacked. 
 Judging from his correspondence, he firet in- 
 dulged in a little claret, and then commenced his 
 English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. ^*-fter 
 delivering himself of the first twenty lines, he 
 declares that he felt considerably better. 
 
 Retiring to Newstead Abbey, he employed his 
 time in finishing his reply to the critics. When 
 completed, it was forthwith transmitted to the 
 printers. Byron, in this satire, managed to hit 
 Lord Carlisle for the coldness with which he had 
 received the dedication to the Hours of Idleness. 
 Tljese dedications are foolish things at the best. 
 Most authors are of a grateful and sensitive 
 nature, and, anxious to evince their gratitude to 
 some solemn blockhead (who has, more out of 
 vanity than good feeling, done them a small 
 favor), inscribe their volume to this particular 
 noodle ! The noodle in question thinks he is 
 therefore a great man, and. the whole mistake is 
 ■worthy of punchinello ! When will men of genius 
 be wise, and cease to lower themselves by com- 
 plimenting fools ! 
 
 Byron's irritable nature made him very anxious 
 to strike Carlisle in his new poem, and he did 
 not neglect the opportunity. 
 
 On the 13th March (a few days before tie 
 satire was published), Byron took his seat in the 
 House of Lords for the first time. Here he met 
 with a slight mortification, which still further en- 
 couraged his bitter feeling against the dominant 
 powers. 
 
 Byron was now fully plunged into the two 
 worlds of politics and poetry, out of which he 
 never extricated himself. How little we know 
 ourselves is acknowledged by the lips of all, but 
 our self-ignorance is one of the few things not 
 believed in ; otherwise the young poet must have 
 known that a vigorous attack was of all things 
 that which he most needed, to rouse his powers 
 to their full exertion. At first the severity of 
 the critique bewildered and disheartened him ; 
 but he soon rallied, and gave them blow for blow. 
 
 We have no wish to drag into light any ol 
 those amours which have so long disgraced the 
 wealthy youth of all nations, but there was gen- 
 erally about the love affairs of Byron some re- 
 deeming circumstance, some sentiment, or some 
 strong temptation, which relieved much of its 
 grossness. 
 
 It was about this time that he indulged in one 
 of these masquerade imprudences, and formed a 
 connection with a young lady, who lived with 
 him in the disguise of a page. She went with 
 him to Brighton, and he had the folly to intro- 
 duce her to some of his titled female acquaint- 
 ances as his younger brother ! 
 
 He also rejoiced in the companionship of pugi- 
 hsts and actors : indeed, he seemed determined, 
 in all these peculiarities, to be as unlike what a 
 poet should be as was possible. Some of his 
 letters to Jackson, the boxer, are still preserved. 
 The death of Lord Falkland, who was killed by 
 Mr. Powell in a duel, about this time, affected 
 him deeply, and the real generosity of his nature 
 was shown in a more substantial manner than in 
 the mere expression of sympathy. In March, 
 1 809, his satire was published, and excited some 
 attention, but not so much as has been com- 
 monly represented. The want of a judicious se- 
 lection in the persons attacked injmed the force 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 19f 
 
 of the assault ; for who would care for one who 
 ran a muck, and tilted at all he met ? 
 
 He had been for some time contemplating 
 travelling, and in the summer of 1809 he put 
 this resolution in practice. Embarking in the 
 " Lisbon Packet," Capt. Kidd, he sailed from 
 Falmouth on the 2d July, and arrived in the 
 Tagus on the 7th of the same month. Leaving 
 Lisbon, he travelled to Seville, and from thence 
 to Cadiz and Gibraltar. The favorable impres- 
 sion Cadiz made upon him he has celebrated in 
 his verses. 
 
 After a short stay at Gibraltar, he sailed for 
 Malta, where he met the beautiful and romantic 
 Mrs. Spencer Smith. This lady he celebrates 
 in Childe Harold under the name of Florence. 
 
 Soon wearied with Malta, he, with his com- 
 panion Hobhouse, sailed in a brig-of-war, em- 
 ployed to convoy a fleet of merchantmen to 
 Patras and Prevesa. After anchoring for two 
 or three days at Patras, they arrived at Prevesa 
 on the 2Gth September. On their way thither, 
 he caught a sunset view of Mfesolonghi. How 
 little knew he that in a few years afterwards he 
 was to lay down his life at that spot ! 
 
 Landing at Prevesa, he took his journey via 
 Albania, and went through many parts of Turkey. 
 The anxious reader can consult Mr. Hobhouse's 
 journal for the minute particulars of this tour. 
 These continental wanderings of Byron are inter- 
 estino-, as forming the groundwork of Childe 
 Harold. With that strange love for the incon- 
 gruous which so distinguished the poet through 
 life, he became a great admirer of the celebrated 
 Ali Pacha, to whom he was introduced, and who 
 seemed, in return, to take a great fancy to his 
 young admirer, in his amiable sort of tiger way. 
 On the 21st November, the travellers reached 
 the memorable Missolonghi ! A touching inci- 
 dent occurred in his journey from Patras : he 
 fired at a bird ! It was a young eaglet : it was 
 only wounded. The poet tried to save it, but its 
 briffht sun -gazing eye pined and died ; and in his 
 own afl'ecting words he says, " and I never did 
 •ance, and never will, attempt the death of an- 
 
 other bird !" These little traits reveal more than 
 a volume of sentiment ! 
 
 At Athens he remained nearly three months, 
 and he never let a day pass without some research 
 into the localities of its past glories. There ht 
 became acquainted with the family of the late 
 Consul's widow, Theodora Macri, who had three 
 beautiful and virtuous daughters. To the eldest 
 of these (Theresa), Lord Byron dedicated his 
 celebrated verses : 
 
 " Maid of Athens, ere we part. 
 Give, oh I give me back my heart !" 
 
 This lady, who is now so endeared to the 
 lovers of genius, is the wife of Mr. Black of Syra, 
 and has shown herself worthy of the immortality 
 bestowed by the poet, by her undeviating recti- 
 tude of conduct. Little did she think, when she 
 saw the young nobleman enter her mother's 
 house, that at that moment she had secured a 
 fame which will last with the literature of the 
 world. We refer our readers to another part, 
 where they will find a more extensive reference to 
 these three modern graces of Greece. 
 
 After a ten weeks' stay here, Byron ava,.ed 
 himself, though very reluctantly, of a passage 
 in an English sloop-of-war, to visit Smyrna.' 
 He remained there a short time, making a 
 visit to Ephesus, to inspect the ruins. On the 
 11th April, he sailed for Constantinople, in a Brit- 
 ish frigate, and on the 1st of May Byron first be- 
 held the Dardanelles. On the 3d he swam from 
 Sestos to Abydos, a distance of about a mile. This 
 act has been celebrated in imaginative literature ; 
 but our readers must remember that the distance 
 achieved is not so much the feat, as the strength 
 of the current is more fatiguing than the actual 
 length of the performance. 
 
 On the 14th May, he arrived at Constantinople, 
 and on that day two months he left. After 
 touching at a small island called Zea, he pro- 
 ceeded once more to Athens. 
 
 On the 3d of June, 1811, he set sail from 
 Malta in the Volage frigate, for England, where 
 he arrived early in July. Here again, after two 
 
196 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 years' absence, we land him, with a mind im- 
 proved, and a heart quickened. 
 
 On the 15th July, Byron told Dallas he had 
 a new poem ready for pi-ess : it was a para- 
 phrase of Horace's Art of Poetry. Dallas had 
 the good sense to tell him frankly what he 
 thought of this production, which elicited from 
 the poet that he had another poem — this other 
 being " Childe Harold." That its author liked 
 the Horatian paraphrase better is natural, seeing 
 that his personal prejudices would dispose him 
 in that direction, and there is little doubt, as a 
 mere work of art, that the paraphrase is superior 
 to the original poem. 
 
 Now commenced his first acquaintance with 
 Mr. Murray, who had before expressed a desire 
 to publish bis works. While he was negotiating 
 with him the publication of " Childe Harold," 
 Lord Byron received intelligence of his mother's 
 illness, and immediately started for Newstead ; 
 but before he reached his ancestral seat, she had 
 breathed her last. She died August 1st, ISll. 
 Soon after this, " Childe Harold" was published, 
 and, to use the poet's own words, " he awoke 
 the next day famous !" 
 
 This is undoubtedly one of the most successful 
 instances in literature, and it took the reading 
 world completely by storm. From this minute, 
 the poetical popularity of Byron began, never to 
 wane 1 
 
 Here we close this chapter. The commonest 
 reader cannot have failed to observe the giant 
 strides the subject of our biography has made in 
 a few years. From the bashful, clumsy bov, he 
 has sprung into the poet, full of glowing fancies 
 and noble inspirations. There is no example on 
 record where so much has been so suddenly 
 achieved, as in the author of " Childe Harold." 
 
 L.4JJD BRUSSELS GENEVA- 
 
 HIS RESIDENCE IN VENICE. 
 
 -IT.4.LT T.\KES tP 
 
 PART III. 
 
 FROM 1S13 TO 1617. 
 
 raS OIAOUR — UARKIAGE BIRTH OF AD.\ SEPA- 
 RATION DIFFICULTIES ^DEPARTURE FROM ESQ- 
 
 BrROx's next venture was the Giaour, whicli 
 ran through five editions in a short time. To 
 this succeeded the Bride of Abydos, which was 
 equally successful. It is, however, p.ainful at 
 this time to read his private journal, for it merely 
 reveals a course of empty frivolity and dissipa- 
 tion, fit only for dandies or monkeys. There was 
 little of the dignity of the poet, or the simplicity 
 of the man, in his pursuits ; but under this out- 
 side of frosty affectation an Etna glowed within, 
 and early in 1814 he gave evidence of it in the 
 " Corsair." 
 
 This is one of his best minor poems, and 
 abounds in the finest descriptions, whether of 
 nature or of the human heart. We concede 
 there is the nightly color on it, but the effect is 
 magnificent, though somewhat sombre. 
 
 " Lara" rapidly succeeded, and the whole of 
 these poems caused a /u;w in the poetical world, 
 which has seldom been equalled. 
 
 We are now approaching the most momentous 
 event of our poet's life, — one from which he was 
 accustomed to date all his after sorrows. In 
 September, 1816, in a letter to Mr. Moore, he 
 announces his coming marriage in these terms : 
 " I am going to be married — that is, I am ac- 
 cepted. My mother of the Gracchi (that are to 
 be) you think too straight-laced for me, althougli 
 the paragon of only children, and invested with 
 golden opinions of all sorts of men, and full of 
 most blest conditions as Desdemona herself : 
 Miss Milbanke is the lady." 
 
 In this spasmodic jesting vein did he announce 
 his inauspicious wedding, which was solemnized 
 on the 2d January, 1815. It is said that on the 
 very marriage-day Lord Byron had a chillinrj in- 
 stance of her want of geniality, inasmuch as the 
 blushing bride insisted upon ha\-ing her lady's- 
 maid companioned with her in the travelling car- 
 riage. 
 
 In the course of this spring he became 
 acquainted with Sir Walter Scott, through the 
 instrumentality of Mr. Murray. The noble poet 
 
.-^a-i!^^ 
 
 Jolmson,.Fyy k- Comp 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 197 
 
 had made advances to the great Wizard of the 
 North in the shape of a tritiing present, and 
 Scott responded cordially to the oftering. 
 
 But from this literary correspondence we must 
 turn to his domestic history, which began, very 
 soon after bis marriage, to assume a doubtful 
 aspect. Towards the end of the first year of bis 
 union, bis pecuniary difficulties became most op- 
 pressive ; indeed, to sucb an extent, that he con- 
 templated the sale of bis library, to relieve him- 
 self from some temporary pressure. 
 
 In the midst of this trouble, his daughter was 
 born, on the 10th December, 1815, and was 
 christened Augusta Ada. 
 
 On the 29th February, 181 G, when his child 
 was scarcely three months old, the unhappy poet 
 announced, in a letter to Mr. Moore, that be was 
 on the point of separating from his wife. We 
 extract from this letter the following significant 
 remarks : 
 
 " My little girl is in the country, and they tell 
 me is a very fine child, and now nearly three 
 months old. Lady Noel, my mother-in-law (or 
 rather at law), is at present overlooking it. Her 
 daughter (Miss Milbanke that was) is, / believe, 
 in London with her father. A Mrs. C. (now a 
 kind of housekeeper and spy of Lady N.'s), who, 
 in her better days, was a washerwoman, is sup- 
 posed to be, by the learned, very much the oc- 
 cult cause of our late domestic discrepancies." 
 
 Here we have a rough guess at the whole 
 tragedy. So many absurd causes have been 
 mentioned as the reason for this separation, that 
 the public will scarcely be satisfied with the com- 
 mon-sense solution of the mystery, which simply 
 lay in the total difference of habits in the two 
 parties. One was wayward, impulsive, and licen- 
 tious ; the other was cold, con-ect, and highly 
 moral. What need be added to these fruitful 
 elements of discord ? In addition, there was 
 the irritating fact of poverty ! 
 
 Whatever were the real causes, no sooner was 
 the fact ascertained, than a most senseless and 
 vindictive clamor was raised against the former 
 'dol of popular applause. He who had for two 
 
 years been the Hon of society, became now a mon- 
 ster, that ought to be hunted down to the very 
 death. How keenly Byron must have felt this 
 astounding change in the spirit of his dream needs 
 no pen to describe. At first he reeled beneath 
 the torrent of invective that fell upon bis devoted 
 head ; but calling bis pride and his genius to 
 back him, he, after a time, boldly rushed to 
 the conflict, and resolved to fight it out ; not, 
 however, before he had, in a moment of weak- 
 ness, written some lack-a-daisical verses to his 
 wife, and some malignant ones to her nurse. 
 These were unworthy a man of bis genius, but 
 great allowance must be made for the impetu- 
 osity of his nature. In April, these two domestic 
 poems appeared, and the rupture was complete. 
 So completely was the public tide against him, 
 that his recognition in public was considered 
 almost infamous. With the exception of one 
 paper, which was silent, the whole press was 
 united against him, and teemed with the most 
 flagitious calumnies. 
 
 Stung with this universal and undeserved cxt - 
 cration, the great poet resolved to abandon a 
 country forever wjiich persecuted him so relent- 
 lessly, and on the 25th April, 1816, he sailed for 
 Ostend. That the full humiliation of his heart 
 may be understood, we quote from Moore the 
 following painful paragraph : 
 
 " The circumstances under which Lord Byron 
 now took leave of England were such as, in the 
 case of any ordinary person, could not be con- 
 sidered otherwise than disastrous and humiliating. 
 He had, in the course of one short year, gone 
 through every variety of domestic miseiy, had 
 seen his hearth eight or nine times profaned by the 
 visitations of the law, and been only saved from a 
 prison by the privileges of his rank ; and he had 
 alienated from him the affections of his wife." 
 
 This must be considered a melancholy picture, 
 but it is a true one, and through this slough of 
 despond was the greatest of modern poets dragged 
 by the resistless circumstances of his fate. How 
 pertinaciously the malice of his foes pursued him 
 we shall see in the following pages. 
 
198 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 Byron arrived at Brussels in May, and the 
 course of Lis travels can now be traced in his own 
 matchless verses. Passing on to Waterloo, he 
 visited that memorable field of slaughter ; and 
 proceeding up the Rhine arrived at Geneva. 
 Here he resolved to take up his abode for some 
 time, and he consequently hired a villa on the 
 banks of the lake. Here he occasionally saw 
 Madame de Stiiel, who resided at Copet. 
 
 In a letter to Murray, dated June 27, 1816, 
 he announces having finished the third canto of 
 Childe Harold, which he promises to send by a 
 safe opportunity. 
 
 In the September of tliis year he visited Chil- 
 lon, in company with Hobhouse, and it was in 
 consequence of this that he commenced his poem 
 of the Prisoner of Chillon. 
 
 It was at Geneva that he met Slielley, and their 
 acquaintance soon ripened into a warm friend- 
 ship. Shelley, who was four years younger than 
 Byron, had some time previously, in England, 
 sent to him a copy of " Queen Mab," and the 
 noble poet was known to have spoken in terms 
 of high commendation of the poem : they there- 
 fore met with a strong mutual desire to be 
 pleased with each other. Notwithstanding their 
 common affinity as poets, few men were more 
 dissimilar in their natures than the authors of 
 Childe Harold and Queen Mab. One was as 
 singularly pure in his pleasures as the other was 
 sensual ; and the self-denial of one, and the self- 
 indulgence of the other, formed a singular con- 
 trast. One was visionary and spiritual, the 
 other passionate and corporeal. Nevertheless, 
 they entertained for each other a very warm and 
 lasting regard. 
 
 In addition to this interesting group of Bvron, 
 Shelley, and his wife, was Dr. Polidori, a young 
 man who had accompanied Byron in the capacity 
 of physician. 
 
 It was at Geneva that he commenced his ro- 
 mance of the Vampire, which grew out of a con- 
 versation with Mrs Shelley. This, however, he 
 never completed. 
 
 His time here was occasionally diversified with 
 
 visitors ; among others were Monk Lewis, Sharp, 
 Hobhouse, and Davies. 
 
 Weary of Geneva, in October he set out for 
 Italy, and in October arrived it Milan, from 
 whence he proceeded to Verona. After visiting 
 all that was remarkable in that celebrated place, 
 he proceeded to Venice, which became one of 
 his favorite residences. He observes in one of 
 his letters that the bride of the Adriatic was one 
 of the few cities that answered to his expecta- 
 tions. There was a gloomy and decaying gran- 
 deur in this fiimous place which suited well the 
 tone of his mind, and the peculiarities of their 
 social habits rendered it still more attractive. 
 
 Woman had always been the rock on which 
 Lord Byron had shipwrecked much happiness, 
 and the besetting weakness pursued him here. 
 Many tales, alike improbable and absurd, of his 
 gallantries were eagerly caught at by his ene- 
 mies, and reproduced in England with additions 
 and distortions so eminently ludicrous, that noth- 
 ing but a morbid desire to blacken his already 
 damaged character could have given them cur- 
 rency. According to some of the pious slander- 
 ei-s, there was scarcely a crime he did not delight 
 in. In a word, he was a pirate, seducer, mur- 
 derer, and vampire ! 
 
 It is painful to contemplate the delight with 
 which the mass of our fellow-creatures catch at 
 any thing calculated to drag down the illustrious 
 to their own degraded level. That Byron gave 
 many opportunities to his enemies is doubtless 
 true, but it is now an ascertained fact that some 
 of the correspondents of the English papers in- 
 vented stories of his irregularities, in order to 
 suit the taste of the public at home. 
 
 It was about this time that he became 
 acquainted with his inamorata known in his cor- ' 
 respondence under the name of Mariana, and 
 many stories are related of her violent temper. 
 Sometimes her noble admirer was half intimi- 
 dated by her displays of vehemence, accustomed 
 as he had been to the former ebullitions of his 
 mother. 
 
 It was during his residence in Venice that he 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 199 
 
 iTi'ote Manfred, one of the most beautiful of his 
 productions. 
 
 ■ In the May of this year he arrived in Rome, 
 and here he revelled in all the gorgeous recollec- 
 tions of the past. How completely he identified 
 himself with the solemn associations around him 
 is visible in every page of his works. Few poets 
 have possessed so deep a power of forcing the 
 presence of the past upon their readers as Byron, 
 and in no case has he more completely succeeded 
 than in his allusions to the perished might and 
 grandeur of the former Mistress of the World. 
 
 After remaining a month in the Eternal City, 
 he returned to Venice, from whence most of his 
 correspondence is dated. 
 
 He now commenced the fourth canto of Childe 
 Harold, and completely gave himself up to his 
 " poesies and lady loves." He was now in his 
 twenty-ninth year, and one of the most celebrated 
 men of his age. His popularity as a poet was 
 strangely contrasted with his unpopularity as a 
 man, and the avidity with which the public de- 
 voured every thing that appertained to him 
 formed a singular contradiction to their implied 
 contempt and dislike. 
 
 Even now many began to suspect that they 
 had used him with a cruelty, which, even to a crimi- 
 nal, would have been unjustifiable ; and doubt- 
 less, as they paused over some of his matchless 
 descriptions, the conviction must have been forced 
 upon them that so great a mind could not be 
 destitute so entirely of heart. 
 
 That much of this proceeded from his own 
 love of mysticism is undoubted, for he appears 
 to have taken an almost insane pleasure in mak- 
 ing the world believe that he had dark inclina- 
 tions at variance with the orthodox notions of 
 virtue. Every irregularity he himself proclaimed, 
 or else put into such a shape that it attracted 
 more attention than a dozen such peccadilloes 
 would in another man. This weakness, or rather 
 perversity, evinced itself at a very early period, 
 as we have seen in his correspondence with Miss 
 Pigott, and it clung to him through life. 
 
 Much of this evidently sprung from that want 
 of repose and self-respect to which we have be- 
 fore adverted, for pride is but a poor substitute 
 for that calm consciousness which saves its fjs- 
 sessor from so many mortifications. 
 
 Lord Byron was what is commonly called 
 thin-skinned ; indeed, he can hardly be considered 
 as to have had a skin at all. What another 
 would not have felt, drove him into rage and re- 
 prisals, and laid the foundation of many a deadly 
 feud. That, on the other hand, he had great 
 facility in attaching persons to him is apparent 
 throughout the whole course of his life, while 
 the intensity of his feelings is shown in many of 
 his schoolboy friendships. 
 
 Of his love for the marvellous in action there 
 are many instances on record. We have before 
 named his youthful lady page — a sort of Kaled 
 to his own Lara. Sometimes this took another 
 shape, as in the case of the bear which he now 
 and then travelled with. In a recent work, there 
 is a curious account of his taking a place for this 
 animal in the evening mail-coach, under the name 
 of Mr. Bruin; and the horror of his other biped 
 companion when morning dawned, and he beheld 
 the kind of fellow-passenger he had passed the 
 night with, may be readily imagined. 
 
 This is the same bear that he pul up for a fel- 
 lowship at college. A man who was fond of 
 playing these practical jokes upon mankind could 
 not fail to have many inconveniences himself to 
 encounter, for the world has little toleration for 
 any follies but its own, and L? too apt to consider 
 as a crime in another what itself daily indulges 
 in. Our self-complacency is prodigious, and 
 from it springs the uncl.aritableness of human 
 judgments. 
 
 We close this part of crir subject by observing 
 that most of the great poet's actions had more 
 of the form than the spirit of evil, and that Leigh 
 Hunt said once to the -writer that many acts, in- 
 nocent in themselves, became questionable by tha 
 manner of Lord Byron's doing them. 
 
iOO 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 FROM1818 TO 1821. 
 
 BYRON IN VENICE RAVENNA SARDANAPALUS— ' 
 
 MARINO FALIERO THE COCNTE'SS GUICCIOLI. 
 
 Btron remained at Venice in a state of self- 
 satisfied dissatisfaction with the world, and em- 
 ployed himself, fortunately for t/te world, invent- 
 ing those brilliant philippics, which have made 
 him the Demosthenes of Poetry. 
 
 It has been the custom for British writers to 
 censure him for his dislike to the society of Eng- 
 lish travellers. We must confess we see no just 
 cause to blame him on this score. He, of all 
 men, had least reason to be grateful to the coim- 
 try of liis birth : it had been his toady in popu- 
 larity — his merciless assailant in adversity. No 
 society could have shown more of the vices of 
 the mongrel than it did ; and we think Lord 
 Byron would have shown a self-contempt unpar- 
 alleled, if he had affected a wish to see any 
 ■ of that nation which had so grosslv abused him. 
 
 A good-tempered simpleton, who was permit- 
 ted to visit him about this time indulges in some 
 remarks, which seem to imply that he was as 
 fond of Enghshmen as he was of roast-beef, and 
 he adduces the fact as evidence that there were 
 both those intellectual representatives of that 
 nation present — \\z., himself and the Sir Loin. 
 The truth is, doubtless, that the great poet's 
 " I'amoiir propre" was too deeply woimded to 
 admit of a cordial reconciliation, although he 
 would at times indulge in a little harmless and 
 unmeaning philanthropy ; just as the lady of 
 fashion celebrated by Pope, who 
 
 " Paid a tradesman oace, to mate him stare !" 
 
 Lord Byron owed nothing to his country save 
 unmitigated abuse and relentless persecution. 
 Irregulaiities which had been encouraged in royal 
 persons, were visited with condign punishment 
 when he was their perpetrator ; and, however 
 ungracious it may sound to the admirers of the 
 great poet, we perfectlv agree with the world in 
 this respect. These degrading vices were natu- 
 
 ral to a George the Fourth, or a Huliogabalus, 
 but they were sad exhibitions of human nature 
 when a man of genius hke Byron condescended 
 to them. 
 
 With this quahfication we fully agree with tlie 
 English public. 
 
 One of Byron's peculiarities was to run down 
 every man of original genius, and put some com- 
 mon-place, or, at best, some mediocre writer, in 
 his stead. The lover of genuine poetry cannot 
 fail being struck with this anomaly, as he peruses 
 his entire correspondence. The most extrava- 
 gant praises are given to such feeble writei-s as 
 Rogers, and others of that class ; while affected 
 contempt, or unsparing sarcasm, is levelled con- 
 stantly at Wordsworth and Coleridge. This is 
 sufficiently glaring in his poems ; but in his let- 
 ters it would be perfectly ludicrous, if it were not 
 so monstrously unjust. That Byron privately 
 thought differently we know. Indeed, if his 
 opinions were honestly what he said they were, 
 their critical value would be next to nothing. 
 This is, however, a curious fact in his psycholog- 
 ical history, and shows how little the injustice 
 that had been showered upon him, had made 
 him just himself to others ; but like begets like, 
 and tvrants produce slaves, the difference being 
 simply in the position. Of the httle respect he 
 felt for a man of genius, when he had a difference 
 of opinion with him, we have a singular instance 
 in a letter to Murray, where, after alluding to 
 some observations in Coleridge's Biographia Lit- 
 teraria, he closes his remarks with, " and hence 
 this long tirade, wliich is the last chapter of his 
 vagabond life !" 
 
 In the same epistle, there are two other inter- 
 esting morceaux of informance, which we will 
 quote. This letter is dated October, 1817 : 
 
 " I have written a poem of eighty-four octave 
 stanzas, humorous, in or after the excellent man- 
 ner of Mr. Whistlecraft, on a Venetian anecdote 
 which amused me." 
 
 This is the first announcement of that style of 
 composition, in which he was destined to excel 
 all the world. 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON, 
 
 201 
 
 Tlie next is a curious confession for a man of 
 poetical celebrity, or, indeed, of any taste in lite- 
 rature at all, to make : 
 
 " I never read, and do not know that I ever 
 saw, the Faustus of Marlow." 
 
 He makes this observation in consequence of 
 the originality of Manfred having been attacked. 
 
 He seems to have led now a life of careless 
 indulgence, devoting his time to making love and 
 writing verses. Of his activity in both pursuits, 
 we have ample evidence. His favorite time for 
 composition was night ; and when all was still 
 and at rest, this great poet took up his pen, to 
 send his voice along the sounding corridors of 
 Time. 
 
 During this last year, he had attached himself 
 to Madame Segati, the wife of a linen-draper, 
 in whose house he had apartments. Growing, 
 however, weary of tliis lady love, he hired the 
 Mocenigo palace, and plunged into a mad round 
 of debauchery, to which his former liaison was 
 virtue. We prefer, however, not to dwell on this 
 dark part of his existence, and should not have 
 alluded to it at all, were it not absolutely neces- 
 sary for the full understanding of liis character. 
 
 It was about June, 1818, that he commenced 
 the poem by which he will be longest remem- 
 bered — Don Juan. This work is also connected 
 with another epoch in Byron's life, and which 
 influenced it to the very end. In April, 1819, 
 he first saw the Countess Guiccioli. She was the 
 daughter of Count Gamba of Ravenna, and wife 
 to Count Guiccioli, an old and wealthy widower, 
 to whom she had been married without the 
 slightest inclination on her part. With the ex- 
 ception of Miss Chaworth, this was evidently the 
 only real attachment of his whole life, and her 
 response to it dragged him from the sensual sty 
 into which he had tlirown himself, out of pure 
 desperation and disgust. 
 
 We must give in her own words her account 
 of their first interview : 
 
 " I became acquainted with Lord B3'ron in the 
 April of 1819. He was introduced to me at 
 Vctaitfe, by the Countess Benzoni, at one of that 
 
 Sm. 18* 
 
 lady's parties. This introduction, which had so 
 much influence over the lives of both, took place 
 contrary to our wishes, and had been permitted 
 by us only from courtesy. 
 
 "For myself, more fatigued than usual tliat 
 evening, on account of the hours they keep at 
 Venice, I went with great repugnance to this 
 party, and purely in obedience to Count Guic- 
 cioli. Lord Byron, too, who was averse to form- 
 ing new acquaintances, alleging that ho had en- 
 tirely renounced all attachments, and was unwil- 
 ling any more to expose himself to their conse- 
 quences, on being requested by the Countess 
 Benzoni to allow himself to be presented, refused, 
 and at last only assented from a desire to oblige 
 her. 
 
 " His noble and exquisitely beautiful counte- 
 nance — the tone of his voice — his manners — the 
 thousand enchantments that surrounded him — 
 rendered him so different and so superior a being 
 to any whom I had hitherto seen, that it was im- 
 possible he should not have left the most pro- 
 found impression upon me. From that evening, 
 during the whole of my subsequent stay at Ven • 
 ice, we met every day." 
 
 Wlien this lady was compelled to leave Venice, 
 to accompany her husband to their residence in 
 Ravenna, she wrote to Byron in the most impas- 
 sioned manner, declaring her life was valueless 
 without him. He therefore, in June, joined her 
 there, and became her constant companion. 
 However startling this may sound to English 
 ears, it is so common in Italy as to be considered 
 more a matter of custom than sin. 
 
 Moore, who visited him at this time, gives a 
 very interesting account of the semi-conjugal 
 happiness which seemed to attend the connec- 
 tion. She had now entirely left her husband, 
 and lived with Byron. 
 
 When the first two cantos of Don Juan were 
 published, the outcry was loud against the un- 
 lucky author. The old stories were ripped up, 
 with new exaggerations, and again he was con- 
 sidered by the respectable as one abandone:! by 
 God and man. It is necessary to keep these 
 
202 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 facts in mind, in order to account for the ferocity 
 of much of the noble poet's verses, which, with- 
 out the provocation he was so constantly receiv- 
 ing, would resemble a fiendish desire to give 
 pain to his contemporaries. 
 
 In the November of this year, the Count made 
 an attempt to recover his wife from Lord Byron. 
 The latter thus writes to Mr. Murray on the sub- 
 ject: 
 
 " As I tell you that the Guiccioli business is 
 exploding one way or the other, I will just add 
 that, without attempting to influence the Count- 
 ess, a good deal depends upon it. If she and 
 her husband make it up, you will perhaps see me 
 in England sooner than you expect. If not, I 
 shall retire with her to France or America, 
 change mv name, and lead a quiet provincial life." 
 
 How deeply he felt his banishment from his 
 native land, and the calumnies against him, we 
 have certain evidence in the " Prophecy of 
 Dante," written at this time. There is a Dan- 
 tesque grandeur about this fine poem, worthy 
 the gloomy Florentine himself. Tlie opening is 
 like a fine prelude of solemn music, admirably 
 calculated to induce that particular frame of 
 mind in which this magnificent composition 
 should be read. 
 
 After a severe struggle, the Countess was 
 compelled to return with her lawful spouse, and 
 Mr. Hoppner testifies to the despondencv which 
 ensued, on Byron's part, upon his separation from 
 his mistress. 
 
 Unable to endure Italy any longer, he resolved 
 to return to England, and face his enemies. For 
 this purpose, all had been arranged, when the 
 news arrived that the fair Countess was danger- 
 ously ill at Ravenna, owing to grief at her sepa- 
 ration from the object of her love. Byron flew 
 at once to her side, and his fate was decided. 
 He had just before sent to Murray the third 
 canto of Don Juan, intending to superintend its 
 progress through the press in person. 
 
 BvTon arrived at Ravenna on Christmas-day, 
 and the progress of the young lady's recovery 
 was rapid. H*e they enjoyed as much felicity | 
 
 as pereons in their position could. The Countess 
 was a great admirer of poetry, and she had made 
 great progress in the English language, so that 
 she could enter with spirit into her i.oble lover's 
 compositions. Injustice to her sense of womanly 
 feeling, it is due to her to state that Don Ju:m 
 was her great aversion, and that she frequently 
 implored Byron not to proceed with it. 
 
 Another change was in progress for the lovers, 
 for earlv in July, the Countess, who was now 
 formally separated from her husband, was com- 
 pelled, bv the terms of her separation, to reside 
 at a villa belonging to her father. Count Gamba, 
 about fifteen miles from Ravenna. 
 
 Here Byron visited her, generally twice or 
 thrice in the month ; passing the rest of his time 
 in perfect solitude. The lady felt this change in 
 her life acutely, and whiled away the weary hours 
 in educating herself for her illustrious friend. 
 We can fully enter into the melancholy state of 
 her existence at this time, and how blank aU 
 must have seemed when he, who was her lode- 
 star, was away. 
 
 He employed his mind now in the composition 
 of " Marino Faliero," which he told a friend of 
 ours was first suggested by the situation of the 
 Countess and her husband. This fine tragedy 
 he dedicated to Goethe, who had paid Byron 
 some very high compliments, on reading his 
 " Manfred." 
 
 As a proof how Byron brooded over real or 
 imaginary wrongs, he commenced a poetical por- 
 trait gallery, in which he resolved to give full- 
 length pictures of his contemporaries. Some of 
 these he finished ; and one — that on Samuel 
 Rogers — ^has been published. It fii-st appeared 
 in Eraser's Magazine, through the agency of the 
 Countess of Blessington, to whom the satirist 
 gave it, when at Geneva. The tone is v6ry 
 savatre and undignified, descending to the fiercest 
 personal abuse. In a letter to Murray, dated 
 November 9th, 1S20, Byron thus alludes to 
 Roo-ers : " If the person had not, by many little, 
 duty, sneaking traits, provoked it, I should have 
 been silent, though I had observed liim." 
 
'2^4^^ ww^z^^ j5:^^^ccoo-^cj^. 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 203 
 
 The revolutionary ferment was very active in 
 Italy this year, and the well-known political 
 liberalism of the English poet made him much 
 suspected by the authorities. Tlie}', however, 
 confined their malice to ordering the arrest of 
 some of his political friends, who being Italians, 
 were of course amenable to the laws of their 
 country, however tyrannical. 
 
 In his journal, we have a minute account of 
 the manner of his life at this time. It is some- 
 what frivolous, and relates more to his external 
 than to his internal life. The entry dated 21st 
 January, 1821, which completed his thirty-third 
 year, is sufficiently gloomy to have cheered his 
 direst enemy. 
 
 In entering upon a new year in his life, he had, 
 as usual, his vexations ; among others, an at- 
 tempt made to perform " Marino Faliero," at 
 Drury Lane. We do not wonder at Byron's in- 
 dignation, for it is so essentially undramatic that 
 it was only courting a failure. 
 
 While Byron was fretting his soul away in 
 petty vexations, thankless for that which ought 
 to have consoled him for all — the love of the 
 guileless and beautiful Countess, who had sacri- 
 ficed all for his sake — another English poet, 
 scarcely inferior to him, was calmly counting the 
 beatings of his broken and wearied heart, at 
 Rome. Keats died on the of February ; 
 
 and in a letter to Shelley, dated 26 th April, 
 Byron thus alludes to it : 
 
 " I am very sorry to hear what you say of 
 Keats — is it actually true ? I did not think 
 criticism had been so killing." 
 
 It is a proud, and yet a disgraceful, page in 
 English literature, that the conventionalism of that 
 nation had driven into banishment three such 
 poets as Byron, Shelley, and Keats, at one and 
 the same time ! Happy land ! where they have 
 BO much useless genius ! ! 
 
 '• Sardanapalus" was completed in the June of 
 this Tear, and transmitted to Muri'ay for publica- 
 tion 
 
 It is pleasant to come upon such extracts as 
 these : — " A young American, narked Coolidge, 
 called on me not many n onths ago. * * * 
 Whenever an American requests to see me (which 
 is not unfrequently) I comply — firstly, because I 
 respect a people who acquired their freedom by 
 their firmness, without excess ; secondly, be- 
 cause these transatlantic visits, ' few and far be- 
 tween,' make me feel as if talking with posterity 
 from the other side of the Styx." 
 
 Lord Byron was roused from his poetical pur- 
 suits by receiving, this month, a letter from tlie 
 Countess Guiccioli, in which she announces that 
 her family had been proscribed. We have not 
 space for it ; but the whole speaks conclusively 
 to the enduring affection which this young crea- 
 ture, scarcely twenty-two, had for the " banished 
 poet of England." Subsequently she was com- 
 pelled to fly to Florence with her father and 
 brother. Lord Byron still remaining at Ravenna. 
 
 In reviewing the career of this celebrated man, 
 it is impossible not to become attached to him, in 
 spite of his failings. This was the opinion of one 
 who believed he had been deeply injured b}' the 
 " moody childe ;" but he has repeatedly told the 
 writer of this hasty sketch, that in his good, 
 genial mood, Byron was one of the most " love- 
 able beings" he had ever met. His complaint 
 against him was, that his disposition was so fickle, 
 that it was impossible to be certain wliether you 
 would be received with an almost boyish delight, 
 or a chilling formality, that was perfectly insult- 
 ing. All these correspond exactly witli the tone 
 of his writings ; bearing out the conviction, that 
 as his poetical genius was superior to most men, 
 so was his consistency deficient. But it is not 
 for the dull to put on their own Procrustean bed 
 a man of such unquestioned intellect, and pro- 
 nounce him bad, because he is not of their stand- 
 ard. Let them rather be too thankful to recpive 
 him, " with all his imperfections on his head," 
 for, take him for all in all, we ne'er shall look 
 upon his like again. 
 
204 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 PART V. 
 
 FROM JULY, 1S21,T0 APRIL, 1S23. 
 
 BHELLEV RAVENNA BOLOGNA PISA ROGERS 
 
 LADY BLESSINOTON DEATH OF ALLKGRA 
 
 LEIGH HUNT LIBERAL SHELLEV DROWNED 
 
 COUNT d'oRSAV LADY BYRON, ETC. 
 
 In August, 1821, Shelley, at Byron's express 
 invitation, arrived on a visit, and, in his corre- 
 spondence, expresses much.pleasure at his recep- 
 tion. The author of Queen Mab was undoubt- 
 edly one of those for whom Byron entertained 
 the utmost respect. In a letter, he thus 
 sketches the external of the poet's life : 
 
 " We ride out in the evening, in the pine 
 forests which divide the city from the sea. Our 
 wav of life is this : Lord Byron gets up at two ; 
 breakfasts ; we talk, read, &c., until six ; then 
 we ride at eight, and after dinner sit talking to 
 four or five o'clock in the morning ! Lord Byron 
 is greatly improved, in ever}' respect. His con- 
 nection with Madame Guiccioli has been of inesti- 
 mable benefit to him. He has read to me some 
 of the unpublished cantos of Don Juan, which is 
 astonishinglv fine." 
 
 Agreeably to the arrangement with the Guic- 
 cioli, Lord Bvron took up his abode in Bologna, 
 wliere he met Mr. Rogers. The latter has, in his 
 poem on Italy, in his usual feeble, but graceful 
 style, commemorated the event. 
 
 Some time previous to this he had transmitted 
 to Murray his drama of " Ciiin," which the pub- 
 lisher verv naturally hesitated to publish. 
 
 In a letter to Murray, Byron says : " A man's 
 poetry is a distinct faculty, or soul, and has no 
 more to do with the every-day indi\'idual than 
 the inspiration with the Pythoness when re- 
 moved from her tripod." 
 
 Bvron now took up his residence at Pisa, where 
 he led his usual life. He was visited, in the 
 April of 1822, with the severest domestic calam- 
 itv he had yet experienced — we mean in the 
 death of his little daughter, Allegra. In letters 
 to Murray and Shelley, he alludes to this loss 
 with much feeling. Here his old associations 
 
 came over him, and he resolved that the body of 
 his favorite child should be deposited in Harrow 
 churchyard, where often, when a lad, he had 
 whiled away the sunny houis in musings which 
 afterwards took the immc rtal shape of verse. In 
 a letter, he thus particularizes his wish : 
 
 " There is a spot in the churchyard, near the 
 footpath, on the brow of the hill looking towards 
 Windsor, and a tomb under a large tree (bearing 
 the name of Peachie, or Peachy), where I used 
 to sit for hours and hours, when a boy. This 
 was my favorite spot." 
 
 At the same time, he sent the following in 
 scription : 
 
 "IS MEMORY or 
 
 ALLEGRA, 
 
 DACQHTER OF GEORGE GORDON. LORD BTROX, 
 
 \\1io died at Bagna Cavallo, in Ilaly, 
 AprU 20, 1823, 
 
 AGED FIVE YEARS A>'D THREE MONTHS. 
 
 I shall go to her, but she shall not return to me." 
 
 When he was at Leghorn, he received a flat- 
 tering invitation from the commander of the 
 American squadron, which he accepted. He 
 was received with the honoi-s due to his genius. 
 He mentions the circumstance, in his correspond- 
 ence, with much delight. 
 
 A very Wvid idea of the gloomy state of his 
 mind can be realized from his " Werner," which 
 was published at that time. He had been much 
 impressed with this subject, which is taken from 
 one of Miss Lee's Canterbury Tales. We learn, 
 however, from his correspondents, that he had 
 serious intentions of emigrating to America, and 
 wrote to Mr. Ellis for information. His plan was 
 to take the Countess with him, purchase an 
 estate, change his name, renounce his nation, and 
 devote himself to agricultural pursuits. This 
 fever, however, passed oflF, like many others ; but 
 it amused his mind for a short time. 
 ■ In July of this year, Leigh Hiint arrived at 
 Pisa, with his wife and famUy, having been in- 
 vited by Shelley and Byron to edit a periodical 
 called the Liberal, to which they promised both 
 money and contributions. In the first number of 
 this appeared the celebrated Vision of Judgment, 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 205 
 
 a hrilliant and unsparing parody of Southey's 
 disgusting cubgy on George the Tliird. 
 
 We shall not enter into the causes of its fail- 
 ure, but content ourselves by observing that no 
 real union could long exist between such anoma- 
 lous beings as Byron, Siielley, and Hunt. The 
 former had by this time learned the value of 
 money, and was by no means willing to keep his 
 purse open, for the maudlin generosity of Hunt, 
 or the extravagance of his wife. Lord Byron, 
 however, requires no pen to exculpate him in 
 this affair, for the author of Rimini has justified 
 the noble poet, by his own version of the diffi- 
 culty. 
 
 This ill-starred partnership was suddenly dis- 
 rupted by the death of Shelley, who was drowned 
 in a storm. Tiie singular burning of his body by 
 the sea-shore, which was attended by Byron, 
 Hunt, Medwin, and Trelawney, has been so fre- 
 quently described, that we shall merely record 
 the fact. 
 
 Bvron now removed to Genoa, where he was 
 visited by Lord Clare, the companion of his boy- 
 hood. His delight at once more seeing his old 
 schoolfellow, as related by eye-witnesses, par- 
 takes more of infantine joy than of sober manhood. 
 
 In April, 1823, the visit of Lord and Lady 
 Blessington, with Count D'Orsay, gave a momen- 
 tary gleam of sunshine to his life ; for with all 
 his affected misanthropy. Lord Byron was emi- 
 nently social. His happiest hours were passed 
 in the society of those who would listen to his 
 spoken confessions, and sympathize with his mis- 
 fortunes. 
 
 Few volumes throw a greater light upon his 
 nature than Lady Blessington's volume of his 
 conversations. We have been told by one of his 
 most intimate friends that it is like listening to 
 nim. Always ready to acknowledge himself worse 
 than he was, nothing annoyed him so much 
 as to be taken at his word by his hearers ! This 
 ■was a peculiarity which sometimes puzzled his 
 companions ; but it is a common trait in human 
 nature, and has been brought forth with much 
 comic effect in Sir Fretful Plagiary ! 
 
 His attachment to Lady Blessington has laid 
 them both open to many reproaches, which were 
 evidently unfounded. The vulgar-minded arc 
 unable to realize that a strong and perfectly in- 
 nocent friendship may exist between persons of 
 opposite se.\es, of exalted genius. Fools rush 
 into the only gratification they can enjoy — those 
 of the senses ; but those who really taste the 
 ecstasy of love, are the few who, like Rousseau, 
 walk miles of a morning, merely to kiss the hand 
 of Madame de Warrene. The lower order pluck 
 the fruit of the tree of knowledge, and hence 
 their expulsion from the paradise of love ; while 
 self-denial and loftier appreciation of the dignity 
 of womanhood gives to tiie last interview of age 
 the zest of the first meeting of youth. The com- 
 mon idea of love is happily illustrated by the 
 fable of the boy killing the goose, to reap at once 
 all the hoarded golden eggs concealed within her 
 mysterious recesses. 
 
 Tiie same remark applies to his friendship with 
 Lady Caroline Lamb, about which so much scan- 
 dal has been written. Some latitude must be 
 allowed to hterary ladies. Genius is of no gen- 
 der, and they are so accustomed to regard every 
 thing in the abstract, that many outward circum- 
 stances are overlooked, which are calculated to 
 produce a false impression on the world, which 
 is made up of the masses, or rather the lower 
 orders of society. We have neither space nor 
 inclination to enter into the controversy as to how 
 far it is wise to humor the prejudices of that 
 many-headed hydra. 
 
 Turning over the correspondence of Byron, we 
 come to a very interesting letter, addressed by 
 him to Lady Byron, in which he acknowledges 
 the receipt of a lock of Ada's hair, which he 
 says " is very soft and pretty, and nearly as dark 
 already as mine was at twelve years of age." In 
 this remarkable letter we come to this particular 
 sentence : 
 
 " I also thank you for the inscnption ot the date 
 and name, and I will tell you why — I believe 
 that they are the only two or three words of 
 your handwriting in my possession ; for your let- 
 
 Sio. 19 
 
206 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BY RON 
 
 ters I returned ; and except the two words, or 
 rather the one word, ' Household,' written twice 
 in an old account-book, I have no other." 
 
 The keen observer of the workings of the 
 human heart can see in these simple words a 
 vast history of mental suflering and regret. 
 Surelv the man who had the power to inspire so 
 manv lasting attachments must have had many 
 noble qualities of the heart, as well as brilliant 
 faculties of the head ; and Fletcher, his old and 
 attached valet, no doubt spoke the truth, when 
 he said, " Lady Byron was the only woman I 
 ever knew who could not manage my master." 
 The fact is, she would not meet him half way : 
 she would not take any trouble, nor sacrifice one 
 jot of her prejudices, to conciliate or soothe one 
 of the most singular beings that ever lived. Had 
 she been a fool, and imable to appreciate his 
 genius, it would have been another matter ; but 
 she was an eminently intellectual woman, and 
 fully equal to an estimate of her husband's powers 
 of mind. She knew his nature pretty well when 
 she married him, and there was no excuse for 
 her refusing to make some sacrifices for one she 
 had sworn to love, honor, and obey. If the real 
 reason was what has been privately stated by 
 some of her friends, " that she would not undergo 
 the pain and inconvenience of another pregnancy 
 for all the husbands in the world," she need not 
 have hesitated in boldly avowing this to the 
 world ; for we maintain there was more indelicacy 
 in the thous;ind dark rumors and inuendos, 
 springing from the mysterious silence, than from 
 the openly spoken fact of the case. 
 
 In these few remarks, we have no desire to ut- 
 ter a disrespectful word of Lady Byron. We 
 concede to her all the merits of the utmost pru- 
 dence, and the coldest propriety ; but a woman 
 who had married a man hke Byron, with her 
 eyes open, at her mature age, should have 
 thought it her duty, if it were not her inclina- 
 tion, to have made some sacrifices, and many 
 efforts, ere slie threw him into that abyss of de- 
 bauchery, which she must have known would 
 have followed upon her repudiation of him. She 
 
 must have been well aware that a man of genius 
 has always a herd of barking curs at his hetds, 
 ready to hunt him to death, should the world 
 once raise its fiendish howl against him ; and 
 that nothing gratifies "the pack of litterateurs 
 and penny-a-liners" so much as to forge scandal 
 against the man whom they hate and fear, out of 
 that instinctive perception which ever dwells in 
 the baser minds. As a fine poet of America has 
 lately said in the Home Journal, " there is always 
 a race of small, disappointed authors, who are 
 ready to become booksellers' hacks, and establish 
 a kingdom of envy !" 
 
 PART VI. 
 
 FROM M.'VY TO DECEMBER. 1823. 
 BYROS IS GREECE. 
 
 There is a melancholv interest attached to the 
 last years of this singular man, which belongs to 
 very few others. He died at a time when he 
 seemed to be entering into a new phase of exist- 
 ence. There are epochs in every man's life, and 
 the entrance into each is ushered by that pecu- 
 liar restlessness which Lamb used to call the 
 growing pains of seraph wings. It would be 
 considering the question too curiously to enter 
 into any guess of what Bj-ron might have been, 
 or might have done, had his life been prolonged. 
 It is more than probable that every human 
 coui-se is complete, without reference to the ap- 
 parent number of mortal days. A modem poet 
 has treated it in this light, when he says — 
 " Life, long or short, is truly circular !" 
 
 That Byron felt this irritability is sufficiently 
 apparent from a glance at his correspondence, 
 without any study of his character. To this 
 alone can be attributed the singular fact of his 
 leaving the Countess Guiccioli, to whom, there is 
 no doubt, he was much attached. We must 
 hkevrise take into account Byron's personal vanity, 
 which was excessive. This foible peeped out in 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 207 
 
 many circumstances of his early life, and clung to 
 him to his dying day. It also formed a large 
 ingredient in tiie character of his illustrious con- 
 temporary, Napoleon. The vulgar idea of great 
 men being exempt from the common failings of 
 humanity, was happily ridiculed by Samuel 
 Johnson, who, on a fool's saying he was aston- 
 ished to find the Doctor took so much inter- 
 est in his dinner, replied, "Sir, do you think 
 God made all these good things for yov, block- 
 heads ?" 
 
 We must, also, not overlook another very 
 powerful incentive in Byron's composition — viz., 
 love of fame. When to this we add a burning 
 desire to do something to shame the obloquy 
 which had so long waited upon him, we have a 
 very intelligible reason for his embarking in the 
 Greek cause. 
 
 So far as the princijile of freedom was coi>- 
 cerned, we do not think he had very confirmed 
 ideas. Naturally, he hated oppression, but the 
 strong motive with him, in all his political acts, 
 was more a dislike to orthodox governments, 
 than a love for the absti-act right. He was 
 essentially discontented, and acted from this dis- 
 satisfaction of feeling throughout life. 
 
 In this state of mind, he was induced to listen 
 to the proposals made by some gentleman inter- 
 ested in the Greek cause. We think that a close 
 examination of his correspondence will show that, 
 having incautiously pledged himself to embark in 
 it, he was prevented, by a feeling of pride, from 
 retracing his step, although he felt it was per- 
 sonally unwise. Some hone believed that it 
 was to break off his connection with the Guic- 
 cioli, of whom the}' argue he must have been 
 weary. 
 
 Whatever was the motive, he finally resolved, 
 in May, 1823, to hazard his life, fame, and 
 fortune, in the struggle for Grecian liberty. 
 How thoroughly he entered into the scheme, is 
 evident to all who have read his letters to Bow- 
 rinc on the subject. Indeed, we do not see how 
 EUiy rational mind can doubt the sincerity of 
 so impulsive a man as Byron. In a few lines 
 
 addressed to the Countess of Blessington, he 
 says : 
 
 " Do not defend me : it will never do ; you 
 will only make yourself enemies. Mine are nei- 
 ther to be diminished nor softened, but they may 
 be overthrown ; and there are events which mav 
 occur, less improbable than those which have 
 happened in our time, that may reverse the 
 present, state of things. We shall see." 
 
 It is clear from this that he had hopes of tri- 
 umphing over his enemies in England, by the 
 brilliancy of his exploits in Greece. He therefore 
 bent himself resolutely to the plan, and wrote to 
 Trelawney, who was in Rome, to come to him 
 without delay. He also engaged Dr. Bruno to 
 attend him as physician, and oidered three 
 splendid helmets to be made, with " Crede 
 Byron" on the crest. 
 
 A very interesting scene is related by Lady 
 Blessington, which occurred when he was taking 
 leave of her. Pressing her hand, he said, 
 " Here we are together for the last time ! I have 
 a strong presentiment we shall never meet again. 
 I shall never return from Greece." After con- 
 tinuing the conversation, in this strain, for some 
 short time longer, he leaned over the sofa, and 
 burst into an uncontrolled fit of crying. When he 
 recovered from his impulse, he presented to 
 each a small token of his regard. 
 
 All being now settled, he hired an English 
 brig, called the Hercules, and sailed with his per- 
 sonal attendants, on the 13th of July, on his ex- 
 pedition. The adverse state of the weather, how- 
 ever, compelled them to return the next day to 
 Genoa, and it is said he considered this as ominous 
 of the whole proceeding. While they were repair- 
 ing the vessel, he stayed with Mr. Barry ; and that 
 gentleman reports his conversation took the most 
 gloomy turn. Sailing the next morning, they 
 reached Leghorn in five days. When he arrived 
 there, he had recovered all his former enthusiasm 
 in the cause, and seemed impatient for action. 
 It was here that he leceived some verses and v 
 letter from Goethe, to which he had just time 
 to dispatch a cordial reply. 
 
20S 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 Sailing from Leghorn on tlie 24tli July, he 
 arrived at Argostoli, the chief port in Cepha- 
 lonia, on the 5th August. 
 
 The arrival of so celebrated a man naturally 
 caused a considerable sensation, and be was re- 
 ceived by the governor, Colonel Napier, and his 
 officers, in the most flattering manner. At a 
 dinner given to him by the garrison, he expressed, 
 with all the force of a poet's soul, the pleasure 
 he experienced at the generous welcome. 
 
 He had, on the first minute of his arrival, dis- 
 patched a messenger to the seat of war; and 
 after a lapse of eiglit days, be received a reply 
 from the heroic Marco Bozzaris, who was then 
 preparing for the attack in which he so gloriously 
 fell. The noble Suliote announces in this letter 
 that, the following day, he would set out, with a 
 chosen band of warriors, to receive the British 
 poet at Missolonghi, with due honors ; but the 
 gallant chief was not destined to see that mor- 
 row's sun, for that very night he fell, in his cele- 
 brated attack on the Turkish camp. 
 
 A very short time enabled Bvron to see what 
 a hopeless task he had embarked in. Under the 
 influence of these feelings, he wi-ites : " I am of 
 St. Paul's opinion, that there is no diflerence be- 
 tween Jews and Greeks — the character of both 
 being equally vile." 
 
 Byron ha\ing resolved to remain in the island 
 of Cephalonia till he had come to a full under- 
 standing with the Greek government, he took up 
 bis quarteis at Metaxata, a small village about 
 seven miles from Argostoli. 
 
 As a proof of the little concert existing between 
 the Grecian comraandere, we may name that at 
 this time he received three conflicting requests 
 from them — one from Colocotioni, urging his 
 presence at Salamis ; another from Metaxa, beg- 
 ging him to hasten to Missolonghi ; and a third 
 from Mavrocordato, inviting him to Hydra. 
 
 Count Gamba, who had accompanied Bvron, 
 says that the great poet amused himself by ex- 
 posing the intrigues of the various factions, and 
 by confronting the lying agents. 
 
 It was during his stay at Argostoli that his 
 
 acquaintance commenced with Dr. Kennedr, who 
 has published a volume of his conversations with 
 his celebrated friend. The worthy Doctor, in his 
 anxiety to convert Byron to Christianity, had 
 somewhat overtaxed his patience ; but he men- 
 tions himself that nothing could exceed the noble 
 poet's toleration and courtesy. 
 
 These conversations are valuable, inasmuch as 
 they evince Byron's predisposition to acknowl- 
 edge the truth of divine revelation, as contained 
 in the Scriptures. They are certainly a complete 
 answer to the knot of bigots who have assailed him 
 as being an atheist. One thing must strike every 
 one in this volume, and that is the extraordinary 
 knowledge displayed of the Bible, and the theo- 
 logical grasp of Byron's mind. 
 
 While staying here, he wrote frequently to 
 the Countess Guiecioli, and for the first time, in 
 English. In one of them he says : " October 7, 
 1S23 — I was a fool to come here; but being 
 here, I must see what is to be done." And in 
 another, written during the same month, he ex- 
 presses an intention of soon returning to Italy, 
 adding that he can say nothing in favor of the 
 Greeks ! 
 
 A few days later he writes still more emphatic- 
 ally, " You may be sure that the moment I can 
 join you again will be as welcome to me as at 
 any period of our recollection." 
 
 In December, the dissensions of the wretched 
 men who had the management of the govern- 
 ment reached such a point, that Byron addressed 
 a remonstrance to them. The dignity and force 
 of this production are above all praise, and show 
 that whatever a man of genius undertakes to 
 do, he does well ! 
 
 How earnestly he entered into the cause is ap- 
 pai-ent from the generosity with which he ad- 
 vanced to the provisional government his own 
 fortune, and we fearlessly assert that to no man 
 does Greece owe so much as to Lord Byron. 
 He came to their aid at the most critical point of 
 their struggle ; he threw into the scale the pres- 
 tige of his fame, and the substantial aid of his 
 wealth ; but above all these, he compelled the 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 209 
 
 discordant chiefs to elect Mavrocordato the head 
 of the government — the only man among them 
 who had the faintest pretensions to the title of a 
 patriot or a statesman. 
 
 Mavrocordato Isaving been invested with full 
 powers to organize Western Greece, Byron now 
 resol ed himself to enter on the scene of action. 
 How anxiously he was expected, we may gather 
 from the letters of the Prince Mavrocordato and 
 Colonel Stanhope, who had a command in the 
 Greek army. The former says — " Your counsels 
 will be listened to like oracles ;" and Stanhope 
 writes that, in walking along the streets, the 
 people stopped him to inquire when Byron 
 would be among them. 
 
 Still the poet's half-prophetic mind saw his 
 fate looramg afar, and in a letter to Moore, writ- 
 ten a few hours before he sailed for Missolonghi, 
 he indulges in a semi-jocular strain as to meeting 
 the fy'e of several warrior bards who had been 
 cut short in middle life ! Thus, like the pillar of 
 Gre, and the cloud of smoke, did the presentiment 
 of his doom haunt the great poet, who marched 
 onwards to his destined glory unswervingly to 
 the end ! How truly his own forebodings were 
 fulfilled, the next chapter will show. 
 
 PART VII. 
 
 1824. 
 
 HIS LAST YEAR AGED 36. 
 
 Btron's life is eminently dramatic : it seems 
 to resolve itself naturally into all the divisions of 
 a drai'ia. We are now at the beginning of the 
 fifth act, and in it the hero falls with dignity. 
 
 It is certainly to be wished that he had fallen 
 for a nation better worthy the sacrifice of so great 
 ;i man ! The hackneyed metaphor of stepping 
 " from the sublime to the ridiculous" is truly ex- 
 pressive of the Greeks of the Iliad to the Greeks 
 of our own times. Coleridge said once to Dr. 
 Gillmau that he could conceive nothing greater, 
 
 Sro. 19* 
 
 in the way of an anti-climax, than Isaiah utter- 
 ing prophecy, and a modern Jew hawking old 
 clothes. 
 
 That Byron, who had embarked his fame, for- 
 tune, and life, had a low opinion of the nation he 
 had risked so much for, is evident, from the re- 
 mark he made respecting the conduct of Sir 
 Thomas Maitland. " I came out (says Byron) 
 prejudiced against his government of the Greeks, 
 but I have changed my opinion. They are such 
 barbarians, that, if I had the government of 
 them, I would pave these very roads with their 
 bodies !" 
 
 This was certainly a melancholy prospect for 
 the poet-hero. He could have no more sympa- 
 thy with them, or respect for their cause, than a 
 noble lion has for a drove of swine. We must, 
 however, bear in mind that the " primum mobile" 
 of the evil was the frightful tyranny under which 
 they had groaned so long. 
 
 It was in this frame of mind that he resolved 
 to leave Metaxata for Missolonghi. Dr. Kennedy 
 called upon him to take leave, and found him 
 reading " Quentin Durward." A few hours af- 
 terwards, they set sail — Byron on board the 
 Mistico, and Count Gamba, with the heavy bag- 
 gage, in the Bombarda. 
 
 After touching at Zante for the specie, on the 
 evening of the 29th December they were fairly 
 under weigh for the seat of war. The wind was 
 favorable — the sky clear — tlie air fresh, but not 
 sharp — the sailors sung patriotic songs, in which 
 Byron, who was in the fullest gayety, took part. 
 In the course of the night, the Mistico had a 
 narrow chance of being captured by a Turkish 
 frigate. They, however, ran their small craft 
 among some rocks called the Scrofes, and conse- 
 quently escaped ; but the larger vessel, in which 
 Gamba, the horses, press, and eight thousand 
 dollars were embai-ked, was taken, and car- 
 ried into Patras. Here, after undergoing a scru- 
 tiny, the}' were released. The Mistico experi- 
 enced much bad weather, and did not arrive 
 at Missolonghi till the 5th January. He was 
 received with that adulation which the base and 
 
210 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYROI?. 
 
 degraded ever exhibit, when they think they have 
 got a " magnificent" fly into their miserable 
 spider's web. When Byron landed, he had the 
 satisfaction of finding the missing vessel safely 
 arrived. But here his satisfaction ended, for 
 never had imagination conjured up into one small 
 space the ideal of a degradation equal to the 
 reaUty here displayed. 
 
 The fleet had disbanded — the army was riot- 
 ous and clamorous for their pay — the chiefs were 
 quarrelling among themselves ; and the inhabit- 
 ants were desponding, and ready to join any ad- 
 venturer. 
 
 In a letter to Mr. Hancock, wiitten early in 
 February, Byron says : 
 
 " I am to be commander-in-chief, and the post 
 is by no means a sinecure, for we are not what 
 Major Sturgeon calls " a set of the most amicable 
 ofiicers." Whether we shall have a boxing-bout 
 between Captain Sheers and the Colonel, I can- 
 not tell ; but between Suliote chiefs, German 
 barons, English volunteers, and adventurers of 
 all nations, we are likely to form as goodly an 
 aUied army as ever quarrelled beneath the same 
 banner." 
 
 A few days afterwards, he received his com- 
 mission from the government to lead the expedi- 
 tion against Lepanto, which was then in the 
 hands of the Turks. At this very minute, how- 
 ever, his band of Suliotes broke out into open 
 mutiny, and some lives were sacrificed before the 
 riot was put down. This was a source of great 
 annoyance to Byron, and increased his disgust at 
 the conduct of the Greeks. From Gamba's ac- 
 count, we ai-e almost tempted to believe that the 
 poet looked forward with a hopeful eye that he 
 might fall in some military enterprise. That this 
 would have many charms to one of his nature, is 
 apparent. It .would have made his name one of 
 the most glorious in the annals of the world. 
 AlreacJjV famous as a poet, it only required the 
 soldier's death to place it beyond the chance of 
 competition. Every thing was in readiness, when 
 the intrigues of Colocotroni caused a quarrel be- 
 tween the great poet and his Suliote band. 
 
 Although the latter abandoned their demands 
 the nest day, and re-entered Lord Byron's ser- 
 vice, it had the effect of postponing the opera- 
 tions against Lepanto. 
 
 On the 15 th of February, he was seized with 
 a fit, which was the precureor of his illness and 
 death. He was sitting with Parry, Hesketh, and 
 Colonel Stanhope, when he complained of thu-st. 
 After taking a glass of cider, his face changed. 
 He attempted to walk, but was unable, and 
 finally fell into Mr. Parry's arms. In another 
 minute he was in strong convulsions. The fit, 
 however, was as short as it was violent. In a 
 few minutes, his speech and senses returned, and 
 no efi"ect remained except excessive weakness. 
 The next morning he complained of pains in his 
 head, which induced the doctors to apply leeches 
 to his temples. The bleeding was so excessive 
 that he fainted from loss of blood. He had 
 scarcely recovered from this, when his mutinous 
 troops broke into his sick chamber, demanding 
 some concessions and privileges, to which he had 
 before refused to comply. Colonel Stanhope and 
 Count Gamba, who were present, describe the 
 dignity and dauntless behaviour of the English 
 poet. Rising from his bed, he confronted them, 
 replied to their insolence, and finally, by his 
 courage and presence of mind, awed them into 
 submission. That this, however, had a bad 
 effect upon his nervous system, in his then weak 
 and excited state, and hastened his death, there 
 can be little doubt. He, however, resolved to 
 rid himself of these lawless villains, and, after 
 some negotiations, the whole Suliote band was 
 induced to depart from Missolonghi. With 
 them, however, vanished all chance of the attack 
 on Lepanto. 
 
 Every letter written by him at this time bears 
 leo-ibly on its page the shadow of his now rapidly 
 approaching fate. Wearied with the quarrels of 
 the chi»fs, he resolved, with Mavrocordato, to pro- 
 ceed to Salona, to meet Ulysses, and the leaders of 
 Eastern Greece. While waiting for some neces- 
 sary information, he zealously employed himself 
 in repairing the fortifications of Missolonghi, and 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYROiV 
 
 211 
 
 raising a brigade. Tlius passed the last month 
 but one of his checkered Hfe. 
 
 From the time he was first attacked with the 
 fit, he had been partially indisposed, suffering 
 chiefly from vertigo and cold shudderings. 
 Every day brought new trials to his health and 
 temper. Added to these, the rains had made 
 the plains around Missolonghi a perfect swamp, 
 so that he was unable to take his usual exercise. 
 This was the condition of things when April — 
 the month in which he was to die — dawned upon 
 the earth. 
 
 The first week was taken up in quarrels be- 
 tween the citizens, and so distmbed grew the 
 populace, that a ^lollision was very near taking 
 place between them and Byron's body-guard of 
 Suliotes. 
 
 On the 10th of April, he was riding with 
 Count Gamba and his body-guard of fifty Suli- 
 otes, when, three miles from Missolonghi, he was 
 overtaken by a heavy shower of rain. It was 
 his usual custom to dismount at the walls, and 
 return to his own quarters in a boat. On the 
 present occasion, he was importuned by Gamba 
 to ride home to his very door, and so avoid the 
 evil consequences of sitting in his wet clothes, 
 exposed to the rain. Byron refused, saying: 
 " A pretty soldier you would make me — afraid 
 of a shower of rain." He therefore persisted in 
 his determination, and returned in his usual man- 
 ner. Tv;o hours after his arrival home, he was 
 seized with shudderings and rheumatic pains ; 
 and when Gamba entered his room at eight 
 o'clock in the evening, he found the great poet 
 lying on a sofa, restless and melancholy. 
 
 The next day he rose at his usual hour, trans- 
 acted business, and was even well enough to 
 ride in the olive wood, accompanied by his long 
 train of soldiers. Byron was fond of dramatic 
 pomp, and it followed him to bis grave. This 
 was the last time he ever crossed his threshold 
 alive. 
 
 On his return, he told Fletcher he felt so ill 
 that he feared the saddle had not been thoroughly 
 dried. In the evening, Mr. Finlay and Dr. Mil- 
 
 lingen called upon him. They found him gayer 
 than usual, but all on a sudden he became pen- 
 sive, and in that state they left him. 
 
 His restlessness increased, and on the 12th he 
 kept his bed. Although unable either to sleep 
 or eat, on the two following days his fever 
 seemed to decline ; but so did his strength. 
 During this time, he suffered much in his head. 
 Towards the evening of the 14th, Dr. Bruno 
 urged him to be bled. To this operation he had, 
 throughout life, evinced the strongest repug- 
 nance : he would therefore not consent. It was 
 this night that he tested the accuracy of his 
 memory, by repeating some Latin verses he 
 learned at school. Only being one word out, he 
 expressed himself satisfied with the result. Un- 
 like as the two men are, we cannot help recalling 
 to the reader's recollection a parallel experiment 
 of Samuel Johnson, when on his deathbed. 
 
 All things seemed to conspire against the hero- 
 poet. The weather was so stormy, that no ship 
 could be sent to Zante for better medical advice ; 
 the rain descended in torrents ; and between the 
 floods from the shore, and the sirocco from the 
 sea, Missolonghi was the home of malaria. 
 
 It was at this minute that Dr. Millingen was 
 called in professionally. Unfortunately for tho 
 world, he was an advocate for bleeding. Byron's 
 intellect, however, fell not without a logical 
 struggle. He argued the question for some 
 time, combating the quackeries of the medical 
 profession with the solidities of common sense 
 and experience. Among other remarks, Byron 
 said " that bleeding a man so nervous as himself 
 was like loosening the chords of a harp already 
 sufferino- for want of tension." How true this 
 was, the fatal sequel proved. " Bleeding," added 
 the poet, " will inevitably kill me." 
 
 Parry, the military engineer, who sat by him 
 this evening, says that " he seemed perfectly calm 
 and resigned, and so unlike his usual manner, 
 that my mmd foreboded a fatal result." 
 
 Next morning, Drs. Millingen and Bruno re- 
 newed their importunities, and Byron, wearied 
 out, extended his arm, angrily exclaiming — 
 
212 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 " There, you damned butcliers ! since you will 
 have it so, take as much blood as you like, and 
 have done with it." 
 
 Tliese ignorant, reckless quacks had, however, 
 miscalculated. After the first copious bleeding, 
 he grew worse. They bled again, and the case 
 was hopeless. Byron was right : he wanted 
 more blood than he already had — not to have it 
 taken fi-om him. As Tennyson savs in the Two 
 Voices : 
 
 " 'Tis life, whereof these veins are scant — 
 More life, and fuller — that I want." 
 
 Dr. Southwood Smith and Dr. Arnott have 
 repeatedly acknowledged to the writer of this 
 memoir that a careful review of the case forced 
 them to believe that Byron was bled to death ! 
 
 On the 17th, the butcherly bleedings were re- 
 peated, but he grew worse. Then they blistered 
 him. Mr. Booker, who was one of those sta- 
 tioned to mount guard at his chamber-door, and 
 ■who was occasionally called in to hold the raving 
 man of genius down in his bed, described, in a 
 conversation with the writer, the melancholy de- 
 tails of these last few days. Gamba, Fletcher, 
 and Tita were of little use as nurses, in conse- 
 quence of their grief, which was so injudiciously 
 displayed, as several times to arouse Byron's re- 
 buke. 
 
 Parry says : " In all the attendants, there was 
 the officiousness of zeal ; but owing to their ig- 
 norance of each other's language, their zeal only 
 added to the confusion. This circumstance, and 
 the want of common necessaries, made Lord 
 Byron's apartment such a picture of distress, and 
 even anguish, during the two or three last days 
 of his life, as I never before beheld, and wish 
 never again to witness." 
 
 On the 18th, Byron rose about three in the 
 afternoon, and, leaning on Tita, his servant, was 
 able to walk into the next room. Wlien seated 
 there, he asked for a book, which he read for a 
 few minutes. Putting the volume suddenly 
 down, he said he felt faint, and again taking 
 Tita's arm, totteicd intc his bedroom, and re- 
 turned to bod. 
 
 The physicians now becoming alarmed, cahcil 
 in Dr. Millingen's assistant. Dr. Freibt.-, and a 
 Greek physician, Luca Vaga, attached to Mavro 
 cordato. After some hesitation on Byion's part, 
 they were at last admitted to the patient. Dr. 
 M'dlingen's account severely censures Bruno's 
 course of treatment, for he says that, contrary to 
 his advice, he administered valerian and ether, 
 which produced an immediate return of the con- 
 vulsions and delirium, in an aggravated shape. 
 It is singular that, like Napoleon in his last mo- 
 ments, Byron fancied he was leading troops on 
 to an assault, calling out, half in English, half in 
 Italian — " Forwards ! courage ! follow me !" 
 
 On coming to himself again, he asked Fletcher 
 to send for Dr. Thomas, as he wished to know 
 what really was the matter with him. With 
 that geniality which ever belongs to the true 
 poet, he then expressed the regret he felt at re- 
 quiring such a fatiguing attendance. 
 , It was now evident to all around him that he 
 felt his last hour was rapidly approaching, and 
 that he was most anxious to communicate his 
 dying wishes. Calling Fletcher to him, he com- 
 menced talking in so rapid and indistinct a man- 
 ner as to bewilder that faithful servant. Upon his 
 offering to bring pen and paper for Byron to write 
 down what he meant, the departing poet cried 
 — " There is no time : all is nearly over. I am 
 dying. Go to my sister ; go to Lady Byron — 
 she will surelj' see you. Tell her" — here his 
 feelings overpowered him, but, after a pause, he 
 again commenced muttering and ejaculating, but 
 so indistinctly, that only a word here and there 
 was intelligible. For full twenty minutes did 
 this painful scene go on, the attendants- being 
 able only to catch, at intervals isolated words, 
 such as " Guiccioli — Ada — my wife — Hobhouse 
 — Augustii — Kinnaird." After a pause, he said 
 in a clear, distinct manner — " Now I have told 
 you all." Fletcher replied — " My lord, I have 
 not underetood a word your lordship has been 
 saying." " Not understand me !" exclaimed the 
 dying poet. " God help me ! what a pity ! It 
 is too late : all is now over." " I hope not," 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYROIS'. 
 
 213 
 
 said Fletcher : " but the Lord's will be done !" 
 " ^i es, His will — not mine," murmured Byron. 
 
 A sedative was now administered to him, and 
 the bandage round his head was loosened. 
 When it was done, he said, " Ah ! Christi," and 
 shed a few tears. He then sank into a piofound 
 sleep. Awaking in about an hour, he began to 
 mutter again to himself, but only words here and 
 there could be distinguished. Among them 
 were — " Poor Greece ! Poor town ! My poor 
 servants I My hour is come ! I do not care for 
 death ; but why was I not told of my fate 
 sooner ? Why did I not go to England before 
 I came here ? But all is over now. There are 
 things here which make the world dear to me. 
 For the rest, I am content to die." 
 
 Towards sis o'clock this evening, he turned 
 round in his bed, saying — " Now I shall go to 
 sleep." These were the last words he ever ut- 
 tered ; for immediately after he fell into that 
 sleep from which he never woke. For the ne.xt 
 twenty-four hours, he lay without sense and mo- 
 tion ; and at a quarter past si.\ on the following 
 diiy — the 1 9th April— he was observed to open 
 his eyes, and immediately shut them again. The 
 physicians felt his pulse — Byron was dead ! 
 
 When this was known to the Greeks, they 
 went about like children who had lost their only 
 protector, saying in a quiet tone, as though they 
 feared to wake a slumbering child — "The great 
 man is gone !" 
 
 More than a quarter of a century has passed, 
 and the world allows he was a great man ; and 
 England will, in a few years, be prouder of her 
 Byron than her Wellingtons or her victories. 
 yet this said Colossus of Genius was hooted out 
 of England, and his acquaintance considered infa- 
 mous. These are bitter lessons, but they teach us 
 what our fellow- creatures are : sycophants in our 
 prosperity — persecutors in our weakness and mis- 
 fortune. The mass now are the same as in the 
 (lays of Pilate, when they released Barabbas, 
 deified Nero, and crucified Christ! But, in 
 Byron's onr words, Time, the avenger, execrates 
 '.hose wrongs, and makes the old byeword of re- 
 
 proach the synonym of glory. It is thus with 
 the great poet before us, and he stands pre-emi- 
 nent even among the Wordsworths, the Shelle/s, 
 the Keatses, and the Coleridges of his time. 
 
 He has translated the universe into his own 
 tongue ; constituted himself the high priest, not 
 of human or physical nature, but of himself, 
 Byron, the poet ; and this is the grandest and 
 crowning achievement of the human intellect. 
 
 Byron is undoubtedly the most personally 
 interesting poet that ever lived ; admiration for 
 him seems to be part and parcel of the youthful 
 heart — a sort of initiatory step in the progress of 
 feeling. Much of this possibly proceeds from 
 the peculiar sentiment everywhere dominant in 
 his writings. There is also in his whole life a 
 romance ruiming through it, which forms a fitting 
 accompaniment to the melody of his verse. The 
 egotism of a mind like Byron's is as fascinating 
 as that of an inferior person is insufferable. 
 
 We may adduce, as an instance, the ••a^e of 
 Leigh Hunt's autobiographical writings That he 
 is a pleasant and entertaining conversationist all 
 who know him admit ; but the difference between 
 mere second-hand talent and genius is felt at 
 once, when we compare the egotism of the two 
 men. While that of Byron throws a magic over 
 every thing, the prattle of the author of Rimini 
 becomes mere frivolous small-talk — puerile in its 
 vanity, and contemptible for the suppressed 
 malice which is ever willing to wound, but afraid 
 to strike. In Byron, we have so magnificent a 
 disregard of every thing save the humor of the 
 minute, that it sometimes resembles more the 
 mock heroic of the Frogs and Mice than the Iliad : 
 yet we clearly recognize in both the master hand 
 of Homer. 
 
 This is, however, only one phase of the great 
 poet's mind, although at times very prominently 
 shown, more especially in the most characteristic 
 of his poems — Don Juan. In his first great 
 work, Childe Harold, he assumes more the 
 gloomy Epicurean thoroughly satiated with the 
 pleasures of the world. There is more boyish- 
 ness in this poem than his admirers Uke to admit. 
 
214 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 It is, however, a state through which most 
 /outh have passed. Still there is this difference, 
 that in Byron it was not so artificial as in the 
 many. There is also a mauvaise honte in this 
 otherwise beautiful production, which shows a 
 want of a sure position. That this had its rise 
 from his checkered life and financial embarrass- 
 ments, is, we think, beyond a doubt ; and al- 
 though it would have been impossible to have 
 altogether crushed the poetical genius of Byron, 
 yet we think it most probable that uninterrupted 
 prosperity would have materially checked the de- 
 velopment of those powers which have astonished 
 the world. Nature made him a poet, but his 
 misfortunes made him a great one. Shelley 
 truly says • 
 
 " Poets are cradled into verse by wrong — 
 Tliej learn in suffering what they teach in song." 
 
 Truly this is a perilous price to pay for the 
 life in this world beyond the tomb ! 
 
 In his Corsair, Lara, Bride of Abydos, Giaour, 
 Siege of Corinth, &c., we have an evident glance 
 at the success of Scott's Lay, Marmion, &c., but 
 with the difference that Byron was a poet, and 
 Scott was not. Rapidly poured forth as these 
 poems were, there is an evident constraint in 
 them, which shows that they were not the natu- 
 ral ebullitions of his heart, but the predetermina- 
 tions of his will. In Beppo, we have the first 
 purely Byronic emanation, and he confirmed his 
 success in the Vision of Judgment and Don Juan. 
 The Vision of Judgment is undoubtedly one of 
 the severest sarcasms ever penned ; and even the 
 profanit es seem so naturally to spring from the 
 
 blasphemous pieties of Southey, as to disarm en- 
 tirely the critical faculty, and rob condemnation 
 of its sting. 
 
 Most of his desultory, short pieces are artificial, 
 or written in an assumed mood foreign to his 
 nature. We principally allude to his love verses. 
 Sacred Melodies, &c. We think Moore shows a 
 great want of knowledge of the human heart, 
 when he adduces some of the Hebrew Melodies 
 as proofs of Byron's religion. He was certainly 
 not a religious man. He was occasionally devo- 
 tional, but the very constitution of his genius was 
 unorthodox. He had a hatred of all fixed rules 
 — therefore he disliked a creed : it was too defi- 
 nite for him. He hated argument ; indeed, he 
 said he could not argue ! We do not consider 
 the gift of argumentation as belonging to genius. 
 Indeed, the best arguers we know are dull men ! 
 Byron was too rapid, far-seeing, and lofty-flighted 
 to wait for the patient creeping of a syllogism. 
 He also well knew that he never could convince 
 another man, and that another man never should 
 convince him. He therefore very properly con- 
 sidered discussion as waste labor. But our space 
 will not allow us to dwell on the peculiarities of 
 this wonderful being. We must therefore con- 
 clude by saying that, since the days of Shaks- 
 peare, Byron is more the Poet of the People than 
 any that has appeared, and that any one who 
 studies his writings will achieve as complete a 
 knowledge of the human heart of one of the 
 greatest men that ever lived, as the student of 
 Boswell can of that of Johnson. There is not a 
 turn of mind or shade of thought that is no« 
 chronicled in the writings of Byron. 
 
// / f y2 
 
 ^ A.- 
 
LIFE OF THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 "Of my ancestors on the paternal side," 
 writes Tliomas Moore in a fragmentary post- 
 humous autobiography, ' ' I linow little ot noth- 
 ing, having never, so far as I can recollect, 
 heard my father speak of his father or moth- 
 er, of their station in life, or of anytliing at 
 all connected with them. My uncle, Garret 
 Moore, was the only member of my father's 
 family with whom I was ever personally ac- 
 quainted. Of the family of my mother, who 
 was bom in the town of Wexford, and whose 
 maiden name was Codd, I can speak more 
 fully and satisfactorily; and my old gouty 
 grandfather, Tom Codd, who lived in the 
 corn market, Wexford, is connected with 
 some of my earliest remembrances. Besides 
 being engaged in the provision trade, he 
 must also, I think (from my recoUeotion of 
 the machinery) have had somethuig to do 
 with weaving. But though thus humble in 
 his calling, he brought up a large family re- 
 putably, and was always, as I have heard, 
 much respected by his fellow-townsmen. It 
 was some time in the year 1778, that Anasta- 
 sia, the eldest daughter of this Thomas Codd, 
 became the wife of my father, John Moore, 
 and in the following year I came into the 
 world. My mother could not have been much 
 more than eighteen (if so old) at the time of 
 her marriage, and my father was considerably 
 her senior. Indeed, I have frequently heard 
 her say to him in her laughing mood, ' You 
 know. Jack, you were an old bachelor when 
 1 married you.' At this period, as 1 always 
 understood, my father kept a small lime 
 store in Johnson's Court, Grafton street, 
 Dublin ; the same court, by-the-way, where I 
 
 afterwards went to school. On his marriag 3, 
 however, having received, I rather think, 
 some Uttle money with my mother, he set up 
 business in Aungier street. No. 12, at the 
 comer of Little Longford street ; and in that 
 house, on the 28th of May, 1779, I was born." 
 In tliis autobiography Moore is particularly 
 careful in recording the warm affection, as- 
 siduous attention and good sense, mingled 
 with her love, which led his mother, during 
 his earliest years, to lose no opportunity of 
 providing for his education, and, what was 
 of hardly less importance, as it proved in liis 
 case, than a knowledge of the elemjnts of 
 learning, of forwarding in various ways his 
 intercourse with society. Under these influ- 
 ences, Moore entered upon life at the outset 
 as something of a prodigy; in fact, he be- 
 came in his very childhood a "lion," tke 
 part he was so accustomed to play in after 
 years in the spheres of London and Paris. 
 Profiting more than might have been expect- 
 ed from the instructions of his first school- 
 master, a wild, odd, drunken fellow, who 
 ' ' was hardly ever able to make his appear- 
 ance in the school before noon, when ho 
 would generally whip the boys all round for 
 disturbing his slumbers," young Moore was 
 brought forward by his mother, who encour- 
 aged in him a fondness for recitation as "a 
 sort of show child." When he was scarce 
 four years old, he recited some satirical 
 verses which had just appeared at the ex- 
 pense of the patriot Grattan. As soon as he 
 was old enough to encounter the crowd of a 
 large school, he was introduced to a grammar 
 school in Dublin, kept by a distinguished 
 (215) 
 
2ie 
 
 LIFE OP THOMAS MOOE.E. 
 
 teacher, a Mr. Wliyte, who some years before 
 had the famous Richard Brinsley Sheridan 
 among his pupils, and had been able to dis- 
 cover nothing to promise any ability in that 
 e)uinent wit; in fact, had pronounced him, 
 as he doubtless seemed at the time, " a most 
 incorrigible dunce." Young Moore appeared 
 to better advantage, flourishing in the school 
 exhibitions, and especially in the private the- 
 atrical performances, in which the master 
 was a zealous leader and actor. This led to 
 doggrel verse-making by the promising pupil, 
 who also early acquired some little knowledge 
 of music, with the aid of an "old lumbering 
 harpsichord," which had been thrown on his 
 father's hands as part payment of a debt from 
 some bankrupt customer. Ha^dng an agreea- 
 ble voice and taste for singing, he was brought 
 forward to entertain the jovial parties of the 
 family, and gained somie applause in the 
 songs of Patrick in the Poor Soldier, in the 
 private theatricals. At the age of eleven he 
 recited an epilogue of his own composition 
 at one of these entertainments. In fact, his 
 accomplishments had so impressed them- 
 selves upon his friends, that about the begin- 
 ning of the year 1793, an enthusiastic acquain- 
 tance, an author and artist who had started 
 a monthly publication in Dublin, proposed 
 to insert in it a portrait of the juvenile 
 Meore among the public celebrities of the 
 time, an honor which his mother had too 
 much good sense to allow him to accept, 
 much, as he tells us, to her son's disappoint- 
 ment. In the follo\ving year a measure of 
 Catholic emancipation was passed, by which 
 persons of that faith were permitted to enter 
 the Dublin University, a privilege which, 
 strange as it now seems, had been previously 
 denied them. Both the parents of Moore 
 being Catholics, this offered a neW opportu- 
 nity for the advancement of their son. His 
 mother, always on the look-out for his pro- 
 motion, was anxious to carry out a long cher- 
 ished scheme of bringing him up to the pro- 
 fession of the law. Accordingly, by the aid 
 of a Latin u.sher attached to Mr. Wliyte's 
 school, he was pushed rapidly forward in his 
 classical studies, and in the summer of 179i 
 
 became a student of Trinity College, Dublin. 
 His kind-hearted usher had not only taught 
 him Latin and Greek, but infused in him, as 
 he teUs us, "a thorough and ardent passion 
 for poor Ireland's liberties, and a deep and 
 cordial hatred to those who were then lording 
 over and trampling her down." The family 
 associations were quite in favor of national 
 reform. His father, whose house was fre- 
 quented by Irish patriots, had taken him on 
 one occasion to a public dinner in honor of 
 the distinguished agitator of the day, Napper 
 Tandy, where he had heard a toast given 
 which haunted his memory in after life: 
 ' ' May the breezes of France blow our Irish 
 oak into verdure!" The boy, too, on that 
 evening, was much elated when the hero of 
 the night, Napper Tandy, took him for some 
 minutes on his knee. 
 
 It was about this time, in the year 1793, 
 when Moore was at the age of thirteen, that 
 he first appeared in print as the author of 
 some verses in a Dublin magazine, entitled 
 the "Anthologia Hibernica." One of these 
 two Uttle poems was addressed "To Zelia," a 
 name assumed by a poetical lady-friend of 
 the young poet, with whom he corresponded 
 inverse, signing himself "Romeo," the ana- 
 gram of Moore. The other, "A Pastoral 
 Ballad," has a striking resemblance to the 
 sweet musical lines of Shenstone, in such 
 poems as he also entitled "Pastoral Ballads." 
 Moore, when he wrote — 
 
 " My gardens are crowded with flowers, 
 My vines are all loaded with grapes ; 
 
 Nature sports in my fountains and bowers. 
 And assumes her most beautiful shapes — 
 
 evidently was echoing, 
 
 "My banks they are furnish'd with bees, 
 Whose murmur invites me to sleep; 
 
 My grottos are shaded with trees. 
 
 And my hiUs are white over with sheep — " 
 
 of the poet of the Leasowes. In recalUng 
 this early effusion in his autobiographic 
 sketch, Moore speaks with pleasure of some 
 of the lines as "not unmusical," while ho 
 characterizes the whole aa "mere mock-bu'd's 
 
LIFE OP THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 217 
 
 song." Most poets might say the same of 
 their first productions. Their art is an imi- 
 tative one, and naturally begins with the 
 imitation of other poems, tliough it must 
 learn afterward to draw its inspiration di- 
 rectly from life and nature, if it would make 
 a permanent impression on the world. Of 
 the magazine, the " Anthologia," Moore says 
 it was one of the most respectable attempts 
 at periodical literature that have ever been 
 ventured on in Ireland, and that it met the 
 fate of all such things in that country; "it 
 died for want of money and of talent, for the 
 Irish never either fight or write well on their 
 own soil." His pride, he adds, on seeing his 
 own name in the first list of subscribers, writ- 
 ten out in full, "Master Thomas Moore," was 
 only surpassed by flndmg himself recorded 
 as one of its "esteemed contributors." It 
 was in the pages of this magazine, he tells 
 us, for the months of January and February, 
 1793, that he first read, being then a school- 
 boy, Rogers's "Pleasures of Memory," little 
 dreaming, he adds, "that I should one day 
 become the intimate friend of the author; 
 and such an impression did it then make 
 upon me, that the particular type in which it 
 is there printed, and the very color of the 
 paper, are associated with every Une of it in 
 my memory." 
 
 Moore at this time formed some acquain- 
 tance with the Italian language, by his inti- 
 macy with Father Ellis, who had lived some 
 time in Italy, the priest of a friary in Dublin 
 where the family attended mass on Sundays, 
 and also acquired some knowledge of French 
 from an intelligent emigre, who was also 
 hospitably entertained in his father's house. 
 In these various acquisitions the mother's in- 
 fluence was plainly visible. Moore never 
 wearies in acknowledging his obligations to 
 her thoughtful afl'ection. At college we find 
 him a not very zealous student in the pro- 
 scribed course, but incUned to follow the 
 bent of his tastes and inclinations, which on 
 one occasion gained him the applause of the 
 examiner, when he produced, instead of the 
 usual Latin prose, a copy of English verses, 
 for which ho was rewarded by the Board 
 Sia. 20 
 
 with a handsome copy of the "Travels of An- 
 acharsis." He was at work, meanwhile, with 
 a translation of the Odes of Anacreon, and 
 had even, as early as the beginning of 1794, 
 published a paraphrase of the fifth Ode in 
 the "Anthologia Hibernica." In pursuing 
 further this Ught task, says he, in the 
 preface to his Poetical Works, "the only 
 object I had for some time in view was 
 to lay before the Board a select number of 
 the odes I had then translated, with a hoi^e 
 — suggested by the kind encouragement I 
 had already received — that they might be 
 considered as deser^'ing of some honor or re- 
 ward. Having experienced much hospitable 
 attention from Doctor Kearney, one of the 
 senior fellows, a man of most amiable char- 
 acter, as well as of refined scholarship, I 
 submitted to his perusal the manuscript of 
 my translation as far as it had then proceed- 
 ed, and requested his advice respecting my 
 intention of laying it before the Board. On 
 this latter point his opinion was such as, 
 with a little more thought, I might have an- 
 ticipated, namely, that he did not see how 
 the Board of the University could lend their 
 sanction, by any public reward, to writings 
 so convivial and amatory as were almost all 
 those of Anacreon. He very good-naturedly, 
 however, lauded my translation, and advised 
 me to complete and pubhsli it ; adding, I well 
 recollect, ' Young people will like it. ' For 
 the means of collecting the materials of the 
 notes api^ended to the Translation, I was 
 chiefiy indebted to the old library adjoming 
 St. Patrick's Cathedral, caUed, from the 
 name of the Archbishop who founded it, 
 Marsh's Library. Through my acquaintance 
 with the deputy librarian, the Rev. Mr. Cra- 
 dock, I enjoyed the privilege of constant ac- 
 cess to this collection, even at that period of 
 the year when it is always closed to the pub- 
 lic. On these occasions I used to be looked 
 in there alone; and to the many solitary 
 hours which, both at the time I am now 
 speaking of and subsequently, I passed in 
 hunting through the dusty tomes of this old 
 library, I owe much of that odd and out-of- 
 the-way sort of reading which may be found 
 
218 
 
 LIFE OF THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 scattered through some of my earlier writ- 
 ings." 
 
 Before leaving the University, Moore was 
 brought before the authorities, on a suspicion 
 of being implicated in the poUtical agitations 
 and conspiracies which were then rife, pre- 
 paratory to the great outbreak of 1798. Rob- 
 ert Emmet and several of his associates, who 
 took part in the rebellion, were Moore's fel- 
 low-students, and, though liis seniors, he 
 had a certain degi-ee of intimacy with them, 
 though it fell short of any participation in, 
 or even acquaintance with, their incendiary 
 political schemes. When examined in an in- 
 quisitorial way before Vice-ChanceOor Fitz- 
 gibbon, he was at first reluctant to take the 
 oath, lest he should be compelled in some 
 way to criminate his associates; but upon 
 being sworn, it was soon ascertained that he 
 was not a member of the obnoxious United 
 Irish Societies in the University, nor had he 
 any knowledge of their alleged treasonable 
 proceedings. He was consequently discharged 
 without further embarrassment. 
 
 In 1798 or 1799, Moore left the University 
 with the degree of Bachelor of Arts. His 
 name had already been entered at the Middle 
 Temple, London, whither he now went osten- 
 sibly to engage in the study of the law. This 
 was too exacting a profession, however, to 
 secure much of his attention. Literature 
 had already inspired his thoughts, and he 
 was then and thenceforth devoted to her ser- 
 vice. He complied with the forms of initia- 
 tion at the Temple, somewhat straitened in 
 his narrow purse in paying the fees, and set 
 himself to obtain a publisher for his transla- 
 tion of Anacreon. The letters which he car- 
 ried, and his social talents thus early devel- 
 oped, paved the way for his success. The 
 manuscript of his work was favorably noticed 
 by Dr. Laurence, the fi-iend of Burke, he was 
 himself entertained by Lord Moira, Lady 
 Donegal, and others, met Peter Pindar in 
 company, moved in the best society, and se- 
 cured notable names for the subscription list 
 to his work, among others that of the favour- 
 ite of the Prince of Wales, Mrs. Fitzherbert. 
 The work, when it appeared in 1800, from 
 
 the press of Stockdali , was dedicated by per- 
 mission to the Prince himself. It was pref- 
 aced by a Greek ode, written by the author, 
 "This," he wrote to his mother, "I hope, 
 wiU astonish the scoundrelly monks of Trin- 
 ity, not one of whom, I perceive, except the 
 Provost and my tutor, have subscribed to 
 the work. Heaven knows, they ought to 
 rejoice at any thing Uke an effort of literature 
 coming out of their leaden body." 
 
 Moore's reputation in London was already 
 made. At the age of twenty-one he was a 
 fashionable poet of the day. His friends 
 called him Anacreon Moore, and the title 
 stuck to him through the greater part of his 
 career. His small size and youthful appear- 
 ance — he was very boyish in look — added, no 
 doubt, a piquancy to his reception in social 
 circles, where he entertained the company 
 with his songs and lively conversation. His 
 letters written at this period to his mother, 
 recording his progress in society, are sprightly 
 and full of enjoyment of the good things at 
 his disposal; they show already, too, what 
 was afterwards said of him, that "Tommy 
 loves a lord. " "I was yesterday, " he wi-ites in 
 the summer of 1800, "introduced to his Royal 
 Highness, George, Prince of Wales. He is 
 beyond doubt a man of very fascinating man- 
 ners. He said that he hoped when he re- 
 turned to town in the winter, we should have 
 many opportunities of enjoying each other's 
 society; that he was passionately fond of 
 music, and had long heard of my talents in 
 that way. Is not all this very fine?" The 
 introduction, however, he admits, put him 
 to some inconvenience. It cost him a new 
 coat, which he had made up in the emer- 
 gency in six hours, pro\'iding half its price 
 by the sale of his old one, being stiU, as he 
 adds with some simplicity, "in my other tail- 
 or's debt." The prince grows still more affa- 
 ble on short further acquaintance, saluting 
 him with, "How do you do, Moore? I am 
 glad to see you." " Did you see my na.me in 
 the paper among the lists of company at 
 most of the late routs?" he writes to his 
 mother. " You cannot think how much my 
 songs are Uked here. Monk Lewis was ' in 
 
LIFE OF THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 219 
 
 tliG greatest agonies ' the other night at Lady 
 Donegals at having come in after my songs ; 
 ' 'Pon his honor, he had come for tlie express 
 purpose of hearing me.' I am liappy, cai-e- 
 less, comical, everything I could wish." 
 Wliile health and strength remained, through 
 many a long year, this was the tenor of 
 Moore's hfe, the pet of fashionable society. 
 
 Ho soon turned his prospei'ity to further 
 account by the publication, in 1801, of his 
 second book, "The Poetical Works of the 
 late Thomas Little, Esq.," as he entitled him- 
 self, in recognition of his diminutive size. 
 He was censured by moralists for the warm 
 coloring given to many of the poems in this 
 collection, which were chiefly amatory; but 
 the fashionable world had no stones to throw 
 at him; his genius was admired; his popu- 
 larity increased; Anacreon appeared in a new 
 edition; dinners, suppers and routs were end- 
 less; there was wanting apparently only a 
 full purse to make the earthly felicity com- 
 plete, for the poor author often felt the want 
 of money in the midst of the luxury with 
 which he was surrounded. Something, it be- 
 gan to be whispered, would be done to bet- 
 ter the fortunes of the bard. His friend. Lord 
 Moira, who made him at home at his country 
 seat, Donington Park, made influence for 
 him, and he received the government ap- 
 pointment of Register to the Admiralty at the 
 Island of Bermuda. 
 
 Leaving England in the Phaeton frigate, in 
 September, 1803, he arrived at his place of 
 destination by way of Norfolk, Va. , in Janiz- 
 ary, 1804. His ajiproach to the island in 
 "most tremendous weather," was worthy of 
 recaUing to his imagination Shakespeare's 
 picture in the "Tempest" of the " still- vext 
 Bermoothes;" but the self- enjoyment and 
 complacency of the bard proved superior to 
 the elements. On the worst day of the gale, 
 at dinner, tied to the table to prevent being 
 prematurely thrown under it, "I eat," he 
 says, in a letter to his mother, "the heartiest 
 dinner of beefsteak and onions I ever made in 
 my life; and at night, when the ship was 
 rolling her sides into the water, and when it 
 was in vain to think of sleeping from the 
 
 noise and the motion, I amused myself in my 
 
 cot by writing ridiculous verses, and laughing 
 
 at them." In this happy mood, redolent of 
 
 youth and genius, Anacreon hghted upon the 
 
 Bermudas. 
 
 "Bright rose the morning, every wave was 
 
 still. 
 When the first perfume of a cedar hill 
 Sweetly awaked us, and, with smiling charms, 
 The fairy harbour woo'd us to its arms. 
 Gently we stole, before the whispering wind. 
 Through plaintain shades, that round, hke 
 
 awnings, twined 
 And kiss'd on either side the wanton sails, 
 Breathing our welcome to those vernal vales; 
 While, far reflected o'er the wave serene, 
 Each wooded island shed so soft a green. 
 That the enamour'd keel, with whispering 
 
 play, 
 Through liquid herbage seem'd to steal its 
 
 way." 
 He had hardly been a week on the island, 
 when, spite of the romantic beauties of the 
 place, which seemed to him the fitting abode 
 of the nymphs and graces, its white cottages 
 assuming to his enraptured gaze the colors 
 and proportions of Grecian temples and Pen- 
 telic marble, he came to the conclusion that 
 it was not worth his while to remain there. 
 It is difficult to picture the luxury-loving pu- 
 pil of Anacreon as a man of business, and his 
 biographers dismiss very hastily this portion 
 of his career; but it appears, from his letters 
 written at the time, that he did actually en- 
 counter some slight employments in his office 
 as admiralty clerk, examining witnesses, skip- 
 pers, mates and seamen, doubtless smelling 
 villainously of tar, in the case of several ships 
 on trial, and on one occasion, which he re- 
 cords as positively shocking in such violent 
 contrast to the beauties of the road over 
 which he journeyed. "I was sent," he says, 
 "to swear a man to the truth of a Dutch in- 
 voice he had translated." Sacrifices like these 
 might have been borne a little longer, we are 
 given to understand, had the business been 
 sufficient to bring in a larger amount of foes • 
 but the admiralty courts were too numerous 
 for Bei'muda to get any considerable share of 
 
220 
 
 LIFE OF THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 the spoils : and the uncertain prospect of a 
 war with Spain, which seems to have been 
 hoped for in the island, did not promise to 
 make things much better. So Moore sighed 
 for London, wrote pretty musical verses de- 
 scriptive of the scenery, amorous "Odes to 
 Kea." elegant epistles in verse to his friends, 
 and. for the rest, solaced himself with the 
 hospitahties of the place, filling himself with 
 eallipash and Madeira at grand turtle feats, 
 himself supplying the whole orchestra at mu- 
 sical entertainments. He was at first inclined 
 to treat with great contempt the female beau- 
 ties of the place. "If I were a painter," he 
 writes, "and wished to preserve my ideas of 
 beauty immaculate, I would not suffer the 
 brightest belle of Bermuda to be my house- 
 keeper." But he softens afterwards, as he 
 looks upon the women dancing gracefully 
 without any other instruction than his own 
 inspiring music. " Poor creatures! "' he says. 
 " I feel real pity for them. Many of them have 
 hearts for a more favorable sphere: but they 
 are here thrown together in a secluded nook 
 of the world, where they learn all the corrup- 
 tions of human nature, without any one of 
 its consolations and ornaments." 
 
 So Moore managed to pass little over two 
 months of the winter of lSO-1 in Bermuda, 
 when he set sail in the Boston frigate for Xew 
 York, with the intention of seeing something 
 of the United States on his way home to Eng- 
 land. He arrived in the city early in May, 
 and, like the true British traveller of those 
 days, on the instant forms his conclusions on 
 the mental, moral and social capacities of the 
 inhabitants. Bermuda, from which he had 
 hastened so eagerly, looms up in his imagina- 
 tion a garden of Eden in comparison. ' " Such 
 a place! such people! barren and secluded 
 as poor Bermuda is. I think it a paradise to 
 any spot in America that I have seen. If 
 there is less barrenness of soil here, there is 
 more than enough of barrenness in intellect, 
 taste, and all in which heart is concerned.'' 
 He was altogether four days in the city, dili- 
 gently spent b seeing its sights, of which he 
 chronicles the presence of young Jerome 
 Buonaparte and his bride, Miss Paterson, as 
 
 "the oddest." He also felt a sUght shock of 
 an earthquake. Xew York could hardly have 
 done more for him in the time. He left it in 
 the frigate which had brought him hither, 
 sailing for Norfolk, with the intention of leav- 
 ing the vessel at that place, making a hurried 
 tour along the seaboard, visiting Washing- 
 ton, Philadelphia. Niagara and Canada, join- 
 ing the ship at Halifax on her way to Eng- 
 land. All of this he accomplished. His im- 
 pressions of the national capital, recorded in 
 his poems, were much talked of for a long 
 time. He disliked Jeft'erson, and, Irish patri 
 ot as he was. poured contempt on democracy 
 The nation, in his views, was already rotten. 
 "Even now," he wrote, 
 " While yet upon Columbia's rising brow. 
 The showy smile of young presumption plays, 
 Her bloom is poison'd and her heart decays. 
 Even now, in dawn of life, her sickly breath 
 Bums with the taint of empires near their 
 
 death; 
 And like the nymphs of her own withering 
 
 clime. 
 She's old in youth, she's blasted in her prime," 
 He saw • ' bastard Freedom waving her fus- 
 tian flag in mockery over slaves 
 "Where — motley laws admitting no degree 
 Betwixt the vilely slaved and madly free- 
 Alike the bondage and the license suit 
 The brute made ruler and the man made 
 
 brute." 
 His description of the city became .quite 
 current as a picture ; indeed, has only recent- 
 ly been forgotten. 
 "Come, let me lead thee o'er this 'second 
 
 Kome,' 
 Where tribunes rule, where dusky Davi bow, 
 And what was Goose Creek once is Tiber 
 
 now: — 
 This embryo capital, where Fancy sees 
 Squares in morasses, obelisks in trees; 
 Which second-sighted seers, even now. adorn 
 With shrines unbuUt and heroes yet unborn. 
 Though nought but woods and Jefferson they 
 
 see. 
 Where streets should run and sages ought to 
 
 be." 
 
LIFE OP THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 221 
 
 Philadelphia made decidedly a better im- 
 pression on the poet, for the reason, we can- 
 not but suspect, that his genius had been 
 there heralded by the press with extravagant 
 laudation, and that he was there personally 
 iulinitely admired and caressed. It was the 
 day of that elegant scholar and accomplished 
 writer, Dennie, and of his lettered associates 
 of the Port Folio. The city, too, always 
 famed for -its hospitality and social feeling, 
 took the little man of genius to its heart. 
 "My reception at Philadelphia," he ^vrites to 
 his mother, "was extremely flattering: it is 
 the only place in America which can boast 
 any literary society, and my name had pre- 
 possessed them more strongly than I deserve." 
 Hence, all went "merry as a marriage bell," 
 and the Quaker city was recorded as "the 
 only place in America I have seen which I had 
 the wish to pause in." On his way to Niag- 
 ara, Athens, on the Hudson, however, claimed 
 kindly notice. Delighted with the scenery 
 of the Hudson, he went ashore there, and 
 playfully, as was his wont, writes to his mo- 
 ther, "There you may imagine I found my- 
 self quite at home. I looked in vain, though, 
 for my dear gardens; there were hogs enough, 
 but none of Epieurus's herd." Pausing at 
 Saratoga, he recalls the fate of Burgoyne, and 
 notes the "savage" nature of the forests 
 around him. At Bell Town Springs, he was 
 stowed in an inn with thirty or forty people, 
 "performing every necessary evolution in 
 concert. They were astonished at our asking 
 for basins and towels in our rooms, and 
 thought we might condescend, indeed, to 
 come down to tile jiublic wash with the other 
 gentlemen in the morning." Visiting the 
 Oneidas, the manners of the old chief See- 
 nando appeared to him so extremely gentle 
 and intelligent, that he was almost inclined 
 to be " of the Frenchman's opinion, that the 
 savages are the only well-bred gentlemen in 
 America." He admits, however, as he ap- 
 proaches Niagara, that this New World is, 
 after all, "very interesting; and with aU the 
 defects and disgusting peculiarities of its na- 
 tives, gives every promise of no very distant 
 competition with the first powers of the East- 
 
 ern hemisphere. " Of Niagara itself, to which he 
 was obliged to travel, for the latter part of his 
 journey, on foot, he has only the usual vague 
 and unlimited terms of admiration. "We 
 must have new combinations of language," 
 he writes in his journal, "to describe the 
 Falls of Niagara." His passage down the St. 
 Lawrence gave birth to one of his best known 
 poetical productions — the "Canadian Boat 
 Song." The notes, and some of the verses of 
 the poem, were written upon a fly-leaf of 
 Priestley's "Lectures on History," which he 
 was reading on the way. Of Quebec, he re- 
 cords a strange impression. "If any thing 
 can make the beauty of the country more 
 striking, it is the deformity and oddity of the 
 city which it surrounds, and which lies hem- 
 med in by ramparts, amidst this delicious 
 scenery, like a hog in armor upon a bed of 
 roses." Early in November, he is again upon 
 the deck of the Boston, sailing from Nova 
 Scotia for old England. 
 
 He is again welcomed by the Prince Regent, 
 and enters on his old round of gayeties in 
 London society, meanwhile getting into shape 
 a new volume of poetry covering his transat- 
 lantic experiences and inspirations, which 
 appeared in quarto in 1806, with the title, 
 "Epistles, Odes, and other Poems." The 
 book fell at once into the hands of Jeffrey, 
 who published a trenchant review of it in the 
 Edinburgh, commenting unsparingly on its 
 weak points of amatory license, and where 
 the author was not moved to directness by 
 his satiric petulance, its vague and wordy 
 dithyrambics. The book was denounced as 
 "a public nuisance," and its writer declared 
 to be " the most licentious of modern versi- 
 fiers." A homily was read to the author on 
 his literary pruriency and seductive immoral- 
 ity. Puerile and ridiculous in the eyes of 
 men, with its "tawdry, affected, finical mil- 
 linery style," his book was pronounced an in- 
 sult and injury to women. All this, con- 
 veyed in the most cutting language, was, of 
 course, sufficiently uncomfortable reading for 
 the author, always sensitive as to his social 
 position, thus directly assailed. Though he 
 admits that his Irish blood was at first a good 
 
21^2 
 
 LIFE OF THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 deal roused, he aflfected to treat it in a light 
 and careless tone; while the notion of chal- 
 lenging the reviewer, which naturally oc- 
 curred to any gentleman from, the emerald 
 isle in those days, was checked by the dif- 
 ficulty of getting any friend to go with 
 him to Edinburgh on such an errand, and 
 the still greater doubt whether, as he ex- 
 pressed it, "from the actual and but too cus- 
 tomary state of my finances, I should be able 
 to compass the expense of so long a journey." 
 In this mood of the poet, the aflair was 
 brought to a crisis by the arrival of Jeffi-ey in 
 London. A challenge of a most peremptory 
 character, giving tlie lie direct to the review- 
 er, was concocted by Moore, and sent by his 
 friend Hume. Jeifrey rephed by his friend 
 Horner, and i^oore, having borrowed a case 
 of pistols from William Spencer, his brother 
 poet, the parties met on a bright summer morn- 
 ing, the nth of August, 1806, at Chalk Farm, 
 the noted duelling ground in the vicinity of 
 London. It was their first introduction to 
 one another. Wliile the seconds, unused to 
 the business, were slowly and, as it proved, 
 clumsily loading the pistols, the poet and his 
 new acquaintance were walking up and do^vn 
 the field together; and coming in sight of 
 the operations, Jeflrey was somewhat grimly 
 entertained by an Irish story which Moore 
 related of Billy Egan, a barrister, who, once 
 being out on a similar occasion, and saunter- 
 ing about while tlie pistols were being pre- 
 pared, his antagonist, a fiery little fellow, 
 called out to him angrily to keep his ground. 
 "Don't make yourself uaaisy, my dear fel- 
 Jow," said Egan; "sure, isn't it bad enougli 
 ;o take the dose, without being by at the 
 mixing up ?" In this pleasant humor, the 
 parties took their stations for the encounter. 
 The seconds retired, the pistols were raised, 
 when certain police officers i-ushed from be- 
 hind a hedge and knocked the hostile weap- 
 ons out of their hands, and conveyed the 
 principals to Bow street, where they were 
 bound over to keep the peace. Tlie informa- 
 tion which led to the arrest had been given 
 at a dinner party the evening before, by Spen- 
 cer. Fashionable society could not spare its 
 
 favorite. As for Moore and Jeffrey, unhappy 
 as had been the manner of their acquaint- 
 ance, they seem to have been dci^ghted with 
 one another when it was once formed. Jef- 
 frey, immediately after the event, wrote to his 
 friend Bell: "We have since breakfasted to 
 gether very lovingly. He has confessed his 
 penitence for what he has written, and de- 
 clared that he will never again apply any lit- 
 tle talent he may possess to such purposes ; 
 and I have said, that I shall be happy to 
 praise liim whenever I find that he has ab- 
 jured those objectionable topics. You are 
 too severe upon the little man. He has be- 
 haved with great spirit throughout this busi- 
 ness. He really is not profligate, and is uni- 
 versally regarded, even by those who resent 
 the style of his poetry, as an innocent, good- 
 hearted, idle fellow." 
 
 There was an annoying sequel to the affair, 
 in the circumstance that on the examina- 
 tion of the pistols at the police office, it 
 was found that JeS'rey's pistol had no bul- 
 let, it having, as was proved by the report 
 of the seconds, evidently fallen out while 
 in the hands of the officers. This gave 
 rise to the report that the whole was mere 
 child's play, the duel to be fought with lead- 
 less bullets. A year or two later, when 
 Byron, another young poet, in his turn smart- 
 ing from the censures of the Edinburgh Re- 
 view, was looking about for material for his 
 famous satire, "English Bards and Scotch 
 Reviewers," he introduced this incident mto 
 his poem, of which it formed one of the most 
 amusing and aggravating passages : 
 " Health to great Jeffrey. * * 
 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? 
 
 ***** 
 But Caledonia's goddess hovered o'er 
 The field, and saved him. from the wrath of 
 
 Moore ; 
 From either pistol snatched the vengeful lead, 
 And straight restored it to her favourite's 
 
 head." 
 
LIFE OP THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 223 
 
 Moore had published a statement unmedi- 
 ately after the duel, giving the true account 
 of the matter of the bullets, and was conse- 
 quently led, when Byron re-issued his version 
 of the affair in a second edition in 1810, to re- 
 sent the publication as giving the he to his 
 own narrative of the transaction. He ad- 
 dressed Byron, to whom he was personally a 
 stranger, on the subject; but the letter not 
 being delivered by the friend to whom it was 
 entrusted, the noble author Just setting out 
 on his foreign tour, Moore, on his return in 
 1811, re-opened the correspondence; which, 
 while hinting strongly at the duello in its 
 courteous terms, opened a door of easy es- 
 cape. Byron met the affair in the same com- 
 plimentary Pickwickian way, and the whole 
 thing ended in^ very satisfactory manner at 
 the table of Rogers, the poet, where Byron 
 met the host, Campbell, the author of the 
 "Pleasures of Hope," and Moore himself for 
 the first time. It was the beginning of the 
 life-long intimacy of Moore and Byron. As 
 in the quarrels of lovers, these preparations 
 for the duello ended oddly enough in both 
 cases, in warm and lasting friendships. In 
 the edition of his collected works subsequent- 
 ly published, Moore dropped a number of the 
 obnoxious early poems, and gratefully ac- 
 knowledged that America, as well as his cri- 
 tic, had forgiven him. " The heavy storm of 
 censure and criticism," he says, " some of it, 
 I fear, but too well deserved — ^which, both in 
 America and in England, the publication of 
 my ' Odes and Epistles ' drew do'svn upon 
 me, was followed by results which have far 
 more than compensated for any pain such at- 
 tacks at the time may have inflicted. In the 
 most formidable of all my censors, at that 
 period, — the great master of the art of criti- 
 cism, in our day, — I have found ever since 
 one of the most cordial and highly valued of 
 aU my friends ; while the good-will I have ex- 
 perienced from more than one distinguished 
 American sufficiently assures me that any 
 injustice I may have done to that land of free- 
 men, if not long since wholly forgotten, is 
 now remembered only to be forgiven." 
 After his return from America, Moore held 
 
 for a time his Bermuda appointment, the 
 duties of which were discharged by a deputy, 
 while he was still looking to his friend Lord 
 Moira for further poUtical patronage. Mean- 
 while he appears to have been quite at home 
 for long periods at his Lordship's residence, 
 Donington Park, enjoying its free quarters 
 and availing himself of its fine library, wel- 
 comed by the owner when he was present, 
 and master of the resources of the place 
 when he was absent. It was Moore's good 
 fortune ever to find a patron and share in the 
 social advantages of the English aristocracy. 
 Official preferment was not at hand, however, 
 and though Moore expected for himself a 
 commissionship in Ireland, he succeeded 
 only in obtaining the appointment of barrack 
 master in DubUn for his father. A surer re- 
 source he found in the exertion of his own 
 talents, the favor of the public, and the 
 steady reward of the booksellers. His asso- 
 ciation with James Power, the music seller, 
 "a semi-musical, semi-literary connection," 
 as it is described by their common friend 
 Thomas Crofton Croker, began wth the pub- 
 lijation of the first number of what proved 
 the most popular and remunerative work of 
 the author, the Irish Melodies, in 1807. It 
 lasted for twenty-seven years, during which 
 the poet received by contract an annual pay- 
 ment of several hundred pounds fi-om the 
 publisher, with large advances, as he stood 
 in need, which grew into a considerable debt 
 on the part of the author. The "Melodies" 
 were published in parts, at intervals, the 
 work being completed in its present form in 
 1834. Deriving their inspiration from the 
 native music of his country, and colored by 
 the patriotic aspirations of his youth, they 
 are the best and finest representation of his 
 sensibilities and genius. They have been 
 translated into various languages, called forth 
 the talents of various artists for their illus- 
 tration, notably among them the poet's 
 fellow-countryman Maclise, in the sumptu- 
 ous edition published by the Longmans, and 
 there are certainly few English homes through- 
 out the world where their voice has not been 
 heard. "Upon this work," says one of his 
 
224 
 
 LIFE OF THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 biographers, ' ' his true fame will rest. His 
 amatory poems, though sweetly and playfully 
 written, will always give offence to persons 
 of good taste; his satires, however successful 
 in attacking ephemeral subjects, will perish 
 with the events to which they allude; but 
 the melodies, combining beautiful words, 
 purer morals, and good music, will have a 
 lasting existence. They have an entirely 
 original character; they have not the vigor, 
 the truth to nature, and the deep, passionate 
 feeling of our other great lyrical poet. Burns, 
 but they are never, as he sometimes is, 
 coarse ; they have a uniform elegance, a light- 
 ness, a pathetic tenderness, a play of wit, a 
 brilliancy of fancy, and a richness of adorn- 
 ment, which, though too often giving the im- 
 pression of being artificial, are always pleas- 
 ing. In the same class may be included the 
 songs written under the title of ' National 
 Airs,' published in 1805. We cannot, how- 
 ever, place the 'Sacred Songs,' which he 
 published in the same year, in the same cat- 
 egory. In them there is a strained adapta- 
 tion of Scriptural words and ideas, with a 
 lack of earnestness that renders them dis- 
 tasteful. " 
 
 The composition of the Melodies, as we 
 have seen, covered a long period of time. 
 The poet meantime was working another 
 vein of composition, in a series of satirical 
 epistles, and occasional verses. "Corruption 
 and Intolerance, two Poems addressed to an 
 Engli.shman by an Irishman," appeared ano- 
 nymously from his pen in 1808, followed the 
 next year by "The Sceptic, a Philo.sopliical 
 Satire." The former of these were attempts 
 in a serious style of political denunciation, 
 somewhat ponderously applying to England 
 the kind of censure which he had so freely 
 bestowed upon America; the latter, with a 
 tinge of that easy and not over profound 
 philosophical pretension which is represent- 
 ed in Engli.sh literature by Pope's Essay on 
 Man, presents some of those contrarieties of 
 opinion and action witnessed in politics, 
 learning, and science, which discredit I uman 
 wisdom, and from which the poet, in a spirit 
 of humility, seeks refuge in "modest igno- 
 
 rance, the goal and prize, the last, best 
 knowledge of the simply wise." These at- 
 tempts in the stately Juvenalian style of 
 satire, as the author subsequently described, 
 them, met, he admits, with but little success, 
 never having attained, till he included them 
 in his collected works, the honors of a second 
 edition. "I found," says he, "that lighter 
 form of weapon, to which I afterwards betook 
 myself, not only more easy to wield, but 
 from its very lightness, perhaps, more sure 
 to reach its mark." The vein to which he 
 alludes was worked to great advantage in his 
 occasional contribvitions to the Morning 
 Chronicle, and in the sportive, playful, yet 
 sufficiently pungent volume, "Intercepted 
 Letters ; or, the Twopenny Post-Bag, by Thom- 
 as Brown, the Younger," wl^ch he gave to 
 the world in 1813. In these gay epistles the 
 satire, which was mainly directed against the 
 Prince Regent, with an occasional foray upon 
 the lighter follies of fashionable drawing- 
 rooms and entertainments, was sheathed in 
 humor, and lost more than half its bitterness 
 in the exquisite versification. There was 
 some delicacy in the author attacking his 
 once admired patron, George, Prince of 
 Wales, who had greeted him with such conde- 
 scension on his first arrival from Ireland; 
 but he was easily enabled afterwards to re- 
 lieve himself from the charge of ingratitude 
 by recalling how really httle this royal per- 
 sonage had done for him. Beyond the gra- 
 cious acceptance of the dedication of Anac- 
 reon, his memory was burdened with the 
 slightest of favors. On two occasions he 
 was admitted to the honor of dining at 
 Carlton House, and when the Prince, on be- 
 ing made Regent, in 1811, gave his memorable 
 fete, he was one of the crowd of fifteen hun- 
 dred who enjoyed the privilege of being his 
 guests on the occasion. " There occur some 
 allusions, indeed," he adds, writing long 
 afterwards, "in the Twopenny Post-Bag, to 
 the absurd taste displayed in the ornaments 
 of the Royal supper-table at that fete; and 
 this violation — for such, to a certain extent, 
 I allow it to have been — of the reverence due 
 to the rites of the Hospitable Jove, which, 
 
LIFE OF THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 225 
 
 whether administered by prince or peasant, 
 ought to be sacred from such exposure, I 
 aui by no means disposed to defend. But, 
 whatever may be tliouglit of the taste or 
 prudence of some of these satires, there exists 
 no longer, I apprehend, much difference of 
 opinion respecting the eliaracter of the royal 
 personage against whom they were aimed." 
 
 While these were Moore's public literary 
 employments, an episode in his round of 
 social entertainments led to his marriage 
 with a gentle lady, whose quiet, unobtrusive 
 domestic virtues so long adorned the simple 
 home of the poet, where he often found sol- 
 ace from the round of fashionable gayeties to 
 which he seems to have been bound by a sort 
 of professional attachment, and which indeed 
 came as a necessary reUef to his overcharged 
 literary exertions in his hours of privacy. 
 The circumstances which led to this marriage 
 we find narrated in an interesting sketch of 
 the poet's career, in the " Edinburgh Review." 
 " During one of Moore's Irish trips," says the 
 writer, " he formed part of that famed theat- 
 rical society which figured on the Kilkenny 
 boards; the male actors being amateurs, 
 and the female ones mostly, if not all, profes- 
 sional, having at their head the ' star ' of the 
 hour, the celebrated Miss O'Neil. Moore 
 acted well, especially in comedy, as we have 
 been informed by one who was fortunate 
 enough to witness those remarkable perform- 
 ances about the year 1810. Among other 
 parts, his personation of 'Mungo' in the 
 agreeable opera of 'The Padlock,' was, it is 
 said, eminently happy. Two sisters, both of 
 them extremely attractive in person, as well 
 as irreproachable in conduct, also formed a 
 part of this ' corps,' acting, singing, and ever 
 and anon dancing, to the delight of their au- 
 dience. With one of these beauties Moore 
 fell desperately in love, and being regarded 
 favorably in return by Miss EUzabeth Dyke, 
 he a few months later united himself in mar- 
 riage with her, without, it would seem, ac- 
 quainting his parents with his intention. The 
 ceremony took place at St. Martin's church, 
 in London, in March, 1811, and Mrs. Thomas 
 Moore was introduced to her husband's Lon- 
 Sia id* 
 
 don friends during the same spring. By 
 these she was cordially received, although 
 there was but one opinion among them as to 
 the imprudence of the step in Moore's noto- 
 riously narrow circumstances." 
 
 In addition to the "Melodies," songs and 
 occasional satires which gave profitable em- 
 ployment to Moore's pen during the next 
 few years, there is to be mentioned an opera 
 entitled, "M. P., or the Blue Stocking," 
 which was produced on the stage the year 
 of his marriage with moderate success. It is 
 not included in the standard edition of his 
 works, though it contributes a few songs to 
 the collection. It was not long after this 
 that Moore turned his thoughts to the com- 
 position of a poem of some magnitude intro- 
 ducing Eastern scenes and imagery. The 
 notion commended itself to the poet's luxuri- 
 ous imagination. He applied himself dili- 
 gently to the necessary courses of reading, 
 studied all the poetry, legendary and histori- 
 cal literature of the region accessible in the 
 works of D'Herbelot, Sir William Jones, the 
 Oriental Collections and Asiatic Researches, 
 and especially the works of travellers in the 
 East, which presented many curious traits of 
 local manners, and out of the whole in the end 
 produced the varied, composite result entitled 
 LaUa Rookh. The work was the labor of seve- 
 ral years. The idea of its preparation was first 
 conceived in 1813, with a view of entering 
 the field with a narrative poem of sufficient 
 length to challenge a share of the popularity 
 enjoyed by the "Lady of the Lake" and 
 several other publications in quarto of 
 Sir Walter Scott. He kept the plan stead- 
 ily in view, and at the end of 1814, we find 
 him writing to his friend Dalton, "You will 
 be glad, I know, to hear that I am employed 
 most resolutely and devotedly upon a long 
 poem, which must decide for me whether my 
 name is to be on any of those medalUons 
 which the swans of the temple of fame, as 
 Ariosto teUs us, pick up with their bills from 
 the stream of obUvion. The subject is one 
 of Rogers's suggesting, and so far I am lucky, 
 for it quite enchants me ; and if what old 
 Dionysius the critic says be true, that it is im.- 
 
226 
 
 LIFE OF THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 possible to vrrite disagreeably upon agreeable 
 subjects, I am not without hopes that I shall 
 do something which will not disgrace me." 
 He was now indeed prepared to enter into a 
 formal contract for its publication, though 
 the time of completion of the work, of course, 
 could not as yet be definitely fixed. The ne- 
 gotiation was readily effected with the Messrs. 
 Longman, the proposition being simply to 
 place in their hands a poem of the length of 
 Scott's Rokeby, the publishers relying for 
 the rest on the genius, popularity and good 
 faith of the author. Moore himself tells us 
 how generously the overture was received by 
 the publishers. 
 
 "On this occasion, an old friend of mine, 
 Mr. Perry, kindly offered to lend me the aid 
 of his advice and presence in the interview 
 which I was about to hold with the Messrs. 
 Longman, for the arrangement of our mutual 
 terms ; and what with the friendly zeal of my 
 negotiator on the one side, and the prompt 
 and liberal spirit with which he was met on 
 the other, there has seldom occurred any 
 transaction in which Trade and Poesy have 
 shone out so advantageou.sly in each other's 
 eyes. The short discussion that then took 
 place between the two parties, may be com- 
 prised in a very few sentences. ' I am of 
 opinion,' said Mr. Perry, — enforcing his view 
 of the case by arguments which it is not for 
 me to cite, — 'that Mr. Moore ought to receive 
 for his Poem the highest price that has been 
 given, in our day, for such a work.' 'That 
 was,' answered the Messrs. Longman, 'three 
 thousand guineas.' ' Exactly so,' replied Mr. 
 Perry, ' and no less a sura ought he to receive.' 
 It was then objected, and very reasonably, 
 on the part of the firm, that they had never 
 yet seen a single line of the Poem — Lalla 
 Rookh ; and that a perusal of the work 
 ought to be allowed to them, before they em- 
 barked so large a sum in the purchase. But, 
 no ; — the romantic /lew which my friend, 
 Perry, took of the matter, was, that this 
 price should be given as a tribute to a repu- 
 tation already acquired, without any condi- 
 tion for a previous perusal of the new work. 
 This high tone, I must confess, not a little 
 
 startled and alarmed me; but, to the honoi 
 and glory of Romance, — as well on the pub- 
 lisher's side as the poet's, — this very generous 
 view of the transaction was, without any 
 difficulty, acceded to, and the firm agreed, 
 before we separated, that I was to receive 
 three thousand guineas for my Poem." 
 
 The following year Moore reports to the 
 publishers the completion of some four 
 thousand lines, about two-thirds of the pro- 
 jected work. "It will consist, altogether," 
 he writes to Mr. Longman in April, "of at 
 least six thousand lines, and as into every one 
 of these I am throwing as much mind and 
 polish as I am master of, the task is no trifling 
 one. I mean, with your permission, to say in 
 town, that the work is finished; and merely 
 withheld from publication on account of the 
 lateness of the season : this I wish to do, in 
 order to get rid of all the teazing wonderment 
 of the literary quidnuncs at my being so long 
 about it, etc. ; and as the fiction is merely a 
 poetic license, you will perhaps let it pass 
 current for me; indeed, in one sense, it is 
 nearly true, as I have written almost the full 
 quantity of verses I originally intended." It 
 was not, however, till two years later, that 
 the poem, dedicated to the poet Rogers, was 
 actually published. It then proved a great 
 and immediate success, passing rapidly 
 through several editions. Writing to his 
 mother, with whom, during her life, he kept 
 up a constant correspondence, suffering no 
 diversions of literary toil or fa.«liionable so- 
 ciety to divert his attentions from her, he 
 said a week or two after the appearance of 
 the book : "All the opinions that have reach- 
 ed me about it in London are very flattering; 
 and I rather think I shall not be disappoint- 
 ed in the hope that it will set me higher in 
 reputation than ever. Faults, of course, are 
 found, but much less than I expected ; and if 
 I but get off well with the two Reviews, Ed- 
 inburgh and Quarterly, I shall look upon my 
 success as perfect." Of the former of these 
 two critical authorities, which were then 
 great powers in literature, he felt the most 
 assured. Times had changed since Jeffrey 
 had inflicted that early bitter wound on the 
 
LIFE OF THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 227 
 
 young poet's good name in the Edinburgh. 
 The reconciliation between the two antago- 
 nists at Challi Farm had proved warm and 
 lasting. The poet's political effusions in the 
 "Morning Chronicle" had brought him 
 alongside the Wliig writers for the Edinburgh 
 to which at the earnest invitation of its editor, 
 he had a year or two previously become a 
 contributor. Jeffrey was prepared to do his 
 best in introducing Lalla Rookh to his north- 
 ern readers. The article which he devoted 
 to the subject in the Review for November, 
 1817, is one of the finest illustrations of his 
 powers as a critic, frankly exposing the in- 
 herent weakness of the poem, which he grace- 
 fully attributed to its embarrassment of rich- 
 es, and doing fuU justice to its general ani- 
 mation, vivacity, elegance of description, and 
 the unfailing melody of its verse. Excess of or- 
 namentation in a too rapid succession of bril- 
 liant beauties, he pronounces its most glaring j 
 defect. In the midst of the lavish abundance 
 of glo^ving imagery and picturesque incidents, 
 he sighs for "plainness, simphcity, and re- 
 pose." After establishing the critical princi- 
 ples learnt in the school of nature and the 
 works of the great masters of Uterature, he 
 pronounces the sentence, "Now, Mr. Moore, 
 it appears to us, is decidedly too lavish of his 
 gems and sweets;— he labors under a plethora 
 of wit and imagination— impairs his credit by 
 the palpable exuberance of his possessions, 
 and would bo richer with half his wealth. 
 His works are not only of costly material and 
 graceful design, but they are everywhere glis- 
 tening with small beauties and transitory in- 
 spirations-sudden flashes of fancy, that 
 blaze out and peri.sh, like earth-born meteors 
 that crackle in the lower sky and unseason- 
 ably divert our eyes from the great and 
 lofty bodies which pursue their harmonious 
 courses in a serener region." This judgment 
 of the critic has been confirmed by the opin- 
 ions of another generation, while multitudes 
 of readers have echoed the praises awarded 
 to the sentimental beauties of the work. Its 
 popularity has faded since its first glowing 
 reception when it took the public by surprise 
 with the charm of novelty. Mokanna, the 
 
 desperate hero of the first and most elaborate 
 of the four distinct poems which compose 
 Lalla Rookh, the Veiled Prophet of Khoras- 
 san, was indeed lately invoked in a cartoon 
 of Punch to express the horror of the civiUzed 
 world at the hateful atrocities of the Com- 
 munists in Paris, but he is a being little 
 known to the present world of readers, who 
 have not forgotten the glowing apologue 
 which succeeds in the work "Paradise and 
 the Peri." The verses in which are embodied 
 the warm pictures of patriotism, self-renunci- 
 ation and penitence introduced in this ani- 
 ' mated poem, are still familiar as household 
 j words. "The Fire Worshippers," the third 
 I poem in the series, gave the poet an opportu- 
 nity in its intermingled themes of love and 
 hberty, where his genius never failed ; while 
 the concluding portion, "The Light of the 
 Harem " is replete with the lyrical inspiration 
 I of the bard. 
 
 I At the close of his review, Jeffrey, alluding 
 to his former article, congratulated the poet 
 on the improved morality of his muse. "On 
 a former occasion," he writes, "we reproved 
 Mr. Moore perhaps with unnecessary severity 
 for what appeared to us the Ucentiousness of 
 some of his youthful productions. We think 
 it a duty to say that he has long ago redeem- 
 ed that error; and that in all his latter works 
 that have come under our observation, he 
 appears as the eloquent champion of purity, 
 fidelity and deUcacy, not less than of justice, 
 liberty and honor. Like most other poets, 
 indeed, he speaks much of beauty and love; 
 and we doubt not that many mature virgins 
 and careful matrons may think his lucubra- 
 tions on those themes too rapturous and 
 glowing to be safely admitted among the pri- 
 vate studies of youth. We really think, how- 
 ever, that there is not much need for such 
 misapprehensions; and, at all events, if we 
 look to the moral design and scope of the 
 works themselves, we can see no reason to 
 censure the author. All his favorites, vrith- 
 I out exception, are dutiful, faithful and self- 
 denying; and no other example is ever set 
 up iov imitation. There is nothing approach- 
 lingto indehcacy, even in his descrijtion of 
 
228 
 
 LIFE OF THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 the seductions by which they are tried; and 
 they who object to his enchanting pictures 
 of the beauty and pure attachment of the 
 more prominent characters would find fault, 
 we suppose, with the loveliness and the em- 
 braces of angels." 
 
 At this culminating point of Moore's career 
 when he had given to the world specimens in 
 their highest gusto of his best powers — in 
 literature, in song, satire and passionate ro- 
 mantic description — we may place beside the 
 criticism of Jeffrey, the sparkling estimate of 
 the author's genius uttered by Hazlitt in one 
 of his London lectures on the poets of Eng- 
 land. "Mr. Moore's muse is another Ariel, 
 as light, as tricky, as indefatigable and as 
 human a spirit. His fancy is for ever on the 
 wing; flutters in the gale; glitters in the sun. 
 Every thing lives, moves and sparkles in his 
 poetry, while, over all, love waves his purple 
 light. His thoughts are as restless as many, 
 and as bright as the insects that people the 
 sun's beam. ' So work the honey bees', ex- 
 tracting liquid sweets from opening buds; so 
 the butterfly expands its wings to the idle air; 
 BO the thistles' silver down is wafted over the 
 summer seas. An airy voyager on life's 
 stream, his mind inhales the fragrance of a 
 thousand shores, and drinks of endless pleas- 
 ure under halcyon skies. Whenever his foot- 
 steps tread over the enamelled ground of fairy 
 fiction 
 
 ' Around him the bees in play flutter and 
 cluster. 
 
 And gaudy butterflies frolic around.' 
 The fault of Mr. Moore is an exuberance of 
 involuntary power. His facility of produc- 
 tion lessens the effect of, and hangs as a dead 
 weight upon, what he produces. His levity 
 at last oppresses. The infinite delight he 
 takes in such an infinite number of things, 
 creates indifference in minds less susceptible 
 of pleasure than his own. He exhausts at- 
 tention by being inexhaustible. His variety 
 cloys; his rapidity dazzles and distracts the 
 eight. The graceful ease with which he lends 
 hiuisoir to every subject, the genial spirit in 
 which he indulges in every sentiment, pre- 
 vents him from giving their fuU force to the 
 
 masses of things, from converting them into 
 a whole. He wants intensity, strength and 
 grandeur. His mind does not brood over the 
 great and permanent; it glances over the sur- 
 faces, the first impressions of things, instead 
 of grappling with the deep-rooted prejudices 
 of the mind, its inveterate habits and that 
 'perilous stuff that weighs upon the heart.' 
 His pen, as it is rapid and fanciful, wants mo- 
 mentum and passion. It requires the same 
 principle to make us thoroughly like poetry, 
 that makes us like ourselves so well, the feel- 
 ing of continued identity. The impressions 
 of Mr. Moore's poetry are detached, desultory 
 and physical. Its gorgeous colors brighten 
 and fade like the rainbows. Its sweetness 
 evaporates like the effluvia exhaled from beds 
 of flowers. His gay laughing style, which re- 
 lates to the immediate pleasures of love and 
 wine, is better than his sentimental and ro- 
 mantic vein. His Irish melodies are not free 
 from affectation and a certain sickliness of 
 pretension. His serious descriptions are apt 
 to run into flowery tenderness. His pathos 
 sometimes melts into a mawkish sensibility, 
 or crystalizes into all the prettinesses of alle- 
 gorical language, and glittering hardness of 
 external imagery. But he has wit at will, 
 and of the first quality. His satirical and 
 burlesque poetry is his best; it is first-rate. 
 The politician sharpens the poet's pen. In 
 this too, our bard resembles the bee — he has 
 its honey and its sting." 
 
 Immediately after the publication of Lalla 
 Rookh, Moore set out with his friend Samuel 
 Rogers, on a visit to Paris, which he pro- 
 nounced on his arrival in a letter to his 
 music publisher. Power, "the most delightful 
 world of a place I ever could have imagined," 
 adding his intention, if he could persuade his 
 wife "Bossy" to the measure, to take up his 
 abode there for two or three years. Return- 
 ing from this flying visit to his cottage home 
 at Hornsey, he found his child Barbara mor- 
 tally ill, and after her death, which shortly 
 ensued, he took up his abode at a new resid- 
 ence, which he occupied for the remainder of 
 his life, Sloperton Cottage, an elegant and 
 comfortable rural abode in the Immediate 
 
LIFE OF THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 229 
 
 vicinity of Bowood, the seat of his friend the 
 Marquis of Lansdowne. Here we ttud him at 
 the beginning of the following year, 181S, en- 
 gaged upon his next pubUcation, the fruit of 
 his late French excursion, "The Fudge Family 
 in Paris." a production of the Humphrey 
 Clinker type, or, to follow a poetical prece- 
 dent, of Anstey's delightful picture of the 
 society of the celebrated watering place the 
 "Kew Bath Guide." Moore's letter writing 
 family enjoy a similar vein of pleasantry and 
 agreeable lightness of versification, as they 
 exhibit the humors of the observers and the 
 entertaining incidents at Paris then with a 
 zest of novelty newly reopened after the war 
 with Napoleon to the English travellmg 
 world. Nor, with the lighter amusements of 
 the place does the poet of freedom and 
 patriotism forget the graver political issues of 
 the times as he utters an indignant protest 
 against the despotic Holy .tUliixnce, 
 
 In the midst of the incense and applause so 
 fairly earned by his recent pubhcations, which 
 seemed to have secured to the poet an un- 
 wonted prosperity in the future, he was sud- 
 denly dismayed by the intelligence that the 
 deputy whom he had left in his office at Ber- 
 muda, and for whose acts he was personally 
 responsible, after keeping back what was due 
 to him, had absconded with the proceeds of 
 a sale of ship and cargo deposited in his 
 hands. Moore was summoned to make good 
 the loss, amounting, it was claimed, to about 
 six thousand pounds. He was offered assist- 
 ance in this emergency by various friends ; 
 but, with his customary love of independ- 
 ence, he preferred to rely on his own exer- 
 tions to extricate him from the embarrass- 
 ment. The effort at settlement cost him 
 much anxiety and trouble, the unsettled 
 claim hanging over him for a long time be- 
 fore he was finally freed from the responsi- 
 bility. Meanwhile ho set vigorously to work 
 upon his first prose work of consequence, the 
 Life of Richard Brinsley Sheridan ; from the 
 labor upon which he was diverted by a second 
 time to the continent, accompanying, this 
 time, his friend Lord John Russell. The trip 
 was, in a measure, forced upon him by his 
 SiG. 21 
 
 liabihty to arrest and imprisonment in Eng- 
 land in consequence of the liabilities of the 
 unhappy Bermuda affair. He thought at one 
 tour of availing himself of the old time-hon- 
 ored sanctuary in Edinburgh, refuge of many 
 an impoverished debtor, but naturally yielded 
 to the more inviting advice of Lord John in a 
 letter hoping that he "would not prefer 
 Holyrood House with a view of Arthur's Seat, 
 to Paris with the range of all Europe." So it 
 came to pass that he realized, though under 
 less agreeable circumstances than he had 
 imagined, his dream of a protracted residence 
 with his dear Bessy in Paris. The journey 
 upon which he started with his noble friend, 
 previously to settling down in the French 
 capital, was a very mteresting one. As at 
 this time he kept a Diary which he had re- 
 cently commenced, and which he maintained 
 through life, we may readily trace in it the 
 incidents of the journey which extended into 
 Italy. It exhibits the mind of the poet as it 
 were in undress ; his natural and unafl:ected 
 opinions as he is brought in contact with ob- 
 jects which at a distance were frequently the 
 incentive to his muse. After an affectionate 
 parting with Bessy, he sets off, on the -Ith of 
 August, 1819, from London in company with 
 his friend Lord Russell, by way of Calais to 
 Paris, where he passes more than a month en- 
 tering upon a brilliant round of social gayeties 
 among the distinguished English residents 
 and visitors, enjoying to the full the opera, 
 theatres and other sights of the place, enter- 
 tained with the most agreeable personal flat- 
 teries and attentions to which he was never 
 insensible. On his approach to Geneva he is 
 enraptured beyond description at the first 
 sight of Mont Blanc, of which he has again 
 ivnother overwhelming impression on his re- 
 turn from a pilgrimage to Ferney, then filled 
 with souvenirs of Voltaire. "Saw Mont Blano 
 with its attendant mountains, in the fullest 
 glory, the rosy light shed on them by the set- 
 ting sun, and their peaks rising so brightly 
 behind the dark rocks in front, as if they be- 
 longed to some better world, or as if Astrsea 
 was just then leaving the glory of her last 
 footsteps on their summits : nothing was ever 
 
230 
 
 LIFE OF THOMAS MOORE, 
 
 so great and beautiful." Crossing the Sim. 
 plon, he arrives by Maggiore and Como at 
 Milan, where, amid the multitude of sights, 
 he is deeply moved by a painting by Guerci- 
 no, of Abraham and Hagar, — "by far the 
 most striking picture I ever saw. Never did 
 any woman cry more beautifully than Hagar, 
 and the hope that lingers still amidst her 
 sorrow, is deeply affecting ; in short, it at- 
 tains the si vis me flere effectuaUy, and 
 brought the tears into my eyes as I looked at 
 it." This is characteristic of Moore ; through- 
 out the tour he is moved oftener by some 
 touch of natural emotion, of sentiment or af- 
 fection, than by the more celebrated grandiose 
 objects of admiration set apart for tourists. 
 
 Parting with Lord John RusseU at MUan, 
 he hastens by Verona and Padua to join Lord 
 Byron who, at that time, occupied a country 
 house in its vicinity, within easy access of 
 Venice, where, with the accommodating con- 
 sent of her husband, he was entertaining in 
 the first flush of his devotion, the Countess 
 Guicciolo. Moore describes her "a blonde 
 and young ; married only about a year, but 
 not very pretty," though on a second inter- 
 view, he thought she "looked prettier than 
 she did the first time." Our traveller is im- 
 mediately conducted by Byron to Venice, em- 
 barking at Fusina in a gondola Ln "a glorious 
 senset, the view of Venice and the distant 
 Alps, some of which had snow on them redden- 
 ing with the last light, magnificent; but my 
 companion's conversation, though highly lu- 
 dricous and amusing, anything but romantic, 
 threw my mind and imagination into a mood 
 not at aU agreeing with the scene." In the 
 city he was installed in his Lordship's palace 
 on the Grand Canal, and consigned to the 
 care of his friend Scott. Byron "could not 
 himself leave the Guiccioli." With much, of 
 course, to interest him, Moore finds many 
 things to disconcert him. " The disappoint- 
 ment," he writes in his Diary, and with sufii- 
 cient emphasis, "one meets with at Venice, — 
 the Rialto so mean — the canals so stinking !" 
 Doubtless had the author of Lalla Rookh 
 visited Ispahan in his Vale of Cashmere, the 
 disappointment would have been equally 
 
 great. After a few days' sight-seeing, Moore 
 returns to Lord Byron, who, at parting, pre- 
 sents him with his celebrated personal Me- 
 moirs, "to make what use he pleased of 
 them." 
 
 On his way from Bologna to Florence, we find 
 Moore in the Journal entering into an analy- 
 sis of his experiences, and planning a new 
 series of ItaUan Epistles similar to those in 
 which he had improved his observations of 
 Pai-is; an idea which appears never to have 
 been carried into effect. It is of interest to 
 know what would have been the subject of 
 some of them had they been written. ' ' Among 
 my Epistles from Italy, must be one on the 
 exaggeration of travellers, and the false color- 
 ing given both by them and by drawings to 
 the places they describe and represent. An- 
 other upon painting ; the cant of connois- 
 seurs ; the contempt artists have for them. 
 To a real lover of nature the sight of a pretty 
 woman, or a fine prospect, beyond the best 
 painted pictures of them in the world. Give, 
 however, the due admiration to the chefs-d'' 
 ativre of art, of Guido, Titian, Guercino and 
 others. Mention the tiresome sameness of 
 the subjects on which the great masters em- 
 ployed themselves ; how refreshing a bit of 
 paganism is after their eternal Madonnas, St. 
 Francisces, etc., Magdalen my favorite saint. 
 Introduce in a note the discussions about the 
 three Marys. Another Epistle must touch 
 upon the diff'erence between the Italian wo- 
 men and the German in love : more of phy- 
 sique in the feelings of the former: the Italian 
 would kill herself for a living lover, whom she 
 would forget if he died ; the German would 
 pine away for a dead one. The senses of the 
 latter are reached through her imagination, 
 as is the case very much with the English 
 woman; but the imagination of the Italian 
 woman is kindled through her senses." 
 
 Arriving at Florence, he finds Sir Charles 
 and Lady Morgan at home in the place, and 
 is diligent in visiting the palaces and works 
 of art. He does not appear to have been 
 much impressed by seeing the Venus de 
 Medici, and "was much disappointed by the 
 Fonarina, which has coarse skin, coarse feat- 
 
LIFE OF THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 231 
 
 ures and coarse expression." Holy Families 
 and Madonnas, with their touch of sentiment 
 or passion, secure more of his admiration. 
 At Rome, where he par,ses three weelis, he is 
 In the midst of the best English society, 
 greeted by Sir Humphrey and Lady Davy, 
 Chantrey, the sculptor, and Sir Thomas Law- 
 rence, while he sits to Jackson, the Royal 
 Academician, for his portrait. Returning by 
 the way of Florence, he crosses Mont Cenis to 
 Chambery, Lyons, and, on the 11th of De- 
 cember, reaches Paris where, having estab- 
 lished himself in lodgings, "a little fairy 
 suite of apartments, an entresol in the Rue 
 Chautereine, at two hundred and fifty francs 
 a month," he, on the 1st of January, 1820, 
 conducts thither his wife Bessy, whom he 
 had gone to meet at Calais. They are pres- 
 ently established in a cottage m the Champs 
 Elysees, in the ^Ulee des Veuves, which, with 
 the exception of a short residence at another 
 house near Paris, for the next year and a 
 half becomes their home. For a time the 
 poet is engaged in an attempt to get into 
 shape his projected Epistles from Italy, in 
 which he proposed to introduce his old ma- 
 chinery of the Fudge Family ; but he finds him- 
 self, chiefly from the various demands upon 
 his time, unable to do justice to the humorous 
 part, and so abandons that portion with the 
 idea of presenting his material in a new form 
 under the title, "The Journal of a Member of 
 the Proourante Society," for which he nego- 
 tiates with the Longmans. He also occupies 
 himself in his literary employments with the 
 composition of new numbers of the Irish 
 Melodies, and new studies which result in 
 due time in " The Epicurean," and the poetic 
 flights of "The Loves of the Angels." 
 
 It appears to have been a pleasant life 
 enough Moore led in Paris at this time, shap- 
 ing in some of the best society of the place, in 
 learned intercourse with the travellers Denon, 
 Humboldt and others, and meeting constant- 
 ly the choice spirits whom love of pleas- 
 ure or the pursuit of knowledge brought to 
 the gay capital. Among these transient vi.=. 
 itors were George Canning and Wordsworth, 
 I'otuming from an excursion in Switzerland. 
 
 Of the conversation of the latter, he has left 
 an interesting record in the Journal, fuU of 
 sagacity and thoughtful reflection on the 
 part of the Lake poet as he discourses of 
 Scott, Canning, Fox and Burke, the last of 
 whom he pronounced "by fiir the greatest 
 man of his age; not only abounding in knowl- 
 edge himself, but feeding, in various direc- 
 tions, his most able contemporaries ; assist- 
 ing Adam Smith in his 'Political Economy,' 
 and Reynolds in his 'Lectures on Painting;' 
 Fox, too, who acknowledged that all he had 
 ever learned from books was nothing to what 
 he had derived from Burke." 
 
 With two residents of Paris Moore became 
 quite intimate; Kenny, the dramatic author 
 of " Raising the Wind," who had married the 
 widow of his brother dramatist, Holcroft, 
 with six or seven chOdren and "not a six- 
 pence of money," and who had " five by her 
 himself," who was his neighbor " in a waste 
 house almost in a state of starvation," and 
 Washington Irving, who had established his 
 fame in English circles as the author of the 
 " Sketch Book," and who was then planning 
 the scenes and stories of his next work. The 
 first acquaintance of Moore and Irving was 
 made through the good offices of a Mr. McKay, 
 an Irish gentleman on a mission to Paris to 
 inspect the prisons. Moore thus notices the 
 circumstance in his Journal of November 21, 
 1820: " Dined with McKay at the table d' hute 
 at Meurice's, for the purpose of being made 
 known to Mr. Washington Irving, a good- 
 looking and intelligent man." The acquaint- 
 ance soon ripens into lasting friendship. 
 Moore is with Irving constantly, dining with 
 common friends and together at the cottage, 
 visiting amusing places, interchanging liter- 
 ary ideas; in fact, Moore claims to have 
 given his friend in conversation the exact 
 description of the bookseller's dinner at 
 Longman's, which was worked up with so 
 much efl'ect in " Bracebridge Hall." Irving, 
 on his part, writes to his friend Brevoort 
 from Paris: "I have become very intimate 
 with Anacreon Moore, who is living here with 
 his family. Scarce a day passes without our 
 seeing each other, and he has made me ac- 
 
232 
 
 LIFE OF THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 quainted witli many of his friends here. He 
 Is a charming, joyous fellow; full of frank, 
 generous, manly feeling. I ara happy to say 
 he expresses himself in the fullest and strong- 
 est manner on the subject of his writings in 
 America, which he pronounces the great sin 
 of his early life. He is busy upon the Ufe of 
 Sheridan and upon a poem. His acquaint- 
 anoe is one of the most gratifying things I 
 have met with for some time, as he takes the 
 warm interest of an old friend in me and my 
 concerns." 
 
 There were several flying visits of Moore to 
 England before he returned with his wife to 
 that country, in the first of which in Septem- 
 ber, 1821, he went in disguise, providing him- 
 self, by ad-i'ice of the women, with a pair of 
 mustachios as a mode of concealment, and at 
 the suggestion of Lord John Russell assum- 
 ing the name in the Dover packet, and at the 
 inn, ''Mr. Dyke." He was on this occasion 
 handsomely entertained by the Duke of Bed- 
 ford at Wobum, and visited his parents at 
 Dublin. There were various negotiations 
 going on meanwhile for the settlement of the 
 Bermuda claims, which now resulted in their 
 reduction to one thousand pounds, a sum 
 which was chiefly made up by a temporary 
 loan by Lord Lansdowne, immediately repaid 
 by a draft on Murray, an advance on the 
 Byron Memoirs, and the generous gift of two 
 hundred pounds from Lord John Russell, the 
 produce of his pubhshed "Life of Lord 
 Russell," a sum he had set apart, as he alleged, 
 for sacred purposes, and " as he did not mean 
 to convert any part of it to the expenses of 
 daily life, so he hoped to hear no more of it." 
 This made the poet once more a free man. 
 London and the great world of English so- 
 ciety were now again open to him, and after 
 some months further sojourn, with occa- 
 sional interruptions of absence in Paris, he 
 took up his residence in the Enghsh cottage, 
 near Bowood. 
 
 His new publications in the year 1823, were 
 "Fables for the Holy Alliance," a sheet of 
 Batirical verses on an old theme; "Rhymes 
 on the Road," the work already spoken of, 
 ens bodying his traveUing experiences on his 
 
 Italian tour, and the "Loves of the Angels," 
 a poetical romance in which he returned to 
 tlie materials he had drawn upon in Lalla 
 Rookh. The last mentioned poem, or rather 
 series of poems, the author tells us was 
 founded on the Eastern story of the Angels 
 Harut and Marut, and the Rabbinical fictions 
 of the Uves of Uzziel and Shamehazai; the 
 subject presenting "an allegorical medium 
 through which might be shadowed out the 
 fall of the soul from its original purity, the 
 loss of light and happiness which it suffers in 
 pursuit of the world's perishable pleasures, 
 and the punishments both from conscience 
 and divine justice, with which impunity, 
 pride and presumptuous inquiry into the aw- 
 ful secrets of heaven are sure to be visited." 
 For the " Loves of the Angels," the author 
 received from his publisher seven hundred 
 pounds. The "Memoirs of Captain Rock," 
 displaying the author's views and feelings on 
 Irish politics, appeared in 1824, followed the 
 next year by the " Life of Sheridan," which, 
 as we have seen, had occupied him at inter- 
 vals for several years ; entertaining as a whole; 
 a work of much merit in a literary point of 
 view; discussing with ability and discretion 
 matters of much difficulty, presenting, per- 
 haps, too favorable a view of his hero's char- 
 acter, and exhibiting too dark a picture of 
 the neglect into which he had fallen at the 
 last. 
 
 Moore's next work, ' ' The Epicurean, " 
 founded on the Egyptian studies which he 
 had pursued in Paris with many advantages 
 and much diligence, with the assistance of 
 Denon and others, was originally designed to 
 be written in verse. Its first conception, sub- 
 sequently somewhat modified, is related in a 
 passage of the poet's journal, dated July 25th, 
 1S20. — " Began my Egyptian poem, and wrote 
 about thirteen or fourteen lines of it. The 
 story to be told in letters from a young Epi- 
 curean philosopher, who, in the second cen- 
 tury of the Christian era, goes to Egypt for 
 the purpose of discovering the elixir of im- 
 mortality, which is supposed to be one of the 
 secrets of the Egyptian priests. During the 
 Festival on the Nile, he meets with a beauti- 
 
LIFE OF THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 233 
 
 ful maiden, the daughter of one of the priests 
 lately dead. She enters the catacombs, and 
 disappears. He hovers around the spot, and 
 at last finds the well and secret passages, etc., 
 by which those who are initiated enter. He 
 sees this maiden in one of those theatrical 
 spectacles which formed a part of the subter- 
 ranean Elysium of the Pyramids — finds op- 
 portunities of conversing with her — their 
 intercourse in this mysterious region describ- 
 ed. They are discovered, and he is thrown 
 into those subterranean prisons, where they 
 who violate the rules of Initiation are con- 
 fined. He is liberated from thence by the 
 young maiden, and taking flight together, 
 they reach some beautiful region, where they 
 linger, for a time, delighted, and she is near 
 becoming a victim to his arts, but taking 
 alarm, she flies and seeks refuge with a Chris- 
 tian monk, in the Thebaid, to whom her 
 mother, who was secretly a Christian, had 
 consigned her in dying. The struggles of her 
 love with her religion. A persecution of the 
 Christians take place, and she is seized 
 (chiefly through the unintentional means of 
 her lover) and suffers martyrdom. The scene 
 of her martyi'dom described in a letter from 
 the Solitary of the Thebaid, and the attempt 
 made by the young philosopher to rescue her. 
 He is carried off from thence to the cell of the 
 Solitary. His letters from that retreat, after 
 he has become a Christian, devoting his 
 thoughts entirely to repentance and the recol- 
 lection of the beloved saint who had gone be- 
 fore him. — If I don't make sometliing out of 
 all this, the deuce is in't." 
 
 According to this plan, as the author 
 further informs us in his preface to the work, 
 the events of the story were to be told in 
 Letters or Epistolary Poems, addressed by the 
 philosopher to a young Athenian friend ; but, 
 for greater variety, as weU as convenience, he 
 afterwards distributed the task of narration 
 among the chief personages of the tale. The 
 great difllculty, however, of managing in 
 rhyme the minor details of a story, so as to 
 be clear without growing prosaic, and still 
 more, the diffuse length to which he saw nar- 
 ration in verse would extend, deterred him 
 Hia. 21* 
 
 from following this plan any further; and he 
 then commenced the tale anew in its present 
 prose shape. Of the poems written for the 
 first experiment, a few specimens were intro- 
 duced into the prose story. The remainder 
 were thrown aside and remained neglected 
 for many years after, till the author's friend, 
 Mr. Macrone, the London publisher, calling 
 upon him for some new poem or story, to be 
 illustrated by Turner the artist, unable to 
 gratify this wish, it was proposed to publish 
 such an illustrated edition of the "Epicu- 
 rean," the copyright of which was still in the 
 hands of the author. To add to the bulk of 
 the work, which was hardly sufiicient for the 
 publisher's purpose, Moore revived the origi- 
 nal poems, and issued them with the tale, 
 with the title, AJciphron. The whole thus 
 appeared with four brilliant designs by Turner 
 in 1839. In his preface to this work, the 
 author says : " In the letters of AJciphron will 
 be found, heightened only by a freer use of 
 poetic coloring, nearly the same detail of 
 events, feelings and scenery which occupy the 
 earlier part of the prose narrative ; but the 
 letter of the hypocritical high priest, whatever 
 else its claim to attention, will be found, both 
 in matter and form, new to the reader." 
 Several separate publications, ' ' Odes on Cash, 
 Com, Catholics, etc.," 1829; "Evenings in 
 Greece," the same year; " The Summer Fete," 
 1832; "The Fudges in England," a sequel to 
 " The Fudge Family in Paris," severally par- 
 taking of the characteristics of Moore's previ- 
 ous volumes, with a large number of minor 
 poems, satirical or sentimental, complete the 
 series of his poetical works. 
 
 In 1830 appeared his best-known biographi- 
 cal work, the " Letters and Journals of Lord 
 Byron, with notices of his Life." For this 
 work, he received from Murray four thousand 
 guineas. It is essentially composed of the 
 letters of Byron, very many of them being 
 addressed to the editor, Moore having been 
 for a long period Byron's constant correspon- 
 dent ; its interest, therefore, lies mainly in the 
 writings of Byron himself. This relieved the 
 author from what would at the time have 
 been a most inconvenient, if not impracti- 
 
234 
 
 LIFE OF THOMAS MOOKE. 
 
 cable task, the construction of a perfect biog- 
 raphy. Indeed, after all the attempts, such 
 a work yet remains to be written. But 
 Moore had a large stock of novel materials to 
 communicate to the public, and his book was 
 consequently seized upon with avidity. Its 
 publication was preceded by a most interest- 
 ing negotiation. When Moore, as we have 
 seen, parted with Lord Byron at his country- 
 house, near Venice, he was presented with an 
 account of the poet's life, or "Memoirs," 
 written by himself, with full permission to 
 dispose of it as he would. The manuscript, 
 which was shown by Moore to various persons, 
 was understood to be of an exceedingly 
 piquant, if not scandalous character. Moore, 
 embarrassed by his Bermuda responsibihties, 
 being in want of money, disposed of the man- 
 uscript to Mr. Murray, the publisher, for the 
 sum of two thousand guineas, the work not 
 of course to be available till after the poet's 
 death. It was Moore's intention that he 
 should have the privilege of redeeming the 
 memoirs within three months after that event, 
 and he held that this was agreed upon with 
 the publisher. Upon Byron's death, in 1824, 
 a strong effort was made by his famOy to se- 
 cure the destruction of the manuscript. 
 Moore, who regarded the work as an intended 
 vindication of himself by his friend, demurred 
 to this, urging the propriety of its publication, 
 stripped of everything calculated to wound 
 the feelings of living persons, or shock 
 the public taste. " But the Byron family, 
 the poet's sister, Mrs. Leigh, Sir John Hob- 
 house and Mr. Wilmot Horton, are inexorable ; 
 and so much importunity is addressed both 
 to Moore and Mr. Murray by various dis- 
 tinguished parties, that they at length con- 
 sent to place the ' Memoirs ' in the hands of 
 Mr. Wilmot Horton and Col. Doyle as the 
 representatives of Mrs. Leigh ; who forthwith 
 commit the same to the flames at Murray's 
 house. Mr. Murray, of course, stipulates to 
 be repaid his money with lawful interest, 
 which is accordingly done by a draft of Mr. 
 Moore on Mr. Rogers. Much persuasion is 
 used to induce Moore to accept of compensa, 
 tion at the hands of the Byron family — even 
 
 his most valued friends, such as Lord and 
 Lady Lansdowne, Mr. Lattrell, Lord John 
 Russell, with Mr. Rogers and his sister, con- 
 cur in the opinion that he ought to do so. 
 Moore's high sense of self-respect is, however, 
 a match for all, and he steadily refuses. In- 
 deed, for some time after the destruction of 
 the ' Memoirs,' his mind is uneasy, lest he 
 should have conimitted an act of constructive 
 disloyalty towards his departed friend and 
 benefactor. Ultimately he learns from Sir 
 John Hobhouse that Lord Byron, when remon- 
 strated with by himself as to his indiscretion 
 of placing such a manuscript out of his own 
 control, had replied ' that he regretted having 
 done so, and that delicacy towards Moore 
 alone deterred him from reclaiming it; on 
 this Moore is reassured, and whilst regretting 
 the loss to the world, rests satisfied with the 
 course which he had himself pursued." Such 
 is the history of this transaction, which, it 
 will be seen, was highly honorable to Moore. 
 
 There remains to be mentioned to complete 
 the list of Moore's publications, another biO; 
 graphical work, "The Life and Death of 
 Lord Edward Fitzgerald," a narrative of the 
 Irish rebeUion; "Travels of an Irish gentle- 
 man in search of a Religion," a learned de- 
 fence of Roman Catholicism; and a " History 
 of Ireland," written for Lardner's " Cabinet 
 Cyclopsedia;" which appeared in 1835. "AI- 
 ciphron," the poem already spoken of, was 
 his latest work in 1839. In 1835, under the 
 administration of Lord Melbourne, a pension 
 of three hundred pounds a year was granted 
 him by the Queen. 
 
 The last years of Moore's life were clouded 
 by loss of memory and utter helplessness. 
 His pubUshed Diary closes with an entry in 
 May, 1847. He was then alone in the world 
 with his wife, the sole survivor of his family. 
 His father died in 1825; his mother in 1832; 
 not one survived of his five children. "Yet," 
 says his biographer. Earl Russell, "he pre- 
 served his interest about his friends ; and 
 when I saw him for the last time, on the 20th 
 of December, 1849, he spoke rationally, agree- 
 ably and kindly on all those subjects which 
 were the topics of our conversation. But 
 
LIFE OF THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 235 
 
 tho death of his sister Ellen, and of his two 
 sons, seem to have saddened his heart and 
 obscured his intellect. The wit which spark- 
 led so brightly, the gayety which threw such 
 sunshine over society, the readiness of reply, 
 the quickness of recollection, all that marked 
 the poet and the wit were gone. As we left 
 his house. Lord Lansdowne remarked, that 
 he had not seen him so well for a long time. 
 Mrs. Moore has since made to me the same 
 observation. But that very evening he had 
 a fit, from the effects of which he never re- 
 covered. The Ught of his intellect grew still 
 more dim ; his memory failed still more ; yet, 
 there never was a total extinction of that 
 bright flame. To the last day of his life, he 
 would inquire witli anxiety about the health 
 of his fi'iends, and would sing, or ask his 
 wife to sing to him, the favorite airs of his 
 past days. Even the day before his death he 
 ' warbled,' as Mrs. Moore expressed it; and a 
 fond love of music never left him but with 
 life." 
 
 Moore, having nearly completed his seventy- 
 third year, expired calmly and without pain 
 on the 26th of February, 1853. His wife sur- 
 vived this event thirteen years^ her death 
 occurring in September, 1865. Both, with 
 three of their children, lie buried in the 
 church-yard of Bromham, in the vicinity of 
 the poet's cottage. 
 
 A study of the life of Moore brings before 
 us many fine traits of pergonal character. 
 The world was long accustomed to associate 
 with the gayety of his verse, and his frequent 
 ap pearance in fashionable society, a levity of 
 disposition and indifference to noble ends of 
 living, and something of this censure sur- 
 vived him in the criticism of the day. But 
 those who knew him best always thought 
 more worthily of him; indeed, were led to 
 admire much in his character. No writer of 
 his time has had warmer or more distinguish- 
 ed eulogists. We have seen how, under most 
 adverse circumstances, he gained the friend- 
 ship and respect, without which there can be 
 no true affection, of Jeffrey; and how he 
 secured and held constant to the end the 
 way\vard regard and confidence of Byron. If 
 
 he offended a strict morality in his early 
 writings, he soon abandoned his error; and 
 while he was ready to vindicate his character, 
 could profit by the warnings of his stern 
 assailant. If Moore cannot be ranked with 
 the grave and lofty spirits of literature, we 
 must not forget the many kindly services he 
 has rendered to humanity in his encourage- 
 ment of the cheerful, kindly, domestic aflec- 
 tions; that his wit was employed in the cause 
 of honor, freedom and patriotism; that he 
 scorned meanness, loved independence, and 
 knew himself how to make sacrifices in her 
 cause. His home life, obscured by the bril- 
 liancy of his talents in society during his 
 public career, appears, from the revelations 
 made after his death in his diary, and the 
 statement of his friends, to have been simple, 
 affectionate and self - denying. His regard 
 and care for his parents were never inter- 
 mitted, 
 
 "The most engaging as well as the most 
 powerful passions of Moore," writes his biog- 
 rapher. Earl Russell, "were his domestic 
 affections. It was truly and sagaciously ob- 
 served of him by his friend. Miss Godfrey, 
 ' You have contrived, God knows how ! amidst 
 the pleasures of the world, to preserve all 
 your home-fireside affections true and genuine 
 as you brought them out with you ; and this 
 is a trait in your character that I think be- 
 yond all praise ; it is a perfection that never 
 goes alone ; and I believe you will turn out a 
 saint or an angel after all.' Twice a week 
 during her whole life, except during his ab- 
 sence in America and Bermuda, he wrote a 
 letter to his mother. If he had nothing else 
 to tell her, these letters conveyed the repeated 
 assurance of his devotion and attachment. 
 His expressions of tenderness, however sim- 
 ple and however reiterated, are, in my esti- 
 mation, more valuable than the brightest 
 jewels of his wit. They flow from a heart 
 uncorrupted by fame, unspoilt by the world, 
 and continue to retain to his old age the 
 accents and obedient spirit of infancy. In 
 the same strain, and from the same source, 
 flowed the waters of true, deep, touching, 
 unchanging affection fo; his wife. From 
 
236 
 
 LIFE OF THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 1811, the year of his marriage, to 1852, that 
 of his death, this excellent and beautiful 
 person received from him the homage of a 
 lover, enhanced by all the gratitude, aU the 
 confidence, which the daily and hourly hap- 
 piness he enjoyed were sure to inspire. Thus, 
 whatever amusement he might find in society, 
 whatever sights he might behold, whatever 
 literary resources he might seek elsewhere, 
 he always returned to his home with a fresh 
 feeling of delight. The time he had been 
 absent had always been a time of exertion 
 and of exile ; his return restored him to tran- 
 quillity and to peace. Keen as was his na- 
 tural sense of enjoyment, he never balanced 
 between pleasure and happiness. His letters 
 and his journal bear abundant evidence of 
 these natural and deep-seated affections. 
 His affections as a father were no less genuine, 
 but were not equally rewarded. The deaths 
 of some of his children at an early period, of 
 his remaining daughter, and of his sons at a 
 more advanced age, together with some other 
 circumstances, cast a gloom over the latter 
 years of his life, which was never entirely 
 dispelled." 
 
 Wo have alluded to Moore's spirit of inde- 
 pendence. It was shown on various occasions 
 in his encountering privation and severe lite- 
 rary labor to secure remuneration from his 
 publishers rather than to be under obliga- 
 tions to his friends ; nor did he at any time 
 press his claims upon his political associates 
 in office or upon the government of the day. 
 When the small salary bestowed upon his fa- 
 ther was withdrawn, he did not seek for other 
 support from the state, but set apart a liberal 
 allowance from his own Umited resources. 
 From the, to hun unprecedented, sum which 
 he received after years of exertion for his most 
 laborious work, LaUa Rookh, he himself de- 
 rived no immediate benefit. One-third was 
 assigned to the payment of obligations ; the 
 remainder was invested for the benefit of his 
 parents. He refused the bounty of friends in 
 paying off the Bermuda obligations acciden- 
 tally thrust upon him. He would, as we have 
 seen, accept nothing from the Byron family 
 for the destruction of the manuscript memoir, 
 
 which would doubtless, had it been pubhsh- 
 ed, have proved to him an abundant source 
 of wealth. "Rightly," says his biographer, 
 "did Mr. Moore understand the dignity of 
 the laurel. He never would barter his free- 
 dom away for any favor from any quarter. 
 Although the wolf of poverty often prowled 
 round his door, he never abandoned his hum- 
 ble dwelling for the safety of the city or the 
 protection of the palace. From the strokes 
 of penury, indeed, more than once, neither 
 his unceasing exertion, 
 
 ' nee Appolinis infula, teiit.' 
 
 But never did he make his wife and family a 
 pretext for political shabbiness ; never did he 
 imagine that to leave a disgraced name as an 
 inheritance to his children was his duty as a 
 father. Neither did he, like many a richer 
 man, with negUgence anaounting to crime, 
 leave his tradesmen to suffer for his want of 
 fortune. Mingling careful economy with an 
 intense love of all the enjoyments of society, 
 he managed, with the assistance of his excel- 
 lent wife, who carried on for him the details 
 of his household, to struggle through all the 
 petty annoyances attendant on narrow means, 
 to support his father, mother and sister, be- 
 sides his own family, and at his death he left 
 no debt behind him." 
 
 In his religious opinions, following the faith 
 of his family, he was a CathoUc, though not a 
 bigoted one. He occasionally attended the 
 Protestant church; his wife being a Protest- 
 ant, his children were baptized in that church ; 
 he himself when in London attended a Ro- 
 man Catholic chapel. "Of two things," writes 
 Earl Russell, "all who knew him must have 
 been persuaded: the one, his strong feelings 
 of devotion, his aspirations, his longing for 
 life and immortality, and his submission to 
 the will of God; the other, his love of his 
 neighbor, his cliarity, his Samaritan kindness 
 for the distressed, his good- will to all men." 
 In the last days of his life he frequently re- 
 peated to his wife, 'Lean upon God, Bessy; 
 lean upon God.' That God is love, was the 
 summary of his belief ; that a man should 
 love his neighbor as himself, seems to have 
 been the rule of his life." 
 
LIFE OP THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 237 
 
 Of Moore's personal appearance and char- 
 acter there is a line description in a passage 
 of Sir Walter Scott's "Diary," in which he 
 humorously compares the Irish poet with 
 himself. It is dated November 22d, 1835. 
 "I saw Moore for the first time, I may say, 
 this season. We had, indeed, met in public 
 twenty years ago. There is a manly frank- 
 ness, with perfect ease and good bi-eeding 
 about him, which is delightful. Not the 
 least touch of the poet or the pedant. A 
 little, very little man — less, I think, than 
 Lewis, and something Uke him in person; 
 God knows, not in conversation; for Matt, 
 though a clever feUow, was a bore of the 
 first description; moreover, he looked always 
 like a school-boy. Now, Moore has none of 
 this insignificance. His countenance is plain, 
 but the expression is very animated, espe- 
 cially in speaking or singing, so that it is far 
 more interesting than the finest features could 
 have rendered it. I was aware that Byron 
 had often spoken, both in private society and 
 in his journal, of Moore and myself in the 
 same breath, and with the same sort of re- 
 gard ; so I was curious to see what there could 
 be in common betwixt us, Moore having 
 lived so much in the gay world, I in the 
 country, and with people of business, and 
 sometimes with politicians ; Moore a scholar, 
 I none; he a musician and artist, I without 
 knowledge of a note; he a democrat, I an 
 aristocrat; with many other points of differ- 
 ence; besides his being an Irishman, I a 
 Scotchman, and both tolerably national. 
 Yet, there is a point of resemblance, and a 
 strong one. We are both good-humored fel- 
 lows, who rather seek to enjoy what is going 
 forward than to maintain our dignity as lions ; 
 and we have both seen the world too widely 
 and too well not to contemn in our souls the 
 imaginary consequence of literary people, who 
 walk with their noses in the air, and remind 
 me always of the fellow whom Johnson met 
 in an alehouse, and who called himself ' the 
 great Twalmly inventor of the floodgate iron 
 for smooting linen.' He always enjoys the 
 mot pour rire, and so do I. It would be a 
 
 delightful addition to life, if Thomas Moore 
 had a cottage within two miles of me." 
 
 So Moore ingratiated himself with Sir Wal. 
 ter Scott. He seems to have been a favorite 
 with Scotchmen. One of their most brilliant 
 critics, Professor Wilson, in his "Recreations 
 of Christopher North," even gives him ia 
 some points the advantage over Burns. ' ' Now 
 of aU the song writers," he says, "that ever 
 warbled, or chanted or sung, the best, in our 
 estimation, is verily none other than Thomas 
 Moore. True that Robert Burns has indited 
 many songs that slip into the heart, just like 
 light, no one knows how, filling its chambers 
 sweetly and silently, and leaving it nothing 
 more to desire for perfect contentment; or, 
 let us say that sometimes when he sings, it is 
 like listening to a linnet in the broom, a 
 blackbird in the brake, a laverick in the 
 sky. They sing in the fulness of their joy, aa 
 nature teaches them — and so did he ; and the 
 man, woman or child, who is delighted not 
 wth such singing, be their virtues what they 
 may, must never hope to be in Heaven. 
 Gracious Providence placed Bums in the 
 midst of the sources of lyrical poetry when he 
 was born a Scottish peasant. Now, Moore is 
 an Irishman and was born in Dublin. Moore 
 is a Greek scholar, and translated — after a 
 fashion — Anacreon. And Moore has lived 
 much in towns and cities — and in that society 
 which will suffer none else to be called good. 
 Some advantages he has enjoyed which Burns 
 never did — but then how many disadvantages 
 has he undergone, from which the Ayrshire 
 Ploughman, in the bondage of his poverty, 
 was free ? You see all that at a single glance 
 into their poetry. But all in humble life is 
 not high — all in high life is not lo-vr; and 
 there is as much to guard against in hovel as 
 in hall — in "cauld, clay begging, as in marble 
 palace." Burns sometimes wrote Uke a mere 
 boor — Moore has too often written like a mere 
 man of fashion. But take them both at their 
 best — and both are inimitable. Both are na- 
 tional poets — and who shall say, that if Moore 
 had been born and bred a peasant, as Burns 
 was, and if Ireland had been such a land of 
 
238 
 
 LIFE OP THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 knowledge and virtue and religion as Scotland 
 is — and surely ■without offence, we may say 
 that it never was and never will be — though 
 we love the green island well — that with his 
 
 fine fancy, warm heart, and exquisite sensibU- Ploughman ? " 
 
 ities, he might not have been as natural a 
 lyrist as Burns ; while, take him as he is, who 
 can deny that in richness, in variety, in grace, 
 and in the power of art, he is superior to the 
 
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